Cover Girls:Cover

M AY 2010
T E E N IN K . C O M
OUR 21ST YEAR
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CONTENTS
M AY 2 0 1 0 | V O L . 2 1 , N O . 9
COVER FEATURES DEPARTMENTS
Focus on Parents
After Nine Years...................................................page 6
Dreams Deferred..................................................page 7
The Question.........................................................page 7
Father Knows Best...............................................page 8
Green and Gold Family.....................................page 10
Heroes: Jenny Yu................................................page 18
Please Tell Your Mother What I’m Saying .......page 19
Leaving a Life .......................................................page 21
My Brown Eyed Girl..........................................page 28
Silence...................................................................page 33
A New Chapter ..................................................page 33
The Masked Women of Kabul .............pages 34-35
Worldwide Service
Gifts of the Soul ...................................page 13
“One little article would change my life: a story
about the ‘Veto the ’Squito’ campaign against
malaria.”
Activists: Budi and Peggy Soehardi, Zach
Hunter, and Shane Claiborne...........page 18
12
24-25
23
13
29
22
4
33-35
28
18
14-17
6-8
36-46
26-27
19
32
College Directory
College Reviews
Community Service
Educator of the Year
Environment
Feedback
Fiction
Health
Heroes
Interview New York Times columnist
Nonfiction
Poetry
Points of View
Pride & Prejudice
Reviews: Book
Letter to My Daughter • Bridget Jones’s
Diary • Farenheit 451 • Olive Kitteridge •
Tears of a Tiger • The Help
31
30
Reviews: Music
Mayday Parade • Mika • Atmosphere •
Marianas Trench • Backstreet Boys
10
20-21
Sports
Travel & Culture
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Reviews: Movie
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Interview: Nicholas Kristof
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Paintings, drawings & photos
“They realize what must be done, but not only do
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5/10
FEEDBACK
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
Conformity/Nonconformity
I Should Switch to Decaf
In his article “Conformity/Nonconformity,”
from the April issue, Ben Dobrow describes
the result of people’s attempts to enjoy life
more fully by living free from society’s rules.
He uses the punk and hippie movements as
examples: both originally promoted individualism and freedom, but have become less
meaningful over time. Instead of adopting
these labels because they sincerely believe
the philosophies, many dress like punks and
hippies simply because everyone else is doing it, too. By trying to conform to these
styles, though, teenagers are contradicting
the movements’ original purposes.
I agree with Ben that because of stereotyping and bias, these terms that were once so
meaningful have become nothing but the
names of clothing and music trends. I hope
that people reading Ben’s article will take the
time to see his view on supposed “nonconformity,” and remember that ideals are more
important than appearances. I thank Ben for
putting into words something I’d never considered before.
Stephanie Yan, Brooklyn, NY
I was immediately drawn to the title of the
fiction piece “I Should Switch to Decaf” by
Mercedes Bagdon. It was catchy and
sounded humorous and interesting. As I read
the story, I found myself relating to the main
character; it seems like all of us have tried
something new in order to please someone
else. Her concern about becoming a stereotype was also quite familiar.
I laughed at the frantic thoughts of the girl
who probably doesn’t need coffee; the reader
is able to learn so much about her from a few
moments of nervous thought as she waits for
a boy. I felt like I knew her, even though, of
course, I’d never met her. The lines “Be
strong. Don’t be clumsy or shy. Be strong.
Strong like coffee” show how intimidated
she was in a new environment, waiting to
meet a boy she didn’t know. Yet she found a
way to calm and comfort herself. The character’s sense of adventure was inspiring. I
found myself cheering for her, and hoping
that I could someday be as willing to try new
things as she was.
Lindsey Totten, Cincinnati, OH
Behind These Sunglasses
“The Blind Side”
The February issue of Teen Ink was filled
with some remarkable poetry that I really
connected with. One such poem, “Behind
These Sunglasses,” by Katie White, really
captured my attention. It had a lyrical quality
to each stanza, and I especially loved the line
“no one can blow me out/if they can’t find
my candle.”
“Behind These Sunglasses” accurately describes the conflicted feelings that people
face, and the hidden questions that we all
deal with at some point: how much do I reveal to the outside world? Do others really
care about me? Whom can I trust? And finally, am I unique? Of course, this poem lets the
reader answer these questions, and for once,
I am eager to let my mind linger on the
answers.
Alexis Barnhart, Cincinnati, OH
Bettina Miele’s review of the Oscar-winning movie “The Blind Side” was very well
written. Her opinion made me realize that, as
she says, many movies really are “usually
about sex, love, or animated creatures.” I
honestly didn’t think about movies that way;
when I first heard about “The Blind Side,” I
thought it would be just another movie trying
to reach its audience with sentimentality. Her
review actually persuaded me to put it on my
must-see list. Now, I wonder what other
movies I’ve carelessly ignored.
Anastasia Jenkins, Phoenix, AZ
Aryelle added a very nice twist to all the
fairy-tale myths we like to believe in.
My favorite part of the poem was the last
three lines, where she wrote that she wouldn’t live happily ever after, but she would live.
Aryelle used that fairy-tale phrase effectively
to show that life isn’t a fairy tale. It’s nice to
dream, but she provides a sarcastic reality
check. This piece was very well thought-out
and written.
Fiona Burzynski, Fairfield, OH
Our Generation’s
Woodstock
I thoroughly enjoyed Maren Killackey’s
“Our Generation’s Woodstock” in the March
issue, and wholeheartedly agree with everything in the article. Perhaps all of us, young
and old, could stand to learn a lesson from
Woodstock. I recently went to see Muse in
concert, and it was an incredible experience;
I can only imagine what an outdoor, multiday music festival would be like.
I agree with Maren’s point about corporate
sponsors; it’s too bad that music is so corporate nowadays. But you never know – maybe
our generation will change that!
Elle Davis, Fox Point, WI
Getting Published
Every time a student from my school gets
published in Teen Ink, it’s broadcast during
mid-day announcements. Over the last two
and a half years, I’ve noticed that in my
school, the people who get published once
are sure to get published again, and again,
and maybe even again. I cannot understand
why there seems to be an elite group.
Perhaps when someone is published, their
next piece is read thoroughly because readers
assume this one will also be good. Or, more
likely, the readers hastily shuffle through
submissions, pulling out any work with a
name they recognize, then reading only
those. Of course some other works must be
pulled out or there would never be any firsttime authors, but it seems these people do not
get as much of a chance as they should.
Krystalle Diaz, Phoenix, AZ
Editor’s note: We have a team of readers
around the country who carefully review
every one of the almost 100,000 submissions we receive each year. Teens who get
published frequently usually submit more
often, but they are definitely not given special treatment. We encourage all of our
writers to keep sending their work!
Teen Ink’s March Twitter Contest Winners:
“If I could change the world, I would …”
I would make it so every one dressed up
as fruit on Friday. – Laura Woitalla, MS
I wouldn't change a thing. Though there
are heartaches & disasters, there are
also delights & miracles... Balance.
– Kaila Lunceford, IN
Teen Ink's May Twitter contest.
Tweet us your
140-character thoughts on:
"Whom do you admire most
and why? Living or dead."
Anti-Fairy Tale
I'd teach everyone to read and write.
– Nesima Aberra, AZ
I found the poem “Anti-Fairy Tale” by
Aryelle Young very refreshing. I couldn’t
help smiling while reading it. Falling in love
is a natural subject for many writers; but
I would make everyone smile and see
that there's so much worth living and
fighting for =)
– VishnuMahathi Avadhanam, India
Winners will receive a free
subscription to Teen Ink magazine
and be published in our next isssue
I would show everyone how limitless
our abilities are; that it is not about "if I
could." We all can.
– Chet Hebert
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FROM THE DESK OF A PUBLISHED TEEN
Find their work on TeenInk.com
I found out I got published at a
time when I really didn’t think I
was doing that well with my photography and was almost ready to
give it up. When I received a package in the mail with a copy of Teen
Ink and a letter of congratulations, it
encouraged me not to give up.
Since I was published, people
want me to take photos for them,
and I get more respect for my work.
It has changed my life. I am so
grateful to Teen Ink for giving me a
chance!
Mercedes Rodrigues, age 16
New York, NY
Took the photo “Dreams”
4
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
In June 2000, my submission
about my favorite English teacher,
Mrs. Caiozzo, was chosen as one of
the winners of the “Educator of the
Year” contest. It was a thrill for me
to share one of the best teachers I
had with your readers. I still have
the “From the Desk of a Published
Author” pad of sticky notes and the
wooden pen I received. I never
could bring myself to use them!
I love my job teaching middle
school English, and I encourage my
students to submit to Teen Ink.
Danielle Mebert, age 27
English Teacher,
Berner M. S., Massapequa, NY
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
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M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
5
parents
6
After Nine Years
by Allyn Nielson, Los Altos, CA
self-serving than courageous. So what
don’t think he’s ever liked sushi;
if he worked hard at MIT? So what if
he’s more of a beer and barbecue
he was in the top 10 percent of his
guy. But I always found a way to
class at Stanford? Everyone saw him
convince him to take me out for my
as something unique, just because he
favorite.
had dual citizenship. But he was able
Nine years after Paul married my
to convince my mom to walk down to
mother, I was used to his presence. On
the restaurant that night because she
their wedding night, I bobbed through
liked to see that go-getting side of
a crowd of unfamiliar Canadian faces,
him. It was foreign to her,
looking for my mother,
special in her eyes. In such
but I could only find him.
We never
moments, I’d just go along
I remember Paul was esand mutter mulishly,
pecially distant from my
really knew
“Stupid Canadian.”
sister and me that night.
what the other
Of course Paul and I
As happy as he was with
were cordial to each other;
my mother, he knew that
was feeling
we never really knew what
he was dancing a fine line
the other was feeling, so
between being a part of
we
often
erred
on the side of caution.
the family and being intrusive. But I
As the three of us walked into the
had been young then, and now, he was
restaurant and toward the bar, Paul
a reasonable man whom I tolerated
made a point to put my mother in
well. And the best part about him was
between us. I never sat next to him; I
that he rarely expressed his opinion,
always took the seat beside my mother
even on nights when I wanted sushi.
or my sister, never once considering
My role in the family, he recognized,
him a suitable partner for a mealtime
was considerably more permanent
conversation. But that night, at the
than his, and he therefore let me
sushi restaurant, I felt surprisingly
choose where we went to dinner,
slighted by the seating arrangement.
despite his dislike of raw fish.
I ordered, first for myself, and then
The sushi restaurant was just down
for my mother. Ordering for my
the block from our newly renovated
mother was second nature to me; we
beach house, but I was adamant about
reflected one another in everything we
driving there.
did. It was obvious to anyone that we
“My back hurts so much,” I told my
knew each other very well, the way a
mother. “And walking down the hill
mother and daughter should know
will only make it worse.”
each other. And there he was, at the
But my mother convinced me to
end of the bar, excluded from the conwalk, because Paul wanted to walk.
versation as if he were a faceless
He was an outdoorsy, do-it-yourself,
stranger.
practical kind of guy, and my mom
Paul wasn’t sure what he wanted to
liked to encourage that in him. She
order, or what would taste good. He
would always brag about how he
was about to get a roll that I had seen
bravely left his family in Canada to
him order many times before, so I
become a well-educated engineer in
stopped him and told him he should
sunny California.
try something different. He didn’t
“How courageous,” she’d say. “He
say much in return, just agreed and
was so fearless to be able to rip himasked for something else. I didn’t
self away from his entire past!”
hear what, because my mother and I
That was hardly the way I would
had already recommenced our dishave put it; I thought he was more
cussion on teenage-girl dramas that
he was unfamiliar with. I didn’t
think of including him; after all, he
had never had a child of his own to
help through high school. He really
had no reason to get involved at this
point of my life. So he sipped his
beer and toyed with the menu,
searching for a new roll to try, lost in
the Japanese names and the unexplained dishes.
Red meat, he must have thought.
Not raw fish. I’m Canadian.
My mother and I ate, talked, and
enjoyed the evening. Paul interjected
rarely, as if he thought of nothing
but the bubbles in his beer breaking
at the brink of the liquid. Then some
random man, scruffy and untidy,
came up to Paul and introduced himself. He was kind and strange; he
snorted a lot between his sentences.
He asked Paul if he could try one of
Art by Gracie Gralike, St. Louis, MO
his rolls.
I
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
“It looks so good,” he said. “I’m
keep himself company.
Then he met my mother and fell in
curious.”
love. Eventually, my sister and I were
Paul politely gave him two rolls
a part of the equation. And suddenly,
instead of just one. The man thanked
without mathematical or scientific
him, and offered him one of his own in
explanation, he found purpose; he
return – the roll that I told Paul he had
found his passion. That night, in the
already tried many times before. Paul
restaurant, with the constant ebb and
declined.
flow of the crashing waves just meters
“My daughter says I’ve already tried
beyond my seat, I realized Paul had
that one.”
left Canada years ago to find me.
Everyone went back to eating. I sat
It’s a difficult concept to grasp, the
there, motionless. Hanging in the air
idea of fate. I can’t really say I believe
were these words: My daughter says
in it every day of my life. But it’s
I’ve already tried that one. My daughimpossible to deny its existence. Every
ter. It was foreign to me, from another
time I see Paul, I see the face of fate.
place or time. Yet the words filled
Growing up in a world where your
every open space of my heart.
own mother can’t stand to hear your
It became clear that Paul had feelfather’s last name is tough. Numberings I had not discovered. I hadn’t
less years had slipped by as I desperknown until now that I had always
ately tried to understand why my
been part of the thoughts passing
parents couldn’t be happy with each
through his head, mixing with his
other. I questioned God’s motives, and
dreams of hockey and maple syrup. I
sometimes even questioned God’s
was, in fact, an element in his life
existence. But at that moment, when
equation.
Paul so naturally called
That night, I began to
me his daughter, I realized
understand why he left
Fate drew my why fate drew my parents
Canada decades before I
It was so I could
even existed. He was not
parents apart apart.
find him. It was so I could
the self-serving person I
so I could
love Paul, so I could show
thought he was; cowardice
him the joy of family.
had not made him venture
love Paul
across international borHe’s been a resourceful,
ders at such a young age.
hands-on type of guy for
as long as I have known him. For as
Instead, passion had led him here.
long as he lives, his spirit will always
Born an independent thinker, Paul
be free, unbound by material needs
dove into his passion for science,
and excessive securities. He will aldetermined to find himself in deep
ways be happy, as long as he is in this
solitude. His strength of will, he
seaside town; as long as he has my
thought, was going to create him
mother to hold; as long as I love him
anew. But he was young when he first
in return. ✦
left home. Time passed, he grew up,
and suddenly, he was not enough to
Defining Definitions
Mom, stop telling me I’m making the right decisions.
I don’t prove serendipity when I live my life
And I don’t let my boat travel down a livid river without a paddle.
But I would never refuse a rebellious friend
Or avoid traveling downtown to find a quick way home.
There is always penumbra on my jungle path
Nevertheless I decide to continue, whether I go right or askew.
Whistling opinions flash by the car window
And traffic slows my certainty down.
I, however, have an endless supply of gasoline.
The thing is that I will grow no matter where you plant me.
I’ll grow through your roof, next to your failure, and around your
damaged trunk.
I do what I must to reach the corners of my cardboard box.
I have an easily molded teenage mind
I have an invincible teenage mind
Unlike the rest of the world, I can choose where it goes.
So Mom, I am not making the “right” decisions. I am making MY decisions.
by Jessica Ercanbrack, Park City, UT
COMMENT
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TEENINK.COM
parents
The Question
by Chantal Martin, San Diego, CA
and I were driving, or how long we were stopped at
ou looked at me and smiled. My throat closed
the red light when the car hit us. I can’t even rememup. You winked and nodded. You whispered in
ber how long it took us to get to the hospital. But I remy ear, “You’ll be okay.” I closed my eyes
member the color of the shirt you were wearing when
and hoped I would be. A single tear rolled down my
you walked through the emergency room doors: gray.
cheek. I held my breath.
I can’t remember what you said to me while we
I can’t remember when this all started. One day you
were waiting for the doctor, how long it took to get
were here, and the next you weren’t. I can’t remember
the CAT scan done, or how long my head was poundthe last thing we did. I can’t remember the last thing
ing. I can’t remember when Grandma arrived or when
you ate or drank. I can’t remember the last thing you
the nurse put the plastic band around my wrist. But I
said to me before you left. But I remember what color
remember what you were holding in your hand when
shirt you were wearing the next time I saw you: black.
you walked into my hospital room: your car keys.
I can’t remember the last time you tucked me into
I can’t remember the name of the doctor, or how
bed, or played hide-and-seek with me. I can’t rememlong he spent talking to you and Mom. I can’t remember the last time we played basketball, or you took me
ber the TV show that was playing while I waited, or
out for a Slurpee. I can’t even remember the last time
the food the nurse brought me, or when Grandma
you took me out, just the two of us. But I remember
went home. But I can remember the look
the sunglasses you were wearing when I
on your face when Mom told me I had a
got in your car the first time after you
I
want
to
rewind
brain cyst: there were tears in your eyes.
left: Maui Jims.
I can’t even remember what we did
I can’t remember the last time you let
the time and
that day. I can remember the way you
me play the claw machine at Denny’s, or
the last time you brought me there at all. start over. I want played with my hair, just like you had
when I was a little kid. The pounding of
I can’t remember the last time you
my dad back
my head, the ringing in my ears. The
brought me to the mall, or bought me
way the cotton sheets on the hospital bed
$10 of sweets from the Candy Factory. I
made me itch. I wanted to go home.
can’t remember the last time you came swimming, or
You looked at me and smiled. My throat closed up.
called me your baby girl. But I remember the song
You winked and nodded. You whispered in my ear,
that was playing in your car that day when I buckled
“You’ll be okay.” I closed my eyes and hoped I would
my seatbelt in the back: “Butterfly” by Crazy Town.
be. A single tear rolled down my cheek. I held my
I can’t remember what we did that day. But I can
breath.
remember driving back to Mom’s house, the house
I can’t remember when all of this started. I can’t
you no longer lived in. The street lamp was shining
remember when you started dating her, the specific
yellow and almost all the lights were on when we
day you sat me down and told me she was pregnant,
pulled up. I remember looking at the car door handle
or the exact day they moved into our house. I can’t
reluctantly. I didn’t want to get out.
remember the day you brought home his crib or the
You looked at me and smiled. My throat closed up
day we had his baby shower. But I can remember the
a bit. You winked and nodded. You whispered in my
day he was born, the day that our lives changed forear, “You’ll be okay.” I closed my eyes and hoped I
ever: December 19th, 2006.
would be. A single tear rolled down my cheek. I held
I can’t remember how long I stayed at the hospital
my breath.
that night, or how long I got to hold him. I can’t
I can’t remember when all of this started. I can’t
remember the room number, or the parking space, or
remember what I was doing that night, where Mom
Y
Dreams Deferred
I
recently discovered that my mother
once drove mopeds across Bermuda.
“Life before children,” she sighs as I
look at her quizzically. She has also
crossed the U.S. on a road trip, lived in
California, and been a licensed aesthetician. She accomplished all of that and
more in this life before children. To the
Photo by Becca Brown, Groveport, OH
LINK
YOUR
Photo by Becca Brown, Groveport, OH
what time we got home that night. But I can remember who let me spell his name the way I wanted on the
birth certificate: you did.
I can’t even remember how long we talked that
night. I remember how you pulled me aside and
promised that I was still your baby. You said I would
always be your baby girl; it was just that now, he was
your baby boy, too. I felt like crying.
You looked at me and smiled. My throat closed up.
You winked and nodded. You whispered in my ear,
“You’ll be okay.” I closed my eyes and hoped I would
be. A single tear rolled down my cheek. I held my
breath.
I can’t remember when all of this started. I feel like
everything is slipping from my grasp, and I can’t
seem to catch up and pick up the pieces. I’m watching
you age, and I find myself wondering where the time
and my dad have gone. The distance between us
seems to grow bigger each passing day. I want to
rewind the time and start over. I want my dad back. I
want you back.
I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was going to throw
up. You came and knocked on my door to say goodnight. You walked into my room, and looked at my
pale face.
You asked me the question I’ve been waiting to
hear my whole life:
“Chantal, are you okay?” ✦
by Shavonne Kenney, Hull, MA
before children.
world, my mother is a committed single
My mother cannot charge her MP3
parent of three daughters who works five
player or adjust the digital clock in her
days a week as a housecleaner; to me,
car, but she can name famous paintings
she is a queen.
and hem the bottoms of my too-long
You would not think it now, but 26
pants, since I have inherited her short
years ago my mother led an interesting
legs. In her life before children, my
life. As a teen, she was not only a stumother worked at a city hospital in
dent, but also caretaker for her younger
Boston and taught classes at a beauty
brothers in her family of six. At 21 she
school; today she is a full-time mother,
traveled across the country with her closfather, doctor, fashion critic,
est friends; to this day she
cook, taxi driver, entertainer
recalls the tales with a
I live the life and so much more.
sparkle in her eye. In the
’70s, she went to disco clubs I do today for
My mother has given up
and danced the Hustle in
much of her old life for my
my mother
outfits that even she gags at
sisters and me. No matter the
path my family finds ourtoday: sweater dresses, Gauselves on, my mother keeps our heads
cho pants, and hippie tunics. She still has
above water and manages to see the calm
a second hole pierced in one of her ears.
seas that will roll in after the riptides
Now, in her early 50s, my mother has
subside.
several pairs of the same L.L. Bean pants
I don’t always express my appreciation.
she wears to work religiously. She
Little does she know, every Advanced
embraces the ’80s look when she is
Placement class I enroll in, every student
working out, and doesn’t care how the
government office I hold, each team I
sweatband makes her hair stand up. As
take part in, and every step I take is for
her youngest daughter, I still think she
her. I live the life I do today for my
looks as fabulous as she did in her life
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
mother – not for college admissions or
even for me, but for the sacrifices she
makes and the values she has instilled in
me.
My dreams and aspirations are my
mother’s, for she has given up her own
to foster mine. Her dream trip to Italy
has become a fund for three college educations, her new wardrobes have become
years of Christmas gifts, and her free
weekends have become a schedule of
sports games, rides to work, and loads of
laundry. While my mother’s wants and
needs fell to the wayside, my sisters’ and
mine were never neglected.
Everything I am or could be today is
because of my mother, and I take full advantage of what she has given me so that
I may one day emulate the strong, independent, and fearless woman who has
kept the torch of my family aflame. My
mother’s life is a testament to the hardworking qualities I possess today, to the
fact that I never give up and never back
down. She has sparked my ambition to
make the dreams of others burn as bright
as she has made mine. ✦
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
7
parents
Father Knows Best
by Elizabeth White, Cameron, WI
would accompany my ascent to victory.
f you fall and die, I’m not cleaning it up!”
“Get down now, or I’ll-”
The words were caustic, but I could hear
He never finished his newly-conceived threat; at
the worry lurking beneath. I looked down
that moment, three hairy spiders crawled across my
through the orange and yellow leaves on the tree; I
hand. I screamed and let go.
could barely see my dad.
I could feel twigs jabbing me in places that weren’t
“Gee, thanks, Dad! I guess I have to make doubly
meant to be jabbed. Bark came loose as I tried to
sure I don’t fall then,” I yelled.
grab onto something to stop my fall. It felt like I had
“Elizabeth, get down. You already have a broken
been falling for an eternity before I finally latched
wrist from falling off a slide! Now you’re climbing a
onto a thick branch.
tree?”
As I tried to get my bearings, I heard my dad callI glanced at the bright lime-green cast on my left
ing my name. To calm him, I yelled,
wrist. True, I had fallen off a slide.
“I’m all right. I’m okay! Just a little
But that was because I was playing
stunned.”
tag, I thought in annoyance.
“You already
I could practically feel the relief
Trying to strengthen my position
have a broken
coming off of him. When I caught my
with logic, I replied, “I know I fell off
I slowly made my way down to
a slide, but since I’m in a tree, do you
wrist! Now you’re breath,
my worried yet angry dad. I was two
really think now is the best time to
climbing a tree?” feet from the ground when the bark
start yelling at me?” I rolled my eyes
underneath my shoe slid from the tree,
– obviously he hadn’t thought of that.
taking my footing with it. I slipped and
“Elizabeth, I’m serious. Come
landed on the leaf-covered ground in a heap.
down before I have to take you to the hospital. If that
My eyes were closed, but I sensed my dad hoverhappens, you won’t be able to do anything for a
ing over me. As I recovered from my adrenaline rush,
month! No playing at the park, no Mario Kart, and
I said sarcastically, “Gee, that was fun.”
no new movies.”
“If you can joke about it,” my dad sighed, “I know
The last was said smugly, because he knew the
you
aren’t hurt.”
threat of losing my movie privileges would get me to
“I would’ve told you if I had been.” I paused.
do just about anything, even homework. I laughed at
“Maybe … I mean that whole comment about no
the irony. I was going to be punished if he had to take
movies might’ve made me stay quiet.”
me to the hospital.
I chuckled a little at his groan. I knew I was
“I’m nearly at the top! Give me two more minannoying him, but I couldn’t help it. Bugging my
utes,” I whined.
dad was something not many people tried because
Almost there, almost there! my daredevil brain
they were intimidated by his size. Making fun of a
urged, willing me to accept the repercussions that
“I
six-foot-seven Native American can seem a little
suicidal.
As my dad hovered, complaining that he had tried
to tell me climbing the tree was a bad idea, my
brother Anon walked by and looked down at me. He
laughed a little and said, “You tried to climb the tree
again, didn’t you?”
I nodded at him, and the world spun. “Yeah, Anon,
I did. I nearly made it to the top, too,” I said proudly.
He looked up at the tree and back at me; I still
hadn’t moved from the ground. “You tried your best,
and you failed miserably,” he said with a smirk. “The
lesson is never try,” he whispered, taunting me as
only a brother knows how.
Smiling at the sound of my father’s slap across
his head, I stared up at the sky and thought, Fathers
usually know best. ✦
Photo by Janine McNicholl, Winnipeg, MB, Canada
Milk, Saltines, Laundry Detergent
I
close my eyes and take a minute to
clear the cobwebs from my mind.
I’m amazed at how I can have so
much to occupy my thoughts, but still
can’t focus long enough to think. Spanish class is last on my list. My stomach
gurgles loudly enough to draw the attention of the boy sitting to my right; I
pretend not to notice. No lunch today,
again. I finger the $30 safely folded in
my worn pocket. I have to find a ride to
the grocery store after school. We don’t
have anything at home. I used the last
bit of milk this morning; we’d been saving it all weekend for Monday morning
cereal. We don’t even have any canned
food left, except for one dented can in
the back corner of the pantry; the label’s
so worn I can’t even guess what’s in it.
I have the feeling someone’s staring
at me. With a marked effort, I glance
up, struggling to focus my eyes. Señora
leers back with that annoyed questioning look I see all too often.
“Que?”
She shakes her head and walks away.
It doesn’t matter. I have bigger things to
think about than conjugating verbs. I
turn my tired gaze to my textbook,
attempting in vain to look as if I’m
studying.
Where was I? The grocery store. My
hand instinctively moves down to my
pocket again, an action I must have performed a hundred times just today. I
8
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
is bliss. Ignorance of how much we owe
don’t want to risk losing this money. I
this month after the water bill, and the
remember the food drive a few weeks
electricity, and the mortgage, and the
ago, when I gave half my lunch money
food. But ignorance becomes an aggraevery week for almost a month. A wry
vator when it concerns when child supchuckle escapes my lips at the irony.
port will arrive. That ignorance is a
Thirty dollars to spend. My birthday
constant companion, rapacious in its
was only a week ago. It was the first
hunger for troubled thoughts. I bury its
time I had any money of my own since
presence deep inside, but even ignoChristmas. Thirty dollars of my very
rance can’t quiet an empty stomach. It
own, given to me by my brother living
can’t quell a turbulent soul.
in Las Vegas. I go over the grocery list
Property tax: the two vilest words, in
again in my head: milk, saltines, launmy book. Piled atop the underlying
dry detergent; I should get some canned
current of stretched fifood, we only have a few
nances, they proved an
slices of stale bread left.
I still don’t
able adversary. Those two
My stomach gurgles
words are to blame for
again. I only have a dollar
know where
our having to eat stew
for lunch this week. The
rest I gave to my mom this
she thinks I get every other day for nearly
month; the meat, potamorning for gas. I didn’t
the money from atoes,
green beans, and
tell her it was my lunch
corn quickly vanished,
money, saved from last
leaving only carrots and onions. Carrot
week. I never tell her. I still don’t know
and onion stew; that’s what I had been
where she thinks I get the money from,
eating for a month. And when it wasn’t
but she never asks and I keep my secret
stew, it was macaroni and cheese, which
to save her pride. I don’t tell my dad
is fine until the second straight week. I
either. I’m not sure why.
still can’t look at spaghetti without
I think about my parents. I wonder if
getting nauseous, after this summer’s
they have that same sickening pit
six-week marathon. It’s a strange thing
lodged in the hollows of their chests,
to have nightmares about spaghetti.
the gaping hole festering with worries
“Life’s a hell of a thing to happen to a
and needs. I doubt my dad feels it, at
person.” My mind desperately grasps
least not for the same reason. I’m fairly
onto that quotation, which I heard in
sure he’s oblivious, and he’s probably
some nameless movie from the ’50s. It
happy for that. I understand; ignorance
COMMENT
by Anonymous, Glendale, AZ
was the simplicity of it, the blunt
honesty, that struck a chord. Its truth
had lingered in my subconscious, and
uneasy thoughts brought it unwillingly
to the surface as a sudden storm carries
muck to the bare street. Then comes the
frightening realization that I’m just a
kid, and I have decades left ahead. I try
to let that particular thought slip away
to some dark spot in the back of my
mind. It’s said life’s difficulties build
character. Personally I would rather
have the pound of ground beef than the
ounce of character.
I glare at the clock. Only a few more
minutes. I just want to go to the grocery
store as soon as possible. The quicker
I’m rid of the money in my pocket, the
less time I have to brood over it. It
won’t be that bad. My mom will be the
littlest bit happier, and I’ll have something to hold me over ’til the check
comes this weekend. I’m looking forward to going to bed tonight. Lying
there every night after whatever kind of
a day I’ve had, I turn on the radio and
allow myself to be enveloped in a song.
I live for that few minutes of bliss and
cross my fingers for pleasant dreams –
or at least dreams with no bearing on
real life, dreams of disconnect.
I swallow hard and heave my last
desolate sigh. What do we need? Milk,
saltines, laundry detergent. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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sports
The Ring
We walk to our corners. Across the ring, I can see
y body begins to loosen up, leaning in my
his coach’s disappointed face. “You won that
orthodox stance. Sweat drips from my
round,” my coach says, but he also suggests that I
head gear like it doesn’t want to be there.
need to move away from those heavy punches.
We walk toward the center of the ring, with the spot“Ding Ding Ding!” Second round. He’s coming at
light shining on us like champions. The referee steps
me with wild combos, just like getting attacked by a
between us saying, “I want a clean fight.” We nod
bear. I get caught by a right and a hook. My face
and tap gloves, and then it’s the moment everybody
feels like I ran into a sliding door, but I smile. Now,
has been waiting for: “Fight!”
instead of acting like Superman and eating his
The audience is silent. My hand goes up to protect
punches, I stay away from him. I try
my face; I bite down hard on my
keeping him off me with a jab but that
mouthpiece in case my opponent tries
last long. He gets me on the rope
to knock my jaw. My feet start to
He’s coming doesn’t
and sticks out his elbow to make sure
bounce around like I’m dancing, except
that I won’t run. A lot of his punches
there is no music and I have to come up
at me, a
land on my body. I push him off and
with my own rhythm. Pow! A jab to my
wild animal
land a powerful overhand right. I can
head. Since my hands were up, the
feel my knuckle connect to his skull. He
punch felt like I was hit by a feather. I
falls back on the rope as I drop to the
juke at him. He drops his right hand to
ground
from
that blow to my ribs.
parry it. I juke again and this time add on: Pow,
The crowd starts to make a lot of noise. I struggle
Pow, Pop!
to get back on my feet. My heart pounds like it
His expression starts to change. He doesn’t
could break through my chest and land in front of
bounce around as much, and his punches are preme. My feet don’t obey me anymore; my body can’t
dictable. His brain stops working and his anger takes
take anymore. I glance at the clock: 30 seconds ’til
over. Well, that was all part of the game plan. He’s
the round is over. I hold onto the rope to get up. The
coming at me, a wild animal with a look that could
referee holds my hands together to see if I can still
smash me into a million pieces if I were an egg.
keep them up. The boy comes at me with no protecRight when I start to lean on the rope and get ready
tion and throws a wild punch. I slip it and give him
to counter – “Ding Ding Ding!” End of the first
the final punch of the day. ✦
round.
M
Green and Gold Family
T
he buttery aroma of fresh popcorn wafted on
the sweet spring breeze. I squirmed in the cement seat. The anticipation in the air coursed
through my body, energizing every fiber of my being.
