NF - Marching, Doubt/Faith:articles

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CONTENTS
J A N U A R Y 2 0 1 0 | V O L . 21, N O . 5
COVER FEATURES
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Art by Nikki Harshman, Paducah, KY
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FEEDBACK
My Ex-Teen Icon
I disagreed with many of the statements in
the article “My Ex-Teen Icon,” by Margaret
Busch. Though Miley Cyrus has acted or
made choices that were “off track,” I feel we
all are so quick to judge. We are the ones
who set this teenager on a pedestal and expected perfection, but we fail to realize that
Miley is human and fallible like us all.
Think about your slip-ups and irrational
decisions. Imagine those magnified and put
on display for the world to critique and debate. I doubt most of us would be comfortable with that. Many fail to comprehend the
complexity of the entertainment world and
don’t see the person behind the overexposed
celebrity. Instead, we suck it all up and live
for condemning reports of the latest star
screw up or “tasteless photos.”
Maybe our role models need to shape up,
or better yet, we should stop putting our faith
in young adults who do not even know themselves yet. The saying “Don’t judge until you
have walked a mile in their shoes” is one we
should apply here.
Marissa Ochoa, Phoenix, AZ
An Environmental Killer
In “Meat: An Environmental Killer,”
Vidushi Sharma explains a unique way we
can all tackle the growing problem of global
warming. The article explains that we don’t
have to get rid of our cars or swear off anything factory-produced; we can simply eat
less meat. Doing so cuts back on pollution
and damage to the rainforests, wastes less
water, and helps prevent world hunger.
Before I read this extremely persuasive
article, I had no idea that people become vegetarians for reasons besides religion, views on
animal cruelty, medical complications, and
personal preference. When I saw the statistics
printed on the page, I was shocked at the damage I was unwittingly doing to the earth. I
can’t promise that I will be a vegetarian, but
I’m sure that many others besides me were
convinced by this article to watch their meat
intake more carefully.
The next time my family wants to eat at
McDonald’s, I’ll mention this to them and try
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
to get them to do something more veggiefriendly. Thank you, Vidushi, for bringing it
to my attention.
Stephanie Yan, Brooklyn, NY
She Has Cancer
After reading the article “She Has Cancer”
by Jane Danstrom, I felt a huge amount of
sympathy for her. I was very sad to read that
life would never be the same after she finds
out about her mother’s cancer.
I can almost understand what Jane is going
through because the father of my dear friend
was diagnosed with bone cancer. When I first
heard, I was really sad and wasn’t sure what
to say or do to make it okay for my friend
and her family, just as Jane felt when she
first hear about her mother. She described
this, “My mother has cancer and I am waiting for something to look like it does on TV
so I will know how to act.”
Dealing with news this tragic is never easy,
no matter the age. Jane wrote this article very
well and really got across her point of how
much her mother means to her and how this
disease affects everything she does and will
do from now on. I enjoyed reading this article
and I now know that I was not alone in how I
felt after hearing about my friend’s father.
Sara Shoemaker, Canfield, OH
is what you must do in order to be true to
yourself.
I have this article tacked up on my bulletin
board so I will never lose sight of my ambition again. Thank you, Abbie, for reminding
me that it is okay to have a passion that
makes me happy, and, more importantly, that
it is okay to pursue it. Everyone needs the
chance to dream, after all.
Wendy Lu, Greenville, NC
LOL =D
I agree with Lauren Burkhalter’s article
“LOL =D” in which she states that texting
can be as rude as answering a phone call.
Unlike a phone call, a text message can wait,
and yet people are always in a rush to read it.
I text, but I know when it is appropriate
and when it isn’t. I, along with many others,
would prefer to have a person’s attention
when talking to them or presenting something to them, but many people allow themselves to get sidetracked by a text. Given that
a text message will be there later, it makes
me wonder what could be so important. Is it
just the latest gossip or is there some legitimate emergency?
Thank you, Lauren, for bringing up this
obsession that has stricken many teens and
adults across the nation.
Amy Prigmore, Phoenix, AZ
Pursue Your Passions
Reading Abbie Mendoza’s eye-opening
“Pursue Your Passions” completely turned
me around. “I want to be a journalist for a
newspaper or magazine,” Abbie wrote. Her
passion matches mine, and I almost felt like
it was me saying that. However, she had a
clearer outlook on the prospects of this career, and I am grateful to her for unfogging
my glasses.
I was close to changing my career plans;
many told me of the hardships that would
come if I chose a path toward journalism. I
know what it feels like to have others discourage my dreams, especially people who
are close to me. It is hard to reject their advice – especially if what they say is true –
and try to keep my eye on the ultimate goal.
But I have realized now that sometimes that
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Lobster & Butter
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Nikki Mehle, Canfield, OH
A Bulky Burden
I laughed out loud at Hannah Feinberg’s
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Burden,” Hannah shows the store business
model comically. She is not gung-ho about
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I also appreciate her style; instead of figuratively yelling a Costco-sized “No!” she
lists the pros and cons of the gigantic franchise. I can relate to her and the 80-pound
bag of Doritos.
Kudos, Hannah, on a brilliant article!
Angie Holder, Phoenix, AZ
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BARD COLLEGE
5
nonfiction
Marching into History
I
t was 8:30 a.m. on Jan. 20, 2009,
but we were already five hours into
our day. The sleepy spattering of
chitchat on the bus was picking up as
we neared our destination. I faced
away from the window as a fellow
flutist zipped up the back of my white
uniform jacket. She abruptly stopped
midway. Had it gotten caught again?
But the noise on the bus had stopped
along with my zipper. I turned and
caught a glimpse of the incredible
scene.
I had previously lived in Washington, D.C., for five years, so I was used
to crowds, excitement, and the cold.
Since we moved I dearly missed the
East Coast. Of course, it’s hard to
complain about living in Honolulu,
Hawaii. And I felt especially privileged to be a student at Punahou
School, Barack Obama’s alma mater.
When I learned my high school
band would march in the inaugural parade, I felt glad to be returning home,
whereas most of my bandmates were
experiencing Washington for the first
time. I was expecting a huge crowd,
but as I turned to look out the window,
the mass of people I saw was much
greater than I had anticipated.
My eyes were caught in a sea of
smiles, a cheerful greeting. People
by Emily Hamblet, Honolulu, HI
quickly unloaded – all 140 of them –
were pressed together, packed against
because our buses had to leave. We
the metal barriers – and probably
hastily assembled our instruments and
thankful for the closeness given the
put the cases back on the bus. Check.
intense chill of the day.
Security raced us into warming
The crowd was dense from this
tents. Stepping inside brought relief
street up the slight hill, extending all
but not comfort. Sixty-degree air rethe way to the Washington Monument.
placed the 17 degrees outside. As I
People surrounded the monument on
stepped through the tent’s yawning
three sides. I stared out at black faces,
mouth, chaotic colors
yellow faces, pale
swirled around me, and
faces, tanned faces:
the swooping dips and
American faces. As I
I stared out at
peaks overhead mimtook in the grins,
stretching from ear to
black faces, yellow icked those of a circus
tent. We joined other
ear, I sat frozen. One
faces, pale faces, bands and marching
little girl in a periwingroups from all over the
kle hat unfroze me as
tanned faces:
country. I saw tassels
her arms waved wildly,
American faces and feathers dangling
greeting us as we
from grinning instrudrove by.
mentalists, intricately
We were going to
braided hair on the Chicago Tumbling
march and play for all these people? I
Team, and stiff perfection from the
sat back in my seat, playing the music
military units. Most were smiling and
in my head and watching my fingers
animated, talking with friends.
race up and down my invisible flute. I
A woman switched on the TV and
looked out the other side of the bus
toward the Capitol, where the crowds
the boisterous noise quieted abruptly.
were possibly even bigger. The sea of
The thunderous voice of a newscaster
resonated through the tent. Barack
people continued until they turned into
an indistinguishable blob of color.
Obama, our new president, was beginning his speech, and the tent hushed
The bus stopped, and, stepping off, I
again. The picture flickered in and out,
was immediately engulfed in a frenzy.
and the audio skipped ahead of the
First, our instruments had to be
Meeting Barack Obama
by John Quince,
Anaheim, CA
Wall Street Journal, and began chasing me down the street,
t was a picturesque afternoon in the warmth and sunyelling profanities, until the quizzical look from a neighbor
shine of summer. I was one of 10 rising seniors selected
stopped her.
for this honor by my high school, sitting on the lawn of
Later in the day, a shirtless man wearing only boxer
the White House, listening intently to the Father’s Day reshorts came to greet us at the door. His hospitable demarks of President Barack Obama. My heart had been
meanor abruptly shifted into menacing anger when I anthrobbing with excitement the entire trip to D.C. to meet
nounced my purpose. Before I had a chance to finish, he
the man for whom I had so diligently campaigned, interninterjected, “Do you hate America? Do you want a Muslim
ing at a local campaign office and leading canvassing drives
socialist to run this country?!” We quickly thanked him for
every weekend.
his time and retreated to the sidewalk.
After saying a few words to the group of teenagers and
Despite these incidents, the vast majority of
adult role models in the audience, President
residents welcomed us warmly, delighted to
Obama greeted each of us, shaking our hands
I told him about find students getting involved in the political
and chatting amicably. When my turn came, I
process. As time passed, I began feeling more
told him about a canvassing trip that was espea
canvassing
and more confident, and soon I was looking
cially memorable to me ….
*
*
*
trip that was forward to hearing the story the next teacher or
military spouse or fellow volunteer had to
That morning a hundred sweaty teenagers
memorable
share. I was fascinated to hear about the strughad piled onto steaming buses at 5 a.m. for
gles of average Americans, to discuss their
the four-hour drive. We were headed for an
to me
concerns, and to connect with strangers in such
exhausting day of trekking through neighboran intimate way.
hoods, contending with rude residents who
As
we
boarded
the bus for our trip back that evening,
delight in slamming doors. I was already feeling
there
was
a
distinct
contrast between the atmosphere of the
apprehensive.
morning and now. This volunteer group of 100 strangers
Throughout the day, my partner and I traversed three
were now my brothers and sisters in arms. Although each
neighborhoods. At first, I was terrified at the thought of
of us overcame different trials and obstacles, we shared a
initiating a conversation with a stranger about a subject as
common sense of accomplishment. We had dug the same
sensitive as politics.
trenches and hiked the same terrain, and we had come
“What if they slam the door in my face? What if they ask
through unscathed and better for it.
me a policy question I can’t answer?” I fretted. Indeed, we
*
*
*
faced many slammed doors and challenging questions. In
When
I
finished
my
story,
the
president
shared his expefact, as I introduced myself to the seventh resident on my
riences of community organizing, and encouraged me to
list, her eyes bulged out and brows furrowed in disgust at
continue my involvement. His words were a great inspirathe mention of the name Barack Obama. She suddenly
tion to me, and I will always remember that moment. ✦
leaped out of her house clutching a rolled-up copy of The
I
6
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
video. I shut my eyes against the disjointed scene and just listened. The
crowd was solemn until the end, when
cheers erupted. The inauguration was
over, and the parade would begin –
soon, we thought. Although joy rushed
through me, apprehension lurked in
the shadows, growing steadily.
After braving the long line for the
port-a-potties and collecting my hand
warmers, I joined my bandmates outside. The chill raked at any exposed
skin and constricted my chest as I tried
to breathe. After a few minutes, my
lungs adjusted, and I began to breathe
normally.
To keep the circulation going, we
were instructed to wiggle our fingers.
Between the gloves and the biting
cold, our digits were not feeling very
nimble. We were also told to continually blow through our instruments to
prevent the valves from freezing shut.
For us flutists, it also kept our instrument from freezing to our lips like a
popsicle, as well as melted the spit
icicles clinging to the inside, which
would warp the pitch. (Disgusting,
yes, but strangely fascinating to have
an icicle in my flute!)
We played through our three songs,
“Aloha Oe,” “Men of Punahou,” and
the theme from Brahms Symphony
No. 1, and eventually were told to go
to our parade position. First came the
nine Army units, then us. Our marching band of 140 instrumentalists, color
guard, Junior Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, and a few cheerleaders
were the first civilian unit in the
lineup!
The trip from our home in Honolulu
to Washington, D.C., had taken 24
hours with three flights and a long bus
ride. We could feel every mile as we
stood waiting to step into the view of a
billion people all over the world!
The parade should have started, but
it didn’t. The inaugural lunch was running late. As the temperature dropped,
I could sense the excitement dropping
with it, like a balloon with a minuscule pinprick. The flutist next to me
was shaking with every gust of ➤➤
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
Art by Jose Hadathy, Marietta, GA
TEENINK.COM
by Hayden Bunker, Brattleboro, VT
millions of years of Darwin’s evolutionary process, of
don’t know.
descent and bloodline. Scientifically, I knew there
When I glance up at the space between the
could never have been a greater power, for humans
clouds, I cannot say for sure what lingers there. Is
are certainly too complex to have been invented by
it God? Who’s to say? I’ve lived my entire life on the
one being – let alone in just seven days. Even now
border of two very powerful kingdoms: Doubt and
when I glimpse “Vitruvian Man,” I am yanked back to
Faith. I suppose the churchgoers are wont to label this
that moment almost a decade ago when I crouched
“agnosticism.” But it’s more than that; it runs deeper
skeptically over those pages of reason.
and with greater deliberation. I believe that agnostiHowever, my darkest experience jounced and dwincism is an effort to avoid addressing this enigma
dled my uncertainty. April 18, 2004: I stood near my
within oneself. It’s a tiresome balance, but I am not
mother and clutched a black umbrella with pale findefinite about either of the coin’s sides.
gers. The minister’s words were difficult to decipher
My doubt is rooted deeply in my mind, entrenched
over the drone of chilly spring raindrops.
in the scientific improbability of a creator. I was
My grandmother wasn’t devout and
raised beneath a Christian steeple, but
hadn’t attended church in years. Neverhave never been faithful enough to touch
theless, a small cross was inscribed beits ceilings. Everyone in my family holds
Could one
tween her name and her date of birth. The
unrelenting faith in the Messiah’s legacy.
entity truly be adult faces above me reflected a shared
For me, however, there has always exa palpable conviction.
isted disbelief: Could one entity truly be
responsible for faith,
A man stood at the head of my grandresponsible for everything? For vast
mother’s grave and spoke of God and his
everything?
Neptune and literate Shakespeare and
heaven, where another soul had just arvaliant Ajax? For me?
rived. As the oratory resounded, for a
I have memories of a turn-of-themoment everything was believeable and okay. I
century medical textbook: Its textureless green cover
focused on those two perpendicular lines while her
shone honestly in its basic design, and the Florida
beautiful elmwood coffin was lowered beneath the
sunlight had bleached it to a dull lime after months
sparse winter grass.
atop the windowsill. When the days were longer and
The saddest part of death is the afterward scavengthe minute hand slower, I used to browse this book
ing of hope by the living – it isn’t until nightfall that
and the pictures beneath its cover. Color photographs
we begin to light the lamps. And it was that rainillustrated human anatomy with impersonal precision,
dampened cross that held my young hand and guided
and some of the angles made my elementary comme through my grandmother’s loss. It symbolized
plexion blanch and my eyelids recede.
faith and a greater conscience, and it lent itself as a
But of all the diagrams, it was Leonardo da Vinci’s
crutch to aid me through my emotional arrhythmia.
meticulous sketch of “Vitruvian Man” that struck me
As I sank low, I finally comprehended why people
most. Pale lines traced flawless human forms within
kneel vulnerably before the cross, bent legs aching, to
two perfectly geometric figures: circle and square.
mumble their prayers.
Seeing our bodies in a mechanical light aligned us
Because of these tonally polar moments, neither
humans with animals, biological and organic.
more than a few of seconds in length, I have struggled
Our complex anatomy seemed clearly a result of
I
wind that crept through the seams of her
uniform. I was shivering too.
Our band director told us to do what we
could to stay warm, so a group of us
formed a gigantic ball in an attempt to
share body heat. I noticed that people
were suddenly snapping pictures of us,
and so I stepped away from our huddled
mass to see why. I was rewarded with one
of the most comical sights I have ever
seen. Fifty of us made up the tight huddle,
and crowning this sight were 50 bucket
hats topped with white feathered plumes!
Finally, the order was given to “Fall
in!” and eagerly we complied. “Band …
attenTlON! Mark time, FIRST!” our three
drum majors called. We echoed with,
“Toe, toe, heel, heel,” to start our feet
moving to the beat, and then the front rank
stepped off. We continued to mumble the
beat, dropping the words into the icy air.
As we finally began to march, strangely,
all my anxiety dissolved and I was
flooded with a heat that allowed my fingers to dance over the keys as our first
roll-off sounded. We rounded the first corner and I prepared myself to be awed by
the crowd we had glimpsed from the bus.
What I saw instead was a small number
of people scattered along the roadsides.
Where was everyone? (I later learned that
many had taken refuge in heated buildings
LINK
YOUR
for a lifetime. The ambiguity of the cross overshadows the height of any steeple I’ve seen. In truth, I
don’t know what to believe, not because I do not care
or because it is too distant, but because somewhere
along the line, improperly crossed wires jolted inconsistent signals in my mind.
Settling upon either is impossible – the gambit of
decision would disturb me either way. In my mind,
the two kingdoms shall never merge. Doubt and Faith:
both are equally distressing and romantic, but it is
beyond my power to adjudicate their truth. It would
take nothing short of a crusade to tilt my viewpoint. Is
it God who lingers between the clouds in the pearly
sky? Or is it just infinite blue vastness?
I don’t know. ✦
Photo by Amdrea Szucsik, Winnipeg, MB, Canada
imagined it, but our music seemed to ring
and were watching from windows.) I then
with pride as we passed our fellow alumnoticed that my feet were off step, and I
nus, commander-in-chief, and president.
vowed not to think of anything but my
Marching past the reviewing stand was
feet, position, and music from then on.
a blur. I felt my heart beating double time
The day grew colder as the sun sank in
and my chest growing tight with excitethe sky, but my internal heat kept up with
ment, but I didn’t dare turn my eyes for
the chill. I was actually comfortable now
fear of tripping and having my atrocious
that I was moving.
mistake caught on television.
The number of spectators increased as
When I got home, however, I watched
we neared the reviewing stand where our
the replay on TV. Obama’s smile lit up his
new president sat. The band behind us was
face when he saw us, which
loud enough to confuse a
was more of an honor than
few people’s steps, includany official statement of aping me, as we puzzled over
Our roll-off
preciation. The grinning preswhich beat to follow.
sounded, and I ident returned the shakas (a
The speakers along the
greeting gesture) of
route repeated the same insnapped my icy Hawaiian
my friends, the banner carriformation over and over, not
flute to my lips ers. Our time in front of the
one correctly pronouncing
president was short, but as I
“Aloha Oe.” We heard
saw our small moment re“Aloha Oh” many times, but
peated over and over on news programs,
not “Aloha Oye,” which is the correct way
our vignette was stretched out to be ten
to say it. I didn’t really blame them: I still
times longer and more important.
can’t pronounce half of the Hawaiian
Our procession continued down less
streets.
populated streets overshadowed by tall
The reviewing stand was in view now,
townhouses. I kept searching for THE
and I quickly averted my eyes before the
END, where we would all come to a stop,
“Wow” factor could catch up with me.
congratulate one another, shake hands,
Our roll-off sounded, and I snapped my
smile, have some microphones stuck in
icy flute to my lips. The first note was not
our faces, and maybe drink hot cocoa.
shaky as I had feared, but crisp and clear,
However, the parade didn’t really end
slicing through the air. I may have only
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nonfiction
Between Doubt and Faith
but just fizzled out as the separate bands
marched to their buses. I lurched up the
steps, all of my energy dissipated. Snippets of conversations filtered to my ears,
“Did you see?” “Yeah! He shakaed at us!”
“Awesome!” “I saw him shaka too!” “The
whole family did!” Soon, my own imaginings of the rumored presidential shaka
filled my exhausted head. The wearying
frenzy finally over, I allowed my mind to
drift back through the long, amazing day.
The end of the inauguration trip was
much like the end of the actual parade.
This fantastic activity, speculated about
and planned for months, simply dissipated. When we got back from the parade,
we ate a quick dinner and were on the bus
to the airport by 2 a.m. That Thursday, I
was back at school.
When I got up to speak at my ninth
grade class assembly a few weeks later, I
shook with nerves. I marveled at how I
could march in front of nearly everyone in
the world who has a TV, not to mention
the president of the United States of
America, and yet still have the jitters
in front of my classmates. That is what
the inauguration was, though. An aweinspiring day that, in some ways, changed
everything, but in the end, we still returned to our normal lives, which were
very much the same. ✦
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
7
nonfiction
Move-In Day for a Charlie’s Angel
by Becky Mandelbaum,
Wichita, KS
could have been mistaken for their sister. I secretly
what I thought was our cozy shack in the distance
wished I was.
was actually just a blurry herd of cows or an over“Look, sweetie, there are some girls for you to
turned tractor abandoned by a farmer probably durplay with. Maybe tomorrow you can go over there
ing the Depression.
and see if they want to swim,” my mom said, as she
More shocking than mistaking livestock for our
pulled the minivan into the garage.
home was entering the city limits of Wichita. This
“Just don’t do a cannonball,” added my secondwas not what I’d anticipated. We soon passed strip
favorite brother Matt, “or all the water will fly out the
malls where people were walking fully clothed, their
pool.”
mouths bereft of dangling wheat stalks.
I had given up trying to fight back –
The parking lots were filled with actual
with either words or fists – when my
cars and not horse-drawn buggies.
This time, I
brothers made fun of me. This not only irMy excitement changed to disappointment when my mom pulled the minivan
was going to ritated them but also saved me the effort
of producing comebacks with both spite
into our new driveway. The house before
be a heroine and sense.
me was two stories, made of brick, and
“Because you’re fat,” Matt said, making
had a pool and swing set in the large
sure I understood.
backyard. It looked almost identical to
“And you’re a narcissistic jerk,” Mom said. “But
the one we had just left behind, not to mention every
we don’t go around reminding you all the time.”
other residence in the not-so-Oz neighborhood.
“What’s a narcissistic jerk?” Matt asked, curious
In the yard next to ours, two girls were playing.
about his new label.
For a moment I was excited by the idea of befriend“It’s a rare African jungle plant,” my brother Aning them. They looked about my age. Besides the
drew explained. He was three years older than Matt
fact that I was probably 20 pounds heavier, had
and six years older than me, making him the Dalai
frizzy dark hair instead of sleek blond locks, and
Lama of the household.
wore bifocal glasses with airplanes on the sides, I
“I’m not a jungle plant,” Matt said matter-of-factly.
“Why would you call me that?”
“Because they’re handsome,” Mom replied.
During this conversation, I stared at the girls. I was
dreading having to unload all our stuff, so I thought I
by Genevieve Nielsen, Winnetka, IL
might sneak out of the van and go meet my new best
of my father’s strides. But again I rubbed my hand over
an you draw it? Show me what happened?
friends instead. Matt and Andrew could take the bubthe sand, erasing my work. I was leaving out the more
Create that night here in the sand.”
ble wrap off my mom’s menorah collection. I, on the
important things around me: the night-blooming jasThe cool sand brushed over my toes as I
other hand, had fate to attend to.
mine, the car, and the dark sky that hid the strange man.
sat in the sandbox. My finger was poised, but I hesiThe only problem was that, due to my size, stealth
Next, I started to draw the strange man’s shiny gun
tated, uncertain of what I could outline. So many shapes
was not my expertise. My constant wheezing made
that could create damage far greater than its size. This
came to mind when I thought of that night. She leaned
me hard to ignore, and on the way out of the minivan
seemed like a good idea: my eyes had been
in closer, as if she were looking for a tiny
I accidentally stepped on Matt’s foot.
fixated on the gun as my father threw the man
piece of gold in the sand. But she relaxed in
“What the hell! It feels like an elephant just
his wallet and watch. I had followed that glint
disappointment when I could produce nothcrushed my toe! Why are you in such a rush?”
I couldn’t
of metal into the night as he ran off, satisfied.
ing. My mind was a whirl of images, and I
“I pooped in my pants,” I yelled, dashing from the
find words
But as my finger rounded the edge of the
struggled to choose which one would best
vehicle. “I’m gonna go hose myself off in the backin the sand, I realized the gun alone
explain that night.
yard!”
to describe handle
did not embody my feelings about that night,
Thinking of my father’s rough, dry hand
“Just throw your underwear out like last time!” my
that night
because when the gun left, my fear did not.
holding mine as we walked back to the car
mom hollered after me.
Once the strange man disappeared, I had
after dinner, I started to draw a hand. But
Running from the garage like a madwoman, I felt
grabbed a nearby tree to steady myself as my
barely had I completed the thumb when I
like a modern-day James Bond. I pretended that the
knees shook and my heart pounded. Frustrated in my atcovered it up; that was only the beginning. I had still
melting Snickers bar in my pocket was an AK-47 and
tempt to draw my experience, I shoved sand across the
been breathing calmly, enjoying the warm spring air and
that my two new best friends were being attacked by
box, looked up at the lady, and shrugged, admitting demy carefree four-year-old life.
Russian spies and desperately needed to be saved. I
feat.
I tried again, drawing the cracked sidewalk that I had
darted behind one of the trees in our front yard and
The frustration I felt at not being able to depict that
skipped along – three of my quick skips matching one
tried to steady my heart, which was beating rapidly
night in the sand was nothing compared to how I felt
after my dash from the garage.
every night when I became unable to speak. Haunted by
Suddenly I realized that I couldn’t be James Bond,
glimmering guns, flying wallets, and vanishing men, I
for the obvious reason that he was a man. Being
would run down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. Even
chubby and unattractive already provided me with
though I felt safe with them, I couldn’t find words to deenough androgyny; I didn’t need to bring it upon myscribe that night.
self. I decided that a Charlie’s Angel suited me better,
This had led my mother to bring me to this lady, who
and my new neighbor friends would be just the pair
had a sandbox in her office and the word “Doctor” on
to complete the crime-fighting trio.
her door.
Bursting from my hiding spot behind the tree, I
“Try to draw just one thing from that night,” she said
swayed my frizzy ponytail just like I’d seen the Anencouragingly.
gels do. Thinking about it now, every family on the
I exhaled slowly and then plunged my hand into the
cul-de-sac was probably gathered at their front wincool sand. I navigated smoothly, producing a small cirdow to watch the new girl on the block have a seizure
cle and a larger circle above it.
in her front yard. This was not my concern. What
“Can you tell me about that?” she inquired.
mattered was saving my partners from the evil, han“That,” I pointed to the smaller circle, “is a nightdlebar-mustached Russians. The fact that I was of
blooming jasmine bud. Even though the moon is out,” I
Russian descent did not at all interfere with my mispointed to the larger circle, “it is still a bud.”
sion. I was going to be a hero. No, this time, I was
“What’s wrong with it?”
going to be a heroine. ✦
“It’s afraid to bloom.” ✦
Photo by Kaelyn Lynch, East Northport, NY
W
hen I was eight, my dad got a new job,
which meant that my family would endure
yet another move, adding Kansas to the list
of states we’d lived in over the past several years.
Driving in our mint-green minivan to our new
home, I leaned my forehead against the window and
imagined myself milking cows and beginning a
career as a shepherdess.
I had only seen “The Wizard of Oz” once and
didn’t even pay enough attention to spot the infamous Munchkin tragedy in the background. But I
must have absorbed something, because I pictured
my family inhabiting a quaint ranch house in the
middle of a wheat field, perpetually at risk of being
swept away by a tornado accompanied by dramatic
music. My family added realism to the image, as I
pictured my aunt riding a broomstick, her large,
crooked nose protruding from a wart-ridden face. Of
course she would be riding a broomstick – airfare to
the Midwest from Florida is just ridiculous.
When we crossed the Kansas border, leaving the
monochromatic Colorado plains for the slightly flatter and more depressing Kansas ones, I remember
searching for our new abode. I thought I’d spotted it
several times, but was always let down to realize that
Ghosts in the Sand
“C
8
Teen Ink •
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J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
9
educator of the year
Science • Hightower Trail Middle
Amy West
The 17th Annual
by Sara Dada, Roswell, GA
When you think of teen girls, one of the first
saac Newton. Charles Darwin. Albert Einstein.
words that comes to mind is chatter. And a lot of
These names should be familiar. They belong
that went on in our class. But it wasn’t the ranto some of the most famous scientists in hisdom chatter you hear in an out-of-control classtory. Marie Curie. Jane Goodall. Rachel Zimmerroom. This was interactive learning; Mrs. West
man. Dorothy Hodgkin. Also brilliant scientists –
didn’t lecture us, she talked to us. Being in that
who happen to be women. So here’s a question:
class and having such a wonderful teacher
why is it that most of the renowned scientists we
changed my view of science.
learn about every day are men? Why do males
After the first year of Mrs. West’s experiment,
tend to score higher than females on the science
my school decided to keep our class together. And
portion of standardized tests? These were the
so for three years now we have been lucky to have
questions that Mrs. Amy West based her graduate
Mrs. West. But in the fall of eighth grade when
project on.
we walked in the door on the first day of school,
In 2007, Mrs. West conducted an
she made it clear that this year was
experiment to observe the effects of
going to be different. Her job was to
teaching science in an all-girls enviMrs. West
prepare us for high school.
ronment. She had observed that inThe best way for her to do this was
terest in science decreases for many
made science a method
that few of us liked, includgirls as they mature. She hoped to
my
favorite
ing
me.
At
times when we asked her a
discover whether a learning environquestion, she’d just shrug and say,
ment for just girls would encourage
subject
“You tell me.” I’m sure you can imagus to be more fascinated by the
ine the frustration this caused. In sixth
world of science.
and seventh grade, teachers walked us through
I was lucky enough to be one of the students in
everything. But now it was time for us to think on
this special class. As the year progressed, she
our own. And no teacher does a better job encourcompared our grades to those of her co-ed
aging that than Mrs. West. Yes, I hate it someclasses. Our class was successful in more ways
times. But then I realize that this is her job, and if
than one. And for Mrs. West, the true success was
I’m frustrated, it means she’s doing it right.
seeing our eyes widen as we learned and underIt’s every teacher’s goal to inspire students.
stood more about the world around us. She saw
And Mrs. Amy West has certainly done that for
how we became more interested, more inquisitive.
me. Next year, I will walk into my new high
Mrs. West’s class had a huge effect on me. I
school – a science and math magnet school. And I
came to middle school a young, confused scientist
know that as I take my seat in my first science
who barely cared. It was the one subject I thought
class, I’ll be thinking, Mrs. West is the reason I’m
I would never understand, let alone enjoy. And
here. ✦
much to my surprise, Mrs. West made science my
favorite class.
I
Educator
Year Contest
of the
Do you know an outstanding teacher,
coach, guidance counselor,
librarian, or principal?
1) Tell us why your nominee is special: style of
teaching, involvement in school and the community. What has your educator done for your
class, you, or another student? Be specific.
2) Make your essay 150 to 500 words. Please
type or print neatly.
3) Only junior and senior high school
educators, please.
4) Include your nominee’s first and last name,
position or subject taught, and the school
where he/she teaches.
Email to: Educator@TeenInk.com
Mail to: Educator of the Year Contest
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
Online: http://TeenInk.com/Submissions
Deadline May 1
English • Saint Xavier High
Michael Reynolds
I
’d never before had a teacher who
asked his students to illustrate the
ending of “Beowulf,” or draw pictures of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s
“Kubla Khan” on the blackboard, or
make up Mad Libs for Lord Byron’s
“When We Two Parted,” or act out a
tableau for John Keats’ “Ode on a
Grecian Urn,” or visit the cemetery of
our Xaverian brothers to read Thomas
Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country
Churchyard,” or perform a reader’s
theater with Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s
“The Charge of the Light Brigade.”
But the most interesting assignment of
all was yet to come ….
“I noticed the schedule for this
week says ‘March Madness with Romantic poetry.’ What’s that?” one student asked.
“I don’t know …,” Mr. Reynolds
said evasively, his eyes failing to hide
his amusement. He knew that since
many of the students in my all-boys
school are sports fans, we would enjoy
paying homage to one of the most exciting months of the year.
On Friday the 13th, Mr. Reynolds
walked into class with the brackets
tucked under his arm and started passing them out. A grid of hand-drawn
10
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
by Sam Dicken, Louisville, KY
faculty who provide emotional and
lines lay before me, with a column
spiritual support to students, arrange
containing names of poems. The lines
service opportunities, and direct rewere intended for the advancing wintreats. He’s also the director of the
ners of the match-up pairs. The numXpress theater program, a traveling
ber of lines per column decreased each
improvisational children’s acting
round until there was just one space
troupe, and the ticket sales manager
left for the champion. My classmates
for the school’s theater.
and I quickly reviewed the poets and
Mr. Reynolds also volunteers at the
then set about picking match-ups we
Ronald McDonald House. He and
thought would “win.” The poem with
other faculty members bring food and
the popular majority would advance to
cook dinner for families of patients at
the next round.
