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CONTENTS
A P R I L 2 0 1 1 | V O L . 22, N O . 8
FEATURES
DEPARTMENTS
The College Issue
12
Timetable ............................................page 14
Deep South ......................................page 22
14-15
18-19
16-25
26
4
33-36
13
27
6-7
37-46
28-29
College Articles
College Directory
College Essays
Community Service
Feedback
Fiction
Health
Interview Author Carrie Ryan
Nonfiction
Poetry
Points of View
Green, Gray, and Blue..................page 23
32
Reviews: Books
Facts & Figures ......................pages 14-25
College-Seeking Tips ...................page 15
College Directory ..................pages 18-19
Application Essays
Beauty in the Struggle..................page 16
Learning to Speak Like a
Doctor.............................................page 20
Sweaty Feet .....................................page 20
Ordinary Citizen .............................page 22
Half Broke Horses •
Climbing the Stairs • Hacking
Harvard • The Book Thief •
Stormbreaker • Fight Club
Lessons from the ER ....................page 24
The Letter A .....................................page 24
31
Wag Every Day ...............................page 25
30
Reviews: Music
8
Sports
10
Travel & Culture
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Reviews: Movies
My Chemical Romance •
Trevor Hall • Katy Perry •
Michael Buble
In honor of National Poetry Month, spend
some quality time with pages 37-46.
Cover photo by Alicia Murphy, Winfield, IL
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The King’s Speech • Black Swan
• The Fighter • Cry-Baby
Inquisition .........................................page 25
Poetry
Art Gallery
Paintings, drawings & photos
Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes .....page 23
Ethnic Ambassador ......................page 25
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FEEDBACK
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
Self-Acceptance
Ditch Your Gender
“I believe in self-acceptance.” Spenser
Dettwyler opened his article with this statement of his beliefs. Prior to reading it, I felt
strongly about embracing differences in others but failed to accept everything about myself. I was incredibly inspired by Spenser’s
personal account of living with Asperger’s. I
found his openness about his disorder admirable. His experiences with overcoming
and even embracing his setbacks were truly a
great message for all. Spenser’s narrative has
inspired me to accept what makes me unique
and to use these qualities to my advantage. A
world without differences would be a dull
and dismal one, indeed.
Maranda Gammage, Bexley, OH
Emily Locke’s poem, “Ditch Your Gender,” made me think about the way I acted
when I was younger. I was the little sister of
two tough brothers. I rode my Barbie dolls
on my skateboard and cut their hair. All my
friends were bruised-up and bandaged boys.
My E-Z Bake Oven cooked mud pies and
worm mush. My brothers were the only ones
I had to look up to. That’s why I am the way
I am.
As I grew, I met boys who were constantly
being made fun of for “acting like a girl.” It
was heartbreaking to know others could not
express who they were. Emily, you are an inspiration to all the girly boys and tomboy
girls who just want to be themselves. Hats
off to you.
Jessica Ochoa, Phoenix, AZ
Life of Pi Review
While I don’t believe that Life of Pi is a
perfect book by any standard, I’m rather annoyed with Mounica Porandla’s review. In
my opinion it put little focus on the greater
themes and messages of the book.
In particular, I disliked Mounica’s criticism of the survival story. I felt that the wandering, anecdote-filled odyssey that Pi told
gave not only an interesting viewpoint into
the prison-like life aboard the raft, but also
retold and distilled classic original myths of
major religions. Not to mention that each
smaller story added up to the reveal at the
end.
I think that Mounica’s review lacked a
deeper search for meaning at the end of the
book. Both of Pi’s stories were entirely possible, and yet his interviewers chose to believe the much more fantastical story that
took up the majority of the book. In Mounica’s words this was “the author saying that
belief in God is more interesting than reality.” This is false. The author is saying that
belief in a god, though less plausible than
belief in the bare facts, allows humanity to
perceive a more beautiful story. Similar to
how Richard Parker’s belief in Pi’s dominance lent Pi power, belief in a divine force
brings rhyme, reason, and motivation to an
otherwise brutish and sparse existence.
Markus Leben, Boulder, CO
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
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Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
Thank You!
I’ve been a user of the Teen Ink website for
a few months, and I just want to say thank
you. My time on TeenInk.com taught me
how to accept myself for who I am, and the
forums helped me as well. Looking at all the
articles on the site has given me inspiration. I
think it’s safe to say Teen Ink has changed
my life. I’m a confident writer now, and I
think I can say the same for a lot of other
writers on TeenInk.com.
So I just wanted to say thanks for making
it possible for me to believe I am a good
writer. I have a lot more confidence now and
it’s all thanks to Teen Ink.
Hazel MacMahon, Dublin, Ireland
Beauty vs. the Beast
“Beauty vs. the Beast” by Brielle Black is
an awe-inspiring piece that deals with the
way society affects women – both mentally
and physically. Every American girl is exposed to advertisements on billboards, in
magazines, and on the Internet every day.
These ads create unrealistic images of the
“perfect body.” Today’s media has teenagers
judging and comparing themselves to models
to obtain “ideal beauty,” which is supposedly
a thin body in tight-fitting clothing and layers
CIRCULATION
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EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
journal dedicated to
publishing a variety of
works written by
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2011 by The Young
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of cosmetics used to disguise what truly
matters – natural beauty.
This piece spoke to me, and I realize that
Brielle is right. Many teenagers nowadays
are going to extremes to reach “perfection”
by starving themselves. Teenagers are being
brainwashed to buy unnecessary products
and spend endless hours obsessing over artificial beauty.
I really hope that women everywhere will
see that they are beautiful, no matter what the
magazines or advertisements seem to say.
Beauty isn’t defined by how thin you are or
by how much makeup you wear. Beauty is
defined by who you are as a person. We can’t
let the media manipulate us and determine
how beautiful we are. As a growing population of beautiful young women, we can overcome this “beast” together.
Angela Sun, Brooklyn, NY
First Drive
“First Drive” by Katherine Stacy is a story
that a lot of us can relate to. Most teens can
remember the first time our fathers said to us,
“Hop in the car and let’s go for a ride.” We
all get that same feeling while behind the
wheel – that lump in the throat that never
seems to go away.
Katherine made me think back to my own
crazy first driving experiences, which are
terrifying for us but for experienced drivers
like our dads, that ride is a walk in the park.
Thank you, Katherine, for making all of us
remember our first time behind the wheel.
Wendy Castro, Phoenix, AZ
If I’d Never Met You
“If I’d Never Met You” by Sam Smith is
one of the most original pieces you have ever
published. It’s mysterious and darkly funny;
I loved it. The story is bits of dialogue between two soldiers. That’s all I can gather.
These soldiers are never even given names,
but the constant dialogue more than makes
up for these missing details. Their stark,
honest voices give the two characters more
personality and realism than I would have
expected when I first began the story.
The characters come to life. We never find
out what war they are fighting in, only that
they are on opposing sides. However, this
gives our unnamed characters more impact.
“Anything new?”
“I hear our leaders are going to sign a
peace treaty.”
“I heard that last year.”
“Never hurts to hope.”
“Yes, it does.”
Sam’s narrative of war could date all the
way back to the Civil War as well as portray
our struggles in Iraq today.
“‘Oftentimes I wish I’d never met you.’
‘Often times I’d agree.’” Leaving us with a
line like this makes you think about those
who fight in our wars and how they feel. In
short, this is a clever, original piece that also
does something important: makes you think.
Its style may be a bit of an acquired taste as
opposed to simple prose, but this was definitely my favorite article in the March issue,
and it’s one everyone should read.
Alexander Gabriel, Brooklyn, NY
College Reviews
The February college reviews caught my
eye because as a sophomore, I have been
discussing colleges with my parents. Mary
Calderon’s review of The University of
Arizona described all aspects of the college.
She explains the tuition per year for in-state
colleges versus out-of-state colleges. Mary
made a good point that in-state colleges don’t
always have to be your “back-up” choice.
This article helped me rethink in-state
universities. I think she could have described
a bit more what the main campus was like,
but I liked how she explained the sports opportunities and activities for evenings and
weekends.
Natalie Schwager, Columbus, OH
Correction
In the March issue, the article “America’s
Global Standing” was accidentally published
without a byline. The author of that article is
Trevor Eakes from Dupont, Washington.
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APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
5
nonfiction
How to Upgrade Your Nickname
“I
ce cream soda, cherry on the
top, who’s your boyfriend? I
forgot. A, B, C, D, E, F, G,
H!” The Shelby Warner laughed with
her girlfriends as she gracefully
skipped over the swinging rope. I
watched The Shelby Warner from
across the playground, wishing that I
were a girl just so I could be her friend
and maybe even have the honor of
watching “Lizzie McGuire” with her
on weekends. It was my second week
at my new elementary school and my
first full year in Canada. I was the new
kid, also known as “Ben the Korean.”
Every day at recess, from noon to
12:55, I sat on the lopsided tire swing
staring at The Shelby Warner. That
was the extent of our relationship. Not
only did I lack the courage to talk to
her, but my English was as feeble as
David’s might compared to Goliath’s.
The Shelby Warner was a brunette
with large blue eyes and a sprinkling
of freckles across her cheeks. She usually wore a white V-neck shirt with
capri pants; her average American-girl
looks were completely enchanting to
me. Since my English skills were substarted to eat. I noticed a half-pumped
par, I mistakenly referred to her as my
soccer ball under the slide – the soccer
knight in shining armor.
ball that would forever change my
Even at the time, I was aware that
fate.
my behavior bordered on stalking.
As soon as I saw the ball, I had a
Sometimes, she caught me looking at
magnificent idea. I placed it on the
her awkwardly, at which point I’d
concrete so the hole for the pumping
quickly avert my eyes to stare anyneedle faced my chest, a position ruwhere else, even into my tall friend
mored to increase kicking distance up
Jack’s armpit. The Shelby
to 200 feet. I unreasonWarner probably thought
ably convinced myself,
I was weird, but I reThis
is it. If she sees me
My instinct was
tained hope that things
kick this ball, she will like
to show off my me. As a naive thirdwould eventually work
out between us … until
athletic ability grader, my primal instinct
that ill-fated day.
was to show off my athWhen the bell rang for
letic ability.
recess, I was the first one out the door,
I stepped back and got into position,
racing to secure my stakeout spot on
preparing to kick the ball over a disthe swing. Soon, The Shelby Warner
tant chain-link fence. Then I faked a
came into view with a few of her
big cough to catch the attention of The
friends, holding a tiny box of KFC
Shelby Warner and other unimportant
chicken wings that her dad had
classmates. Since I didn’t actually
dropped off for her. It was a perfect
know how to kick a soccer ball, I figsunny day in September, with clear
ured I would hit it with my toe and
blue sky and a chill that required a
aim high. I focused on the ball and enlight jacket.
visioned basking in the glory of apThe girls sat at a picnic table and
plause and recognition from the girl I
Do Questions Annoy You?
W
hat is your name? When is your
birthday? Where do you live?
Who are your friends? What do
they like to do? Do you like to go to parties? What is your favorite type of music?
What do you like to eat? Do you like
sushi? Would you ever eat fried ice
cream? Do you have any food allergies?
Do you like Caesar salad? Do you know
how to cook? Have you ever made scrambled eggs? Do you like them with cheese?
Have you ever eaten raw eggs? Have you
ever touched a live chicken? Do you like
fried chicken? Do you know who Leeroy
Jenkins is? Have you ever played “World
of Warcraft”?
The one thing about people that I really
hate is when they ask questions. I tend to
consider myself an independent person,
and I enjoy keeping to myself. Perhaps it
is too much to expect the same of the general public. Every person has a right to
their personal business without the prying
of others’ curiosity.
Annoying questions are usually irrelevant to the task at hand. If there was a bit
of information that needed to be shared, I
would offer it instead of having to be
prodded for it. This is a major reason why
some people prefer to be antisocial.
If someone asks you a question and
someone else is there too, not only are
you now obligated to answer, you also
have a larger audience. A larger audience
means more room for misinterpretation. A
larger audience means you have to explain
yourself twice as much. Explaining yourself can be difficult on the spot, and doing
so may be irritating and dangerous.
6
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
by Junhyuk Hur, Glen Cove, NY
had loved for two weeks.
Upon contact with my toe, the ball
took off admirably, but started curving
to the left. “STOP!” I yelled at the
ball. It didn’t stop. Instead, it pounded
into the beautiful face of my one and
only, The Shelby Warner. On the
ground, hands over her mouth,
chicken wing in the air, The Shelby
Warner had noticed my kick all right.