As I looked out over the freshly painted field, I knew
I was on sacred ground. The glistening sod was a
battlefield dominated by great men of the past and
present. Ray Nitschke, Bart Starr, Reggie White, and
Brett Favre had all thrived on this famous, frozen
tundra. As my gaze drifted to the names and numbers
of five legendary players enshrined around the stadium, a cool breeze snaked its way up the back of my
neck. I couldn’t help but feel these players had joined
the green and gold faithful in cheering on the home
team.
My family and I had taken a trip to Green Bay,
Wisconsin, to watch a Packers game. The whole trip
was time for us to bond as a family, but as I sat in
my concrete seat, waiting for the players to emerge
from the tunnel for warm-ups, I began to contemplate
the snarled web of emotions that formed our family
dynamic.
My mother and I had never gotten along well; our
Photo by Daniel Winsten, Croton-on-Hudson, NY
10
Running Stars
by Quang Nguyen, Seattle, WA
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
by Nora Kojabashian, Glenwillow, OH
R
unning is no longer a simple necessity. It adds
structure and purpose to otherwise petty, colorless circumstances and hones mental fortitude,
securing otherwise fragile psyches. A run with the
cross-country team, whether on verdant summer days
or in the middle of a frigid winter, is like a shining
star during a night of discontent. Running makes me
appreciate my capacity to understand unexplored
sectors of intellect; losing
myself on a run is like a
A run is like a window into the stellar
nursery of ideas hidden
shining star
behind the atmosphere of
during a night societal boredom.
The camaraderie between
of discontent cross-country
runners gives
my runs purpose. In enduring so many miles with those I love and respect, I
have come to understand the catalysts that inspire my
dedication. It has become much more than a way to
be active and healthy. The cross-country team and
running are imperative to my spiritual well-being;
they expel my violent specters or haunting memories
into the deepest reaches of space. My teammates and
this simple motion are, unarguably, the most important things in the world to me. Put the two together,
and stars explode. ✦
by Ben Harm, Rice Lake, WI
like a shimmering pool of crystal will forever be inpersonalities simply did not mesh. We walked on
grained in my mind. Despite these and many other
opposite sides of the street on many issues, familyvibrant memories from Lambeau, there is one that
related or not. It seemed that this situation had grown
will always stand head-and-shoulders above the rest:
worse in the last five months; arguments over colthe lessons Lambeau Field and the Green Bay Packlege, money, work, friends, and family were frequent
ers taught me about family.
and heated. More often than not, we separated with
When I lost my voice, the Packers were comfortanger and resentment still smoldering in our hearts.
ably ahead and my mind began to wander back to my
I was entering my senior year of high school! Why
family. Perhaps it was the cold air, or Ray Nitschke’s
couldn’t my mom just allow me to be my own person
spirit, but for some reason I began to see my family
and responsible for my actions? I longed to be more
like a football team. The Packers are a team that can
independent.
effectively function together to achieve desired goals,
Movement and a flash of gold caught my attention,
just as a family must work together to maintain peace
and my eyes snapped to the tunnel. I leapt to my feet
within the household. Each player simply cannot run
and added my voice to the thunderous roar as fans
around and do whatever he wants; if this
welcomed the two teams to Lambeau
happened, the team would have no disciField. The Green Bay Packers and the
My parents
pline or order, and would lose the majorBuffalo Bills began their onfield preparawere head
ity of its games. I realized that this same
tions for that night’s game. Since I was a
principle applies to my family life as
kid, I had dreamed of watching the Pack- coaches, and I
well. Even though I longed to cast aside
ers play at Lambeau, and I was thrilled
needed to
the restrictive mantle that was my parto be sitting in the front row at the 50loving guidance, I began to underyard line! Granted, we were on the Bufaccept my role ents’
stand the need for cooperation within our
falo side, but that didn’t matter.
family. My parents were the head
I will always remember that night as
as a player
coaches, and I needed to accept my role
the experience of a lifetime. I rooted on
as a player instead of trying to usurp their authority.
my team with the loudest of the fans, booed the other
In that moment, I decided to swallow my rebellious
team just as fervently, and even pitched in a few
ego, and try to create peace within my family.
phrases when my fellow cheeseheads razzed the BufLambeau Field is an incredible place. The rectanfalo players on the sideline. Unfortunately, I lost my
gular sod and the majestic stadium surrounding it
voice sometime during the second quarter, and I
represent all the hopes and dreams of Packer Nation.
grudgingly resigned myself to the role of quiet obMaking the pilgrimage to this sacred place is an avserver. Despite this setback, I still pumped my fists
enue of escape that unites people across the country
and waved my arms enthusiastically as the Packers
under the banner of green and gold. Despite the unrolled to a 24 to 0 lead at halftime, eventually winforgettable experiences I encountered here, I am most
ning the game 31 to 21.
thankful for the realization that changed my attitude
Even now, several months later, I can still vividly
toward my family. I learned to appreciate them inrecall the sharp cracking sound as shoulder pads and
stead of resisting them. Ray Nitschke would be
helmets collided. The gruff commands from the quarproud. ✦
terback and the moon rising over the stadium lights
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TO LEAD FOR A
LIFETIME.
What do you need to succeed in today’s climate? You need to
START STRONG.SM In Army ROTC, you’ll do just that. While attending
college, you’ll gain strength, character, and unmatched leadership skills
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full-tuition, merit-based scholarship. ROTC will give you strength for a
lifetime of success. There’s strong. Then there’s Army Strong.
For more information, visit goarmy.com/rotc/startstrong.
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art gallery
Art by Melissa Woodbridge, Fayetteville, GA
Photo by McKenna Smith, Lutz, FL
Photo by Ellyn Rivers, Elgin, TX
Art by Maria Stanciu, Queens, NY
Art by Alice Bucknell, Sarasota, FL
Photo by Crystal Easterling, Charlotte, NC
12
Teen Ink •
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A
fter raising more than $300 to prevent malaria
in Third World countries, I felt amazing.
While friends and family praised me for the
gesture, I knew I would receive no recognition from
the recipients. But what I did receive was a feeling
that I can neither describe nor verbalize. I guess philanthropy really touches people’s souls.
It all began on a dull day in fifth grade. It was Friday, and everyone was dying to finish class and go
home. As our teacher handed out our Time For Kids
magazines, I stared into space, thinking about my
plans for the weekend. It turned out, though, that one
small article in that magazine would change my life: a
story about the “Veto the ’Squito” campaign against
malaria.
I took in every word. Everyone around me had their
eyes stuck on the clock, but mine were glued to the article. When my teacher read that malaria kills one
million people each year, I felt like crying. How can
Photo by Michelle Barboza, West Covina, CA
by Eliana Chervin, Fairfield, CT
young at that point to realize the impact of my actions.
you prevent malaria? I wondered. Is there a cure?
The following day, I brainstormed ways to
That day, I learned that malaria is transmitted by a
fundraise. I imagined organizing a dance-off, a bake
parasite living in an animal: a monkey, for example.
sale – doing something more than just making colorWhen a mosquito bites that monkey, it acquires the
ful posters to be hung up at school, only to be ripped
disease-carrying parasite, and when the mosquito
down in a week. Finally, once again, I decided to put
bites a person, the parasite is then released into their
the matter in my own hands.
bloodstream. I also learned a statistic that really stuck
That year, my eleventh birthday party took place at
with me: a child dies of malaria every 30 seconds.
a rock-climbing gym. On the invitation, I requested
The last thing that caught my eye was a small asterthat in lieu of gifts, my friends bring donations for
isk at the bottom of the page. It said that you could
bed-nets to stop the spread of malaria in Africa. I
prevent malaria by simply purchasing a $5 or $10
pitched in the $100 I had been saving for a doll; that,
bed-net for parts of Africa and other regions where
along with my friends’ generosity, raised $400. One
malaria is common. The bed-nets are tied over the reof my dad’s patients added to our total
cipient’s bed to prevent mosquitoes
when she learned about my cause. I was
from biting and infecting them during
with the results, and I felt inthe night.
One small article thrilled
credible. In a way, I had saved people’s
That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed
in the magazine lives.
and turned, envisioning that one line:
A few weeks later I received an invi“A child dies of malaria every 30 secwould change
tation to my friend’s birthday party. As I
onds.” I had to do something. But what
was scanning the invitation, something
could I possibly do? I racked my brain.
my life
caught my eye. “Sophie requests that
My thoughts raced. I tried to focus on
you bring donations to buy bed-nets in
other things: Maybe I would go to the
movies tomorrow. No, I was saving my money for a
lieu of gifts.” I beamed, knowing I had inspired somenew American Girl Doll. It took me a long time to
body else to perform the same act of kindness.
save up that $100 …Wait! $100! $10 per bed-net … I
My passion for making a difference in the fight
had my idea!
against malaria has not subsided. In fact, I hope to
Although it was way past my bedtime, I sprang out
visit some of the places that benefit from the work of
of bed and flung open my parents’ door. My mom
“Veto the ’Squito.” Since my great-aunt and uncle oflooked up, exclaiming, “Why are you still up?”
fered me the amazing opportunity to travel anywhere
“It’s important,” I replied. I explained the article
in the world, I will visit Africa this summer. Although
we’d read in class, and how it had stayed in my mind.
I am looking forward to experiencing the rich culture
Finally, I told my parents how I realized that the $100
and gorgeous landscape, I really hope to deliver some
I had saved for an American Girl Doll would be far
bed-nets in person.
better spent on 10 bed-nets. I already had two AmeriI never could have imagined the incredible feeling
can Girl Dolls, and would soon outgrow them anyway.
that comes from giving. As the poet Maya Angelou
My mom gave me a huge hug and told me she was
wrote, “I have found that among its other benefits,
incredibly proud of my thoughtfulness. I was too
giving liberates the soul of the giver.” ✦
Many Thank-Yous
“H
i, Yuri. How are you?” a
man asked with a joyful
smile as I poured salsa
into his dinner plate. It was the first
time I had actually spoken to a homeless person.
This occurred two years ago, freshman year, on a breezy October
evening. I was volunteering at Andre
House, a soup kitchen that serves dinner to the homeless in Phoenix. I
smiled back at the man, excited to have
food on his plate, and responded,
“Good.” Walking away, he waved his
free hand and said,“God bless you!”
Before I began volunteering at a
homeless shelter, my brother would
say to me, “Homeless people do not
deserve to be helped. If you spend your
time around them, you will one day become a homeless person.” Other members of my family would try to stop me
from going to the soup kitchen. They
viewed the homeless as “dirty, old, and
messed-up people;” they said they
were dangerous and could not help
themselves. But I knew they had only
seen homeless people on television, or
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by Yuri Bonilla, Phoenix, AZ
their years of service, and I began to
on the entrances to the freeways from a
understand more about what “freedistance. I knew it was time for me to
dom” really means in the United
learn who the homeless were as peoStates. I also became sad, thinking of
ple, beyond the criticisms I heard on a
the friends these veterans had lost in
daily basis.
combat.
As I served dinner to the individuals
Loud bangs sounded in the dinnerdressed in various outfits, I saw them
tray disposal area, and numerous
carrying knapsacks that were as heavy
“thank-yous” sang in my ears. People
as rocks, stuffed with the necessities of
congregated in the dining
survival. They carried
room and chatted with
frizzy, multicolored blankets to use while they
It was time for their friends. It was just
like sitting at a particular
slept at night. They usume to learn who table filled with school
ally lay down in pitch
at lunch: people
darkness, and slept on
the homeless friends
discussed their personal
hard surfaces, unlike most
were as people lives, their struggles, and
of us, who take shelter on
their past and present durmattresses in sparklinging these group gatherings.
clean bedrooms.
My two years at Andre House have
A myriad of military veterans who
taught me to accept people regardless
fought for our country come to the
of their current situation and appearsoup kitchen to have meals. Most beance. I feel more confident every time I
came homeless because they felt unfit
speak to the homeless; in addition, I
for society after their service, and beappreciate my own life and opportunilieved their lives were useless. When
ties even more.
they get their meals, they really appreI’ve also learned about tolerance and
ciate it. When I met them, for the first
my own prejudices. Homeless people
time, I really acknowledged the
are not rude, and they enjoy dinner
courage and honor they showed during
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community service
Gifts of the Soul
with friends at the soup kitchen as
much as someone who has dinner with
friends in their own home. After serving the homeless, I hear many “thankyous.” ✦
Art by Olivia Taylor, Rancho Cucamonga, CA
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
13
interview
Journalist Nicholas Kristof
N
icholas Kristof, a columnist for the New
York Times since 2001, is the winner of
two Pulitzer Prizes and the Dayton Literary Peace Prize. A native of Yamhill, Oregon
and a graduate of Harvard University, Kristof
has traveled to more than 140 countries to report on news, politics, and culture. He and his
wife, journalist Sheryl WuDunn, were the first
married couple to win a Pulitzer Prize for journalism; their most recent book is Half the Sky:
Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for
Women Worldwide. He blogs at
kristof.blogs.nytimes.com.
by Eliza Earl, New York, NY and Alicia Holland, Bronx, NY
people think that if you want to address problems of
global poverty, the most cost-effective way is precisely to invest in educating girls and bringing
women into the labor force. Frankly, we are pushing
on an open door. This is an issue whose time has
come.
You’ve traveled extensively throughout the
world. In what ways do you think we all share
the same values, and in what ways do you
think that differences and backgrounds truly
divide us?
All of the above. One’s always reminded, while
traveling,
of our common humanity: you know, parOne of the ideas you champion most is ecoents’ fears for their children.
nomically empowering poor women. Can you
I remember on one of my first trips to Cambodia
explain specifically how targeting women
in the mid ’90s, somebody had told me
would help alleviate poverty?
Cambodian child mortality was so
We often don’t that
One, it brings down birth rates, and
high and parents were losing so many
over-population is a problem in many
fully understand children, that it was something they got
of these countries. When you educate
used to and accepted. But as I was
the societies
women and bring them into the labor
walking through a forest, I heard these
force, they’ll have dramatically fewer
simply unearthly screams, and I came
we’re
trying
to
children. One reason for a lot of the
across a father who had moments besuffering in poor countries isn’t just
tinker with
fore lost his son to malaria. That grief
low incomes, but bad spending deciwas as wrenching as it would be for any
sions, which are made disproportionately by men.
American to lose their child.
The amount of money very poor families spend on
Having said that, there are true cultural differalcohol, tobacco, prostitution and Coca-Cola – inences and in Half the Sky’s depiction of the role of
stead of on educating their kids – is pretty dramatic.
women, I think we sometimes have the mispercepThis is essentially a function of the men controlling
tion that this is really a gender battle between men
those purse strings. So when you educate a girl, for
and women, but it’s not. The best predictor of who is
example, and give her the extra earning power that
in favor of wife-beating isn’t your gender, it’s your
comes from having a better career, she’ll earn more
level of education and whether you live in a city or
and will invest that money in her kids, while a man
rural area. And women are often just as likely to
is more inclined to invest in beer.
think that wife-beating, or girls not getting educated,
is the right thing.
What impact on this situation has your book,
In that respect, there really are different cultural
Half the Sky, had as a result of its great sucvalues. I tend to think we psych ourselves out too
cess?
much about the fact that people have different religious or cultural values. China, after all, had had
I think that it’s helped build a broader conversafoot-binding for hundreds of years. That was a
tion about the role of women in development. I think
deeply embedded cultural value but it disappeared
its impact is less in terms of surprising people about
very, very quickly. It went from being nearly univerbad things that happen, and more in terms of making
sal to non-existent in about 20 years. And the same
can be done with girls not getting educated.
How has the global poverty situation changed
in the past 20 years, both positively and negatively?
Nicholas Kristof
tends to be hard to talk about, nobody studies it, and
it gets neglected. But we’re getting a much better
sense of these kinds of interventions that really do
lead to better outcomes.
Given all the problems of poverty, education,
illness, and women’s rights in the U.S., why do
you think it’s so important to work on these
issues in developing nations?
I don’t think it should be either/or. I think we need
to address problems at home, but in the same way
that I don’t think we should care only about our families and ignore the neighborhood, or the state, I
think we also need to address problems internationally. They’re a part of our larger family, and often
you can get the most bang for the buck – the needs
are most acute internationally – when you’ve got
people dying.
One good example is that girls lose 10 to 15 IQ
points if they’re not getting iodine in their salt; for
about 5 cents a year, that’s something we can make a
difference on, very cheaply. Or when kids have intestinal worms because they’re not getting a 50-cent
de-worming pill. That’s the attraction of a lot of international interventions. These fixes are so cheap
and make such a difference.
How do you feel about the idea that Westerners should stop interfering in African, Asian,
and South American problems
and let the people in those places
the crucial work out their own problems?
One of
I think there’s an awful lot more
hope. There is East Asia’s success;
I’m very skeptical of this, because in
things is building
East Asia has really shown that we
places like Darfur, the way their probfriendships
don’t have to put up with poverty, we
lems are being worked out is that the
can make incredible progress against
guys with the guns are shooting the
that cut across
it. More recently, India is beginning
people without the guns. So, in that
different barriers kind of situation I don’t think we
to show that as well. And some countries in Africa have been growing inshould stand back to let the problems
credibly quickly.
work themselves out.
We’re also getting a better sense of what works,
But, in another sense, I do think that too often
partly because there are more Americans who have
Americans march in and say, “We’re educated. We
been living embedded in rural areas in the middle of
know about the world.” And then pick up the meganowhere. For example, we always think that to get
phone and tell everybody, “Okay, here’s what we’re
more girls educated we just need to build schools,
going to do.” And they don’t listen enough. I think
but we’re also learning that if we de-worm kids, that
that’s one reason our development efforts haven’t
will get them to school.
gone as far as they could. We often don’t fully unThere was a study from Ghana that showed that if
derstand the societies we’re trying to tinker with. We
you help high school girls manage menstruation,
have great intentions, but spend too much time orthat reduces absenteeism by half, because they stay
ganizing and not enough empowering local people,
out of school when they don’t have hygiene prodwith the result that we accomplish less than we
ucts, and then eventually drop out. This is a really
could.
cheap intervention, but because it’s something that
➤➤
14
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going to mean they’re going to get water where they
didn’t have it before.
That’s a real difference, and I think that there are a
lot of young people who are not put off by the vastness of the challenges, but are making these incremental differences in real places. I think that’s the
way to go.
I think a lot of our lifelong attitudes and approaches
tend to be embedded when we are in adolescence,
and so it becomes especially important in high school
to build a more tolerant approach. And I think that
I recently spent a summer in South Africa in an
there, one of the crucial things is simply exposure
AIDS orphanage, which was an unbelievable
and building friendships that cut across different
experience, but a lot of my friends feel that one
barriers.
short trip can’t really make a difference. Also, a
I think one of the unfortunate trends is that the
lot of their parents wouldn’t let them go beU.S. has become more divided in some ways, so that
cause of the fear of crime and disease. How do
a given school is likely to be overwhelmingly minoryou think these attitudes can be changed?
ity, black or Latino, for example, or
One of the things that I think
overwhelmingly white, and that peoA
lot
of
our
lifelong
we’ve
learned is that Americans
ple often don’t have warm friendtypically
go off to an orphanage in
ships that aren’t about race, but are
attitudes and
South
Africa
or build homes in
just about a friend who humanizes
Ecuador
intending
to help other
approaches
tend
different groups.
people and in truth, helping others is
to be embedded
always harder than it looks and those
What are some of the ways
trips have a mixed record. But I
when we are in
that teens can fight global
believe they have an almost perfect
poverty from within their own
adolescence
record in helping us.
environment?
My hunch is that you managed to
One thing I think today’s teenagers are really good
help some orphans in South Africa, but I bet it had an
at is starting projects that make a difference abroad,
absolutely transformative effect on you, and they
instead of supporting some kind of symbolic protest
ended up helping you a lot more than you helped
that feels good but doesn’t make a specific difference
them.
in people’s lives.
So, if the question is, “Is a summer too short a time
Last night, for example, I met Brittany Young, a
to really have a transformative effect on AIDS
young woman who started a group called “A Spring
orphans?” the answer is probably yes. But is it too
of Hope.” [Editor’s Note: Find Brittany’s essay, “A
short a time to have a transformative effect on the
Spring of Hope,” on TeenInk.com] In high school she
American kid going over there? Not at all.
started this group which essentially builds wells for
How one deals with parents who are understandschools in Africa. Although this is not going to solve
ably concerned about their kids, that’s a real problem.
the world’s problem of bad water, or solve education
One thing I would say is that American girls tend to
problems in Africa, for a few specific schools, it’s
often think that travel in Latin America or Asia or
One Experience
M
y first reaction to the voicemail was annoyance. I’d
been sick for a week, and I
had fallen behind on schoolwork,
debate team assignments, and college
application essays. Then, as soon as I
turned on my cell phone, there was a
message waiting – yet another thing
to deal with.
When I discovered, however, that
the “thing” was an invitation to interview Nicholas Kristof for Teen Ink, my
irritation vanished completely. What
an opportunity! I’d already been an
enthusiastic (if, admittedly, irregular)
reader of his op-ed column in the
New York Times, and I’d been looking
forward to reading Half the Sky since
an excerpt had been published in the
New York Times Magazine last summer. My excitement was tinged with
nervousness, though, especially after
I went online and read up on his epic
achievements. Still, I was fascinated
by Mr. Kristof’s humanitarian and
journalistic career, and I was very
much looking forward to meeting him.
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Africa is something guys can do, but it’s too scary for
them. I think that’s a misperception. It’s not clear that
it’s any more dangerous for girls to travel than for
guys.
Australia’s and New Zealand’s young people travel
in the developing world all the time and they don’t
have the perception that it’s more dangerous for
young women. This seems to be an American perception and I fear that that kind of self-imposed restriction ends up keeping young women away from
experiences that would be completely transformative.
There are enough constraints in our lives that we
don’t need to impose our own upon ourselves.
How do you think being from a small town in
Oregon affects your views on issues that involve the entire world?
Probably in a couple of ways. One is that smalltown Oregon really seems to me kind of central to
what the United States is, and so when I go ➤➤
ACCOUNT TO
Alicia and Eliza interview Nicholas Kristof
by Alicia Holland, Bronx, NY
I shouldn’t have been so nervous.
Although I am a native New Yorker,
As Mr. Kristof welcomed us into his
I’d never been to the Times building.
office, he was gracious and personI found the spare, modern design atable, and throughout the meeting he
tractive, and the cafeteria had very
seemed genuinely interested in
good food. But my favorite aspect of
speaking with us. We got to ask all
the building was the sheer number of
our questions, and he responded
books piled and shelved around Mr.
thoughtfully and articulately to each
Kristof’s office. Even though I know
one. In retrospect, I
a single computer could
think it would have
hold all that information
and more, seeing the
I was fascinated been better if I’d
spent less time readbooks was a tangible reby Mr. Kristof’s
ing directly from the
minder of the incredible
but neverthevolume of information
humanitarian and cards,
less, as the interview
and analysis that goes
journalistic career progressed, it felt less
into writing newspaper
like a volley of quesarticles.
tions and answers
After a few hours of
and more like a normal conversation.
preparing for the interview with Eliza
I loved hearing what Mr. Kristof
and Teen Ink’s publisher and editor,
John and Stephanie Meyer, I felt
had to say. Some responses, such as
ready – but I was very relieved to be
his point about the effectiveness and
sharing the interview with Eliza, both
inexpensiveness of iodine pills, I recbecause she was very friendly, and
ognized from his earlier writings.
because the idea of having a partner
Others, such as the possible negative
seemed to calm the butterflies in my
consequences of highlighting the
stomach.
turmoil in Africa, surprised me and
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At my school there’s not that much of a problem with racism, sexism, or religious tolerance,
but I know it’s a problem at many schools. What
do you think teens can do to make a difference?
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made me think. And there were a few
responses that made me laugh. I honestly enjoyed every moment.
Another benefit of this project was
the behind-the-scenes look I got at
how the video of the interview was
made. During the interview itself, the
filmmaker taped only Mr. Kristof. Afterward, he filmed Eliza and me asking our questions again and making
various responsive faces and sounds.
At the end of the day, I had learned
a lot. I am definitely going to have to
work on my persuasion skills, because having learned so much from
Mr. Kristof, I really want to convince
my parents to let me volunteer
abroad. I also discovered how great
it feels to have conducted a successful interview.
Overall, it was an amazing experience, so thank you, Mr. Kristof, for
giving us your time, and thank you,
Teen Ink, for giving me this wonderful opportunity – in spite of how long
it took for me to respond to your initial phone call. ✦
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
15
interview
to other countries, I also feel it’s really important to
If you could meet any writer, living or dead,
How do your children cope with your traveling
get out of the capital and go to the equivalent of
who would it be and why?
to so many dangerous and remote places?
Yamhill and talk to people who aren’t universityProbably William Shakespeare, partly to see if he
The boys have been pretty blasé about the trips.
educated and don’t speak English.
was indeed the author of the plays, and to quiz him
My daughter was not happy about me traveling to
I think in covering American politics it has also
about some of his sonnets.
Iraq and Afghanistan, in particular. I’ve taken them
helped to come from an area that is quite rural, with
The family lore is that we’re related to Shakeon a bunch of trips and I think that has helped them
quite conservative values, that is on the fringe of the
speare through his cousin Humphrey Shakespeare,
understand what I do and has also given them a
Bible Belt, if you will. One of my Sunday columns,
so I’d want to ask him if it’s true. He’d be high on
sense of satisfaction, that it does make a difference.
for example, was about evangelicals in foreign policy;
my list. He had a mastery of writing, of expression,
But it’s hard because there are real trade-offs,
I think I’m more open to them, even though I disthat has seldom been equaled, and
since if I’m worrying about Afghan kids one week in
agree with them theologically and on
never surpassed.
Kabul, then I’m not around to read to my daughter. I
most political issues. I’m more open to
had just taken her through Central America, and our
We
had
about
their influence because I grew up in an
You mentioned earlier the percepnext trip is to Southern Africa as a family, and she
that people in developing
area that was full of similar churches.
a half an hour tion
was saying, “Dad, can’t we ever just go to a beach?”
countries don’t grieve as much as
before we crash- those in first-world countries. Are You and your wife, Sheryl WuDunn, often
Kids in school often hear that you
any other myths about deshould stick to writing about things
landed, so that there
veloping nations that you’d like to work together. Which came first, your romantic
you know, and I’ve definitely been
relationship or your work relationship?
told that. But your whole career
was quite scary dispel?
has been about going to comThe romantic relationship, and in fact, that was a
There is a fairly common feeling
pletely foreign places and writing
bit
awkward at first because I was working for the
among Americans that Africa is hopeless, and that
about those. What advice would you give to
New York Times in Los Angeles covering business,
Africa
tends
to
be
shaped
by
the
worst-performing
teen journalists?
and Sheryl was there with the Wall Street Journal,
countries there. When they think of Africa they think
also covering business, so we were competitors. This
If I limited myself to writing about things I knew,
of Sudan, Congo, riots, war, religious conflict. All
meant we couldn’t really talk about anything that
I’d be writing about nothing! One of the great pleasthose things are real, but they’re also unusual in a
either of us was doing and my calls to her at the
ures of journalism is that it gives you an excuse to
continent that overall is actually enjoying economic
office were always … you know, I was always afraid
approach an issue you know nothing about and
growth and more stability with a slow move toward
I was going to get her fired! But it’s been terrific not
educate yourself. There are obviously risks of
greater democracy.
only to share a marriage but also these professional
malpractice when you write about things you’re not
This is one of the things I worry about as a
projects.
reporter: by focusing on the massacres, and the mass
rape, and all the other bad things, I leave people with
Can you describe the process of writing
a misperception of the continent as a whole that distogether?
courages tourism, that discourages studying abroad,
that discourages investment. That’s a fine balance
We tend to talk about how we want to approach a
for a journalist to maintain. So, one misperception
project. One of us will do the reporting, and then
would be that we don’t adequately account for the
typically that person will do the writing and the
successes.
other will edit it quite heavily and make a lot of
Another is the sense that many of the problems
changes. And then the reporter will look indignant
are due to very different cultures and that as a result,
and tinker some with it.
there’s nothing we can do. If one looks at
With Half the Sky, I think by and large it’s pretty
Afghanistan, for example, there are certainly a lot of
hard to figure out which parts began to be written by
Afghans who think that girls shouldn’t be educated.
Sheryl and which were started by me. Part of that is
You tend to say, “Well, that’s religion. That’s culthat we tend to think a lot alike, but it really was
ture, so you can’t do much about that.” And in fact,
very much a combined work product.
this is an element of Afghan culture – but cultures
change. They’re not impervious to internal and outDo your perspectives on any of the women’s
issues differ at all from Sheryl’s?
side pressure. One good example is that Bangladesh
was part of Pakistan until 1971, and then it invested
I think Sheryl had a more intuitive awareness of
heavily in girls’ education, so today there are more
the issues, while mine is more learned, if you will. I
girls in high school than boys. While in Pakistan, on
really can’t think of any policy disagreement between
the other hand, girls lag way behind boys and in
us. The only major type of disagreement was in the
familiar with, and pontificate about them, and I’ve
their tribal areas, female literacy is three percent.
balance between research and studies and stories. I
engaged in that malpractice periodically.
Cultural obstacles are real. So are religious ones.
was always trying to insert studies, and Sheryl was
But I think it’s really important for young writers
But those obstacles can be overcome.
always saying, “That makes it too boring.” And so
to be enthusiastic and care deeply about the topic,
that tended to be part of the balance.
then approach that issue and learn about it. Will they What’s the scariest thing that’s
I
would
encourage
make mistakes? Sure, but they’ll also learn in the
ever happened to you in your
Given the current proliferation of
journalistic travels?
process.
students to seek news sources, what can young
people do to educate themselves
Well, one trip, my first trip to
out intelligent
Is there anything you wish you had studied, or
about which media reports are
Congo,
began
with
a
plane
crash.
paid more attention to, in high school?
views that will
worth paying attention to?
That was quite scary because we
There are two subjects, or maybe three. One is I
knew we were going to have to crash
Well, of course my answer would
challenge things
wish I had read more fiction with an eye for “How is
land and there was actually a body
be to read the New York Times every
that author writing? How are they connecting to the
dangling from the undercarriage of
they hold dear
day! Maybe the biggest thing I would
reader?” I wish I had read more critically, trying to
the plane and we couldn’t dump fuel.
caution against is something that is
understand that author’s art.
We had about a half an hour before we crash-landed,
very human, which is to seek out sources we agree
The other two subjects, which may be more colso that was quite scary.
with. There is a deeply ingrained tendency for liberlege-level, are psychology and economics. I think
So I decided, after that experience, to drive out of
als and conservatives alike to find sources that just
that we can learn a lot about ourselves from research
Congo, but promptly ran into a Tutsi warlord who
seem incredibly reasonable, and tend to be those that
in psychology, and about how to connect with
was busy slaughtering Hutus and was not happy
confirm our every prejudice.
others. And likewise, I think that economics is
with my arrival on the scene. So, for the next week,
For conservatives, that would be to watch Fox
increasingly moving into other fields and offering
he chased me through the jungle until we got to
News, and for liberals it would be MSNBC, plus
really interesting explanations of things, because
Uganda. And then, to top it off, I got the most lethal
websites and blogs on either end. And I think that
economists tend to approach topics with real rigor.
kind of malaria, so that was a tough trip!
tends to be bad for democracy and for
➤➤
16
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
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ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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Interviewing the Interviewer
questions that would allow me to learn more about
ow do you interview one of the world’s forehim and his work, as well as questions that would
most interviewers? As I prepared for this
challenge him.
daunting task, I realized that it was not only
On the day of the interview, I arrived at the New
the interview itself, but also the preparation that
York Times building a few hours early so that I could
helps a journalist delve into the issues he or she is
review and organize all the questions. As I sat in the
trying to report on. Interviewing is a complex
spacious cafeteria with the publisher of Teen Ink and
process; it requires both curiosity and research to
Alicia, the other interviewer, we sorted through the
develop an understanding of the subject. The first
questions, making “good” and “bad” piles. After
step is to obtain information about the subject from
narrowing down the “good” pile seva variety of resources. When I was coneral times, we came up with a solid
tacted by the publisher of Teen Ink about
of thought-provoking questions.
interviewing Nicholas Kristof, a twoI wanted to ask group
As I walked into Mr. Kristof’s oftime Pulitzer Prize winner, New York
questions that fice, I grew increasingly nervous. Yet
Times columnist, author, and Rhodes
he made me feel immediately at ease as
scholar, I did not know very much about
would
he introduced himself with “Hi, I’m
Mr. Kristof’s work. I had heard about
Nick Kristof,” and asked us questions
some of his reporting in Africa and I had challenge him
about our own lives. He could underread a few of his columns, but I knew
stand our stress over college admisthat I would need to do more research.
sions, as one of his sons was also going through the
I began by reading his recently published book,
process as well.