Kosair Children’s HosI cleared the first
pital. He has assisted
round, picking 11 out
Mr. Reynolds
there for three years.
of 12 match-ups corReynolds serves
rectly. I had selected
serves his students, Mr.
his students, friends,
Percy Shelley’s
friends, and society and society before
“Ozymandias” as my
himself.
champion, and I
before himself
I had the privilege of
excitedly watched it
having Mr. Reynolds
advance to the third
as one of my leaders on a retreat. Durround of voting. Unfortunately, that
ing the four-day event, Mr. Reynolds
was as far as it went, losing by an
overwhelming majority to Samuel
gave a speech on God’s friendship. He
segued from tangible relationships
Taylor Coleridge’s “Rime of the Anwith family and friends to the more incient Mariner.” Although I was not the
tangible relationship with God.
winner that day, I have not forgotten
“My mom,” Mr. Reynolds said,
how much I enjoyed that lesson.
“taught me the most about myself.”
In addition to his excellent work inside the classroom, Mr. Reynolds
I can relate to that, I thought.
leads a stellar life. He is a member of
“Probably the most important thing
the Campus Ministry team, a group of
that she taught me was humility.”
COMMENT
He then went on to mention every
one of his students at the retreat. It
was a moving moment when he recognized me for my humility.
Mr. Mike Reynolds teaches with
flair. Despite graduating from our high
school 15 years ago, he is able to relate to 17- and 18-year-olds and understands a teen male’s humor and
feelings. After he finished his education to become an educator, Mr.
Reynolds decided to return to his alma
mater and empower the young men of
the future by providing them with a
strong background in English and a
different role model than what is presented by Hollywood. As a teacher, he
is always prepared, posting a schedule
detailing the week’s activities every
Sunday. Above all, he is creative, especially when it comes to planning
classes.
During my high school career, I
have been blessed with many amazing
teachers, not only based on their credentials but also on their personal
qualities and passion for teaching.
Every year, I think that my teachers
are excellent – and they are – but this
year’s champion is definitely Mr.
Reynolds. ✦
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T
hough this may sound absurd to some, not
owning a pair of $200 jeans at my high school
is as rare as someone boycotting Facebook.
And I’m not talking about just one pair of expensive
jeans for special occasions. I’m talking about a heck
of a lot of them.
For years, I had a preconceived notion that I was so
immersed in my affluent Illinois North Shore community that I had to conform to the materialistic standards
of those around me. I thought that without the purses,
shoes, and all the other “essential” items, I would not
be as pretty, smart, or important as my peers.
Art by Emily Lakehomer, Redmond, OR
I wrote articles in my school newspaper that quesWalking into my high school as a freshman, I held
tioned the materialistic principles of many kids at my
hopes of attaining top social status. As clichéd as it
high school. I threw my white, rich, North Shore attisounds, I figured the easiest way to survive high
tude (as well as any dreams of $200 jeans) out the
school was to do everything I could to fit in. So I
window. I started pushing my limits academically,
became a cheerleader, assuming that the girls on the
which I had previously considered less important
squad, the uniform, and the reputation would boost
than maintaining my social status.
my ranking. I bought knock-off designer purses and
I found a new group of friends who supported me,
pretended to enjoy the gossip my friends thrived on.
unlike my old friends. And I did all of these things
I had created an alternate personality, and it was
not just because I was passionate about them but
working. I felt popular, accepted, and important, and
because I no longer needed to impress others. I
I loved it. As it turns out, sticking to this pretense
looked in the mirror and was proud, regardless of
probably would have been my best bet to sail through
whether I was cool enough to be voted Homecoming
high school with few worries.
Queen.
But, as with most teenagers, I had
Starting over was hard. People at
my parents to contend with. They
school looked at me like they didn’t
couldn’t understand why I was preI believed I
know me. But the truth is that they
tending to be someone I wasn’t just to
had to conform never had. The risk I took in completely
impress others. They tried endlessly to
changing my life was flat out terrifying,
convince me that I was hurting myself.
or I would be
but I am so grateful I did it.
For two years, I fought them, saying
miserable
As ready as I am to say good-bye
that they hadn’t grown up on the North
to the North Shore, it’s thanks to that
Shore and couldn’t grasp what it was
materialistic culture that I eventually
like living in a town with values oppowoke up from the hollow life I was living. Now I am
site to those I was raised with. I believed I had to
not afraid to try things that scare me, because I have
conform or I would be miserable.
made mistakes in the past and learned from them. I
I didn’t bother questioning my assumption – until
am a confident, nerdy, religious, talented, optimistic,
the best day of my life. I couldn’t tell you exactly
sensitive, musically inclined perfectionist. I know
when that was, but one day I looked at myself in the
who I am.
mirror – looked beyond the makeup and the productMy future now is just as unsure and terrifying as
filled hair – and saw someone who wasn’t me. And
my experience in high school, but I am ready to go to
that person, she was miserable.
college. I’m motivated to explore even more of my
So I quit cheerleading and started swimming
potential as a student and a member of my community.
again, something I had loved for the eight years
If I falter or lose my way, I can always look back
before high school but had bumped from my list of
and be inspired by how I took one of the worst situapriorities, thanks to my North Shore influences. I
tions of my life and turned it around to create somealso landed a spot in my school’s top vocal performthing beautiful. That beautiful something is a life
ance group, took an active role in the youth ministry
with meaning, a life with happiness, and a life that
at my church, and devoted myself wholeheartedly to
fits me. ✦
community service.
The Magic of Giving
I
t was Christmas day, and I was
covered in flour, sugar, and eggs.
Today I was determined to become
the Marie Curie of the kitchen, even if
my kitchen smelled like burned sugar.
There should be a Nobel Cooking
Prize, seriously.
*
*
*
My grandfather loved sweets; when
I was younger, he used to lock his
beloved coconut candies in a drawer
and hide the key. So, the night he lay
dying, my cousin and I slaved away in
our tiny kitchen in small-town China.
At midnight, we measured flour and
sugar, separated eggs, and mixed the
right pigments to color the final smile
on his face.
When my grandpa tasted his coconut macaroon, our pigments painted
his toothless smile; when he took our
hands in his, snowflakes rained down
our spines. Five hours later, we received a call from our aunt; he was
gone, but next to the cookie box we
found a note that read, “Thanks for
LINK
YOUR
by April Yin, Whitby, ON, Canada
in a dessert, but what better way to
replenishing my energy for the trip.”
warm hearts than with a dash of exIt was then that I fell in love with
otic flavor in the middle of a cold,
cooking and its magical ability to steal
hard winter? After all, when I added
all the clichéd emotions in the world
cantaloupe jam crepes – which my
and squish them together into a crefriends had thought sounded disgustation that can brighten someone’s day.
ing – to the menu of my summer
*
*
*
baking business, they were a hit.
This Christmas, I baked for my
There’s nothing better
friends, family, and for
than watching rising bread.
charity. As leader of the
may just be flour and
Youth in Action group at
There’s nothing Ityeast,
but when you’ve
my school, I organized a
spent hours kneading
bake sale to support the
better than
dough and mixing
holiday gift drive for poor
families. And so, with all watching rising ingredients, watching
bread rise is like watching
those to-be-warmed
bread
your baby grow up and
hearts in mind, I scramseeing all your hard work
bled around the kitchen
come alive.
carrying out my annual Christmas
Someday maybe I’ll be a banana
baking marathon, producing a sweet
bread and rise (hopefully grow a little
bread called panettone, which the Italtaller) into an individual who is hardian nobleman Ughetto Atellani had
ened by experience on the outside but
created to win over his love, Adalgisa.
I sprinkled my spices gingerly onto
is still soft and sweet on the inside.
the dough that took hours to knead. I
Someday maybe I will infect others
know it sounds strange to put spices
with my warmth and give them carb
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by Jackie Rose, Northbrook, IL
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college essays
Good-Bye North Shore, Hello Me
cravings for life.
As I sorted the panettone into separate, personalized boxes, I smiled in
the light of the menorah and realized
that I had discovered the magic of
giving. ✦
Photo by Lauren Moody, Marietta, GA
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
13
health
Sponsored by
Love Shouldn’t Hurt
by Abella Evans, Bloomington, IL
bulimia, and self-mutilation, according to the Centers
page of newspapers, overlooked and forgotten. They
er name was Alice. She was slumped over in
for Disease Control and Prevention.
appear next to the story of the girl who overcame this
the corner, her hands reaching for the small
Alice was crying. She tried to hide it from him; it
type
of
trauma
and
is
finally
ready
to
speak
out.
By
of her back. It was tender. His class ring hung
wasn’t his fault. She could take a punch, but someexamining the different types of teen dating abuse,
on a silver chain around her neck, a constant rehow his words hurt more. They hit her in different
and raising awareness and possible solutions,
minder of his love. She knew that a bruise was formplaces. She just kept confirming his love for her in
teenagers can take a proactive stance in the fight
ing under her pale skin – a rushing rainbow of blues,
her head as his sharp words cut into her skin. “I do
against dating violence.
blacks, purples, and yellows. She was
this because I love you,” he crooned as he stroked her
Dating violence comes in many ugly
grateful he never touched her fragile
still-tender back. She remembered one of the posters
forms, not just physical abuse. Abuse in
face. At 16, she had never felt any other
One in five
in the hall at school: “Love doesn’t hurt.” All she
general is a cycle. It starts with a sweet,
hands but her loving boyfriend’s. She
could think was, Then why am I in pain?
romantic
period.
Everything
is
perfect.
college
females
didn’t mind; she was so madly in love
There are many ways to take a proactive stance in
Then the tension starts. The abuser bewith him that it didn’t matter that he got
will experience comes moody and withdrawn. He might
fighting dating violence. The number one way is
rough with her sometimes. She deserved
through awareness. The more people are aware of the
it most of the time. He was just showing dating violence nitpick, yell, or threaten. All the while,
warning signs, the easier abuse is to spot. Not only
she’s walking on eggshells, attempting
his affection.
do teens need to be informed but also parents and
not to break even one. One day, the ugly
“One in three high school students
school officials. Peer support can be very helpful. A
monster rears its revolting head.
have been or will be involved in an abusive relationlong talk about stopping the abuse can mean much
Physical violence is often the most publicized
ship,” states the Office of Criminal Justice Services
more when coming from a friend rather than an
form
of
abuse.
This
includes
choking,
punching,
imin a special report. “And one in five college females
adult. Another way to raise awareness is through stuprisonment, rape, and in some cases death. Physical
will experience a form of dating violence.” Such
dent-created posters and essays.
violence normally escalates after an abuser thinks it
staggering statistics are often pushed to the back
Her best friend sat Alice down and handed her a
is pardonable. Dating violence is about more than
pamphlet for a support group. On the cover was a
just injuring the victim; it’s about control.
picture of a beautiful girl with a black eye. She too
Alice timidly watched as he crossed the room tohad a class ring on a chain around her neck. Alice
ward her. She knew all too well what was going to
reached for hers. The bold letters read, “Break the Sihappen. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t in the mood;
lence.” All Alice could do was cry.
he was. All too soon, he was upon her, pressing her
Another proactive way that teens can be involved
still-tender back into the chair. She tried to push him
in stopping dating violence is by starting a teen netoff, but he overpowered her. She tried to yell, but his
It started with words
work of support. Create a phone tree. When someone
left hand was tightly clasped over her mouth. She
not sticks or stones
feels abused they can alert others in the network with
watched the room spin as he choked her. While she
But look at her
a code word that doesn’t tip off the attacker. With
was wildly fighting for air, her eyes burned with
just skin and bones
support it is much easier to break away from a viotears. After a few moments of struggling, she gave
She thought she could be beautiful
lent situation.
herself to him, tears streaming down her face.
if only she was thin
Schools play a large part in preventing teen dating
Sexual abuse is a delicate topic when it comes to
First an empty stomach once
abuse. Training sessions should be
dating violence. When a partner is
and then again, again
held at least once a year to address
forced to do any unwanted sexual act,
Phrases like
warning signs, conversation starters,
it is defined as rape. According to the
They laughed at her, that’s all it took
possible disciplinary actions. Not
Students Against Dating Violence
to decide she’d show them all
“I love you, but” are and
only teachers should attend but also
website, sexual abuse occurs when
But instead of standing strong
warning signs of coaches, directors, and school adminthe abuser pressures or physically
she tripped and took the fall
The more eyes on the lookout
forces the victim to perform a sex act.
emotional abuse istrators.
She’s handing over everything
for abuse, the harder it is to hide.
Most people do not view this as rape,
on an empty silver plate
Alice’s mind raced as she stood outas intimacy is socially “expected”
Exhibit A for all to see
side his house. She had nothing left to lose. He was
from a partner in a relationship. But this highly untoday that’s what she ate
threatening to leave her again. Last night was the
publicized form of dating violence is abuse.
worst ever. She needed to find a way to make it on
Alice waited; he would return from practice soon.
Just one less pound she promised,
her own. The tears brimming in her eyes began to fall
She hadn’t left his truck for three hours, just in case
she wouldn’t fail herself
as she placed his ring on his doorstep.
he came back for some reason. She couldn’t be
But now that isn’t good enough
Making the final decision to leave an abusive relacaught outside of the truck. So there she sat, faitheach goal a bigger wealth
tionship is difficult, no matter the victim’s age or the
fully awaiting her loving attacker. A tap on the winStanding at the crossroads;
severity of the abuse. It requires great strength and
dow awoke her from her thoughts; there he was in all
life and death as ends
courage to break the silence and stand up against datof his beautiful, blameless glory. She could see on his
Confused and beaten down
ing violence. Those who have should be recognized
face that she would not be hit tonight; he was too
she can’t see past the bend
for their strength. By raising awareness and being
tired from practice. But he was upset. What had she
proactive, we can all break the silence. ✦
done? She absentmindedly grasped his class ring
She’s lost and slowly fading
hanging around her neck. She knew this night would
hunger and will collide
be worse than the last.
Two paths and no way back
Not all abuse is physical. Emotional violence can
a battle fights inside
also leave deep scars. The victim often feels as
The choice is hers
though she is a pawn in a constant manipulative mind
to lose or win
game with a continuous feeling of guilt and helplessAnd on the choice
ness. There are many ways to spot emotional abuse,
her life depends
such as constant putdowns, threats, yelling, turning
the blame, and threatening suicide. Phrases like “I
It started with words
love you, but” are also warning signs of emotional
not sticks or stones
abuse.
But see her now –
Behavioral symptoms of abuse include loss of
just skin and bones.
appetite, self-blame, terror, depression, guilt, mistrust
by Elizabeth Price,
of others, anxiety, and suicide, according to The
Ilidza, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Journal of Marriage and Family. It may lead to drug
use and dropping grades, in addition to anorexia,
Photo by Caroline Courtney, Coronado, CA
H
Skeleton
14
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Mackenzie Brennan, Phoenix, AZ
N
ora is a miracle child. Born
tiny to a mother who had
miscarried 10 times (and was
believed to be too old to conceive),
Nora’s birth was a blessing to her
family. Yet as she grew, her parents
realized that something wasn’t
right. At one year, the little girl still
could not sit up. At three, she could
not crawl, and now at seven, she
cannot balance or walk without
support for her atrophied legs.
Realizing Nora was the victim of
an undiagnosed medical condition
and a damaged spinal cord, her
family tirelessly search for answers,
while raising their daughter in a
society that can be unthinkably
cruel to children with crippling
disabilities.
I interviewed Nora and her
mother, Alison, in their home.
When did you first realize that
moving and walking were going to
be a problem?
Alison: At six months it became
clear that she was not reaching milestones – she couldn’t turn over, she
wasn’t holding her head up – but
everyone told me that nothing was
wrong. Then, at nine months, the
pediatrician recommended physical
therapy.
Nora: In preschool, I was different
from the other kids.
What was that like?
Nora: It was good; I liked to be
different. [Grins.]
grown so much, there were risks to
Nora: With the walker, I can go fast,
removing them – they said she might
see? I can keep up with people, and go
become paralyzed, but they wouldn’t
anywhere. When I’m going down a
give us a percentage. They just said
hill, I pick my feet up off the ground
there was a significant risk. My husand zoom down. My mommy says I
band had been laid off, so there was
have six legs with it!
barely any financial coverage.
When people see you in public, do
Nora: After [the surgery], I didn’t
they ever stare?
want to talk about it. I don’t mind
Alison: Yeah, definow, though. I rememnitely. When I put her
ber I was tired, and my
in the cart at the groback felt really heavy. I
“I
feel
lucky,
and
cery store, parents will
had to go to therapy a lot
at her and say,
too.
I help show others glare
“You’re too big for
how privileged
that!” We get to go to
What goes on at
therapy?
the front of the line at
they are”
Nora: I used to get
airports and at DisneyBotox shots in my legs
land because of the
every month. It makes
disability so her legs
me weaker; it doesn’t work. Now I do
don’t cramp up, but when she’s in the
therapy at school. They stretch my feet
stroller sitting, she looks normal, so
to help make them flat. But then I
we’ve gotten a lot of complaints.
miss being with my friends, because
Nora: They’re mean.
they get to run around while I’m getAlison: Insensitive, not mean.
ting stretched. Are you going to ask
how I’m different from my friends?
How are you different from your
friends?
Nora: I can do most of the same
things except for using the equipment
on the playground. [Nora loses her
balance and falls backwards.]
Alison: We can never leave her alone
on play dates, because sometimes she’ll
just lose her balance like that.
So are you ever scared?
Nora: No, because I wear braces on
my feet; they help a lot. They go up to
my ankles and they help me have flat
feet. I can walk almost 20 steps by
myself with braces!
How did it feel when you realized
this would be a permanent situation?
Alison: It was very frustrating.
Nobody could diagnose the problem.
How do both of you feel when you
Then at 18 months, one doctor diagwalk like that?
nosed her with cerebral
Alison: [Beams.] Proud.
palsy, and we were exHopeful.
“I’ll never be
tremely worried because
Nora: My dad can hold
we thought this meant
able
to
run
on
me
just lightly and then I
mental disabilities. Nora
can
walk so far. I could
herself was never worthe beach with
walk forever like that.
ried; cognitively she was
Nora”
ahead of her age, and by
Has there ever been a
that point she was used to
time when the disabilher lifestyle.
ity
has
been
a benefit?
Nora: And because I’m the fastest
Alison:
It
lets
me be able to hold my
girl at my school in races with my
baby
longer,
because
she still needs us.
walker. [Nods emphatically.]
Nora: I could be with my mommy
more.
Did you ever get a solid diagnosis?
Alison: Yes and no. I will never
forget the call from the neurologist. I
was cleaning the sink when the phone
rang, and [the doctor] said: “Your
daughter has what appear to be cysts
on her spinal cord.” My brother, who
is a physician, took a look at the MRI
and saw that they had grown. At that
point, they recommended surgery.
What do both of you remember
about the surgery?
Alison: Well, since the cysts had
LINK
YOUR
How about times when it has been
particularly hard?
Alison: One thing that still gets me
is the fact that I’ll never be able to
hold Nora’s hand and walk with her.
We can’t travel easily, and I’ll never
be able to run on the beach with her.
Nora: And also, at school my
friends can do flips on the bars, and I
just don’t know how.
Why do you choose the walker
over a wheelchair or crutches?
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What about people being too
careful, too sensitive?
Alison: We get lots of smiles too.
Nora’s dance teacher waives our fees
because she says Nora’s such an inspiration. Actually, after one of her
recitals, a stranger found us in the
parking lot and gave Nora $5 just for
being a “trooper.”
Nora: At Disneyland, they say I’m a
princess.
Besides a princess, what do you
want to be when you grow up?
Nora: Like, jobwise? Um … I want
to be an actress or a florist. I want to
walk, so I practice a lot.
health
Nora
Sponsored by
What do you have to say to people
who are, in a way, more privileged
than you?
Nora: Hey, you’re doin’ good!
[Giggles.] I feel lucky still, and I think
that I help show others how privileged
they are. ✦
The Scare
by Destiny Hodges, Grove, OK
What?! I am 16 and this is happening to
on’t worry, Destiny. Everyme? What if I die? I have not even gotten
thing will turn out fine,” said
to go to a Brad Paisley concert yet. I acted
my reassuring mother. I was
cool, but inside I was panicking. My surabout to go into surgery and everyone was
gery was scheduled for a few weeks later.
waiting in the pre-op room with me. I just
The time passed like the blink of an eye.
kept repeating prayers in my head, hoping
Of course, it got around school. Everythat God would pull for me on this one. It
one
looked worried and asked if it was
was amazing how fast everything had hapcancer. I reassured them as well as I could,
pened. It seemed like yesterday when I
but I was secretly freaking out. Everyone
found the lump.
thought that I was just blowing it off as
*
*
*
nothing, but I was actually dreading it.
Ugh … today I have a doctor’s appointThe day finally came, and I was sitting
ment. I absolutely detest doctors. Nothing
in another waiting room. I was
personal, I just don’t exactly
forced to don the most
enjoy being there. It was just
A
few
months
grotesque-looking the hospital
the usual check-up. We were
that opens in the back.
sitting in the waiting room,
later, the lump gown
My family and pretty much
reading the boring magazines,
had doubled everyone from my church were
when I was finally called in.
there to support me. They
The doctor did his thing –
in size
started an IV that knocked me
checked ears, nose, throat, etc.
out in less than five minutes.
Then he said, “You need to
The
next
thing
I knew, I was lying in a
start doing your own breast exams.” This
hospital
bed
asking
for Taco Mayo …
was new. I considered it, and that night I
completely out of it. I know this only from
did. I noticed a little hard lump in my right
an embarrassing video of me coming out
breast. I was somewhat worried, but I
of the anesthesia. The doctor said he
pushed it to the back of my mind. That
would give us the results in a few days.
was definitely not a smart thing to do.
*
*
*
A few months later, I noticed the lump
Now I am back in the waiting room, anhad doubled in size. So I finally decided to
ticipating the results.
tell my mom. To my surprise, she stayed
It is benign.
calm but insisted we get it checked immeEveryone is thankful and joyful. I am
diately.
very happy to hear the news. God has anSo I sat in the same chair in the waiting
swered the many prayers, and I can go to
room, reading the same boring magazines.
my Brad Paisley concert, and I will probaThe doctor was not a specialist, so he gave
bly live to see my nineties. So the end to
us a referral; a week later, we were sitting
my story is a happy one. All that is left is a
in another office. This doctor did a sonolittle pink scar, a reminder that I should
gram, and though he could not exactly tell
never leave things in the dark. ✦
what it was, he recommended surgery.
“D
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
15
health
Sponsored by
16
Finding Serenity
by “Kathy,” CT
Eventually, our groups became more intense. I
mack, H, dope, junk, horse, white girl, hero,
couldn’t ignore it any longer. No matter how much I
lady, goods, fix.
wanted to, or how much easier it would have been to
Whichever term you use, heroin takes no
run away, I stayed. It was as if a huge monster was
prisoners and has no mercy. Unfortunately, I had to
staring straight at me. I was more frightened than I
learn this the hard way. I chose a path nobody would
can tell you, but I had no choice but to stand my
ever wish to take, and one that I am doomed to walk
ground. Contrary to what I believed at the time, it
for the rest of my life.
was a life or death situation.
When you start chasing the dragon, there are only
I started to take in what was being said. I began to
three places you can end up: rehab, prison, or dead. I
hear the words, even though I didn’t want to because
was affluent enough to avoid being locked up, and I
I was used to living my life in denial. I protested bemanaged to escape what was almost my death. I
hind the walls of my own world. It was a long and
lucked out; most don’t get that chance, and even for
deadly battle, but I was eventually defeated. I was
the few who do, don’t think for a second that rehab is
conquered by what I came to believe were angels.
Art by Luke Stymest, Montclair, NJ
a walk in the park. It’s a continuous battle. From that
Get me out of here. Too long, it’s been too long. I
first time you decide to take a chance until the day
people who would help me up were the ones in need
feel your tight grasp around my neck. My throat
you die, that craving, that dynamic desire, will forof help themselves. I was fortunate to befriend others
closes. No air, gasping for breath. Suffocated.
ever be inside you.
who knew exactly what I was going through. Not
Finally, after being sent to a second
My life was completely out of cononly did they help me with the realization that I
rehab
center
in
New
York,
I
came
to
retrol. I was doing things I could never
could no longer hide in the drugs, but they made it
alize
that
something
needed
to
change;
I
have imagined, but I found ways to jusI didn’t care
easier not to go back to the friends I had before.
needed to change. I now understood that
tify my actions. I was skipping school,
about anything I was not as happy as I thought I was.
In time, when I was stable enough, I gave my hand
staying out all night, both doing and
to
them. Together, we learned how to deal with the
My
mind
had
been
playing
tricks
on
me.
dealing drugs, stealing money and beexcept my love
emotions we had numbed. I found a family of people
There was something else inside me,
longings, pawning jewelry, selling anyaffair with drugs something I had no control over. At that I didn’t even know existed a few weeks earlier.
thing I could get my hands on, getting
How could they be so selfless?
point … I had a problem.
into fights, going to raves, and disreThey were there for me, and they knew what it was
Drug
cliché
number
one:
admitting
specting everyone, including myself. I
like. We dragged each other through the struggle toyou have a problem. Check. A breakthrough.
didn’t care about anything except my love affair with
gether.
drugs. I did all sorts of unimaginably selfish and stuMy father always told me that when he was in
Dear Disease,
pid things. I was wild and rebellious, seemingly beVietnam, the most important thing was the man
You numbed all my pain away but caused me more
yond help. Rehab was the only speck of hope anyone
standing next to him. That’s how it was with us.
in the end. You brought me way up high, but then
still held for me.
Their self-denying souls carried me the whole way
struck me down so remarkably hard. You let me have
I was the devil child with two saints for sisters.
through.
fun for a while, but gave me problems to last a lifeLooking back, I wonder, how did it all happen so
With so much help and support in staying strong, I
time.
But
I
want
to
thank
you.
quickly? My first time remains a vivid memory in the
learned more than I ever imagined I could. I wanted
depth of my mind. The rest is one long flashback
my new family to stay proud of me, as they were
I was in the cafeteria for lunch one afternoon while
mixed together from many recollections.
from the start. I would do anything not to disappoint
the adult patients, who were detoxing at the time, sat
An innocent little girl, an experimenting curious
them. In a way, every one of them took part in saving
at the tables nearby. I remember watching them fightchild, in the blink of an eye became a thief, a cheater,
me. If it weren’t for them, I truly do not believe I
ing, whining, and acting like children. Their behavior
a user, a liar, a loser – a dumb, dense, miserable
would be here today.
mirrored the way the teenagers in rehab acted, except
wretch.
“Some I’ve seen; some, never again.
they were adults. It seemed as if they sincerely
All that, I became; all that, I was.
But there isn’t a day my heart doesn’t find them.”
thought
like
kids.
Why
don’t
you
act
your
age?
I
For a long time, I didn’t even want to change; I
Saying the Serenity Prayer each night
thought. If I was blind, I would assume
just did what was expected so I could leave rehab and
before bed with my new friends gave me
you were five. How old are you? I sudgo back to my old ways as quickly as possible. I
a new foundation to live by. This experidenly realized that when someone gets
We dragged
knew nothing else, no other way of life. I attempted
ence taught me that I must come to
heavily into drugs, they get stuck at the
to ignore what I was being taught in rehab. I listened,
each other
terms with what I can’t control in my
age they began at. Their mind gets
to give the impression that I was progressing, but I
life, to turn around what I can change,
locked up since all the drug use blocks
wasn’t absorbing a word of it.
through the
and to be able to tell the difference beits growth. They never grow up.
Words of wisdom were meant to bring change, to
struggle
tween the two. Drilling these life lessons
It
was
in
that
moment
that
something
instill hope. But they went in one ear and out the
into my head helped me to understand
clicked in my head. I knew that I never
other. I saw them as fierce words with no intended
together
what they really meant. Then, putting
wanted to be one of them. I couldn’t
meaning, blowing by like the piercing wind.
that knowledge into action created a
imagine having to live in a drug rehab
drastic and positive change in my life – a turn for the
facility as an adult. Obviously, something needed to
best.
change. I realized I could not leave and go back to
the way I had been living. I needed to start putting in
“God, grant me the serenity
an effort to change my habits, but I knew it would be
To accept the things I cannot change;
almost impossible on my own.
The courage to change the things that I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
Dear Disease,
You tricked me, only to make me realize the truth.
Although I don’t regret the mistakes I have made
You took away all my friends, only to show me who’s
because I eventually did learn from them, I never
real. You took away the life I knew, only to bring me
plan to go back and make them again. Even though it
here to save me. You locked me in your dream world,
has not been easy, this day-by-day struggle is someonly to make me learn what reality is. Thank you, for
thing I have learned I have the strength to overcome.
I am a stronger and better person now.
I now live one day at a time,
And savor each moment as it comes.
At rehab I met some great people. I had the most
I have accepted that catastrophe is a road to peace,
helpful and understanding counselors, case manAnd continue to take this world as it is. ✦
agers, group leaders, and speakers. But I never
Art by Fallon Kesicier, Baldwin, NY
thought, when I finally reached out a hand, that the
S
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
C
over your right eye for 15
minutes and try to do normal
activities. Do you feel disabled?
That’s how I’ve been seeing since I
was seven.
I have glaucoma and JRA. Glaucoma is a disease that causes eye
pressure to rise, which blocks the
cornea, and soon our vision gets
cloudy, a telltale sign of blindness.
Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, or JRA,
is an immune disease that causes white
blood cells to attack themselves. It can
affect different parts of the body. In my
case, my knees sometimes swell up so
much that it hurts to walk. I also get
sick very easily since my white blood
cells are weak.
Glaucoma has left me blind in my
right eye, but my left is basically fine. I
take eye drops many times each day to
ward off the disease. I’ve had countless
by Sarah Danielson, Cannon Falls, MN
but are too poor or unfortunate to get
operations on my right eye.
JRA is like an unexpected visitor.
any help.
Some days my knees are totally fine
The struggles I experience have
really opened my eyes to a lot of
and flexible, and others, the pain can
make me wish I didn’t have legs at all.
things. Since my diseases force me to
I’ve never had to have surgery on my
take it easy, instead of moping I spend
knees though, thankfully.
time observing things, watching people
These diseases, without
when they’re mad and how
a doubt, made me grow up
different that is from when
These diseases they’re sad, or even happy.
fast. I realized early on
that the only person who
made me grow I’ve observed people
can truly help me is me. I
change, basically mature
up fast
needed to believe in myinto different people. It’s
very interesting.
self before all else. I’ve
Despite my ailments, I’m pretty
taken on so many responsibilities, it’s
normal. I don’t walk like I’m half
like I’m 15 going on 30.
In many ways I am affected not just
blind or get special treatment. I love
indie music; I’m a vegetarian; I want
physically but emotionally. But I don’t
to be a psychiatrist; I plan to move to
waste my time thinking about life withLondon by the time I’m 25. I love
out my ailments. My medicines and
painting. I like the feeling of things
doctors are the pillars of my strength. I
accomplished.
also like to keep in mind that there are
many children who have these diseases
If there’s anything I’ve learned from
my challenges, it’s not to take life for
granted. I eat healthy, take care of my
body, and try to be all that I can be and
be the person I want to be. ✦
Extra Obstacles
Rise Above
by Kelsey Retich, Commerce Township, MI
Do you drink?
I
I do drink – water.
Because someday I might wanna have a
daughter
or a son or a niece or a nephew and I want
to be one of the few who
rose above the influence.
It took my grandfather, the Buskas, the
great Farley and Belushi.
I never met my grandpa because he could
not rise above.
t was a beautiful sunny day – one of those that make you want to be outside all day. I was only three. Mom was mowing the lawn on our red
ride-on mower. Excited to see her outside, I began to run toward her. As I
was running, I must have slid going down the hill. What happened in that
moment changed everything.
Mom could not hear me screaming over the mower. She has said that an
angel must have been watching, because as I slid under the mower, a stick
got jammed in the front, so she stood up to get it out. When my mother stood
up, the mower’s security feature turned it off. Then she heard my screams.
I was airlifted to Children’s Hospital in Detroit. The doctors were able to
reattach my left heel. As for my right leg, I was not so lucky, so I became a
below-the-knee amputee. This, of course, affects me every day. I try to believe I am just like everyone else with just a few extra obstacles. Over the
years I have had five operations. Without them, I would be unable to walk.
Due to the surgeries, I had to stop playing soccer. As a very committed
player, that drove me insane. My mom had heard that several of my friends
were going to play tennis, so she spoke with the
During my freshman year I played doubles
I became a coach.
tennis on crutches, just hopping around the court,
below-the- with my good friend Mary doing most of the
running.
knee amputee Finally I was able to stop using crutches and
walk. When soccer season started, I made the junior
varsity team. The next year tennis conflicted with soccer, so I had to choose.
I picked soccer because I had played since I was seven, and it was my whole
life. I expected to make the high school team, but it was not that easy, because we had a new coach.
When I was cut from the soccer team, I was devastated. Then, all of a
sudden, I stopped crying and told my mom to call the tennis coach and ask if
it was too late for me to play. Now when I look back on that day, though it
was a horrible moment in my life, I am incredibly happy it happened. The
next day I was playing tennis again, except this time I was the number-one
singles player on the team. I loved every minute of it.
My junior year I tried out for varsity tennis and made it. The coach has
always been extremely supportive and always believed in me. I had a wonderful season with a 14-8 record. I was even ranked fourth at our district
tournament and at regionals. This year, as a senior, I will play varsity tennis
again.
Tennis has changed my life. It has made me a more confident person. And
even though I do have a disability, I have never thought of my amputation in
that way. It is just an obstacle in my life that has made me stronger and better. People underestimate me when they see my leg, but when they see what
I can actually do, they are blown away. ✦
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The Blind Side of Truth
Sponsored by
Art by Annie Wang, Mount Laurel, NJ
by Joseph Scannell, Evergreen Park, IL
throw my life away. And maybe you say
I’m overreacting. Okay, that’s fair.