Soon, the teachers came out to carry
the crying girl to the nurse’s office. I
crawled under the wooden bridge and
hid myself from the rest of the world.
Shocked and embarrassed, I resolved
to never come out and instead start my
own society of awkward people who
kicked soccer balls at innocent girls.
Eventually when I got hungry I
abandoned this idea. With my body
flat against the wall, I tilted my head
to peek through the window at The
Shelby Warner in the nurse’s office.
She had a Scooby-Doo bandage on her
lower lip. My luck with the ladies had
hit a new low, but from then on, classmates called me “The Kick-Hur” and
“Bend It Like Ben.” ✦
by Laura Osorio, Revere, MA
Do you still live with your parents? Did
Or for another example, when I’m eatyour parents love you? Do you have any
ing out, the menu could be sitting in front
siblings? Did your mom love your brother
of me for ten minutes and you’d be lucky
more than you? Did it bother you when he
to get my drink order. I like to blame this
got a remote-control car and a computer
struggle on the openness of my mind. I refor Christmas and you only got a stuffed
fuse to make decisions without fully
bear? Did you secretly hate him for years
thinking things through. So it’s just easier
and put soap on his toothbrush? Did you
to have someone make simple decisions
ever steal his dinosaurs, his Hot Wheels,
for me. The simple things in life get comhis left sock, his favorite Batman watch,
plicated when they are overanalyzed.
eat his yogurt, scratch his Mario Party Wii
Do you feel like your father was never
game disc, or stick your
there for you? Did you wish
fingers in his mouth while
he was a different man? Are
your hands were covered in
One thing about you jealous of your friends
hot sauce? Have you apolwhen their fathers help
ogized for the mean things people that I really them with car trouble? Do
you did to your beloved
ever wonder why you
hate is when they you
sibling? Do you think that
got stuck with a useless
ask questions
you’re still a terrible perparent? What was your
son? How selfish do you
mother thinking? Do you
think you are? What did
blame your father for your
your brother ever do to you? How long do
faults? Will you ever forgive him for not
you hold a grudge? Will you ever grow
being who you wanted him to be? Will
up? What makes you most angry about
you forgive him for aging? Will
your past?
you forgive him for having
Another thing I hate is when people ask
epilepsy, high blood pressure,
me to make decisions on the spot. This
Alzheimer’s, and not speaking
tends to happen when I’m in a car with
perfect English? Will you forsomeone without any plans. The driver
give him for everything he didwill look at me and ask, “Where would
n’t do in your life? Will you
you like to go?” This is frustrating bethank him for everything he
cause I never know where to go. So my
did? Did you thank him for
usual response is, “I don’t know.” Typibuying you your favorite bicycally, the driver is unhappy with this and
cle on your birthday? Did you
usually replies, “Come on – just pick
thank him for changing your disomewhere.” This is the point where I
apers when you were a baby,
cover my face and stop talking. It’s unfair
losing sleep over you because
to make me decide where to go; I’m not
you wouldn’t stop crying, or
the one behind the wheel.
pushing you on the swings? Do
COMMENT
you know your father’s favorite color? Do
you know your mother’s? Does it make
you sad to think that you know someone
with a different last name better than
those you lived with for the first 15 years
of your life?
What is your favorite movie? Do you
like popcorn? Have you ever tried
edamame? How do you feel about too
many questions? How do you feel about
too many serious questions? Does it
bother you when people ask personal
questions? How many people have made
you uncomfortable by asking you too
many questions? What do you like to eat
at restaurants? Do you have trouble deciding what to order at an ice cream parlor?
Which flavor would you like? Which
size? Do you want sprinkles? Gummy
Bears, Oreos, M&Ms, chocolate syrup,
Jimmies, cherry dip, or whipped cream?
Do you really care that much about your
damn ice cream? ✦
Art by Emily Knowles, Maple Grove, MN
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Kaitlyn Kolesaire, Randolph, NJ
wind and glow in the sunset, and I
carry a memory.
carry my overnight bag in the trunk of
I carry a memory of the tiny
my car. Clothing, homework, comwhite house with the American
puter, keys, makeup, jacket – I carry it
flag – the one that sat at the edge of
all, my life in travel size.
the road, silent and stoic, watching
Every other weekend I carry myself
cars speed past with the 6 o’clock
away from one home and to the other,
commutes. I carry a memory of the
and on my face I carry a smile even
early morning sun rising high over the
though this is a disruption, a nuisance,
big red barn in the backyard, stretcha disturbance in my everyday routine.
ing its rays in a peaceful yawn, the
I carry the longing for simguest of honor at Sunday
plicity, for stability, for the
morning breakfast. I carry
unity of the tiny white
a memory of golden blueI carry it all, house, but there is no unity
berry pancakes bathed in
in divorce; there is only
syrup, and the swing set
my life in
mine and yours and his and
delivered by Santa Claus
hers and this or that and no
travel size
one Christmas Eve, and
and never and no again. It’s
the crunch of gravel in the
painted in white or it’s
driveway, and the fishpainted in black and there is no value
painted walls of my bedroom.
scale or in-between or area of gray.
I carry a memory of a golden world,
It’s a predictable composition, tiring,
a bubble that began at the edge of the
and I carry it with difficulty.
road where the tiny white house sat,
The alarm rings and I fend off the
silent and stoic, watching cars speed
dreams and force myself awake. It’s a
past with the 6 o’clock commutes, and
school day, midwinter, and the sleep
ended down in the woods behind the
lingers. I carry it with me through a
big red barn that acted as a curtain for
breakfast of hot coffee, through mumthe early morning sun. The tiny white
bled good-byes, through heating the
house with the American flag carried a
frosted car, through the early morning
family – me, my mother, and my fadrive past the tiny white house, now
ther – until the tiny white house becoated with snow, and the early-morncame too tiny to carry us all.
ing traffic outside my school.
It’s getting cooler. The fall sky carI carry the sleep like I carry my bag
ries the setting sun like I carry my
on
my shoulder that holds the vocabupaintbrush across a canvas, leaving
lary and the painting and the workvivid strokes of color and the smell of
sheet and the study guide and the
something new. I carry each stroke
notes and the textbook and the article
like a burden relieved, a triumph, a
that kept me up all night in a stress-instep closer to a finished product. I
duced, sleep-deprived panic. I carry
carry the fear of the unfinished. The
the fear that I forgot something like I
trees carry leaves that jingle in the
carry the cold.
I
Snow turns to rain and things
I carry sand in my hair, in my
bloom. The earth carries green like a
clothes, in my shoes, sand anywhere
trophy and I carry years of dancing
and everywhere, ground into the carlike a prize. I carry a tap shoe with a
pet, brushed under the rug, trailed
scuff on the heel and a crease in the
through the kitchen. I carry the smell
arch, old and broken-in like the friendof barbecue in the backyard, the turn
ships I’ve made and the skills I’ve
of bicycle tires down the street, and
mastered – the toe stand, the pull back,
the drip of an ice cream cone in the
the draw back, the riff. I carry the
early-evening heat. I carry the echo of
rhythm of the taps against the hardmidsummer fireworks like I carry the
wood floor – one-and-a-two-andecho of yelling that seeped into the
three-and-four – like the rhythm of a
walls, that sunk into the floor, that
catchy song on the radio.
crowded the rooms of the tiny white
I carry a jazz shoe with a smooth
house until we were suffocating, until
sole that reminds me of the hours
they realized that it wasn’t going to
spent, the time passed, the trials and
work.
tribulations. I carry my fouettés, my
I carry fears – the fear of failure, of
pirouettes, my chaînés in the strength
imperfection, of the future, of life. I
of my legs. I carry my chin up and my
carry laughter and happiness and
back straight – no slouching, never
friendships and hope and the good and
slouching – my body lifted and my
the bad and the right and the wrong. I
feet stretched and my mind turning,
carry two separate families because
spinning, counting out
one didn’t work. I
the steps. I carry the
carry two separate
memory of my first
keys and two separate
I carry two separate rooms and two separecital, how afterward
I went home with just
families because rate homes because
one parent to a house
one didn’t work. I
one didn’t work
that was not white and
carry two separate exnot tiny and did not
pectations and two
carry a family, but a
separate hearts. I carry
piece, a fraction, a slice.
the acceptance that sometimes things
I pack up and I carry my things to
are broken, and I carry relief because
the beach house. The heat of the sumit could have been worse; the mess
mer sun is carried by my dog in his
could have consumed me.
noisy panting and by the sweat on the
I carry the stress of school and the
lemonade glass and the strenuous hum
love of dance and the freedom of art.
of the ceiling fan. I carry the relief of
But I also carry a memory of the tiny
the saltwater spray on my skin, and I
white house with the American flag –
carry sunscreen, tanning spray, an umthe one that sat at the edge of the road,
brella, a beach chair, a towel, a tote, a
silent and stoic, watching cars with the
sundress.
6 o’clock commutes speed past. ✦
My Sandwich Shop Plan
nonfiction
I Carry
by Stephen Toropov, Middleton, MA
the love it. The important part is that I control my
have a plan for my future. Whether it’s feasible,
future.
whether it will ever happens, I don’t really care.
See, I’m a practical guy. I know I probably won’t
What matters is I have a plan: I want to own a
be able to make it in the real world just being a
sandwich shop.
writer, but I’m a hopeless idealist, and I’ll never be
Specifically, I want to own a sandwich shop with
able
to give up my dream, my passion, for that reaan apartment above that I can live in, in some really
son.
I
can’t live my mother’s life, working in an ofunique and interesting part of the country. I want to
fice all day, being chummy with rich people so
spend my days running the sandwich shop, and my
they’ll make donations, and answering e-mails in a
nights writing whatever comes to my
cubicle that may as well be a cell. I love
imagination. I want to make really interand respect her for what she does, but
esting sandwiches, like crispy haddock
on garlic bread with coleslaw and weird The important being a cubicle drone would kill me just
as sure as any bullet. It would crush my
stuff like that. I want to have free Wi-Fi
part is that
spirit, and what am I without that?
in my sandwich shop, play awesome
I
control
Likewise, I can’t be like my dad, writmusic all the time, and spend my breaks
ing, other people’s books to make ends
talking to customers getting to know
my future
meet. I love and respect him for what he
them.
does, too, but that kind of writing might
My sandwich shop would become a
as well not be writing at all, in my opinion.
hub for artists and other interesting people. I want to
The reason I write is to share my soul; I can’t do
spend nights writing stories about the people I meet,
that with other people’s words. I need to have control
writing poetry about the world around me, and workover my destiny and write for myself, speaking for
ing on some amazing screenplay I’ll eventually sell
no
one else. My life and destiny are all I have. Why
to Hollywood donating the money to charity. I want
would I give them over to someone else’s plan?
to give the bread I don’t sell each day to the local
So I want to run a sandwich shop. It may be an imshelter, and I want to eventually open a little bookpossible dream, something totally unfeasible in the
shop right next door. Maybe the bookshop won’t
real world; I’ll be the first to admit I know absolutely
make money, but I’ll keep it open anyway, just for
I
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Photo by Jonathan Chang, San Leandro, CA
nothing about the real world or how it works. I’ve
lived my life in what is arguably the most sheltered
place on earth, but all I want to do now is escape.
I may end up giving up my dream, compromising
myself to put bread on the table, but I hope and pray
I won’t. Right now I have my whole life ahead of me,
and I know what I want to do. I have a dream. I want
to own a sandwich shop. ✦
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
7
sports
For the Love of Baseball
York City, people began calling the sport “our nand the deuces are wild.”
tional pastime.” A hundred and sixty years later it
I groan in disgust as Vin Scully uses
still is.
one of his many catchphrases. He alFamilies bond through the traditions of going to
ways says that when it’s a 2-2 count, when there are
see a game, the seven-inning stretch, the ceremonial
two outs or two runners on base, or in the second infirst-pitch, and Little League. It’s as American as
ning. But I secretly smile, loving his unique ways.
apple
pie, hot dogs, and Uncle Sam. Baseball prides
Each spring, I look forward to hearing Hall of Famer
itself in curses, superstitions, and strange rituals.