Half the Sky, and started regularly following his
Obviously, it is critical for the interviewer to take
New York Times column. I also watched “Reporter,”
accurate and complete notes in recording the intera feature-length documentary about Mr. Kristof, and
viewee’s responses. In this case, however, we had
an interview with Eric Metzgar, the director of the
our meeting videotaped, thus allowing us to engage
film, who worked closely with him.
more fully with Mr. Kristof.
As the day of the interview approached, I began
After the first few questions, I found myself so into list some of the many questions that had come to
terested in his answers that I almost forgot that I was
me throughout the course of my research. After
interviewing one of the world’s most accomplished
learning so much about Mr. Kristof, I wanted to ask
H
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interview
brutality, but you also see unbelievable courage and
believe in, some cause larger than themselves to get
altruism, people rising to the occasion, expressing
engaged in. It could be Congo, or it could be kids
their humanity by just doing things that are almost
dropping out from a nearby school, but I think it’s a
unimaginable. So in places like Congo or Cambodia,
good anchor for one’s emotional fulfillment and a
I see extraordinary levels of brutality but also extraorgood way of putting one’s own difficulties in
What would it take to get mainstream media to
dinary levels of courage and compasperspective.
cover the overwhelming number of girls and
sion and activism, and I manage to
If your parents are being unreasonwomen who are forced into sexual slavery and
come back a bit reassured about the
able, as every teenager’s parents in the
The greatest
to get people to take action?
wonderful things that human beings are
history of the world have been, then
capable of, and I’m often truly init’s
useful
to
remember
that
there
are
impediment
to
I think what it takes is just getting the issue on the
spired.
other kids who are orphaned by AIDS
agenda. I think that the only reason it’s not acted on
change
tends
to
be
by
the
million,
who
have
enormous
is that people aren’t aware of the stories. It always
than your own writing, of
problems of predation by teachers or
seems ironic that if a white, middle-class girl goes
public awareness Other
course, are there any sources you
principals.
And
maybe
that
helps
put
missing, there’s going to be an Amber Alert, CNN is
would recommend for teenagers
issues in some perspective.
going to put out bulletins about “missing blonde.”
interested in learning more about
And yet every day there are many girls from less adthe
issues
of
women
in developing nations?
You’ve written that huge natural disasters, like
vantaged backgrounds, typically of color, who run
the recent earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, garThere are a bunch of books: one is called I Am Nuaway from a bad home situation, go to the bus station
ner more attention and aid than ongoing probjood, Aged 10 and Divorced. There’s a book about
and the only person looking out for them is a pimp. I
lems. What could be done to change this?
sex trafficking by a survivor named Somaly Mam.
think if people were more aware, and understood the
There’s a wonderful book by a Darfur survivor called
brutality of some of these situations, they’d be more
That’s a challenge for journalism. The reality is
Tears of the Desert: A Memoir of Survival by Halima
inclined to act, and that’s where we writers come in.
there is huge interest in these events and there isn’t
Bashir. They all fit this rubric of people who offer us
One of the shortcomings of the news media is
huge interest in ongoing challenges. But, if we in
a window into very different societies but ultimately
we’re very good at what happened yesjournalism claim very special privileges
end up being inspiring.
terday. We’re not very good at covering
because we think we fulfill a very imporIt’s important for tant social role, then we have to push
what happens every day. One of the
Journalists often speak of being torn between
reasons we don’t tend to cover human
young people to back against that human tendency and
trafficking is because it’s a part of the
try to give coverage and shine a spotlight writing about terrible situations they witness
find some cause on the daily, mundane tragedies that typ- and trying to fix them. How do you personally
background noise.
strike that balance?
ically don’t get attention.
larger than
How would you explain to
By and large, I’m not torn in that way. There are
themselves
teenagers the importance of being
It must be very depressing to witmoments, but in general, I think that the greatest imaware of what’s happening in Congo
ness so much tragedy. How do you
pediment to change tends to be public awareness and
today?
stay optimistic?
that’s what I’m pretty good at. I have this great spotlight and I can shine it on an issue and help project it
The truth is that for an average American, what
It actually is much less depressing than one might
on the agenda which tends to be a pretty effective
happens in Congo isn’t going to make a huge differthink, and I’m sure you, Eliza, encountered this in the
way to start building the political will to generate
ence in their lives. But I would argue that it’s really
orphanage. When people get tested, there are some
change. ✦
important for young people to find some cause they
who do terrible things, and there’s unavoidable
one’s own intellectual development. So, I would encourage students to bite the bullet and go out and
seek out intelligent views that challenge the things
they hold dear.
by Eliza Earle, New York, NY
journalists. By the end of the interview, I realized
that Mr. Kristof’s experience interviewing world
leaders, notorious warlords, and displaced and
oppressed people around the globe made him a
particularly good interviewee, too. I hope you find
reading the interview as interesting as I found
conducting it. ✦
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
17
heroes
Activists
Budi and Peggy Soehardi, Zach Hunter, and Shane Claiborne
A
hero is a person of distinct
courage or ability, admired for
their brave deeds and noble
qualities. Many Americans view a
hero as someone who is well known
for these qualities – like Mahatma
Gandhi or Abraham Lincoln. While
they changed the course of history,
some among us today are taking a
stand to change the world. They may
Photo by Alexis Hudson, Douglasville, GA
housing they gave their biological
not be famous, but they are our modchildren. This couple gave up a comern-day heroes.
fortable life so these children would
In 1999, residents of East Timor
have a chance to live without deprivavoted for independence from Indonetion. Most importantly, these children
sia. After the election, the militia
were allowed to experience hope.
launched a campaign of violence.
When Zach Hunter was 12, he
Hundreds of people were killed and
learned a startling fact: 27 million
250,000 became refugees and were
people around the world live in slavforced to live in cardboard boxes with
ery. About half of these people are
only rags for clothing.
children. Zach launched a campaign
Budi Soehardi, a pilot from Singacalled Loose Change to
pore, and his wife, Peggy,
Loosen Chains. American
saw a news report about
Unlikely
households contain an esthe East Timorese and decided to take action. The
heroes are the timated $10.5 billion in
loose change. Zach chalcouple cancelled their
ones who will lenged his peers to donate
planned vacation to raise
change to his cammoney and support for the
make all the their
paign, and he donated the
refugees. They collected
funds to organizations
more than 40 tons of
difference
working to end trafficking
food, medical supplies
around the world. Three years later,
and toiletries and delivered them to
Zach was still going strong. He beEast Timorese refugee camps.
came the global student spokesperson
To many, this would be enough, but
for The Amazing Change, spread
they did not stop there. The Soehardis
Loose Change to the United Kingdom,
decided that West Timor needed a
home for orphans. Eleven months
Australia, and Africa, wrote three
later, Roslin Orphanage was built. In
books, and even made a speech at the
White House. Zach is now 16.
April of 2002, the orphanage provided
housing and care for four children.
Last year, 39.8 million people in the
United States lived in poverty and 14
Today, the orphanage cares for 47
million of these are under the age of
children of all ages. The Soehardis
18. In addition, 49.1 million people
give the orphans the same food and
by Elizabeth Baker, McDonough, GA
live in households without the security
of a steady supply of food. Shane
Claiborne lives to change these statistics. Claiborne is the leader of the
Simple Way ministry, a group of people who survive by faith alone. They
live in one of the roughest neighborhoods in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,
feeding the hungry, running a community store, and planting neighborhood
gardens in vacant blocks. He could
have a regular job, but instead he asks
others to give money to the Simple
Way ministries. He wrote a book
called The Irresistible Revolution. All
of the money he makes from it goes to
other organizations.
Budi and Peggy Soehardi, Zach
Hunter, and Shane Claiborne are average, everyday people. But they are
true heroes. They realize what must
be done, but not only do they realize it
– they act on it. They do not simply
wait for the world to change – they
change it.
There will be more orphans, more
trafficking and more poverty, but these
heroes are willing to do whatever it
takes to fight these injustices. Budi
and Peggy Soehardi, Zach Hunter, and
Shane Claiborne are unlikely heroes.
And these unlikely heroes are the ones
who will make all the difference. ✦
Mother
Jenny Yu
by Hillary Liu, Fairfax, VA
books, I hear her mother snap at her and throw her new
hen I look at my mom, I see a mother happily
book bag outside. Her bag is soiled now, crumpled in the
settled with a husband and a daughter. I see
mud and chicken waste, absolutely useless. As just an
that though age has thickened her waistline
onlooker in a memory, I can do nothing, nothing but
and lined her face, she still carries herself with the
watch a familiar face fall and cry. I cover my ears.
youthful legs of a 20-year-old and lets her thick, black
Like a tape fast-forwarding, time progresses. Now I
hair trail across her shoulders. When I look at her, alsee my mom in her teens, waiting for admission results
though I see a woman in her late 40s, I can still see the
from a famous high school. She has studied hard for the
girl she once was in rural China – a girl my age, but with
test but with joy, since she feels no suffering in learning.
so much more courage than I could ever hope to have.
Suddenly I spy her jumping, smiling and laughing, wavMy mom’s story begins on a small farm in the Shaning a paper in her hand while her family stands nearby,
dong Province of communist China. I close my eyes and
more shocked than happy. No one else from their village
suddenly I’m there, on the hard dirt, smelling the earthy
passed the test. It was my mom, only my mom, who
musk of the air, feeling a warm sun behind my head,
made it to that high school. I wasn’t surprised
with nothing but fields for miles. And I see
when I found myself leaping and cheering
my mom. She swears I look almost like she
did at my age. She’s far away, but I can see
Only my mom silently along with her.
She is my biggest fan now; I am her biggest
that her skin, though slightly dirty from her
made it to
fan here in the past. Later, at her new high
work in the fields, is still much paler than
I proudly watch as she continues to
mine; though her back is hunched from the
high school school,
rise to the top. Many of her essays are pubyoke she is carrying, I see that her thin body
lished in newspapers, and students seek her
moves athletically.
advice when a test is approaching. She likes the attenI follow her until she arrives at her house, which she
tion, and I feel honored to be related to such an intellishares with her parents and siblings. It is a mud hut, like
gent person.
the others in her village, but it seems especially small
As I walk with her through her journey, I finally come
and run-down. I gingerly enter, noting the dirt floors and
to the point I have been looking forward to most: her life
the grainy smell of cornmeal mush from the pot in the
in America. After passing several tests and finding a perfire. It occurs to me that my mom is very poor.
son to sponsor her, she becomes a college student majorShe is on the floor, creating a book bag for her ragged
ing in mechanical engineering at UCLA. At first, I sense
textbooks. I watch her work with nimble fingers. Even
her loneliness and panic as she tries to adapt to her new
now, her eyes hold the steely glint of determination that
surroundings, full of different smells, languages, and
will later separate her from others. My heart sinks when
people. Never before has she eaten a pineapple, driven a
I realize that I am the only one who understands her
car, or used a toilet with plumbing. Though her English
thirst for knowledge, the reason she walks three miles
is broken and she knows little about American culture, I
every day to get to school.
can tell she is more than grateful to be here. Her dorm
Her parents think that girls are better off working in
room is much cleaner than the mud shack back home.
the fields than studying, and now, as she reads her
W
18
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
Here she has access to electricity and running water, and
most importantly, better schools. At UCLA, she has so
many opportunities to grow and advance in her field.
Her journey to America was for just one reason: education. Though having an education would better her
life, I know she didn’t do it for herself. My mom did not
want her children to have the same life she did; she
wanted them to have an easier life that would not require
hard labor. I saw what my mom went through, and I’m
filled with gratitude that she made the brave choice to
move here. I am so very grateful.
I open my eyes, and I find myself sitting on a cushioned chair, my feet no longer touching dirt but resting
on a hardwood floor. A laptop is in front of me, its fan
running noisily. How long have I carelessly let it idle? I
shut it down, reminding myself to type my essay later.
After all, I know my story now. I can tell it by heart. ✦
Photo by Jacque Watson, Columbus, NE
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Stephanie Ihejirika, Forestville, MD
watched him suspiciously, a tirade ready in my mind
an you please tell your mother what I’m
for another xenophobe. He was courteous. He treated
saying?” I am the daughter of two Nigermy mother as people have always treated her – but
ian immigrants. All my relatives live in
now I wasn’t so sure. Did he treat others differently?
the same state as us, no more than an hour’s drive
Was he a little too friendly? Was he patronizing? I
away. Growing up in this close-knit community shelcouldn’t be certain anymore. I dropped my book in
tered me from people and events like this.
my mother’s purse, the fog completely cleared and
“Can you please tell your mother what I’m saying?”
my eyes open to a whole new world.
Was it because I looked American? Was it because
When we left, I asked my mother why the woman
of her accent? Was it because this woman had been
had said that. She paused and then answered, “In this
living in a homogeneous society where everyone
country, you’re going to meet people who hear you
looked, dressed, and spoke the same way?
and think you haven’t been in the U.S. long enough to
“Can you please tell your mother what I’m saying?”
really understand anything. But you have
I looked up from my book to stare at
to be strong.”
this cashier. My mother was arguing with
“They think
A few weeks later, the same thing hapher over the price of the clothes she was
pened on the phone to my father. My faputting on layaway for Christmas. The
because I have ther is not my mother. I heard him say
woman had stopped speaking to her and
an accent I was very loudly, “My accent doesn’t mean I
was talking to me instead. She stood,
know my rights. I know how to take
waiting. I frowned as the words started to
born yesterday” don’t
you to court and I will.” I came closer as
penetrate the fog of my book-world.
he yelled and then hung up without lis“I want to speak to a manager,” my
tening to another word.
mother said, making a conscious attempt to control
“Daddy, what did they say?”
her emotions and her voice. This unnerved me. I was
He didn’t tell me. All he said was, “They think bestill trying to figure out what this woman meant. Why
cause I have an accent I was born yesterday.” Then he
did I need to translate when my mother wasn’t speaklooked at me and said, “Don’t let people misproing in another language?
nounce your name. Don’t let them treat you wrongly.
But she had, for most of her life. And despite being
You kids are lucky. I’m never going to be anything
in America for 20 years, her words sounded different
more than I am now. But you kids were born here and
from this woman’s, I suppose. Were they different
that means you can do anything you want.”
enough for this woman to make assumptions? Were
He was always saying that. Now it began to click. It
they different enough for her to degrade my mother
was that part of getting older that I didn’t like: the relike this? Were they different enough to matter?
alization of truths. Finally, I was seeing things that
The manager came and sorted everything out. I
“C
Who Is a Korean
You may assume I am a good math and
science student.
After all,
I take calculus, physics, and biology.
You may think I am destined to be
the owner of a dry cleaners
or convenience store.
After all,
I would be honored to take over
my parents’ business someday.
You presume that men
in my culture
exhibit violence and rage.
After all,
a Korean student
killed 32 students on the Virginia Tech
campus.
You may assume
Koreans are not good at sports.
After all,
they spend all their time
with their noses in a book.
But
I bet there are many things you think
you know
but you don’t.
You probably don’t realize
that I abandoned my friends
and made a change
by coming to Crossroads
in the middle of my high school years.
I am not afraid
to take risks.
I bet you don’t know
that I got a D in chemistry.
So much for your assumptions.
What you don’t know
is my mother does not own
a liquor store
or dry cleaner’s.
She owns a pharmacy
and worked her way to the top of
her field.
I can only hope
Not a White student.
Not a Black student.
Not a Muslim student.
A Korean student
shot his classmates
in cold blood.
You may know
LINK
by Allison Lee, Los Angeles, CA
how to spot a Korean woman
by her lean physique.
After all,
my mother is 5'1"
and weighs under one hundred pounds.
You may think I am passive
and cannot think for myself.
After all,
you barely know me.
And,
of course,
that’s my fault
for not being more outgoing.
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
must have been happening all along.
My parents were foreigners and were at times discriminated against because of that. This was on the
same wavelength as that Martin Luther King Day in
kindergarten when they separated the black and white
kids, and acted out the differences between black and
white classrooms. This flowed right along with people
calling me a geek because I read a lot, or a nerd because I did well in school. This went hand in hand
with those who pronounced my last name any way
they saw fit.
“Can you please tell your mother what I’m saying?”
I wasn’t able to do anything that day. I may not be
with my mother the next time it happens. But my eyes
are open.
There are more people willing to embrace variations in our world today, so I may never meet another
like that. However, since then, I don’t let people mispronounce my last name. I teach them how to say it,
teach them to give me the respect I give them. It has
given me more backbone when I meet new people,
and I no longer hide my name as if I am ashamed but
broadcast it loud and clear for all to hear.
Mine is the name of one who will do great things
that her parents will be proud of. It is the name of one
who no longer watches people berate her mother for
her accent, but steps in. It is someone who believes
the slightest disrespect is discrimination against the
beautiful differences that make the world spin and
treats it as such, as something unacceptable and ugly.
It is the name of someone who will never let something like that happen again. ✦
pride & prejudice
Please Tell Your Mother What I’m Saying
FACEBOOK
to someday attain the same success.
Did you know
that one researcher found
that Korean men
in the United States
commit violent acts because
they feel alienated
by the mainstream media
that glosses over similar atrocities
committed by whites?
I have a newsflash:
Not all Korean women are bony.
Perhaps
the close-minded people
should take a closer look at
Victoria Beckham.
And have you noticed Keira Knightley
lately?
I will never be bony.
You cannot put me on a list.
Or file me
away
in your drawer of statistics.
I am not going to fade
into the shadows
of a dimly lit library
or relinquish my independence
to another person.
I will play the sports I love,
I will speak my mind.
So you tell me …
Who is a Korean? ✦
When it comes to sports,
your presumptions that
Koreans cannot compete are dispelled
by the fact that
Korea has ranked among
the top 15 Olympic medal-winning
countries in the world.
Korea’s only competition
was either
highly funded First World countries
or nationalistic countries.
As for me …
Photo by Staci Bradbury, Houghton, NY
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
19
travel & culture
Broken Barriers in Spain
my host mother, a petite woman with
y legs were shaking and my
black hair.
stomach was in knots. Leav“Tienes hambre?” she asked. “Are
ing the warm embrace of my
you hungry?”
friends’ hugs, I walked down the aisle
Trying not to be a burden I declined,
of the cramped Mercedes coach bus,
saying, “No, gracias, estoy bien.” Yet
and climbed down the steps toward the
we still had tea and Moroccan cookies.
mass of families awaiting our arrival.
As we slurped the hot, delicious tea, I
As soon as the rubber soles of my
gave them their gifts. I had put toshoes touched the warm pavement, I
gether an album of pictures of me, my
felt the isolation. I saw a short man
house, family, and friends. They wreswith a balding head and a scruffy
tled over the album, all fascinated by
beard approaching, two eager-looking
the foreign places and concepts I had
sons by his side. Although I had never
brought from Vermont. Seeing the
met them, somehow I knew they were
snow, my mom’s eyes widened. “Hace
my new host family. I didn’t even nofrio?” she asked. “Is it cold there?”
tice my fellow travelers as they, too,
I thought about the amazingly comwere swept off in all directions by
fortable spring, summer, and fall
their new families.
months in Vermont. The
“Me llamo Abrabeautiful days seemed to
ham,” my new host faI didn’t realize
cloud my memory, alther introduced himself.
lowing me to forget the
Mohammed was his
how hard it
cold grasp of winter. I
oldest son, and at 16,
would be to rely replied, “A veces, pero
the closest to my age.
no es malo.” (SomeThe smaller son was
on another
times, but it’s not too
named David, prolanguage
bad.) I knew my new
nounced Dawud. Both
family wouldn’t really
were skinny, with short
understand what it was like to live
black hair and similar facial features;
through months of below-freezing
it was clear they were brothers.
temperatures, with Nor’easters that
On the walk home my host father
made the already frozen roads even
tried to make small talk, which helped
more treacherous.
calm my nerves. “Tienes una gran
When they saw the pictures of me
mochila,” he said, pointing out the size
playing
hockey and lacrosse they were
of the green hiking backpack strapped
amazed to see something so strange.
tightly to my shoulders. “Eres un
They had never seen a hockey rink, or
cocinero?”
someone in full gear. I saw their con“Sí, I like to cook,” I mumbled,
fused expressions and tried to explain
thinking back to the contents of the
what lacrosse was, quickly giving up,
letter I wrote to my family prior to the
frustrated with the complexity of extrip. I had rambled on about cooking,
plaining in Spanish. I didn’t realize
and how I wanted to learn to cook new
how hard it would be to completely
foods. Now I was barely able to anrely on another language.
swer each question; my words seemed
Yet the embarrassment I suffered
to stumble from my mouth as they fell
when I couldn’t finish a sentence was
out, incorrect and badly pronounced.
nothing compared to when I met my
Finally reaching the street that I
neighbor later that evening. My family
would call home, I stood on the
and I sat on the stone base of the doordoorstep of a small terracotta house
way, enjoying the cooler night air that
squished between its neighbors. I met
had descended from the mountains
that towered over the dry desert. The
elderly woman living next door came
out and began speaking to us. Though
I couldn’t understand because of her
thick Andalusian accent, I was able to
grasp my family’s explanation that I
was their American guest. We both
stepped forward to greet each other
and I did the unthinkable: I stretched
out my hand. Everyone paused. Silence fell. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten the proper greeting. My family
hurriedly explained that I was American and didn’t know better. I apologized again and again as I tried to
repair my error, going in for the proper
double-kiss on the cheek. In the end
we all laughed. But I was deeply embarrassed; it had been a long day and I
really wanted to go to bed.
The first few days with my family
went by as well as I could have expected, although I still struggled to
M
Art by Michelle Long, Syosset, NY
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by Dale Forrister, Dummerston, VT
communicate. When I woke on the
first Saturday, and realized there was
no group activity planned, I wasn’t
sure I would make it through the day. I
dreaded the idea of being completely
shut off from the familiar comfort of
speaking English with my fellow
Americans. Yet as the day progressed,
my worry subsided and I started to
have fun. That afternoon, Mohammed
and I went out and played foosball.
We gathered his other friends and
went to a small market where we
played game after game. I had been
spending a lot of time with Mohammed and his friends, and we all
got along – but I still couldn’t understand them when they chatted together. Their accents and slang made it
impossible to follow their words as
they shot from mouth to mouth. Yet
when we played together, words suddenly became clear, and although I
Art by Morel Doucet, Miami, FL
didn’t know their exact meaning,
when someone made a nice shot or
that my host father played each mornsave, the burst of noise and excitement
ing. I joined my host mother in the
made the meaning seem insignificant.
kitchen and started to make French
I loved the time we spent playing
toast. I mixed eggs, milk, and cinnafoosball together. It reminded me of
mon, while she watched my every
home, playing on my dad’s old fratermove, trying to figure out what I was
nity table in my unfinished basement.
making.
Later that day, one of the neighborWhen it was cooked, we all sat at
hood friends joined us back at our
the table. They hesitated, unsure of
house for tea. Victor, Mohammed and
what to do with the new food. I lathI sat around a small coffee table and
ered mine with butter and drenched it
sipped our steaming hot Moroccan tea.
in syrup, and my brother followed suit.
It was sweet and rich, and my host
My mother and other brother were
mother explained it was made with
more cautious, and only dipped the
Pakistani spices. Victor and I started
corner in the syrup. At the first bite my
practicing our Spanish and English tomother shrieked “Que dulce!” I
gether; he would speak in English, and
laughed as I watched them adjust to
I would answer in Spanish. This symthe overpowering sweetness of maple
biotic language session helped me
syrup.
tremendously. When either of us ran
There was no time for another game
into a word we didn’t know, we could
of foosball that afternoon. I spent the
simply stop and ask
rest of my last day getthe other. Victor alting ready to say goodways noticed my conbye. As the afternoon
fusion when someone
I made the rounds, approached, I put the
said something I
final items in my bag,
giving my new
didn’t understand, and
and fought with the
would repeat it in
friends and family a zipper to get it shut. I
English before I even
down the nowsorrowful goodbye walked
needed to ask, “Que?”
familiar streets to the
We spent the whole
bus, accompanied by
night practicing my
my whole family, with
Spanish. By one o’clock, as we letharmy huge bag strapped to my shoulgically made our way home, I felt so
ders. When we arrived at the park
accomplished that I carried on a conwhere we had first met, I saw that all
versation the entire way.
of Mohammed’s friends had come to
On the last day of my stay, I got out
see me off. So I made the rounds, givof bed early, and sneaked downstairs
ing every one of my new friends and
trying not to wake anyone up. I
family a sorrowful goodbye before I
wanted to surprise my family with one
joined the rest of the Americans on the
of my favorite breakfasts, so I went
bus. It was calming to be back in the
down the street to the Marcadona to
comfortable sphere of English, but I
buy a loaf of bread and some cinnawas almost bored: words seemed too
mon. When I got back to the house
easy, and conversations flowed too
everyone was awake and following
naturally. My focus was not on my
their usual morning routines. My
American friends. Instead, I looked
mother was busy in the kitchen, putout the window at my friends and
ting on water for coffee; my brother
family as they disappeared into the
and father sat on the couch entranced
distance. ✦
by the collection of ’80s rock music
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by Sara Dickinson, Wyckoff, NJ
different from what I was used to in the United States.
ll of my life I’ve heard of other people’s hardMy mom grew up in a family of 13 kids, so hot water
ships, but I never knew that my own mother
in the shower and her own bedroom were not exactly
came head to head with so many obstacles in
options. I stayed at the house where she grew up, and
her home country of Colombia. From a daughter’s
was surprised to find it still full. My grandparents and
point of view, my mother has always been the one I
two of my aunts still lived there with their families.
would turn to for advice, the one who told me to clean
Given the opportunity to experience life without luxumy room time after time, and the person who embarries, I was able to learn a lot about the culture, my
rassed me in front of my friends. I never took the time
family, and of course, my mom. Although it took me a
to think about her life before. I knew my mom moved
few days to adjust to living in Colombia, it seemed as
to America for a better existence, but I did not fully
if my mom had never left.
understand how different everything can be when you
When I met my mom’s best friend from childhood,
come to a new country – until I experienced it myself.
something caught my eye. I realized that the purse she
My mom’s whole life was a long ride, with happiness
was carrying had been mine, one I had
as the destination. She did anything in
loved. At first, I was surprised and angry
her power to grab hold of that, even if it
It was like
with my mom for sending my purse to
meant leaving everything she had ever
However, I quickly changed
known. But had starting a whole new life
the world had Colombia.
my mind when I saw how happy her
in America been worth it? I was about to
flipped upside friend was with it, and how much she
find out.
loved it. I finally understood why my
As soon as I arrived in Colombia, it
down
mom made a big deal of collecting my
was like the world had flipped upside
old clothes and books every year to send
down. All I heard was Spanish all around
to Colombia: people there truly appreciate the things
me. Although I understood most of what people were
in life that I used to take for granted.
saying, it was overwhelming not hearing anyone
For example, I’ve always known I would have a
speak a word of English. Their stares made me feel as
chance to go to college. But when my cousins in
if everyone could actually see my heart bursting
Colombia graduated high school, they went straight to
through my chest.
work. They told me that for most kids there, college is
Getting to Colombia had been a challenge, to say
not an option because money is a big problem. In
the least. We missed our first plane, which forced us
America, college is usually considered the next logito stay overnight in Miami. When we finally arrived, I
cal step after high school, but in Colombia, people
could tell that my mom was extremely excited to be
rarely continue their education. Now I realize how
home at last; as soon as our plane landed, she cried,
lucky I am to live the life my family in Colombia only
which I wasn’t expecting. The way I saw it, our threedreams about.
week trip was just a long vacation. To her, it meant
Being able to witness the Colombian way of life
gathering all her old memories from the corner of her
firsthand gave me insight into how my mother grew
heart and sharing them with her daughter.
up, and into her reasons for coming to America to
My experiences in Colombia proved to be very
A
Under the Veil of the City
M
y hometown is a city by the
river, shrouded by fog at the
dawn of each day. The
streets, scarred with tire burns, are infested with cars and pedestrians. The
buildings are tyrants looming over the
humble townspeople. Neighborhoods
outside the tumultuous bustle of the
city are somewhat utopian: the lawns
are perfectly trimmed and sparkling
with dew, and the houses are painted
with bright, luminescent pastels, making the rows a pleasure to look at. The
streets in the suburbs are quaint and
placid, and the inhabitants stroll the
streets without fear of anyone lurking.
Small rivers with gushing inlets surge
under bridges forged by the city’s
founders.
Elsewhere, in the bustle of city life,
distinguished attorneys and businessmen roam the smoothly paved roads.
There is a sense of urgency, as women
run across traffic-plagued crossroads
screaming into their BlackBerries.
There is an extreme contrast: one sees
a well-tailored executive sporting recently shined leather shoes and a Rolex
on the same street as a homeless man
with ragged clothes and a cardboard
sign reading, “Money, please. God
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start her family. She wanted the opportunities that
were not available in Colombia. She wanted a better
life for herself and for her family. She wanted happiness. My trip to Colombia taught me to appreciate the
opportunities I’ve been given and strengthened the
bond between my mom and me. I am proud of her for
having the strength to leave everything and move to
America, especially since she did not know a word of
English. I can only hope that I will have one percent
of her courage when I am forced to face the struggles
that life will throw at me. I have a feeling that with
her support, I will be able to find my own happiness,
no matter what stands in my way. ✦
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Photo by Ying Johnstone, Shoreline, WA
by Edmund Murphy, Boston, MA
blue neon shark atop the aquarium
Bless.” The city can open eyes with its
haunts the weary midnight driver as he
skyscrapers, its blue skies, and flowercrosses the water, eyes on the horizon.
ing urban gardens with roses in full
The most beautiful view from both
bloom. Everyone, from the homeless to
cities is the lookout from the aquarthe CEOs, stops by Fountain Square,
ium’s front porch. The newly renovated
an amphitheater of elegance, to marvel
seascape, packed with excited children,
at the city’s queen, standing on her
sits across from Captain Mitchell’s
throne with water spouting from her
Seafood Tavern, filled with only emptihands. The sun rises above her as chilness. Between the defunct restaurant
dren tilt their heads and gaze on her
and the bustling epicenter
majesty. Hawks and doves
of aquatic life is a cobbleflock to her ever-giving
stone path leading to a
metal hands, and the birds
The very sight rocky promontory.
survey the city. Lots of
After the sun goes down
pennies lie in the pool
of my city is
in the Midwestern sky, the
resting at the fountain’s
unforgettable nightlife of Newport has
end. The copper wears off
just begun. Teenagers flee
and mars the clear resoluto the brand-new movie
tion of droplets. The
theaters, and bookworms head to
wishes of thousands are magnified here
Barnes & Noble to read the latest
in the heart of the city, where the
novel. With so much excitement within
streets become cobblestone, and techNewport’s buildings, little believe there
nology becomes meaningless.
is beauty outside. However, if one
On the other side of the muddy
treads that beaten path between the
banks, plows shred the grains of the
eatery and the aquarium to the
sun-soaked Kentucky fields. A twopromontory, they will find a barricade,
minute drive from the Purple Bridge’s
standing guard just before the cliff
towering heights leads a wandering
slopes 50 feet to the water. Fathers,
traveler into Newport. A giant aquarsons, sisters, and brothers alike all
ium protrudes proudly from a plaza of
come to rest their hands on the cool,
shops atop the riverbank. The blazing
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Leaving a Life
iron fence. Their eyes, looking for
something on this dull side of the river,
only need to look straight ahead. The
Queen City of Cincinnati, in all her radiance, looms triumphantly in the distance. Paul Brown Stadium and Great
American Ball Park are lit extravagantly, but with much mystery. Pale
whites and ominous grays attract the
eyes of even the drowsiest. US Bank
Arena, long blue and red stripes along
its cylindrical top, stands out among
the other buildings, giving all a lasting
memory. The jealous waters reflect the
beautiful setting, and scampering children exclaim at the water’s beauty.
The very sight of my city is unforgettable, and is still clearly visible in
my mind’s eye. At night, the city is
transformed from a dirty slum to a
pulsating urban area. The polluted and
neglected murk of the Ohio River is
returned to its purest, glistening in the
reflected light of the PNC Building. In
my city, there are poor and rich, vague
and well-defined, dullness and exuberance, hopelessness and promise. The
balance between these can be found
across water, through the claustrophobic
streets, and over the air, filled with birdsong. This is the city of Cincinnati. ✦
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
21
environment
A Better Earth Starts at Home
W
e all have concerns that consume our busy schedules,
but the global state of the
environment has the greatest impact
on all of us by far. Global warming, or
climate change, is the increase in the
Earth’s average air and ocean temperature due to human activity including
deforestation, burning of fossil fuels,
and chemical and biological waste.
These activities emit carbon dioxide,
which corrodes the ozone layer – part
of the Earth’s atmosphere that absorbs
the sun’s harmful ultraviolet rays.
Without the ozone layer, the ultraviolet rays can not only damage our skin,
but all forms of life. However, preventing deterioration of our ozone
layer can be simple – and inexpensive
– when you begin at home.