Maybe you don’t care that it is just one cup,
one shot, one puff, but I know me
And that is enough, to grab me, hook me,
end me, and book me. Addiction is a
reality that
could lead to a fatality and if I’m not careful
I could end up who knows where,
and I’ve been there.
And honestly, I would not care to go back.
Most recently World of Warcraft,
I think that is why I don’t drink. Well, I do
but before that it was magic
drink, but not what you think,
acts, and arts and crafts, all coming and
because I know it could all be gone in a
going but getting stronger each time.
blink of an eye.
So if you substitute that with a line, or
Go to a party, get a little high, be one of the
maybe a dime bag,
guys, but I know my grandpa’s
who knows where I will go. I
up there lookin’ down from the
I am sober,
am sober, and I know where I
sky smiling at me because he
want to go.
knows that the only
and I know
I stay clean so that one day I
cocaine I use is when I crack a
can be a Marine. Semper Fi,
joke or take a sip of my Coke. where I want
do or die. Or maybe the FBI.
He hears me sing so he knows
to go
I love writing and reading, not
I’d never smoke, and because I
following, but leading. I lead by example
love my friends,
and I feel that
and I want to see them alive, I never hesitate
is ample to appease Ray up top, so that if
to offer to drive, designated or otherwise.
my life were to stop suddenly,
Don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying my
I wouldn’t be ashamed to face him.
grandpa did crack, smack, or any of that,
but from time to time he might open a bottle I could look him in the eye and I could tell
him that
of wine, or more.
I rose above.
And that tore my father apart.
That without hesitation or contemplation
And that part, he never had to tell me.
I rose above the temptation, and like him,
My grandpa was a civil rights activist
went on to fight for the people of this great
who fought for the black kids and the
nation.
white kids
so that one day too, like Martin Luther King So that’s why if you ask me if I drink, I just
smile.
Jr., they could have a dream.
No thanks, I’m good. I’m driving home in a
I know my grandpa had a dream and it
while.
would seem that he wouldn’t wanna
see me
I rise above. ✦
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
17
pride & prejudice
Silent No More
“I
s he gay?”
“I think so.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Ask him.”
“Hey, are you–”
The last period bell cut off the cacophony of fresh gossip. My ears
burned with embarrassment, and I
walked away as quickly as possible,
feeling clunky and awkward. There
had always been rumors about my sexual orientation, but the painfully
straightforward questions made me
cringe. I tried to shrug off the girls’
malice as ignorance, but I became preoccupied with thought. My blood rose
with anger as I heard their laughter in
the background. Inhibitions blinded, I
rashly shouted, “Some people are so
rude!”
“You f-----t!”
by James, MA
Gradually, I came out to my closest
“Wow! I haven’t heard that before.
friends, then my sister, and finally my
You have to be the wittiest people I’ve
parents. With their support, I grew
encountered.”
more comfortable, and I saw changes
This would have been a perfect rein my disposition. My face no longer
sponse if I had said it aloud. In reality,
reddened at the mention of homosexuas a shy, easily embarrassed freshman,
ality, and instead of slouching away
I had yet to stand up for myself, let
alone defend my sexual
from intrusive questions, I
proudly proclaimed, “Yes,
orientation. I wanted to
I was finally
tell someone what had
I am gay.”
happened, but I was too
able to face the It is difficult for me to
embarrassed by the situapinpoint the moment of
homophobia in my epiphany, but as I
tion. I had experienced
gay jokes and “playful”
gained confidence, I was
my school
comments before, but the
finally able to face the ighateful word those girls
norance and homophobia
had used felt like a knife in my chest.
in my school. I spoke up with authorA myriad of insecurity, second-guessity, and people began to listen and respect me. They recognized that I was
ing, and self-denial silenced me.
not weak because of my sexual orienAfter weeks of agonizing and
tation and that I would not degrade
hiding the secret, I promised myself
myself with silence.
that I would never be silenced again.
Defining Femininity
by Briana Wesleder, Sacramento, CA
We’re Cool Like That
I’m cool like that, I’m proud like that, and I’m African like that.
Not a bloated stomach, not a face encircled by flies, not a beggar’s hand
I am part of a billion people with a million dances and thousands of tongues
to tell not only stories of tears, to play not only in the mourning band
I have a direct link to the origin of all humanity and shout this fact with
my lungs
filled with the sands of the Sahara and the Kalahari.
I’m cool like that, I’m proud like that, and I’m African like that.
You place me in your books and newspapers as one mass face
of AIDS and malaria and TB, always the loser of the human race
I am one piece of a mosaic of 53 countries full of resources and grace
I dream when you come to arm the hungry and take our wealth out of its place
that the Mediterranean and Red Seas, the Indian and Atlantic Oceans would
give chase
to drown your greed and let the waters be its burial place.
I’m cool like that, I’m proud like that, and I’m African like that.
You dare to rescue Africa with aging rock stars and uninspired actors
with agendas that do not include using us as our own benefactors
Listen to our voices filled with wisdom and experience and not be only our
detractors
Listen to Kofi Annan, Nelson Mandela, Wangari Maathai, Wole Soyinka,
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf
Listen to Africa.
Because we’re cool like that, we’re proud like that, and we’re part of humanity
like that.
By Sojourner Ahebee, Philadelphia, PA
Teen Ink •
As my high school life began, a greater diccording to Webster’s New Collegiate
versity
of students crushed these stereotypical
Dictionary, the word feminine refers
notions of femininity. Although the inevitable
to qualities that are “characteristic of
icons of femininity still exist in the media –
or appropriate or peculiar to women.” Had I
such as the petite woman advertising the sex
been the model for this word during my eleappeal of beer – I am now free to do what
mentary school years, the definition might
feels natural to me without isolating myself
have included “awkward,” “messy,” or perfrom the rest of my gender.
haps “unable to adapt to fashionable trends.”
I am proud to say that I am a young woman
My pre-adolescence is best characterized
with
a passion for being herself, even if it
by the paint stains on my skirt, my mud-enmeans straying from the idealistic portrayal of
crusted socks (thanks to kickball), and my infemininity. I am no longer a freak of nature
ability to distinguish an eyeshadow brush
but an individual developing my own sense of
from a Q-tip. It didn’t take me long to realize
the world alongside other female teens. Howthat a majority of girls in my class shivered at
ever, to be a female is to be feminine, is it
the thought of paint touching their polished,
not? So if femininity isn’t centered around
acrylic fingernails. I also came to learn that
cosmetics, tidiness, and a fear of reptiles,
mud-spotted socks were considwhat is it?
ered improper for a girl, and that
Webster’s Dictionary speaks
any female who had yet to experiI am a young the truth of my gender. The word
ment with cosmetics by the sixth
does not refer to the
grade was considered naive.
woman with a “feminine”
traits of physical beauty and perBy eighth grade, I was a blank
passion for
sonality developed solely to atslate upon which my friends entract the opposite sex. No, to be
deavored to inscribe their own
being
herself
feminine is to embrace the
fashion ideals. At sleepovers, I
unique characteristics that are
was the first to be dragged off to
true for all women: our bodies tend to be curthe bathroom and assaulted with makeup and
vaceous, our hair comes in a wide diversity of
hair curlers.
styles, and who could forget our miraculous
These experiences transformed the way I
ability to bear children?
thought about femininity. As I understood it,
When God laid out the blueprints for men
to be a girl was to coat oneself with powders.
and women, he did not specify football and
To be a girl was to only participate in a game
sloppiness for one gender while assigning
if the field was devoid of mud puddles. To be
hair products and elegance to the other.
a girl was to practice cursive until it was as elRather, he left the major aspects of human life
egant as the ink strokes in the Declaration of
up to individual development, distinguishing
Independence. To be a girl was to never laugh
the two genders only by body structure and
or gasp in excitement when one of the boys
reproductive organs.
caught a toad at the edge of the playground.
Put bluntly, to be feminine is not to be a
Considering that I could complete none of
sissy, nor is it to be obsessed with one’s apthese tasks successfully, I considered myself
pearance, and it is certainly not to harbor a
unnatural – a freak who wore loose, misdislike of snakes and spiders. Then again, to
matched clothing, had a fetish for amphibians
be feminine is not to defy all that is pink and
and reptiles, and who had never touched an
glamorous either. To be feminine is to be a
eyeliner pencil for fear of poking out an eyeshareholder in the unique beauty of the feball. Indeed, my future as a woman looked
male gender. ✦
bleak.
A
Photo by Tory Erpenbeck, Edgewood, KY
18
I became a leader in my school, and
during sophomore year, I joined the
Gay-Straight Alliance. My participation has helped me accept myself and
forgive those girls and the others who
have hurt me with their ignorance.
Hate is unproductive. I’ve learned
that I cannot hold grudges or become
bitter toward people who try to hurt
me; their hate comes from misinformation and ignorance. My experiences
have helped me to better understand
homophobic people and to see the
good in many of them.
My trials have been a blessing in
disguise. Though I was knocked down,
I built myself back up with clear goals
and responsibilities. I now have two
objectives: to provide a safe community for gay students, and to educate
those who harass us. ✦
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
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Columbia College Chicago
believes in the power
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Open to high school juniors and seniors
3 prizes of $250 each both in fiction and in poetry.
Students may send one typed entry in each genre.
Entries must be postmarked by March 15, 20.
See http://artsci.wustl.edu/~english/writingprogram/nemerovaward.php
for all details and a list of winners.
Judges are the faculty of the Writing Program at
Send entries to:
Washington University, including fiction writers
Experience AIB
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J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
19
points of view
Sponsored by
Ending the War on Terrorism
roots. Extremist groups exist in every
ince 9/11, fighting terrorism has
religion. It is only when these groups
become a top priority in our nagain power that they become dangertion. Each year, the U.S. spends
ous. This tends to occur when a counbillions of dollars on the war in Iraq,
try is unstable. For example, after the
attempting to dismantle the extremist
Soviet occupation of Afghanistan in
groups that threaten us. However, we
the 1980s, the Taliban took control of
have had troops in Iraq for eight years
the region. If America provides supand still terrorist groups continue to
port to countries experiencing instabiloperate.
ity, we will help prevent terrorist
People in 22 of the 23 countries
groups from taking
surveyed believe that
power.
the war in Iraq hasn’t
According to Benazir
weakened the terrorist
To disarm
Bhutto, Pakistan’s forgroup al-Qaeda, acterrorism, we must mer prime minister who
cording to a global
assassinated in
poll by the BBC
combat poverty, was
2007, “Extremism, miliWorld Service. If
eight years of war
hopelessness, and tancy, terrorism and dictatorship feed off one
have had little effect
on terrorism, it’s obvi- economic disparity another in an environment of poverty, hopeous that America
lessness and economic
needs a new approach.
disparity among social classes.”
To truly work toward a solution, we
Therefore, in order to disarm terrormust help stabilize Muslim countries
ism, we must combat these factors.
associated with terrorist networks. The
The first step to accomplishmost effective way to fight terrorism
ing
this is to support the
in the Middle East is to help these
creation of educational
countries create a thriving economy, a
systems that allow chilfunctional government, and a successdren to rise above the soful educational system.
cial and economic
The war in Iraq is a temporary atsituation of their parents.
tempt at solving the problem of terrorToday, Pakistan spends
ism. Even if troops disable certain
1,400 percent more on its
terrorist groups, they can’t prevent
military budget than on educanew ones from forming. In fact, milition, according to Bhutto in her book,
tary suppression of a country tends to
Reconciliation: Islam, Democracy,
lead to more support for extremist
and the West. As a result, poor comgroups. “Building a gauntlet of secumunities that don’t have access to
rity around the U.S. and pounding
schools either go uneducated or turn to
Muslims into submission isn’t going
militant schools, known as madrassas.
to make the world any safer,” wrote
In the words of Bhutto, “From illiterjournalist Todd Wilkinson in the Bozeacy and poverty stem hopelessness
man Daily Chronicle.
and from hopelessness come desperaTo truly work through the issue of
tion and extremism.”
terrorism, America must look at its
S
Make your opinion count
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Teen Ink has partnered with EBSCO Publishing to create the Teen Ink
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Give us your point of view on any
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20
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
by Kelsey Freeman, Carbondale, CO
Some militant madrassas are seen
as breeding grounds for terrorists
because rather than focusing on education, they “manipulate religion to
brainwash children” into soldiers, according to Bhutto. The U.S. needs to
take the first step in providing international support to help Pakistan and
other Islamic governments prioritize
spending on education. In doing so, it
would begin to prevent extremism.
“There’s nothing which disarms hatred
more thoroughly than the promise of
attaining a better life through peace,”
according to Wilkinson.
Strengthening education in the
Middle East will also boost local
economies. When educated children
surpass the economic status of their
Photo by Stephen Beadles,
parents, a middle class is created.
Milledgeville, GA
Micro loan programs can also aid the
creation of a middle class, which is
source of that aid.” This type of
essential to a strong workforce and a
connection could bring a dramatic
stable country.
turnaround in perceptions of America.
A strong middle class is also essenIn fact, substantial evidence supports
tial for a successful democracy.
this. After the 2005 earthquake in PakWhile the U.S. should not
istan that killed 90,000 people, the
force democracy on any
U.S. donated half a billion dollars for
country, by supporting stareconstruction, and American soldiers
ble, civil governments, we
delivered assistance to freezing and
can keep terrorist netstarving survivors. A poll conducted
works from moving into
by ACNielsen immediately afterward
power. In Saudi Arabia in
showed that favorable views of the
2007, a woman who had been
U.S. increased by over 50 percent. The
gang raped was sentenced by the
same poll indicated “a precipitous
government to 60 lashes and six
drop in support for Osama bin Laden
months in jail. Stability cannot exist in
and al-Qaeda,” according to Bhutto.
this type of unjust government. As the
Direct and visible support from the
book Enhancing Peace insightfully arU.S. creates dramatic changes in perticulates, “Letting social inequities and
ceptions over a short period of time.
injustices fester provides a rich breedCreating and supporting organizaing ground for terrorists.”
tions that stabilize the Middle East
There is currently a strong sense in
should be regarded by the U.S. as
the Muslim world that the West wishes
long-term investments against terrorto impose its values on other societies
ism. Through the Marshall Plan, imand undermine Islamic culture. Many
plemented in Europe after World War
moderate Muslims see
II, the U.S. spent about
the global war on ter$13 billion to aid the
ror as a war on Islam, Military suppression recovery of European
according to Bhutto.
countries. The moderntends to lead to
This is not the image
day equivalent of that
that will help the U.S.
is about $185
more support for amount
build allies.
billion. This money
America needs to
extremist groups could be spent on rebuild a strong relationbuilding the Middle
ship with the Middle
East, and if this cost
East to combat terrorism. When we
were shared by North America, the
earn the trust of moderate Muslims,
European Union, Japan and China, the
we can join with them to overthrow
U.S. would contribute just $37 billion,
extremist groups. This method aided
compared to the estimated $2 trillion
the U.S. immensely during the war in
for the war in Iraq by the time it has
Afghanistan when we sided with the
ended.
Northern Alliance (the anti-Taliban
But a solution shouldn’t just be
coalition made up of several Islamic
about writing checks. It should be
ethnic groups) to overthrow the
about Americans working with Iraqi
Taliban.
citizens to support visible, clear, and
How can we create the type of
direct programs that give people what
dramatic change in perception that’s
they need. This type of solution not
needed? The answer is to invest
only makes sense for the U.S. but is
against terrorism by stabilizing the
morally right. To paraphrase Greg
Middle East. As Bhutto wrote, “When
Mortenson – who has spent the last
ordinary people identify assistance
decade building schools in Afghanimproving their lives and the lives of
istan and Pakistan – money can fund
their children, they bond with the
wars; it can also prevent them. ✦
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Jennifer Evans, Winchester, VA
and may commit more acts of violence – possibly
very day in the United States animals are
against humans.
beaten, neglected, or forced to struggle for surIt is hard to tell just what drives people to harm
vival. Left in unsanitary conditions with no
innocent animals. “According to a 1997 study done by
food or water, they have little hope as they live out
the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Crutheir days without the compassion they deserve. Some
elty to Animals and Northeastern University, animal
are found and rescued, given the chance to experience
abusers are five times more likely to commit violent
how great life and humans can be; others aren’t so
crimes against people and four times more likely to
lucky. To grow as a nation, we must fight for these
commit property crimes than are individuals without a
abused animals’ rights and severely punish heartless
history of animal abuse,” says Pet-abuse.com. It is
owners. It is up to us to speak for these creatures who
vital to report people who hurt animals. Most animal
lack a voice, for who will if we don’t?
abusers find some sort of fulfillment or power in torOne of the first steps in protecting animals and
turing a victim they know can’t fight
creating effective cruelty laws is
back, which is why crimes like rape
knowing what animal cruelty actually
is. There are two categories: passive
“Animal abusers and child molestation are committed.
While not all animal abusers become
cruelty and active cruelty. The first
are five times more serial killers or rapists, it is important
involves acts of omission, meaning
the abuse happens as a result of neglikely to commit to take every case seriously.
For example, Carroll Edward Cole
lect or lack of action. Passive cruelty
violent crimes
was a West Coast serial killer who may
might seem less serious, but that is
murdered as many as 35 women
not the case; it can lead to terrible
against people” have
in the 1970s and ’80s, and was exepain and suffering, and ultimately
cuted in 1985. Based on Cole’s testideath. Examples include starvation,
mony, his first violent act was strangling a puppy. The
dehydration, untreated parasite infestations, inadeColumbine school shooting is another example of
quate shelter in extreme weather conditions, and the
animal abuse as a precursor to human violence. Befailure to get medical care. Passive cruelty is somefore killing 12 classmates and then turning the guns
times due to the owner’s ignorance, so many animal
on themselves, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebod had
control officers will first try to educate neglectful
bragged to friends about mutilating animals. If these
owners on how to properly care for animals before
acts had been reported to authorities and taken serigiving them a citation or placing them under arrest.
ously, these two young men might have been put in a
Active cruelty, on the other hand, is more well
proper facility and helped, possibly avoiding the
known and disturbing. Sometimes referred to as nonhorrific massacre.
accidental injury, this type of abuse involves purposeGiven these examples, it’s hard to imagine why all
fully inflicting harm on an animal in order to feel
states
don’t take animal cruelty seriously. Alaska,
more powerful or gain control. Active cruelty against
Arkansas, Idaho, Mississippi, North Dakota, and
animals should be taken very seriously, since it can be
South Dakota have no felony provisions for cruelty to
a sign that a person has serious psychological issues
E
Agent Orange
by Tehreem Rehman, Huntington, NY
glands, and cancer of the lungs, larynx, and
here is no denying that the Vietnam War
prostate. However, it is not these immediate
was one of the most devastating military
effects of Agent Orange that are raising eyeconflicts in the history of the United
brows and eliciting bewilderment and shock.
States. Costing over $150 billion and resulting in
Due to the persistence of the chemical dioxin,
more than 55,000 American casualties, the war
the Vietnamese living in the sprayed areas conbrought much suffering to the U.S. However, we
tinue to inhale it and ingest it in their food.
left behind a legacy that is arguably even more
According to BBC News, “there is still talk of
disastrous and continues to bring misery to the
evacuating contaminated areas a quarter of a
Vietnamese people decades later: the lasting
century after the spraying
effects of Agent Orange.
stopped.”
According to the U.S. DepartBirth defects among Vietnamese
ment of Veteran Affairs, “approxiBirth defects are children
born in the sprayed areas
mately 20 million gallons of
common among are common. Not only do babies
herbicides were used in Vietnam
have an increased rate of cancer
between 1962 and 1971 to remove
Vietnamese
and brain damage, but many are
unwanted plant life and leaves
born with terrible deformities such
which otherwise provided cover
children
as coned or oddly shaped heads,
for enemy forces during the Vieteyeballs literally bulging out, and
nam Conflict.” Agent Orange, one
disproportionate limbs.
of those herbicides, contained the chemical
Until 2002, the U.S. denied that dioxin from
dioxin, which is a suspected carcinogen. Traces
Agent Orange was responsible for the health isof dioxin can be found in food all over the world.
sues of the Vietnamese in the sprayed areas, but
The chemical is slow to degrade, so generations
in 2007 President Bush pledged $3 million to
of Vietnamese are still feeling the adverse effects
help fix the contaminated areas.
of it.
Whether or not the U.S. should have employed
During the war, Agent Orange affected the
chemical warfare in Vietnam is a separate deVietnamese and American soldiers and citizens
bate, but the terrible legacy of Agent Orange
alike. No matter what side of the battlefield, all
must prevent future use of chemicals on the
suffered from similar ailments including severe
battlefield. ✦
skin diseases, damaged nerves and lymphatic
T
LINK
YOUR
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animals. According to the Humane Society, a good
felony anticruelty law should protect all animals,
apply to first-time offenders, carry large fines and
lengthy prison time, have no exemptions, require
convicted abusers to get counseling at their own
expense, and prohibit abusers from owning or living
among animals. Along with these laws we need officials who will strongly enforce them. Police, psychologists, and even the FBI recognize the link between
animal cruelty and violence against people. To better
protect communities, all states should institute strong
penalties and work to increase public awareness of
these crimes.
It’s not only up to the legal system to ensure that
communities across the country are aware and educated about animal cruelty. There are plenty of things
everyday citizens can do. The simplest action is for
people to take care of their own pets and learn the
facts so they can educate others on proper animal
care. Another easy way to help is by donating to or
volunteering at a local animal shelter. Contrary to
popular belief, volunteering doesn’t require a lot of
time; simply going in a few hours a week helps
tremendously. Finally, by writing letters you can
remind your local lawmakers that animal abuse is a
real problem that needs to be addressed. Taking a few
minutes to support this worthy cause not only helps
animals, it allows you to feel proud about standing up
for something so important to society.
It is our job to be the voice for creatures who cannot speak up for themselves. As a nation we need to
make it our priority to come together and ensure the
safety of our beloved pets. As Margaret Mead once
said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful,
committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is
the only thing that ever has.” ✦
environment
Animal Cruelty Must Stop
Even in Nature
Even in nature,
it is only in stillness that one can ever see nature: See
the ever-moving ants, the gray cat-furred moths in
constant motion. The black widow spinning
thick meshes of white web in the splintered skeletons
of long fallen trees.
The electric-blue tails of dragonflies vivid against the ordinary
greens and browns of midsummer.
It is only when one doesn’t look for the unnoticed
that the unnoticed is found.
Unnoticed:
a ladybug rests in the crook of a frond pecked with sun spots.
Her orangey pigment is an ordinary phenomenon in the
woodland myriad.
Flecks of orange mushrooms
Dot the shade beneath a yellow birch.
The sound of a stream
Trickling over brown stones and grainy, silvery soil
Illuminated by lightning flickers of sun through the maple copses
Black, loamy mud congested with rotting leaves
The fat thrum of cicadas
Birds warbling, crying from undetectable, dusky places.
A Clouded Sulfur flitting on soft wings,
Pausing now and again
to balance itself on a blade of grass
by Corinne Gaston, Bryn Mawr, PA
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
21
Teen Ink • January ’10 • Page 22
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
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Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
Since 1904
An independent, accredited,
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located in Cincinnati.
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Our nurturing environment embraces
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www.artacademy.edu • 800-323-5692
1212 Jackson Street • Cincinnati, OH 45202
• Academicexcellence
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61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
1-508-373-9400 • www.beckercollege.edu
www.assumption.edu
BURLINGTON
COLLEGE
A private, co-ed institution
offering certificates, associate’s and
bachelor’s degree programs in the
engineering and technology fields.
41 Berkeley Street, Boston, MA 02116
877-400-BFIT • admissions@bfit.edu
Columbia College
Chicago
Learn to Write: Fiction Writing Department
Learn skills to help you
publish fiction, creative nonfiction
and scripts and to succeed in a
wide range of jobs – at one of
America’s premier writing programs
600 S. Michigan Chicago, IL 60605
admissions@popmail.colum.edu
www.colum.edu
A religiously-affiliated liberal arts
college located just outside of
Philadelphia offering an outstanding
and truly personalized academic
experience grounded in an
environment of faith.
2895 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA, 19009
267-502-2511
www.brynathyn.edu
CORNELL
U N I V E R S I T Y
Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a
land-grant college, combines two great
traditions. A truly American institution,
Cornell was founded in 1895 and remains a place where “any person can
find instruction in any study.”
410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
www.cornell.edu
E
arn a B.A. on or
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attend classes at The
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a civically engaged
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800/862-9616
Dartmouth
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
CVA is a private, accredited, four-year college
of art and design offering Bachelor of Fine Arts
degrees in graphic design/interactive, illustration,
photography, drawing/painting, sculpture, and
interdisciplinary art and design studies.
Liberal arts college with an emphasis
on preparing leaders in business,
government and the professions.
Best of both worlds as a member of
The Claremont Colleges. Suburban
location near Los Angeles.
College of
Visual Arts
344 Summit Avenue
Saint Paul, Minnesota
55102
651.224.3416
CVA
890 Columbia Ave.
Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
w w w.cva.edu
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE
$%,!7!2% 6!,,%9 #/,,%'%
• 1,600 Undergraduate Students
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Franklin, MA 02038
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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
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
140 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: admissions@duq.edu
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
An experience of a
lifetime, with experience
for a lifetime.
BUSINESS
CULINARY ARTS
HOSPITALITY
TECHNOLOGY
Providence, Rhode Island
1-800-342-5598
www.jwu.edu
Excellent Programs.
Programs.
Excellent
Outstanding Facility.
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Faculty.
Affordable Cost.
Cost.
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337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
inquiry and care of the whole
student, in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where YOU
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
Earn a BA in Global Studies while
studying at our centers in Costa
Rica, India, China, NYC or with
our programs in Australia, Taiwan,
Turkey and Thailand!
Hamilton College is a national
leader for teaching students
to write effectively,
learn from each other
and think for themselves.
9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 • globalcollege@liu.edu
Writing resources from a writing college:
www.hamilton.edu/teenink
Hofstra University can help you
get where you want to go, with
small classes, dedicated faculty
and an energized campus.
hofstra.edu • 1-800-HOFSTRA
admission@hofstra.edu
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.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
Add your college
to this monthly directory.
Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
617-964-6800
Teen Ink • January ’10 • Page 23
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
MyMarywood.com
A visual arts college north of Boston
where creativity and independence
thrive through choice, connection
and community. BFA and Diploma
programs. Founded by artists to
educate artists.
www.montserrat.edu • 800.836.0487
admissions@montserrat.edu
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
· Over 40 undergraduate programs
offered with Dual Admissions into
graduate and professional schools
· Located in Fort Lauderdale, FL
· New state-of-the-art Performing
and Visual Arts facilities
www.nova.edu/admissions
(800) 338-4723
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
• 100+ campus organizations
• 23 NCAA Division III sports
• A tradition of service-learning
61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu
Pace University offers talented and
ambitious students the opportunity to
discover their potential and realize their
dreams. Campuses in New York City
and Pleasantville, NY.
Experience the Power of Pace.
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
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• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
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One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: jaaron@pratt.edu
www.pratt.edu
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email infoctr@pace.edu
www.pace.edu
Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
Princeton
degrees that work.
BACHELOR X ASSOCIATE X CERTIFICATE
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
Arts & Sciences, Business Administration,
Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
SlipperyRock
University
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh, the University is ranked number five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic quality at an affordable price.
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
75 years of keeping Hands-on in Higher Education
Training Pilots and Technicians for
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A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
8820 East Pine St.
Tulsa, OK, 74115
800-331-1204
www.spartan.edu
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
SWARTHMORE
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
TM
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
you can go
beyond
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
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Open to girls currently in grades 9-12
interview
24
Authors Emma McLaughlin & Nicola Kraus
A
lumnae of NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, Emma McLaughlin and
Nicola Kraus are successful cowriters of
many best-selling novels. They met at NYU and
developed a friendship while working as nannies in the wealthiest neighborhoods of New
York City. Since 2002 when their first novel, The
Nanny Diaries, was published, McLaughlin and
Kraus have written three other books: Citizen
Girl, Dedication, and The Real Real. They keep
their readers interested with their witty humor
and looking for their next novel in bookstores.
can be. You certainly have to hold yourself accountable for making sure it’s interesting to other people,
but you can’t spend too much time thinking about
whether it’s going to be liked or not.
Interview by
Lauren Kosydar, Eagle, ID
How would you describe yourselves as teens?
Kraus: I was a hot mess. When I turned 33, a
friend said, “To me, you were always 33.” I really
loved the world of adults, and I was excited to become a part of it, which is a strange quality in a 14year-old. I loved to read. I loved anything that took
me away from the monotony of adolescence existence and transported me somewhere more glamorous or dangerous or exciting.
McLaughlin: The ironic thing is that, in our culture
now, it seems that women in their twenties and thirties are really nostalgic to live the life of teenagers.
But when we were teenagers, adults were further
away than they feel now. Adults are, in a weird way,
trying to be teens now.
As teens, were you enthusiastic readers?
McLaughlin: We read a fair amount of teen fiction,
but the genre was so different then. We are surprised
now and really happy when we go to libraries and
see a whole room devoted to books especially for
teens. When we were growing up, libraries had a
children’s department and the adult department, and
on the desk there was a little magazine rack that had
The Nanny Diaries is based on your time spent
maybe seven books on it, and that was considered the
as nannies during college. How did
YA section. But for us, Judy Blume was a
this experience help you grow as
huge influence. And then there were the
writers?
classics.
For teens who are going through that phase of
It’s
important
Nicola Kraus: We were at an age
wanting to grow up quickly, what advice would
where you are really looking for role
to us to present What current novels and authors
you give them?
models, and being dropped into one of
would
you
recommend
to
young
Kraus: Patience. You will be an adult before you
strong female
the wealthiest communities in the counpeople today?
know it, and I think anything you do to nurture your
try – if not the world – you think that
role models
McLaughlin: We have a good friend
life is only going to make adulthood a richer experiyou are going to find that. It was a huge
Sarah Mlynowski who has written quite a
ence. So, if you love to read, read. If you like musesurprise for us to find that there was
bit of teen fiction and women’s fiction,
ums (even if your friends think it’s weird, you don’t
nothing we wanted to take away from that commuand she is a wonderful writer.
need to tell anyone), just go. Or go to movies by
nity after working there for a number of years. They
Kraus: Alison McGee has a beautiful voice.
yourself, or whatever it is that feeds you and stimusay money can’t buy happiness. We were looking for
McLaughlin: We are huge fans of David Sedaris.
lates your imagination and passes the time. There is
happiness, and it wasn’t in those walls. We had no
His story “SantaLand Diaries,” about being an elf for
no need to be anxious, because the one certainty is
idea at that point that we were going to write a book
the Macy’s Christmas season, actually inspired us to
that adulthood is coming.
about our experience; it was just a job. Five years
write The Nanny Diaries.
later, the idea of writing about it came to us.
Who do you think are good role models for
What do you hope readers will take from
teens?
your books?
Kraus: I have a funny story about that. When I was
Kraus: We primarily would like them to have a
in twelfth grade, I was responsible for handing out a
good time with any of our books. We want people to
survey to the student body asking which woman they
be entertained. We are also concerned that people
most looked up to. Five hundred and ninety-nine
want to keep turning the pages. We love it when we
girls said Madonna and one picked a female scientist.
hear that someone missed work or a subway stop or
As I sat in the headmistress’s office to count the resleep because they had to keep reading. That’s the
sults, she was horrified. She wanted to know, what is
primary goal. And within that, there is always some
it about this dreadful woman that inspires girls? And
issue that we are fascinated with and want to raise in
I said, you know, because she could kick any of our
a sneaky way. You know, Nanny talks about domestic
boyfriends’ a--es. Madonna portrayed this image of
workers, and Citizen Girl talks about feminism, and
being strong and powerful and owning oneself and
our latest book, The Real Real, looks at reality televinot apologizing for anything. Everyone found this
sion and how it has permeated our lives. So we like
image of a women exhilarating.
there to be some substance and a message, but it
should be subtle, I think.
In my community the teen depression rate is
McLaughlin: And with all of our books, there is a
growing rapidly. Do you have any advice for
teens who are suffering from selfstrong female heroine who is the voice.
doubt?
In a lot of contemporary women’s fiction
Kraus: I learned at one point that
To
be
able
and, to a lesser degree, teen fiction, fredepression is actually the suppression
quently the heroine is portrayed as
to make a
of one emotion, which then suppresses
somewhat incompetent. That creates a
all of them. Usually the suppressed emolot of hilarity and funny scenarios, but
living doing
tion is anger, which makes sense if anger
often the joke is at her expense. In our
something you is defined as powerlessness. As a
stories, we like to say the heroine is not
the jerk, but rather the person she is
love is success teenager I think you feel like so much is
happening to you and you don’t have
dealing with is. It’s important to us to
control over your life. So that returns
present strong female role models who
to what Emma and I were talking about: having
are certainly human and make mistakes, but are esEmma McLaughlin & Nicola Kraus (credit: Victoria Will)
patience and faith ….
sentially trying to do the right thing, and use humor
McLaughlin: Not religious faith, but just hunkerto guide themselves.
ing
down with the cosmic belief that this is not forWhat was the main experience that helped you
ever.
And when all else fails, stay hydrated, eat
You
are
successful
writers
by
a
lot
of
people’s
get confident with your writing?
standards,
but
how
do
you
define
success?
healthy,
and get your heart rate up with exercise.