Vin Scully call the game while watching my Dodgers
Baseball helps boys and girls pass the time in the
play, and of course, I look forward to baseball itself.
heat and magic of summer. They can meet in dusty
Sometimes it seems like football has taken over
neighborhood ball parks and play a game or two, or
America, with its gleaming stadiums and die-hard
watch their home team play.
fans, but baseball hits a grand slam in our hearts; it is
You can’t escape baseball during the season; it’s
part of who we are.
everywhere.
It echoes from bars in New York, it
Spring arrives, new signs of life. Trees grow leaves
blares
from
TVs
in Tokyo, and it is well-respected in
and flowers sprout, and baseball is reborn. A new
ball parks in Venezuela. ESPN is stuffed
season starts for players and fans. Spring
with baseball highlights, analysts distraining begins, with devoted fans ignorBaseball hits cussing strategies in a downsized baseing March Madness and escaping to Arizona and Florida to see their teams
a grand slam ball field, and Web gems honoring great
plays. Walk the streets of any American
practice. ESPN and the MLB networks
in our hearts; city and you will see the simple and
come to life again, discussing game stratbeautiful baseball cap adorning heads.
egy, predicting which teams will make it
it is part of
The voices behind baseball exist in
to October, and anticipating Opening Day.
who we are
names like Vin Scully, Harry Caray,
One hundred sixty-two games a season.
Ernie Harwell, Mel Allen, Jack Buck,
Nine innings per game. Three outs to end
Red Barber, Jon Miller, and Russ Hodges. They
half an inning. Three strikes and you’re out. Four
have become the soundtrack for the game, these
balls a walk. Eight playoff teams. One championship.
voices we all hear and love. We can recite their
These are the numbers that seem trivial to non-sports
catchphrases with them, and laugh and acknowlfans but godly to baseball lovers.
edge the unique talent and art they have brought to
Baseball is known for its confusing and often labothe
game. Even after they are long gone, their
rious statistics on nearly everything that goes on in
voices, their masterpiece of bringing the game
the game. ERA, RBI, OPS, batting averages, homealive, will stay in our hearts forever.
runs, steals, wins, strikeouts, BB/K, saves, shutouts,
We don’t just love baseball, don’t just watch
walks, and hits. The complexity that comes from this
baseball, don’t just talk about baseball – we live
simple, slow-paced game is what makes baseball
baseball and our team’s every season, every game,
beautiful.
every inning, and every pitch. We cheer on the
It’s a tradition deeper than the sport. The first time
rookies and bow down to the retiring heroes. We
I heard “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” at Dodger
drive home anxiously from work or school to catch
Stadium, I wondered why I had to sing it; I was althe first pitch and stay up late to savor the closing
ready at a ball game. But now I know that it doesn’t
of a great game. We feel the agony of errors, wild
refer to the present game, but the desire to go in the
pitches, and blown saves. We argue balls, strikes,
future. In the mid-1850s, in a baseball-crazed New
“A
Our Last Race
T
o my left, I see an official. To my
right, another anxious team.
Straight ahead is an empty course.
Not just any course – the Kentucky State
Cross-Country Championship course. And
it’s about to be torn apart by hundreds of
racing spikes.
Knowing this is the last race I’ll ever
run with my close friends Mike and Kyle
gives me a whole new mindset. In this last
race of the season and their high school
careers, for them, I will pull my weight to
get our team on that stage.
Five and a half months of training, two
months of racing twice a week, and all
those memories, all come down to about
18 minutes. No pressure, huh? More like,
more pressure than you can believe.
The official stands in the runners’ path,
flag in one hand, gun in the other. It hits
me that this is really happening. No time
for nerves.
“Runners, step up to the line. If there is
a false start, or if someone falls within the
first 100 meters, return to the line.”
8
by Joyce Peng, Monterey Park, CA
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
and close plays.
We understand and can distinguish between double
plays such as the 6-4-3 and the 5-4-3. We appreciate
a sacrifice bunt/hit to advance runners, a cycle, a perfect game, a no-hitter, and base-by-base scoring more
than a home run. We question the manager’s decision
to go to the bull pen, call up a pinch runner, and give
an intentional walk. We marvel at the eye-popping,
breathtaking defensive plays. Baseball may seem to
be a slow, boring game, but it is really an artwork of
strategies, gambles, and patience.
In the end, nothing brings more happiness and excitement than to relax after a long day and watch
your team play. They’re down 1-0, at the bottom of
the ninth, two outs, the rookie from the farm team
gets a hit. A bunt to third base, and the kid is faster
than the ball. He’s safe. It isn’t much, but there’s
hope, because there’s always hope.
There’s always the next inning, the next game, the
next season. Comebacks happen, because nothing is
ever the same. And when you jump up in exhilaration
rejoicing the walk-off home run and watching your
team celebrate like kids around home plate, then you
will truly understand what it means to love baseball. ✦
Photo by Baili Watson, Hood River, OR
by Conner Ball, Bedford, KY
I don’t know how many times I’ve heard
places, I feel excellent.
these directions, but this time they seem
I’m almost finished with mile two.
different, more important. At the sound of
Quick math tells me I slowed down by
the whistle, the runners, like a herd of eleabout 15 seconds. I’m not feeling so great.
phants, take three steps toward the line,
Coach is quite the sight, jumping outraour hearts pounding. I remember why I’m
geously, yelling at the top of his lungs. I
here, how I got here, and what I need to
know I have to catch up, but my legs feel
do.
weighed down and I feel a side stitch comThe gunshot sends us off
ing on.
like horses in the Kentucky
The third mile is all about
Derby. Getting out hard and
The third mile your guts. I’m tired and hurtfast is critical. If I’ve heard it
ing, but I have to keep going. I
is all about
once, I’ve heard it 30 times:
think about the Steve (“Pre”)
Get out hard. Not too hard, but
Prefontaine quote: “I’m going
your guts
fast enough that you won’t be
to work so that it’s a pure guts
trapped in the back. The first
race at the end, and if it is, I
mile is run with your brain. And just like
am the only one who can win it.” I know
that, we’re at the first mile marker. 5:31.
I’m not going to win, but I will win the
My thoughts: Too slow; move faster.
race with myself.
Hearing the crowd is indescribable.
Staying motivated, I pick up the pace
Goose bumps cover my body. Picking up
and start to kick. I have to go now. Giving
speed, I begin mile two. I need to get back
everything I have is what I’ll do.
on pace. Mile two is run with your heart.
I see the finish line getting closer. To
Move up now; this where you have to stay
avoid vomiting, I try to swallow, which
strong mentally. After advancing a few
only makes it worse. I sprint as hard as I
COMMENT
can. Just a bit more and I can stop, shut
out the world, rest.
Just like that, the race is over. Barely
making it through the chute, I cling to
Coach to stay upright. Tears fill my eyes.
“You did all you could, Conner.”
Hardly able to speak, I mutter, “No. It
wasn’t enough.”
Judging by my teammates’ faces, I can
tell we didn’t do as well as we hoped. I
can’t help but blame myself, despite their
supportive remarks. I apologize repeatedly
for not pulling my weight.
We end up placing sixth overall, making
us Public School State Champs again. It’s
not what I was hoping for, but that’s okay.
I would trade a trophy for my team any
day. They are my best friends. My family.
My life.
What do we do now? Live in the past?
Write personal narratives about doing what
you love most with the people you love
most? About friends becoming best
friends? About the season of 2010 and how
much it meant to us? Sure. I guess so. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
9
travel & culture
The Taj Mahal
by Feroza Freeland, Memphis, TN
play on the side of the road, immune to the stifling
t is 4:30 in the afternoon, and the blistering sun
heat. Motorcycles whiz past us, and I spot several
threatens to melt the entire town of Agra. Midmore cows. I receive stares from many of the
summer is definitely not the ideal time to visit this
passers-by, but I am used to that. As my uncle expart of India. Nonetheless, here I am, with my uncle
plained to me, people are only curious because I am
and cousins, setting out to admire India’s most faa foreigner; furthermore, staring is not considered
mous landmark: the Taj Mahal. I had seen the Taj
rude in India.
many years ago on another family trip, but at five, I
The walls surrounding the Taj Mahal are fast apwas less than intrigued; in fact, I believe my exact
proaching,
and soon our rickshaw comes to a halt.
words were, “I’m bored!” However, this trip will be
We
step
out
and purchase our tickets: three Indians,
different.
one foreigner. My ticket costs 15 times theirs, but it
We are almost at the Taj Mahal when we reach the
still converts to less than $14. This is a small price
point after which no cars are allowed. I believe this
for the opportunity to witness one of the world’s
rule is an attempt to protect the sparkling white marmost magnificent architectural marvels.
ble of the monument from contamination; however,
As we step through the archway of the entrance to
there is still much air pollution from factories and
the Taj, I catch my first glimpse of the
overcrowding. When we get out of our
monument. I am stunned by its size and
car, we are greeted by several boys, who
attempt to sell us postcards or persuade
I am flooded presence. The Taj Mahal looks beautiful
in pictures, but standing a hundred feet
us to ride the remaining distance in their
horse-drawn carts. Stray dogs linger near with a sense of from it is breathtaking.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” my cousin
our feet, hoping for a bit of food. A few blissful serenity
Zubeen asks. I do not feel that any adjecfeet away, a cow tied to a tree complative could do it justice, so I simply nod.
cently chews her cud. As with much of
We make our way down the path to the monument,
India, dust is ubiquitous, covering the ground, buildand I am unable to take my eyes from it. Several
ings, and even the people.
photographers offer to take my picture with the Taj
After some haggling between my uncle and the
in the background, but I politely refuse. A photodriver, we decide to take a motorized rickshaw up to
graph would undermine the magnificence of this
the Taj. This is a three-wheeled vehicle that resemstructure.
bles a cross between a scooter and a car. It is steered
Suddenly, we realize that my other cousin, Astad,
using handlebars but has an outer covering like an auhas disappeared. We anxiously scan the crowd and
tomobile. I have always enjoyed riding in these
eventually spot him near the entrance holding up his
bizarre yet charming vehicles.
camera and squinting in the sunlight.
As we speed down the narrow dirt road, my eyes
“Oh no, he’s got his camera out! This could take a
are fixated on the sights. Although I have been to
while,” Zubeen exclaims.
India many times to visit family, I am always fasci“Let’s keep going. He’ll catch up,” my uncle sugnated by the constant hustle and bustle. Even in the
gests. So we continue.
relatively small town of Agra, the road is lined with
When we reach the raised platform upon which the
stalls selling everything from fruit and cold drinks to
Taj Mahal stands, we are asked to remove our shoes,
souvenirs and disposable cameras. Children run and
I
Smiley Nation
by Joseph Blayney, Keswick, England
have T-shirt,” she said, holding a yellow shirt up to my
ey! Stop! Come look at my stall! I have what
body. “See it fits!” she exclaimed, beaming from ear to
you want. Come on, just look. No pay for
ear. “I give you for … 400. Good price.” When she saw
looking. This way, come on! Look, I got
my unimpressed look, she nodded. “What’s your best
carvings! Look ….” The pleading went on and on. Every
price?”
stall was the same and every argument too.
“100,” I answered defiantly.
As I wandered down the long, vibrant street, looking in
“350!” she growled, and the bartering began.
wonder at the surreal scene around me, I thought of home
Eventually I left the stall, T-shirt in hand. It cost me
and everyone there. Although usually I would feel a pang
300, but I didn’t mind. It wasn’t the money I was worried
of lonely homesickness, I couldn’t help but feel smug. I
about, but more the bartering was so much
was in Africa. Africa. It was amazing really. I
fun. The T-shirt was probably only worth
could remember being younger and seeing
documentaries and wondering what it would
Gambians smile 50, but she needed the money more than
me.
be like, and now here I was in the thick of it.
like
there
is
no
As I continue down the street, I watched
An amazing array of colorful delights lay
as
the local hagglers weaved in and out of
around me, an Aladdin’s cave for any fortomorrow
stalls, gathering what they needed, bartering
eigner. There were clothes, animals, ornaswiftly and fiercely. It was refreshing to see
ments, foods, drinks, and my favorite: people.
this aggressive but communal and somehow co-operative
Foreigners have always fascinated me. Perhaps it’s
way of shopping, but I had to admit, the starting prices for
their different cultures, or simply something about the
locals seemed suspiciously lower than those for tourists.
way they see the world, but whatever it is, I can underIt was funny to think how different it was here than
stand why Gambia is known as the Smiley Nation. From
back
home. These people were “uncivilized,” I was told
the poor store owner to the rich school boy, all Gambians
before
coming. But when someone who has nothing
smile like there is no tomorrow.
smiles at you as you buy a T-shirt for three-quarters the
I wandered casually over to a small stall where a
asking price, rather than the usual grunt and growl from a
woman dressed in bright clothes sat carving a mask.
tea shop owner back home, your perspective is really
Standing up to greet me, she took my hand, leading me
challenged. ✦
into her shop as if scared that I would run off. “See, I
“H
10
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
COMMENT
Passover
Potent daisies overpowering the air,
Water in the vase thick and green.