For example, to help reduce electricity use, turn off the lights when
leaving a room and unplug electronics
like cell phone chargers. Unplugging
bring them to a store to recycle along
unused electronics is important,
with your bottles and cans. Even
because the items still draw in electricbetter, eliminate paper or plastic shopity even when they’re not in use. For
ping bags altogether, and purchase
larger electrical appliances, like televireusable canvas shopping ones. Some
sions or computers, plug them into a
stores will deduct five cents from your
power strip, which can hold several
order for each reusable bag used.
appliances at once, and has an on/off
When shopping, be
switch that you can easily
aware of what you buy.
flip to cut energy.
Many common house- The state of the Buying organic and local
hold items can be recyenvironment products cuts down on the
chemicals that are used to
cled. Plastic soda bottles
has the greatest keep produce fresh. You
and cans can be rinsed
and brought to a local
can tell how the produce
impact on
supermarket for a fivewas grown by looking at
all of us
cent refund. Glass or
its sticker; a conventionaluminum beer bottles
ally grown piece of fruit
has a sticker with four numbers, while
and cans can be collected and taken to
an organic piece of fruit has five numa local redemption center. Many cities
bers and starts with a nine. Buying
and towns also schedule curbside colfrom local farmers also cuts down on
lection days, where a recycling prothe emissions used to transport the
gram collects bottles, cans, newspaper,
produce. You can also choose products
and cardboard.
that come in bags instead of plastic
If you use plastic shopping bags,
Just Tossing It
I
’m sure many of you have seen food waste: the
manager at the grocery store carting out boxes of
cereal past their expiration date; the employee at
the Pizza Hut throwing away anything that’s ten minutes “past its prime;” your friends at school dumping
half their lunch into the garbage; or your mom throwing out a brown banana. This is all food waste, and
it’s one of the biggest problems facing America. Unfortunately, many don’t realize how harmful food
waste is for the environment, and how many problems it causes. America needs to take a stand and
find more effective ways of dealing with it before the
problem worsens.
It’s a common fact that Americans buy much more
food than they need. Americans only need four billion pounds of food a year to meet the requirements
of every person, but in reality, we end up buying 350
billion pounds. Of that 350 billion pounds, 100 billion pounds gets thrown away. So why are 30 million
Americans still going hungry on a regular basis? This
is a good question, and has to do with how we deal
with food waste.
Of the waste thrown away by humans, 13 percent
Photo by Megan Knights, Burlington, ON, Canada
22
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by Abrianna Peto, Rochester, MA
packages. If buying the item in a bag
is not an option, when you’re done
with the plastic container, recycle it.
Looking for more things to recycle?
If you have a yard, start a compost
pile. Any food waste, from coffee
grounds to eggshells, can be composted. Make a special container for
the waste; when it’s decomposed, it
becomes a mulch that is less expensive
and better for the environment than the
chemical mulch you can buy. Coffee
grounds are really great for rose
bushes, too! In the fall, when your
lawn is covered with leaves and pine
needles, rake them up and run them
over with the lawn mower, and decompose them with the compost for mulch.
All of these things are inexpensive
and will help the environment. They’re
not as extreme as installing solar panels
or buying the latest fuel-efficient car,
but in the long run they will save
money and the environment. ✦
by Christine Caitlin, Arden Hills, MN
Americans planned their meals, or used leftovers for
of it is food. Of this 13 percent, or 350 million tons,
future meals, it would save tons of food from becom98 percent ends up in landfills. That lets off a damaging waste. Some restaurants, such as T.G.I. Fridays,
ing greenhouse gas called methane, which has a huge
have started cutting their portion sizes. Some college
impact on climate change. If Americans cut their
cafeterias have also been eliminating trays, meaning
food waste in half, it would reduce the country’s enstudents have to carry their food to a table rather than
vironmental impact by 25 percent. If we stopped
load up a tray.
throwing out edible food, the carbon dioxide emisSchool lunches are also a major source of food
sions would be equal to getting one of every five cars
waste; a study shows that students throw away, on
off the road! As you can see, by throwing away all
average, between 10 and 35 percent of the food on
this food, instead of composting it or using it later,
their trays. There are a few ways this could be
we are greatly damaging our planet.
solved: schools could put out smaller portions, stop
Americans waste safe and edible fresh food and
requiring elementary school students to take milk, or
groceries for reasons like changed labeling regulaeliminate trays. A study also shows that in elementions that render the food legally unsalable. Often, if
tary schools, many students spend half of their lunch
a box of produce isn’t sold right away, wholesalers
time in line, and then rush outside for recess, therewould rather throw out the whole box than selecfore not having enough time to eat. If
tively sort through each piece by hand.
students had recess before lunch, the
Table scraps, half-eaten lunches in
Of the waste
kids would be hungrier and wouldn’t
school cafeterias, leftovers from hotel
waste as much. Research shows that stubanquets, and past-its-prime produce in
thrown away
dents would waste about 30 percent less
supermarkets are all thrown away. Even
by humans, 13 food if recess came first.
restaurants are estimated to throw away
Finally, people can become aware of
more than 6,000 tons of food each year.
percent is food food
rescue organizations in their comThink of how many empty stomachs
munities. These do almost all the work
that could fill. Wasting food squanders
for cafeterias and restaurants, and donate edible food
the time, energy and resources used to produce it.
to food banks – not table scraps, but prepared food
Now that you’ve learned the terrible facts about
that was not served. These organizations can rescue
food waste, you’re probably wondering, How can we
thousands of tons of food. They can also help feed
stop it? Well, it’s fairly simple. First, America can
the hungry. People aren’t aware that over 27 percent
start composting, instead of sending food to landfills.
of the food we throw away is still available for conCities could put out recycling bins just for food
sumption, and if we saved just five percent of our
waste, and the food could be made into compost or
food waste a day, we could feed four million people.
broken down for bio-gas. San Francisco has already
All these solutions can help stop food waste. We
begun doing this. By composting food we can reduce
can plan our meals, start backyard composting, enmethane emissions, sell the compost to farmers, or
courage cities to start curbside recycling pickups for
use the food to create a renewable fuel for cars that
food scraps, help food rescue organizations, and be
could reduce carbon dioxide emissions by 75 to 200
more conscious about what we buy, and what we
percent. The nitrogen in food would make it easy to
throw away. Teens all across America can help stop
compost quickly, and would help the planet imworld hunger, and stop the damaging methane gases
mensely.
released from the food waste. Throwing it away isn’t
Another solution is to serve smaller portions and
the answer. ✦
plan meals better. Americans frequently take more
food than they need, and throw away most of it. If
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U N I V E R S I T Y
Hazleton, PA: Nestled in the quaint mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania lies a
satellite campus of one of the most famous universities in the world: Penn State.
When most people hear Penn State, they think of the large, bustling campus at University Park that is home to more than 40,000 students. Penn State Hazleton is home
to a much smaller 2,000 students, most of whom commute.
Hazleton is one of the 19 satellite campuses that Pennsylvania State University
offers students. A satellite campus is a great way to be part of a large, famous university without the crazy hustle and bustle of a large population. Penn State Hazleton
sits literally on a mountainside, with dorms at the bottom and classrooms at the top.
Although it is much smaller than the main campus, it still offers the same 160
majors, which range from engineering and business to golf management and horticulture.
At Penn State Hazleton, students enjoy a large library with over 80,000 books,
computer labs, digital commons locations, numerous sports facilities, and classrooms
O F
Penn State
Toronto
H A Z L E T O N
campuses are centered in major cities, so retail stores and other attractions aren’t far away. For example, U of T is close to the Rom Museum,
which post-secondary students in Canada can visit for free on Tuesdays.
Of course, attending a university isn’t just about fun, and with more
than 600 undergraduate programs, U of T provides opportunities for
every aspiring student, and even offers special programs tailored for
certain careers. For example, the campus in Mississauga is known for
its remarkable Concurrent Education program. Whether you are pursuing a degree in chemistry, math, English or history, U of T provides an
outstanding education for all, with an amazing foundation in research
and excellence. In fact, with over 18 million resources, U of T’s library
is one of the top five research libraries in North America.
If you want to learn in a multicultural academic setting, you will love
the University of Toronto. For all of these reasons, U of T is currently
one of my top three choices. If interested, you can find more information regarding student life, academic programs, and the campuses in
general at: www.utoronto.ca. ✦
with the latest technologies. In the midst of this technology-geared campus, however,
lies evidence of the area’s previous residents: a grand family mansion which now
serves as the administration building and picturesque centerpiece of the campus.
Year-round, students are actively involved with the campus and the community.
Numerous clubs and organizations help both the university and surrounding areas.
No matter what your interest, you’ll find a club for it at Penn State.
For students looking to save a little money at college, Hazleton offers the option to
commute from home or live in off-campus housing. Apartments are nearby in a variety of locations throughout Hazleton. Whether living on-campus or off, all students
take advantage of campus facilities and enjoy university events.
After completing two years at Hazleton, most students move on to complete their
degree at University Park. Penn State Hazleton is a great stepping-off point for those
who want to begin college, but would like to ease into a university community. With
a superb location, a wonderful faculty, and high-tech facilities, Penn State Hazleton
is great choice for students of all backgrounds and interests. After all: WE ARE
PENN STATE! To learn more, visit psu.edu. ✦
by Lila Wajdie, Brampton, QC, Canada
by Sarah Van Sise, Blakeslee, PA
Colorado Springs, CO: On my visit to Colorado College I was
able to get a feel for the school, and I definitely enjoyed its unique
system for learning: instead of teaching on a semester system,
students at CC take one class at a time for an intensive short period.
So, a student there can complete a psychology course in three-and-ahalf weeks, then move onto the next subject. This schedule is called
the Block Plan, and at the end of each block, students get a four-day
break before starting the next one. I spoke to students who use their
break to go hiking and camping in the mountains of Colorado, another
perk of CC. The mountains are just a few miles away and make a nice
backdrop to the college.
However, during my three-day visit, I observed that the school population is quite homogeneous. The majority of students are Caucasian.
Colorado
C O L L E G E
Some of the students told me that the lack of diversity is one of the
only problems that they have with the school. Also, while I liked the
idea of the Block Plan, in practice I’m not sure that I would enjoy
taking on just one subject at a time, and having to read an average of
150 pages a night, plus assignments, for the duration of the block. It
seems like the subject would be rushed.
Nonetheless, I love the fact that the mountains are nearby and
nature is your playground. The Block Plan is definitely intriguing, and
the hockey team is one of the best in the country, and a great source of
on-campus activity and entertainment. I have some issues with the
diversity, but overall, Colorado College is a top-notch liberal arts
school where class sizes are small and the interaction with professors
is easy. Check out coloradocollege.edu. ✦
by Lynda Lopez, Chicago, IL
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Berea, KY: As an international student
seeking to continue my higher education
in the U.S., searching for a college that
would provide an excellent education, opportunities for personal development, and
financial assistance wasn’t easy. However,
one college particularly caught my attention: Berea College, consistently ranked
as the South’s finest regional liberal arts
college. It’s located in the small town of
Berea, with a population of 10,000,
approximately 40 miles south of the
moderately sized city of Lexington.
Founded in 1855 as the first interracial
Berea
college reviews
Toronto, Canada: Whether you are looking for a calm environment
or a fast-paced city, the University of Toronto provides students with
multiple settings in three different Canadian cities: Toronto, Scarborough, and Mississauga. The University of Toronto, or U of T, is
Canada’s largest university and was listed among the 30 Best Universities in the world, as announced by The QS World University Rankings
in 2009. The U of T has an amazing faculty, including past and present
Nobel Prize winners, authors, engineers, astronomers, and more, and its
cultural diversity is among the best around.
The university is home to more than 170 student groups, from campus-based newspapers and radio stations to an athletic center that offers
fitness classes and the chance to participate in many sports. The Hart
House in the St. George Campus even provides students with an art
gallery, concert halls, a snack bar, pub, pool and much more. The
perspectives.
The college offers rigorous undergraduate academic programs leading to Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Science
degrees in 28 fields. In addition, Berea
has a full-participation work-study program; students are required to work at
least 10 hours per week on campus as part
of the scholarship. The college offers 16
intercollegiate sports for men and women,
plus a full array of intramural athletics,
including basketball, flag football, and
Ultimate Frisbee.
With over 50 clubs and organizations,
C O L L E G E
and coeducational college in the South,
Berea charges no tuition and admits only
academically promising students who
have limited economic resources. Its
motto, “God has made of one blood all
peoples of the earth,” demonstrates that
Berea serves all people regardless of race,
color, gender, or class, and every admitted
student is provided the equivalent of a
four-year, full-tuition scholarship.
Students come from all over the United
States and more than 60 countries, which
brings together students from different
ethnicities, races, and nationalities and
helps them learn from each other’s
notable speakers, scholars, and performers visit the campus every year. Past
guests have included Alex Haley, Morris
Dees, Benjamin Hooks, and the Dalai
Lama. Study-abroad programs in Asia,
Europe, Latin America and Africa are
very popular with the American students,
and host family programs are available for
international students.
I’ve already applied to Berea and would
be honored to be part of a community that
offers so many opportunities. For more
information, visit www.berea.edu. ✦
by Dushan Ivanovic, Kraljevo, Serbia
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
23
Teen Ink • May ’10 • Page 24
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BURLINGTON
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A private, co-ed institution
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A religiously-affiliated liberal arts college
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267-502-6000
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Columbia College
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Hamilton College is a national
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my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
arn a B.A. on or
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CORNELL
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410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
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Liberal arts college with an emphasis
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Best of both worlds as a member of
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College of
Visual Arts
344 Summit Avenue
Saint Paul, Minnesota
55102
651.224.3416
CVA
890 Columbia Ave.
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909-621-8088
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Dartmouth
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
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students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
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w w w.cva.edu
Preparing students with individual
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15 majors including two B.A.
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Management and Dance.
99 Main Street
Franklin, MA 02038
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877-TRY DEAN
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
Built on Catholic education
values of academic excellence,
DeSales University is driven
by educators and advisors that
inspire performance.
2755 Station Avenue
CenterValley, PA 18034
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu/teenink
Fostering creativity and academic excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
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1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
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Writing resources from a writing college:
www.hamilton.edu/teenink
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences, and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
E
CVA is a private, accredited, four-year college
of art and design offering Bachelor of Fine Arts
degrees in graphic design/interactive, illustration,
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Duquesne offers more than 80
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600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
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Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
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8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
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Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
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A challenging private university
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Get Where YOU
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Academic excellence
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Earn a BA in Global Studies while
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Hofstra University can help you
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Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
617-964-6800
Teen Ink • May ’10 • Page 25
BELIEVE.
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MyMarywood.com
A visual arts college north of Boston
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Mount Holyoke is a highly
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Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
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MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
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Princeton
degrees that work.
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Pace University offers talented and
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• Personal attention to help you excel
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Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
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offered with Dual Admissions into
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· Over 40 undergraduate programs
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SlipperyRock
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SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
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A distinguished faculty, an
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SWARTHMORE
A liberal arts college of 1,500
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A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
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At Westminster College, you'll engage
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Attention all writers! URI has a great major
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Yale College, the undergraduate body of
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P.O. Box 208234
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Bradford, PA 16701
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Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
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points of view
Sponsored by
School Days Off for Muslims
situation of going to school and missing a holy day
e all believe in social equality, don’t we?
or celebrating their holy day and missing school. A
We all should, because America’s Muslim
friend of mine often skipped school for holy days
citizens wish to celebrate their holy days
when she was younger, but as her studies grew more
in peace and cheer, not filled with the stress of misscomplex, she skipped the holy days more frequently.
ing classes and making up assignments. Islam is the
“It created a great divide between me and my famsecond-most practiced religion in the world, and our
ily,’’ she says. For those who do
country should address the needs of
skip school, a greater burden of
its Islamic citizens properly. The
We
should
enjoy
our
making up missed work prevents
federal government should give two
from enjoying the holy day.
days off from school for the major
holidays in serenity. them
Every year, I have to come home
Muslim holidays in order to grant
and complete homework on a day
religious rights, alleviate inconvenCan you imagine
that I would like to spend in joy
iences imposed on Muslims, and
doing homework on with my family and friends. We
develop an interfaith community.
should, at least, have our holidays
Muslims make up a significant
Christmas Day?
off so that we can enjoy these days
portion of the population, so they
in serenity. After all, can you
have the same rights as Jews or
imagine doing homework on Christmas Day or
Christians. Currently, an estimated 2.8 million
Christmas Eve?
Muslims live in America. Islam is the third-most
Finally, during Ramadan, the month leading up to
practiced religion in America, following Christianity,
Eid Al-Fitr, Muslims across America fast from sunand is believed to be growing. The considerable
rise to sunset each day, for 30 days, going withMuslim population impacts the local economy and
out food or drink. Attending school,
education systems. Yet our nation undoubtedly
participating in extracurricular activities,
prefers to recognize Judeo-Christian customs. Weekand taking physical education courses
ends take place on Saturday and Sunday, the primary
greatly inconvenience Muslim students
days of worship for Jews and Christians. School
who fast regularly. Despite humble rebreaks are scheduled with respect to the major
quests for awareness of my fasting,
religious holidays of Jews and Christians, often
many of my teachers forget as the
coinciding with celebrations of Passover and Easter.
month proceeds.
In fairness, school calendars should acknowledge
If schools closed for Muslim holidays, a
Muslim traditions as well.
clearer
understanding of the Islamic religion
The policy of not assigning homework and tests in
would
emerge,
creating an interfaith community.
recognition of holidays is problematic as well. First,
Most students do not know much about Islamic
a majority of teachers do not follow these rules.
culture, aside from the deceptive images they see in
Second, these specified dates never appear to fall
the media. Many misconceptions of Muslims have
near Muslim holidays, defeating the whole plan.
unjustly arisen, especially after the terrorist attacks.
Similarly, young Muslims often face the difficult
W
Embracing Banned Books
by Hafsa Ahmed, Wexford, PA
On behalf of the many American Muslims, we think
that Islam has been wrongly blamed for the violence
and prejudice of a few wrongdoers. Allowing these
days off could potentially eliminate any shared insecurities of the Muslim youth about feeling uncomfortable. Riad Mustafa, president of an Islamic
center, has said, “Our kids will feel that as much as
they respect other religions and holidays such as
Christmas and Hanukkah, now others from other
religions are respecting their faith.’’ Granting two
holidays off allows us to learn about the Islamic
religion through Muslim students, and establishes
a more diverse community. After all, my school
district, like many, celebrates diversity.
Of course, citizens may not want to close school in
fear of depriving students of their education. But
when most Muslims miss school on these holidays, it
causes a high percentage of absent students in certain
areas.
After the terrorist attacks, non-Muslim citizens
may feel uneasy about celebrating the holidays of
such a controversial ethnic group. But if people
truly believe in social equality, there would be
no real problem with this proposal. Citizens
display insincerity if they disagree with
expanding religious rights out of fear.
Religious freedom doesn’t mean anything if equal privileges don’t apply to
people of different belief systems.
Muslims are a prominent part of the
nation’s population and should have the same
rights as any other ethnic group. Holidays would
build the acceptance of diversity and interfaith within
the community. If we acknowledge the beliefs and
traditions of other cultures, then other cultures should
acknowledge ours. ✦
by Abe Roll, English, IN
books that call for a higher level of maturity. No one
Huckleberry Finn or The Catcher in the Rye, trying
else should have the right to make that decision for
to glean enough understanding for an acceptable
an entire group of students. No school administrator,
book report? Both experiences are common to many
politician, or government official should be able to
high-school students. Unfortunately, these books are
eradicate our freedom to enjoy the written word as
no longer available to some teenagers whose
we please.
parents and educators have deemed them
Personally, when I am searching for a new novel, I
unacceptable.
prefer to select one that will expose me to new ideas,
Throughout the last few years, many parents
sometimes drastically different from my own. Books
and professionals have made an attempt to reof philosophy, debates, and novels
move books they feel are “inapbased in ancient civilizations (espepropriate” from the hands of
students. These novels are categoDo not dismiss a cially Greek and Roman) are guaranteed to present new concepts, whether
rized this way for a variety of reawriter’s work
Enter the Teen Ink Points of View Contest*
about the meaning of love, the idea of
sons, including drug use, violence,
fate, or other philosophical ideas. Readsexuality, and profanity; some,
because you
Teen Ink has partnered with EBSCO Publishing to create the Teen Ink
ing authors from other eras helps us unlike the Harry Potter books, have
Points of View Contest. Each month, $200 will be awarded to the
disagree with the derstand that other cultures often
even been accused of endorsing
student with the winning essay, which will be published in our
ideas and lifestyles that our sooccultism and Satanism. In light
character’s values embrace
magazine, on our website and on the EBSCO Points of View website.
ciety has struggled with. For example,
of these claims, many libraries,
in the times of early thinkers like
schools, and teachers have been
Give us your point of view on any
Socrates and Aristotle, homosexuality was widely acforced to remove them from coursework and
cepted, and not a subject of contention or debate.
collections.
issue that is important to you. For topic
Very different from today’s world, wouldn’t you say?
While
some
may
panic
when
exposed
to
ideas
ideas, check out TeenInk.com/pov.
I strongly urge teenage readers to find novels and
different from their own, in my opinion, the
stories
that challenge you, and force you to think outbroadening
of
the
mind
through
literature
is
never
To enter, submit your work online at TeenInk.com under the Points of
side
your
comfort zone. Do not dismiss a writer’s
wrong.
When
scholars
read
books
of
“questionView category. Be sure to indicate “POV Contest Entry” at the
work
because
you disagree with the character’s opinable”
substance,
their
moral
values
and
beliefs
beginning of your article. It’s as easy as that.
ions or values; instead, face these conflicting beliefs
are challenged, tested, and often, ultimately
If you have any questions, e-mail editor@TeenInk.com
head on. Because if you are unwilling to test your
strengthened. As young adults, only we really
opinion, how can you be sure it is truly your opinion
know
if
we
are
mature
enough
to
cope
with
a
par*This contest is sponsored by EBSCO Publishing and the
at all? ✦
ticular
subject
matter.
If
the
truth
is
that
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are
Points of View Reference Center (powered by EBSCOhost).
not, our parents should ensure that we don’t read
H
ow many students in school today recently
spent a quiet weekend at home with the
Harry Potter books? How many others
doggedly applied themselves to The Adventures of
Make your opinion count
and win $200
26
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
I
rolled my eyes as I watched a mom
help her five-year-old daughter out
of the pool: “Honey, you’re amazing. You’ll be the next Olympian!”
In reality, she swam more like a
flailing pigeon than an elegant swan,
but the daughter beamed with confidence. This example epitomizes the
problem with our know-it-all generation. We’re programmed to devour
compliments, and our gears break
down when we encounter a new type
of software: criticism.
Praise can be necessary for boosting
confidence. However, my generation is
offered it to the point of overkill. The
gold stars on papers with mediocre
scores and the unspoken promise of ice
cream after any “accomplishment”
solidify a craving for meaningless
compliments. Elders essentially
worship children until we become
condescending jerks; then students run
home complaining about teachers who
don’t dole out sweet words, and their
parents become verbal punching bags.
by Marilyn Li, Chandler, AZ
truth and shattering the image we have
It has become a vicious cycle.
of ourselves.
Aside from the rush of adrenaline and
The first time a fellow student
reverberating feeling of satisfaction,
criticized me, it was hard to get past
this insatiable addiction invites pomthe initial shock. I was actually being
pousness. The teenage attitude – the
criticized. Not just a minor scalding,
eye-rolling, attention-craving mindset
but a broiling. Sitting there, I came to
– is a product of this cycle. Protected
the brutal realization that even I
by flattery, children create an aura of
romanticize myself to a
specious perfection around
point beyond recognition.
themselves, and while we
consciously understand we We are nothing We are nothing close to
perfect, but a tiny inkling
can’t be perfect, this idea
close to the
of us thinks we have a
somehow never reaches
flawlessness close resemblance. It is sothe subconscious.
Instead, deep down, we
we believe we ciety that forces us to literally look in the mirror and
envision ourselves as a
represent
realize that our reflection is
medley of superheroes:
far from divine.
invincible. As social
We’re so self-involved that we don’t
Batmen, our cunning strategies never
believe criticism has a place in our
fail. As intelligent Flashes, answers
lives. Even “constructive criticism” is
come naturally. Most importantly, as
often a code word for praise. It is vital
indestructible Violet Parrs we’re imthat we become comfortable with the
mune to anything and everything. The
harsh comments others throw at us and
first encounter we have with the real
take them at their face value. They
world is almost like hitting the motheraren’t invisible weapons, but rather
lode of Kryptonite, uncovering the
Land of the Free?
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by Erin Coursey, Derwood, MD
People argue that any foreign-born citizen would
hile in the school library with a friend one
have special ties to their country. But personal herday, doing my government homework, I
itage means a lot to most people, and many still pracquietly read the information on my worktice the traditions of the country of their ancestors,
sheet aloud. When I came to the requirements to be
regardless of their country of birth.
President of the United States, I blinked and reread
I’m half Native American, a member of the Nantione item, thinking I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t,
coke tribe, and proud of it – just as I’m proud to be an
though: the President of the United States has to be a
American. To my people, America’s founders were
natural-born citizen.
English invaders who took my ancestors
I realize this seems reasonable – if
from their land, killed large numbers of
the U.S. were at war with the presiWhat’s “free”
them, and forced my Cherokee foredent’s home country it would be diffiabout
not
being
bears to walk the Trail of Tears. Many
cult, to say the least, for the resident
people whose ancestors lived alongside
to make decisions based on what’s
allowed to run
mine now live on reservations, where
best for America if it could seriously
for president
long ago they were dumped in the midharm the other country. That is, it
dle of a wasteland by the British.
would be difficult if the president acbecause you
If you look at that situation and contually remembered this country. What
weren’t born here? sider the heritage argument, it makes no
happens if, as an infant, your family
sense for adopted Russian children to be
moved from Spain to America? What
banned
from
a
chance at the presidency, but not the
happens if you were adopted from Thailand or India
Native Americans. Yet I know that if a Native Amerias a baby?
can ever were banned from becoming president solely
One might argue that you would still have family in
because of his or her heritage, I could count on the nayour home country even if you left as a baby. But let’s
tion to stand up and make such an uproar that the
say your grandparents live in another country, and
problem would be fixed. It’s too bad the adopted Chiyour parents moved to America before you were born;
nese baby, or the Cuban infant whose parents moved
you’d still have family in a foreign country, but you’d
to the United States in hope of a better life can’t
also have the opportunity to be president.
expect the same.
America has many names: the free world, land of
liberty, and the United States of America. What’s
“free” about not being allowed to run for president because you weren’t born here? We honor Martin Luther
King Jr.’s efforts against discrimination, yet it seems
as though we’ve forgotten what it means to make a
place free of discrimination, to fight for equality for
all people. America is the Land of Liberty? I propose
a correction: America is the Land of Liberty to all
born in our country. The United States? What’s united
about separating ourselves into native-born citizens
and those born elsewhere?
We can start to address this right now – with the
Photo by Megan Otto, Jacksonville, FL
Pledge of Allegiance. Every American citizen knows
LINK
small doses of reality to help us better
ourselves.
Raised in a culture gorged on constant
praise, it is hard not to yield to the
inflated sense of self-worth. It is important to realize that self-esteem is dramatically different from ego. Psychologist
Jean Twenge recommends humility,
self-evaluation, mindfulness, and thinking of others as a cure for this sense of
entitlement. Cutting ourselves off from
the constant praise will drastically
change the way we perceive ourselves
and those around us – an important
step to reversing this epidemic.
Before we can set goals for solving
poverty, establishing peace, or eliminating any worldly troubles, we must
first address the critical faults within
ourselves. We are nothing close to the
flawlessness we believe we represent,
and we must embrace criticism. My
generation is wearing horse blinders.
Unless we reverse this vicious cycle,
our world will still retain its false
“perfection.” ✦
points of view
The Know-it-all Generation
FACEBOOK
it, but when was the last time you recited it and
thought about the words, not about your next class or
the homework you forgot to do? Is the pledge honest?
What would it sound like if we changed the language
to reflect this inequality?
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the Disjointed
States of America, and to the discriminatory republic
for which it stands, a separated nation, under God, divided, with liberty and justice for some.” ✦
Heaven & Haiti
This is a crisis.
You walk the streets strewn with debris, and see someone
you used to call friend lying amongst it lifeless.
Physical and spiritual structures have become demolished;
and family structures, too, have now become
nonexistent.
Relief efforts are not enough to mend what has been broken
and torn apart.
The only true medicine that can heal these wounds?
Prayers sent up in faith that came straight from the
believers’ hearts.
You roam aimlessly in a place that used to be your home.
Now nothing but memories and hopes are left of it.
The rest … gone.
This must be a sign of the times because God even
summoned one of his apostles.
The archbishop was found dead in his office and now we
can only hope the souls he ministered to won’t be lost.
Looking at what remains of what used to be is just a part of
your testimony.
You can rebuild brick and cement, but lives?
Those descend into eternity.
One day the pieces will be recovered and put back together.
But you made it, you’re alive!
That will be your victory cry forever.
by Angel Dye, Irving, TX
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
27
health
I’m A Zebra
“W
hen you hear the sound
of hooves in the background, 99 percent of
the time you turn around to see a
horse, and one percent of the time you
turn around to see a zebra. You, Alison, are that zebra.”
An eye doctor told me this, and it’s
forever etched in my mind. I think he
meant that I have too many health
issues, and he couldn’t help me. But
what is it about me that made him say
this? Well, to answer that we have to
go down a little road called “My Life.”
I was born during the 1996 Summer
Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia, and I
was named after my mother. I seemed
like a healthy baby; it wasn’t until I
was two that my first health problems
occurred.
I had been bouncing on my parents’
bed when I fell down and hit my head.
My mother felt a bump on my head,
and grew worried when it didn’t go
away. Finally, the doctor gave me an
MRI, and when the results came back
my parents were shocked: I had a huge
brain tumor. It had wrapped itself
by Alison Adams, Cumming, GA
when I fell on the school floor while
around an artery, and it was serious.
sock-skating; it happened before
So at the age of two-and-a-half, I had
Christmas, and I wasn’t “brace-free”
brain surgery. I now have a titanium
until late in the summer. But no one
plate in my head. Ever since then, I
knew why I kept hurting so long after
have had MRIs yearly to make sure
my injuries healed. The answer came
that the tumor hasn’t grown back, and
in the late fall of seventh grade.
a few years ago, I found out that I do
For the first time in a long time, I
still have a small growth in my brain.
was healthy and adjusting to a new
Next? My eyesight, at the age of
year of middle school. In
four. I had been fighting
October, I woke with my
over a magnetic picture
If you gave
entire body aching. I visframe with my brother,
the doctor several
and he let go. The frame
me a slap on the ited
times and took loads of
slashed my eye, but the
tests. No answers were
accident turned out to
arm, it would
for my mystery illbe a good thing; the
feel like a punch found
ness. When my joints
doctors realized I had a
started to get worse –
cataract in my left eye
maybe from lounging on the couch all
that was damaging my eyesight. So, I
day and feeling sick – I went to see a
got glasses.
rheumatologist, and she identified my
If you were in my fourth and fifth
illness: Reflex Neurovascular Dystrograde classes, you would know me as
the girl who was always breaking
phy, or RND.
RND is when the body keeps sendsomething. I fell off the back of my
ing pain messages to the brain, even
chair, slipped in tap shoes, or would
when there’s no physical injury. If you
hurt my ankle by simply falling, and
came up to me and gave me a playful
be in a cast for weeks. My longest
slap on the arm, it would feel like a
stretch in a brace was in fifth grade,
My Brown Eyed Girl
full-force punch to my entire body.
There is no cure for RND except
working through the pain, so I was
sent to Pittsburgh for a three-week
therapy session. I slept, ate, socialized
with fellow patients, and did the most
intense workouts ever. I had six hours
of therapy every day. Three weeks
later, I was dismissed with a new way
of life: no more sitting around when I
feel bad. Instead, I have to get up and
move.
Now, I might be taking this idea that
I’m what happens one percent of the
time – the zebra – too far. I’m wearing
a zebra shirt right now, and my zebra
Snuggie is on the floor next to me.
Everything I got last Christmas was
zebra.
Ever since that eye doctor told me
this, I have completely changed. You
see me as a brown-haired girl with
blue eyes, glasses and braces, but inside I’m a happy, healthy, misunderstood zebra.
And I’m not afraid to say that I’m a
zebra. It’s just who I am. ✦
by Anonymous, Westport, CT
the course of this routine verbal assault, I kept my eyes
y mother was born with a disease that cannot be
glued to hers, our pupils in perfect alignment. I refused to
cured, and in some cases is fatal. It makes her
blink. A blink would signify defeat, intimidation. I
blind, and her blindness affects all her family
wanted to appear so callous to her absurdities that she
and friends. Everyone says that I have her brown eyes.
would realize that she is not her disease; she is merely
I should clarify that the aforementioned disease is not
consumed by it. Then I felt a hot, wet trail creeping down
something that can be contracted or even definitively dimy face. I cried from my failed attempt to stare her down.
agnosed: my mother is bipolar.