Emma McLaughlin: When we were writing The
Kraus: I think happiness is how we define success.
Nanny Diaries, neither of us had written a book, and
What advice would you give teenagers who are
We are so blessed to love what we do. To be able to
we certainly hadn’t written one as a team. I got some
aspiring writers?
make
a
living
doing
something
you
love
is
success.
degree of confidence because I could make Nicki
Kraus: Build up those muscles of consistently crelaugh. And from that point on, and still today, I really
ating even when you are not feeling inspired. You can
My
friends
and
I
who
are
writers
feel
that
we
write for her. She is my primary audience. I’m still
see the world differently from most people at
create exercises for yourself, like picking a book off
nervous when I present my writing to her, but once
our school. Did you ever have that feeling
the shelf with your eyes closed, looking at the first
she is great with it, then I feel confident.
when you were a teenager?
sentence, and writing your own first chapter based on
You have to write with blinders on and really comKraus: All the time.
that. Sign up for writing classes at your local YMCA,
mit to making something that you feel is as good as it
McLaughlin: Yeah. We still do.
church, or community center. It’s a great way of
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interview
How much attention do you pay to the both
positive and negative opinions of the public of
your work?
McLaughlin: I think that’s been a real learning
process for us. I usually let somebody read the review
first and if it’s positive, or negative but done in a
thoughtful and productive way (which is rare), then I
will read it. I always remember that Maya Angelou
said, “If you don’t pick it up you don’t have to put it
down.”
over my computer from “Memory House,” a play by
Kathleen Tolan. Throughout the play a girl is trying to
write her college application essay and it’s the zero
hour and she has to get it done. And then her mother
says, “Do the thing. It’s what’s in front of you.” When
I am really getting scattered, I think of that.
Are there any future projects that you hope to
do that are unlike anything you have done
before?
Kraus: We are currently working on a
second young adult novel that’s in the
Do you believe writing is a lonely
third person, which we have never done
way of expressing your emotions?
We keep
before. We’re having an enormously good
Kraus: We are so lucky to have each
challenging
time with that.
other in that regard. I checked in with
McLaughlin: We have a running joke
Emma so many times today about the
ourselves
Nicola and Emma
that we keep challenging ourselves unwitscene I was working on, about the structingly. It’s not that we set out to climb
ture, and then I needed to call her beunwittingly
getting in a habit, getting feedback, and meeting peoEverest each time …. With Nanny, we had
cause I was just having a rough day.
ple. Blogging can also be a great way of generating
never written a book before, and then with
There are obviously people who comon a regular basis.
Girl we were tackling such a thorny subject, and we
pletely thrive on the isolation of writing. But for us, I
had to invent an entire business model and then crash
think
we
would
get
too
lonely.
Describe the writing process you have
it. So that was a perpetual migraine. Our editor has
developed.
What
do
you
think
is
the
biggest
problem
facing
asked us, “What’s next, a Western?”
McLaughlin: We start by outlining. Nicki and I eiteenagers today?
ther talk or get together for lunch every weekday and
Kraus: I don’t envy having to navigate this virtual
How can fans stay updated on what you’re
catch up on everything we have been watching and
doing?
world that didn’t exist when we were teenagers. You
reading and listening to and talking to other people
McLaughlin: Check us out on our website,
are putting so much information out there and it is so
about. Usually the topics for our books come because
emmaandnicola.com. You can find out from our
challenging to manage being perceived on so many
we are having the same conversations over and over.
newsletters when we will be visiting a library in your
fronts, like making sure your Tweets are funny and
There is usually something that we hone in on that we
area or when we have new book coming out. If people
your Facebook page is updated. It just seems like
feel is not being talked about. With The Real Real, it
have more specific questions, they can reach out to us
there are so many different venues for having to make
was reality television.
through that website or Facebook or MySpace. ✦
a good impression. To me, that seems exhausting.
So once we have our thesis, we sit down together
McLaughlin: I am feeling really old during this
and outline, then we hammer out the details of the
interview. I grew up in upstate
story and the characters, and that usually takes a couNew York and remember when
ple of weeks. Once we have nailed down everything,
everyone would open their lockers
we break that outline up into scenes – anywhere from
in high school and your identity
a couple of paragraphs to a couple of pages – and we
was on that 16 inches of metal on
take separate scenes and go off for a period of months
the inside – what pictures you put
and generate separately. We usually call each other
there, how you decorated it. Luckevery few days and read what we have written.
ily all teens are going through
When that’s done, we e-mail each other our scenes,
these culture changes together. We
edit each other, and then string them all into one dochave such respect for what you
ument. From that point on, we edit it over and over
guys are navigating right now.
and over again, working with our editor. And then we
We just came back from a trishand it in. Nicki, do you want to talk about the editotate library tour and went to a ton
rial process and the three stages?
of libraries in Connecticut, New
Kraus: Sure. When we are first generating we have
Jersey, and New York where we
what we like to call the “vomit” phase where we just
met with teenagers. We’re amazed
get it down. Just put something on paper, don’t overat what they’re worrythink, don’t go back and re-read, and don’t
ing about, their consecond-guess yourself. And then once we
sciousness of the
have something we can start editing. We
We are so
economy and how it’s
look at it first through a stranger’s eyes.
lucky to have impacting their families
Will they get the time of year, the gender
and their futures, even
of the protagonist, the time of day?
each other
thinking about how they
Once we have those details locked
For more information, e-mail us at
are going to mix workdown, the third phase is to look at it and
ing and parenting –
NYC@TeenTnk.com
ask why should anyone care? What mystery has yet to
things we weren’t worrying about
be answered that’s going to keep someone turning the
until later.
pages? We find that it’s important to have one large,
overarching question, which is usually very simple. In
Would you like to share any
Twilight it’s are they ever going to get together? And
quotes or advice that inspired
then there are little questions, like what’s her first day you?
at school going to be like? Is he going to come sit
Kraus: Harvey Fierstein sent me
next to her? Is she going to make a friend? Just little
a card when I was 13 that said,
things you are wondering from chapter to chapter that
“May I wish you the very best suckeep the story moving.
cess with your own writing. Just
Open to girls
We find it’s important to constantly step back from
keep your heart and ears open alcurrently
in
grades 9-12
our storytelling voice and look at it from a larger perways; the rest is easy.” That was
spective and ask what shouldn’t we divulge in this
the best advice on writing I have
scene because we are going to want people to be curiWriting courses • Individual instruction • Tours
ever gotten.
ous about it moving forward?
McLaughlin: And I have a quote
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25
travel & culture
Living in Senegal
by Amandalee Arnold,
Jacksonville, FL
rebuild houses after heavy rains or sandstorms have
y family has lived in Bakel, a small town
demolished them. We have also helped build a
in Senegal, for 16 years – all my life. We
sports center where kids play soccer or basketball.
come to America every four years, but I
What I love most, though, is helping in the
much prefer Africa. It’s my home. Every day, I feel
schools. We build desks, make walls to protect the
like I am helping the people around me, and I love
schools, repaint the blackboards, and paint the
it. I feel like I am giving hope to the hopeless. In
classrooms. I especially enjoy beautifying the
the big picture, I’m not making much of a differclassrooms so they are fun to be in, instead of just
ence, but for a few individuals, I am, and that’s
plain, cement walls.
what matters to me.
Bakel is always full of trash. No one cares where
Every Sunday, I visit the Doukoure family. I go
they throw their leftover food, garbage,
early so I can go to the market with the
old things. They just dump them on
women. We walk the five miles to
In Africa, we or
the side of the road. In our neighbortown, where they bargain for the day’s
food. My favorite dish is tcheb, so they
have learned hood, my dad has built large garbage
bins for people to throw their trash into.
buy fish, cabbage, rice, pepper, and
that even the We burn the garbage, always making
vegetables if it’s the farming season.
room for more. Little by little our
After getting the necessities, we make
little things
neighborhood is becoming a cleaner
our long trek back. Then I help prepare
count
place to live. My siblings and I set a
the meal.
good example by putting our trash into
After lunch, I love to play with the
the bins, and we try to influence the younger kids
kids. I bring a jump rope, crayons and paper, and
by throwing our gum and candy wrappers away
balloons. They especially love the balloons, bealso. Living in Africa, we have learned that even
cause most of them have never seen anything like
the little things count.
that before. They treat me like part of the family,
I wouldn’t take back any of the time I have spent
always welcoming me, asking me for help, giving
in Africa. Living there has taught me to love others
me tea, and letting me accompany them to the river
and help the less fortunate. Helping the community,
to swim and wash clothes. They accept me even
even through small acts, can make a big difference.
though I am white and from a completely different
Visiting families, painting classrooms, and making
culture. They call me Assiya Doukoure, which
the community a cleaner place are a part of our life
means I am part of their family. I am honored,
there. We have become so much more than the
because they are always in my heart.
white Americans in the community. We have beAt Christmas and during the summers, my famcome a part of Bakel and a part of their families. ✦
ily does projects for the community. Sometimes we
M
Two Countries
M
oving to a different city or
state may seem pretty difficult. You have to change
schools, say good-bye to good friends,
meet new kids, and get used to your
new home. But you can always go
back to that state or city to visit. Now,
when you change or move to another
country, that’s a different story.
My parents are missionaries. My
dad, who is Brazilian, is really funny
and can make friends quickly. He’s
easy to talk to, always tries to help
by Nathalie Lacerda, Ananindeua, Brazil
everyone, and is extremely outgoing.
My mom, who is Swiss, is usually
quiet and a bit shy. She likes to be
very organized, while my dad is a specialist in procrastinating. She enjoys
staying home to watch a movie or
read a book, while my dad always
wants to go out. Swiss and Brazilian –
what a mix!
After my parents married, they
moved to my mom’s country, Switzerland. There they had my brother and
me. When I was two, we moved to
Photo by Kailey Etzoldd, Crownsville, MD
26
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Photo by Avery Edelman, Willow, NY
Jackson
Heights
My native blood runs
along with the rush of wind
carrying the aroma of biryani and curry
the colors of the saris
bring out the vibrant rainbows
as the women walk
while their children whine
for a lick of kulfi
and the husbands bargain and argue
over the price of gold
As dusk arrives, the traffic swiftly grows
I hear the ripples of my tongue all around
the sweet sound of a hummingbird’s music
when twilight approaches
my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles
all go back to their own nests
as do I
Deep into the night
I hear the rustling of the leaves
the swaying of the trees
their whispers calling me back once again
and that night I dream
I dream of my beautiful country, Bangladesh,
which also lies in a little place I found
my home New York City
Brazil, where my sister
and other brother were
born. During my childhood we visited Switzerland every couple of
years.
by Rabaya Rahman, Woodside, NY
Many people ask me if
I prefer to live in Brazil
or Switzerland. It’s really
hard to answer because I
from Brazilians; they are typically
love both countries. Brazil is a big
well-off, independent, responsible,
country, with many states and people.
and really organized, like my mom.
There are multiple dialects and acThe food is delicious; there’s fondue,
cents of Portuguese, depending on the
raclette (potatoes with melted cheese),
region, and many types of foods and
and of course, the famous Swiss
spices (and in my opinion, the best
chocolate. The climate is
barbecue in the world).
always dry and cool.
The people have beautiful
People ask me
Truly, I love both
smiles and are always
countries.
But I think I
happy, even if they are
if I prefer to live prefer Switzerland.
It’s
poor.
in Brazil or
hard to explain, but when
When you walk down
I go there, I feel cozy,
the street you will always
Switzerland
happy, excited, and at
see little kids playing sochome. When I walk down
cer. In the south, the clithe street, everywhere I look it’s just
mate is cool, but here in the north
pleasant, calm, peaceful.
(where I live) it’s hot and humid.
In a few years I will have to decide
Luckily, there’s wonderful rain every
where to go to college. I don’t know
afternoon that refreshes everything.
where I want to live – here in Brazil,
Switzerland, on the other hand, is
Switzerland, or even the United
small but beautiful and clean, and
States. But for now I am happy here,
there’s little crime. There are four lanin this magnificent country, this hot
guages in that tiny country (amazing,
Brazil. ✦
huh?). The people are very different
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B
eing normal is not all it’s
cracked up to be. At least, that’s
what I used to tell myself whenever I was reminded of how “abnormal” my family was.
The story begins about 27 years ago,
when my dad emigrated from Nigeria
to the U.S. to attend college. The fouryear stay became permanent, at which
point my mom joined him. Relocating
wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but then
my parents decided to have children,
unaware of the cultural difficulties
ahead for them.
My personal battle for normalcy
began when I was six, the day my
grandma arrived. I was so excited
when my mom told me that I nearly
flew out the bus window with all my
bouncing. In my mind, I pictured a
white-haired old lady who would bake
cookies and read us bedtime stories – if
only I had known.
The bus dropped me at the end of the
street and I sprinted home. When I
threw open our door, an odd smell hit
me. It was damp and heavy, as if someone had dumped a hundred different
spices unto a wet wooden floor. It
stung my nose, but I ignored it as I
searched for my grandma.
Disappointment is a weird feeling.
First it seems like someone has kicked
you in the stomach, then you feel exhausted, like some supreme being is
sucking the life out of you. That’s how
I felt when I saw her. She barely
reached five feet and had jet black hair
and brown teeth. She wore two coats
and a winter hat. Next to her was an
by Keziah Ojika, New Brighton, MN
When we were in public, I always
open suitcase laced with duct tape and
felt that my parents spoke too loudly in
overflowing with bags of spices, which
their thick accents. I worried that
explained the smell. She couldn’t
everyone was staring at us. At school I
speak a word of English except for
couldn’t identify with anything my
“Hi.”
classmates did with their families, like
After my grandma came to live with
tubing, going to a cabin, visiting
us, I hated having friends over.
grandparents, or trick or treating (it
Grandma wasn’t used to white people,
was against our beliefs), so I didn’t fit
so whenever I brought a friend over to
in. All we did on weekends was go to
play, she would follow us around sayNigerian parties where the adults
ing “Hi.” She wore a heavy coat and a
danced and the kids ran around unsubright red ski mask because she wasn’t
pervised and destroyed everything. So,
used to the cold. One time a friend
at school, I usually kept to myself. It
even called her mother to come pick
was lonely.
her up because she was
When I started middle
scared of my grandma.
I came back from school, things went from
My mom’s cooking
bad to worse. There were
was another reason I
Nigeria with a
more black kids, and they
didn’t have friends over
very often. It always in- newfound respect expected me to be someone I was not. It didn’t
volved oil, heavy spices,
for my culture
take them long to figure
and fish. Often she
out I was different. Soon
would go to a slaughterthe questions started: “Why do you
house and bring home huge hunks of
talk like that?” “Why do you act
beef to cut up on the kitchen table for
white?” How was I supposed to antraditional Nigerian dishes. I didn’t
swer? The whole situation made me
know how to explain this to others.
feel defective. So I blamed my parents,
They’d see the meat and look like they
scrutinizing and resenting all the ways
were about to pass out. The worst was
they were different.
when a friend was looking through our
I was tired of pretending. I was tired
fridge for a snack and spotted a tub of
of going to school smelling like fish. I
green glop.
wanted puppies and horses on my fold“Eww!” she cried. “What is that?!”
ers. I wanted long hair I could put up in
I said “eww” too and pretended I
a ponytail. I wanted to invite friends
didn’t know, but actually I couldn’t
over and not be ashamed, and I wanted
wait for her to leave so I could eat some.
my mom to pack me a normal lunch
After that, I devised Operation House
with a peanut butter and jelly sandPainting. If anyone asked to come over,
wich. Was this too much to ask?
I told them we were having our walls
I changed my name in hopes of
painted; this worked for four years.
Just One Photo
by Stephanie Feld,
Richmond Hill, ON, Canada
were whisked to the year 1935, when all the turmoil
s I walked into the children’s section of the
started. As we progressed through the museum, we
Holocaust History Museum, I stopped dead in
saw how the violence became more and more severe.
my tracks. I wasn’t sure what I had been exAs we continued to the beginning of the war, it was
pecting … but certainly not this. It was dark with little
terrifying to see how all the hatred became an excuse
flickering lights everywhere. Millions of shining beato kill. It was obviously very sad, and people were crycons of hope, one for each child who died in the Holoing; however, there was also hope. Throughout the
caust. Their names and ages were being read slowly
museum there were stories of people
by a speaker. We were in Israel, outside
who managed to escape and thousands
of Jerusalem.
of others who found ways to help the
My visit to Israel with my family was
We opened
persecuted, even though they were riskincredible. We walked around the relics
ing their own lives.
the doors and
of ancient cities, swam – well, more like
Finally, we entered one of the last
floated, really – in the Dead Sea, drove
entered a gateway rooms.
It was 1945, the last year of the
in Jeeps through the countryside, rode a
war.
The
atrocities were increasing. Peocamel, and even swam with dolphins.
through time
ple were left without family, without
We experienced the culture in a whole
homes, without anything, yet there was
new way. This trip opened up a new
one beacon of hope. As we walked through the last
world to me.
door, it opened up to a huge window overlooking
I took thousands of pictures so I would remember
Jerusalem and all of Israel. This was when I realized
all the fun, unique things we did. However, there was
the significance of this country. It means everything to
one place we visited where I only took one. I knew
millions of people around the world. It means home,
that was all I would need to remember that special
family, faith – but most of all, hope.
place. It was the Holocaust History Museum.
That’s when I took my photograph. That one picture
Knowing that was where we were going, I’ll admit I
tells so much. As it says in Israel’s national anthem,
was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. We opened
“Our hope is not yet lost,” nor should it ever be. ✦
the doors and entered a gateway through time. We
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distancing myself from my culture. I
stopped eating “their” food (which
meant I was hungry a lot of the time),
and I stopped speaking Igbo, our traditional language. At school I was failing
miserably at being normal, and at
home I couldn’t escape what I was running from. I felt like I was being ripped
in two.
My mom would ask, “Why are you
acting like you’re American?” and I’d
stubbornly reply, “Because I am!” She’d
laugh her annoying laugh and say, “No,
you’re not.” Finally I gave up.
Then I went to Nigeria, where I met
my cousins, aunts, uncles, and other
relatives for the first time. I got to see
where I was from, the raw culture and
what it really meant. I realized then
that I was being a complete idiot trying
to give it all up. My culture was so rich
and interesting. There it didn’t matter
what clothes you wore, how loudly you
talked, or how strong the aroma of the
food was. The only thing that mattered
was that you knew who you were and
who your family was.
I came back with a newfound respect
for my culture. I also started to realize
that most kids think their parents are
embarrassing, no matter where they’re
from. Now that I’m older, I can see the
benefits of being Nigerian, and I don’t
really care what others say about it.
I’m never going to be “normal,” and
neither is my family, but what fun
would it be if we were? I realize now
that I can be both American and Nigerian as long as I don’t forget where I
come from. ✦
travel & culture
You Smell Like Fish
Third
World
I’m from scorching days and fresh nights.
I’m from bare feet in the streets and heaps
of fights.
I’m from no air conditioning and repeated
days with no lights.
I’m from the third world.
I’m from a place that makes America look
like paradise.
I’m from where teachers own sticks and
dogs are not here to be nice.
I’m from hard work and no rights.
I’m from the third world.
Where I’m from it’s not all bad.
I’m from soccer in the grubby streets and
unity in the air.
No matter how hard it gets, there are still
smiles everywhere.
I’m from home-cooked meals every day.
I’m from where everybody has a place
to stay.
I’m from the third world.
by Zakaria El-tayash, Columbia, MO
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
27
heroes
Mother
Gayle Vidales
W
by Andrea Vidales, Chandler, AZ
hen I think about that night,
my mind gets muddled as I
attempt to bring the thousands of thoughts together. I have
memories of anticipating beeps, red
and blue lights, nursing homes, and
the difference between who she was
and who she is today. Everything that
happened that night affected my life
since.
On November 22, 2003, I was eating peppermint ice cream as my
mother walked in our door. I followed
her into the bedroom, where she took
off her coat and shoes. She seemed to
be slurring her words. I exchanged a
concerned glance with her boyfriend,
who was sitting on the bed. As she entered the kitchen, I rested my arms on
the counter and watched her get a bottle of water from the fridge. That’s
when she fell.
When she collapsed, my heart
crumpled with her. Without thinking
or knowing what was wrong, I yelled,
“Wayne! My mom just fell!”
I remember hearing the ambulance
siren and watching the paramedics run
through the door. Time was going too
strong for everyone. Watching her
fast for me to handle. I had to call my
learn to swallow, sit up, and walk
sister, Kirsten. When she answered, I
again were the hardest things I’ve ever
finally let the tears fall. As the paraendured.
medics took my mother away, I
Once she was well enough to leave
watched helplessly as my insides
the hospital, my family brought her to
shook but my outside stood still.
a nursing home. At some of the homes
My mother had a massive stroke
she stayed in during this period, my
that night caused by a hole in her
mother was treated poorly, and at othheart, which created a blood clot that
ers she was happy and
flowed to her brain. It
loved talking to the workwas a miracle she surWhen she
ers and other residents.
vived.
I went to see her
Before Mom had brain
collapsed, my in When
these homes, I would
surgery to fix the clot,
heart crumpled get nauseous and feel
Kirsten and I were
hopeless. I saw teenagers,
allowed to see her. I
with her
just a few years older than
remember seeing my
me, paralyzed from car acmother attached to so
cidents. I would also see the fear of
many machines that she looked like
the elderly waiting to die. But talking
Frankenstein in mid-creation. I tried
to these people made the time and the
hard to be strong and hold back the
hurt fly by.
flood of tears. I stuttered, “Mommy,
Months passed, and a new school
I’ll try to do my best in school. I love
was thrown into my pile of worries.
you.” Then it was like the Hoover
No one in my class knew that each day
Dam broke into a million little pieces.
after school I would visit my mother
Over the next few weeks, my
in the nursing home. I even had my
mother recovered from her surgery.
twelfth birthday party there. SomeEven though it was a hard time, she
times I would visit my mother in the
was doing everything she could to stay
Musician
Jack Johnson
T
Grandfather
by Abby Geisel, Schnecksville, PA
he waves crash and the tide swirls up onto the soft white sand. A
red-orange sun slides down from its zenith and streaks the sky in
reds, pinks, and oranges. The air is still warm, and I can taste the
salty ocean spray on my lips as I lie on my beach towel.
How I wish I were there. Instead, my breath is fogging up my frosted
bedroom window as I stare out at a blanket of snow. I pull out the ear
buds and root myself back in the reality of a Pennsylvania winter. My
brief beach getaway had been brought on by my favorite musician, Jack
Johnson, whose songs have a relaxing, summery vibe.
His melodies and lyrics not only provide solace in my hectic life, but
they also have instilled in me the belief that anyone can make the world a
better place. In his song “Gone” he sings, “And cars and phones and diamond rings, bling bling. Those are only removable things. And what
about your mind? Does it shine? Or are there things that concern you
more than your time?” He has taught me that
there is so much more to life than having material goods and wealth. Life is all about how
I have adopted and where you spend your time. I have
his never-give- learned that I want to spend it helping others
and focusing on important problems in
up attitude
today’s society.
One issue that Jack Johnson addresses in
his songs is the harm that humans are inflicting on the environment. He also practices what he preaches by producing
his album sleeves on eco-friendly paper, organizing eco-friendly tours,
and establishing organizations like “All at Once,” which involves the
community in helping the environment. He has made me aware of how I
treat the environment, and now I encourage others to educate themselves.
Additionally, Jack Johnson’s personal story has impacted how I live
each day. He began playing guitar at age 14, but it was not until he experienced a near-fatal surfing accident that songwriting and performing became his career.
When I listen to his music, I think of his story and muse on how “dead
ends” can become new beginnings, depending on how one reacts. Jack
Johnson did not choose to give up, but rather made lemonade out of a
mountain of lemons. Thankfully, I have not experienced such a traumatic
event, but I have adopted his never-give-up attitude in my everyday life.
In a world of superficial, materialistic musicians, Jack Johnson is a
pleasant change. ✦
28
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
hospital because she needed more surgeries. She got a hard plastic mold
placed in the right side of her head and
the hole in her heart was fixed so she
wouldn’t have another stroke. During
school, I tried my best to keep to myself. I never let my secret out.
With time, the pieces mended and
built a stronger and more beautiful
new dam. When I think about it now,
my mind clogs with racing thoughts
because of all the good and bad that
came as a result of her stroke. If it had
never happened, her left arm would
work, she would walk normally, and
she’d have a decent memory. But as a
result of her stroke, I believe she is
now a happier person who doesn’t
take anything for granted.
My mother’s stroke impacted my
life too. If it had not occurred, I would
not have met and fallen in love with
my boyfriend, I wouldn’t know any of
my best friends, and I wouldn’t be as
close to my mother as I am. My
mother is my hero and my biggest fan.
I live by her words of wisdom: “You
don’t have to actually die to lose your
life.” ✦
Lee Switzer
by Laura Chicoine, Arlington Heights, IL
lamp that had illuminated the sheet music
ny time I went to my grandparwas no longer needed; no amount of light
ents’ house, there were two guarcould overcome the macular degeneration
antees. One, the candy drawer
robbing him of his vision.
would be full, and two, my grandfather
In time, he spent most of his
would be playing the piano.
days in his recliner, tethered to
Papa, as we called him, sat
perched on a blue cushion atEighty-eight his oxygen, listening to the
music he once played. Next
tached precariously to a rickyears
was a heartbreaking farewell to
ety piano bench. Stacks of
the love of his life. Eyes
music, yellowed with age, and
well lived
closed, appetite dwindling,
outdated family photos were
Papa withered away. The
strewn atop the Emerson upcandy drawer was empty and the house
right. Bony, arthritic hands lined with
was silent.
blue veins glided across the keyboard as
Eighty-eight keys on a piano. Eightyhis leather slipper tapped the pedals and
eight years well lived. ✦
his yellowed fingertips, stained from six
decades of smoking, brushed against the
ivories. Years of military service were
displayed not only in the medals in the
shadow box on the wall but in his impeccable posture as he pounded out his favorite melodies on the 88 keys.
“Clair de Lune,” “Liebestraum,” “Für
Elise,” and “Moonlight Sonata” were
often heard from the living room as
grandchildren danced throughout the
house. On Christmas Eve, our family
would gather around the tree, open presents, and sing carols accompanied by
Papa on the piano. The grand finale, “Anniversary Waltz,” was always played in
honor of his beloved wife.
Then frustrated utterances began to
mix in with the music. Click … click …
click of a cane. With Papa now unable to
straighten his spine, his perfect military
posture became bent, and a humming
oxygen machine drowned out the songs
Photo by Melanie MacKenzie,
that he once played so effortlessly. The
Worthington, OH
A
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Freeze Frame
by Heidi Ayarbe
F
reeze Frame by Heidi
Ayarbe is a dark, thoughtprovoking, multi-layered novel
about a boy’s struggle to accept
reality, move on, and ultimately
find himself. Kyle is a typical
high school outcast until a
tragic incident changes everything. After the sudden death of
his best friend, Jason, Kyle’s
life spirals out of control as he
struggles to remember what
happened on that fateful day
and regain normalcy.
This is a deep and interesting
novel, as it explores the many
Weaving a web of
suspense
different (and sometimes frightening) sides of human nature.
The plot slowly unravels, layer
by layer, through flashbacks
and memories of the central
character, while also weaving a
web of suspense and sentiment
through the fast-paced drama. I
like how the book is written in
a series of short vignette-like
chapters and compelling
scenes. This makes Freeze
Frame refreshing and appealing
to read.
At certain points, I found that
the story line drags. Although
most of the action and dialogue
is necessary, it takes too long to
build up to the climax. Overall,
though, Freeze Frame is a
meaningful and rewarding read.
I recommend it to teens who
enjoy drama, realistic fiction,
and mystery. ✦
U.S. history recorded in
the pages of her diary
integration chased Beals down
the street, she was not sure she
wanted to return. Beals knew
that she was innocent of any
wrongdoing and struggled to
understand why the white students could not appreciate her
for who she was.
“One down, eight to go” –
the white students taunted
Beals in the hallways after
something tragic happened to
one of the Little Rock Nine.
Beals’ life then took a wild turn
as she realized that she was a
warrior and she must fight and
never give up.
Warriors Don’t Cry is a lifechanging story, not only for
Beals but for the reader too. I
was amazed to see how much
our society has changed in 60
years. This book tells the raw
truth about how African-Americans were viewed and treated
by white people and how the
Little Rock Nine changed history forever. ✦
by Tess Greenwald,
Mt. Kisco, NY
NONFICTION
by Ho Yee Cynthia Lam,
Westfield, NJ
Freakonomics
by Steven D. Levitt &
Stephen J. Dubner
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Warriors
Don’t Cry
I
by Melba Pattillo Beals
“M
ost of all, I wanted to
be alone so I could
search for the part of Melba I
was struggling to hold on to.”
This quotes really struck me
when I read the exhilarating
Warriors Don’t Cry.
Melba Pattillo Beals’ autobiography is a look into a moment of U.S. history recorded
in the pages of her diary. Beals,
a 16-year-old living in Little
Rock, Arkansas, led a normal
life until she was chosen to be a
warrior in the battle for integration. The Little Rock Nine were
the first black students to attend
a white public school. As Beals
wrote her name on the sign-up
LINK
sheet to become one of these
trailblazers, she had no idea
that she was putting her friends,
family, and herself in danger.
When Beals arrived at Little
Rock Central High on the first
day, she faced many obstacles.
It was difficult just trying to get
through the reporters outside,
and when she finally approached the school, it was
filled with hatred. When the
white students who opposed
YOUR
was told to “prepare to be
dazzled” even before I
opened Freakonomics. The
book indeed dazzles as well as
confounds the reader with ideas
that put ethics and logic into
question and make you second
guess the world you know.
Freakonomics opens up new
concepts that are thoughtprovoking and hard to deny.
Each chapter takes the reader
on another adventure to discover unfeasible truths through
the authors’ logical persuasion.
With ludicrous examples like
comparing the KKK to realestate agents, it is hard to imagine how there are virtually no
rebuttals of Levitt and Dubner’s
work.
Using years of research, the
authors provide undeniable and
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
astonishing evidence for every
claim. This book grabs the
reader’s interest and holds tight
until the very end. The bold
assertions – for example, parents choose a name to connect
Makes you second
guess the world
you know
their child with a certain social
class – are ridiculous, yet true.
The reader will begin every
chapter with doubt and skepticism, yet Levitt and Dubner
win them over page by page,
converting cynicism into
astonishment. ✦
by Maureen McLaine,
Plano, TX
HISTORY
Nothing Feels
Good
by Andy Greenwald
N
othing Feels Good: Punk
Rock, Teenagers, and Emo
spans 20 years of music, community, social commentary
and, well, feelings that fans of
emo and punk bands like Saves
the Day, Sunny Day Real Estate, and Braid understand. The
book describes this unique
This book is a
celebration
culture shared by confused
teenagers, I’m-never-growingold hipsters, and old-school
punk rockers alike.
Andy Greenwald is thorough
and observant, his brilliant articulation allowing him to put
such a world into words. He is
funny, and I laughed because
he understands. Whether
Greenwald believes it or not, he
is truly one of us. Perhaps that
is why Nothing Feels Good is
such a riveting and worthwhile
read. Surely only a true disciple
(or at least a guy who really
knows his stuff) could pay such
a tribute to the world that punk
rock and emo fans and bands
have come together to create.
The book is fast-paced. As an
emo and hardcore enthusiast, I
was drawn in to the pages.
Greenwald’s degree in Victorian Literature somehow
enables him to translate a
whirlwind of screams and a
whole Kleenex box worth of
tears into paragraphs and sentences. He shows sincere admiration for everyone he
interviewed, whether a bunch
of high school kids at a Dashboard Confessional show or
Chris Carrabba, Mr. Dashboard
himself.
FACEBOOK
This book says everything
that I thought could never be
described. Finally all the feelings make sense and I realize
that I am indeed part of something big. Anyone who tells
you that the future of emo or
punk is dim is a liar and a fool.
Nothing Feels Good is not a
legacy – the fans and the bands
are the legacies; this book is
just a celebration. ✦
has an interesting perspective
on Rant’s life and a different
reason why he or she is a part
of it. These characters make for
a more interesting story.
Rant will keep the wheels in
your mind spinning from cover
to cover. ✦
by Rachell Li,
Sydney, Australia
Friday Night
Lights
FICTION
Rant
by Chuck Palahniuk
R
ant is an incredibly interesting and remarkably
funny fictional oral biography
of Buster “Rant” Casey, a hip
high school teen who lives on
the wild side. He is constantly
rebelling against his parents,
which gives him a reputation
for being quite the character in
his small town.
Rant becomes enamored with
the idea of being bitten by the
wild creatures lurking around
his town. Ultimately, this
causes him to get rabies. He
manages to use his incredible
sense of taste and smell and his
charm to spread the rabies all
over town, and this is just one
of Rant’s tricks.
Chuck Palahniuk uses a
unique and raw writing style to
describe Rant’s crazy life. He
manages to take absurd ideas,
such as rabies, death, and being
reborn, and make them realistic.
Creative plot and
unique writing style
Palahniuk is also very straightforward with his writing. He is
not there to please the reader;
it’s clear he has written the
story just as he wants the reader
to understand it.