I think they’ve started dropping,
But no one’s noticed yet.
Oven beeps. Father yells to Mother.
The house is choked with noise, the shouts
and calls
Of my loud, forward family.
The leafy salad is being passed, fingers
smudging the glass.
By the time it gets to me, I scrape dregs from
the bottom.
But I really don’t mind.
I hear a joke, and though I’m far away, I laugh.
Before me, my cousins are arguing about the
Passover reading,
On who can say “dung hill” or “upon the
asses.”
The smell of brisket is overpowering the
flowers, pushing through
And I can almost taste the secret recipe
Filtered with soda and the crackle of fizz.
My cousins are yelling,
My aunt is laughing in her oddly brass manner,
But with the slightest pull of lip, I smile
And carry the plates into the kitchen.
by Caitlin Wolper, New City, NY
which is a sign of respect. Many Indians remove their
shoes when entering a temple or another’s home.
Even though the sun is beginning to set, the marble
scalds our bare feet, and we wonder how unbearable
it must have been earlier.
Zubeen, the history buff, is explaining the story of
the Taj Mahal. It was built by Shah Jahan in the
1600s as a tomb for his beloved wife, Mumtaz
Mahal, and it took 12 years to complete. Every detail
of the structure was meticulously planned, and it is
perfectly symmetrical.
We finally reach the entrance of the tomb, and my
cousin explains that the intricate calligraphy bordering the massive archway conveys excerpts from the
Quran. The domes and minarets that crown the structure are prime examples of Islamic architecture from
the time it was built. The walls are adorned with inlay
in the shape of flowers and other designs, and it is
said that 35 different precious stones were used to
create these.
As we enter the Taj Mahal, we are pushed and
shoved by the massive throng of sightseers. My
cousin grabs my arm since I am not used to navigating such large crowds. We pour into the inner chamber, admiring the detailed craftsmanship. The tombs
of Shah Jahan and his wife are side by side, and a
hushed reverence falls over the crowd as we reach
them. Afterwards, we slowly make our way back out
into the sunlight and spend several minutes admiring
the building from close up while Astad snaps hundreds of pictures. When it is time to leave, we amble
toward the exit and retrieve our shoes.
This experience was surreal for me; I find it difficult to believe that I actually set foot in the Taj
Mahal. As we reach the last archway, I turn and
pause for a final look at this masterpiece. The setting
sun casts an enchanting glow on the exquisite marble,
and I am flooded with a sense of blissful serenity. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
“A remarkable
book.”
—Charlaine Harris,
bestselling author of the
Sookie Stackhouse novels
“A postapocalyptic
romance . . . elegantly
written from title
to last line.”
Photograph © 2010 by Oleg Oprisco.
—Scott Westerfeld,
author of the Uglies series
and Leviathan
Look inside for an interview
with
SEARCH FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH
C ARRIE RYAN !
FOLLOW CARRIE RYAN
art gallery
Photo by Samantha Baggatta, Middletown, NY
Art by Tori W., Naperville, IL
Art by Dana Amrami, Fresh Meadows, NY
12
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
Photo by Evelina Troli, Montreal, QC, Canada
Art by Tiffany Dittler, Brewerton, NY
Photo by Rebecca Clinger, Auburndale, FL
Photo by Garrett McMahon, Pullman, WA
Art by Callie Fink, Tustin, CA
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details
by “Leslie,” NH
discover that I had lost a lot of weight. Then I got
o, as I type this, I’m pretty much feeling like
dragged to a therapist. I refused to speak. I did not
one of those celebrities who comes out with the
want to change, did not want to talk to her, and did
story of their struggles in People magazine. But
not want any help.
I’m leaving out all the sugar coating and stereotypes
I continued to cry and remain mute during therapy
that you tend to find in those magazines. This is the
sessions. I refused to cooperate when a nutritionist
totally true story of my battles, which I rarely distried to work with me. I switched therapists, but with
cuss. I am sharing it now because it is worth it if a
little change. My weight continued to drop as well as
single person can come away with an ounce of inspimy mental clarity, so it was decided that I’d attend a
ration. For anyone out there with an eating disorder,
day program during the summer. However, I’m the
recovery is real and beautiful. You can achieve it.
kind of person who does not give up easily. And
I started to hate my body in sixth grade. In reality,
when my mind was set on not gaining weight, there
I wasn’t a twig, but I was perfectly healthy, athletic,
was no way in hell I would let that number on the
strong, and beautiful. I started keeping a food diary
scale go up. I thought I felt great, the best I had in
and swore off junk food entirely. Sounds pretty safe,
years. This just shows how screwed up I
right? But everything went downhill the
was. How does feeling dizzy, fainting,
following year.
losing hair qualify as great?
The summer before seventh grade had
The number andEventually
it became evident that I
been a great one, but I had put on some
on
the
scale
needed
more
intense
treatment. I snuck a
weight. I constantly compared myself to
peek at my file and was proud that my
my twiggy best friend, and when my first
doesn’t define number on the scale was impressively
boyfriend dumped me, I convinced mylow. It’s sad that I had nothing better to
self that it was because I was fat. That
who I am
gain pride from. I continued my rebelwinter, I sunk into a depression. I felt
lious pattern for my first homesick
lonely and unmotivated.
month there. Finally – I don’t quite know when – I
I would eat very little all day at school, but I would
decided to start eating and give life another shot.
be unable to resist snacking on healthy food when I
I’m not going to lie; the “refeeding” process sucks.
got home. It was at these moments that I sometimes
I became so self-conscious about my changing body
resorted to making myself throw up, as I sobbed at
that I wore huge T-shirts and sweatpants and
how shameful I felt.
wouldn’t look in the mirror. When I tried on my
I tried all kinds of diet philosophies, hiding them
jeans, they weren’t even close to fitting. I won’t prefrom my mother. For three days I lived solely on fruit
tend I didn’t cry over this for a couple of hours. But I
and vegetables, lying on the couch because I had no
had some awesome fellow patients who helped me
energy. I went an entire month without eating any
through it. I remember the day we all passed around
grains.
a cookie, taking a bite out of it as a statement to our
I will never forget that day my mom figured out
eating disorders: “You can’t control me any longer. I
my secret shame of purging. I had never seen her cry
want my life back.”
before. “You’re size two!” she sobbed. I felt terrible.
When I was finally discharged, I still felt pretty
From that day on, I swore off purging, but my dieting
crappy about my body, but I tried to stay positive. I
tactics only got worse.
had some cute new clothes, and I got to see all my
My mom dragged me to the doctor only to
S
Carrying Myself
E
ver since I was young, I have
loved to be carried. As other threeyear-olds bounced and crashed
around the classroom, I longed for the
safety of my teacher’s arms. While some
kids wanted to dash up and down the
aisles at the grocery store, I was happy
sitting in the cart, admiring the sights
passing my eyes. Perhaps it was due to
my gentle, shy nature.
On my high school crew team, I experienced a similar preference for being
seated. When the coach deemed me too
small for rowing, he set me in the rear of
the boat, called the coxswain’s perch.
From that small seat, my job was to steer
the 60-foot human-propelled craft
through the water, rather than drive it
with my strength. I loved sitting poised
with eight rowers in front of me, ready
for the explosion of power that would
come not from my body but theirs. It
never occurred to me that my partiality
for the seated position was because of a
birth defect.
Although I was not required to exercise with the rowers, I was determined to
LINK
YOUR
friends, whom I had not seen for a long time. I
started to get back into running and did some weightlifting to gain back the muscle I had lost. I was determined to try my best. And believe it or not, I actually
started to have days when I’d feel pretty. I gained
some endurance back and started to hate my body a
bit less. I was seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.
This story has a happy ending. Today, I’m a freshman in high school with straight A’s. I’m my class
vice president, and I just finished the best crosscountry season of my life. I’ve grown stronger as a
person from my experiences. My struggles made me
who I am today, and my eating disorder does not define me.
Of course, every day isn’t perfect. Sometimes I
still wish I was thinner, but I’ve taught myself how to
be more realistic. I’ve learned to love my muscular
legs and toned abs. I don’t want to look sick anymore; I want to look healthy. I want to really live life
and gain back the miserable year I wasted. I haven’t
weighed myself in almost a year because I’ve
learned that the number on the scale doesn’t define
who I am.
To anyone reading this who is struggling with an
eating disorder, I want you to know that you can conquer it. You are beautiful just the way you are, so let
the world know your strengths and abilities. You may
not think you are worth much, but you have so much
to contribute to this world. I pinky swear that if you
really work at recovery and don’t give up when life
seems too hard, you can be happy. So stop criticizing
yourself, step away from the mirror, get off the scale,
and pick yourself up. Surround yourself with people
you love, find a trustworthy buddy to talk to. Remember that ED is not your friend. Eating disorders
do not deserve the dedication we give them.
Go ahead, eat a cookie. I dare you. Have a glass of
chocolate milk with it if you really want to piss ED
off good. And if he gets mad, tell him to shut up and
then blame me. ✦
ACCOUNT TO
Sponsored by
by Tiffany Work, Dallas, TX
build my strength. I put my body through
pelvis and realigning them with four
intense training during the first six
three-inch long screws on each side, the
months of crew. However, this increase
surgeons formed a more functional strucin physical activity caused staggering
ture. I underwent two operations, during
pain in my hips. A trip to an orthopedic
consecutive summers so the three-month
clinic soon followed, and the X-rays rerecovery time wouldn’t interfere with
vealed that I had congenital hip dysplaschool. Instead of working on my tan, I
sia. The hip sockets inside my twiggy
spent two summers perfecting the art of
legs had never formed correctly. I was
maneuvering a wheelchair and crutches.
surprised and scared by the
The biggest question condiagnosis. As a 14-year-old,
fronting me was whether I
I was embarrassed to be afI was a puzzle would ever walk normally and
fected by the same disease
without pain. I spent months
that did not fit on high doses of medication
as my elderly collie.
Instead of providing a
to mask the pain caused by
together
cushioned notch for the
the severe trauma to my body.
Blood loss caused extreme faround tips of my femurs to
tigue. By the time school and crew pracrotate in, my misshapen hip sockets
tice began again, I did not know if I
caused my bones to grind against each
could handle the stress of performing acother with each step. It is no wonder that
I enjoyed sitting so much. The only way
ademically in class, physically at crew,
to fix this was through reconstructive surand socially with my peers.
gery. I was a puzzle that did not fit toCrew turned out to be a respite from
gether. An orthopedic surgeon was the
the challenges of rehabilitation. My
only person who could remake my pieces
coxswain position has allowed me to
and join them properly.
continue participating without damaging
By detaching my hip sockets from the
my fragile new hips. The eight other girls
TEENINK.COM
health
ED Is Not My Friend
FACEBOOK
in my boat hold me together, much like
the eight screws inside me. Without their
support, I could not continue to stand. Instead of letting myself retreat into the shy
girl sitting in the corner, my impairment
has pushed me to stand taller; the team
even elected me their first female president this year. Taking care of my body
has become a priority. I am now able to
exercise regularly without too much discomfort.
Pain has given me an appreciation for
my healthy life. I am grateful to my surgeons, my family, and my friends, who
encouraged me when I truly needed others to carry me. By keeping a positive
mindset and focusing on my goal to walk
normally, I developed a heightened sensitivity not only for those with disabilities
but for people in general.
Everyone has a story. I look at each
person now with an open heart, knowing
that they too have endured struggles of
their own. I am no longer the three-yearold girl who loved to be carried. My
struggles have prepared me to carry
others. ✦
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
13
INSIDE: COLLEGE DIRECTORY, ESSAYS, ARTICLES AND FACTS
Photo by Joelle Rotella, Syracuse, NY
COLLEGE ADMISSIONS TIMETABLE
GRADE
GRADE99
GRADE 12
GRADE
12
Enroll in college prep courses.
Math and English are essential.
■ Begin to read about admissions and
think about your college financing plan.