I did not make it to school that day, and an hour later my
My first memory of my mother’s “blindness” is when I
mother did not remember why.
was five years old. She shields her eyes behind tortoiseThe summer before sophomore year, I got contact
shell glasses shaped like lemons. My father, mother,
lenses. Though they were a bit more work than simply
brother, and I were resting together in my parents’ kingsliding on a pair of glasses, I could see even more clearly;
sized bed when my mother removed her glasses, lay
it was worth the effort. In a manic phase, my mother apback, and closed her eyes. My brother and I, disliking this
proached me after an evening out with her friends and
lack of attention, began prodding her and calling her
proposed that we go skinny dipping. By now,
name. She remained unresponsive. After a
I was fully aware of her condition and realminute, she flickered her eyelids and, a
It
was
time
I
ized that it was out of both of our hands. I postruggle within her chest, wheezed, “I am
declined, but she kept on, jumping up
dying.”
stopped seeing litely
and down and shrieking with excitement. I
My brother and I became instantly hysteriher as a parent looked her in the eyes and told her that it was
cal – a natural reaction from children – and
it is unhealthy to expose contact
we started screaming her name until we
or role model impossible;
lenses to chlorine. She turned toward the door
cried. All the while, my father reclined and
and stripped while running to the pool. She
looked away from this abominable scene. He
dove
in
and
broke her glasses. I could see all of this from
suffers from a sort of blindness, too, though his contact
a
distance;
I
blinked without guilt and laughed. I had won.
lenses can conceal this from the public.
My mother and I sat high up on bar stools on vacation
Minutes passed, but it felt like hours, days, weeks. My
in Barbados. The piano bar featured live music played by
mother reached for her glasses and put the clear lenses
a middle-aged, overweight Welsh man. With every drink
over her eyes. She sat up, propped against pillows, and
my mother consumed, her eyes appeared harder, fiercer. I
asked what we wanted for dinner. She was smiling with
could tell that a much-dreaded episode was approaching,
the brown eyes we share.
and there was nothing anyone could do to prevent it – that
I got my first pair of glasses when I was 12. I treated
is, except the Welsh man. On the brink of mania, she
them with care – they were incredibly valuable to me. I
heard a soft voice that melted her expression. Van Morricould finally see clearly; all of the blurriness, confusion,
son’s “Brown Eyed Girl” started to play, and she grabbed
and self-blame was put into perspective. My eyes still reme by the hand and serenaded me. I dared not make eye
sembled hers, but I knew that I now had an advantage.
contact. “You, my brown eyed girl.” The lyrics and her
With these new glasses, I saw for the first time what was
voice resonated, and I saw her pointing at me playfully. “I
going on in my world.
saw you just the other day, my, how you have grown.” I
One morning in my freshman year, I misplaced my
reluctantly glanced at her and what I saw was not what I
treasured spectacles. I looked into the mirror and saw my
had anticipated. Her eyes were surprisingly gentle. She
mother’s eyes in mine. I knew what was coming. She
was vulnerable. She was sad. It was certainly a sight to
barged in, screaming that I had intentionally hidden my
see.
glasses in order to make her life miserable. Throughout
M
28
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
Photo by Erin Hotchkiss, Carrollton, TX
As a freshman in college, I do not often see my mother.
The idea of being away from that penetrating stare is a
thrill. It is an opportunity to grow up without her watching my every move, and without my lurking fear. Months
in, she had a typical episode and poured her hot-tempered
tantrum onto me via telephone. I was dumbfounded that
she could manage to affect me so negatively from 300
miles away. It was then that I realized something: perhaps
I was being selfish in taking her tantrums personally. I already knew that she was detached from her own mind at
times, but there was no use allowing hatred to manifest. It
was time that I stopped seeing her as a parent or role
model, and started to look at the situation from a different
angle. She needed help, and I could provide that for her. I
could help her to work against the adversity and in doing
so, prevent myself from becoming blind. I have her eyes
– but I am not her.
Though the sight of her once made me sick, I am now
able to say that I love her. I have reached the personal
epiphany that any person with a bipolar parent must reach
and find inner peace: it is unfair to hate someone for
something out of their control. I hate the disease. I hate
that people are forced against their wills to suffer from a
disorder that clouds their thought process and conceals
who they are. My mother, along with other bipolar people, sees herself differently from how others perceive her.
While some might view her as irrational and insane, I
choose to look at the disorder as a mere obstruction of expression. I once fell victim to our brown eyes. Now, I
love them – all four of them. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Debra Johnson-Dahrouge
by Morgan Megill, Ocean Grove, NJ
understood the new “tools” she would give us.
nglish was always easy for me, but that
“Writing is an art,” she said. “You can’t just put
changed the first day I walked into Mrs. Johnwords on a piece of paper and slap your name on top
son-Dahrouge’s class. I’d heard rumors from
of it. What you put your name on is out there to be
former students: they said she was strict and intimijudged.”
dating, that her class was impossible to pass, and that
I had never thought about it that way. Every time I
I was insane for even wanting to take it. Consequently
rushed to finish an essay and wrote my name on top,
I was extremely nervous.
it was still my writing; my words, out there for everyOn that first day of school, Mrs. Johnson-Dahrouge
one to read. I realized that if I wanted to be
stood in the front of her classroom, smila good writer, I needed to remember that
ing, while she waited for the class to settle
They said
writing really is an art, and that it may take
down. Her long, curly, red hair and clear
a long time to perfect.
her
class
was
blue eyes made her seem very full of life.
though I thought that I was doing
You could tell she had so much knowledge
impossible fineEven
in her class, Mrs. Johnson-Dahrouge
that it just wanted to pour out and spill all
intimidated me; I was afraid of what she
over the floor.
to pass
would say if I asked a question. My writing
“This is Advanced Placement Language
reflected my poor participation, and when I got my
and Composition,” she said. “I am not exaggerating
essay back, my grade was terrible. I needed help, but I
when I say that this class will be difficult, but if you
refused to admit it. I was very frustrated with Mrs.
trust me, I’ll guide you. Everything you do in this
Johnson-Dahrouge. I despised going to class, and I
class matters.”
hated that I was getting bad grades because I was secMrs. Johnson-Dahrouge had my attention, and she
ond-guessing myself. I wondered why she didn’t tell me
did not lose it the entire period. She explained that
how poorly I was doing. That was when I realized it
her grading system was different from what we were
wasn’t her job to come to me. It was mine to go to her.
used to, and told us to forget about the grades that we
I had a new purpose: I needed to find out what I
used to get, because we probably would not see those
could do to improve my grade and how to use the
soon. She said that our writing would improve as we
E
“tools” in my writing. I still couldn’t talk to Mrs.
Johnson-Dahrouge in person, so I e-mailed. In this
way, she and I worked together to improve my writing. She walked me through every step to understand
how to write an essay, and together, we saw improvement in my work. I even discovered that asking for
help could actually work. The more I talked to her,
and the more she tutored me, the more I recognized
that she really is a great teacher. I know now that if I
had never gone to her for help, I never would have realized that behind everything she was saying, there
was a teacher who actually cared about me.
Now I’m able to ask Mrs. Johnson-Dahrouge for
help, both online and in person. My writing is improving and I am absorbing everything she says in
class. At the beginning of the year, she told us that she
needed to knock us down so we could climb back up
stronger. She waved my low grades in my face, and I
woke up. Then we worked to change everything.
She’s promised to help me with whatever I need, and
by the end of the year she will have taught me exactly
what I’ll need for college. Not only is Mrs. JohnsonDahrouge one of the best English teachers I have ever
had, she is the only one that has ever cared about
where I will be in the future. ✦
World Geography • Cleburne High
Math • Holy Name Central Catholic
Melody Lundy
Stephen Haggerty
by Baillee Perkins, Cleburne, TX
I
magine walking into a giant zoo filled with roughly 1,000 animals.
The hyenas (sophomores and juniors) cackle, the alpha lions (seniors) growl, and you, the lowly zebra (freshman), cower in fear,
with “fresh meat” conveniently written somewhere on your body. However, there proves to be one place of refuge: Room 224A, the home of
Mrs. Lundy. The “mama zebra” who protects her young, better known
as the freshman World Geography Pre-AP teacher, Mrs. Lundy has
truly helped all her students throughout their high school careers – especially my now-senior class, her first class at our school.
High school can be rather intimidating for a ninth grader, but Mrs.
Lundy nurtured all of us through these fears. For example, IPC, or Integrated Physics and Chemistry, was required freshman year. The
Physics part proved challenging for most of us, and Mrs. Lundy offered
to help before and after school, even though she wasn’t our IPC
teacher.
Mrs. Lundy also excelled in her own area of expertise; World Geography became exciting through the many
projects she assigned. Our first projThe “mama hands-on
ect, which explored the culture of a prior
zebra” who decade, really brought the past to life. Mrs.
allowed us to showcase our individual
protects all Lundy
talents, and since I adore fashion, my project on
1960s culture in the United States included a
her young
fashion show, with explanations of what the ensembles meant. Four years later, I still remember what I learned about
the ’60s-era effort to shake up the perfect ideals of the previous decade.
Mrs. Lundy always goes above and beyond to help all of her students. One day during sophomore year, I had a horrible realization: I
had completely forgotten about my Pre-AP English II project. My eyes
filled with tears. I did not know how I could construct an entire poster
in less than an hour. Mrs. Lundy came to the rescue. She logged off her
computer so I could type up my captions, dug out construction paper
and glue sticks to paste up my text, and even used her husband’s computer to find pictures to match my captions. The entire poster was finished in time.
This year was difficult for my heroic teacher. A couple of months
ago, Mrs. Lundy was hospitalized for blood clotting. Our class was in
despair when we heard the news. But a few weeks later she was back in
the classroom, despite her trauma, and returned to coaching our Current Events UIL team too. Mrs. Lundy truly deserves to be an Educator
of the Year because of her passion for teaching, and for the well-being
of her students. ✦
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by Nick Bonofiglio, Worcester, MA
giving them a second chance to do well in
’ve had some pretty outrageous teachhis class. Mr. Haggerty wants his students
ers, but not one equals my sophomore
to succeed, not fail.
geometry teacher, Mr. Haggerty. From
The fictional “Grumble the Bear” was a
creating imaginary characters in the classfrequent guest in geometry class that year.
room to nicknaming geometric figures, Mr.
Sometimes, while Mr. Haggerty was teachHaggerty has a knack for keeping every
ing, he would “see” Grumble outside, walkclass unique and every lesson interesting.
ing down the street or climbing a tree. Mr.
Although loud and rambunctious, he knows
Haggerty would walk over to the window,
exactly how to bring out the best in stuopen it, and proceed to shout at Grumble
dents.
for various reasons. Grumble also appeared
To be exceptional, a teacher must be willin word problems on tests. However, Gruming to learn the class’s capabilities, and adble was not the only character Mr. Haggerty
just accordingly. Mr. Haggerty learned
used: the triangle with a face, and GWIF
about each of us in the first month, and then
the parallelogram – named for
split us up into two groups. The
the letters that represent the four
accelerated group worked in
He
has
a
types of corners of a parallelostudy groups for the whole
gram – were celebrities in our
knack
for
class, and taught each other the
geometry class.
material, with help from him for
keeping every Mr. Haggerty still remains my
difficult problems. This let him
spend the majority of time
class unique favorite teacher of all time. He
has a huge influence on me to
working with the second group,
this day, not simply because of his methods,
attending to their needs. While this meant
but because of his will to help us undersome might be on chapter eight, while othstand the information. He works really hard
ers might still be on chapter four or five,
at what he does, and deserves the best. ✦
Mr. Haggerty was able to juggle the class
by spending five to ten minutes on each
chapter, giving work for it, and letting us
choose which set of work we wanted to do.
He also let us retake chapter tests as
many times as we wanted, which allowed
us to move on to the next chapter whenever
we felt ready. I know what you’re thinking:
Why would he let students take the same
test as many times as they wanted? But Mr.
Haggerty’s retake tests were never the
same; he kept a similar setup, but changed
the variables in the problems, so no matter
how many times a student took it, they still
needed to know the material to get the problems right. It also helped bad test-takers,
I
educator of the year
Language and Composition • Neptune High
Check back next
month for the winners
of the 2010 Educator
of the Year Contest!
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
29
music reviews
POP PUNK
Mayday Parade
A Lesson In
Romantics
W
e’ve all had relationship
issues, and sometimes
the fights and break-ups make
us want to curl up in bed and
listen to music. The best CD
for this is Mayday Parade’s
break-up bible, “A Lesson In
Romantics.” The 12-song
album is an amazing combination of well-crafted lyrics and
catchy, exciting music. This is
one lesson that definitely won’t
put you to sleep.
Mayday Parade doesn’t have
the best guitarist, drummer, or
singer. In fact, lead vocalist
Derek Sanders’ voice is hoarse,
breathy, and at times sounds
You can feel the
pain, joy, and love
in every note
like a dog’s bark. But somehow, it all comes together. The
men and women described in
“A Lesson In Romantics” are
far from perfect, and a flawless
opera singer’s voice just wouldn’t fit.
The fantastic lyrics and excessively long titles prove that
Jason Lancaster, who left Mayday Parade shortly after writing
this album, is an outstanding
songwriter. There are titles like
“You Be the Anchor That
Keeps My Feet On The
Ground, I’ll Be the Wings That
Keep Your Heart In The
Clouds” and lyrics like “So I
will run, until my feet don’t
touch the ground” (from
“Ocean and Atlantic”).
The music in “A Lesson In
Romantics” seems to fade to
the background at first. But the
more you listen, the more you
see the skillful drum patterns
and masterful guitar solos in
tracks like “Black Cat.” “Miserable At Best,” with only vocals
and piano, provides a nice
break from the fast-paced guitar and drumming that makes
up the majority of the album.
What really makes “A Lesson In Romantics” so fantastic
is the emotion. You can feel the
pain, joy, and love in every
note. My personal favorite, “I’d
Hate to Be You When People
Find Out What This Song Is
About,” has brought me to the
verge of tears because of the
clear heartbreaking love and
despair. The lyrics in “Take
This To Heart” are so easy to
relate to that you can instantly
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imagine the entire story behind
them.
“A Lesson In Romantics”
shows that Mayday Parade is
musically gifted, lyrically fascinating, and emotionally dynamic. Their full-length debut
is excellent from beginning to
end. “A Lesson In Romantics”
will teach us a truly unforgettable lesson in heartbreak, true
love, and music. ✦
by Isabella Bartels,
Staten Island, NY
POP
Mika
The Boy Who
Knew Too Much
M
ika’s latest album, “The
Boy Who Knew Too
Much,” released last September, oozes with saccharine
sweet pop melodies and beats
that cause involuntary dancing.
This album is glam pop at its
catchiest and most irresistible.
Reminiscent of Queen and
Glam pop at its
most irresistible
Elton John, Mika’s style of
music is about excess and
pure fun.
The album chronicles the
artist’s teenage years, and the
first single, “We Are Golden,”
captures the restlessness and
the desire for something more
that characterizes adolescence.
With a booming chorus and
wild arrangement, this song is
unforgettable. It lays out the
framework for the rest of the
album, each song containing its
own memorable chorus.
For this album, Mika captured all the electric excitement
of the previous album, “Life
in Cartoon Motion,” but refines
it and makes it deeper, and
more mature. His growth as an
artist is evident in the transition
from innocent pop songs to
provocative songs with a
deeper meaning.
Some of the best songs are
typical Mika, like the opener,
“Blame It On the Girls” with a
catchy, repetitive chorus that
never seems to leave your head.
Others, including “By the Time,”
are unique in their less upbeat,
more thoughtful approach.
Each has its own appeal, from
the Disney Classic “Toy Boy”
to the bouncy, reggae-style
“Blue Eyes,” and “Dr. John,”
which has a ’60s, psychedelic
vibe. Overall, this is a collection of hits, each seemingly
able to be a successful single.
Mika’s incredible talent, both
as a musician and a vocalist, is
displayed throughout. If you’re
in the mood for some wonderful, guilty pleasure music, this
album is your best bet. ✦
by Elena Nicolaou,
Fair Lawn, NJ
HIP-HOP
songs like this that seem more
carefree. Other songs with a
slightly more depressing mood
coupled with lyrical depth will
interest more mature listeners.
I would highly recommend
this album along with anything
by Atmosphere to any hip-hop
enthusiast, specifically fans of
Midwest hip-hop. ✦
by Nick McAndrews,
Minneapolis, MN
Atmosphere
You Can’t Imagine
How Much Fun
We’re Having
A
tmosphere, made up of
rapper Slug AKA Sean
Daley and producer Ant, is
everything I love about hiphop. They don’t use Auto-Tune
and their songs actually have
meaning. Although they are relatively well-known in the Midwest, they have had little
commercial success. Their only
mainstream hit was “The Arrival,” featured on the soundtrack to EA Sports’ “Fight
Night Round 3.”
Atmosphere has the ability to
draw different audiences, and
this album contains a variety of
songs that helps define them as
artists. Their songs contain elements of old and new styles of
hip-hop, which make their
songs enjoyable for any lover
of the genre.
Has the strength to
appeal to both young
and mature audiences
The low, complex bass lines
like on “The Arrival” make it
easier for younger audiences to
get into this because they’re
great for tapping your foot or
bobbing your head. On the
other hand, Slug’s lyrical depth
grabs your attention with his
natural storytelling ability and
his ease in conveying his message. This could appeal to an
older audience because of the
emphasis placed on the themes
– the song “Little Man,” for example, describes the joys and
challenges of being a parent.
These are just two of the
many ways that Atmosphere
engages its audience. In addition, while the lyrics sometimes
include profanity, they’re seldom vulgar or out of context –
which speaks to the group’s
maturity.
Even the moods of the songs
have the ability to appeal to
both young and mature audiences. A song like “Smart Went
Crazy” is upbeat; I believe that
younger fans will be drawn to
second album there is no
swearing, which perhaps indicates how the band has worked
through their insecurities, and
no longer relies on dirty lyrics
to make songs popular.
In conclusion, “Masterpiece
Theater” is a heart-wrenching
album for all rock fans. It is
spectacular in both lyrical and
musical aspects, and shows
growth yet consistency. ✦
PUNK ROCK
by Chris Carfagnini,
Thorold, ON, Canada
Marianas
Trench
POP
Masterpiece
Theater
This Is Us
Backstreet Boys
M
arianas Trench, a Canadian rock group, released
the album “Masterpiece Theater” over a year ago after a
two-year wait, despite pressure
from fans and their record company, 604 Records. The album
features the band’s outstanding
musicianship, along with poetic
and meaningful lyrics. The CD
also shows how the band has
matured from their debut, “Fix
Me.” With this CD they have
remained popular without
abandoning their powerful rock
style, which truly makes this
album a masterpiece.
The musical compositions
are well crafted, and feature the
band’s best assets. Lead singer
Josh Ramsay uses his large
vocal range and upper register
to enhance the lyrics as well as
musical riffs, though it is guitarist Matt Webb whose impeccable plucking makes these
riffs catchy and enjoyable. With
A heart-wrenching
album for all
rock fans
drummer Ian Casselman’s
strong rhythms, and bassist
Mike Ayley’s fantastic harmonies, the band captures genuine emotions that make their
music exceptional.
The lyrics by Ramsay prove
him to be an ingenious artist.
They go beyond the words on
the page, with deep meaning
behind them. Even in pop-punk
songs like “Celebrity Status,”
and “Cross My Heart,” Ramsay
manages to create meaningful
and powerful messages.
“Masterpiece Theater” has
also shown how they have matured since their first album in
2006. “Fix Me” had meaningful lyrics and compelling musicality, but it used profanity to
complete its message. On their
COMMENT
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W
ith an 18-year career and
six studio albums to date,
the Backstreet Boys may seem,
well, old. Boy bands themselves are long gone, replaced
by the bass-thumping rhythms
of rap and dance. But the Backstreet Boys’ new album, “This
Is Us,” may be a small step
back into the spotlight for boy
bands.
When I first picked up this
album, I expected to hear some
shallow yet catchy melodies
like they used to sing. But to
my surprise, the entire album
was filled with deep and soulful
lyrics focusing on relationships,
break-ups, and real life.
Moving away from their previous style, the Backstreet Boys
smoothly combine hip-hop and
pop seamlessly to create a new,
refreshing sound that is noticeably different, but at the same
time similar to their familiar
upbeat music. Most of the
songs are fast-paced and great
for dancing.
As much as I love the Backstreet Boys, some of the songs
slightly annoyed me with their
provocative lyrics. In “PDA,”
one of those songs, a set of
teasing words is repeated to the
point that it sounds like a failed
A new, refreshing
sound that is
noticeably different
attempt at rap. The singers’
high-pitched, often feminine
voices also made me cringe at
times. Despite these faults,
however, “This Is Us” is an
album worth listening to, and a
comeback for the Backstreet
Boys who are an amazing
group. “This Is Us” is definitely an album you should try
today. ✦
by Joan Lee, Congers, NY
TEENINK.COM
The Proposition
B
y the 1960s, the Western
had begun to grow boring
to most moviegoers. Instead of
cinematic and stylistic films,
the Western had become nothing more than a penny-dreadful
genre. However, in 1964, a little-known director made a
brand-new kind of Western,
with a humble budget and an
unknown actor for the lead.
While this could have been just
another “quick cash” film, its
style, brutality, and rich characters made it one of the best
Westerns – if not one of the
best films – of all time. The
The characters are
great, and the visuals
have flair and grit
movie, “A Fistful of Dollars,”
paved the way for Clint Eastwood’s career and helped make
the director, Sergio Leone, one
of the greatest the world has
ever seen. This success led to
many imitations, but none has
been able to reach this cinematic genius.
“The Proposition,” directed
by relative unknown John Hillcoat, is the only Western I’ve
seen that’s even close to a Sergio Leone Western. The atmosphere, the brutality, the black
and gray morality, the characters, the romanticism, the pacing – this film is just fantastic.
It tries to bring the same shock
and innovation of Leone films
to an audience now more
desensitized to violence – and
it succeeds. “The Proposition”
was able to shock while creating a great narrative.
The film’s setting is also
original. Instead of the American Old West, it is in the Australian outback during the
1880s. This change also adds
some green to the typical Western wasteland, which is an interesting visual change that
ensures the wasteland never
feels too barren.
The characters as well are
rich and interesting. They’re
not necessarily new, but old
archetypes are just as fascinating and suave as they were 60plus years ago. They include
the outlaw brothers, the
lawman seeking justice, the
heroine fearing the future, the
corrupt politician, and so on,
but all are given a fresh breath
of life thanks to the wonderful
performances and Hillcoat’s
engrossing direction.
This film does have a few
knocks in its near-perfect
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YOUR
execution. For starters, it is
pretty slow at times, which
wouldn’t be that much of a
problem if it weren’t for some
of the character choices. I don’t
want to spoil anything, but let’s
just say our lead character
spends a lot of time in a certain
area – like, practically the entire second half of the film.
There is some good character
drama, but it feels like the
movie just wanted to add more
screen time.
Regardless of that small pacing error in the second half, the
rest of the film is just amazing.
The score is melodramatic, yet
just as innovative as the famed
Ennio Morricone’s scores in
Leone’s Westerns. The characters are great, the visuals have
flair and grit, and the brutality
brings realism to the setting.
It’s no Leone picture, but “The
Proposition” certainly comes
close. ✦
by Zach Anderson,
Lakeland, FL
This movie is rated R.
ROMANCE
Dear John
T
here is no better movie to
watch on a date than the
2010 “Dear John.” Like many
love stories, guy meets girl, and
they fall in love until a tragedy
separates them. But “Dear
John” adds its own twist with a
special ending that most will
not expect in a love film. Director Lasse Hallstrom offers compassion, devotion, appreciation,
affection, calamity, and heartbreak.
Shows the strongest
love can easily be
complicated
The movie begins with
college student Savannah
(Amanda Seyfried), who welcomes a young soldier, John
(Channing Tatum), to her home
for a barbecue. It is spring
break, two weeks before she returns to school and he goes
back on deployment. During
this short time, they fall madly
in love and make a promise to
wait for each other. When
spring break ends, the two
lovebirds are forced to say
goodbye. During their time
apart, they write letters describing their lives and how they
miss each other.
To me, “Dear John” does a
good job showing that the
strongest love can also be
complicated. It can easily be
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ruined if one stops believing
and loses faith.
Of all of the romantic love
movies I have seen, this is by
far the best. It has received
excellent results at the box
office, knocking “Avatar” out
of its number one spot. So next
time you’re on a date, celebrating an anniversary, or just with
the one who matters most to
you, see “Dear John;” it is the
perfect movie to watch. ✦
by Jennifer Alaniz,
Phoenix, AZ
COMEDY
Youth In Revolt
B
ehold, Michael Cera at his
best! The movie’s worthy
ratings should definitely be
credited to Cera’s leading performance. “Youth in Revolt,”
directed by Miguel Arteta, is
infused with teenage angst and
raging hormones, and hits these
topics with wit and comedy –
because no one wants a serious
sex talk that seems as though it
came straight from your
mother’s mouth.
The story starts off when
Nick Twisp’s mother, a woman
with raging hormones herself,
moves Nick to a Christian
trailer park with her unbelievable boyfriend, Jerry, played by
Zach Galifianakis – you might
remember him from “The
Hangover.” This is where 16year-old Nick (Cera) meets an
angelic girl named Sheeni
Saunders (Portia Doubleday).
Sheeni is very intelligent, and
has an obsession with anything
French, plus a mysterious rebellious streak.
After a couple of dates, Nick
believes he is in love, but
Sheeni drops a bomb on Nick,
telling him about her god-like
boyfriend, Trent. The two
conjure up a plan to get him
kicked out of his mother’s
home and moved to his dad’s in
Ukiah, the same town where
Sheeni lives. But in order for
Nick to fulfill this plan, he has
to create another persona,
named Francois, to cause havoc.
Everyone here
seems born to
play their part
The cast is just one of the
reasons to see this movie.
Many directors have trouble
finding actors who mold into
their characters, but everyone
here seems born to play their
role. Cera sheds his “Juno”
exterior to become Nick. The
director did a remarkable job
FACEBOOK
on sharp-timing and did not go
overboard with voiceovers.
Overall, I was pleased with the
movie and did not regret trading in my hard-earned money
for a ticket. ✦
by Francesca Rillera,
Glendale, AZ
This movie is rated R.
DRAMA
Titanic
W
hat movie comes to mind
when you think of compelling, memorable characters,
spectacular visual effects, a
fantastic score, and a beautiful,
tragic plot? What movie has
captured the hearts and imagination of people of all ages
around the world? What movie
has retained its charm and
appeal for over a decade, and
has earned a rightful place in
cinematic history?
Moving, beautiful
story about fate and
the power of love
The answer is “Titanic,” the
1997 film that opened with low
expectations and then astounded
the public with its massive success. As the highest-grossing
film of all time (until director
James Cameron’s “Avatar”) and
winner of 11 Academy Awards,
including Best Picture and Best
Director, “Titanic” raises hopes
for moviegoers and does not
disappoint.
First, consider an undertaking
so daunting that many would
deem it impossible: recreating
the RMS Titanic and its fateful
sinking. This task undoubtedly
required much time, skill, and
effort, not to mention a huge
budget – at the time, “Titanic”
was the most expensive film
ever made. The ship’s splendor
shines throughout the movie and
adds an atmosphere of magic
that film sets rarely manage.
Another element of the film’s
success is the superb, talented
cast. Most notably, Leonardo
DiCaprio and Kate Winslet give
commanding performances as
Jack and Rose, the young starcrossed lovers separated by
social class on the maiden voyage of the doomed vessel. They
are cast perfectly; a better choice
could not have been made.
Along with the rest of the cast,
including Billy Zane as Rose’s
wicked fiancé and Gloria Stuart
as Rose at age 101, they allow
the audience to join their journey and share in their emotions
and experiences. By the conclusion, viewers feel very close
to the characters and truly care
about them, which is why the
movie is so poignant and tragic.
So many years after its theatrical release, “Titanic” still
has not lost what made it such a
success. This moving, simply
beautiful story about fate, disaster, and the power of love has
proven to be a timeless classic
and an epic masterpiece. ✦
by Karen Jin,
West Chester, PA
INDIE
(500) Days of
Summer
T
his is not a love story – at
least, that is what the movie
tells you in the opening scene.
The movie spans 500 days in
the life of a boy named Tom
and the girl he falls in love with,
Summer. The film jumps back
and forth, showing you the
good, the bad, and the heartbreak of Tom’s love for Summer; it’s disjointed, but creative
and serves the story well.
This movie’s sense of humor
is quirky, going from cute to
depressing in a change of
scene. One moment Tom is as
movie reviews
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Goes from cute to
depressing in a
change of scene
happy as can be, singing and
dancing to “You Make My
Dreams Come True,” and the
next, you see a look of sadness
and heartbreak.
The chemistry between the
characters is very good, and the
movie is well put together. I
recommend it to anyone who is
a fan of romantic comedies, although it is really a whole new
brand of movie. Overall, it
should stand the test of time as
a great movie that everyone
should see. ✦
by Michael Reihms,
Nashua, NH
Photo by Emily Hency, Marshall, MI
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• Teen Ink
31
book reviews
MEMOIR
Letter to My
Daughter
by Maya Angelou
D
o you remember the last
book that made you think?
Think about how lucky you are,
how you could be a better person, why people are the way
they are? Letter To My Daughter, by Maya Angelou, does all
of this, and more. Angelou’s
collection of short stories and
poems, some light and some
more serious, weaves a delicate
tale of her life.
All the pieces are different,
each with a lesson to offer.
There are stories of hope, of
belief, of discovery, and what it
truly means to be home and to
be loved. Angelou recalls each
event that made her life with
breathtaking detail, making
each message as clear as if she
were speaking to you.
Once I started reading, I
couldn’t put this down. The
way Angelou is able to write,
seamlessly combining plot and
theme, makes each story draw
toward a powerful conclusion
that leaves you well aware of
the troubles she has experienced. Her simple way of storytelling makes it easy to
follow; the topics are carefully
Weaves a delicate
tale of her life
chosen to make as much of an
impact as possible.
This touching short read will
put you right in Angelou’s
shoes growing up as an
African-American woman in
America. I would recommend
it to mature readers, since there
is some adult content. The tales
of her past mistakes and events
will make you think, and make
you wonder. Above all, this
book will make you realize
what a unique, interesting past
Maya Angelou has had, making
her the influential writer and
person she is today. ✦
by Laura Stanton, Dexter, MI
FICTION
Bridget Jones’s
Diary
by Helen Fielding
I
experienced this story as a
movie first, and thought that I
knew absolutely everything
about it. But when I read it, I
discovered that although the
screenplay was good, it barely
did the original justice. Bridget
Jones’s Diary is a fantastic,
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quick, fun, chick-litty read that
will have you unable to put
down from the first entry until
she’s declared “an excellent
year’s progress.”
Keep in mind that I did like
the movie a whole lot, but I really think that the book exceeds
it in both comedic quality and
story. The characters that we
barely get to know on screen
have so much more depth on
the page, with the possible exception of Wickham-esque
Daniel Cleaver, whom I found
to be extraordinarily lovable
on-screen. (This opinion could
possibly have more to do with
Hugh Grant than appreciation
of Daniel Cleaver.)
In short, Bridget Jones’s
Diary is a delight: witty, clever,
funny, relatable, and frankly,
flat-out adorable. Read it once,
twice, three times in a row and
you won’t grow tired of it.
Also, have developed from
book undeniable and irrational
need to type as if composing
business memos. Have left out
Fantasic, quick, fun,
chick-litty read
all personal pronouns and articles from every essay have
written all day. Those who have
read Bridget Jones will understand completely; those who
have not will think have gone
mad.
Also, similarly to when having watched more than 30 minutes of “BBC America,” have
inexplicably slipped into fauxBritish accent and have begun
using British slang. This makes
family extremely annoyed.
Pip pip! ✦
by Stephanie Gibson,
Bledsoe, KY
SCI/FI
Fahrenheit 451
he lived in, and he realizes that
ignorance is in fact not bliss,
and to be truly happy, he must
learn as much as he can about
the world around him, and
about the books that are so forbidden in his society.
Montag is thrust into a world
of new realizations where he
must re-evaluate who he truly
is and what he is destined to
become – all the while evading
the law, for censorship is the
law. Together, Montag, and his
ally, an ex-English teacher
named Faber, try to solve some
of these mysteries, and explore
the world of literature. But his
Books are forbidden
in his society
satisfaction with his discoveries
doesn’t last long, because law
enforcement is close behind,
and he is forced to run.
Ray Bradbury establishes a
connection with his characters
that authors rarely generate,
and as Montag starts developing, you begin to feel his frustration and confusion almost as
if you yourself were in this
dystopia.
Watching Montag’s character
learn and grow is fascinating. I
felt compelled by his actions,
by his bravery, and his desire to
really know why things happen,
while the rest of the world
wants only to know how they
happen.