Palahniuk easily weaves
humor into a sometimes dull
story line. The plot of Rant is
hard to get used to and starts
off somewhat slowly. Since the
story is told from different
viewpoints, it is often hard to
follow. But as the book progresses it also intensifies, and
the loose strings begin to pull
together and everything finally
falls into place. This is where
Palahniuk surprises the reader
most. He weaves a twist into
the story that is unexpected.
Palahniuk’s creative plot line
and unique writing style make
Rant a great novel.
Along with plot and style,
Palahniuk uses numerous characters to entice the reader. Each
by Kendra Fischer,
Canfield, OH
SPORTS
by H.G. Bissinger
“I
t was the first official day
of practice and it marked
the start of a new team, a new
year, a new season, with a new
rally cry scribbled madly in the
backs of yearbooks and on the
rear windows of cars: GOIN’
TO STATE IN EIGHTYEIGHT.”
This quote from Friday Night
Lights shows the philosophy of
the musty little city of Odessa,
Texas. Readers learn just how
important high school football
is in west Texas.
Following six star seniors,
H.G. Bissinger recounts the
true story of Permian High
School’s 1988 football season
through the eyes of fans,
coaches, students, and players.
Bissinger also describes
Odessa, a town where people
are segregated, the economy is
plummeting, the murder rate is
skyrocketing, and the school
standards couldn’t be lower.
But out of the darkness
comes a light. Every Friday
night the whole town comes to
life when 20,000 fans turn out
to see the boys play as only
they can. In the stands you hear
the school motto, “MOJO,
MOJO, MOJO,” chanted into
the warm night air.
This story is both thrilling
book reviews
FICTION
The team must reach
deep down to pull
out a victory
and astoundingly passionate as
it shows the lives that the teens
of Odessa so crave. I love how
the author describes the hard
work the players and coaches
put in every season. Several
times the team must reach deep
down to pull out a victory despite slim odds.
I would recommend this
book to anyone who loves a
great sports drama about how
far people will go to make their
dreams come true. ✦
by Jimmy Boissy,
Plainville, MA
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
29
movie & tv reviews
Supposedly mysterious plot
points prove to be predictable
and emotional scenes fall flat,
thanks to dialogue drenched in
tried to give “New Moon” a
chance. I tried to forget that it enough cheese to drive the state
was based on a series of terrible of Wisconsin out of business.
To her credit, screenwriter
books. I tried to forget the
Melissa Rosenberg
legions of annoying
makes a valiant effangirls. I tried to
fort to clean up
understand why
the mess, but
it’s a cultural
Winner
there’s just no
Teen In of
phenomenon.
“New M k’s
salvaging a film
Most of all, I
oon”
r
e
v
ie
where
the cliw conte
tried to like it.
st
max
revolves
Unfortunately, no
around preventing
matter how hard I
a character from
tried, it didn’t matter.
sparkling too brightly in
Even with low expectathe midday sun.
tions, “New Moon” still falls
The poor script isn’t exactly
just a bit short.
helped by the actors. Stewart
“New Moon” continues the
continues her habit of staring
story of Bella Swan (Kristen
blankly at the screen, while
Stewart) and her sparkly vampire boyfriend, Edward (Robert Pattinson seems to be incapable
of doing anything other than
Pattinson), characters whose
most noteworthy feature is their taking his shirt off and acting
like he’s in a Gap ad. Taylor
utter lack of personality.
Lautner does his best to make
At the start, an accident at
Jacob likable, but he isn’t given
Bella’s birthday party tears the
much to do. The only highlovers apart. As a result, the
lights are Ashley Greene’s portrayal of Alice, and Dakota
The poor script isn’t
Fanning’s perfectly evil Jane,
who might have been able to
helped by the actors
save this film on the weight of
her own creepiness if she’d had
Cullens decide to leave Forks
more than five lines.
and Edward breaks up with
In the end, the real heartBella. She responds, as any
break
of “New Moon” has
healthy person would, by
nothing
to do with its lead couspending the next three months
ple. It has everything to do with
in a catatonic state. Thankfully
the film’s potential. It’s easy to
good buddy Jacob is there to
appreciate what this film could
help her deal. But just like
have been. The same can’t be
every man in her life, he has a
said for what it is. ✦
deep, dark secret ….
I have to give the film credit.
by Nathan Cyr,
It takes the meager material
from the book and tries to keep Maplewood, MO
the audience engaged. There’s a
TV
genuine style to Chris Weitz’s
direction, and occasionally he
manages to put together scenes
that dazzle. His skillfully directed action sequences add
some much-needed energy, and
BC Family made a daring
his ability to avoid taking it all
move in creating the new
too seriously saves the movie.
hit series, “The Secret Life of
The costume and set designs
the American Teenager.” The
are gorgeous and make the film
a visual feast. Add some decent
Never ceases to teach
special effects and it’s easy to
its teen audience
see that “New Moon” is doing
everything it can to rise above
show focuses on Amy Juergens
the constraints of its source ma(Shailene Woodley), a 15-yearterial. Unfortunately that’s
old who has just discovered she
where the whole thing hits a
is pregnant. Viewers follow
snag.
Amy as her family and friends
It doesn’t matter how much
find out.
you pretty it up, a mess is still a
Creator Brenda Hampton
mess. And the book really is
does an excellent job realistithe problem here, no matter
cally portraying this all-toohow many copies it sells or
common teen hardship. Each
how many teenaged girls it
episode begins with a parental
intrigues. Stephenie Meyer’s
warning, and at the end a charstories are bland, cliché-ridden
acter encourages parents to talk
nonsense. The problems that
to their kids about sex. Although
riddle the books are only
Amy is a smart and responsible
exacerbated in the movie.
teen, she had never had the sex
DRAMA
New Moon
I
The Secret Life
of the American
Teenager
A
30
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
talk, and now she and her
parents must deal with the consequences.
Almost every teenager can
relate to this show, whether
pregnant, a young father, dealing with “unfair” parents, or
experiencing discrimination because of race, faith, or situation. The show can sometimes
seem a bit far-fetched, but it
never ceases to entertain and
teach its teen audience. ✦
by Tricia Kersten, Peoria, AZ
FANTASY
Harry Potter
and the HalfBlood Prince
T
he trailers advertised the
new Harry Potter film as
even more exciting, mysterious,
and humorous than the first
five. An eight-month release
delay built up the hype even
more. But as with many heavily
marketed and highly anticipated movies, “Harry Potter
and the Half-Blood Prince” fell
flat. Not only did it not meet
fans’ high expectations, but it is
by far the weakest installment
of the series.
The weakest installment of the series
The film takes too many liberties with the book, removing
significant events – the darker
parts of the story – and relegating them to a very thin subplot,
instead focusing on endless
teenage angst and shenanigans.
While this fluff is entertaining,
it adds nothing to the overall
series. And it is not just that the
movie is mostly about the students’ relationships; these romances are underdeveloped and
for the most part so unlike the
book that they are ridiculous
and awkward.
Although the acting is superb, the script does not work
to the actors’ advantage. Familiar characters such as Hagrid,
Snape, and Lupin have little
screen time, while others –
Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood – appear flat. Harry, the
great hero, the Chosen One, is
portrayed as a coward who
does not even try to stop the
plot against Dumbledore.
The all-important Horcruxes
are barely explained. The mystery of the titular half-blood
prince is glossed over in a sentence. And even after Harry
learns important information
concerning Voldemort and his
past, he does not share it with
Ron and Hermione, so for the
first time in the film series, his
best friends play extremely
insignificant roles.
The cinematography is one
of the few strong points of the
film; there is a visually stunning shot of Harry and Dumbledore standing on a rock
jutting up from the crashing
ocean as they are about to enter
the great cave. From that scene
on, everything is suddenly serious and urgent, leaving the
viewer feeling empty and
cheated out of a pivotal film
that could have served both to
reveal secrets of the past and
set up the epic series’ finale.
With the upcoming two-part
“Harry Potter and the Deathly
Hallows,” director David Yates
has two more chances to correct the tone of the Potter films
and bring the series back to
quality. ✦
by Karen Jin,
West Chester, PA
TV
Frontier House
E
ver wonder if a twenty-first
century family could survive in the pioneer days, working, eating, sleeping, and living
as settlers did in the 1800s? For
anyone who loves American
history, especially the settlement of the West, I highly recommend this PBS series.
Over 5,000 families applied
for the opportunity to take part
in this cultural experiment,
An authentic portrayal
of pioneer life
with only three chosen. The
families came from different
lifestyles but had to set aside
their differences and work together to start their own community. I think PBS made great
choices in the families they selected.
Unlike today’s standard of
living, the pioneers had to basically do everything themselves,
including build shelter and find
food and water. Each family
was given a different shelter
scenario.
The families encountered
many obstacles, both physical
and emotional. The work pioneers had to do was extremely
physical, and their bodies took
a beating. The individuals from
this century shared their
thoughts with the audience,
which gave us an idea of how
the pioneers might have felt.
Weather was also a major
factor for these homesteaders.
It’s not uncommon for Montana
to experience snow and hail
storms year round, which could
be very destructive to gardens
and cabins. Montana is also
home to bears, mountain lions,
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bobcats, and wolves.
In conclusion, I appreciated
this series’ accuracy. It was fascinating to watch three families
experience frontier life and
overcome obstacles. “Frontier
House” is an authentic portrayal of pioneer life. ✦
by Shane Beard,
Wilmington, DE
ACTION
Pirates of the
Caribbean:
Curse of the
Black Pearl
T
he risk certainly paid off
for Disney when it decided
to take a classic amusement
park ride and turn it into a
movie. When I saw the preview
I couldn’t help thinking that
“Pirates of the Caribbean” was
never going to make it. It
sounded like just another
cheesy horror film, however I
was wrong.
“Pirates of the Caribbean” is
filled with action, plenty of
punch lines, and multi-dimen-
Depp truly stole
the show
sional characters. The script is
witty and has a good story line:
Pirates who cannot die and are
therefore able to pillage and
plunder anywhere they like. It
seems like a life of bliss, yet
through a series of hilarious
scenes the downsides of being
immortal are revealed.
After seeing the movie, my
immediate praise went out to
Johnny Depp. He took Captain
Jack Sparrow, added a bit of
himself, and created an extremely loveable character.
Everything from the impeccable British accent to his simple
stance made the movie that
much better. Depp truly stole
the show.
Another standout was Geoffrey Rush as Captain Hector
Barbossa, the proud mutineer
who steals Jack’s ship. Rush
adapts to his character perfectly
and brings out Barbossa’s
strong personality. Orlando
Bloom and Keira Knightley
(both fairly new to Hollywood
at the time) wonderfully portray the twisted love story with
a touch of humor.
Overall a spectacular movie
with priceless actors, this is a
must-see for anyone who enjoys action, comedy, and romance. ✦
by Katie DiBella,
E. Setauket, NY
TEENINK.COM
HARD ROCK
Coldplay
Ace Frehley
Viva la Vida
Anomaly
C
A
oldplay really hit the spot
for me with their most
recent studio album, “Viva la
Vida or Death and All His
Friends.” I was mesmerized by
the refreshing guitar chords,
amazing voice, and mysterious
and meaningful lyrics from
Chris Martin, lead singer and
frontman of this English rock
band.
“Life in Technicolor,” the
first track, immediately captures
you with its fresh feel created
Mysterious and
meaningful lyrics
by a breezy melody, accompanying guitar and drums, along
with a few harmonizing hollers
in the background. “Lost!”
brings the guitar into a more
important position, starting the
song with a lovely organ ringing in our ears, and maintains a
great beat with a loud banging
drum and hand claps. The guitar
solo gives a leisurely feel and
carries us into another world.
The lyrics are important in
every song on this album. In
“Cemeteries of London” and
the single “Violet Hill,” they
add vivid images of scenery,
for example, “the ghosts towns
in the ocean,” and “my nerves
are poles that unfroze.” The
lyrics also illustrate war, peace,
life and death, and religion, and
are enhanced by Martin’s poetic voice.
This album has been Coldplay’s most successful, debuting at number one in 36
countries the first week after its
release. To date, it has sold over
2.5 million copies in the U.S.
and 8.1 million worldwide.
This has given “Viva la Vida”
the title of most-paid-for download of all time. It also won a
Grammy for Best Rock Album.
“Viva la Vida” never fails to
impress me every time I listen
to it. The strumming of the guitar stays in my head, but it will
never get old to me. The lyrics
give the album a quaint feel,
and I get goosebumps every
time I hear “but that was when
I ruled the world ….”
I absolutely love this album,
and I hope Coldplay will continue to amaze me. With any
luck, fans won’t have to wait
too long for another release. In
the meantime, buy this album,
and you’ll feel all the glory that
Martin sings about. ✦
by Andy Liu,
Brooklyn, NY
LINK
YOUR
ce “the Spaceman” Frehley
was once a member of
hard rock band KISS, but in
1982 he started a solo career,
releasing several albums. “Trouble Walkin’” in 1989 was his
last solo album because of the
KISS reunion tour in 1996. Now
he’s back with his first album
in 20 years, and he doesn’t
disappoint, even at 58.
The first single, “Outer
Space,” summarizes half of the
album. Classic hard rock lyrics
and his trademark solos will
blow you away. He also includes not one but two instrumental tracks, “Fractured
Quantum” and “Space Bear.”
Frehley has been sober for
three years now, which in my
opinion makes his music even
better. The song called “A Little below the Angels” talks
about how alcohol almost took
Puts bands today
to shame
his life. Frehley also shows his
softer side with tracks like
“Change the World.”
Frehley does an amazing
cover of Sweet’s “Fox on the
Run,” and it hurts me to admit
as a fan of Sweet that Frehley’s
version is better. It has the potential to be as big as his cover
of Hello’s “New York Groove,”
which made it to #13 on the
Billboard Hot 100 back in 1978.
Frehley’s solos make me feel
like he is the eighth wonder of
the world. And after listening to
this album, you might be inclined to agree. He puts bands
today to shame. “Anomaly”
proves that Ace Frehley still has
it and deserves a place among
the greatest artists of all time. ✦
leave you humming all day.
“Begin Again” is a popular
favorite about starting over.
You will want to snap your fingers along with “You Got Me,”
and “Fallin’ for You,” the first
single, is a fun tune that many
people can relate to.
One of the best tracks is
“Droplets,” which was cowritten and recorded with the
incredible singer-songwriter
Jason Reeves. Reeves also
cowrote a number of other
songs on the album.
Colbie is certainly fearless
with this album, though her
track called “Fearless” should
not be confused with Taylor
Swift’s song or album. It’s a
slow and emotional song. The
title track, “Breakthrough,” is
great, but not the best of the
album. “It Stops Today” is the
most inspirational, with Colbie
vowing that she will no longer
fall and will be worry-free and
herself again. Teenagers with
low self-esteem or struggling
with an issue will find hope in
this song.
“Stay With Me,” the bestloved song on this album, is a
bonus track from the Deluxe
version. The overly cute lyrics
are sweeter than sugar and puppies combined (“We simply fit
together/Like a piece of apple
pie/I will be vanilla ice cream
and I’ll sing you lullabies”).
Although Colbie’s light and
serene style of music is not for
everyone, the album is well
written and catchy. Many songs
might sound the same, but they
Pleasant and
incredible journey
are relaxing and easy to fall
asleep to or chill to on the
beach. Listen to this album
with a free spirit and an open
mind. It will be sure to make
you smile. ✦
by Jake Terheyden,
No. Miami, FL
by Laura Zucker,
Voorhees, NJ
POP
INDIE ROCK
Colbie Caillat
Tegan and Sara
Breakthrough
Sainthood
C
“S
olbie Caillat, a talented
singer and songwriter from
California, released her second
album, “Breakthrough,” this
summer. Those who grew to
love her peaceful and emotional voice on her debut
album, “Coco,” will instantly
fall in love with this one. It debuted at number one on the
Billboard chart in its first week.
The album takes listeners
through a pleasant and incredible journey. In the first track,
“I Won’t,” the catchy tune will
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
ainthood” has to be the
most anticipated album
of my life. Since twin sisters
Tegan and Sara Quin released
“The Con” in 2007, I’ve been
hooked. In “Sainthood,” Tegan
and Sara really stretched their
boundaries.
The album opener, “Arrow,”
demonstrates Sara’s lyrical
abilities, while “Northshore”
shows Tegan’s pleading attitude
and punk-rock influences. The
album is about love, heartbreak,
FACEBOOK
dedication, and trying to become a saint for the girl you’ve
pursued for so long.
“Sainthood” is a mix of so
many genres that it’s hard to
find one word to describe this
amazing album. It’s electro-pop
alternative punk-rock indie
goodness. Think of biting into a
homemade brownie just as it
comes out of the oven without
the possibility of burning your
tongue.
My favorite songs include
“Northshore,” “Night Watch,”
“Someday,” and “Alligator.”
Every song makes you
want to sing along
The lyrics are relatable and
every song makes you want to
sing along. The only complaint
I have is the lack of an acoustic
ballad-type song, though it
might not have fit in well with
the rest of the album. Overall,
“Sainthood” is simply amazing
and worth buying. ✦
by Chloe Herrera,
Las Vegas, NV
POP
Jack’s
Mannequin
The Glass
Passenger
E
very fan of Jack’s Mannequin had the release date
for their second album circled
on the calendar, and I was definitely one of them. Following
the critically acclaimed debut,
“Everything in Transit,” “The
Glass Passenger,” was a highly
anticipated release. I had great
expectations for this album; in
fact, I downloaded the entire
thing from the Apple iTunes
store without listening to a
single song. However, I should
have spent my money on something more worthwhile.
The album starts off promis-
The vocal
performance falls flat
ingly with the upbeat, catchy
tune “Crashin’,” followed by a
strong vocal performance by
Andrew McMahon in “Spinning.” However, by the fourth
song I started to notice how
similar each one was to the previous. The vocal tone didn’t
change from song to song.
While McMahon’s vocal
performance falls flat, Jay
McMillan on drums picks up
the slack with powerful beats.
I am still a big fan of the
band, but when I’m listening to
my iPod I always skip “The
Glass Passenger” with the
exception of a few songs. I
learned my lesson: always
sample a few singles before
you spend your hard-earned
money. ✦
by Kate Thompson,
Webster, NY
CONCERT
Brand New
T
o promote their new album,
“Daisy,” alternative rock
band Brand New embarked on
a U.S. tour for six months.
Every time Brand New comes
to town, fans anticipate a promising experience. Whether
frontman Jesse Lacey plays
“Degausser” twice halfway
through the set and storms off
early or plays old favorites in an
encore, something intriguing and
unexpected is bound to occur.
So after being shoved around
for 30 minutes in an annoying
crowd, I finally made my way
near the front as Brand New
was about to begin. They
started with “You Won’t
Know,” a song that comes in
softly, then hits the chorus hard
with energy. The fans surrounding me were singing so loudly
that I could hardly hear Lacey.
Despite the solid sound, the
band didn’t seem too into it,
which isn’t unusual, as their
emotions really tend to come
out in more recent songs.
The first number they played
off “Daisy” was “Vices,” their
most aggressive song. I was
sure Lacey would go bonkers!
But the band looked almost
bored, which perplexed me.
When they finished their set
music reviews
POP ROCK
Disappointing for a
longtime fan
and exited the stage, the lights
came on immediately before
the crowd could even think to
chant “One more song!” Is this
it? No encore? No emotion?
I hate to say it, but I wished
that Lacey had been miserable.
At least then we would have
witnessed some raw emotion or
maybe even seen him throw his
guitar at the drum set as he has
in the past.
I wondered if he was too
happy to let his melancholy
songs affect him. This was not
the Jesse Lacey that fans have
come to know. I was hoping to
have something to talk about
with my friends who missed
the show. But now, all I can say
is that they played and performed well – good for a music
fan, but disappointing for a
longtime Brand New fan. ✦
by Ryan Reid, Phoenix, AZ
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
31
poetry
Photo by Laura Scott,
New South Wales, Australia
The Albatross
Far across the grassy field
And high above the cloudless sky
And in the woods and on the rocks
An albatross of vicious hawks
I wake away a curious dream
And push aside a different time
And everything I feel is so surreal
And no one wakes me to the day
What pierced the clouds and turned them gray
So help me hear the words you say
And force my eyes to turn away
No more dreams were left to be
My mind is lost I cannot see
I do not speak and will you speak to me
And so I ring your telephone
And speak the things already known
And still I speak and think and sleep alone
And no one makes me carry on
And no one ever had to try
And no one leaps or learns to fly
And still we’re lost and wonder why
Vorpal dark and restless nights
And long and labored dreary days
For what I do and still I think of you
And though we climb to catch the sun
And lie apart and chase a dream
And still I hear the mountain high and warning
And though the peak is out of view
I felt it cold the breath I drew
And silence crept and darkness grew
And now I sleep and dream of you
by Benjamin Pollman, Cincinnati, OH
Shadows
Clouds float above a country road
creating a shadow plane,
blinds to heaven.
I race to catch the sun again
never knowing if I will escape
from this dull grasp.
When I emerge
I see the next shadow looming
I forget the thought of it. I will
enjoy, bask, and cling to the light that is now.
My car door vibrates
as a verse is stretched through its
speaker.
Its beauty veiled by torn melodies.
It dies as everything must.
I remember where I’m going
(only for a brief moment)
as the shadow finds me again
I press my bare foot to the gas
knowing that if there are shadows
there must be light somewhere.
by Zack Bergman, Davenport, IA
32
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
For How Long
cracked
The Hudson
I walked in the front door
My cat nuzzled my leg
I walked up the stairs to my room
As I took off my clothes I could smell the
stench of cigarettes
Changing into my pajamas I realized I
haven’t looked at my phone all night
Grabbing my cold leather purse I reached
inside, on the way to my phone I scratched
my hand on something sharp inside my
purse.
Foreshadowing
Opening my phone I had three unheard
voicemails
Meagan.
Casey.
Mom. My phone fell out of my hands and my
knees buckled
I crumbled to the floor, hands shaking, I
reached for my keys.
Standing up like a newborn fawn getting used
to their legs, I got to my car.
The glass on the lightpost outside my house
had shattered
It was July, and it was cold that night
Foreshadowing
Starting the car I jumped back to life
I went 60 all the way to the hospital and
ran two red lights
How long had it been?
Running into the hospital the world slowed
Someone was trying to get my attention
I was bleeding?
Mom
Where was he?
Machines, IVs, medicine
Car accident
He didn’t look like my brother
His eyes fluttered open
I felt the tears streaming down my face
I grabbed his hand
I’d never let go.
You’re bleeding.
Whose words were those
And just then tasted iron on my tongue
I had been biting on my lip
For how long?
They know it’s a mistake.
They’re sitting on a bench,
the wood on my stepdad’s
guitar is cracked.
His smile hurts
and his hand
on my mother’s left shoulder
looks uncomfortably off color.
My mom’s long hair covers her ears.
The new ring on her left hand covers the
permanent indent from my
father’s old one.
Red rubies dot the top
I know they must be plastic.
I love you.
It’s engraved in the silver.
On my mother’s left finger
it’s set in stone,
but in reality,
it’s only temporary.
In a few years,
her heart will be as cracked
as his guitar.
I remember
being 10 years old,
and laughing idly with a friend,
being tugged along the back of her father’s
boat on a raft,
flying high upon the mighty Hudson
our freshwater wet hair dripping down
our backs,
our skin painted red by the sun,
the rest of them looking on at us, smiling,
snapping photographs.
But the boat went too fast,
we fell off our little float,
treading viciously to keep our heads above
the water,
years of swimming lessons escaping us,
the waves covering our heads, pulling us
downward.
Suddenly I hated the river,
the Hudson that swallowed me whole,
and I remembered its murkiness,
forcing myself to be disgusted by it,
resenting it for its willingness to take me.
When we made it back onto the boat,
warm, ensconced in towels, fed by the kisses
of our mothers,
I was shaken by my failure,
the betrayal of a water I found beautiful,
the way my heart raced confusedly in attempt
to save itself.
Now we are estranged friends,
though I still live in its valley,
and somehow, I could not shake the feeling
the burn in my heart, the knot in my stomach,
the constant worry in my mind,
until I realized
it was not the river’s fault.
by Anonymous, Arlington Heights, IL
Letting Go
I grip the handles on the hot pink Barbie
bike tight
and close my eyes even tighter,
the wind whispers all around us,
and she says “I am going to let go, but it will
be all right.”
by Maggie DeBusk-Kneidek,
Portland, OR
Inspirations
It is evening: when descriptions
flow smoothly or in torrents and
exotic anagram nouns sparkle like forgotten
gems;
the world lies in shades of earthy black and
brown verbs
illuminated by the brilliant candles of your
mind
that dance and wave with each burst of the
fresh young wind.
It is evening: and words fly effortlessly
upon the opaque surface of the page
and begin their steady trek into the unknown,
burdened with weighty morals and meanings
seldom heard in the far reaches of the map.
Even so, they suffer
as a chilling wind claws and tears, thins
and hardens,
stripping each phrase clean
still only their heart rings out mellow and
melancholy,
rich and full,
like a sweet-toned violin in a land long
starved of music.
by Natasha George, Arcadia, CA
United We Fall
“I am going to let go, but it will be all right.”
to fool the neighbors
we drive by with cunning smiles and give off
mechanical waves
as soon as we enter our home
the fog machines turn on
we hide behind the lies
collapse between closed doors and
cry helplessly when we think no one’s looking
it’s all a constant struggle
a “minor” issue that has yet to be solved
we’re no longer a family, but a household
of strangers
afraid to touch afraid to live or even love
there’s nothing to fall back on besides the path
of broken glass and eggshells we’ve made
so once we fail and the battle is lost
we’ll fall united
our blood shedding like red wine
by Jackie Sutton, Brownsburg, IN
by Jouna Jean-Charles, Palm Bay, FL
She used to chase the monsters out from
under my bed,
and would beat up any ghosts that lingered in
my closet,
all she had to do was say “It will be all right,”
and I believed everything she said.
It was that night when she closed her eyes
after forgetting her, forgetting me,
after forgetting the world before her,
that made me realize
It was time to let go,
her mind had left and now she was too,
If only I could tell her
what she needed to know:
•
POETRY
by Cara Lane, Suffern, NY
Pay No Attention
to Me
Pay no attention to me,
even when I put on,
layers of clothes,
even when I run about in circles,
Pay no attention,
even when I juggle about
plates and glasses
even when I throw
toys into the Atlantic Ocean,
or
even when I wear in my hair
branches of trees,
Pay no attention
when I act weirdly
just turn around
and continue on with your work
and act as if
nothing ever happened.
by Hana Azli, Malacca, Malaysia
Tree Dance
Shady dell, please call my name
So I may come and dance with thee
You see, it is a silly game
That I should dance around a tree
For trees will sway a thoughtful group
And I shall be the odd one out
Now as their branches lift and droop
It is a dance, without a doubt
by Kayli Heywood, Morgan, UT
I
really didn’t see it coming. His
hand, angry and rough and quick
as lightning, connected with my
jaw as he smacked me across the face.
Hard. My neck snapped to the side,
my chin pointed downward, and that’s
where I stayed for at least a full
minute. I was afraid to move, afraid to
breathe.
Oh, my God. I’m dreaming. Please
tell me this isn’t real.
Hot tears clung to my lashes, but I
refused to let myself cry. I focused on
the burning sensation in my cheek, too
afraid to shift in my seat. My face was
on fire.
I swallowed hard, watching the
scenery as it passed: the green grass
and the yellow sun, the black blurring
of mailboxes and rooftops. Except for
the steady hum of the air conditioner,
there was dead silence.
I tried to focus on anything, anything but the boy next to me, breathing
heavily. Anything except the car
speeding up as he stepped on the accelerator, driving more recklessly with
every dip and curve in the road.
See the sidewalks, a steady stream
me. “I’m telling the truth,” I said fiof white concrete against the jet black
nally, quietly. “I was doing exactly
road. See the treetops, so severely conwhat I told you I’d be doing … worktrasting the painted cerulean sky. See
ing on my story for the paper.”
the fire hydrant, bright like the stars
“Of course you were.”
that shine above the lake at night. See–
“Why don’t you trust me?”
“This isn’t my fault, Caitlin,” he
“Who was that guy you were with?”
said quietly. I peeked at him out of the
I sighed, knowing I could never
corner of my eye. His hands were
win. My cheek hurt so much, worse
gripping the steering wheel
than when I fell of my bike
tightly, his knuckles turnand skinned my elbows and
ing white.
knees. It hurt worse than the
“I swear I
“What?” I was surprised
time I cut my hand on a
will never do fence and needed six
to find that my voice was
soft and steady, though my
that again” stitches, or the time I fell on
hands were shaking and
a flower pot and sliced my
twisting in my lap.
knee open. It hurt because
“You left me waiting there for an
he made me hurt. It hurt because he
hour. What was I supposed to think?”
wanted me to hurt.
“It was an honest mistake,” I whis“I … I just–”
pered, so quietly that I could barely
“Spit it out, Caitlin!”
hear myself. “I lost track of time.”
I fell back against the seat, feeling
He glanced at me, his jaw clenched
more defeated than I’d ever felt in my
so hard I thought he might shatter his
life. It was like reaching the top step
teeth. “Yeah, sure.”
just to find more stairs. It would have
I hesitated, not knowing what he
been easier to think, I’m sure, if my
wanted me to do. I opened my mouth,
face didn’t have a heartbeat.
and I watched his hands, and I made
“Why are you being so mean to
sure they didn’t come anywhere near
me?” It just slipped out, and Aaron
The Nevada Motel
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looked bewildered. He didn’t answer
right away, or even as we pulled into
my neighborhood. By the time he’d
parked in my driveway, we were both
completely silent.
“I’m sorry, Cait,” he said. “That was
really stupid; I don’t know what came
over me.”
I let my eyes meet his for the first
time that afternoon. “I don’t either.”
He shut the car off and twisted in
his seat to face me. His hand slid over
my forehead, and down through my
hair, and finally settled around my
neck. He pulled me toward him, gently, and kissed the cheek that still
ached. Now it ached with yearning.
It’s strange, I suppose, how someone can treat you so wrong and you
can still want him so much. I wanted
to feel his lips on me again, brushing
away the hurt and the pain. I wanted
his touch. The school parking lot suddenly felt a million years away.
“That will never happen again,” he
assured me, kissing me softly. “I
swear I will never do that again.”
And I believed him. ✦
by Carlie Sorosiak, Chapel Hill, NC
neither makes his bed nor cleans his tub.
elcome to the Nevada Motel, where
Joseph is akin to the Waltons, who arrive at half
we aim to impress the average lowpast five. Mr. Walton is a stocky man with a smoker’s
life tourist. Here is your plastic key,
mustache and is, ironically, more feminine than his
sir. If you or your astoundingly obese wife have any
wife. I give him a good look-over: a definite tourist.
questions, please hesitate to ask. Breakfast is served
His nose is a deep combination of chartreuse and maonly at eight, and the food is adequate at best. I hope
genta, but his legs are whiter than cotton swabs. He
you enjoy your stay at our run-of-the-mill establishwears ’70s style aviator sunglasses and a once-white
ment. Check-out time is noon.”
T-shirt graced with the words “Who’s your daddy?”
I say this with a gratuitously toothy smile and
He carries a burlap sack fit for a three-month hike
point to the elevator. Mr. and Mrs. Winnipegger,
across the European countryside.
high-paying guests but dim bulbs, stand befuddled in
Mr. Walton motions to his wife, who tells me in a
the shag-carpeted lobby. They appear struck with the
very deep Southern drawl that she and her “darling”
realization that the Nevada Motel isn’t quite the
are from Hill City, Alabama, and this is their first
“pristine getaway” depicted in the travel pamphlets.
time out of state. With her weight,
Indeed, the ’60s mauve exterior
Mrs. Walton could capsize the Queen
needs a decent paint job, and both the
Elizabeth 2. She carries a flamingosecond-floor water damage and roIt isn’t quite
feathered suitcase that coordinates
dent infestation are quite disconcertwith her boots and wears one of those
ing. But the town of Popswitch,
the “pristine
cheap rubber bracelets that say, “I’m
Maine, is charming: a seaside comgetaway” in the on a mission from God.” When she
munity ritualistically stuck in a “live
she reveals a rouge lipstickand let live” existence.
travel pamphlets smiles,
speckled snaggletooth.
In the course of their unnatural holI give my ritual “Welcome to the
iday, Mr. and Mrs. Winnipegger will
Nevada Motel” performance, and the Waltons avoid
both acquire third-degree sunburns and be bitten by
my gaze thereafter. They nevertheless take their plassand fleas. Mrs. Winnipegger will suffer from a setic key and spend five days in Popswitch, living as
vere reaction to Red Tide shellfish, and Mr. Wintourists do and “getting away from it all.” However,
nipegger will chip a tooth on our complimentary
while gallivanting in the frigid Atlantic waters, Mr.
continental breakfast. Upon returning their key, howWalton loses his left pinky toe to a feisty sea crab.
ever, they will smile and say they “enjoyed the vacaAnd while shrieking for medical help, Mrs. Walton
tion.”
steps forcefully into a fellow tourist’s sand castle
It is a characteristically American instinct to demoat, shattering her ankle in 11 places.
light in a bleak reprieve from the average. Take
For the five days prior, Mr. Walton disregarded his
Joseph P. Brooks from Boston, who checks in at a
humdrum, nine-to-five life of stacking inventory at
quarter to three. He wears horn-rimmed glasses, a
the Hill City Walmart. He no longer lived for Micherigid tie, and a suit that’s stiffer than a wooden spoon.
lob Ultra and WWF Fridays, but relished the sweet
When he demands pillow mints and softer towels, I
aroma of vocational freedom. For five luminous
tell him to go back to “Assachusetts.” He doesn’t apdays, he made no attempts to “stick it to the man,”
preciate my comment, yet he stays two nights and
for this is Mr. Walton’s vacation: he is the man.
thanks the maid regularly. He cares not that the maid
LINK
by Brianna Weidman, Carmel, IN
fiction
I Kissed the Boy Who Hit Me
Until the unfortunate sea crab incident, Mrs. Walton comfortably strutted the beach in a rainbowstriped, g-string bikini. For 57 minutes, she was
Cleopatra and Mr. Walton was Mark Anthony. In her
mind, she wasn’t the weight of a Burmese elephant,
but was a black-and-white movie star fresh from
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
The Waltons were overly eager to escape their
mundane lives; they braved mutilating injuries and
substandard motel conditions to “get away from it
all,” and in the end, returned to normalcy with nauseating ease. They will remember the Nevada Motel as
a symbol of the American vacation, an enticing facade and a bleak escape.