SUMMER BEFORE:
■ Call or write colleges for appointments for
interviews and visits. It is usually better to
visit a college when students are on campus
to get a real flavor of campus life. Talking
with students about college life is helpful.
■ Begin to narrow your list of colleges.
■ Request catalogs and applications.
■
GRADE
10
GRADE 10
FALL TERM:
■ Contact the guidance counselor to discuss
plans regarding college.
■ In October you may elect to take the PSAT
or PLAN (pre-ACT test) for practice.
WINTER AND SPRING TERM:
■ Consider taking SAT II for courses you
are completing this year.
GRADE 11
GRADE
11
SUMMER BEFORE:
■ Begin preparation for the PSAT/NMSQT
and PLAN. If you feel you could use
help, seek a reliable prep course.
■ Begin exploring college interests and
visit local campuses to get a feel for
various settings.
FALL TERM:
■ Contact your high school counselor to
initiate the college selection process.
■ October – Register and take the PSAT/
NMSQT or PLAN.
WINTER TERM:
■ Attend college fairs to gather information
and speak with college representatives.
■ Visit nearby colleges to help gain a
better understanding of characteristics
that are important to you, for example,
location and size.
■ Attend college information sessions at your
school for additional financial information.
SPRING TERM:
■ Register and take SAT or ACT.
Consider a prep course if you need help.
■ Take SAT II, especially in subjects in
which you are taking the last course.
FALL TERM:
■ Contact your guidance counselor.
■ Develop a final college application list.
■ If previous SAT/ACT scores are low,
retake the tests, and forward scores to
colleges where you are applying.
■ Begin admission applications, especially
the essays. Have a teacher or a counselor
review drafts.
■ Apply for all possible scholarships.
■ Most Early Action/Decision applications
are due November 1-15, so make sure
application materials are forwarded early.
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
•
COLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIES
Public 4-year institutions ......................653
Public 2-year institutions ...................1,127
Private 4-year institutions, nonprofit..1,551
Private 4-year institutions, for-profit.....530
Private 2-year institutions, nonprofit.....183
Private 2-year institutions, for-profit.....893
Total
4,937
STUDENTS
Enrollment highlights:
Women .................................................52%
Full-time...............................................75%
Minority ...............................................33%
Foreign ...................................................4%
Residence of new students:
73% of freshmen in fall 2008 who graduated
from high school in the previous year
attended college in their home state.
Graduation rates at 4-year institutions:
All .......................................................57%
Men .....................................................54%
Women ................................................60%
Average tuition and fees:
Public 4-year institutions.................$6,319
Public 2-year institutions.................$2,137
Private 4-year institutions ..............$22,449
Test scores: Students averaged 21.0 on the
ACT and 1509 on the SAT.
Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education.
WINTER TERM:
■ Complete applications for regular
admissions. Include one or two “safeties”
and one “reach.” Pay careful attention to
deadlines! Apply for financial aid.
■ Request transcripts, send all recommendations (teachers and counselors) and other
supporting data to colleges.
■ Complete and send appropriate financial
aid applications.
■ Be sure to keep a copy of every document.
It will save you time, money, and aggravation if an application is lost.
■ In January/February, check with the
college registrar to see if your application
is complete and they have received all
necessary data.
SPRING TERM:
■ March/April – Colleges send admission,
rejection, and waiting list letters.
■ Make your choice and, if necessary, visit
colleges again to be sure.
■ April/May – Send an acceptance letter and
deposit to your college of choice and write
polite letters of refusal to the others.
Reprinted with permission from Parents College Advisor, published by College Counsel.
14
U.S. Statistics
COLLEGE CONNECTION
F==@:<F=LE;<I>I8;L8K<8;D@JJ@FE
/'' =FI;?8Ds\eifcc7]fi[_Xd%\[lsnnn%]fi[_Xd%\[l
by Corrinn McCauley, Folsom, CA
you click on the Students section and then select the
igh school is preparation for your future, and
box that says “College Board Tests,” you can sign up
the idea that a shortcoming or wrong decision
for The SAT Question of the Day, which is, in fact, an
in these years could make a university not acofficial SAT question sent to your e-mail every day to
cept you, or that you could pick the wrong college, is
help you prepare for the big test. As I like
rather daunting. A Family First Aid surto tell my mother, “This test decides
vey found that 70 percent of teens admitThe Internet whether I will be working at The New
ted to being stressed out over grades and
Times or be passing out sandwiches
college admission.
is a good place York
at The New York Times.”
The Internet is a good place to begin
to begin
U.S. News and World Report: Ranks
the overwhelming job of finding the right
U.S.
colleges based on various criteria incollege for you. Here are four websites
cluding academic excellence and programs offered.
I’ve found particularly helpful to dispel the fog surYou can compare universities and find additional inrounding the process of our individual journeys:
formation, including the highly beneficial student reDictionary.com: The Flashcards section provides
views, which give insiders a look at the school. You
online interactive flashcards for the PSAT, SAT, and
ACT tests, along with many others.
Collegeboard.com: This site is useful because you
can look up the colleges you’re considering and see if
the courses you’re taking in high school match their
requirements. It has a feature that allows you to compare statistics for the schools that interest you. And if
H
can type in the major you’re considering and the site
will generate a list of colleges that offer that major.
This prevents you from wasting time looking at
schools that will ultimately not be right for you. The
site allows you to view schools by cost, which helps
you stick to your price range.
StudentsReview.com: These college reviews are
incredibly useful because instead of getting the sales
pitch on a school’s official website, you hear the truth
about the unavoidable negative factors of each school.
I hope you find these tips useful on your journey to
college, but as Will Rogers once said, “Even if you’re
on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit
there.” So go out and explore the possibilities for
yourself! ✦
college
College-Seeking Tips
bobcatS WANTED.
Surely Enough
by Catherine Rivera, Franklin Lakes, NJ
I sat before my computer
Wondering how I could ever write something so
meaningful
In less than two pages.
I had to make myself stand out from students
nationwide.
Thinking this task would be impossible,
I pondered all the things that defined Catherine Marie.
Could it be my academic achievements,
Or perhaps my desire to help others?
Academics
For some reason,
Regardless of the importance of these aspects in my life,
They just weren’t enough.
But then it struck me,
Not every student has the ambition I do.
Naturally, I dug deep as to why my hopes and dreams
were set so high.
Could it be my academic achievements?
Or perhaps my desire to help others?
Making the Grade
Whatever your academic interest, Quinnipiac’s 52 majors offer
a great deal of opportunity to learn and grow
w. And learning isn’t
confined to the classroom or the campus either. Wiith numerous
internships available, students are given ample opportunity to develop
practical and highly marketable professional skills, preparing them
for the careers of their choice.
For some reason,
Regardless of the importance of these aspects in my life,
They just weren’t enough.
But then it struck me:
Not every child had the father I did.
Not every girl’s daddy worked to get her this far in life.
So why should I let him down?
Why should I put all his struggles to waste?
You
o Decide
From intramural sports to campus Greek life, the arts and ever ything in
between, at Quinnipiac, we understand that some of the greatest lessons
are learned outside of the classroom. That’s why we offer over 70 clubs
and organizations, with a range of extracurricular activities to satisfy
even the most diverse tastes.
Now, surely enough –
My fingers moved rapidly writing down all the reasons
why I admired my father,
Continuing to reflect on the gifts and talents I was given
That somehow all related me to Alfred Rivera.
After an hour,
I had about two pages and a thousand reasons why I
desired to succeed in life.
So that day not only did I finish my college essay,
But I figured out quite a few things about myself I had
never stopped to think about.
Wondering how I could have never known this
all before,
I was sure this would distinguish me from students
nationwide.
Not because of Catherine Marie,
But more because of the person who shaped my
molding. ✦
STUDENT LIFE
ATHLETICS
Go Bobcats!
Whether you’re in the game or in the stands, Quinnipiac’s 21 Division I
teams are sure to exhilarate. Check out www.quinnipiacbobcats.com
for tickets, team schedules, news and more.
We’ve got Class.
Smal l cla sses, a focus on
academic excellence, plus top
rankings in U.S. News & World
Report as well as the Princeton
Review’s Best 373, are just a few
of the reasons to choose your
education at Quinnipiac
University.
Visit
i it Us On
O Campus
Go to www.quinnipiac.edu/visit
to plan your tour, attend a group
information session or inter view
w.
High School juniors and sophomores,
join us at our May 16th Open House!
AR
ARTs
Ts AND SCIENCEs
Es B
Business
usiness Commun
Communic
Communications
ations Heal
Health
th Sciences
ciences Ed
Education
ucation L
Law
aw
Quinnipiac’s 550 -acre suburban residential setting is a stunning site for our 5,900 undergraduate and 2,000 graduate
students. Each class is kept small and is taught by outstanding faculty in state-of-the-art facilities. Plus, expanded
academic facilities, wireless campus, housing and recreation make for a unique and dynamic university.
Visit w
ww
ww
w
w.quinnipiac.edu, email [email protected] or call 1- 800-462-1944.
Hamden, Connecticut
COLLEGE CONNECTION
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
15
college essays
Beauty in the Struggle
by Maeve Coleman, Chicago, IL
For a long time I thought there was something
n case my transcript isn’t a clear enough indicawrong with me. All the hours I spent studying
tion, I am not and have never been a math person.
seemed fruitless, the good grades constantly overI don’t get excited at the thought of breaking
shadowed by the bad. Sometimes it seemed like I had
down a polynomial, and in my free time, Sudoku
a cruel disease that prevented me from understandwould probably come last on my list-o-fun. During
ing, but that wasn’t the case. I struggle at math, plain
my educational career I heard it a million times:
and simple.
“You’re just not a math person, Maeve.” I’ve taken it
In my junior year of high school, I experienced
in, ducked around it in my head, and used it to sione
of the most defining moments of my life. On this
lence the ongoing internal dialogue. Generally the
day, the teacher announced a new group project. For
phrase allowed me to keep my head up through a few
most kids group work is fun; for me it’s a roadblock,
failed tests, one yelling mother, and numerous wora cul-de-sac, a barricading wall taunting
ried teachers. Yet every day, I find myself
me. When it comes to math group work,
in this flirtatious relationship of mixed
I am the timid child picked last for
signals on the chalkboard, so I cannot esSometimes
dodgeball. I am the kid in the corner. At
cape through the open graphs and thick
brackets that lock me in. It’s not that I
being knocked 17, this is still true. As loud and sarcastic and outgoing as I can be, when it
fear math, or even hate it; we just don’t
down is what comes to math I feel out of my league –
get along.
Honestly, by now the word itself makes
we need most a league I don’t aspire to play in.
Sitting in my seat, shuddering at the
me queasy. It means much more than stathought of finding a group, my friend
tistics and formulas; it is a constant reEmily – a fellow math “genius” – and I decided to
minder of the failure of my last 13 years of
work together. No one else was going to ask us to
schooling, the recurring memories of my classmates
partner up, so we would work at our own slow pace
staring as I stumbled up to the chalkboard from first
and see the teacher for whatever help we needed.
grade all the way to eleventh. It is a reminder of the
Walking through the halls later that day, I overcountless hours I have spent going to teachers – both
heard a conversation between two other classmates
in school and out – to review tests and homework
working on the same project, a conversation that
that I couldn’t wrap my head around, while my
changed my way of thinking. They were laughing
friends carelessly pranced off to other enjoyable acand I heard them say our names. “How stupid can
tivities. It is a reminder of my classmates turning to
those two be? I guess it’s good they’re together –
me during group work and saying, “This is so easy,
then no one else has to be with dumb and dumber.”
Maeve. Why don’t you get it?” then listening to my
In that moment, years of embarrassment, self-conparents when I got home, “What school is going to
sciousness, and disappointment rushed in and
take you with these grades, Maeve?”
slapped me in the face.
But it didn’t stop me. Emily and I did the project
together and received an A against all odds. Sometimes being knocked down is what we need most;
sometimes there’s beauty in the struggle.
I know what you’re probably thinking right now.
Why in the world is this girl going on about how terI’m watching the world
rible she is at math? She’s just digging herself into a
From my old bedroom window?
hole. Maybe you’re right. But I am not writing this
I’m grabbing my bag.
essay to endorse the tantalizing theorems and mindby Madison McHugh, Medford, NJ
boggling equations that have conquered and devastated my GPA for the past four years. I am writing
this because my lack of an A on every test does not
I
mean I am incapable of changing the world.