Bradbury does an astonishing job of putting Montag’s
world into perspective. As you
progress through the book, he
unveils many concepts that
make you extremely appreciative that we live in this day and
age, where free thought and literature are encouraged, not
banned. ✦
by Sydelle Pinegar,
Estacada, OR
by Ray Bradbury
SHORT STORIES
I
Olive Kitteridge
magine living in a world
without books, where people
are devoid of emotion, and censorship smothers all creativity.
Guy Montag is an intellectual who has spent most of his
life in a numb trance. One night
he comes home from a long
day of burning books, and
meets a unique, 17-year-old girl
named Clarisse McClellan,
who turns his world around.
She tells him about a time
when people didn’t live in fear,
when books weren’t banned,
and when firefighters put out
fires instead of starting them.
Her words make him rethink
the happiness that he thought
by Elizabeth Strout
O
live Kitteridge is one of
the best books I’ve read in
a long time. Elizabeth Strout’s
collection of 13 short stories all
centers around Maine middleschool teacher Olive Kitteridge,
and is not only entertaining, but
thought-provoking as well. By
the end, the reader feels both a
connection to Olive and an understanding of the choices she
made in her life.
Strout offers a unique literary
perspective by opening Olive’s
innermost thoughts and those
of the people she encounters.
This combination allows the
reader to assess Olive’s life decisions from her point of view
and from the perspective of
those around her. I could spend
forever analyzing each story.
I would strongly recommend
this book to anyone. Although
Olive is a middle-aged woman,
FICTION
by Kathryn Stockett
the messages and underlying
themes will appeal to any
reader. I could read it over and
over and continue to make new
connections and find new details each time.
Elizabeth Strout is a wonderful author with a writing style
that is almost poetic in its descriptions. If you’re looking for
an interesting read, Olive Kitteridge offers something for
everyone. ✦
by Lauren McDonough,
Norwood, MA
FICTION
Tears of a Tiger
by Sharon M. Draper
I
n this novel, it all starts on
the night of November 8th,
when a terrible accident happens. Four teen boys – B.J., Tyrone, Andy, and Robbie – are
drinking and driving when they
crash their car into a wall, and
Robbie is killed.
After this unfortunate accident, the novel focuses on the
different events that take place
in Andy’s school and home.
Andy blames himself for
Opened my eyes
about friendship
Robbie’s death, claiming that
since he was the driver, he
should have been the one to
die. He breaks up with his
girlfriend and his grades
worsen along with other problems. Eventually, he makes a
life-changing decision.
The author’s style is very different: Draper doesn’t try to
rush into events. Instead, she
writes as if she is one of the
boys and she is experiencing
the problems. I liked that the
novel opened my eyes about
friendships and why you should
stay close to people. You never
know if something like this
could happen in your life.
I kept reading Tears of a
Tiger because I was always interested in what would happen.
I would recommend this book
to everyone, especially those
who think it’s okay to drink and
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by Brittany Norris-Schlacht,
Dexter, MI
The Help
Writing style is
almost poetic
COMMENT
drive, in order to help them understand the reality of what
could happen to them or someone they care about. ✦
W
hat is your opinion of
racial segregation? How
much do you know about it?
How many books have you
read about it? How many of
those books have stayed with
you forever?
In Kathryn Stockett’s mesmerizing novel, The Help, the
relationships between AfricanAmerican maids and their
A thrilling book
to stick on your
“must read” shelf
white employers are tested,
crossing social boundaries in
Jackson, Mississippi.
Aibileen and Minny, two
black housemaids, are completely entwined in their employers’ households: they raise
the children, cook for the family, and do the shopping and
cleaning. Skeeter, a white college graduate, begins to notice
how the maids are treated after
the mysterious disappearance
of her own family’s maid, and
tries to bring their stories to
light. Secrets unfold, involving
past loves, family relations, and
confrontation. The humor and
ironic twists provide suspense,
keeping the reader wide-eyed
throughout the book’s unforgettable events.
In this world, where whites
and blacks are segregated,
Stockett spins a complex web
with her characters, connecting
them all in a mind-boggling
manner. This novel’s stunning
reality creates a page-turner
where every family has deception floating beneath its surface. The author’s stunning
Southern dialect adds to the
novelty of the story. This recent
fiction best-seller is one book
no one should miss.
A powerful draw for people
of all ages, this is a story no
one can put down. All in all,
The Help is a thrilling book to
stick on your “must read” shelf.
The incredible, poignant story
of the 1960s teaches teenagers
today what they never witnessed, giving them an opportunity to become the most
accepting generation yet. ✦
by Zoe Temco, New City, NY
TEENINK.COM
fiction
Silence
by Victoria Moran, Toleda, WA
water on the table.
he street was filled with a cloud of people
“Hello, Claire, I’ve seen you in the audience quite
elbowing each other to get a better view as a
often.
I think you already know that my name is
silent performer bared his soul before them.
Henri. It’s nice to meet you.” He smiled at me. The
Maurice, unlike any other mime in New York City,
waitress came with our food and we began to eat. I
could bring a crowd to tears as he told stories with his
had a salad with chicken and mandarin oranges and
body. I had been going to see his performance once a
he had a cheeseburger with fries.
week since I was six. The way his eyes illustrated
Henri and I talked about everything except what we
every emotion left me speechless each time I watched
were here to talk about. He seemed to be avoiding the
his miraculous presentation. There was so much that I
topic. Suddenly, there was a crash in the kitchen and a
longed to ask him, but I knew that if I did, he would
can of beans rolled along the floor. The waitress ran
stare in silence, uninterested in breaking his vow to
after it, trying to catch it.
indulge my curiosity.
“All right, you’ve stalled long enough. Back to my
“If you have any questions, I would be happy to
question.” I took the break in conversation as an
answer them for you. See me after the performance.”
opportunity to change the topic. “Why do you and
I had been so enthralled in Maurice’s magical
Maurice keep coming to this particular
performance I didn’t even notice that his
street?”
assistant, Henri, had walked onto the
The way his
“If you really want to know, I’ll tell
makeshift stage with a microphone, wearPhoto by Kaitlyn Hull, Cushing, OK
you.”
He let out a sigh and put his burger
ing a brightly-colored sweater that looked eyes illustrated
down. “Twelve years ago, we lived in
as if a rainbow had thrown up on it. He
every emotion France. Maurice had two children, a boy – was sitting on the very bench I had sat on earlier. He
gave an enlightening introduction about
was staring at a bird in front of him that was being fed
me – and a girl. She was a beautiful child
the mime’s life before every performance.
left me
by a couple of small children. I went and sat beside
whose smile could light up even the
He would ask for questions after each
him. I focused on the bird, too.
speechless
dullest of days, and she always found a
performance, but I was always too shy.
“I need to tell you something.” I didn’t look up to
reason to smile. When she was just four
“I’m going to ask this time,” I whissee if he was listening. I just kept talking. “When I
years old she was taken from him by one of his best
pered to myself as I walked to the end of the line of
was a little girl, in France, I used to live with my
friends. He tried to stop the man, but they slipped
people who wanted to talk to him. The puzzle that
father and brother. There was a man who would visit
through his fingers. After that, he vowed to spend his
plagued my brain was how this mime, whom everyall the time, and he would play with me endlessly.
life in silence until he got his little girl back.”
one admired, could spend his days and years in
One day, I followed him to his car, and before I knew
“That’s when he became a mime?”
silence. Did he simply have nothing to say?
what was happening he took me. He took me to New
“Yes. For the first two years we traveled the world
“And what can I do for you, miss?” Henri asked, a
York, where I lived with him for years. I managed to
looking for them, and then Maurice heard she had
smile playing at his lips.
escape and I’m staying with a friend now.” I looked
been taken to New York City. So we came here, but
“Err … well …” I froze. I could feel my face burnup at him. He just stared at me, the white make-up
we haven’t found her yet.” He looked at me with tears
ing as I managed to forget my question entirely.
running as the tears streaked down his face. I could
in his eyes.
“Well, there are several people in line behind you.
feel myself start to cry too as I waited for a reaction.
“I have to go.” I got up from the table and hurried
If you have something to ask, I need you to ask
“Claire,” he said as he smiled at me. “You look like
out of the restaurant. I ran back to where Maurice had
quickly so that we can give others a chance.” He
your mother.” ✦
been, hoping he was still there. To my surprise, he
grinned widely at me. He couldn’t have been more
than 15.
“Yes,” I began. “I was wondering how Maurice
managed to uphold his vow of silence for all of these
years. Surely, he would need to say something at
some point.” As I finished the question, I could see
Henri’s face light up.
by Courtney Chism, Farmington, MI
“That is my favorite question to answer. I get asked
approval. I’ve tried for the last 15 years to please you,
he rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of her fire truck red
that at least once per show.” He chuckled a little.
Mom.” My voice rises in irritation. “I’ve done everynails against the wooden table fills the dense
“Let’s just say, I’m really good at Charades.”
thing you asked. I never once went against the decisions
silence between us. She follows my gaze as my
I laughed. “So, why do you and Maurice always
you made for me. It would be nice if just this once, you
eyes
flicker
to
the
stack
of
papers
between
us.
Slowly,
come to this street? I mean, as popular as this act is,
could support me.”
the
long
nails
gather
up
the
documents
and
shuffle
them.
wouldn’t you be able to go anywhere with it?” I
Her nails continue to tap on the table. She presses her
“You’ve
decided,
then?”
Her
voice
has
a
somewhat
asked. The smile left his face and was replaced by a
mouth into a thin line, watching me closely. To my
taunting quality.
thoughtful look.
shock, she nods. “Okay.”
“I – yes, I have.”
“Well …” He paused, seeming uncertain. He didn’t
“Okay?” I echo, slowly.
An exasperated sigh escapes her and she laughs withmake eye contact with me as he murmured under his
She uncaps a pen and begins to sign the
out humor. “Well, I can’t stop you. You’re
breath: “I will tell you, but not here. Would you be
documents.
I stare, stunned into silence. I
an adult now, right? Seventeen years old
available in about 20 minutes, when all of these
I
anticipated
expected
much
worse, a raging war. I anticiand
you
already
know
what’s
best
for
you.”
people are gone?”
pated
bloodshed
and the exchange of harsh
My
anger
flares
and
I
press
my
fingers
I nodded. I wondered why it made him so tense.
bloodshed and words, not compliance
and a peaceful suragainst
the
edge
of
the
table.
“And
you
do?
Something in me wanted to say that it was no probthe exchange render. When she finishes signing everyYou’re not even my real–”
lem. He didn’t have to tell me, I would understand.
she hands the papers to me. Once I
“As far as the law goes, I am.” She cuts
But I very much wanted to know.
of harsh words thing,
take them, she stands and leaves the room
me off in mid-sentence, knowing my next
“I’ll wait over here until then.” I walked to a nearby
without another word.
statement. “And, yes, I do know what’s best
bench and sat. The conversation replayed over and
Quietly,
I
leave the kitchen to mail the papers. In the
for you.”
over in my mind. I watched as Maurice signed autoback
of
my
mind,
I am agitated. She still managed to
I
try
to
swallow
the
guilt
building
in
the
back
of
my
graphs and Henri continued answering questions.
make
me
feel
guilty
for finally winning and moving
throat,
but
it
sticks
there
like
a
lump
of
mashed
potatoes.
About 20 minutes later, after the crowd had gone,
onto
my
own
path.
I
tell myself that when I finally have
For
a
long
moment,
I
can
only
stare
at
her.
She
waits
Henri came over to the bench. Without saying a thing,
my answers, it will be worth it. Closing the mailbox, I
expectantly, her thin eyebrows raised in a question.
he gestured to me. Puzzled, I followed. We walked to
put up the small red flag with a smile. The plastic flag
Finally, I clear my throat and meet her gaze with a firm
a little diner two buildings away. We went inside, sat
stands like a sign of victory, a sign of the coming change
expression. The less uncertain I seem, the better. She
and ordered.
in my life. I shake my head to rid myself of the guilt trip
can smell weakness like a bloodhound finds food.
“All right, we can talk now,” Henri said as the waitmy mother gave me and go inside to begin the next
“In the end it’s not your opinion that matters. It’s
ress left the table. “First of all, what is your name?”
chapter of my journey: finding my biological family. ✦
mine.
Next
year,
I
am
leaving
with
or
without
your
“I’m sorry, my name is Claire. I moved here from
France when I was four.” I looked down at the glass of
T
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M AY ’ 1 0
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33
fiction
The Masked Women of Kabul
was serious. Tears began to roll down my face.
listened to the small whisper of my feet timidly
“Please, Rahim,” I begged in my timid voice. “Don’t
brushing against the dirt as I proceeded closer and
do this. Haven’t I been a good wife? Haven’t we
closer to my freedom. My burqa covered my
made you happy?”
entire body, turning me into a ghost-woman that I
“Happy!” He stood, towering over me. “You think
didn’t even recognize. I had one image in my mind:
I’m happy that I got stuck with a useless Hazara for a
Amira’s tiny hand pressed against my palm. I could
wife?” He knocked me to the floor. “You think your
almost feel her smooth, young skin, as if she were
filthy little daughter is worth anything to me? You
standing right beside me. In a few minutes, she
couldn’t even give me a son. You’re worth nothing to
would be, and we would walk together toward a betme! You hear me? Nothing!”
ter life. I shook this thought from my head. I couldn’t
What could I do? I could refuse, but the pain of
afford to be unrealistic or fantasize yet. There were
his fists on my face kept me silent. Over the years,
so many things that could go wrong. Rahim could
my rebellious nature had slowly disappeared. When
find me (and if he did, he would kill me); someone
my parents told me I was to marry Rahim, they praccould tell Rahim I was leaving; I could be stopped by
tically dragged me to him. In the first years of our
the Taliban and sent back; I could be killed by the
marriage, I talked back, and refused to be treated
Taliban, and so on … It was practically impossible
poorly. But over the years I became tired of dressing
for a woman to travel alone in Afghanistan, much
my bruises and picking myself up from the floor.
less a Hazara Shiite woman. Yet I still clung to the
Eventually, my voice disappeared.
hope that somehow I would make it to my parents’
When I was young, I had such ambitions. I
house in Peshawar, Pakistan. If I didn’t, I would have
dreamed of going to Kabul to become a doctor. But
nothing left.
my family wasn’t rich, and couldn’t afford to send
My thoughts eased back to Amira. Images flooded
me to school. When I was 14, I married
my mind: my fingers running through her
Rahim and my life ended. He was 25
silky black hair, holding her in my arms to
My husband years older than me, but my mother said
comfort her after Rahim had one of his
that a Hazara girl like me should be
bad streaks, whispering stories in her ear
told
me
to
give
grateful. In the end, I did make it to
and rubbing her back. But the image that
up my daughter, Kabul, but I was farther away from my
would not disappear was Amira’s face
dreams than I could have ever imagined.
when I left her at the orphanage. At first
and I said
The burqa went on, and who I was
she was kicking and screaming and had to
became masked along with my face.
be restrained, but then she stopped. As I
nothing
In the weeks after Amira left, I could
turned and walked away, all that was left
not stand to look at myself in the mirror. For Rahim,
were the dried paths of tears on her cheeks. Her eyes
nothing was different. He went to work, came home
were glazed over, but the rest of her face said to me:
to dinner on the table, and went to bed. But for me,
I’m your daughter. How can you leave me here? I
life was ruined. Sometimes, when I lay in bed at
wouldn’t blame her if she hated me. In truth, I hated
night, I made up stories. I would tell myself that
myself for what I had done.
Amira had gone off to school, like I never could. Or I
*
*
*
would pretend that she had gone to live with my parThe orphanage was supposed to be for war vicents, away from this man and this war. I even imagtims, and I was pretending to be a woman who had
ined that she had run away. Anything was better than
lost her husband to the war. When I met the gaze of
the truth. I simply couldn’t face the fact that my husthe man who ran the orphanage, tears began to pour
band told me to give up my daughter, and I had said
down my face. This had all become real. “It’s okay,
nothing.
Zaara,” he said. “Many widows leave their children
It took me a long time to get the courage to visit
here when they can’t afford to feed them. You are not
Amira. I feared that she wouldn’t want to see me, and
doing a bad thing.” But I wasn’t a widow, and I was
I couldn’t bear that thought. But I did visit. When she
doing a bad thing.
saw me, for a long moment she just stood there,
When money became increasingly spare at home,
frozen. When I took a step toward her, she burst into
one day Rahim came downstairs and said, “Tomora heaving sob, and flung herself into my arms. For a
row Amira will go.”
minute, she forgot what had happened, but that
“Go where?” I asked, my voice both submissive
passed. She drew back slightly, and began to pound
and terrified.
her little fists against me. “You promised you’d come
“She will live at the orphanage.” He said this as if
back and visit me soon!” she bawled. “You promised!”
it were the most normal thing for a seven-year-old
All I could say was, “I know.”
girl.
Little by little, I gained the courage to take my life
It took me several long moments to realize that he
back. It started small. When I came back that day
from visiting Amira, I did not go to buy rice. Instead
I took the money and I tucked it into my shoes. At
that point, I had no plans of doing anything out of the
ordinary. All I was doing was subtly disobeying
Rahim. Even though I knew he would not notice, in
my mind I was being rebellious.
Yet nothing I did made the slightest bit of difference. Eventually, the Taliban made it illegal for a
woman to go out unless she was accompanied by her
husband or a male relative. This was the news that
wrapped its filthy claws around me and strangled my
last bit of freedom. Naturally, Rahim was a very busy
man and had no time to take his wife to see her
daughter. Outside, the Taliban controlled each and
every one of its people, and inside my house, it
wasn’t any different. The Taliban had taken away my
I
Photo by Sandy Honig, Woodbridge, CT
34
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
by Kelsey Freeman, Carbondale, CO
rights, strangled me with a burqa, and turned me
from Zaara to Hazara Shiite woman. Rahim had done
the same.
Inside me, rage bubbled up, and finally I couldn’t
suppress it any longer. I must have rehearsed what I
would say a hundred times. In my head I sounded
strong, and powerful, but my voice came out shaky
and meek. “Rahim, you will take me to see Amira
today.”
He didn’t look up, tracing his hairy fingers over
the cracks in the table. For several long moments, my
demand went ignored. Then under his breath he
mumbled, “You just saw her.” In truth, I had last seen
her two weeks before. I was almost ready to turn
around and give up, but then I remembered the look
on Amira’s face. She needed me to do this.
“Rahim, I need to go visit her. I need you to take
me.” Somehow, my legs had stopped shaking. My
voice sounded a trace stronger.
He still didn’t look up. He knew he had complete
power over me, and there was nothing I could do.
There was nothing that could make him take me
seriously.
Maybe I wanted to be hurt, or maybe I just
couldn’t be pushed down anymore, but after that
moment, I knew things could never go back to the
way they had been. Before me, I saw outstretched
arms hurl the table forward. I saw him coming
toward me, malice in his black eyes. Then I saw
darkness, nothing but darkness.
Each time I was hurt like this, it always amazed
me how much the human body could take. It was a
week before I could walk normally again, but somehow I recovered. I still ached in every possible area,
and I had a purple bruise that lingered like a shadow
over half my face. I had not spoken or made eye contact with Rahim since that day, and I didn’t intend to.
Maybe he felt bad for me, and perhaps deep inside he
had a heart; when he put on his coat to go to work, he
turned to me and said, “Are you coming?”
Even with all the loathing that lived inside me, I
still managed to summon the words to speak to my
husband. “Coming where?”
“To see your daughter.”
Rahim waited outside while I got to spend two
hours with Amira. I sat against the concrete wall in
the corner with Amira’s body was draped over me,
her head cradled in my lap. I still wore my burqa,
even though we were inside. After the burqa covered
and stole all my passion for life, I figured it could at
least hide the bruises from my daughter. Amira’s rich
hair was spread out around her like a lion’s mane,
and her eyes shone like the dark water of a deep well,
glowing in the moonlight. I wanted to remain in this
moment forever, locked in time. I longed to stay with
Amira; she was a part of me.
She was only seven, a child in this world, and a
child needs a mother. Before, I had been as weak and
helpless as this girl lying before me, but now I sat up
straighter, my back matching the strength of the
concrete wall behind me. Over the past few days the
vertebrae in my spine had slowly rolled upward until
I was no longer hunched over in submission, until I
was tall enough to protect my daughter.
“Mommy,” she said, “can I come home?”
“Yes,” I said, and I had never been surer of anything in my life.
Since that day, a week ago, I hadn’t seen Amira.
Now, in just a few minutes, I would take Amira from
the orphanage, and we would follow the bare city
streets to a vacant lot outside of the city. Through the
murmured secrets of the city, I had found a man who
could smuggle us all the way across the
➤➤
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
I
sit in the afternoon sun with my
father, eating Strawberry Sensation
Sherbet. This is a treat – not the
sherbet, him. Since he’s been back, my
mother says that the less I see him the
better. The park bench is uncomfortable on my backside, and if I lift my
thigh, I can see where kids have carved
things like “TJ & NM 4 EVA.”
Ha.
I watch the sherbet drip down the
cone and over my fingers. We didn’t
have to be in a park; we could’ve been
anywhere, preferably somewhere with
air conditioning. But this is our spot.
It’s the bench we come to whenever
there is “something important to discuss,” and I think there is. Just then, he
pipes up: “You see that girl over there?”
He points across the cobblestone
path to a bench a few yards away, just
out of earshot. A mother sits with her
daughter, who looks about three or
four. She’s wearing an ironed beige
dress, knee-high socks and a pair of
Mary Janes. They share the same treat
we do.
“But Mommy,” she whines, “I
wanted orange.”
A piece of me whines with her.
What’s this about?
“I used to dress you both like that,”
my father continues. “You and your
sister.”
Bingo. “Stepsister,” I correct him. I
haven’t seen Lucy in a while. “How is
she?”
“Good. She’s been traveling this
summer.”
No.
“In fact, she may be coming up to
see us soon.”
I don’t hear myself, but this must be
when I ask him just how soon soon is,
because from faraway he says, “Her
plane lands early tomorrow.”
Unfair. The word gets comfy in my
mind as I watch the sweetness of sum-
by Deborah Pullins, West Palm Beach, FL
eat. Not sherbet, not ravioli. I sit back
mer fall and splatter on the sidewalk,
in my chair and sigh. I can hear Peter
and someone starts to cry.
and my mother coming down the hall
I think I’m in the mood for orange,
toward the dining room.
too.
“Don’t bug Terri about it.”
*
*
*
This was supposed to be a whisper,
When Dad drops me off at home,
but it sounds more like her hissing at
there’s a plate of warm ravioli sitting
him. Being bugged is the least of my
there for me, courtesy of my mother’s
worries. Then the idea hits me like a
husband, who can only make this and
plane from California.
TV dinners. Their son, Peter, sits
“Mom?”
across from my bowl with one of his
She enters the room with Peter,
own. He jumps when he sees me. Peter
wearing her you-didn’t-hear-what-Ialready knows.
just-said look. “What is it?”
“Terri!” he chirps. “Tell me about
She looks hopeful and wide-eyed,
your sister, please?”
like I’m going to dump my 16 years of
I roll my eyes and stick my pinky
baggage onto her. “Can I spend the
into his lunch. “Go stand in the street,
night at Dad’s?”
please?”
Peter clears his throat
“You don’t have to
so loudly, it turns into a
be a jerk about it.” His
For the last 16
cough. We ignore him.
tiny features turn to a
“Why?” she asks.
frown, then twist into a
years, Dad had
I don’t want her in my
smile. “I’ll ask your
been with Lucy
room. “I want to weldad. He’d know more
come her to Florida.”
about his favorite
and her mother
Peter is still coughing,
daughter anyway.”
in California
and turning a little red.
He wins, and he
She raises a plucked eyeknows it. He saunters
brow at me.
out of the room a little
“Fine. I can see this is important to
taller than usual, and I feel my face
you,” she says.
turn the color of ravioli. I think about
Then she says the two words I never
what I would’ve told him. What did I
thought I’d hear: “Call him.”
know? I knew that she was only a year
*
*
*
younger than me, and that for the last
Dad’s happy to drive back for me,
16 years, Dad had been with Lucy and
telling me the whole ride how Lucy
her mother in California until that famand I are blood, and that it’s thicker
ily, much like his first, fell to pieces.
than anything.
And now he was here in Florida with
“’Cause you and Lucy are blood,
me, Plan B.
and that’s thicker than anything,” he reNow Plan A was on its way here to
peats, opening my car door. I smile at
do what I still couldn’t, which was stay
him, and wonder if he does that for her,
with him. “He better not let her in my
too.
room,” I mutter into my bowl. I had
We eat spaghetti before bed on the
helped Dad pick an apartment when he
plates I helped him pick out, and I wait
moved back a year ago. Someplace
until I hear him yawn and close his
cozy, I thought. Just for me and him.
bedroom door. Then I grab his family
And Lucy, of course.
photos. The album is black with lace
Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to
money in my chest pocket. It was still there; my
border. Once in Pakistan, we could take the bus to my
dreams were still intact. Yet at that moment, they were
parents’ house in Peshawar. I wouldn’t let myself conshattered for the final time. I saw them before they
sider the flaws in my plan. If I started to let these kinds
saw me, but there was no time to turn back. Instantly I
of thoughts break into my mind, I wouldn’t leave. Then
was surrounded by the Taliban, and pushed to the
I would end up stuck in this worthless life forever.
ground. Eight other women around me lay in the same
*
*
*
position.
My thoughts echoed in the silence of
“Are you part of this cult too?” a
the alleyway. It was already a miracle
bearded man yelled, inches from my face.
that I had made it this far. I was sure that Inside me, rage
“You’re one of these Hazara sluts who
Rahim would have found the money I
bubbled up,
wish to take down our great nation!”
was slowly accumulating, or noticed
and I couldn’t
“No sir, please!” I heard myself say. “I
when we had less and less food. This
don’t know what you’re talking about.”
morning, I kept waiting for him to walk
suppress it
Then the man’s thick yellow mucus slid
in and beat me until I could no longer
through the mesh in my burqa. He had
breathe. I imagined Rahim swinging the
spit in my face.
door open, cruelty surging from his eyes. I pictured
“Afghanistan will not be humiliated by you! You
him pulling out the money, tearing it to shreds and
Hazaras deserve to be thrown in a pile and burned!
roaring, “You thought you could get away with this,
you filthy whore!” Then I envisioned my death.
Then Afghanistan would be rid of you!” It took me a
But that never happened. He left for work as usual,
moment to realize I was being beaten. I was so used
and I left for a life outside of his grasp.
to the pain. Maybe I wasn’t so far from the death I
had imagined for myself that morning; I would be
As I turned the corner, my hand drifted to the
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trim on the outside and the word
“Memories” in cursive on the front.
I’m only in one picture, since he left
when I was a baby. The rest are Lucy:
him and Lucy at her fifth birthday
party, he and Lucy at her volleyball
game, he and Lucy saying good-bye at
the airport. Soon there will probably be
one of him and Lucy here. The next
morning, I tell him that I’d rather not
join him to pick her up.
“No, thanks. I want to stay here. Get
everything, you know, ready.”
He frowns, but doesn’t argue. “I’ll
be back with her in an hour.”
One hour. For one hour, I keep my
world to myself.
fiction
And Lucy
Photo by Mary Philpott, Norfolk, VA
But an hour doesn’t pass as quickly
as you’d think. I came to find that in an
hour, I could clean my room and mess
it up. I could make three sandwiches
and eat them. I found that I could take
photos of my father’s family, the one
I’m not a part of, rip them to shreds,
and hide them.
And at the end of an hour, when I’m
full of mayonnaise and covered in
paper cuts, I can bandage myself, pull
out the couch bed, and let them in.
Him and Lucy, the two of them
together. ✦
beaten to death by the despicable men who drown us
in their hatred and use these burqas to hold us under
until we are lifeless, insignificant creatures.
Shots were fired around me, and the death cries of
the other women resonated in my ears. I did not try to
fight back, or save myself. I just let the man’s foot
pound against me. Maybe, after a woman is beaten so
many times, there is nothing else she can do but be
beaten. I could never have made my own life. I was a
weak Hazara who gave up my daughter.
My daughter! Would she know why she never saw
me again? Would she learn that I had tried to come
and get her? Would she hate me for dying and leaving
her? This would me my last failure to her: dying and
never giving her a better life.
When the bullet struck my beating heart, I didn’t
cry out in agony. I simply rolled to my side, ready to
accept my fate, my death. In the dim light of my last
moments, I could just make out the image of the
money from my pocket lying idly on the street. It was
stained red, soaked with the worthless blood of my
lost hopes. ✦
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
35
Eternal Sentinel
Peek Peek
Carolina
They stand guard over their domain,
Watching every movement, every change.
They’re tall and majestic, nothing can
deter them
From their duty, from their reign.
The moment I knew
I existed
was in time to
arrive
at School.
They always stay from night to day
Never resting, never leaving.
They stay to guard for many years
Forever protecting, forever and a day.
I am four
and a half
at a moment too brass to describe
how I am
at the present rule.
The Carolina sun breaks the night
A rooster crowing on the countryside. Rays
Of light splash against the dandelions.
Laughter surrounding the area, while kids
break out
Of their trailer homes.
The steaming gravel, hot enough to
melt hell itself burns through the soles of
those not fortunate to own a new pair. A
winding
road, from an intersection to the boonies,
passes a red trailer set back in the distant
field. Two
Acres of green, flourishing grass, envelop this
home. A walk down the path, dirt circling
the humid air,
Rocks flying everywhere as my little feet
kick them
around. A woman stands waiting at the end of
my walk, she has taken care of me the last
five years, this
place I call home, the land I roam, all her
possessions. The raggedy stairs, the peeling
paint are
so familiar to me. Innocence has not yet been
Broken in this countryside home. Strolling
to my
room means a step into the small dim kitchen
and past
the dining room enclosed with green carpet,
there’s a chair
That constantly fights with me every time
I pass,
It and my poor little knee have become the
best of
friends, I have much bitter resentment toward
This chair, but this doesn’t faze it, it just sits
there. A room in the back of the trailer, toys
cover the floor,
This is my sanctuary, where I lay my head at
night. The sounds of
Children my age playing outside catches my
ear. I can hear
Double Dutch rope hitting the gravel
repeatedly, feet skipping. This
Noise will continue throughout the night
most likely,
Into the breaking of a new Carolina Sun
There is little that people can do to destroy
Those valiant soldiers, those fearless warriors.
Only wind and rain and fire and frost
With time can slay, with time, not coy.
Photo by Tyler Winston, Clinton, MT
Ode to My Shoe
You’re worn at the ends,
You can do backbends.
You have a companion, who’s always by
your side,
He’s forever there with every stride.
Through thick and thin you’ve never let
me down,
and though your strings constrict you,
you never frown.
I’ve squashed your sole a number of times,
but you don’t see it as a crime.
Some may say I walk all over you,
I guess I have to admit that it is true.
I may wear the pants in our relationship,
though
you’re the one who leads every trip.
by Neyat Yohannes, Hawthorne, CA
Descending
Marriage Tree
The splitting of the marriage tree
leaves limbs of the offspring holding on.
The pain of divorce is
yelling “timber” as we’re falling.
The cry of a baby bird falling,
wildly flapping young wings
at the thought of no safety net.
All too soon the forest will be quiet
and winter will descend
upon my family tree.
Those giants, the brave, the giants will stand
For all eternity, for many a year,
Until the forces of nature will destroy
Little by little, destroy the land.
Yet the giants still stand, between their alleys,
Unable to run, unable to fight.
They stand until the end of days,
Those towering peaks, the kings of the valley.
by Christine Chen, San Diego, CA
Childhood
we abandoned textbooks and were free
kicking and jumping
in the dry twisted grass
and splatters of clover
we were together with the sun
and the dome of the white sky watching us
we breathed hard until we had
green on both knees
and forgot which team we were on
running both ways
through the summer afternoon,
shouting
and the red bugs in the yellow-flowered trees
dancing through branches
and us after them
around and around
those who seemed ancient
whistled at us
and our laughter
because they would never be so free again.
by Sarah Precup, Chandler, AZ
As street lights
turn on
by Jake Armlin, Middleburgh, NY
nostalgia
Am I still the same
As I was one gift away from young?
The digits seem to be acquainted –
Eleven walked six to kindergarten,
to ice skating parties, play-dates.
Nine calmed her through the tired fits,
saw each tear, each laugh, each kiss.
But fifteen doesn’t remember twelve,
and fourteen never spoke, so under-said,
under-stood, under-felt.
My years are like moths tangled up
In journals and webs.
I see pictures and don’t recognize my face,
Strange eyes smiling back, but
how can I be so different from how I was
all those summers, sleeps, smiles ago?
I try to hold on but my fingers slip,
I must let go.
So, here I am again.
Both of my eyes so open wide and gleaming.
Blank stares, with races running only an
inch behind.
Sit back and watch the pavement get closer
as it aims for your face.
So, step back, let me take over.
Can you see the silhouettes?
The slim and dark figures
Rising like giants out of the shadows.