After the Walton’s noontime departure, the Emerson family arrives. I greet them with, “Welcome to
the Nevada Motel, where we aim to impress tourists
in search of reprieve from their monotonous lives. I
offer you advice: pack up, go home. Take three days
to sit in your suburban backyard and bake your
white, fleshy skin. Sip lemonade from a curly straw,
and paint your toenails some obscene color … Just
get out of Popswitch before it sucks you in.” ✦
Photo by Danielle Conzelman, Enumclaw, WA
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
33
Of Days to Come
Ice on the cement bench
Slowly melting in the rays
Of summer sunlight
Slowly sliding down
Reminding me to wet my lips
And speak
Of days when girls
Would wear linen skirts
And children would play
With hot plastic cars
Rolling down the sidewalk
Skidding to a halt
As they reach a crack
Overgrown with dry grass
ice pouring into my system to burn my
insides up. I prefer
fire to the alternative. I prefer machine guns
to sewing machines.
At least machine guns don’t pretend to be
something they’re not.
They’re death put into form. Just like every
bullet that
escapes to tear flesh and bring pain. They
have no
alternative – that is all they can ever be. I pity
them because I have
hopes and dreams and memories and they are
born only to
kill. I pity them as I fall to my knees and realize
I’m dying.
by Kat Davis, Rehoboth, MA
Of days when lemonade
Will only quench your thirst
Soothing your throat
Allowing you to speak once more
Of days to come.
by Julia Reichard, San Francisco, CA
Casualties of War
I walk under the umbrella to avoid the hail of
bullets hiccuped from the gaping mouth of the
weapons. It reminds me of rapid-fire
needles firing through cloth, reminding me of
distant relatives – sewing machine meet
machine gun.
One creates – the other destroys. Edging
linings on pillows or spilling blood the size
of peanuts –
like tourists feeding kangaroos at the zoo.
Even though kangaroos don’t eat peanuts,
just like
war doesn’t solve problems, except maybe
fertilization –
I heard that blood and gore make great food for
the hungry, the drunk, and the dead – not
dead outside but dead inside. Like warriors
and generals who
don’t see bodies. They see numbers.
Climbing. Climbing.
Climbing as the needles fall and the bullets
reign. (Or is it rain?)
That’s why I carry an umbrella through the
sleet and snow and
blood as it falls from the sky. I hold out my
tongue to
catch them. As if that would create a
memorial to
yesterday and today and everyone left behind
in the
space between the lines. Salty, I decide.
Like peanuts.
I set down my umbrella and hold out my
arms, quickly
torn off at the shoulder from the pouring
bullets and
raindrops, heavier by far as they hold more
implication than
unimpressive pieces of metal-shaped
death – but
I don’t mind. I listen to the raindrops cry as
they smash
into the ground, over and over and over and
over. I
feel their pain in the blood soaking my blouse
as the bullets
pierce my flesh and enter my heart. The metal
is warm.
At least that’s a comfort. It could be cold.
It could be
Enter at Your
Own Risk
Come right up, let me insert the key
Then you can admire this place so special
to me.
Walk through the entrance and you will see
Pandemonium, chaos times two or three
Bashed-up toy here, five smelly socks there
Bubble-gum wrappers and clothes that I wear
Used tissues, trading cards, and a brush for
my hair
It’s impossible to see the ground anywhere.
A library book that’s way overdue
A popsicle stick covered in gooey glue
Magazine clippings and my brother’s left shoe
And pencils and papers from the game Clue.
A dirty black shirt that used to be gold
A half-eaten sandwich that’s a year old
An ancient fish-tank covered in mold
This place is a mess, or so I’ve been told.
With a questionable substance emitting
green fumes,
Walking in might be your ultimate doom.
To you it may sound like your eventual tomb,
But to me it’s my incredible amazing
wonderful room.
by Anika Naidu, Northville, MI
3 minutes and
47 seconds
I spent exactly 3 minutes
And 47 seconds
Searching for you
I stood in the post office
In front of the counter
That holds the antique stamps
Yellowing, curling
Taking in age
Or wanted
Sheet of paper
But I did not see
Your eyes
I spent exactly 3 minutes
And 47 seconds
Ignoring the polite request
From the lady
At the counter.
“Can I help you, ma’am?
Do you have a question? Anything to mail?
Ma’am … Are you all right?”
I spent exactly 3 dollars
And 47 cents
On postage
To mail back
Your T-shirt
You left on my floor
Your letters
Your heavy scent
And even your love
Or what I could catch of it
And then I walked out
The door
Past the old man
Checking his mail
On the wall of empty boxes.
Exactly 3 days from now
And 47 minutes after I start my day
I will find
A package
There on my doorstep
With one red stamp of ink
Proclaiming that
You
Your address
Could not be found
And I will know
That I have tried
For long enough.
by Lee Christian, Independence, MO
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
A Piece of My Father
A “v” reveals through the neck
of his simple T-shirt, an angle
my two calloused fingers spread can frame,
or my protractor can create
in the evening while he teaches me geometry.
Perfect, brown as his face,
as brown as the tilled earth, reflecting
the tiniest hint of bronze from the sun,
the tan that shows I am his daughter.
The corner of him that intimately knows
the sun up close
from high on a cracked leather tractor seat
pacing the stretching horizon, or
from a silo he steadily builds
with sheets of metal from the hardware store
bought months ago in the season of farm
auctions,
or gazing up in the critical way he does
to judge a piece of sky:
sun for the alfalfa, deep rains for corn,
clouds to cut the sun off like
the picker swallowing up brittle stalks,
a special space
of a human, a taste of the sweat from work,
a spot for me to rest beside, up close
to a father who seems so far away.
When the sun ends
with a quiet pop in deep space
will it happen to us
The Flames
instantly, removing each ounce of heat?
I might be standing by the window
screaming into the sable sky,
our backyard fizzing as you sleep on
slightly despondent.
Or we are
on a drive to Florida
complaining of the snow
in our galoshes, the calm sea
these days and the cold sweat
soaking the collar
of your shirt.
All their eyes
Printed on a missing
POETRY
by Anna Victoria, Stonington, CT
by Colette Bersie, Montrose, MN
I was watched by the
Kidnapper,
The boy who broke in on a dare
One too many times,
The man who forgot to pay his
Rent, parking tickets, and visa,
The rapist
And the woman
Who ran away
With her bruises
In tow.
•
or that we were actually locked
in a bloody battle,
a monosyllabic conversation,
a primitive ape dance while we went.
Exhibit
Photo by Jessica Chiu, Aurora, IL
34
And in the next millennia tourists on vacation
to wherever it is we end up
choking under the ice
will look at our cavemen replicas
stiffly holding one another,
cooing. How amazing that
at such early stages in existence,
Homo sapiens sapiens felt love.
The museum tour guide will correct this,
saying that it was simply for a last warmth
the world’s under construction
(please pardon the appearance)
just try not to acknowledge
the earth’s current incoherence
anyway, for the next thirty days,
(or weeks or months or years)
just don’t read the news, please
we’re still working on those smears
all these inconvenient wars
have really screwed the time frame
but we’ll still get it finished
until then, ignore the flames
the cranes are getting rickety,
bulldozers breaking underfoot
the zing of broken, swinging wires
making it tougher to stay put
but we’re building ramps and highways,
houses, feelings, little towns
we’re slowly making progress
slowly toppling the frowns
it may never be quite perfect,
it may never be the same
but one day it may be half ideal
until then,
ignore
the
flames
by Emily Spak, Easton, CT
Lotus Blossoms and Picture Stories
I yearn for pictures
Seashells
To tell me of my past
She sits at the hospital piano each afternoon
with lotus blossoms and seashells
braided in her hair.
Her eyes close
and her fingers waltz
like silken rain on an ocean,
and she dreams
of music swirling like water,
music adorning her withered skin.
She whispers, thank you for holding me.
And she’s adrift in the waves,
sipping
thirsting
for poetic roars,
symphonies and duets
that cradle her ears.
The Piano speaks to her
when night spills into the vacant room,
like tears that fall from her dying irises,
home reflected in them.
by Roopa Shankar, San Jose, CA
The Path
Reality hits
I take a step back
Look at the damage around
And hold back a laugh.
It never used to be like this
I was good at hiding what was real
But denial only goes so far
Pain only ignored until you can feel.
Smoke rises from the ashes
Another ruin on the side of the road
But the path continues
On and on it goes.
Will it happen again?
No doubt, nothing ever stops changing
So I will continue on
With life forever rearranging.
by Tionna Montgomery, Enumclaw, WA
The West
I love this land
but in the black of night
I can convince myself
that I love anything
even worms have
a sort of poetry
in the moonless gloom
rustic grass
straw and gold and bleached green
wind rattles
smell of sage, earth, man content
history
yes, these lands have never forgotten
their history
unlike cities, always pressing on
to modernize until what? perfection?
but the hills sit and remember
and the fields, and even the roads
the very air smells
of stories
I love this land
by Rebekah Burcham, Pendleton, OR
And recite the stories
That no one likes to hear.
Those stories,
You know,
That make you cringe
With merely their thought.
The stories of one’s
First steps,
Babbled words,
Potty training,
And first haircuts.
Or when they threaten to bring out
The pictures of your bare butt
Lying on a changing table looking up
Curious of a world which is
Incomprehensible
To one of any age.
I yearn for these pictures,
To hear the stories
In her soft voice as she would relay
Her cravings during pregnancy
And her thoughts before delivery,
Or maybe even that one time when
She found my pink chalk drawing
I hid behind the toy box.
Now her stories are of the chilly winter winds,
Blowing a cocoa-less frost across the
loneliness,
Or the pitter-patter of animals scavenging
across the
Aged earthen mounds.
Sometimes she even tells of adolescent voices
Both young and old,
And yet still confused and confounded about
That event.
The one end.
The one that brought them to their knees,
And led them to the spot where they kneel now,
Pleading.
Wanting.
Begging.
Conversing … in tears or strangled voices.
you can’t say I never Staying Here
wrote you a poem Is there nowhere to go?
The days have anchors tethered to them, as do
the corners of my mouth and my eyelids
and my hopes. You turned me into an
addict, my lips chapped, my eyes
rimmed with raccoon rings and three hours
worth of sleep. This coffee is nicotine and you
are my cocaine, you are
a fine white dust that disappears
and settles on my insides. I wonder
why and how you consume me, what about you
is so outstanding, so worth destroying
who I am for you. I wonder, if a taxi
ran me over, left its skid marks on my skin,
trampled my teeth and bones and skull,
would they call your house, would you
answer your phone, would they
tell you the truth, would you
pause or stutter, would you
grip the phone tighter, would you
ask them to repeat that, would you
listen as they analyzed my mutilated self, from
the bloodshot brown eyes to the
severed, painted toes, would you
drop the phone, drop to your knees and
pay me back in tears –
or would you say, the way you always do,
nothing, and hang up?
by Paige Morris, Jersey City, NJ
I Shall Run
Photo by Abigail Wolfenberger, Kamuela, HI
Belonging
After Life
I thirst for the right of way,
to move,
to feel the earth breathe beneath me,
relishing the soft green,
the rough browns.
I can smell the tea-colored leaves,
taste the salty teal of the ocean.
Crisp air and whipping winds,
that’s where I belong.
One after another
There are three small words
Life goes on
by Brandi Watson, Dunville, NH
Tell me when you want to leave.
I’ll keep all my things in
Ziploc bags and suitcases
Taking up as little space as possible
So I don’t have to believe
I’m staying here.
I want my explicit lines to exist in minds
not as twisted lines but simplistic rhymes
Because I want everyone to understand not
excluding you
I want to cause jaws to drop and people
staring too
I want you to be in it. I want you to search for
the meaning
And after you hear the beginning I want you
to be poetry fiending
because poetry is my life And my life is in a
poetic stance
And I think it should be a poet’s right to have
poetic fans
because I wanna get everyone involved in
what seems to have saved my life
It helps me get over my trials and tribulations,
complications and strife
And if a topic seems redundant in my poetry
Just know that topic has been haunting me
and holding me
So I’ll write poems ’bout my mom until she
looks at me and smiles
because all I ever wanted was to think I made
my mother proud
And with my dad I can look at him and tell
how hard he tries
But I can tell he hurts inside, because I’m gay
and my heart cries
I was born with three strikes I guess I’m in
my bonus round
I’m black I’m a girl I’m gay, yea I’m really
talking now
And I hope that you’re still listening
Because if you miss a part of my poems a
part of my life is missing …
by Anonymous, Charlotte, NC
by Kourtney Maison, El Dorado, KS
POETRY
I want to live on an airplane,
Though I don’t have much to offer,
I would leave for Utah
With you.
Just so you could see her.
And I could travel with you.
I want to see you smile.
Don’t let me believe
I’m staying here.
Poetry
by Sapphire Janea, Red Lion, PA
by Darian Spurlock, Huntington, WV
I’m told to think of
An open space.
I see a field and hills
That grow larger
Every time I look up
To see the sky.
What color? I can’t tell, really.
Does this mean I’m stuck?
Please don’t tell me
I’m staying here.
by Maddy Moss, Rancho Palos Verdes, CA
A thousand feelings
a million thoughts
i keep them locked inside
scared of myself
frightened of the truth
can i feel anymore
should i let my heart love again
or live with the ice that has formed
love is a powerful thing
and i think i shall run
My memories now are of stilled photographs
and
Faint hints of her scent,
Old T-shirts,
and popular movies.
And of nights in the kitchen,
Only to settle down to read,
Waking to
Chilled mornings and cold quilts,
With ice cream for breakfast
And chocolate peanut candies for dessert.
These are our stories,
Told by the winter’s wind,
And sequeled by the spring’s breeze,
That promises to
Always
Play on our memories.
I will keep all my things
In Ziploc bags
And suitcases
So I won’t have to believe
I’m staying here.
•
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
36
In Search of Faith
by Molly Vorwerck, Newport Beach, CA
out. He was in the garage fiddling with
orty years ago, my grandfather
something, as fathers do. It was Sunleft our family in Los Angeles
day. We never went to church with my
for a fresh start in New Mexico.
mother, who rarely went anyway. I
He didn’t give any reasons, just
hadn’t been since I was 13, before my
hopped on his chopper and fled the
grandmother passed away. I was 18
state, leaving my grandmother and fanow.
ther, a teenager, behind. Not until I
He ran inside and picked up the
was born did he enter the picture
phone, panicked. I had assumed he
again. I saw him alive once, when I
wouldn’t care, would walk in leisurely
was eight, and then my father ensured
and take his time clearing his throat to
that we end all contact.
speak.
He said he felt obligated – as a
After a few minutes of “What hapgrandfather – to teach me things. The
pened?” and “When is it?” “Where?”
meeting resulted in a bloody nose, two
he found me in the living room, sipempty bottles of tequila, and a dead
ping a diet soda and watching televidog. “He won’t be coming back,” my
sion – something about ancient Greek
father assured my mother. “That chapmythology on Discovery.
ter is over.” He retreated to his bed“We’re going to
room and I heard the
New Mexico in two
door slam and a pill
days. Tell your mom
For a brief
bottle open. We didn’t
she gets home,”
hear from him for
moment I almost when
he said, then retreated
many years. Then three
to the garage.
months ago we rethought I might
The airplane ride
ceived some informamiss him too, this was short from LAX to
tion on his
whereabouts.
man I didn’t know the dinky little landing
pad in New Mexico, in
A woman called our
the center of some obhouse while my mother
scure city. We hurried to the baggage
was at church and my father was in the
claim and loaded into our rental car, a
garage. She introduced herself as Jez,
gray Honda. My parents and I were
my grandfather’s girlfriend. She didn’t
exhausted even though the flight was a
ask me who I was but instead recited a
mere two hours. My mother did crossmonologue. Perhaps she was reading
word puzzles and my father slept. I
from a teleprompter. The conversation
finished off a book on religion, which
started out normally enough until she
only served to confuse me.
paused and cleared her throat.
I’m not some radical thinker, like
“He’s dead,” she croaked.
Buddha, who sits under a tree and
“Who?” I asked, stupidly. She
finds his hope and calling. I never
sounded foreign, Mexican most likely.
went to church as a child, nor did I reHer voice was husky and smooth,
ceive a religious education from my
pleasant to hear, despite the negative
ardent Catholic grandmother, who
message she was relaying.
prayed alone in her room many hours
“Charles … Mr. Rodriguez. In New
each week, or mildly spiritual mother,
Mexico,” she said.
who dabbled in various mantras and
I put down the phone and went to
ideas. My father was no better. After
find my father. It would have been easmy grandfather left, he suffered a loss
ier to tell my mother first, but she was
of faith. Or rather he never knew it existed. He retreated into himself. My
grandfather’s return only reaffirmed
his nonbelief. My family took no active role in my religious or spiritual
growth because, I assumed, they were
still working on their own.
We booked a room in a cheap motel
near the church where the ceremony
would be held. The drive from the airport was long and exhausting – the
town was many hours and multiple
truck stops away. We passed purple
canyons and dead cacti, roaming birds
and cracked mud. This is what my
grandfather came for, I thought.
We got to the motel and had just
enough time to change into our best
blacks for the funeral. It was a grimy
room with cockroaches lurking in the
shadows. The previous occupants had
left moldy junk food wrappers under
the beds, items so rancid even the
most callous of maids wouldn’t dare to
vacuum them up. After my mother finArt by Megan Bean, Harpers Ferry, WV
ished her makeup, we loaded into the
F
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
car again and drove to the church.
My grandfather lay in a casket. His
lips and cheeks had been plumped by
the mortician (something we had paid
for two states away) and he wore a
white tank top and an old, worn pair of
jeans. Tattoos covered his arms, a
mural of faded colors and shapes. His
mourning girlfriend, a seventy-something woman who owned a local cantina, had picked out his clothing as
well as the “typical” funeral decorations, according to her, though I couldn’t recall ever attending a funeral with
Art by Seth Nolan, West Bloomfield, MI
red and black streamers and skullshaped candles floating in the holy
“Of course, yeah, I read lots of
water. She said that they had met five
books.” I would appease her. He was
years before.
dead. It didn’t matter.
There were 10 people there, includ“I miss him so much,” she said. She
ing the priest and two random women
was the woman on the phone, the siren
– his family I assumed – a large,
who convinced us to pay the mortician
apple-shaped wife and a gum-popping
for a dead man’s Botox, to fly out here
daughter. She looked no older than 16.
for mediocre punch and rancid food
He was Native American, and wore a
under motel beds. Her powers of perfeather headdress and an orange and
suasion were undeniable. For a brief
white robe with a raccoon pelt over his
moment I almost thought I might miss
shoulders. He was a voodoo Jesus of
him too, this man I didn’t know.
sorts, a holy totem pole. His family sat
“Did he take you to church?”
in the back, blank-stared and bored.
“What?”
The daughter looked up from her mag“Church. He loved to pray. He tatazine every now and again. I thought I
tooed the word ‘faith’ on his arm years
caught her eye once but realized she
before we started dating. He loved the
was just staring at my mother, who
church.”
was sobbing and choking up, though
Faith. Does religion teach people to
she barely knew Charles Rodriquez.
abandon their families? He was a reli“Your sentimentality is showing,” I
gious man. He was sure of himself. He
whispered.
was able to burn a chapter of his life
After the funeral, we crowded into a
and write another. My book on the
dank little room in the back of the
plane ride here, and all my others
church, an adobe structure that looked
stored at home, the days spent thinkas though it was built by very ancient
ing about instead of attending to relipeople.
gion, had not given me faith in
There were streamers, much like
anything but the uncertain.
those in the church, as well as an as“Of course it was probably the
sortment of chips and
name of a woman.” She
pretzels. Most of the
laughed through watery
guests headed toward the “My grandfather eyes.
snack table before viewBut she had other
left us for
ing the lovingly made
thoughts. She refused to
photo collage or apbelieve this story. I asa woman
proaching the priest to
sumed his skin rejected
named Faith” her name.
compliment his sermon.
“So, you must be his
“He had a way of using
grandson. He’s told me
his faith to enlighten the
all about you,” the girlfriend said,
world around him. He had a way with
coming up behind me as I stared, in a
people. Men like your grandfather
trance, at the punch bowl where ice
should not die.”
cubes floated in a mass of spotty maI smiled and quickly left the room,
roon liquid. How classy, I thought.
passing my father, mother, the priest,
“Yeah,” I said, quietly.
and his family, the daughter still chew“You must have really loved him.”
ing gum, staring blankly ahead. I
“What do you mean?” I asked. I
found myself in the church again,
barely knew him; love was out of the
mind rushing, dizzy, upset. I felt nauquestion. It wouldn’t have surprised
seous.
me to learn he had fabricated an enI approached my grandfather’s castirely new life with a superhero-esque,
ket. The church was empty; no one
Harvard-bound grandson, particularly
was visiting him. But then again, we
since his former life was clearly not
were at a party for a memory, not a
worth living.
body.
“Did you like it when he took you
I stared at his face, smooth and
to bookstores? He took me sometimes,
plump. He was wax. I touched his
pointed out his favorite novels. He
cheek, his shirt, his arm. I saw the tatread a lot. He said you liked to read
too and allowed my fingers to lightly
similar things.”
➤➤
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was getting dark outside. Glasses
clinked and rowdy men roared.
“She died?”
“Yeah, she died. Why?”
“My grandfather left us for a woman
named Faith.”
This made her laugh. Her head rolled
back and her hair fell over her shoulders in one continuous wave. A few
men around us stared at her, and one
licked beer off of his lips, rubbed his
graying, whiskery chin. Another
smirked and then took a long swig of
his drink.
“Faith Smith. I’m sorry. No, really,
I’m sorry. But your trials ain’t the pits
of the world. My daddy left us two
years ago to gamble his fortunes away.”
“Isn’t your father Priester Keester?”
“No, he’s my uncle. We help him out
at the funerals for pay. Someday I’m
gonna be famous though. Won’t do
nothing but what I want.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen and growing!” she smiled.
“The world is my pearl, and someday
my gum will taste like champagne.”
“My father pops pills on an hourly
basis.”
“So what? My mother is fat as a
whale. Can barely clean herself. We’re
all here together, hon.”
I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I wasn’t in the mood for Coke.
The girl waved me away, and a man
with a toothpick between his lips approached and sat in my seat. She didn’t
look back for help.
I opened the bathroom door. It was
small but not quaint like the bar. Two
middle-aged truckers grunted and
zipped up their flies, and the one closest to the door shot me a quick glance.
Faith. The men left. A Hispanic
woman entered, unmindful of my presence, and started cleaning. I assumed
she was a janitor.
Faith. She dragged in a yellow bin
and wet mop, dipped it in the water.
Faith.
The word was carved in the wall
above my urinal. The woman passed to
enter a stall, her wet mop splattering
soapy liquid on the back of my dress
pants.
Faith. What sort of a man was my
grandfather? Did he go to cantinas like
this? I can imagine he met Jez here,
wooed her, and then the aging couple
rode his chopper into the sunset. Did he
get this tattoo after taking a piss here so
many years before?
There was no way of knowing, of
course, if my grandfather did these
things. Instead of some string of obscenities or Call Me, it said Faith. Faith
in what? A religion or philosophy? A
family or woman? There was no way of
knowing. My books had not told me
what to write on bathroom walls.
Faith looked at me, lured me into a
gaze. I was not staring blankly at a casket but rather a dream, a possibility. It
is impossible to unlock the secrets and
past lives of mankind; if everyone knew
this, philosophers would need day jobs.
I returned to the bar and spotted the
girl sipping her martini with the burly,
lonely men who craved her company in
their dismal lives. She seemed 20, even
60, the way she carried herself and
knew the world.
I decided not to disrupt her any more
than I already had, so I left the cantina
and went back to the church, the muted
dusk light falling behind me.
My parents were standing outside the
church with Jez. She seemed almost
blissful, but morose and longing all the
same. My mother was no longer sobbing but held my father’s hand, a tender
smile gracing her face. My father was
unchanged. It was obvious the dead
dog had sealed the deal long ago. The
church hadn’t given him religion. Faith
wouldn’t either.
They saw me, motioned to indicate
our imminent departure, and we walked
to the car in silence. Jez followed as a
sort of good-bye gesture.
I got in the back seat. Jez turned
back to the church, but I rolled down
my window and reached out to touch
her shoulder. She turned.
“I found her,” I said.
“Found who?” she asked.
“Found Faith.”
“Faith?”
“Faith.”
fiction
“Faith.”
life?” I asked.
He had faith. He wreaked of it. The
“Sure.”
way he dressed – his new glass eyes
“Do you know anyone named
and greased-back hair – he was the
Faith?”
word’s physical manifestation.
“Faith Gonzalez? Ricardo? Smith?”
“I’m going to find Faith,” I whis“How old are they, if you don’t mind
pered in his ear.
me asking?”
Find Faith. She must be a woman
“Why should I care, I ain’t them.
around here. We didn’t have a set plan
Let’s see … oh, look – here we are.
for the night, maybe go to dinner at a
Such a shame,” she said. I followed her
local cantina. My grandfather was an
inside.
enigma, something we would try to
The cantina was loud and obnoxious.
avoid addressing; my father wouldn’t
Music blared from a jukebox and large
discuss the funeral, and my mom, after
men and women buzzed, danced
trying to console my father by describaround the entrance, loosely grasping
ing to me the good in death and the afwine and beer glasses. They laughed
terlife, would retreat to her meal in
and circled each other, the women
silence. Nothing compelled me to stay
moving their skirts and tapping to some
with them that night.
Mexican anthem.
I went back to the reception. People
She grabbed my hand as we entered
were still milling around.
and led me to the bar
I stood near the door and
where a mix of white, Hiswatched my parents conand Indian men sat
It is impossible panic,
verse with Jez. The girl
chit-chatting or staring
blowing bubblegum came
straight ahead solemnly.
to unlock the
over and stood next to
Some smoked; some
secrets and past coughed into handkerme. I could tell from her
bored look that her gum
lives of mankind chiefs between guzzles of
was losing its taste.
beer. I didn’t see many
“Hey,” she said. She
women at the bar, except
stared blankly ahead of her, as she had
for those working behind it, guarding
before. She crossed her arms, looked
the alcohol from depressed or intoxiup at me, one sharp movement, and
cated hands.
then looked straight ahead again.
The cantina was old-fashioned, tradiI nodded in response. Nothing about
tional. The walls were red adobe, and
her looks struck me as extraordinary,
lace curtains hung in the windows.
but her magnetism was undeniable. She
Kegs of beer and bottles of tequila
had long black hair and wore a billowy
filled the shelves. It was quaint and
peasant skirt and a simple white blouse.
homey but disheveled; its desolation
Stiff, gold-colored jewelry covered her
and grotesqueness were mirrored by its
arms, fingers, and neck, flowing down
inhabitants. A few men whistled at the
her chest. She looked like a gypsy.
girl and she smiled coyly in response,
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
batting her eyelashes. She ate up the at“What do you mean?”
tention, fleetingly meeting their
“I’m bored as hell. Mr. Priester
glances.
Keester does this at least once a week.
“Do you do this often?” I asked.
Let’s go to the cantina.”
“Maybe.” She looked at me in mock
“Cantina?”
flirtation.
“You know … bar. It’s owned by Jez.
“Who is the oldest Faith you know?”
Good vodka, good music.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jez?”
“I’m on a search. Answer my ques“Come on!” she grabbed my arm and
tion.”
gave me only a brief second to gesture
“She’s 80 … or she was. She died a
to my parents on the way out.
few months ago. Why are you so weird,
“Oh, all right, dear!” My mom
huh?”
waved, restraining her poised tears (I
“I’m not weird.” Just confused.
had to give her props). I’m sure she
“What’ll it be?” A bartender apthought this was my way of coping.
proached us.
She probably thought cantina meant
“A martini, please. No olive. No
playground.
stick,” the girl replied.
The girl ran to get money from the
“Eh, er … a Coke?”
priest, who handed her a few dollar
The woman gave me a puzzled look.
bills. She snarled at his lack of generosShe seemed ready to say something,
ity, turned toward the door, and we
but refrained. She could probably tell I
were off. I still didn’t know her name,
wasn’t 21, but she didn’t seem to care;
but that didn’t seem to faze her. Maybe
she clearly wasn’t penalizing my bar
she knew something about Faith; it was
buddy. She didn’t love her job, but then
a small town.
she didn’t seem to loathe it either. She
The sun was slowly setting before us.
found something righteous in the work,
Dusk already. My grandfather should
something familiar. I imagined she
be underground by now – funny to
found contentment and modest pleasure
think of him still resting in the church,
in the simple events of her customers’
casket wide open, facing emptiness. No
lives, as well as her own. She gave us a
man, dead or alive, enjoys attending a
quick nod and turned to get our drinks.
funeral alone.
“Sure thing, dolls,” she winked.
“So … have you lived here all your
The bar was noisy and crowded. It
Photo by Scott Bradley, Chester, CT
“Where is she?” Her eyes were wide
and hopeful, open to any way to connect with his memory.
“Over your second urinal.”
My father started the car and backed
out of the parking lot, our Honda’s
wheels crackling on the dry asphalt.
The night was at its darkest hour, but it
felt like dawn.
I turned to see her face through the
rear window, bewildered, searching.
Faith was here; my grandfather had
found it, created it.
We didn’t have dinner. No one was
hungry. My father fell asleep quickly
and my mother did her crossword puzzles for a while before turning off her
light. I opened the nightstand drawer
next to my bed, found a box of
matches, and grabbed my book.
I went outside, into the parking lot,
and lit a match. I threw the book on the
ground and watched my suspicions go
up in flames. ✦
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
37
The Lemons
let us submerge
The lemons
are sour devils of fruit, they
tear my tongue apart, they are
yellow splotches of paint
against my ceiling and walls,
destructive, acidic tears
from the Sun
kicking my head onto a long road
with aching lemonade lanes.
coquina shells sprawled about the shore
containing the scraps of you and me,
shattered and jaundiced with age.
they have to sit to keep from drifting
into the foaming tethers of the sea.
by Akila Metheny, Greensboro, NC
Black Hole
What if there was a pain inside of me
that made it hard for me to breathe.
I’d suffocate in all the lies
and drown in my tears from the many cries.
What if the pain was so big
That it turned into a black hole
and I fell in …
by Irie Ewers, Holdenville, OK
John, Michael,
Christopher
It was a crisp, clear June morning.
The sun was just breaking through.
I woke each of my three boys.
With a kiss on their forehead and a gentle
touch on their shoulders.
I left them to pack.
John, Michael, and Christopher.
At breakfast, John and Michael were excited.
Christopher though was more quiet than usual.
Handsome they were
In their olive army uniforms.
Each with a twinkle in their eye,
Except for Christopher.
The walk to town passed too quickly.
I was proud of my boys.
They held their heads high.
But the sadness in Christopher’s eyes
As the train pulled away
Haunts me in my dreams.
One afternoon,
A dark, olive-colored truck appeared.
Out came a tall man,
He handed me a letter, said he was sorry,
and drove away.
As I read aloud, my tears rolled, my boy
was killed.
Michael and Christopher.
Still sad from my eldest son gone,
Thinking of how Michael and Christopher are
faring.
The phone rings,
I go through the empty kitchen to the bedroom,
Knowing, before I answer, Michael is gone too.
Leaving only my sad-eyed Christopher.
Sitting in my bed
Wondering
How could this be?
I hear a faint engine rolling,
I look out of my window and there is a man.
He is limping up toward the house.
I turn on the lights and go downstairs.
As I open the door, I know, I cry.
Christopher, back at home.
Never going back to war again.
John, Michael, Christopher.
by Alexis Friedlander, Bethesda, MD
38
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
but
now
you plunge, with little more than the faith
that this abyss will reveal its roots,
and in your steps i’m sinking
yet i always thought i would float.
a cool repose deluges my soul
and
now
a purpose is restored.
by Jenna Buckle, Palos Verdes, CA
The Cypress Shelf
In a little-known town
In a little old house
There is a cypress shelf
Laden with odds and ends
Some days
When the masters are about their ways
The little odds and ends
Wake up and play
The wooden deer dancers
Prance and dance
Ever celebrating like it was their last chance
The badger pot
ever looking for its prey
Still with its memory
Of its maker in Paquimé
And little head of clay
Chats with the arrows
They tell each other stories
One of fire and the others of sparrows
The poor entombed fish
Stares at the painting
Of a river whose likeness it had swam before
Always hoping, always waiting
For the time that is no more.