I know that I’ll be rejected from some schools, but
my grades reflect only one part of my character. They
do not show the Maeve who is capable of winning a
three-mile cross-country race. They do not show the
Maeve who was a leader on her sophomore retreat.
They do not show the Maeve who took a 17-hour
train ride to New Orleans to spend a week doing
community service.
Do I think my grades accurately reflect my academic abilities? No. But I can speak, and I can write,
and I can be personable and understanding. Maybe
that’s nothing compared to mastering trigonometry,
but it’s enough for me. Not because I don’t have high
standards but because I don’t believe that my grades
reflect who am I or what I am capable of doing. If
given the chance, that is what I plan on proving. I
recognize my limits and my talents. I accept my
flaws. I accept that I will probably never be a mathematician, and I accept that there is beauty in the
struggle. ✦
Realization
Proportion of College Students Enrolled
at Public Institutions, Fall 2008
86%
91%
59% 71%
86%
62%
82%
96%
90%
79%
79%
81%
55%
76%
73%
53%
55%
65% 74%
72%
84%
55%
87%
86%
93%
58%
81%
77%
81%
90%
79% 79%
86%
16
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
•
SOURCE:
U.S. Dept. of
Education
%
73
85% and above
75% to 84%
65% to 74%
0% to 64%
76%
59%
43%
51%
64%
80%
83%
73%
4%
Average College Costs, 2009-10
4-year Public Colleges
Resident Commuter Out of state
Tuition and fees
$7,020
$7,020
$18,548
Room-and-board
$8,193
$7,969
$8,193
Books and supplies $1,122
$1,122
$1,122
Transportation
$1,079
$1,483
$1,079
Other
$1,974
$2,318
$1,974
Total*
$19,388
$19,912
$30,916
4-year Private Colleges
Resident Commuter
$26,273
$26,273
$9,363
$8,163
$1,116
$1,116
$849
$1,332
$1,427
$1,788
$39,028
$38,672
82%
70%
89%
88%
95%
73%
71
%
76%
Photo by Shailene Long, Mesa, AZ
COLLEGE CONNECTION
Note: These are enrollment-weighted averages. Weighted tuition and fees are derived by
weighting the price charged by each institution in 2009-10 by the number of full-time undergraduates enrolled in 2008-9; room-and-board charges are weighted by the number of students
residing on the campus. Estimates of other budget items are based on reports of institutional
financial-aid offices.
* Average total expenses include room-and-board costs for commuter students, which are average
estimated living expenses for students living off the campus but not with parents.
SOURCE: The College Board
Seeking an
Education?
DeSales University exists to educate …
to educate the whole you … to educate
the whole you and develop character
while giving you concentrated,
career-centered study with a
broad-based liberal arts foundation.
With 37 majors of study, DeSales
University offers uncommon solutions
for seekers of educational excellence.
PHOTO BY JAMIE ROSKKO
Columbia College Chicago
believes in the power
of your creativity, and is
proud to offer an education
specifically tailored for
students—like yourself—
who want to pursue a life in
the arts.
I OVA
INN
OVAT
AT
TION
N
IIN
N THE
T H E VISUAL,
V I S UA L , PERFORMING,
P E R FO R M I N G , MEDIA,
M E D I A , AND
A N D COMMUNICATION
C O M M U N I C AT I O N ARTS
A RT S
DeSales University: Take action for
your future.
Schedule a visit on-line and see how we provide the
Schedule
rigorous academics and unparalleled rresources
esources that will
future.
turn your talents into a rreal
eal futur
e.
Phone:
877.4.DESALES
Mary Nguyen, Class of 2012
colum.edu/admissions
www.desales.edu
[email protected]
admissions
@colum.edu / 312.369.7130
Any Aid
Receiving
Receiving
Amount
Loans
Receiving
Amount
70% ...........$8,000
53% ...........$4,300
43% .........$6,300
87% ..........$16,000
76% ...........$9,300
61% .........$8,400
48% ...........$3,400
40% ...........$2,200
13% .........$4,100
SOURCE: National Postsecondary Student Aid Study, U.S. Department of Education
Profile of Undergraduates
Men Women
Arts and humanities
Biological science
Business
Education
Engineering
Physical sciences
11%
9%
19%
5%
18%
4%
15%
11%
10%
11%
3%
3%
Men Women
Professional
Social science
Technical
Other fields
Undecided
8%
9%
2%
9%
6%
19%
14%
0%
6%
7%
P R AT T
Public
4-year
Private nonprofit
4-year
Public
2-year
Any Grants
Amount
W R I T I N G
@
Average Amount of Financial Aid
The Art of
Writing.
In this program for aspiring writers, talent teaches talent. With a faculty
of dynamic, successful writers, Pratt’s B.F.A. in Writing, Performance and
Media frees students to explore the boundaries of their talents while
grounding them in practical knowledge of the publishing world in both
traditional and new media.
From the first semester of freshman year, students write fiction, poetry,
essay and criticism. In the sophomore year, they begin to hone their work
through tutorials in more specialized areas – screenplay, artist book, rock
review – and internships geared to their interests.
There is no substitute for doing it oneself:
writers write. At Pratt, they are given the structure
and guidance to do just that.
www.pratt.edu/request
Request information at www.pratt.edu/admiss/request
SOURCE: The American Freshman: National Norms for Fall 2009, published by the U. of California at
Los Angeles Higher Education Research Institute
COLLEGE CONNECTION
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
17
Teen Ink • April ’11 • Page 18
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
UA has a rich tradition of excellence in
academics, student life, and sports.
Ranked in the top 6 percent of universities
surveyed by U.S. News & World Report;
UNDERGRADUATEDEGREEGRANTINGSCHOOLSAND
COLLEGESSTUDENTTEACHERRATIOALLLOCATED
on a 1,000-acre historic campus.
To learn more visit gobama.ua.edu/teenink.
Box 870132 s4USCALOOSA!,s"!-!
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs
„ 3D Modeling and Animation
„ Multimedia/Web Design
„ Design
„ Illustration
„ Life Drawing
„ Painting
„ Watercolor Painting
American Academy of Art
332 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
Since
1904
Since 1904
d iexcellence
ll
i with
h thearich,
• Academic
Excellence
in
• Academic
rich
Catholic
intellectualtradition
tradition
Catholic
intellectual
Facultyfaculty
in Small
Classes
• World
HighlyClass
regarded
and
averaging 20 students
small classes
Qualityvery
of Life
in a residential
90%
• Close-knit,
active
Residential
community
(90%Community
of students live
on campus allÎÎÎ
4 years)
• Private New England College founded in 1784
• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends
• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job
• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon
graduation
500 Salisbury Street
500 Salisbury
St.,ÎÎÎ
Worcester,
MA 01609
Worcester,
MA 01609
1-866-477-7776
1-866-477-7776
Office of Admissions
61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
1-508-373-9400 • www.becker.edu
www.assumption.edu
Columbia
College Chicago
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.
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.
2945 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA 19009
267-502-6000
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
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.
890 Columbia Ave.
Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
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
College of
Visual Arts
344 Summit Avenue
Saint Paul, Minnesota
55102
651.224.3416
CVA
w w w.cva.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.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: [email protected]
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where YYou
o
ou
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
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
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
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
[email protected]
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
99 Main Street
Franklin, MA 02038
www.dean.edu
877-TRY DEAN
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!
9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 • [email protected]
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
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
MyMarywood.com
6(7 ,1 7+( 52&.< 02817$,16 ZH
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SUHFROOHJH#&RORUDGR&ROOHJHHGX
ZZZ&RORUDGR&ROOHJHHGX
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
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
[email protected]
www.colum.edu
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE
$%,!7!2% 6!,,%9 #/,,%'%
• 1,600 Undergraduate Students
s 5NDERGRADUATE3TUDENTS
• Nationally Ranked Athletics Teams
s .ATIONALLY2ANKED!THLETICS4EAMS
s -ORETHANPROGRAMSOFSTUDY
INCLUDING#RIMINAL*USTICE"USINESS
!DMINISTRATION3MALL!NIMAL
3CIENCE%QUINE3TUDIESAND
#OUNSELING0SYCHOLOGY
$ELAWARE6ALLEY#OLLEGE
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
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.
$81,48(,17(//(&78$/$'9(1785(
$OYLESTOWN 0!
777$%,6!,%$5s$%,6!,
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
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
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.
Excellent Programs.
Programs.
Excellent
Outstanding Facility.
Outstanding
Faculty.
Affordable Cost.
Cost.
Affordable
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
BUSINESS
CULINARY ARTS
HOSPITALITY
TECHNOLOGY
Providence, Rhode Island
1-800-342-5598
www.jwu.edu
Add your college
to this monthly directory.
Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
617-964-6800
Teen Ink • April ’11 • Page 19
BACHELOR ❘ ASSOCIATE ❘ CERTIFICATE
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.
Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
· 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
Princeton
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: [email protected]
www.pratt.edu
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.
• 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
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email [email protected]
www.pace.edu
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
A picturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
Communications, Health, Arts and
Sciences, Education and Law. Located
midway between New York City and
Boston with Division I athletics.
Consistently rated among the top
Regional Colleges in the North
in U.S. News and World Report.
• 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
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT 06518
1.800.462.1944
www.quinnipiac.edu
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
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.
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
SWARTHMORE
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
uri.edu/artsci/writing/
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
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
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential –
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
beyond
Want to Become
a Better Writer?
Join Teen Ink’s
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*
Located in beautiful northeastern
Pennsylvania, Wilkes is an independent
institution dedicated to academic excellence,
mentoring and hands-on learning. Wilkes
offers more than 36 programs in pharmacy,
the sciences, liberal arts and business.
Check out www.becolonel.com.
www.wilkes.edu
84 West South Street
Wilkes-Barre, PA 18766
I 1-800-WILKES-U
Attention Students!
Join the Teen Ink
Student
Advisory Board
TeenInk.com/StudentBoard
Six-week sessions start online:
Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
Add your college
to this monthly
directory.
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Teen Ink
617-964-6800
April 12, June 7, July 12, August 2
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View a sample class and learn more about this unique opportunity.
Receive a free one-year subscription to Teen Ink when you enroll.
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Newman Hall, Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
TM
Written a Book Lately? Submit Your Novel Online!
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
called “Writing and Rhetoric.” Prepare yourself for a career as a journalist, a novelist, an
advertising copywriter, a public relations
professional, or an English teacher! Located
minutes from RI’s gorgeous beaches.
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.
college essays
Learning to Speak Like a Doctor
but I didn’t really want to.
am the daughter of a neurologist and an oncoloOne day, my mom was late and I was left sitting
gist, granddaughter of a gastroenterologist, sister
outside school in the Texas sun for 30 minutes.
of an emergency medical doctor and neuro-critiSomething was not right. When I got into the truck,
cal care specialist. Medical language is the native
my mom was talking on the phone. I heard her say
tongue in my house, and for 16 years I could not in“metastatic hepatocellular carcinoma.” She was
terpret any of it. It took a year and a life-changing exupset, and I knew she wasn’t talking
perience for me to grasp “med speak.”
about one of her patients. The only
“The MRI showed a four centimeter
Medical
word
I recognized was “carcinoma.”
hemorrhage in the thalamus.” What
Carcinoma
is cancer.
does that mean? Will they ever stop
language is the
When she finally hung up, she told
talking about it? This was the dinner
native tongue in me, “Dad has cancer.” Aside from the
conversation at my house every night.
paralyzing shock, I had a billion quesMy parents would talk about their day,
my house
tions: How bad is it? What kind?
and I would sit there clueless, bored,
Where? Will he be okay?” If I had only
and silent, playing with the steak and
taken the time to understand their dinnertime doctor
green beans on my plate. Occasionally I could pick
talk, I might have had the answers. Those answers
out a word or disease I recognized after hearing it
eventually came from my brother, Ryan, who was in
mentioned so often. I would hear “lumbar” and think,
medical school.