They’re crawling out.
They’re crawling out of our skin.
Here I am again.
We build ourselves, where monsters used
to hide.
Oh, how we celebrate the mediocrity.
My feelings crawl the walls.
They crawl the walls, and finally fall.
They finally fall.
Like empires and old loves.
by Allison Bienenstock, New York, NY
by Mark Archuleta, La Junta, CO
36
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
•
POETRY
My hair was not brown
chocolate,
bark,
oh no no.
It was still golden, like a striving sun.
My dress is white, with greenish leaves.
Tacky leaves,
sunken leaves,
oval in the California sun.
I see children walking by,
playing by,
running by,
and I realize that I am not them.
I hide behind my mother’s dress
(back when she wore dresses)
and realize,
these are
MY fingers.
This is MY strength.
My choice to hide, white fabric
(like mine)
in my clutches.
That was when the sun
ran away,
called the rain
to embrace me all the same
and cause my
hair
to darken.
by Brittany McGinnis, Bend, OR
What’s-Your-Tea
Saying?
Victor Wooten is the sound of chamomile tea
in a dark blue,
hand-painted, hand-shaped mug
while you wait for the laundry
to finish.
Watch the spinspinspinspiiiinnn …
your bare feet vibrating
with the machine
and your back propped up against the door,
assuming that no one will come through
and disturb you.
Remember the flood of water
pouring out from the inside,
how you slammed the door shut
before it all came out,
then scooted a bucket over
to catch the rest.
You cleaned up the mess
all by yourself
and felt curiously responsible, mature.
Now wonder at the bitter aftertaste of honey
while you hope to God(s)
that it doesn’t happen again this time.
by Jaime Maxwell, Winnabow, NC
by Tiara Dolberry, Fountain, CO
enjoy the little things
chocolate milk and dirty band-aids,
distant love and horror flicks;
a mix of macabre and lyric
all get me through the day.
you know,
rain is a excellent prescription
for the blues.
I just wish it came in a bottle.
now take into consideration
that I may need medication
to help the time tick by
a little faster without you.
and if I keep my heart on my sleeve,
would you be delicate?
or should I tuck it away
forever in my chest
from grubby hands
that want to rip it apart
for their own amusement?
by Alex Baldwin, Virginia Beach, VA
That Place
Limitless
That place where we ran through fields
Until the last slivers of the
Sunset filtered through
Tapering off the end of the world
And our only light was from the
Quiet, humble buzz of lightning bugs
I want to climb out my bedroom window
To a summer sky of violet.
I want to run barefoot through gold ears
In a flowing dress of eyelet.
That place where nostalgia danced
And sang on old, wooden porches.
And lullabies sweetened our ears and hearts,
Tucking us in underneath the feathery covers,
Holding us until we drifted gently to sleep.
We were carefree and liberated,
Free from the clutches of stress and want.
That place where nothing was tangled,
Except dirty shoelaces or red vines
Which inspired giggles and
Light competitions for unknotting.
When we used to play cowboys and Indians
Stampeding and whooping shrieks of joy,
Or build gloriously lopsided forts
Against an impending blizzard.
That place where we dressed in all white
Just to see who could get the most grass stains,
Green and friendly, acknowledging our
Hours outside, and smiling in
Imagination’s encouragement.
That place where love was love,
And not some jumble of flattened words
Awkward, complicated, and compressed.
That place that existed
Only in our quiet dreams,
Now blurred out by the stench of alcohol.
Slowly, painfully erased by the cocktail
of drugs.
Until the only traces of it
Slide into obscurity,
In our honest, blinding tears.
by Emma Hutchins, New Canaan, CT
Broken Moments
Changing, flickering light
through the shifting leaves above,
the strong ancient trees stand tall.
Grass blown by wind
lets the musty scent of earth
slowly make its presence known.
The winds start, slowly at first,
quickly picking up speed,
and slowing to a stop.
Simply to start back over again.
A quivering melody is sung by a bird,
tentative, but sweet.
A single voice to signal the end of day,
soon to be joined by many.
The quiet chirping of crickets
join in and together,
create a soft lullaby to welcome in the night.
A car roars past.
The strong stench,
exhaust
becomes mixed.
with the sweet scent of herbs.
Overpowering it.
Corrupting it.
And turning it sour.
The rusty grinding
of the engine
drowns out
the subtle sounds of nature.
It breaks the peace,
and the moment is gone.
by Florence Onay, Bryant, AR
I want russet-colored shoulders
As I canter bareback on a bay.
I want to chase the sandhill stag
And hold a wild-rose bouquet.
I want to dance upon the banks
Of the quiet-water pool.
I want to watch the surface glitter
Like a million sapphire jewels.
I want to lie upon my back
And gaze at the parade of clouds.
I want to open a leather-bound book
And read Sir Shakespeare aloud.
I want to string beads of wet clay
On a the fibers of spider web.
I want to let it dry upon a tree branch
While the thrushes sing and tread.
I want to braid my hair with lavender
And bathe in peppermint oil.
I want to drink golden honey
And nap upon fertile soil.
I want to stay awake to see
The glimmer of the north most star.
I want to strum a lullaby
On a melancholy guitar.
I want to count the lightning bugs
In my bed of constellations.
I want to waken at misty dawn
To a world without limitations.
creativity, where
are you?
Beads
pens
ink
sheets of paper, white as innocence
stop taunting me
words
phrases
verbs and adjectives, colorful and elaborate
come to me!
creativity
where are you?
by Cathleen Tommorow, Medford, MA
pears
hopscotch oneandtwoandthree.
make me smile and i will
show you the world.
i know you love me
because
you pick out the lemon-flavored ones for me
because
you let me have the blanket
because
with you, it really can be that simple.
hopscotch oneandtwoandthree.
make me smile and i will
show you the world.
by Lauren Zack, Phoenix, AZ
by Rebecca Brill, New York, NY
The Istanbul Gill
Summer
red and white checkered tablecloths and
hi-top shoes
iced tea, french fries
smiles on lips – red cherry tomatoes in salad
five best friends stuck together, sticky layers
of baklava
Fall
green plastic booths and cool mint lip-gloss
cherry coke, onion rings
secrets on lips – peeling off layers of baklava
two friends alone, glued tight like gum to
a table
by Monique Bourgeacq, Austin, TX
Since she’s gone
I pretend I am old enough
to sit with mothers, cross-legged on park
benches
when children, in sunglass lenses, run on
skinny legs through sprinklers.
“One more minute!” –
they dangle on the monkey bars, pale
stomachs bared to autumn wind
and soft fingers wound about the metal.
My fingers were soft once too
on the dining room table, I found my face in
your favorite vase,
then let go,
watched flowers fall to their knees,
water down the wrinkles of the tablecloth,
and glass about my feet.
When puddles stained our carpet
you picked up the pieces.
I saw your blood for the first time,
red and salty, I’d imagine, in the palm of
your hands,
cradled for a second then clenched shut.
I asked if we could put it back together,
but you shook your head:
“Wear shoes, okay?”
My friendship bracelet broke today,
as I stood alone at my doorstep;
The plastic pastel beads
danced across my “Welcome” mat,
a crippled ballet,
multicolored.
I couldn’t help but think
about that endless summer night,
when we decided not to sleep.
Instead, we beaded.
And we said
that our bracelets had meaning,
that they would represent us –
that this flimsy transparent elastic,
and these hollow yellows and greens and
pinks and blues
were more
than what they were.
That’s probably why my bracelet broke
today –
we sold our souls
to beads and string.
Winter
cold bitter wind and hot bitter coffee
potato soup, hummus
giggles on lips – loose change tinkling in
a purse
tinkling change, life changes, friends scattered
Art by Samuel Reichman, Fairway, KS
A Rhyme of Madness
Sixteen is old enough
to know gravity is irrevocable,
but I wonder when my knees will be
strong enough
to cushion these playground falls,
to fly at all.
Dying of thirst.
But trapped in a sea
where my deepest desires laugh back at me.
Drifting on a raft.
Made of tree limbs, tree leaves and vines.
My course at sea is never simple,
never a straight line.
The sun burns my skin.
I can feel it sizzle, I can feel it sting.
There’s no shade to be found
on this wretched thing.
Aimlessly drifting.
But even madness has its rhyme.
Never quite simple,
Never quite out right.
To get out, you just need
a little time.
by Gillian Collins, New York, NY
by Douglas Cruz, Mission Hills, CA
Spring
yellow roasted peppers and dandelion flowers
flip flops, shish kabob
cold smiles on lips – ice in sprite
the baklava crumbles
by Ana Brett, Fairfield, IA
Fast Poetry
I’d like to find the
Poetry drive-thru
That stays open all night
So I could pick my words
Off the dollar menu.
I’ll take a sonnet,
No, make it two
Hold the slimy metaphors,
But extra on the unheard of
And I’ll take a side of sporadic rhyme
But if you’ve run out of that
Alliterations all right.
And one last thing
Could you put that in
Separate
Stanzas?
by Nina Wolpow, Wellesley, MA
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
37
We Are the Brainwashed Generation
The bee in my
bonnet
We are the brainwashed generation
Living in a gilded Apple, actually
Not so much living as
Breathing, for we have not yet reached that
point, sir.
Our hands have evolved into intelligent
electronics, they
Shed their skin every week or two.
Beeps lights bells whistles supplement
Emotion.
We are the brainwashed generation, our minds
Computer screens, magazines, TV screens,
dying greens and what,
What,
Kindles?
We are the brainwashed generation, a
Collective herd of Red Bulls, tweeting birds,
vacant photo frames.
Connected, connected, oh but are we honestly?
Let us fill our mouths with honey, our hearts
with hope, our eyes with light,
Light turned fluorescent, too bad the path was
covered over.
Clear the leaves away, change the landscape,
change the future, we still can, you know.
At least, at least,
That is what I have been told.
We are the brainwashed generation, our
minds scrubbed with unclean water.
A variety of misguided escapists,
Unsure which direction to go, face the “Call
of Duty,” oh, but wait, have I,
Have we gone too far?
We are the brainwashed generation, floating
As the current rolls on, blissfully unaware of
our own
Premature brainwashing.
The thought that flies sickly
Over my head
Like a bee stuck under a cap
Buzzing angrily
Swerving madly
Trying to inflict as much damage as possible.
by Samantha Pickett, Plymouth, MA
And Then
Safety comes from distance, clearly;
someone lock me in isolation.
Blind me, bind me.
Cut me, find me
breaking in icewater perspiration.
Set like stones in hazel cement,
my eyes cannot divide the attention.
There is an empty house on the outskirts
of town,
an empty stall in an echoing barn.
The emptiness has a volume, a density,
far greater
than that of actual presence.
While we dig farther down,
(like one covering their tracks)
filling the world with holes and gravestones:
The Pyramids still stand.
by Julie Powers, Marcellus, NY
And dancing with the bone-brittle leaves,
And lingering on the cinnamon-scented air,
Is the peaceful chill,
The tree-whispered voice
Of Equinox.
I hide behind the menu
to watch you taking orders.
By the way, when you left
A blow my world will never forget
I took my piece of you
And let the wind blow the ashes away.
Cherry tomatoes, garlic, spaghetti.
Talk to him – talk to him – ready?
I slam my fists on our blackening borders.
But talk to me, acknowledge me.
Together at the college, we
will meet at the same table, and then
Hold me, unfold me,
I wish you had told me
you were as lonely as me.
by Rita Feinstein, Glorieta, NM
Conversation
Gathered on the living room floor,
we tell stories to the circle of bodies.
We weave a history
of late nights
of illicit adventures
and incredible happenings;
Time spent on rooftops
and darkened porches.
Nurtured with gentle touch
and rich conversation,
I blossom.
POETRY
How come
before
whenever I saw you
my heart would launch into overdrive,
my palms would stick together
with nervous sweat,
and when you looked back at me
I was more dizzy
than that time
when I
spun around my room
in
tiny
happy
circles
after you told me
you
loved me?
How come
now
every time I look at you
it makes me want to
run home,
hide under the covers
and never
ever
come out?
by Sophie Dodd, Westport, CT
by Chrissy Saul, Minneapolis, MN
Your Name is Who?
by Kevin Stacy, San Antonio, TX
•
The world snaps from its tepid doze
At the gentle prodding of apple-laden boughs,
While birds cry
Their sharp goodbye to the north.
Hurt me – must you?
Even your name is sawblades to mention.
They take you for status, I assume
hierarchy dictates a girl and a man.
We bury our dead deep beneath the ground
under clumps of dirt and tears
cemented together to cover the open wound.
We bury their bodies
and our memories.
They look beautiful smeared onto our faces
tie-dyed with splotches of red
that trickle downward to create a blurry image
of the past and of the present,
but never of the future.
As the clouds move slowly across the sky
(the sky that is still blue)
We move on.
Summer-choked grass stirs,
In a mid-September breath.
And the groggy flowers wake
As clouds pass above.
They hunt you, lust you,
Can’t you confess, then?
They’ve poisoned you with lipgloss bites.
The ancient Egyptians built pyramids
that reach into the sky
as a symbol of power and of remembrance.
M AY ’ 1 0
Photo by Rachel Arrick, Proctor, WV
You kiss them, caress them.
The mound builders built mounds for which
to bury their dead
so that they might be closer to the heavens.
Teen Ink •
A Late September
Morning
The women who haunt you are mannequins
crusted in glitter, covered in night.
The Pyramids
38
by Ashok Satpathy, Omaha, NE
How Come?
And long, long after all
My teardrops finished their fall
They came back for even more
Revenge for my loving you.
Today, your name is who?
My heart pumps blood instead of you
Running alone; breathing
Fresh and completely anew
Amazing, isn’t it?
My body has shed; now it fits
My extra baggage is gone
It’s easy to carry on.
by Sarah Tucker, Lilburn, GA
Failure
Fate’s got this funny
Way of finding fallacies
Within your fervor.
by Kevin Ross, Hickory Hills, IL
Dad and the
Slingshot
Dad walked into the room
laundry done, but thong
in hand. “Hey!”
he announced, “Someone left their slingshot
in the dryer!” He flung
it across the room, past the gaping faces
of my relatives
at the family reunion.
Need I mention
I’m the only girl in the family?
by Casey Vittimberga, Folsom, CA
I Am Standing
I am standing haphazardly,
my feet bare and my face dirty,
on a raggedy Mr. Blankie.
My thumb is encased in my mouth
just as my leg is engulfed in purple plaster.
Badly chopped bangs jump and flutter
and twirl.
No cares in the world.
What a liberating feeling
To be two years old once more.
I am swinging
with frigid metal burning my fingers
as I attempt to cross the treacherous bars.
My face is unrecognizable
Coke bottle glasses and a pained expression.
Upper arm strength will never come easily.
The wind, out of spite, puffs
Its cheeks and blows.
I fall, but it doesn’t matter because
Nothing matters much at the age of eight.
I am standing at the beginning.
Everything starts now.
The pierced ears, the training bras,
The hip huggers and the makeup,
The secret glances, the fake love letters,
The chocolate cravings and the cramps.
The pain when your “friend” won’t talk to you
And the overwhelming joy when she does.
The broken promises and the tear-stained faces.
The woman begins her journey here.
Oh, how I miss the girl.
by Mary Beth Case, Bangor, ME
Raw meat
I am fully aware of your eyes,
Fixed on the bare patch of skin on my back
My evanescent silhouette, all that’s left of me,
Except for these dusty bones, breaking,
under the strength of your ignorance
by Ashley Magown, Dracut, MA
An Observation
Departure
That Was I
so he sips his tea
and thumbs his tie
but his thoughts
are not on tea
or tie or the
many women
fixing their hair
for the many men
to have something
to look at
Perhaps it was on the two-hour ride
on the NJ transit to Penn Station
that finalized the agreement between
us. You spoke for what seemed
like hours that day, convincing me
that you weren’t leaving.
That was I
on Saturday night,
feet scraping noisily up and down the graffiti
basketball court
beating invisible enemies down to the
very concrete.
Alone.
I heard you giggle a bit
at my fashionably worn tennis shoes
a holey T-shirt and three-dollar shorts.
You portray thoughts so openly:
“Poor thing.
Is she playing to escape?”
Truthfully, I escape to play.
they plan their days
according to their faults
and enjoy things like
a widow enjoys life
solemnity is non-existent
even in subtleties
they feel nothing
he is the one
who has not
yet sunk into
remission
don’t worry,
they say
give it some time
let him sip his tea
and thumb his tie,
they say
eventually we will
drag him down
and give his soul
to the widow
who does not
fix her hair
for the many men
to have something
to look at
by Joe Kostecki, Lake Mary, FL
Rising Like a
Winging Gull
I am spiraling
in a riptide of rememberings
anchored down
by the box in my arms.
The wind snatches at my hair
changing it into one of the clouds
we used to watch
Where I now see your face
as I did that day in the sand,
cold and blue as the open water.
I wiggle my feet
down into the sand
as I whisper
Good-bye
to the laughing wind
that carries your voice.
I tip the box.
As the cards and pictures
and sketches and memories
rise up over the waltzing water
like so many winging gulls
I feel my heart break
free
from the frozen chains
it created
and all the hollow places
begin to fill
with the candy-coated rays
of the sun.
by Sarah Rubock, Pelham, NY
But, like that first day when you lied
about your name, this time too, you lie.
Your promises overfill the train cart
and seep through the cracks in the
glass windows.
And though you whisper in my ear,
I find hard to understand
the words that escape from your lips.
You do not notice that I sit here
carving crescents into my hands. You see only
that I do not understand; that it is necessary.
So when the voice booms
throughout the train, “New York Penn Station”
you hold me back. You plead,
saying it is not necessary
for me to leave.
However, this time, I parted my lips
to say “good-bye” and “take care,”
the only words that I now hear.
by Damanpreet Kaur, Iselin, NJ
Days & Nights
If the days you lead seem long, you should
try my nights.
My bed is an abyss that’s void of a sense
of time.
I fall into it wishing to escape but it’s just as
suffocating as reality.
Making up lives and loves to fill the seconds,
that are hours, that seem to become days.
Help Me Out. Get Me Out.
by Carolyn Smith, Victoria, TX
the morning is quiet
the morning is quiet and i (having just
woken up in the tangle of cool wrinkled
sheets still hazy below opaque clouds of
dreams
beneath the ceiling) plod quietlysoftlyslowly
to the dim
front porch (ah, rough wood under
sleep-softened
feet) with sweet dew on supple summer grass
and you, in the quiet morning (having just
woken from your own safe sheets)
separated by distance alone (gentle groggy
breaths) dance around your dreams,
still drenched in the mist of your mind, and
you picture me (recalling dreams on my
frontporchplanet)
as you pictured me in your own
dizzy drowsiness
That was I
in the beat-up ’89 Ford,
content to waste ten dollars on gas
and sixty miles in tow
only to be seen licking greasy fingers
from cheeseburgers and pen ink
in the coldest McDonald’s on Earth,
despite what they say.
“Shopping” in Walmart with three cents
and a smile;
it’s late,
and the customers begin to say,
“Silly child, stop riding that tricycle built for
a four-year-old
around the store” and we are kicked out
… time number four.
That was I
laboring over homework,
drawing doodles
in the shade
of my secret place
where I checked once, twice,
to make sure no one adventured
into the woods behind me,
for the old deer trail was my own.
I sit in a room that is dark
(but not dark enough)
and is almost empty
(but then there’s me)
and listen to noise from another room
(where people are happy)
and think about you.
I take off my glasses
(so my tears won’t smear the lenses)
and hope someone goes looking for me
(but doesn’t find me)
and realize that my hands are cold
(my mind was elsewhere)
and think about you.
I picture you sitting beside me
(would this box hold our weight?)
and chew a vanilla-flavored Tootsie roll
(I can feel cavities forming)
and wonder if these scissors will cut skin
(hypothetically, of course)
and think about you.
I leave the room by myself
(your ghost is too shy to follow)
and tell everyone I’m okay
(well, the one person who asks)
and I give the best smile I can muster
(still trying not to think about you)
and think about you.
by Virginia Beam, Plano, TX
A star twice the size
of Jupiter
However, when the birch trees
were strained with great ice sheets
and branches began to fall,
you consequently stumbled onto my path
and eyed me up
when I wanted to shuffle past.
You asked if I was hunting
to which I replied,
“I go to write and dream.”
Of course you snorted disbelievingly.
That was I
the simple child,
out of place except within myself
who spent long hours dreaming of
the future,
but who will never forget to return home.
by Meredith Buck, Gwinn, MI
spiraling down;
down;
down;
to the morning,
the quiet morning (having just woken up)
by Lydia Keener, Jamison, PA
Anticipating an
Ian-less Christmas
I often compare finding you to searching
distant stars for Martians,
but you will be the one, I know, who will take
me on that magic carpet ride; maybe I
won’t ever return, lost in your eyes, in the
reflection of stars and sunrises
and the moon. She will smile down on us, and
in my dreams I hear her say;
“Yes, this is right. This is true.” For it won’t
take long
to know that our hands fit together like they
were molded that way, and I
won’t want to let you go.
The stars will spread their brilliance around
us, and linger there until the sun,
with her laugh like a clear creek and the blue
of your eyes, will shove them
good naturedly on the way, and stretch her
arms around the earth.
You will be lying there with me on the hood
of your beat-up pickup truck, fingers
teasing the curls in my hair as the sun extends
her influence, watching
the world around us come alive –
the birds squabble in the trees, a squirrel
searches for the nut she has lost. And
because this is only in dreams, the proud
kudu with his spiral horns will greet us, and
maybe the panther will come too, sleek and
cunning in his darkest fur.
But Martians are from Mars and can’t
be found on distant stars, and maybe
that’s why
I can’t find you either.
by McKinley Theobald, Vancouver, WA
Photo by Luz Tur-Sinai Gozal, Berkeley, CA
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
39
Version 2.0
Wallflower
The Last Stop
I just want to cross you out in some medium
kinda ink,
just for a while.
Set you on the windowsill of my thoughts and
kind of accidentally flick you, lovingly, off
the edge.
I’d make sure a blanket lay beneath you
where you’d fall, gracefully, and think of
what you did, of what you did.
You’re such a conversationalist when I pick
out just what you say.
But you say just what you want, and I guess
that that’s okay.
My imagination gave you some inches,
unbitten nails, philosophical thoughts.
My imagination made a “II” of you, but it’s
not you.
I stretched you what way I chose, erased
really well what I didn’t think went.
I want to cross the “II” you out in some
medium kinda ink.
I want to meet /you/ again.
I feel a burning burst of red
blooming deep within the folds
of the four crimson corners.
My words go through the pen
Right onto the paper.
Not even the paper
Could escape her.
She’s so deep
It’s like her feelings are in a hole.
I’m writing on ice because
I spit my thoughts so cold.
The truth is never told
I’m free falling
I don’t want nothing to hold.
My mind is
Circulating everywhere
My heart is pounding
But I’m accepting every dare.
My hands are shaking
I lose my grip and
The pen drops.
So this must be
The last stop.
by Emanuella Reznik, Brooklyn, NY
Doors wag frantically,
drums run offbeat, and wild,
as my mind skirts through lists:
my wardrobe, my words,
my whimsical upturn of the lips
at you. Your presence,
shot across my vision, like a teasing glimmer.
Sometimes, I want to reach out
and snatch you from the uneasy haze,
and rock you in with a gentle zephyr
even if you press deep into the stem,
even if I waver under your weight,
even if I bend and bleed.
But then, I also like to imagine you perched
upon the dry dunes of my palms.
so that if I flex my fingers to the clouds
and bring my five petal flesh to my nose,
I’d remain your sky;
and if I snap my fingers in
and dig my nails into my honeysweet center,
you’d be a mere fly,
dim and frail,
lured by the lustrous, yellow cheeks of
the tulip.
Smelling Cursive
She couldn’t read the words,
so she smelled them instead
Breathing in each printed word
And then pausing, as if to savor the scent.
by Eunice Pak, Tenafly, NJ
I can smell cursive, she told me
And I asked her what it smelled like
Did it smell like toothpaste
Freshly squeezed from the tube
Was there a trace of the sea
Like crabmeat at the wharf
Or did it smell like mint leaves
Crushed between the fingers
Did words have a scent
Like the tang of an orange just peeled
Or the sweetness after the rain has fallen
What about the sunlight filtering through
a bedsheet dangling from the clothesline
Or a child’s wonder upon discovering another
Top-secret clubhouse
What about the change in the leaves
and the first wisps of autumn
Or the memory of a conversation overheard
Did each have a scent?
Did each have its own, unmistakable
smell
Perhaps everything has a smell
A shape, a color
What would a summer afternoon taste like?
Lemony and honey-coated? Syrupy, dusted
with sugar?
Or perhaps it wouldn’t be sweet at all
But bitter and sharp
Like a wedge of bitter melon
Placed against the tongue
What would it be like to breathe in
The aroma of polka dots or
To taste the tinge of melancholy
by Shirl Yang, Hsinchu, Taiwan
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
Driver
Cruising down I-95
Heading for some far-off destination
That is not yet known
Even to driver
Clutching the wheel like a life-saver
A pack of CDs in the passenger seat
Because the AM is dead and the FM is dying
Sun-soaked strips
And rain-drenched ways
Lead on to coastal roads
And winding dirt paths
The gas tank may be close to empty
But driver is not
Time is the farthest thing away
And driver is not getting any closer
To his unknown destination
But there is no map
Only an internal compass
That is probably busted
And
what would it be like
To sniff the scent of cursive, strewn across
the page?
40
Photo by Mary Philpott, Norfolk,VA
by D.J. Samuelian, Bangor, ME
•
POETRY
Name Definition
Pain
I felt poetic so I went to write something down
Your name is all that wanted to come out
So what do I do now?
Sit here and wait
Wait for the day that I may forget your face
But I spent years at this task
And it seems you’ve become
A unerasable past
So I’ll sip on this and unmask
My true feelings
Praying they won’t last
Because the pain can be compared to shards
of glass
Tearing into the soul that has no name
Roaming his world
Searching for a body to call home
But this is all just the same
As spelling out your name
by Ivana Jimenez, Schenectady, NY
by Maximo Pisconte, Fairfax, VA
Steam
Fresh Bread
Lights off
Almost night
Turn on the shower
Scalding hot.
Clothes in a pile
Sagging by the door
Clouds of steam
Fog the air.
And in the shower
On a rubber mat
I sit and bow my head
In shame
And disgust
And hate.
I breathe in the mist
Beckon the drops of water
To my eyes
Hoping to borrow some tears
From the compassionate showerhead.
Darkness settles
On the walls
Knocks on the door
Time to get out
But I am frozen on the rubber mat
Drowning in water that cannot cleanse
Watching beads of wet dangle from my hair
Daring them to jump
And escape
And be free.
It’s too early to be up, really
But it’s worth it.
by Pnina Cohen, Teaneck, NJ
Falling
Falling down her cheek
each tear
a diamond strung on silver.
Condemning bullets,
pierce through each lobe.
Fingers strangled
by bands of brass knuckles.
Feet weathered
by the granite floor,
and daggers
strapped to her ankles.
Her mind
surrendered to fear,
her head,
a vase of wilted orchids.
by Natascia Reay-Laidler,
Whitby, ON, Canada
Every Saturday, the routine is the same,
But something changes
Every time.
It’s not the bread that’s changed.
No, that stays the same, the scent
Filling the warm kitchen with the
Promise of fresh loaves in an hour
Or so.
But it’s just dough right now, a
Wonderful squishy mess of fine white flour and
Mush. The warning is the same: Be
Careful, because one mistake can
Ruin all your hard work.
The taste is the same. It is so
Much better than the grocery store
Wonder Bread. It tastes like
Winter nights huddled by the
Fire.
It’s not the people who have changed.
No, it’s just me and my grandmother,
Always
unless my
Grandfather meanders by, bringing with him
Tidbits of wisdom and warm-weather smiles.
His voice joins my grandmother’s
ever-present
Pitch, creating a noise that sounded like
An argument to everybody else but a
Windchime to me.
So what’s changed?
Maybe it’s the
Feeling
Of growing older
That’s caused the change.
The homemade bread is the same.
It’s still made every Saturday.
My grandparents are the same, though their
Constant bickering sounds less like a
Windchime, now.
I sleep in now.
Maybe it’s me who has changed.
by Alexis Barnhart, Cincinnati, OH
White is a Color,
Not a Definition
What the hell kind of question is that?
Please bubble in your race.
Am I white?
By default I suppose I am.
But that does not define me.
Is there another box, because if they want to
know my race
they must also want to know that,
I have brown hair,
brown eyes,
and an attitude.
That I am naive,
All knowing,
Vain,
Humble,
Insane.
I am you,
Me,
We,
Him and her.
I am the one who gets inside your head.
The one who can tell you what you are going
to do before you do it.
Your adversary,
Your internal conflict.
Your friend.
I am your passion, and your desire.
Everything and nothing.
Love and Peace.
The dreams you whisper into the darkness.
The glint of your smile.
The cascades of your tears.
I am satin and I am Gabriel.
Hope and despair,
Poverty,
Trust,
Wealth you could only imagine.
Generosity,
Power.
I am unknown,
And yet you know me.
Indefinable, and yet so obvious.
I am truth,
Screams,
Hate,
Starvation.
I am a war cry,
A protege,
a novice,
a believer,
a sinner.
I am a world.
A nation.
A female.
A single being.
I am human.
White, just doesn’t seem to cut it.
The tar-brick streets
Like muffled thunder;
(Dull and low
As stones in gutters
Sharp as knives
Through cooking butter –)
The stomach
Of a steel-pan Beast
Searching empty Sky
In Wonder –
Searching Prey
In Vain.
Flitting in
And out of dreams
Night-time noises,
Memories
Screaming
Biting,
Fighting nightmares
A story someone
Must have told
(Long ago.)
(Through Nights
with Misty stars
and Skies –
The way
The sound
Of the iron bird flies)
A low drone
connecting
all I know
(Long ago,
I heard it too.
It meant the smell
Of somewhere new.)
My childhood
wrapped up in fantasies,
cloud-tipped
steel-winged
Sky Machines;
connecting all the
Worlds I’ve seen.
by Brooke Dawson,
Hoofddorp, Netherlands
They Cannot
Understand
Thirty kids sit while their minds expand
Waiting in the cold seats for the bell to toot
Staring at the board, they cannot understand.
Copying and learning at her command
Their creativity shattered and minute
Thirty kids sit while their minds expand
Called on to answer from the raise of a hand
The false facade of being in repute
Staring at the board, they cannot understand.
by Katheryn Goldman, Sherborn, MA
Forced to bear it, forced to withstand
The horrifying terror of the triangle which
is acute
Thirty kids sit while their minds expand.
Home
Eyes getting heavier, the period is bland
She puts us to sleep like the melody of a flute.
Staring at the board, they cannot understand.
Home
is the sound of
Flying paper airplanes,
Flying toy airplanes
(But hard and real
With flash of steel – )
Rolling through
My Face
Teen Routine
Every year my mom shook her head,
disappointed.
She always sent the pictures back.
So my brother, my sister and I
Remained faceless for years until
The bare piano, bereft of smiling children,
Complained that it needed a new face,
With no baby fat.
I hate you!
Shut up!
Go away!
Stay away!
I don’t want to talk!
You don’t understand!
You wouldn’t understand!
How would you know!
It’s MY life!
You can’t tell me what to do!
I’m not a little kid!
This isn’t fair!
Why are you doing this to me?
Why do you hate me so much?
Why does the world hate me so much?
It’s just so hard.
Please.
Just listen.
I don’t need a lecture.
I just need a friend.
One minute.
Hear me out.
Life is just so unfair.
You know?
I don’t get it.
Why me?
Am I just not good enough?
Am I doing something wrong?
Does it get better than this?
I hope so.
Thanks for listening.
I’m sorry for what I said.
I didn’t mean any of it.
I’ll be okay
Really.
I know you love me.
I love you too.
We ventured to Sears.
Waiting,
Surrounded by beaming babies, perfect parents,
Framed forever on display,
I imagined what my picture portrait would
look like.
The smiley photographer beckoned me in.
I perched on the raised stool, stood up straight,
Tilted
On the expressionless white floor,
Blinked
My eyes to ward away
Those powerful, laughing lights
Under the looming umbrellas.
The lights laughed louder
As the photographer kept snapping portraits.
He handed me silly props
A Santa Claus hat, which I declined, and
Even a rubber duckie.
I wondered how the photographer came up
With these things
Why they even existed.
Am I not enough to complete my own picture?
In the end I settled grudgingly for a fake,
pink flower
Which I mostly cropped
Out of the picture.
Somehow, that flower portrait came out
the best,
Despite the grimace behind my smile.
by Thomas Reidy, Webster, NY
Construction of
a Life
by Rachel Schwarzman, Bangor, ME
A Common
Exchange
Here sits a man,
Building a foundation with his hands.
Drawing the blueprints to his life.
Corresponding from point A to B and going
for it.
Leveling out expectations,
Smoothing out the rough patches,
Hammered with exhaustion.