There is a rumbling noise outside
And in all haste
The odds and ends get back into place.
The man and wife have come home
The little girl is with them as usual
And once again
The shelf is still
by Anna Harris, Austin, TX
Rest Stops
To the left of the
puddles of crabgrass
and evergreen saplings
sits a peeling table
once used for picnics.
Ethyl Acetate –
(in a quaint shade
that requires 2-3 coats
and a safe residence
in a cabinet
far from heat and flame)
– lies in flakes on the bench.
Here a girl brushed
nail-polish shavings
from her germ-xed fingertips
and air-tight knuckles.
A coated figure
•
POETRY
sits beneath the comforting shadow
of evergreen limbs,
with congested trash bags
sleeping beside him.
Rhapsody on a
Sunny Spring Morn
Black and sleek,
these bags are containers
for all bottles and wrappers
tossed onto rabid weeds.
The coated figure drifts while
the misplaced travelers
vanish
and abandon their waste.
Stickers are left behind:
On public and putrid bathroom stalls.
III
Blindness:
Beneath the spring’s first rays,
Underneath the cherry tree that saw
The finest hours of mid-life
Eclipsed by this morn’s thunders
That shook the earth within,
The twelve obelisks that surround the
barren tree
I must shield
Risk derided;
As they did the sputtering fool in the House.
Stickers infest the patterns of the walls
and the odors of the walls
and the Sharpie insults on the walls
and on picnic-table paradises.
Advertising hand prints are everywhere.
Stickers drip with preschool
finger-paint dreams
that have grown into adult corporate
finger-paint routine.
Commercials ignore my discomfort
as I watch them stare.
Stickers. So comedic, with their adhesive putty
glazed onto the pale underside.
Stickers. So lovely, with hitchhiking
evergreen thistles
Photo by Adriana Milbrath, Winter Park, FL
wedged within their
divine white palms.
Grand and perfect
stickers call out for visitors.
They cry for examiners.
The aging bench
twitches in the wind.
The wood breathes away the termites.
Meanwhile, inside,
across from the vending machines
and due west of the tourist maps,
the girl creaks on a faucet.
She waters her
crabgrass-stained shorts.
Feet stomp on a balancing beetle
crawling on freshly plastered bathroom tile.
The insect dies.
Humanely of course.
II
Darkness:
Underneath that cherry tree that saw
Raindrops fall with deadly payload;
Only to sliver
Drip down the body
Peeling away the bloody bark;
Whispering in the blood that seeped into
the earth;
Blood of a thousand conquests;
Seeping round and round …
… round and round
The lines:
Rings of bark.
As they did the face of the seditious Hindu:
The enemy of the sputtering fool in the House.
I
Wisdom:
Underneath the cherry tree that saw
The mourning waters traverse the lines;
Dance across the ages;
Deride degree of antiquity;
To wash away the sin of old age;
Restore the naiveté of youth;
Restore the vision of spring
Allowing the eyes to see once more;
The bones to feel the pain once dulled.
Screaming for the mind to relieve,
The eyes that the moon’s incantations
Could heal for a time.
A Child:
Its head bent forward with the shame of lust;
Its one eye black with the sin of knowledge;
Its hand absent with the sin of greed.
As they did:
Death the destroyer of worlds;
The seditious Hindu;
The enemy of the sputtering fool in the House
that moans;
I am the friend of death himself;
And I shall let him
The destroyer of worlds.
The girl searches for her car keys.
Beetles sneer at her forgetfulness,
as if they knew.
The coated figure
fills his black bag
with clumps of crabgrass.
He sees one blade
iced with polish.
Have the trees lost their evergreen?
0
Innocence:
Under the cherry tree that sees
The sun proclaim boldly,
Reclaiming the blood fallen,
Wrapping around the branches of the leaves,
Kissing the New Bark;
More powerful than any spell
Whispered under the clock-struck darkness;
Dissipating under the cover of light.
You have seen eyes,
They peer out of blinds?
I have seen eyes that peer in the desert;
More innocent than that child on the quay.
Away from the blood;
Liberated from the key;
The key of memory …
by Monica Wiles, Framingham, MA
by Jarnickae Wilson, Nassau, Bahamas
by Shirl Yang, Hsinchu, Taiwan
By the end of the film, the Twinkie wrappers beside
all me sentimental, but I like happy endings.
me had multiplied into a towering mound, my nose
There are countless movies that, through their
was blotchy, my eyes felt as if they had been wrung
poignant or even tragic endings, reveal prothrough a washing machine, and I had dissolved into
found truths about life. These movies, experts tell us,
blubbering mass of jelly.
are true masterpieces. These are the movies that truly
Briefly, I considered the possibility that my sister
matter. These are the movies that leave you red-eyed
had brought this movie home on purpose to watch me
and sniveling, groping frantically for a tissue, trying to
dissolve into tears and then triumph in my humiliation.
blow your nose quietly enough so that no one else
Big sisters like to maintain an appearance of careless
notices what a soft-hearted sucker you are.
superiority in front of their younger siblings, but my
I’m always the one groping for tissues.
mask had slipped. I had to find someone to blame.
Perhaps the plugs responsible for staunching water
But I knew my sister would never go to so much
leaks in my body have a mysterious defect. Perhaps
trouble on my account. After all, she had done her
I’m allergic to tragic endings the way some are allergic
best to cut me out of her life. She no longer crept
to pizza or chocolate-covered peanuts. Or perhaps, as I
under my covers at four in the morning so
often assure myself, my soppiness is a
she could tell me about a rampant dinosaur
sign of a tender, sensitive heart. But
She had done that had invaded her dreams, or checked my
whatever the reason, sad endings always
bowl of cereal to make sure she was eating
send me into a downward spiral of tears
her
best
to
the same kind. She no longer gazed at me
and tissues.
cut me out of with fervent admiration when I explained
The DVD had been resting on the table
why rain fell or what made leaves green.
innocently enough, with its boring black
her life
Sometimes I longed to whack her on the
casing and title stamped across the front
head. Who was this cold stranger who
in bold text. The title contained none of
ended every sentence with an exasperated sigh, or
the warning signs I had come to recognize over the
rolled her eyes impatiently whenever my parents
years. So when my little sister shoved the DVD into
asked her about her friends or lunch? Other times I
the player and collapsed into the armchair, I didn’t
wished that I could throw my arms around the sister I
leave the room, even though I could feel the tension
had once known and never let go.
emanating from her tightened muscles and clenched
In reality, I had already let go. Once my sister began
jaw. My sister doesn’t like being in a room with me.
to treat me with less reverence, I, too, started to withMost days, she stalks right past the living room and
draw. Dinners were now punctuated only by the scrape
storms up to her room. Maybe it’s one of those stages
of a spoon or the creak of a chair – pride forbade me
moody teenagers go through.
from speaking to a person who would only answer
But the mysterious movie intrigued me. She would
with a roll of the eye or a brusque nod. When was the
have to endure my company for a few hours. I
last time we discussed her new crush or giggled over
sprawled out on the couch, resting my head in the
the latest gossip?
crook of my arm. An impatient sigh came from the
My tears had now mingled with the half-chewed
other side of the room. Ignoring her, I snatched a box
Twinkie in my mouth, and my tongue tingled with a
of Twinkies from the shelf behind me, selected one,
bizarre sweet-and-salty tang. With an enormous yawn,
and tore the wrapper open with zest.
C
The Big Three
“W
hat event triggered the
Cuban missile crisis?”
My study buddy looked
from his paper to me with those eyes – the
eyes of Dorian Gray. “I guess Princeton
Review doesn’t see the irony of putting
‘trigger’ and ‘missile crisis’ in the same
question,” he added.
I answered with a coquettish laugh and,
of course, the correct answer: the Bay of
Pigs invasion. I knew the answers to all
these questions. It’s not like I suggested the
idea of a study session because I had difficulty remembering the events of the
Kennedy administration.
“Who was the Soviet premier during the
Cuban missile crisis?” His voice had a curious, musical ring to it like some character
in a black and white movie you could never
quite place.
“Khrushchev.” You would want to hear
more of that voice … like the first ten seconds of a JFK speech, before the whole
nasal rasp becomes too much.
“Spell Khrushchev.” Ha! My little Cape
Cod golden boy was challenging me.
“The AP exam doesn’t take off for
spelling.” I looked him straight in the eyes –
eyes that happened to be mere inches from
mine. Thank you, Aphrodite, for making
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YOUR
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I began blinking furiously, as though I was simply
trying to remove a particularly stubborn eyelash.
Then I peeked across the room. She was sitting at
an awkward angle, her legs draped over one arm of
the chair, her body pressed into the seat, her face
turned away. Good. She hadn’t seen me with tears
and snot smeared all over my face. I rubbed my
soggy eyes and reached for the shelf, fingers searching desperately for the box of tissues I had placed
there the day before.
The tissues were gone.
And then I saw it, resting on the table beside her,
tantalizingly close yet unreachably far. I tried to
stem the flood that blurred my eyes, but it was no use.
I would have to get my hands on that tissue box.
Inching slyly along the couch, I reached – and then
she shifted. My arms hastily stretched toward the
ceiling instead. Another theatrical yawn. The snot
flowed backward, and my graceful yawn ended in a
hacking cough.
She twisted around, and I prepared to fend off any
insult with a sharp retort. Yet, she remained silent. She
had a puzzled look on her face, and looked more relaxed, more vulnerable than I had seen her in a long
time. The perpetual frown was gone.
As I watched, a tear trickled down her nose.
We stared at each other in embarrassed silence, both
faces washed clean of expression, though sticky with
tears. No mask of superior indifference or inexplicable
annoyance. Just me and my sister, peering at one another through newly adjusted lenses.
And I knew that underneath the eye-rolling and
sarcastic comments, she was still there. I just had to
dig a little deeper.
Whether a story will end happily ever after is something beyond our control. The most we can do is grasp
the opportunities we are given. I decided to take the
first step.
“Pass the tissues, please.” ✦
fiction
Tissues
by Eileen Daly, San Antonio, TX
voice is even better than his eyes. For a
small tables at coffee houses everywhere.
moment I wondered if he would lean in and
“I want to see if you know it.”
kiss me. “But you forgot an H.”
I stared into the tangoing twirls of blue
Figures I would do something to ruin it.
and silver in his eyes. They should have
No kiss for me. I guess spelling the names
been strands of cotton candy, but something
of Soviet premiers isn’t something guys
told me they were the current of an eddy
consider a turn-on.
waiting to pull me in. Once you’re gone,
“This one’s easy,” he said.
you’re gone.
Something easy? It must not be kissing
“K.” But the whites of his eyes were
me.
crossed with little red veins.
“Name the Big Three.”
“H.” Did he have trouble sleeping last
The Big Three … somehow my
night?
mind was clear on this one. It
“R.” Or was he with her last
Was I FDR wasn’t that the answer was clear,
night?
but my mind was clear like the
“U.” No, they broke up. He’s
and he
kind of stream some obnoxiously
single now, but blond boy’s out
Stalin?
perfect lyrical unicorn would
of my league.
drink from. For a mini-eternity I
“S.” It’s a challenge. Does that
mean I should go for it?
didn’t think about the mounds of work I
still had to do, the fact I was manipulating
“C.” I wouldn’t know how.
him to spend time with me, or those damn
“H.” Won’t he just disappear from my life
eyes. I thought of nothing … peace. The
when the semester ends?
only three words that came to my head were
“E.” Not if I play this right.
“V.” What the hell, you only live once.
“I love you.”
He stared at me for a moment, and I
“Don’t you know the Big Three?”
couldn’t breathe but didn’t care to; who
There were those eyes again. Stalin must
needs oxygen when you have so much
have had captivating eyes, but in a different
adrenalin in your veins there’s barely room
way. In these eyes there was concern … but
for blood?
only concern that I didn’t know the answer.
“So close,” he said in a low voice. His
In them I saw his dreams, his amazement,
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his past loves, his cats … but was there
anything for me?
“The Big Three are Stalin, Roosevelt, and
Churchill.” With each name I couldn’t help
but feel my words betrayed them all. But it
was the correct answer, and logically the
only answer. Still, I couldn’t look in his
eyes.
“Are you sure?” My God, he was teasing
me! Of all the questions he decided to make
me second guess myself on, he had to pick
this one.
Bastard. Blond handsome bastard. He
was also playing me.
“Well, what other Big Three is there?” I
asked in my most seductive voice. Those
years of theater had to pay off sometime. I
twirled a bit of curly hair around my finger.
He loved my curly hair, so unlike his.
His eyes were staring into mine and I
stared right back. Was I FDR and he Stalin,
or the other way around? There was a
flicker of something in those cotton-candy
eyes and I knew he wasn’t Stalin.
“I love you.” The words that slipped from
his lips were barely audible.
“I love me too.” I bet no one had ever
said that to a Kennedy before. But I hadn’t
won yet. “In fact, I love me almost as much
as I love you.” ✦
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
39
The Street
It was overgrown with the bushes of ages,
The pavement was worn down, thin and
cracked.
Bright blossoms and cruel, wicked weeds alike
Interspersedly shared the potholes like large
planter boxes.
The trees grew, overhanging, creating an arch
above that
Little street around the corner.
The sunlight filtered down through the trees
casting its soft light all around.
Green foliage filled this place and the birds
called out softly.
Quiet beauty surrounded it and the wind
rustled the leaves.
Warmth softly swished past your skin as the
crunch of
deteriorating pavement cracked under shoes –
In that little street around the corner.
It’s been five years now,
The pavement of small existence before,
no longer has any claim.
Tall grasses ruffle in the wind and green light
surrounds all.
Bright flowers scatter themselves in a natural
path.
Nature has grown up and around, creating that
magical little meadow around the corner.
by Rebekah Leidenfrost, Galt, CA
Oil
She needs her eyes, pupils dilated, not trusting
the space from doorway to bed in the blue
darkness as she stumbles to release salty
impurities from the wine from earlier that
evening into the porcelain bowl. She drags
her fingers over the light switch.
Or cold cream, cortisone cream, creams in
tubes and bottles that line the cabinet,
Open by running fingers over the corner of
the mirror and pulling the wooden tab.
And trails along walls downstairs
Fading fingertips, oil from different hands
clutching railings.
Or stirring from a bed drenched in morning
sunlight, the mattress strewn with
yesterday’s sensuality,
Today’s hum of weed-wackers and
construction. Still the fingermarks linger
on the walls like shriveled ghosts in the
shade, whispering reflections in my ears as
he moves around in the kitchen downstairs.
Or the light switch, too close to the couch
Resulting in the baby’s curious clamber up,
and repeated flick
On/off. The wonder.
Sweet potato sticky fingers.
I use lemon-scented Fantastic and water to
baptize these
Doorways and tables and places we touch in
transition,
preparing for the neighbor’s visit, my mother
insists I stop dreaming and start cleaning.
I slowly wipe oily residue in circles, and the
only sound in this stillness is that of the
scrubbing away of time.
by Sophie Bell, Newton, MA
40
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
Stand Still Look
Pretty
Hapless Blindness
Double, double toil and trouble,
My brain is seeping with all this rubble.
Remember to smile,
Stand up straight.
He’ll only love you if you’re great,
You’ll never succeed with those yellow teeth,
Brush your hair, wash your face,
Manicure nails, iron jeans,
Pretend you know what all this means.
Speak clearly, be confident
Balance on those four-inch heels,
Even when you feel like you’ve been attacked
by eels.
Double, double toil and trouble,
No man will love you if you have stubble.
Shave, wax, laser removal,
Soft and smooth is how you must be,
Dye your hair and change your face,
Pretend that you can erase the past,
And maybe then the happiness will last.
Straighten your hair,
Shine your shoes,
Pretend, like a robot, you never get the blues.
Remember his favorite book,
And, honey, you better know how to cook.
All in all, you must have the perfect look,
Cheat yourself to think it’s worth it.
Remove those moles,
Go for a tan,
This is the only way you’ll win a man.
His hands should fit around your waist
So chocolate you will never taste.
In the end,
Pretend you’re happy,
Stand still look pretty.
by Theodora MacLeod,
Edmonton, AB, Canada
Those Who
Judge Me
I’m like those who judge me.
I laugh when I hear a joke I like
I cry when I lose someone I love
I want to be surrounded by friends,
not empty spaces
I hide myself inside a marble shell
I don’t trust those who are kind to me
To be myself is not in my agenda
Instead I fight to stay hidden
Behind crumbling walls
Of marble, granite, and pieces of my heart
Am I human?
Why, yes I am.
I fret for today and hope for tomorrow.
I make mistakes that haunt me.
I make friends
I lose them.
I shoot for the stars
But I land back on the ground.
I dream of the future and repress the past
I’m like those who judge me.
They look at me
Porcelain people staring at a body of clay
But do they not see that we both bleed red
We dream in pleasant places
And sometimes in dark valleys
I’m like those who judge me.
by Aaron Mitchell, Picayune, MS
•
POETRY
Photo by Ariana Turner, Overland Park, KS
Sophomore Year
Alone in the abyss.
Once a strong tree,
the earth cracked open
and swallowed her whole.
At first, we are a whole entity
An inchoate mass of opportunity
We strive to breathe our subsequent breaths
Struggling for existence yet –
So abstruse it seems to grasp alone
Blind and cold in misery’s grasp
But soon the warmth settles over our heads
The fire of jovial unity is lit at last
Blazing in the splendor of camaraderie
We call into the unknown land,
Yet now we have a helping hand
So luminous are the stars above
Never to disclose their secrets to us
We forge our ways and pave our roads
Into the morass our friends and foes
The threshold of prewritten stories,
alas is shown
A tree of knowledge renders us desolate
Now our eyes are struck with grief
Misery resumes its chronic grasp
And so we walk our shadows’ lapse
The chasm breaks through our endless cries
Towering high above the sky
And now we weep as fiends awry
I sensed her desperate loneliness
cleverly lacing itself in cigarette halos
and sparkling in falling stars.
Her face was a battle zone.
by Clark Pang, Orinda, CA
My situation was different;
I had dug my own grave –
originally a gradual decline,
it turned in a spiral down.
The birds are famous to the sky
The silent thoughts are famous to the mind,
Which flit around like a hummingbird
The squirrels are famous to the dog,
barking at the trunk of their tree
The soft coos are famous to the baby in its
mother’s arms
The kindness in your smile is famous to
their hearts
The open field is famous to the sun
more famous to it than the covered forest floor
which is famous to cold dampness
The man is famous to the street
but not at all famous to himself
I want to be famous to unfamiliar faces
a person stuck in traffic next to me
a kid crying over a lost balloon
famous as the one who made a glum
moment bright
I want to be famous like the humble zipper,
or the universal string, not because they did
one big thing,
but they can do many little things,
and they are still proud of what they are.
Other hands held shovels,
lying in wait for their turn.
With each foot closer to six,
my feet inching over the edge.
By the time the sun had sunk
we’d dug far past the goal;
six feet had become six yards
there was no way to go but to fall.
A single passenger plane flew overhead.
The pilot caught a spark of the fire;
He picked me up and carted me on.
Resurrection is not so sweet.
The flames licked at my thoughts;
my eyes were in smoke and haze.
Sparks racing, burning my veins,
but the pilot wasn’t looking anymore.
Blinking, aching, searing pain;
I looked around, and saw her.
She, too, was lost, far from home
and demanded my silent reply.
I turned and she flinched back –
She must have seen my eyes,
Stone-cold, hard, icy blue
the way they change, fighting flame.
Her words were lost in a garble,
a symphony of the screams I’d heard.
She said she wanted me to buckle down;
she couldn’t stand to see a crash-and-burn.
She thought that, behind my ice wall,
the engine had simply burst a flame.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her then,
But she was looking at the aftermath.
Warped metal silhouetted in smoke
Mangled pilot lost in the debris
My battered arm, waving in the wreckage,
Begging her to save me from my own flame.
by Moira McAvoy, Chesapeake, VA
Famous
by Charlee Ruhl, Anchorage, AK
Language
i wonder often now
invoked by the learning of another
how language works
how someone can pick up a pencil
and write a series of premeditated lines
and someone can see them
and know what they mean, this chicken scratch
they morph into sounds on their lips
and someone else can hear the sounds
and decipher the bombinating
that fluctuates in coordination
with the lines on the page
and it can trigger
a reaction
by Eryn Gammonley, Fort Collins, CO
by Taylor Granger, Wernersville, PA
D
ad gave me a wink, like we were
pals or something. I wondered if
that’s how he picked up barflies,
batting his big brown eyes at them and
jerking his head toward the door. I
turned away as dramatically I could in
the small car, crossing my arms and legs
and scooting to the edge of my seat.
I rested my forehead against the glass,
my seat belt rubbing my neck. My sunburn was starting to peel. My nose
itched, so I scratched it. I rubbed my eye
and my fist came away purple and black.
I tried to count the trees as they whizzed
by, but they blurred together into a
green-brown smudge. I only got to one.
One giant tree.
Dad reached out toward the radio but
paused. I could see him thinking, his
eyebrows pulled together like caterpillars sharing a kiss. A happy caterpillar
couple. He pulled his hand back and
placed it deliberately on the wheel. I
rolled my eyes. Trying to postpone the
inevitable Q&A session, I switched it
on myself. An earnest country singer
yodeled on about love and life and
grandma’s apple pie while, suppressing
a cringe, I smiled widely and tapped my
foot at little behind the beat, avoiding
his eye. I knew if I didn’t like it, odds
were he didn’t either.
As much as I hate to admit it, we do
have a lot in common. Silly things like
ordering pizza with pineapple but picking off the slimy pieces of fruit before
eating it. We hum when we brush our
teeth. We used to make bets on the
weather or the score of football games
sharp point. Maybe there had been a
or how many times a politician would
note too, but I don’t remember what it
say “ummm” or “uh” or “like” during a
said. There was a big orange frog on the
speech. We’d pay each other in buttons
front, wearing a party hat. It had been
or pocket lint, whatever. Then there’s
smiling. Not a nice smile though, and its
my hair. Our hair. Most people would
tongue was outstretched to lap up a
call it brown, nondescript, but it resmall purple fly.
minded me, marked me. I hated it.
His fingers drummed on the steering
I hummed cheerfully, off-key, as he
wheel, his lips pursed like he was
squirmed. Abruptly he shut the radio off
whistling. Suddenly he turned toward
with his big hands, hands that always
me as if someone had whispered his line
looked dirty. I had seen him scrubbing
to him from behind the curtain. “How’s
them for at least five minutes once,
your mom?”
pumping lemongrass soap into them and
“Fine.” And she was. She still sat for
scratching at them. The water kept gethours in the big armchair
ting hotter, his face redder,
she had dragged out onto the
but he kept them under, and
the steam fogged the mirror “I can’t believe lawn, smiling around the
pens she clenched between
so I couldn’t see his face
how tall you her teeth when she was
anymore.
thinking. Her notebooks
“So …,” he began
are, kiddo”
were still filled with as many
vaguely, but trailed off.
doodles as stories, clumsy
“So,” I answered. I
starts and swirls and the occasional duck
picked at the pink band-aid around my
framing a short little nonsense poem.
finger. I hadn’t cut myself or anything. I
Once I sat for at least an hour studyjust liked how it looked, big and bright.
ing a small box Grandma had brought
It was starting to itch. I ripped it off,
back from India, rearranging the
stuffing it in the dashboard compartment
wooden puzzle on its base before the
before he noticed.
pieces fell into place and the lid sprang
“Can’t believe how tall you are,
open. The journal inside contained a
kiddo,” he rumbled, following his
single page, on which was scrawled the
carefully constructed script of fatherly
word someday. The other pages had
affection. “How old are you now, 16?”
been torn out.
“Fifteen,” I answered curtly, even
Glancing at me, he smiled, all crinkly
though I knew he was just trying to flataround his mouth and eyes, like smiling
ter me. I had gotten a card from him that
made him older. “Like what you’ve done
October. There was a short, cheesy
with your hair.” I had cut it short, shorter
poem inside. It rhymed “special day”
than I liked even. It just reminded me
with “in every way.” He had signed it,
more of him. It fell across my eyes when
large and narrow, each letter rising to a
Dumplings
by Peixin Mo, Muscat, Oman
say that Dad wants me to make dumplings. “Wait,” I
was eight the first time I tried to make them. It
mumble, but Liang’s not patient and he kicks my
was Chinese New Year, and I had a naive grin on
books closed before racing back downstairs.
my face as my dad summoned me over.
I trudge to the bathroom, where I wash my hands.
“Xier.” He hands me a piece of flat dough. “Watch
“Xier, come on!” my sister, Meng, calls. Leisurely
me.” So I smile and concentrate on his calloused
sliding down the banister, I make sure everyone nohands. He spoons the pork filling onto a circle of
tices me before going to wash my hands again, downdough, folds the dough over and gently mends the
stairs, just to waste time.
sides together, his coarse fingers suddenly delicate.
Finally I step into the kitchen and see everyone’s
Ten seconds later, he’s finished sculpting his museumeyes on me. I sit down with a grimace and reach for a
quality dumpling and stares at me. Of course, I’m still
circle of dough. I spoon a wad of filling onto it. Of
smiling confidently. He and I both look down at my
course, I’ve added too much pork, and my
hands still cupping that demanding piece
dad asks, “Don’t you know how to make
of dough. It’s pale yellow and so thin it’s
“Don’t you
dumplings?” So I desperately try to fix
almost transparent. I avert my attention to
the sides and prove I do know how to
the looming pot of pink pork before I
know how
make my country’s delicacy.
timidly gaze up into my father’s expectant
However, the dough is too thin and the
to make
eyes again.
part I’m pulling breaks off in my hand. I
“Your turn.”
dumplings?” hurry to smooth it back on and stop emI failed that first trial, taking three and a
barrassing myself, but on the other side of
half minutes to produce a deformed
my dumpling, the pork is slipping out.
dumpling that refused to close because half the filling
Panicking, I try to mend both problems at once,
was spilling out. But I was young. My dad laughed
with one hand on each end, but making dumplings
and said, “You’ll learn.” But now I’m 12, and I
just doesn’t work that way, so the entire thing splits in
haven’t learned. And now, my dad doesn’t laugh. He
half right down the middle and I’m left with the floor
yells.
to clean. I sense that stinging feeling in my nose that
Today’s Friday, and since there’s nothing planned
always precedes tears, but I can’t cry – not here, not
for dinner, Dad decides that we’re making dumplings.
now. Forcing the tears back, I open my eyes. The
“Come down and help!” he shouts, but I pretend not
dazzling light hits me and I observe that, thankfully,
to hear as I work on my homework.
everyone’s gone back to their own dumplings.
Then he sends my little brother, Liang, upstairs to
I
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I laughed or shook my head, and I
had found myself brushing it away
like I had seen him do in old home
videos. Now it grows close to his
head, but I still see him reach up
when he laughs and sort of strokes
his face, forehead to ear, like it was
still long and he was still young
and sitting under a Christmas tree
with his thin gray robe and yellow
socks as I name my new doll Anne
– but Anne with an e, I insist, with
an e.
“I’m thinking of dyeing it,” I blurted
out, blood rushing suddenly to my
cheeks. I had been, but I hadn’t meant to
say it, not like that, all cold and hard like
Anne-with-an-e’s eyes had been when I
got mad at her and pried them out with a
spoon. I had held them in my hands and
cried, “Sorry, Anne, I’m sorry,” and Dad
had scooped me up and sat me on his
lap and bet me two pieces of string and
an acorn we could put her back together
again.
I still keep them in my jewelry box,
next to the two blue eyes.
I stared ahead, sightless, listening to
him breathe. I picked at my nail polish,
pink flakes drifting onto my jeans. I
brushed them off. I thought I could hear
his heartbeat. Maybe it was mine. I
didn’t turn.
I wish I had. Wish I had laid my
hands on his, big and brown on the
steering wheel, Sorry, Dad, I’m sorry,
and tried to put us back together.
I turned away and counted the trees.
One. ✦
fiction
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I make another one and it’s all right, but there are a
couple of loose areas where the filling is at risk. My
dad doesn’t notice, and I’m certainly not going to tell
him, so I quickly drop my dumpling on the plate
along with all the other showoffs.
But Meng notices. Peripherally, I watch my sister
prod at my pathetic dumpling. “What shall we do with
this one, Xier?” She relocates it to a separate plate,
and I know it’s been deemed trash. I fake lackadaisical indifference. My nose, however, sympathetically
tingles again, but I shoo away my tears.
Eventually, I finish making four dumplings, and I
merrily exhibit them next to my sister’s, even though
my four lack the poise and refinement that each and
every one of hers flaunts. Nevertheless, I am proud.
Later, my dad takes my first, futile dumpling over
to the stove and my spirits soar. Perhaps it wasn’t useless; he was going to boil it! So I smile contentedly,
and voluntarily wipe the table and clear the dishes, all
the time thinking that now I have made five
dumplings. Still grinning, I go take out the trash, and
there’s my dumpling, all bruised and torn, pitifully
poised right on top. And of course, I can’t stop my
tears three times, so they leak out unexpectedly, warm
and compassionate.
Scampering upstairs, I slam off the lights, sprawl
on my bed, and swathe my face in the blanket. And I
try to sleep. It’s only 7 o’clock, but I sleep and I sleep
and I sleep. I sleep so much that when I wake up, I’m
still sleeping. And I lose my sense of the world. ✦
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
41
Body of hope
Cold Rain
Breakdown
made for the sky
My heart beats with hope
It’s life that rushes through my veins
My eyes see with a vision of a better reality
My arms and legs work together to complete
the race
My mind is at peace, tranquility
And in the calm, I see my body of hope
Rolled down the car window during a storm
Just to feel the rain on my skin
And the movement of the wind
As if the solemn purity could cleanse my soul
The air was humid, heavy, hazy
The pounding rain was cold
Ice cold
And so was I
I remembered blue ocean
The rain fell all around me
every day after school i crumple on the stairs,
assuming a position as if i’ve finally landed
after
falling all day. my head creases bird-like to my
clavicle, my hands stretch to the landing,
my feet
tuck into the backs of my knees. today was
the slowest
slow motion drop yet. it was not so much
falling but
more a subdued loss of grip (can you see
the clouds
calling in my eyes?) a gentle decline, a natural
dwindling of a will to hold on.
by Sean Malakowsky, Phoenix, AZ
by Amanda Perlmutter, Flushing, NY
Rhododendron
I watched her from the park one day
i was hidden behind the rhododendron
that Ms. Clemington had sheared
so well this year
as she does annually
and my eyes peered from
the hairy underside of those
widespread leaves
and i watched her
as she emerged from the path
and tentatively placed
her toes on the sidewalk
always cautious
as if someone were
watching her every move
for a minute i stood still
afraid that my hiding spot
had been discovered
but she continued on,
on to the sidewalk
and walked away
as if what had happened
back there in that place
they make her call home
had never even existed.
Snow
open the door
feel the breeze
papers rustle in the room
the darkness is leaving
the cold wind blows the leaves off trees
it’s wintertime
and the snow is following me
stalking me
my coat wraps around my empty silhouette
my body numb with cold
the snow is biting at my neck
the never-ending cold
walking in to my house
with my blanket wrapped around me
I sat down on my warm bed
and drank a cup of coffee
by Maggie Oalman, Mandeville, LA
Crossing Three
Novembers
In silence, I find no pride or problems.
Like writing letters where there speaks
no reply,
and staying with the moon
until the stars shut their eyes.
Gazing at you behind my window,
that gap in the constellation where
a star used to be.
Hoping my dreams could reach up to meet you.
Terrible Technology
Then I am indignant. Squatting in the corner,
hugging my knees, trying hard to nurse my
wounds.
So I could give birth to emotions again.
So I could stop loving you in silence.
Terrible technology tremendously teases
my temper.
On and on, waiting for a reboot makes
me yawn.
Finger-tapping, patience fleeing, nerves
getting tenser.
The Bird House
His skin was rough as bark,
And as I climbed through the coarse reaches
Of his lofty thoughts,
I placed a red, dangling package
Within his hollow chest,
As I moved to leave,
I ruffled a patch of his hair
And kissed his knotted brow,
Then climbed from his embrace,
Leaving him a gift
That would ensure others return.
Photo by Sam Weissbach, Bellevue, WA
Crazed computers constantly gone corrupt.
I believe their wires must have been set on fire;
Their failure to comply makes my anger erupt!
Loading lingers, luring lots to lose their minds.
Limited access to websites galore,
And waiting for one to load makes me snore.
Savage spinning wheels circulate without
cease.
The sight fills me with fright, knowing that
My computer is frozen even through the night.
Reboot, restart, refresh, and reroute.
Why won’t this machine ever work?
My lack of patience is driving me berserk!
This dragging dumb desktop – delete! Delete!
Isn’t this software already obsolete?
Human versus computer: complete defeat.
by April Francia, Albrightsville, PA
by Amber Arnoldsen, Orem, UT
42
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
So hand me wisdom
To show me false
To swell this nightmare pure
Let the thunder strike your soul
Give me reason
To close this wound
Unite the zone within
Let it be enough to hit the faith that hides
Beyond this breakdown
There was nothing in view
Our fantasies left deserted
There was no place to hide
The remains cascade like snow
And the ground gave in
Between where we were walking
And your cry was all I heard
That you regret every word
So hand me wisdom
To show me false
To swell this nightmare pure
Let the thunder strike your soul
Beyond this breakdown
In every laugh, in every lie
In every day, the truth you’d deny
And each sorry and each good-bye
Was a secret that meant to die
And your cry was all I heard
That you regret every word
by Alexa Prus, San Rafael, CA
by Lenore Amaya,
Georgetown, Malaysia
I remembered each drop
As my sight began to shade
Like an alarming light
The end has uncovered me
And your cry was all I heard
That you regret every word
•
POETRY
So give me wisdom
To show me false
To swell this nightmare pure
Let the thunder strike in your soul
Give me reason
To close this wound
Untire the zone within
Let there be enough to hit the faith that hides
Beyond this breakdown
by Sanah Athar, W. Orange, NJ
The Paper Girl
She was composed
entirely of paper;
green eyes rolled dollar bills, hair twisted
confetti.