That’s the lower back, or “spinal tap” and think, The
Ryan sat at the computer and I sat on the floor by
test where they put a needle in the spine. I could
his feet as he explained our father’s diagnosis. He
never keep up with my mom and dad’s conversation,
pulled up Dad’s scans on the screen, pointing out
I
Sweaty Feet
S
Projected Change in number of
High School Graduates
+1%
+13%
+4%
+2%
+21%
-10%
+28%
+22%
+18%
+2%
+2%
+2%
+6%
+17%
-2%
+2%
-8%
-4% +1%
-3
+8%
+26%
+1%
+5%
0%
+2%
+5%
+10%
-13% -2%
-7%
-7%
-14%
-8%
-8%
-7%
-1%
-3%
+8%
+7%
-30%
+14%
%
+2%
+5%
0%
-7% -3% +17%
-20%
+6% & above
0% to 5%
Decreases
3%
+1
-2%
SOURCE: Western Interstate Commission for Higher Education
20
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
•
every tumor and explaining what could happen because of it. That night was my crash course in med
speak. This time I asked questions and I made certain
I knew what the words meant.
By the time my dad passed away, I could understand the medical discussions. I did not feel like that
naive little girl anymore. I felt intelligent and accomplished. Now I look at myself and realize it is so
much more than understanding medical terminology.
When I was younger I did not understand because
I did not care. I did not take the initiative to learn.
When my dad was diagnosed with cancer, it hit me
personally. It made me want to understand – not just
the doctor talk but everything. I found a strength and
independence in myself I never knew was there. I
learned to handle my emotions like someone beyond
my years. I drove myself to swim practice and 40
miles to school every day. I focused on my schoolwork without having to be bugged to do it. I took responsibility for myself. I grasped the doctor talk. I
grew up. ✦
by Michael Rothbaum, New City, NY
though directly translate to “I am
here,” but I hardly see a distinction. I
am here, alive, nestled in the warm
embrace of West Africa. In this moment I carry confidence, adventure,
opportunity, independence. I can feel
the country as I engage with its people, absorb its culture, and immerse
myself in the present. Of course I am
fine – in fact I might even be a bit better than that. Enveloped in awe of
where I currently stand, my eyes gaze
down at those feet.
In worn New Balance sneakers, I
once dragged my heels over the rocky
slope of Mount Washington. Each
breath I drew seemed more of a pant
and each movement I made was
weaty feet rove the dusty alleys,
moving my body to the rhythm
in the street. It’s a symphony for
the senses – vibrant fabrics, the distinct aroma of incense rising, flycovered fruit, hagglers’ shouts, and a
bustling energy that only the market
can provide. The muezzin begins his
call to prayer, as greetings and blessings pass by my ears. “Wa-laykum
Salaam,” I respond, the language
rolling off my tongue, and I know that
if I am ever at a loss, I have learned to
speak in smiles.
If you were to ask me in this moment how I feel, how I am, I would
tell you in two simple Wolof words,
“mangi fi.” They mean, “I am fine,”
by Megan Knight, New Braunfels, TX
COLLEGE CONNECTION
accompanied by a strong burning in
back of the “rig.” It was a race against
my calves. As a child, driven academitime and the patient’s rapid loss of
cally yet failing to grasp any degree of
brain function. He was at his worst;
athleticism, I was not destined to run
my responsibility was to be at my
the lengths of football fields or swing
best. I hastened between the patient
the bat and bring myself home, but the
and our equipment, each action intime had arrived when I would sucstinctive, adrenaline moving me. Realceed physically and push myself
ity had become a blur and the
through the canopy of pines to bathe
meticulousness of my training faded,
in sunlight and touch the clouds. What
so my feet took over. They carried me
my mind had pronounced impossible,
through, fortifying my sense of purmy body defied, conquering both my
pose as they taught me compassion
doubt and the 6,000 feet to the sumand a moral duty to serve others in
mit. On that day my feet taught me
need.
perseverance and called on me to recFor now, my sweaty feet wander out
ognize the strength I possess within.
of the sun and into a small rice shack,
Those are the feet that shuffled
where I sip spicy cafe touba and slide
through the door, with
my hand into lunch, the oil
trousers draped around
rolling from my fingertips.
my ankles, to a stage set
On that day my Those feet are nearing the
for song, dance, and
end of this journey in
feet taught me Senegal, having trekked
farce. “Cross right, head
down, pause, turn left”;
perseverance across the bush of the Fumy legs knew the routine,
lani region, stomped the
but it was the audience I
ground in traditional dance
had to keep on its toes. I felt my becircles, and sunk into the golden sand
longing there, in the theater where creof Sufi darahs. But they will continue
ativity flowed, as surely as I felt the
to take me through this life.
hard wood set beneath me. Under the
In time, I will stride down long hoslights, I was free to release all inhibipital hallways to perform my first neutions, to let my feet guide me, to pour
rosurgery; I will tiptoe into my
myself into the thrill of the role and to
children’s rooms to whisper good
shine. Each step taught me to believe
night; I will walk a path of teranga, always giving of myself, and of zikr, acin myself, inspiring me with self-conknowledging the beauty around me. I
fidence and comfort in my own skin.
currently stand on this precipice in life
My pride swelled along with the apand am ready to hit the ground runplause, until I could no longer contain
ning toward the promise of my future,
a smile; I bowed.
while always marching to the beat of
And those feet were laced up in the
my own drum. Yes, my feet will travel
thick black boots of an EMT that
beneath me, and they will leave their
morning, their soles pounding the
imprint on this earth. ✦
pavement as they dashed from the
Superior professional
education combined
with two strategic
New York locations
and robust financial aid
at Hofstra, I learned
on the job
Sean Hutchinson ’10
B.B.A., Marketing
As president of Hofstra’s Student Government Association and NAACP
chapter, Sean Hutchinson was a busy man on campus, but off campus, he was
even more in demand. During internships with MTV, CBS-TV and Macy’s, he
organized events, designed Web sites and implemented marketing strategies.
With experiences like that, Sean is ready for the job market.
www.pace.edu
find your edge
Fall Open House, November 20 @ 9 a.m.
hofstra.edu/fallopen
Student Financial Aid, 2008-9
Federal Grants/Loans
Pell Grants ...................................................................................$18,181,400,000
Supplemental Educational Opportunity Grants ................................$757,500,000
Leveraging Educational Assistance Partnerships ...............................$63,855,163
Academic Competitiveness Grants ...................................................$372,000,000
Smart Grants .....................................................................................$221,000,000
Veterans grants ...............................................................................$3,785,092,064
Military/other grants ......................................................................$1,798,570,432
Federal Work-Study .......................................................................$1,176,639,479
Federal loans ................................................................................$83,981,430,635
Perkins Loans ................................................................................$1,277,300,000
Subsidized Stafford Loans ...........................................................$31,950,307,162
Ford Direct Student Loan Program .............................................$8,165,599,338
Federal Family Education Loan Program ..................................$23,784,707,824
Unsubsidized Stafford Loans .......................................................$38,900,432,026
Ford Direct Student Loan Program .............................................$9,157,795,830
Federal Family Education Loan Program ..................................$29,742,636,196
Parent Loans for Undergraduate Students ...................................$11,722,596,383
Other Loans ......................................................................................$130,795,064
Federal education tax benefits .......................................................$6,830,000,000
Total federal grants and loans .................................................$116,766,096,650
State grant programs ......................................................................$8,491,602,226
Institutional grants .......................................................................$31,160,000,000
Private and employer grants ........................................................$11,960,000,000
Total federal, state, and institutional aid ....................$168,377,698,876
SOURCE: The College Board. Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education.
To schedule an appointment, visit one of our
campuses, or to receive more information,
contact us at (800) 874-7223.
New Yor
o k Citty Campus
One Pace Plaza
New York, NY 10038-1598
Acceptance Rates
Profile of
Undergraduate
Degree Programs
Private Public
Less than 10% ....................0%
10.0% to 24.9% ..................2%
25.0% to 49.9% ................15%
50.0% to 74.9% ................39%
75.0% to 89.9% ................27%
More than 90%.................10%
Institution has no
application criteria.............13%
Westchesteer Campus
861 Bedford Road
Pleasantville, NY 10570-2799
1%
1%
12%
38%
26%
8%
Degree program
All Men Women
Bachelor’s degree 47% 49% 45%
Associate degree 40% 39% 41%
Certificate program 7% 6% 8%
Unclassified
6% 6% 6%
15%
SOURCE: U.S. Education Dept., 2007-8
Proportion of College Students who
are Minority-Group Members
22%
13%
11%
17%
17%
10%
9%
37%
21%
12%
11%
13%
11%
13%
32% 14%
23%
55%
15%
34%
25%
55%
45%
27%
19%
16%
12%
22%
24%
41%
34%
7% 6%
8%
23%
34%
18%
24%
18%
37%
39%
28%
30%
48%
31%
31%
33% 39%
%
41
Number of recipients and amount of aid per recipient:
Program
Recipients
Amount
Pell Grants ..........................................................................6,116,000 ..............$2,973
Supplemental Educational Opportunity Grants ..................1,258,300 .................$602
Academic Competitiveness Grants ........................................488,000 .................$762
Smart Grants ............................................................................78,000 ..............$2,833
Federal Work-Study ...............................................................780,600 ..............$1,500
Education tax benefits ........................................................8,500,000 .................$800
Perkins Loans ........................................................................504,300 ..............$2,533
Subsidized Stafford Student Loans
Undergraduates .................................................................6,154,334 ..............$3,682
Graduates ..........................................................................1,248,763 ..............$7,439
Unsubsidized Stafford Student Loans
Undergraduates .................................................................5,848,124 ..............$4,330
Graduates ..........................................................................1,161,227 ............$11,695
Parent Loans for Undergraduate Students
Undergraduates ....................................................................659,668 ............$11,480
Make the
Pace Advantage
all yours.
11
%
It’s more than just a degree. It’s a superior education, a full college
experience, access to state-of-the-art resources and facilities, and
a network of peers and mentors. At Hofstra University, recognized
by The Princeton Review’s Best Colleges and Fiske Guide, you’ll
discover your strengths and nurture your talents with renowned
faculty in small classes on a vibrant campus close to New York City
with a worldwide network of successful alumni.
31% or more
21% to 30%
11% to 20%
0 to 10%
68%
SOURCE: U.S. Dept. of Education, Fall 2007
COLLEGE CONNECTION
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
21
college essays
Ordinary Citizen
skater, and I live without stress. Every week, I terroram an ordinary citizen, often seen in Spandex paize the supplies of my local library. I have climbed
trolling the city streets. My skills are so great that
the world’s highest peak in Vermont, achieved enI can tend to my sick father while still having the
lightenment, and figured out the plot to “Lost” in the
mental fortitude to count how many times Sarah
first episode.
Palin used the word “flippin’” in the first episode of
Critics worldwide marvel at my lighthouse croher reality show and the elasticity to do troga (treadchets, and women swoon whenever they hear the roar
mill yoga). I am an expert in raspberry farming, a
of my Subaru Outback. I did for Ultigrand champion in Monopoly, and a
mate Frisbee what Arnold Palmer did for
sailor from the seven seas.
the beverage industry. Last fall, in the
I have mastered sfumato, architecEven
my
enemies
name of sanity, I marched on Washingture, and wouldn’t you know it – “is
ton, D.C., with 250,000 of my closest
anyone here a marine biologist?” I cried send me virtual
friends, carrying a sign that read “Couldwhile watching “The Lake House,” but
livestock on
n’t we all just compromise, if that’s
shortly after, picked myself up and conokay with you.”
quered the unlucky clan of feral garage
Facebook
I am your dog’s best friend and a philcats who now refer to me as The Mataanthropic young point guard. I violated
dor. Every Halloween, I dress up as
the laws of perpetual motion when I ran a mile in
table salt because I am always preserving the life of a
four and a half minutes, and I gave cognitive scienparty. I have been known to lead salmon on migratists something to study when I memorized the top
tions and pace Lance Armstrong on his way to tip1,000 vocabulary words used by the SAT. On Tuesping back champagne on the Champs-Élysées.
days after school, I prepare taxes free of charge.
Parents trust me. I speak physics, economics, and
I am Sinatra at the opera and your grandfather’s
transcendentalist literature. People may make me out
old buddy. I groove, twist, shake, and bump my way
to be well-rounded, but I am nothing that I have ever
through life. I have gone yodeling in the Caribbean,
been made out to be.
tanning in the Alps, and I have spoken to Cal Ripken
I am a tornado chasing, cardigan-wearing figure
I
Deep South
M
y fast-paced, African-American,
Yankee family and my Southern, suburban, small-town classmates come from two historically
clashing cultures. In retrospect, growing
up in both groups has given me personal
insight and empathy for people of different backgrounds and perspectives. However, I definitely was not always pleased
with my situation.