My cat rested, quiet,
Soaking up silken sun rays
She purrs, rumbles, smiles
A creak from the floor –
Feline turns, ears now erect
It is just the dog
Here stands a man.
Building a foundation at his own will.
Sharpening his thoughts and beliefs,
Fixing problems he might have caused,
And throwing out the tools.
My cat turns again
Facing the solar nectar
Hoping he will leave
by Sarah Spiers, Germantown, TN
Here works a man.
Building a foundation strong and sturdy.
Tightening up from stress,
Digging out past grudges,
Covering his heart with a hard hat.
Here struts a man.
Building a foundation almost complete.
Finishing things he started and forgotten,
Detailing more emotion into his thoughts,
Examining what lies in front of him.
Wanting to help the kids is what she planned
Yet with all her hard work, not one salute
Thirty kids sit while their minds expand,
Staring at the board, they cannot understand.
Here walks a man.
Away from his work.
Just to turn around.
To turn around and look at the foundation of
his life, that he built with his own hands.
by Rebecca Porath, New City, NY
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
by Caitlin Skjervem, Lakota, ND
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
41
After
I wonder what happens when you die?
Is it a rush
or a slow and meaningless trickle out of life?
Do you stick around to see the tears,
hear the false sympathy,
taste the grief?
Or do you hightail it out of there,
leaving behind the mess of chaos that was
your life?
I wonder what it tastes like.
Maybe like spring,
new leaves and moist air
sunlight that isn’t quite yet warm
Or is it dark,
an empty space inside your mind
inside your heart
An Untitled
Aspiration
Tears and
Heartbreak
Footsteps beyond the door.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
You distinguish your father’s slow, thoughtful
trod.
Your mother’s overbearing, deliberate march.
You sister’s careful, timid waltz over
eggshells-turned-landmines.
Always pacing.
Never in sync.
could they feel the pulsating winds
when I tiptoed toward them
they were wrapped into one another
– they felt no alarm
You wonder where you fall into the
monotonous menagerie.
Where your footsteps fall beyond closed doors.
Why your mother’s always worried.
Why your dad is never quite right.
Why your sister hides herself away.
Always pacing.
Never happy.
How do you face it?
Can you feel the whispers of family,
holding you up,
helping you understand?
Or are you all alone?
Spiraling out of control,
with no one to slow you down
say that they love you
and don’t want you to go
What will it be like when you’re gone.
Will your stride lengthen and set you free,
Or will silent shackles set in.
You stretch your legs, put on your shoes,
Stare at the door.
Always pacing.
Never ready.
by Heather Palmer, Easton, PA
This is your life.
These are your dreams.
Although they may come after you, you run.
Run for the bright lights that may blind you
or serve as your spotlight.
Always pacing.
Never looking back.
Not Applicable
I stare at the page
Then I slowly write in
The letters N and A.
’Twas funny how
Those letters
So well pertained to my day.
by Lindsay Shoemake, Senoia, GA
My hair, my clothes
Do Not Apply
To the fashion of the year.
My tears as well
Do Not Apply
They matter in the least.
I try so hard
To collect my heart,
Piece by very small piece.
my storm is looming in the horizon
if only they checked the signs
all the cruel words would dissipate
– they might move to disarm
why couldn’t they feel my pulsating winds
when I tramped in their direction
they were too wrapped in one another
– and I could see the harm
by Ajibike Lapite, Monroe, LA
Journey
Frustration festers
in long-neglected corners
With nowhere to direct the anger
it implodes
Nothing can drown out the pounding,
the beating drums of war
The imminent victor we never recognize
mind over matter, or love over life?
Does it really matter in the end?
by Lola Arad, Newton, MA
But no matter what you say,
No matter how much I cry,
In the greater scheme of things,
It is you who does Not Apply.
Micro Troops
Photo by Bianca Azcuy, Damascus, MD
by Rowan Byrne, Lancaster, PA
Springtime
Listen
As I sit here beneath the fresh, green tree,
Everything surrounding amazes me.
Rich hues of orange, blue and yellow bloom,
Happily melting away the winter gloom.
The dazzling brightness of the sky
Brings cheery light to my eye.
The breathtaking beauty of the papery butterfly
Never fails to bring joy as it floats by.
The bees and ladybugs diligently visiting
blooms,
As a hummingbird quickly zooms.
All of spring brings me delight,
As I joyfully bid Winter good-night.
Just stop
and listen to
the body
of a poem.
Dig deep
to its core
to find its most
important parts
and figure out the mysteries
it holds.
cherish the good and hold tight.
Because they slip away so fast
and they’re gone
instantly
by Naveen Qureshi, Hernet, CA
by Brenda Band, Londonderry, NH
Teen Ink •
could they feel the barricade of raindrops
while I watched over in despair
despite the chill creeping in their bones
– they still felt warm
The road is only wide enough for one
and if you squeeze someone in, you must
watch them fall away
Until with weary feet and a
bruised broken heart
you arrive at no destination.
You could drag yourself through this
overrated, compensated, violated
journey that we live for
Or step off
and let go.
My opinions, too,
Do Not Apply;
To my thoughts no one lends an ear.
42
could they feel the thunder
of my fingertips trailing in the dust
as I watched him pull her close
– she fell for his charm
M AY ’ 1 0
•
POETRY
The tired troops
Marched on and on.
With all the food,
Paid attention to none.
The sergeant directed
While the soldiers walked
Through the forest temperate.
Finally tired, they rested.
Suddenly, an eclipse!
The fearful army fled,
And the food they had collected
Was there left.
The ones who survived
Had tearfully watched
Their fallen comrades
Get crushed and stepped on
Like the ants they were.
by Celia Gutierrez,
Guaynabo, Puerto Rico
September
September sneaks in with her fiery red hair,
Green twinkling eyes with flecks of gold,
Olive-colored skin, tall and thin like an aspen,
She speaks like wind rustling through the trees,
She twirls and spins like the leaves drifting to
the ground,
The frost takes over – she now has no bright
leaves
She prances away waiting for next year to
come and show her colors.
by Talmage Sanders, Salt Lake City, UT
A Bleeding Heart
Deep-set curves and sweeping lines
A majestic bird his pencil defines
Detailed eyes and shaded wings
A sense of the tamed wild things
The flower’s petals blooming wide
Winding grooves the charcoal rides
A bleeding heart that’s drawn with care
Deep, dark secrets lying there
The tired artist tries and tries
To make the picture come alive
*
*
*
*
*
Lying between files and work
A forgotten masterpiece does lurk
Careful strokes lost through time
A picture more ancient than song and rhyme
But still the faded heart does bleed
As surely as this poem you read
by Jessie Elliott, Lindale, TX
Begin Again
He ended his life on Mother’s Day
over a little dispute, some say.
A stranger to some,
a brother to others
but most of all,
a son to his mother.
The moment I learned his end had come
everything began to come undone.
The whole school mourned the loss of a
dear friend.
We didn’t know how to begin again.
Our teacher, his coach, said a few words,
that helped calm the students who couldn’t
be reassured
“No matter the troubles you keep inside,
you always have people to stand by your side.”
Although we have lost a very dear friend,
We can always remember a time spent
with him.
When troubles set in
and times get hard
remember to try to let down your guard.
When you let someone else see how you feel
that is when you can truly heal.
I only wish he could have known
He was never truly alone.
All he had to do was reach out for help
and someone could have turned this whole
thing about.
And as we have found
It’s hard to let go,
It’s hard to give in,
but we have to move on now
and try to begin again.
by Annie O’Connor, Richmond, VA
Indecision
The Fog
Sometimes, I just can’t decide.
I just wander around and wait.
Wait for something. But for what?
I can’t seem to put my finger on it.
Perhaps divine intervention?
repentance?
exception?
suspension? You tell me.
For making decisions is all we do.
Every step forward is a yes or no.
And every step back.
People look at me, screaming, Make up
your mind!
I bite my lip and my pulse quickens.
So I close my eyes, hold out my arm and spin
furiously, leaving the decision up to fate.
Don’t judge me, it’s how I learn.
I spin the bottle and kiss my date.
A boy sees a cemetery
And holds his breath,
Ghosts and fog forcing him
To their imagined will,
Threatening to haunt and kill
The poor passerby.
by Jack Meriwether, Paulding, OH
Good-Night
Time toils by
For some ten or twelve years
And figments that brought real tears
Are replaced by the ghosts of
Mortality and Dread.
Looking through the iron bars
So fatefully sealed in death,
The youth feels a burden on his breast,
A reminder of the path’s end.
Finally, the passerby draws near
All his hopes, dreams, and fears.
Slowly, slowly pulled into the fog
With a strange token of peace.
by Samuel Reichman, Fairway, KS
You were leaving last night,
The moon alluded to the time.
Inevitable illumination,
Prodding at the sky.
In a state of sickness,
And that of sore eyes,
Earlier than usual,
To bed,
Your covers will tide,
They’d rise and wrinkle,
Over the silhouette in which I’ve been held.
Past bidding me good-night,
The phrase, “I love you,” has been spilled.
In response to the empty vocals,
My eyes fluttered closed.
A sigh escaped my throat,
My breathing,
Shook,
And rose.
You don’t love me anymore.
I said good-night,
And you logged off.
I remain in question,
And you,
In shock.
See Hear Speak
No Truth
by Kathryn Singkornrat, Boca Raton, FL
You
The Land of the
Internet
Locked was I, Princess Bored Human, in the
tower of the wicked witch of Reality
Then came my Prince, Cable Modem, to
rescue me from the harsh tower,
And on his noble steed of Fiber Optic Cables,
he carried me to a magic land;
Where flowers of Myriad Random Thoughts
bloom in gardens of Blogs,
Which, in turn, congregate by millions to
sprout the orchards of Sites
Where, in the masked ball of Facebook,
you can be a fairy, a magician, or even
Michael Jackson, at the mere click of your
Magic Mouse
Where night never falls,
And people wander in the enchanted castle of
MSN Live Messenger, day and night, like
sleepless restless addicted zombies
by Ameerah Arjanee, Rose-Hill, Mauritius
Sitting within your cage
Wrapped in your bandages of ignorance
Duct tape with hearts drawn on them
Crisscross across your eyes
Headphones screaming pep talks
Of how great the world is
Cover your ears
The bandages that encase
Your entire body
Wrap around your mouth
Pressing lips to teeth
Teeth to tongue
And tongue to jaw
So that no words can come out
Are you happy being in that cage?
Are you happy never seeing, hearing, or saying
Anything?
You could easily break free
Of the jail that
Have created
These bandages were wound tight
By your own hands so you
Wouldn’t have to see the world
Wouldn’t have to realize
That pain does exist
Happy endings rarely happen
And death is just a footstep away
But you won’t
You would rather be ignorant
Than see what is truly around you
To block out the pain
You must also block out the beauty
So frightened in your little cell
Covered with your cowardliness
Like a small child
Afraid of the monster
Under the bed
You run away
Because you can’t accept
That children are starving to death
That innocent people are killed
By someone who doesn’t accept
Their religion
That someone who dares love
Another person of the same sex
Will be ostracized
That the pain you know is nothing
Compared to the pain that some
Have suffered through
Fort Hood
You killed 11 people and wounded 31
You think after doing this your time is done
And yes with that a part is true
But a worse part is coming through
A part of a family that lost his son
a part that don’t worry you will find soon
and trust me you will not sleep a single day for
what had happened this very day
you killed what was supposed to be
your brothers
a friendship unlike any other
but instead you could not take the stress
and so you cause a greater mess
one that is far worse than overseas
one you will plead for on your knees
I hope the people whom you hurt
Haunt you in every word
And for every picture or photo
You do see
I hope it reminds you
Of what you should be
A soldier protecting all that is right
Not a coward trying to run from sight.
War is happening
Disease is happening
Murder is happening
Suffering is happening
The world does not have peace
The world cries out at the pain
That its loved inhabitants suffer
But it cries even more
Over people like you
Who sit and smile in their cells
Of disregarding ignorance
Who wrap themselves up
With protective seals
So they won’t have to worry
About the pain that happens outside
You are one who
Sees
Hears
Speaks
by Ryan Porter, Glasford, IL
No truth
But do you care?
Would you really free yourself?
I look at the world
And am forced to say
With a horrible feeling of grief
That I don’t believe
You ever will
Musician in Concert
by Rachael Lipscomb, Danville,VA
The savory taste of blood and sweat
Of hopes and dreams and sound
Blistered hands and immense exhaustion
Are worth the brief euphoria
Trapped inside a stream of noise
Plastic smiles and pulsating veins
Swollen eardrums continue to absorb
What makes him who he is
Shoulds
Am I supposed to be tall and thin
With almonds for eyes and honey for skin?
Do you want for my heart to have numbers
inside
So my ribcage can show and my stomach
can hide?
My features are round and my body is tough,
And I hear, “Tone it down – muscle isn’t
enough.
Let your bones tell the earth that you’re
gentle and light.
You can start with the scale, for the scale’s
always right!”
Is it wrong to have shape in my belly and
thighs?
I would rather wear strength than a
hunger-disguise.
by Emily Petit, No. Kingstown, RI
Photo by Garrett McMahon, Port Angeles, WA
The piercing light upon his skin
Melts away a nervous mind
A striking conversation erupts
Between a finger and a string
by Ashley Goodwin, Jamison, PA
Atlas
Crushed like a tin can
The world flattened me
Under the weight of expectations,
Mine and others,
I am cut off
Not from others
But from myself.
My soul is unconnected
I no longer feel trust or happiness
My mind, cold and alone,
Is shutting down
Destroyed by a virus.
The virus of life
I want to be freed
From my unlife
I want to feel warmth
Am I cold-blooded?
Should I let the ice water
Out of my veins?
I am not Atlas
I cannot hold up the sky
I can barely hold up my head
Who can help me hold on,
If not onto my world,
Then on my sanity?
My world is crumbling,
My sky is falling
And I don’t have the strength
To hold myself together
by Ashley Hejtmanek, San Jose, CA
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
43
He approached me
Falling
He approached me
With a cocky smile
I froze in the act of defense
Knowing a predator was to make his Attack
I think back but never wish I had Run
I think back but never wished I had
Cried
He spoke of what?
He spoke of my own religion Laughing
Eyes untouched by the pain I felt
Inside
I can still recall that recent
Memory
It melts on my tongue
It sears through my brain
It clogs my nose
And
Plunges my heart into black water
He approached me
My ancestors in concentration camps
They kept strong
As will I
I know my meeting with this will
Not be the last
As well as that my experience was
Not as harsh
But still I feel
Something
that my letters and words
Could not for the world describe
Ugly letters, Ugly words
He approached me
I don’t remember jumping
Only falling
Plunging
Spinning
Twisting down
Legs akimbo
An oppressive darkness
Presses and smothers
Panic drives all reasonable thoughts
From your mind
There is nothing to grab onto
The silence mocks
Your soundless screams
You open your eyes, relax, and smile
It snowed last night
by Katherine Tobeason,
Bedford Hills, NY
Today Gone Be Aight
Today gone be just fine
I proly hit the lottery, they proly envy me
I proly win a sweepstakes and go on a
shopping spree
I proly get a brand new T.I.P. CD, for free
I proly fool around and have kids looking
up to me
I’m gone have a good day, and I don’t even
have to have fancy jewelry
Today gone be alright, I feel on top of
the world
Today I ain’t having no problems with girls
by Hannah Moore, Chelsea, MI
Theory of Man
Please excuse my obscenity,
Self-righteous thoughts through masculinity,
Running from fault of my own actions,
I tell myself I am one of the world’s greatest
attractions,
I apologize; for all my deceit,
Making promises no man can keep,
I am sorry; for giving you scars,
Leaving you to wonder if there is nothing
beyond the stars,
No longer will I make excuses,
Only time now to hang this noose,
Please forgive me, Father; I have sinned,
To these boards; I am pinned,
Forgive me Father; I have sinned,
I was born corrupted; but I shall die with a grin
Today gone be just fine
I’m gone have myself a ball
Today gone be aight
I’m gone conquer the world
Today gone be just fine
I ain’t having no problems with girls
Today gone be aight
I’m not gone have to fight
I’m a lids kid bout some new hats
don’t call me materialistic for that
I just like to put things on my head
I’m feeling great, Everything straight
So relaxed I can hear myself blink
Nothing but time all I can do is think
Happiness is all I can feel
My peace today ain’t nobody gone still
If there’s a will there’s a way,
but there ain’t no way you can steal my
peace today
Today gone be great
If you ever felt this way, then you proly
can relate
by Antonio White, St. Louis, MO
A Snowy Morning
An hourglass dropping time softly by
the moment
it envelops the ground
drenching the world in a blank canvas
by Chelsea Donahue, Wantagh, NY
Science Class
Kingdom Phylum Class Order Family
Genus Species
Kalie Played Clarinet On
Friday, Got Sick.
Kalie played clarinet on Friday, (and) got sick.
Is that all you are now, a whimsical rhyme
from another time?
I mean, it’s a useful one, for sure it helps me
remember things.
I miss things, you know.
I miss the finite horizons that ended with dark
green trees
and the quaint little downtown.
I miss the glittering snow on the ground
and the rocky waterfront.
I am Eve
because weren’t we all, once?
I walk, carrying the rib of another
as my own and it is
comforting
to know
that I am a second-hand creation.
That rocky waterfront.
The beaches here are too smooth, too sunny.
The broken beaches back home had
something special, unfinished.
Maybe that was like us unfinished.
Maybe I liked those beaches back in
Washington, because nothing ever ends.
Being the original would mean a
closeness to He-Who-Rests-On-TheSeventh-Day
This, cannot be abided.
I have no care to seek
those who would lock me in a
garden with snakes in the apple trees.
And maybe I’ll remember you for something
more than a stupid little rhyme.
by Elliott Warkus, Waikoloa, HI
by Brenna Coates, Los Angeles, CA
Art by Libby Reum, Sumner, WA
M AY ’ 1 0
Today gone be just fine
I ain’t having no problems with girls
Today gone be aight
I’m not gone have to fight
I wonder if you remember me.
Probably not.
Well, to be honest, I’m a little jealous.
While you’re over there not remembering me
I’m stuck here with a suitcase full of memories.
First
Teen Ink •
Today gone be just fine
I’m gone have myself a ball
Today gone be aight
I’m gone conquer the world
Convenient, right? That’s what you are.
Not only a memory, but a convenient one.
by Joseph Lyons, Dubuque, IA
44
I picked up my pad and put some lead on
the page
Writing songs is what I do
Today I just decided to give one to you
And I’m Feeling Fine, Do whatever I want to
do today
that’s just my state of mind
•
POETRY
Downfall
Behead the poets
Whose words grew so sharp
That they overpowered the peaceful
strumming of a harp
Whose words grew dangerous to the elite
But pleased the ears of the meek.
Art is dead
Break the wrists of the artist
Whose paintings outlined corruption
In beauty or in bloodshed
Yet these images thirst’d
And stirred the minds of the common wed
A threat to power, silenced by a final hour
Art is dead, democracy is dead
Cut the throat of the musicians
Whose hymns and melodies grew too loud
Whose voice pleased the crowd
Whose music inspired nostalgia
Gloating on how things once were
Art is dead, modern music is misled
The voice of democracy has gone
Tyranny has spread
When ignorance and corruption was set in
place too long
The people lost track of what they were after
Only seeking attacks and laughter
Thus the people elected disaster
Absolute power to the war pigs and his suit
thereafter
Handcuff the judge
Who only had a grudge and favor
Which briskly allowed his sway for;
To allow this injustice to be carried so swiftly;
Whose sharp words, drastically concurred
Everything art had to be
Corruption has set, injustice has let art go
unmercifully
Justice is dead, riddled so fetch.
Democracy was bled for, now democracy
bleeds. Misled.
by Mitchell Morningstar, Geneva, IN
The Last Conquest
of a Dead Man
A look, a glance, that
Quickly becomes a stare
That lasts until
A step toward
And a smile
Works its way out
From under the depths of a brooding soul
A solemn man, a sailor
Never to return, a last night on shore
And a final conquest.
To know one is the last
Is a privilege
A notch on a belt
A bead on a bracelet
A mile long
And yet, if one was not the last
But the first of many
Would one feel the same
As this single organ in a man’s last attempt to
be free?
One should like to think this true
But could never, not of a true contender.
by Maya Muto, Stocksfield, England
Teenager
Creeping
You Move Me
Out in the World
Teenager
I’m sorry
Something’s creeping, in the night.
Something’s surely giving fright.
Here I sit, contemplating.
This isn’t the least bit entertaining.
I feel the sweat drip down my neck.
Biting nails, I’m a wreck.
I hear a tick, the worst comes to mind.
There’s a clicking from behind.
Over there! I hear a scratch.
The culprit quickly makes a dash.
My thoughts do wander, tears abound.
Something sneaking underground.
Where’s the light, it’s pitch dark.
Over there! I saw a spark.
Fright dwells in my withered soul.
My minds made up, my loyalty sold.
It’s just a mouse, a small insect
Still I feel I must inspect.
I realize slowly, though I despise.
It’s just my mother in disguise!
You move me
You move me like Donny Osmond moved
all those girls
With his purple socks.
You move me like the wind moves leaves
So subtle.
You move me like meeting my new brothers
and sisters
For the first time, at twelve years old.
You move me like a crescendo in the orchestra
Like The Cranberries
Because, I want you to want me.
Out in the wild,
dark mountain rise,
beyond the clouds.
that I screamed,
hurt your heart,
made you yell,
saw your tears,
made a cloud,
saw it darken,
made
it
rain,
while the
storm was
engulfing
you
I’m sorry
However
I scream even more inside,
I hurt
my own heart,
make myself
yell,
cry heavens full
of tears, make
my world cloudy
and dark,
I make a
storm, and
drown myself
in the
rain,
while the sadness
engulfs me
I’m sorry.
by Dominique Paredes-Rupp,
New Providence, NJ
Lost in Tranquility
Consumed by an immaculate illusion,
I clenched my fist in an ignorant attempt to
disrupt the haze.
Incoherently, I sat admiring a small spark
turn to flame.
The combustion exerted an overwhelming
warmth upon the wooded valley.
How I have longed for this warmth, this
scenery of disastrous beauty.
A single cloud cast a thick shadow,
masking the relentless amounts of smoke.
Undefined shapes and figures fled the forest
in an effortless manner,
As if they were only pestered by the presence
of the rising heat.
I lay motionless as the hellish inferno
irritatingly crept up my body.
This moment, so distinct, was suspended
in time.
A torrential rain smothered the fire,
Washing away the embers and all that
remained in a river of hope.
As I inhaled my lungs filled with moisture,
Drops of water pierced the blanket of soot
that covered me.
Each tear the cloud shed cooled my core,
But no amount of liquid could cease the
burning in my eyes.
and the warmth that I once longed for had
migrated with the wind.
by Jake Nelson, Boyne City, MI
by Ellie Forness, Dayton, OR
Searching for
Because
and
(as I waste my math classes
typing your name
into my calculator)
or you curl up, just you
(alone) in the corners of
your bloated home
isn’t it lonely,
with equations swarming
like greedy bees,
to find that you
have tapped into that aching question mark,
which brings you up, then
drops you
down
(like that slide you remember
from your woodchip playground)
?
oh you
you know what
I know about forever –
deepening questions as
you gaze off where the teacher isn’t speaking
because he hasn’t found the point
inside the softness of it all.
(or maybe he hid it
under too many papers
not so very long ago)
but as
I squint through the static
of the blur of textbooks
orbiting me always
and blocking my view
of infinity, and you
find that you have wasted
your discerning dreams on moments
already passed,
You move me
You move me like the gum on the bottom of
your shoe
Taking me with you, along for the ride.
Like the first time I stood center stage
Scared. Yet so excited to recite my lines.
You move me like a horror movie
Jumping with every little sound
Running away in fear, always looking
behind me
Afraid of what may happen next, anticipating
every moment.
You move me like that song on the radio
You move me like Oprah moves families
Into new homes.
You move me like my best friend
My other half, my long-lost twin.
You move me like a volcano
Spouting out hot, blistering lava
Still I want to feel it, so bad.
You move me
You move me like the so many lost souls
Of socks. That I’ve lost to the dryer.
You move me like the kindergarten love
And the boy who shared his forest green
crayon.
Like the time I met President Jimmy Carter
on a plane
You move me like the emotions I can’t begin
to describe
You move me like a high-five
Hands stinging and tingling afterward
But who high-fives anymore?
Like a secret handshake I made up with
my brother
You move me like a concert at the
Gothic Theater
Everyone moving, with no room to move.
The scent of sea,
merged with smells,
of pine trees.
Dream,
to touch the sea,
feel the foam,
taste the salt,
see the waves,
feel the wind in your hair.
Imagine,
sailing on the sea,
of climbing the mountains,
crossing cities,
and wading through rivers.
Feel the earth,
beneath your feet,
step after step,
see how the world was made.
by Katie Luck, San Francisco, CA
Oblivion
Just you and me
perched on the edge of
oblivion
History in our laps
And time dribbling through
our outstretched fingers.
Life
in sweaty glasses beside us
And love
gossiping with the breeze
as it lightly kisses
our faces.
Light is dripping down
our rosy cheeks
And all around us
are dew-spangled cobwebs
of dreams.
by Emi Titus, Sharon, MA
Only a Statistic,
Only a Child
Dashing through the streets
Bullets fly as if they were meteorites
Leaving behind tails of blistering heat
Leaving barely an impression of light
You move me
With no explanation, rhyme, or reason.
No rhythm
Or method to this madness
You move me
Up and down, side to side.
Over and under, loops and turns.
Perched on an adobe house
Overlooking a desert, brown and arid
The wave of camouflage, intending to arouse
Invades to destroy the horrid
You
Move
Me
Admiring the beautiful blue sky up above
Shaming the ground below
Covered in blood
Achieved through a simple blow
by Whitney Kidd, Franktown, CO
Life for death
Death for life
A simple knife
Takes the last breath
and discover
that you aren’t asking anymore
for the answer to that
every echoing question mark
of now and always and you and I
know
now
Wondering if the sacrifice was in vain
Tormented by the excruciating pain
Ready to pass from only child
To just another dossier filed
every why recoils from love.
by Zurich Lewis, La Mirada, CA
by Grania Power, Portland, ME
Photo by Alyssa Fernandez, Borrego Springs, CA
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
45
Here’s to You
“Analyze yourself. Your understanding of
yourself and the world will continue to
expand –”
She’ll learn.
She’ll learn from every single thing that is
placed, dropped, thrown, kicked or shoved
into her path.
She’ll learn more about who she is and who
she’s longing to become.
She’ll inspect every object, plow through the
dilemma it creates and pursue her way
forward.
She’ll become the strongest woman you’ll
lose the privilege to behold in your life.
She may not be the most athletic girl, with
the muscle to punch you and make you
shed pathetic tears but she has the brains,
heart, and will to kill you slowly from the
inside out.
She may still love you, and be unwilling and
defiant to hurt you but it’s what you deserve.
You didn’t realize what you possessed when
you had her.
No one realizes what they have when they
have her.
She’s the one who got away. But it’s too late,
there’s no turning back now. The damage is
done. You deserve to wallow in misery
knowing you turned your path away from
the most amazing path you may never again
have the chance to set foot on.
You’ll have to watch from the other side of a
barbed-wire fence while she moves along
her beautiful path.
She’ll understand herself.
Her world will expand.
She WILL love again ….
by Jordan Coughlin, Dallas, TX
Black Hole
The big black hole
is sucking you in.
With their
mini-skirts
make-up
and thongs.
They’re the ones taunting,
They’re the ones teasing,
each time that
you do something wrong.
You tried so hard
to be flawless.
But nobody
is quite like them.
Somehow they find time
to fix their hair,
to chop off
the strings hanging from hems.
When they seem
to have no time at all.
You want to be like them.
But, why?
Just to be something you’re not?
So put on that shirt
you’ve been dying to wear
since the first day of school,
That you’ve tucked away in your closet
because it didn’t look cool.
You feel something
but you don’t know what.
It’s happiness
independence
free.
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 0
hear the voices of all, my son.
but ultimately let your own speak the loudest.
allow power to all, my brother.
but permit yourself to stand the proudest.
act spontaneously, dear warrior.
but also learn to take a cue.
know when to quit, my friend.
but then remember never to.
be proud of your heritage, Barack,
but still be lenient to all.
build up a strong foundation,
and never let it fall.
Of the image behind.
Piled dirty petri dishes, transparent
As the word “experiment’’
My head is like a sieve
In that it sounds like the flow of a mouthful
Of grain, and has gaps through which
I absorb ideas.
Weed bubbles murky, yet assumes
The gentle ripple of stained glass
Green as sunlight in an artificial block of water;
That one is clear, but the tall cylinder
Contains a liquor faintly blue
As a washed-out September dawn.
together we have defeated racism.
together we have memorialized
those slaves who perished because
of sheer and unexplained despise.
by Ruth Maclean, Dorridge, England
never treat one man better,
never forget any others.
because, my friend,
we are all unified brothers.
I’m suffering from an emotional cancer.
It’s eating away at my sanity
Slowly multiplying and becoming the silent
disease everyone fears
You know it’s there, you feel it
And by the time that they realize it
It’s too late,
The cancer has taken ahold of you
It’s rearing its ugly head
Showing its true colors
Making you cry out in anguish at the darkest
hours of night
Awakening the beast that dwells within this
scar-ridden void of a soul
In a desperate last plea they attempt to look
at the source
Then treatment after treatment they try
Trying desperately to make anything work
But alas it fails
All that’s left of this once-brilliant lily
Is a wilted dark skeleton
A shadow in the mist
by Elana Forman, Teaneck, NJ
Jane Austen Heroine
You let fall again those tears hidden so
long beneath shiny surfaces, and think
of the long-ago whispered promises
hanging in the darkness now, the days spent
writing love letters you throw into
the flames today. Old tears and new, smearing
ink on diary pages, extinguish
the old fire. You remember the pitch
black night, wild thoughts running through
your mind,
feeling as though your feet would not touch the
ground, with no stars or moon to guide
you, just
sweaty palms and a candle that the wind
blew out. All you want is a day without
broken hearts, but all you see is time gone
by, silence that let truth become a lie.
by Karen Jin, West Chester, PA
Too Lazy
The Fight
I am the emotional cancer at the heart of this
mental reality.
I am the destroyer of dreams.
I reap my gold from the dying cries of those
once resilient emotional walls.
You dare fight me?
by Jean Shew, Lakewood, WA
It is cold here,
On the floor,
Blank with
Goosebumps on my skin.
A patch of sun is
so close by.
Outside birds
sing “let me in.”
I think of all the things
I’ve done,
that blank spot
on the wall;
Moving now is
too much work
to bother getting
up at all.
Now sleep hangs
heavy on my
eyes. Soft nothing
draws me in.
This is why I
love weekends:
Lazy’s not a sin.
by Libby Masalsky, Dedham, MA
46
Martin Luther King, Biology Lesson
I am a ventriloquist to you:
Jr. to President
Lick my saw-toothed edges
Obama
So I may blur into the soft focus
by Katie Callahan, Valrico, FL
•
POETRY
Book
I am but a book for you,
To reveal all you wish to know
About love, death, wonderment,
Entail, encurtain, perhaps even
Leave me out for the wind to
Blow about my pages and bend my corners
To candlelight in severance of reality,
Lay about to try to understand me,
And reveal my mystique,
For I am an artifact for long,
Simply in new binding every time,
Like you, I am Recreated,
So ancient a tome for you to dip pen in ink,
And rewrite whatever chapters I have blank,
Fill in the spaces with the words,
I wish to feel and you wish to express,
Perhaps love even is our own book,
Blank or already written that we could have,
Or we have to search for,
Scorch with the harshness of your scrutiny,
Charred slightly feeling significant,
So alone by the time you have rifled
Through me tired eyes hanging,
Put back on the shelf to simply gather dust,
Alone with nothing but paper,
And after angry for not figuring me out you
replaced me,
For the book with the brighter cover.
by Jakub Misztal, Bolingbrook, IL
Many Diaries
A secret can be hidden like a
Mother’s emotions in great distress
But tucked away in the back of her mind
Or can be as easy to see as
The red bookshelf in a
Room of such white divinity
A secret can be as red as
A red fire alarm
Used to save many lives
In a fire
Or blue like the
Beach water on
A warm sunny day
A secret can be kept like a diary
Never wanting to be seen and
Tucked away on a bookshelf
Way up high
Or thrown away like
Trash as if it had no meaning
Into a dirt pile and
Soon into a big blue dumpster
A secret is a child trying
To find out the troubles
Ahead of his actions
Scared to
Face the truth.
by Reno Beamer, Clemmons, NC
Me Through a Lens
Me through a lens
The easiest way to see
A skewed vision
Is better than me
Smile for the camera
Capture me on tape
You see what you want
Distorted figures and shapes
Develop the negative
Erase all the flaws
Hang up on a wire
The me you never saw
Photo by Anna Davis, Kirkland, WA
by Marina Watanabe, Fair Oaks, CA