Her voice was faint
like the shushed rustle of library book pages
and when sunlight found her
she grew invisible,
rays shining through vellum bones.
She was asked how it was to live
without footprints in the snow,
featherweight,
unchained to the earth,
unwed to gravity.
Whatever quiet answer she gave,
no one ever heard.
Mostly, the paper girl was forgotten
until she folded herself into an airplane
and disappeared.
by Libby Hayhurst, Amarillo, TX
finding a high place to descend from was easy.
there are many: the world’s mountain high
wishes
(it’s 11:11, should i wish for wings?), a cliff
of worry
and a tower of lies. with so many places to
practice
falling, grace has begun to settle in my solid
bones,
bones not meant for the air (has the sky painted
my iris yet? is my pupil a cirrostratus cloud?
could i become a bird?) this is starting to feel
effortless. all that i need is a catcher to
uncrumple me,
to fold me out.
a catcher running in the whispering grasses,
looking to the sky. a catcher who will be
the mediator between me and the atmosphere.
a catcher who can understand why my skin
trembles, crying that i can only fall.
by Adriana van Manen, Princeton, NJ
The Downpour
For every drop that falls,
In the silent forest,
Above the towering trees,
On the soft ground,
Without a sound,
Upon the padded dirt,
Before bright dawn,
After the shadows of twilight,
I grin.
by Morgan Gallogly, Gibsonia, PA
Thirsty
Bottle
falls from a stand
water inside writhing.
Confinement.
Slish-slosh
eddies and whirls!
Clear walls bend and crinkle.
Restriction.
Blockade –
immovable,
stands firm against assault.
Enclosure.
Quaking:
a hand skims it.
Its cap is twisted off.
Relinquish.
by Conlan Parkman, Rice Lake, WI
Crush
A Class
Idiot savant
Of my own imagination,
All-powerful king
Of an empty room.
She is the name on every banner,
The face on every magazine cover.
She is everything for nothing –
Complimentary cup of coffee,
Complimentary blank slate,
To project your illusions onto
For a minute,
For an hour,
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Heartache might be heartburn –
Heaven might be hell –
Venus ascending from a peanut shell,
Temporary tattoo on imitation leather,
Free sample, free love.
there was the girl with the Foo Fighters T-shirt,
it stood out, bright red and noticeable.
She looked
content.
with no hairstyle in particular, and that
natural sort of
eyeliner, that only
she
could pull off.
by Logan Smith, Danville, VA
Ballerina
Open the lid,
and see the ballerina dance,
see her twirl and spin
as the night begins
and she is free.
see as she takes her lover in her arms,
watch as she holds him tight as they waltz
across the floor,
watch as they love each other
like only the captured can …
But morning always comes,
and the little ballerina must go back “home”
to her prison box and dance when the
music plays.
Ripped from each other’s arms,
she cries, but to no avail,
she must quit before the young girl awakes.
if tears could stain the painted face,
if only there were no box
and the ballerina could escape.
by Hailie Snyder, Lawton, OK
Tinkerbell
Wanting to dip my toes
In the glass jar
You call your ocean
Wanting to throw the stars
Into the bath
And clean myself
With fairy dust
Wanting to braid my hair
Full of wishes
Written on recycled paper
Wanting to cover my fingers
In jelly
And paint you a sticky picture
Wanting to blow bubbles
At a tea party, and wear a hat so tall
The crazy rabbit from that book
Would be jealous
Wanting to bathe in sand castles
And wish upon raindrops
And swim in an ocean of puddles
Wanting only to understand
That silly thoughts make
Me happy. And.
Simple things make me
Whimsical.
by Julia Reichard, San Francisco, CA
then, of course, the extremely weird kid.
He smelled of dying cats and old people.
in fact, he looked like an old person, with the
large framed glasses and thick,
thick lenses.
He stuck up for you, but you wished
he wouldn’t
whoever was an assumed acquaintance of
this___(Brian, John, Luke, Eric, maybe
even a Jake, though it’s unlikely.)
is a loser-by-affiliation.
Another girl you …
fancy
is the “prep,” only because she is just so damn
entertaining. Too perfect to be human, she
strides down the hallways,
the face she pretends to own is glowing,
and her matching socks,
residing in her perfect Mary Janes,
make you frown.
One last child catches your eye.
the completely average, normal, curly and
brown-haired man,
let’s go ahead and call him …
Michael,
Is looking like a pretty good candidate for the
Fall Ball,
or something. Maybe you just don’t notice him,
though that’s a little too typical
for you.
and as he jogs off to lacrosse practice, donned
in a bright
blue “Eagles” sweatshirt,
you can’t resist flashing him an abrupt smile.
But he disregards you, preferring the smile
from his girlfriend,
A brunette brace face who loves every curly
brown strand on his
Lovely, ordinary head.
by Johanna Costigan, Dobbs Ferry, NY
Night
Night is a silent whisperer
Clawing its way through your room
Filling your dreams with thoughts of tomorrow
A time that comes soon
It comes with no notice
No warning
No signs
But always expected
And always on time
It’s in your mind constantly
Never leaving you alone
It creeps in, sneaks quietly
To what you call home
It does what it does
With no regard to your own
It continues on and on
Until silently and quietly
Returns to its home
fatefully taking them to colder climates.
Undesirable Tea for
Undesirable People
III.
The third most undesirable part
of visiting India
are the hurried fantastics and late-night parties
before packing up the parade
and readjusting to the other half of the
so-called motherland.
Here the people are all dried out, anomalies
carefully cultivating exotic fruits with their
umeboshi hands.
Taking morning walks in the morning and
evening walks at dusk.
The children, well-adjusted. the teenagers,
all exemplary.
If you threw a rock randomly, chances are the
person you’d hit
wears sweater-vests and drinks their tea
unspiced.
II.
It is because of these three things
that I shall never be from this India, it’s just
too lonesome and they’ll revoke my visa.
Someday
I’ll serve exciting things to exciting people.
Which is inevitably why I find myself slipping
before sunrise,
out the back door to feast on ripe plums,
gulping in the illicit, alien air.
Intoxicated by the restlessness of the
uninhabited world.
Then into the servants quarters to borrow the
spices long left behind,
mentally shipping out postcards – promises of
excellent tea to extraordinary people.
Together, we savor the delectable hours.
by Malvika Jolly, Chicago, IL
When Death
Comes
When death comes
Like sweat falling into an open wound
When death comes and takes every dream
you’ve ever slept upon
By shaking you until you can’t control
yourself;
When death comes like a fever infusing
your body;
The second most undesirable part
of visiting this half of India
is the constancy. Standing
out so horribly against the white cars, white
cloth, white hair.
Gaining the title of “schamuck challo” for
being too sparkly and frightening to the
oldsters.
When death comes
Like a grain of sand stuck in the eye
I want to step through the burning coals
wondering what I have in store.
Recycling conversations with past national
icons,
humanitarians, revolutionaries who’ve long
forgotten how to be
the selves they believe to still exist.
As though the ability to scintillate has slipped
through the
cracks, replaced by taking tea thrice a day
so that quiet sipping will mask the chronic
silence.
I.
But the most undesirable part
of visiting this fragment of India
is making bland tea the one thousandth time –
purely water milk and tea leaves. Served with
marie biscuits on a tray.
undesirable tea for undesirable people –
oldsters and doctors
with convenient sons. Uncontaminated by
exhilaration or depth.
Indistinguishable from their beverages.
And therefore I look upon everything
As a polished antique;
And I look upon time as nothing more but a
speed limit
And I consider imagination as another
cracked window
And I think of each cloud as a magic carpet,
Wanting to take me away and show me
That I have nothing to fear –
Not even death
And each tear as hopeful as a baby learning
to walk
And each smile as giving as the woman
handing her last dollar
To the homeless man
When it’s over, I want to say; every waking day
I was a princess born to happiness.
I was a prince praised for courage.
Desperately clinging to course books, as
though applied
mathematics will miraculously burst through
the smog and swim them through the air,
When it’s over I don’t want to regret much or
cry myself to sleep.
I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror
eclipsed with pain and guilt
I don’t want to be sorry for living a boring
and careful life
by Micaela De La Cruz, Dayton, OH
We Are Today
We are not forever,
We are only today,
And graffiti-stained bathroom stalls,
And words etched into park benches,
Weary and chipped from an eternity of long
forgotten fingerprints,
Tell our stories as unbiased as our bones,
And the dust from our old whispers.
by Anna Shiverdecker, Lehi, UT
Art by Li Zhang, Chapel Hill, NC
POETRY
•
by Sydney Anderson, Redmond, WA
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
43
A Poet
One Moment
Carry My Tune
October 17th
Dressed in black
Stuck on a stool
In the dim spotlight
He reads his poem
His thoughts,
Feelings,
Hopes,
Dreams,
On display
To be ridiculed
By those who
Don’t understand
How it feels
To really live
In the dark
With their only outlet
Being
Words
I could feel the water
Burning in my lungs
Making me collapse
In a minute it would be over.
But for just one second,
I saw all of the beauty
In the majestic world
I had never seen before.
One second,
And I saw my true love
Dancing in the waterfall
That was drowning me,
Killing me.
And in one moment,
It was over.
All the magic I could finally see
Had slipped through my fingers
And was vanished
Forever.
Monotone metronomes
beating out the sound
of all the discord
in my heart.
Once, twice, the
strings are plucked,
threatening to snap.
The melancholy
of the world
resting in the
notes,
slowly taking
my song
and tearing it
apart.
It’s your birthday today.
I remember after I hit the snooze button.
I close my eyes hoping I can fall back asleep
But the alarm rings again and reminds me,
It’s your birthday today.
Throw the sheets.
Strip the clothes.
Run the shower.
I remember you love chocolate cake,
And that blue guitar I gave you
Last year that hangs on your wall.
Pour the coffee.
Grab the keys and go.
“Dance with me tonight” plays through
the radio
That reminds me of when we slow danced
a year ago on your birthday.
I’m reminded again; it’s your birthday.
Lock the car, race up the stairs.
Lecture. Test. The changing of slides
by Kiel Heerding, Las Animas, CO
by Erica Schauble, Congers, NY
Wednesday,
Wednesday,
Wednesday
Something
when I look into her eyes I sometimes
remember
that that little girl plus time equals me
a someone who gets very little sleep
staring into abysses, staring into the deep
there’re girls out there who have amnesia
we’ve lost our memory
no more love
no more love
no more love
I’ve forgotten who I used to be
I thought I saw you
standing in the corner
of my eye, waiting
for me to speak.
But it wasn’t you,
not like I remembered.
Your eyes,
they were so bright,
and I thought
something.
Something, I could not speak,
for, if I were wrong …
the cost would be too much.
And just when you opened your arms
so wide, my breath stopped.
I thought, Yes, yes, I accept the gift,
and then, as if she had heard my thought,
she leapt into your arms, your heart,
and I understood, suddenly.
To have watched it all
beneath me, happening so fast,
I could not envision a time
where you and I had ever truly loved.
I saw only myself
falling backward into memories,
into moments of longing where my hand
and your hand reached
in the same direction,
colliding, sometimes,
but still holding on
to something.
But, as you opened yourself,
you had finally closed all of yourself,
at least to me,
and I thought I saw you
standing there,
but you had disappeared.
by Burkey Koontz, Decatur, GA
by Cara Lane, Suffern, NY
She Equals Me
6:15 a.m.
Light crowds my eyes
Like the sun, I arise
To the sound of pellets thrown against the wall
7:00 a.m.
The day speaks to me
& I decorate its feats to be
With zebra prints and pink barrettes
8:00 a.m.
The bus is always late
The man beside me curses the traffic
Then looks toward my bosom for hope
9:00 a.m.
Five flights of stairs
I apologize to the stairs for our lack
of chemistry
Five years in five minutes
My eyes fall to darkness once more
10:50 a.m.
Numbers attempt to invade my brain
But my eyes are glued to him
Inconspicuously trying to grab his attention
Impatiently waiting for his smile to find me
11:43
The morning brawl has commenced
But of course, I have missed the episode
The hallway echoes obscenities
As do I, in my mind
I foreshadow the storytelling in a matter
of minutes
12:30 p.m.
I glide through the crowded hall
Ignoring the strangers who call me “friend”
Holding daggers in their back pockets
1:40 p.m.
“Finally,” I thank God for Wednesdays
He grasps my hand and leads
The way I daydreamed he would
We walk through the double doors that
shriek exit
5:00 p.m.
Home
And Mother rambles about something I
cannot fathom
I retire to my chambers
Inhaling the mellifluous scent of lavender
I bury my head into my pillow
And enjoy the melody of screams and sirens.
by Sarah Uzzle, Waverly, KY
how I forget that she equals me:
no more 5:30 morning cartoons, instead a
sleepless face
no more gold rings, no more open doors
instead vacuuming spiders on a Saturday
afternoon
no more watercolor dreams, no more blue
fluorescent night-light
instead that pitch black that strikes a deeper
chord
and they say that people will start getting
smarter
but insecurity sticks on us still; what they give
we consume
they give us adulthood, and we plaster it on
our faces
a facade in the suburbs, girls in a line
we used to play Life, now we live the life
we’re supposed to live
no more Disney princesses and G movies
instead life gives us hard R
First Winter Here
(after “Gazing North” by Wang An-Shih)
Eyes purple-shadowed, I dream to see my
far-off mountains
but I cannot walk from here: ice-worn hills,
sleet falling.
Pity these poems all those black spider words,
and why read them?
It’s freezing. Bare branches reach to scar
the clouds.
by Melita Schmeckpeper, Berlin, VT
by Samantha Hinkson, Brooklyn, NY
Photo by Laurie Christolear, Tuscaloosa, AL
reminds me of the spark that lit each candle
That burned 16 last year, and now 17.
Two hours fly by, I think I want to call you
And tell you I’m thinking about you,
But what would be the point?
I worked all day, while you celebrated.
19 and 17 have never looked so different.
Never looked so discouraging.
Two numbers which hold no honor.
It’s only been a year.
One year today, your birthday.
The night comes fast,
But the parties drag on here on College Ave.
I think about the gifts you open without me.
Carry myself to the third floor
Open my door and walk into the dark.
Drop the keys, hang the coat.
I leave the door unlocked,
In case you remember the way back.
Drop the clothes.
Flip the covers down.
Slide into unmade jersey sheets.
Turn over to sleep, and view the clock.
11:59. it’s still your birthday.
I wonder what you wished for
When you blew your candles out.
by Allison Miessler, Fairfax, VA
On Names
The first thing I learned about you,
(besides the fact that you were smart and
sexier than sliced bread)
was that you named people
(creative, methodological thing)
Clown Shoes
Frotch, though we called her that anyway
Action Commander, to get you action
(and let’s admit, she did)
little things that made you so magnetizing
(and so far from reach I laughed at myself)
Silky Smokes
(softest, stupidest hair any of us had ever
seen, three packs an hour)
I myself, Ice Cool
evolving into Captain Ice Cool because
we’re clever
evolving into Captain Lieutenant Ice Cool
because when we’re together we’re
unbearably clever
If I had to make yours:
Deliverance.
But that doesn’t make for a very good
nickname.
by Jenny Black, Atlanta, GA
44
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
•
POETRY
substantial
One Tree Love
The Funeral
I used to be substantial
I breathed as an afterthought
the throb of my heart, a symptom of my state.
Now i wheeze and sigh
trying to grab as much air
as i can. into my lungs
to be substantial
I can hardly feel my heart
because there is nothing to feel
The tree trunks
Coiled around one another
Twisted together
From a tight-knit growth
Their leaves fall
At the same season
Their tangled roots
Drink up the same rain
As it soaks into the earth
And their limbs reach out
To the same spot of sky
An unyielding attachment
Lies within
The spiraled tree trunks
The beauty of
Two beings
Growing and living
In a sweet embrace
Is that too much to ask?
Another trunk twisted around
Mine?
Another being
By my side
Beneath the same spot
Of sky?
Champagne and chocolate cake, he said,
the dead man.
They listened
of course they did. But they know Death
and he is not
champagne and chocolate.
by Carlie Hruban, Baltimore, MD
reading
I go through the pages of a life –
clean edges of blue, lined with words that
tremble under the reality
of the present,
the promise of my fingers
to lift them up, my voice to
breathe
their existence
into this life.
My hands grasp
the metal ring,
and all the writing now
is gone from the pages.
Catharsis.
by Samantha Zimbler, W. Windsor, NJ
Centurion
Might as well make friends
with the girl who has my dreams.
At least then I get a taste –
as opposed to nothing.
Can’t taste anything now
but tears and ash:
decadence in a droplet.
Should I try to win this war,
I’d be the one forgotten
in the dust,
trampled under foot
like long-ago loved flowers
on the trodden dirt path
beneath Centurion sandals.
by Anna Smelser, Atlanta, IN
Make Sure to Leave
the Window Open
Be careful to never close
The only way to
Let the birds
Come in
By nature
We close things.
Because maybe
It helps us to feel better?
You never know
When you will
Be visited
By your own raven.
Why close anything?
Leave everything
Open
Especially
Your eyes
by Amber Acuna, La Junta, CO
by Iris Fletcher, Birmingham, AL
Rain-Soaked Dreams
lying in a cornfield,
under the sky,
poison oak red,
tall leaves, looking full
of tears on the brink
at earth tilt time.
when it fades,
dusk.
I, with you at my side,
will be showered in
sorrow because it’s August,
never another month
quite like this.
Try as you like,
funerals
are all the same.
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
Arm-Wrestling
The gripping of fingers,
Strong but no calluses.
Their elbows shift slightly on a fake
wood desk.
A shifty eye searches for the girl.
Is she watching? Is she?
Unspoken whispers flash through their wrists,
their arms.
The other pair of fingers stay still.
Not yet, bro, not yet.
They don’t realize I watch them from
the corner.
They don’t realize I see it all.
But I am No one.
Because I watch, I am Stalker.
Celebrate, he said,
the dead man.
But still
they have dressed themselves in black.
All, that is, but the little boy.
Grandson, perhaps?
He has lost mother
wandering
knee-high
among suit-clad giants.
His shirt is baby blue and
still wide-eyed for the touch of life
he laughs at their shiny black shoes,
click-clicking on the church-stone floor.
He is a blue jay
in a flock
of crows.
No more grandpa. He doesn’t understand.
“Do you remember him?” they’ll ask, years
from now, dead concern still lingering in
their eyes.
Palms fake-sweat,
Fingers fake-squeeze.
The light taunts slide off with each laugh.
They are covered with the slick of cool.
“No.
Not really.” Pause.
“I was still
a blue jay then.”
The girl isn’t watching, no sir, the girl is not.
She is flaunting herself in front of a guy.
A boy-face distorts,
He moves his mouth in things he wants to say.
But he can’t.
The guy is cooler than him, the boy.
by Beatrice Garrard, Edmonds, WA
it’s being an edge,
a factor fulcrum
balancing the sunset
by shifting on two feet,
unsettled and afraid.
I wish I was the girl.
She is pretty; she is smiles, smiles, laughter.
I am gloomy, gloomy, growl.
She is the sunflower,
I am the weed under her.
only I’m down on my back,
and you’re right next to me,
breathing different.
On the ground,
you’re on the ground,
when I’m up.
I watch.
I sit here with all my millions,
But no friends …
I took everything my hands could get.
But no friends …
That thought, that manifesting seed,
Lurking in my mind to mislead,
Draining my soul, trying to refill,
Through possessions and money,
My mind never stays still.
I come back and I’ll have
splotchy legs and arms and
splotchy thoughts,
mad that you stayed and
watched my flight, as if
you weren’t my launch pad.
it’s scary up there in August.
We’re grinding through stardust
and meteors, written in ink black,
none too dangerous, just beautiful
and perhaps an interference.
Unless I live for August,
in which case,
next time,
we’d better not do this at sunset.
by Liam Bland, Fabius, NY
The boy looks around.
He is sweating.
The girl is not watching, but other boys are.
They look at him weird.
He jumps as he feels a finger squeeze on
his palm.
Do it, man. Come on. The finger squeeze says.
He nods.
He grins.
Uno-dos-tres-start.
Two arms buckle against each other.
They shake the table.
Neither of them wants to lose man points.
A ring of wolves surround them,
The wolves will devour the loser with insults.
The wolves howl and bark.
They have lolling grins.
I turn away.
A triumphant keening sounds behind me.
I know who won.
by Regina Park, Albany, CA
Greed But
No Friends
Who started this exploiting deed.
Who planted this rotten seed.
There is no stopping it now …
Drinking the life out of savings,
To try and satisfy my greed.
Scams and tricks supply me,
To fill this empty hole, gaping in my heart.
But it never fills …
A lifetime of stealing and scamming.
But it never fills …
The money is smooth against my fingers,
But it’s rough against my hands …
But I wish it was a human hand.
So alone; so afraid; that loneliness,
Caressing through my body like ice,
Cold, stiff and thinking of business plans.
I sit here staring at my projected screen,
Twiddling my thumbs to dull the thought.
To buy more … to make more … to be more …
But no friends …
by Nicholas Mercer, Bunbury, Australia
POETRY
•
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
45
Fear
First Haiku
White Space
Time Bomb
Fear has two hands
That grip our throats
And silence the voice
Gray coming from gray
Pigeon abandons cobblestone
In sudden flutter
It is the ticking of the time bomb
that brings you worry,
not its result.
It has two feet
Which stomp on our hopes
Like flattened whispers of dreams
A scarf tilts in the breeze
White with roses
A woman sits, waiting
Its breath is icy
Making us quiver in doubt
Numbing our courage
The jingle of money
A child plays violin alone
Pennies in his hat
Its touch is warm
Like the blood rushing to your face
The sweat beads forming on your brow
How sad –
Gold relics sit in the sun
Only tourists want them
Fear has two eyes
Its stare is blinding
Darkening us with panic
Enveloped in a shroud of dread
A bird cries
Beside a blue bicycle
It will not be still
I won’t cry
When the Indian dies
I’ll just stare in his eyes
And smile, and say
You were a good “man”
You lived a good “life”
On good land
Good land indeed
I’ll use it for capital
To build up industry
To construct and
To deconstruct
As I see fit
And then I’ll have a family
And we’ll take picture portraits
And hang them on our wall
In our house
On the Indian’s
Good land.
Confidence is an orb of light
Dimming with each quake of shyness
Extinguished by failure’s expectation
Don’t be afraid
Of judgment’s gaze
Behind which approval lingers
Fear is your only enemy
by Karilla Dyer, Port Orange, FL
Caged
I’ve been falling a lot lately
And no, I don’t mean literally
Mama told me she noticed changes in me
How I cut my hair
How it seems like nothing interests me
I force out the best smile I can
To convince her that I’m okay
Even though my world is sundering
“I’m just not into that stuff anymore, Mama”
She looks at me pleading for the truth
I want to tell her, but I restrain.
“Really, Mom.” And smiles again.
I’ve been getting into trouble lately
This time I mean literally
Mama told me I’m not the same anymore
Not sweet and innocent
Not pure and saintly
I flash my best confused face
As if I don’t know what she means
Even though the truth could be seen through
her eyes
“I thought I was being myself, Mom”
She looks at me with disappointment in
her eyes
Crossing her arms waiting for an answer.
I want to tell her everything, but I restrain.
“I don’t know, Mom” And turn away.
Summer is here
The rich have emerged from their caves
They dine like animals
by Corinne Gaston, Bryn Mawr, PA
Pleasing and
Pretending
As we lie in this meadow
made up of dried weeds and dirt
we rest together upon a scratchy blanket
to watch the tired sun set over the black water.
And as I lie in your arms
on this cold summer night
when nothing feels right
I’ll still pretend to be in awe of the sun’s
brilliant setting,
even though it’s the darkest I’ve ever seen the
sun shine.
But I will still sit here, smiling,
and I will even kiss you back when you lean in,
even though your lips taste so bitter.
And your hands around my waist will remain
there,
even though your gentle touch pains me.
And I’ll even pretend this will be a good
memory,
even though, when I look back to this night
later in life,
I’ll feel disgusted with myself.
Because on this cold summer night
when nothing seemed right,
I found myself going back to the person
I used to be,
just pleasing and pretending.
by Alexa Bolton, El Dorado Hills, CA
I’ve been wasted a lot lately
And I do mean that literally
Mama caught me in her arms last night
When I fell backwards on the stairs
She put her nose to my mouth
She smelled the alcohol
And instantly sat me up to look her directly
in the eyes
I could see the tears welling up in her eyes
And before I could restrain, everything came
pouring out
She looked at me with fear and concern
Telling me everything was going to be okay
She cradled me in her arms on the floor
And she watched me cry like I never did before
Art by Lynzi Morris, Blaine, MN
Teen Ink •
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
•
POETRY
A digital clock
(Ah yes! for this is the digital age!)
looms above, counting down.
We are both temporary
and our relationship
even more so.
It is the ticking of the time bomb
that brings you worry,
not its result.
Through the Cracks by Cody Troyan, Gahanna, OH
in the Window
Meant to Be
The air runs cool and crisp
through the cracks in the window.
It rings with the sweetness of flowers
newly awakened from winter’s slumber.
It warns of an approaching storm.
The branches outside
dance lightly
in the muted gray light
while birds flit anxiously,
shouting jumbled felicitations
into the morning.
It’s days like this
when I think of you –
when I think of then –
when the days were alive
with the unseen stirrings
of the natural world,
and I was privy to the secrets
of that greater majesty.
You knew it too.
You must have.
When the mist hung heavy on the mountains
and rolled through fields
and over sleeping waters,
you must have known then
that it was magic.
Here, now,
in my glass case,
I starve.
I ache
for that sweet morning –
for the gentle kiss of the sun
as it cautiously peers
through shaded skies.
And so, deprived as I am,
my thoughts wander back.
Where are you now?
Where are they all?
Where am I?
Inside looking out –
Imagining myself out of this box
and into the day;
into the magic –
while the air runs cool and crisp
through the cracks in the window.
by Shernay Belt, Columbus, GA
46
by Skyler Gambert, Fayetteville, AR
Inward like an hourglass
and outward like a balloon.
You rhythmically
inflate
and
deflate
at my side.
by Shea Donovan, Rye, NY
There are some things
Feelings
Scenes
That cannot be
Bought
Cannot be
Stolen
And are natural rights
To all
Like the first spring day
The first
Real
Spring day
When the air is light on your tongue
You feel like all the weight
Stress
And uncertainty
Has been lifted off your shoulders
Or in the night
Not too cold
But cool
When you’re all alone
But not lonely
And as you run
Across the field
And feel the wind
Slide across your face
And see the moonlight, and stars
Focusing
Watching
Over you
Or the first time
The pool is opened
And you slip your body in
Gasping at the cold water
And at your
Stiff joints
But you keep moving
And swim
Like you were born
In the water
Like you were
Meant to be
Here
by Rebkha Michael, Ossining, NY
Anxiety Attack
Peacocks somersault in my stomach
Their beaks pecking painfully at my abdomen
One, Two, Three, Four, Five
I count each breath I take
If I don’t calm down
My breakfast will come back up
And Dad won’t appreciate that
Especially in his new Toyota Camry
Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten
I’m actually hyperventilating
Never should have joked about it
Now I seriously can’t breathe
My stomach’s not just gurgling
Those sounds have got to be gibberish
Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen
I’m trying but I can’t ignore it
Peacocks somersaulting
Beaks pecking
Lungs failing
Make it stop!
by Sara Beg, Woodcliff Lake, NJ
Cold Is the Absence
of Heat
There’s a bitter cold
pulling at my sanity.
Frosted icicles
poking at my eyes.
In this icy palace
waiting in line for
the chance to be queen
of these silent corners
of the world where
only the evil
survive the snow.
Where the forgotten
never find the heat.
The Right Way of
Things
It seems to me that there ought to be a way
of saying a word without saying it.
Of dancing around it on tiptoes
and pointing toward it with long fingers.
Then maybe we could write something
roundabout and poignant.
Then we could weave words like silkworms
and wrap around our ideas in careful
construction,
with lattice so taut and flawlessly knit
that it could pass for a cocoon
and keep things warm inside.
If we wanted,
we could write fire too,
with passion so nimble and sharpened
that we might inspire revolutions.
Our thoughts would pierce
and splinter steel
as easily as smoke
and water.
Or
maybe
we’d just let our words
glide away
like a hushed melody –
Drift out
toward the planets
and the nothingness
that comes after.
by Megan Salavantis, Niskayuna, NY
by Maryann Cochran, Clarence, NY
by Caleb Curiel, Garland, TX
The Other Side
of the Sky
From the other side
I watch you
Never speaking but smiling silently
I drift in and out
Through open windows, carried by the wind
I’m unseen, but smiling
Through the holes on a chain-link fence
Spaces between piano keys
The place between teeth on a comb
I laugh unheard
I love unfelt
I’m unseen but smiling
As I look from the other side.
In memory of Uncle David
by Elizabeth Ridolfi, Auburn, CA
The Lesson
the keys fall flat
against fragile fingertips
open-mouthed I watch her
bare her soul without speaking
the piano tells me her secrets and
I love her more with every note, every
pause, and every time her untrained fingertips
hit the wrong key. she smiles at me, now
reddened
I tell her the wrong notes made the song more
beautiful
and, with a deeper blush and a hidden smile,
she begins again
by Josie Stahl, Pottstown, PA
Shoebox
Sleep won’t come.
I am left with my thoughts
which simmer
until the sky lightens in the east.
I am left with my brain
which rolls and tumbles and frolics in
my skull
uncaring that it denies me rest.
Sleep is all around me.
The crickets and I are the only ones
untouched by Mab’s white fingertips.
My head continues to pound out a beat,
long after
the other drummers have dozed off.
Soon, the sky will turn black-blue-gray-pink
in my window. Everyone will wake up
refreshed, so delighted to find that they
yet live to see another day. I will be bitter,
because
sleep never came to me.
The ship sailed
into the starry night
but I was not on board.
No Glory in My
Morning
A new age is dawning in the world of myself.
I am not going to be anybody but the girl with
the guise of deep dark brown eyes and hair.
I’m going to stick to this path.
I’m going to keep my eyes on my heart,
And my ears on my head,
And my soul in my hand.
I’m not going to get knocked down.
I’m not going to lose anything because I have
nothing else to lose.
I will walk right through the scarring fire that
ricochets throughout the insipid hallways.
The whispers will follow, just as they did last
year from the girl who stole my friend.
But that was act II.
This is act I.
Where the smiles are still new,
And the grimaces are still ignored.
And the prying eyes and curious oral cavities
that spread the anecdote like its ecstasy are
barren to my presence.
The cast is still being introduced,
And I’m not going to vie for the lead.
Let’s leave that to the rotten apples.
The scenes and the acts and the plots and the
sets are all concepts that we create with our
lies and truths.
Sometimes it’s better to just hang out
backstage and let the drama unfold
Without me as the center of it.
by Todd Stong, Collegeville, PA
Shoebox, a
blue ox, a
wet back, a
marshmallow
turned black,
shotgun shells,
silver bells,
a band-aid,
a shirt starting
to fade, a moon
pie, a small white
lie, a bumper
sticker, a finger
licker, a rebel
with a cause, a plan full
of flaws, a road sign,
a clock running
out of time,
a policeman
with no authority,
a small,
but strong
minority, a stack
of roof
shingles, and
catchy radio
jingles, a tattered
notebook,
a fishing pole
with no hooks, a
strong and
sturdy tree,
and all the things
it could be.
by Lea Duttweiler, Guttenberg, IA
Act I
An Essay on the
Subject of the
Author’s Reasoning
Photo by Meagan McLendon, Pasadena, TX
Cotton-Candy Lies
After the circus clown
painted her cheeks on,
and carefully crayoned a fuchsia smile,
she stepped into the ring to begin her show.
She began with the regular routine:
the one with the squirt-gun tears,
and the flower that was really
a loud noise-maker.
But she pulled it off well, and
soon they were following her around
like children and their mother,
or the Apostles and Jesus.
They couldn’t get enough of
her red-painted cheeks,
her crayoned lips.
She spread her arms,
beckoning them in.
Anything you want, she seemed to say.
Anything you want.
The clown tossed her love
over her shoulders like candy,
and the crowd ate it up.
The first thing you should know is that I don’t
write poetry.
This is because it comes too naturally when I
put down a pen
Too rough. Lurid
Disjointed
Liable
To speak of children at threepenny
stores, bees
Swirling murmuring in sticky heat, stinging
stinging as they die.
Half thoughts
Not quite surfaced
Not quite dead.
I often find that when I attempt to flow
naturally
(and everyone will tell you to sing)
I overrun my streambeds
Soak
The neighboring populace
I regret it when I wake –
Therefore I do not run wild.
Except
When
I
am
alone or
lost
by Elana Levy, Plainview, NJ
by Kirsten Wright, Jacksonville, FL
POETRY
•
J A N U A RY ’ 1 0
• Teen Ink
47