At age six, my life took a 180-degree
turn when my family moved from Detroit
to Jackson, Tennessee. I would not live
three blocks from my loud, laughing,
porch-smoking nana any longer. Her
beautiful, grand yellow house was the hub
of our family every holiday, which were
so magical for me and my cousins.
My cousins were more like my lower
East Side brothers and sisters. Together,
we formed the age-respective “Big Kids”
and “Bay-bay” kids, and our dance routines and skits were the stuff of family
concerts on Christmas Eve. “Detroit is
still a trash can,” my cousin always told
me, but I didn’t care. My family and I
sang and laughed away the 10-hour drives
there, but I was the only one who
screamed and cried the whole way back.
When our trips became less frequent
and my tantrums less tolerated, I began to
accept that I would live here, in bland old
Jackson, a town most travelers know only
as a rest stop. “Oh, it’s the town you pass
through between Memphis and
Nashville.” Silence. “People live there?”
I was “supposed” to grow up amid the
urban, black culture of the Hub-City, Detroit. I would have learned African dance
and performed at Hart Plaza festivals and
attended a Montessori school full of diversity. Instead, I attended one of the
whitest schools in Jackson, brimming
with Southern twang.
Despite my parents’ appreciation of
Southern hospitality and warm weather, I
Private
4-year
institutions
Public
4-year
institutions
Some admissions requirements ....................................85% ................86%
Test scores .................................................................80% ................67%
Test of English as a Foreign Language (TOEFL) .....78% ................69%
High-school record ....................................................77% ................79%
High-school grades ....................................................69% ................68%
College-preparatory program ....................................47% ................25%
High-school class rank ..............................................25% ................18%
Recommendations .......................................................7% ................51%
Formal demonstration of competencies ......................5% ..................9%
Open admissions ..........................................................15% ................13%
Number of institutions with first-year undergraduates 609
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
•
Photo by Elizabeth Rupe, Aurora, CO
and Popeye about the enduring properties of ferromagnetic metals. I have won chocolate-tasting competitions, bred prize-winning tigers, and gone
sledding down Everest. Even my enemies send me
virtual livestock on Facebook.
But for now, I am just an ordinary citizen who has
yet to attend college. ✦
by Jade James-Gist, Jackson, TN
Colleges’ Top Selection Criteria
22
by Matthew Shenk, Spring Grove, PA
1,243
COLLEGE CONNECTION
comforting.
resented the South from the start. It was
the most difficult for me in middle school
This warmed and unsettled me. On one
when I was a chubby mixture of resenthand, I felt connected to the city I’d lived
ment and paranoia. I knew I stuck out. I
in for so long. On the other, I had not
felt I had to earn my classmates’ apknown anything about this man yet found
proval, and I resented them for it. To me,
him off-putting. I had immediate repugJackson could never replace Detroit and
nance for him, something I expected him
the people I had loved and known for so
to have for me. I had considered myself
long. It never felt like home until one pivan unbiased and fair person. Inadverotal moment in an unlikely place.
tently, I had discovered I was prejudiced,
During a family trip, I was waiting in
close-minded and, ultimately, hypocritiline at a gas station with my dad when I
cal.
noticed a man behind me. As I turned toMy actions suddenly seemed so disconward him, he glanced at me and bent to
nected from my principles that I was degrab a bag of beef jerky. When he stood, I
termined to never let it happen again. I
noticed his faded flannel shirt tucked into
was motivated to understand different
light blue straight leg jeans.
people and their cultures and
Dark boots showed at his anto bridge cultures like mine
kles. His face was tanned and
with others. I would do this
I had
leathery, and his top lip was
with the hope of eradicating
discovered I prejudices as I once had, by
hidden by a wiry gray bush of
a mustache. Everything about was prejudiced promoting knowledge about
him represented my idea of
art and music – two fundathe people I disliked: insensimentally essential and univertive boys at my suburban school and the
sal facets of culture – in order to make
Confederates and cowboys in history
diverse groups more familiar to one anbooks who fought for slavery and waged
other.
war against Native Americans. Everything
This experience clarified my choice to
about him carried a negative connotation.
study anthropology and to try to reveal
When he turned away, I felt a wave of
the inner workings of human nature. I
air reach me, and I prepared to smell alcohave begun service efforts within my city,
hol or unwashed clothes, or both. But as I
spearheading community projects like a
braced myself, I noticed that it wasn’t eimonthly art workshop at a center for
ther of my prejudiced first assumptions.
abused children; “Note-able,” an organiThe smell was cigarettes – a brand my
zation that recruits children into music
nana had smoked for as long as I could
programs in the Jackson area; and a comremember. It was the smell of my friend’s
munity art festival in downtown Jackson.
“hammy-down” truck that we drove
I believe that my endeavors as an artist,
around in when we grew tired of sitting in
musician, and traveler have led me to betStarbucks. It was the smell of grass-filled
ter understand the connectivity between
air on a warm night under a beautiful,
cultures and to grasp what it is that makes
small-town sky. For the first time, my
us different and the same. ✦
Southern environment was familiar and
I
am green. I am the murky, browngreen creek behind my home where
I splash and play with the waves in
the summer and daringly meddle with
the ice during winter. I am the vivid,
green grass-stains on my child-sized
cheerleading uniform, in which I clumsily attempt splits and cartwheels because I want to be like the big girls.
Like most children, I am happy, I am
safe. I am comfortable in my routine.
As things around me evolve and
change, I do too. Mom and Dad fight,
and Dad leaves then returns in the middle of the night, yelling even louder.
Sister starts using bad words and kissing boys and fighting with Mom. I become gray. I blend into the horizon like
the dull winter sky blends with the bare
winter trees.
I take my Barbies and hide in the
dampest, darkest places where no one
else would hide and no one would
look. I am confused. Mom makes Dad
leave, Mom and Sister still fight, counselors coerce me into answering questions about Sister’s bruises.
I am growing still, though I am no
longer a child and there is no longer
any sign of green. The gray within me
has mutated into a deep, hopeless black
with no end in sight. I learn Mom is
seeking help for her drug addictions;
by “Harriet,” Baltimore, MD
Dad is seeking help for his alcoholism.
I’m gone. That’s when she goes missMom takes Sister and me to a new
ing for good. No one hears from her
home where we share a room, and Sisfor weeks. Sister is furious; she takes
whatever she can from the house and
ter sneaks out at night to get drunk. I
moves in with Dad and me. She pawns
stay up too late, reading and doing
everything that isn’t hers.
homework because I can’t sleep. Mom
One day, we get a call from
gets angry with me when she sees the
Grandma saying that Mom has moved
tell-tale glow of light seeping under the
door, but I can’t help it.
to the woods of West Virginia. She
Mom stops trying to hide her strugmarried her boyfriend of two months,
gles; she invites friends over who use
and they’re both trying to get clean.
her and steal from us, men who are
Dad is angry. Sister is indifferent. I am
physically and emotionally
relieved.
abusive. At times, Mom
Sister ignores Mom beI am growing cause that’s what she’s algoes missing. I come
home from school to find
wanted to do but
still, though I ways
laundry in the washing
couldn’t while living with
am no longer her. Dad talks to her
machine, beds unmade,
and an empty house. I also
through Grandma and
a child
begin using bad words and
lawyers because he is
fighting with Mom beforced to speak with her
cause I am old enough to know what is
about certain things. I try talking to her
happening, old enough to lose respect
but find it easier when I don’t. Even
for her.
though she’s my mom and I love her,
On the other hand, Dad has been
being around her isn’t good for me.
sober for months. He has a house of his
In school, I feel that the blackness
own and a solid job. When he suggests
within me has begun to fade. Sister and
that we stay with him, I gladly accept.
I have been repressing our anger, sadSister is skeptical. She is almost done
ness, and anxiety for a very long time.
with high school and will be going to a
We start seeing therapists. I have been
university soon. She is tired of being
depressed for such a long time, it’s
moved around.
hard for me to remember the child with
It is two weeks before Mom notices
the vividly green, grass-stained cheer-
Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes
by Melissa Gerace, Cheektowaga, NY
when I was 17 and stood in that exact same spot, I
was six years old and free as a bird, spinning becouldn’t spin but only stand, stronger in some ways,
neath the hot Maryland sun. Arms stretched out,
weaker in others, and constantly afflicted with the
palms turned to the sky as if they could catch the
menace of wars and politics that only vaguely concern
light and hold it forever. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed
me.
pink, hair glinting with highlights of red and gold
On that day I realized with a flash of pain that I was
from the bright sun. Round and round and round, the
no
longer six. Melting crayons and tangled hair had
sky spun like a kaleidoscope above me. I collapsed to
needed to be changed, replaced. The cross around my
the ground and watched the sky continue to spin,
neck might symbolize my faith, but it hurt to know
jerky and slowing, as if it were a toy I had broken.
that it would never be so simple, so innocent, so unThe grass was baked gold and prickly against the bare
questioning again. It took me so long on that cool Ocskin of my arms.
tober day, beneath the Maryland sun to
I was never a hothouse flower; my
begin (so slowly) to spin.
petals weren’t easily torn. Switching my
I was a hardy
Kaleidoscope sunset skies melted with
roots into new soil was no problem, and
the
green of treetops until all I
sicknesses were fleeting. I ran barelittle wildflower couldemerald
hear was the Beatles playing in my
footed through red soil and green grass
growing among head, crooning on and on about pools of
and let the sun slowly change the color
sorrow and waves of joy. Each spin
of my skin. I caught frogs and butterflies
thorns
seemed to take an hour, a day, a year to
in my hands but ran from the praying
complete. The sky above whirled slowly,
mantis that folded its bishop-robe arms
and the ground beneath dipped and rose again with
on my grandmother’s porch. I ran in a cotton sundress
each step, comforting and familiar and as much a part
through the heat of the summer day, laughing, and
of
me as the soles of my feet, this land I had walked
tasted the soft, sweet nectar of honeysuckle that reso many times. Coming back seemed, in that moment,
mains my definition of summertime.
to be the only answer I needed to the questions I’d
You couldn’t ruffle me, then, with anything. I was
been asking myself all year. Except for the niggling
sturdy and sure and confident, a hardy little wildfact that they answered nothing, that there was no
flower growing among thorns she could not see.
knowledge I gained from spinning in the same place,
There was a roof over my head and food and love, and
in the same way, as I had when I was six.
nothing could change what I had.
I know as little about myself now as I did then.
Is it funny, then, that I seemed to grow more frail as
Maybe
less. But as I collapsed to the ground, my
the years passed? That I lost some part of that wilddog’s face looming above me in a silent, curious
flower child in the upsetting act of growing up? That
I
leading uniform. All I know is to swallow my feelings until they melt together into a numb nothing, and I’m
learning that that isn’t the way to be. I
am blue. I am scared for the future, yet
hopeful because I can see that there is
a future.
I am a senior trying my best to handle college applications, schoolwork,
and a part-time job. There is no more
gray or black in me. I have blossomed
into the mystifying red-orange that
lingers after the sun sets, creative and
confident. I am now the bright, optimistic yellow of a freshly bloomed
wildflower that appears at the first hint
of spring. I am the intoxicatingly endless blue of a clear sky that forces you
to stop and breathe for a moment.
And I am green. No longer the fresh
green of an innocent childhood, I am
the awe-inspiring hopefulness that
strikes us when we see fresh growth
after a disaster. The green that tells us
everything is okay and we’re doing the
right thing. Most importantly, I am a
unique rainbow that can only be described as me, who I was, who I am,
and who I will become. The rainbow of
the strong, confident, determined
woman I am, and the successful
woman I will be. ✦
college essays
Green, Gray, and Blue
question of “Why, exactly, are you on the ground?” I
realized that there was nothing about myself I really
needed to memorize.
Not yet.
Not at seventeen. ✦
COLLEGE CONNECTION
Photo by Ellena Pfeffer, Minneapolis, MN
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
23
college essays
Lessons from the ER
abilities, a genetic gift from my parents. My
y entire world is a fiery hue, like a sunset
quixotic mother (outdoor enthusiast and glider
over the Egyptian desert. My eyes are searpilot) and my father (former Navy fighter pilot,
ing with an incandescent chemical burn. I
soccer coach, and my mentor) provided me with
am having trouble breathing and can’t speak coherevery necessary attribute that I might require to acently, and yet we are sitting in a parked car, waiting
complish anything. But I never fully understood
for my sociable sister to finish talking to her friends.
the concept of gifts or limitations, and honestly I
Pepper spray is the weapon I used on myself on this
have tended to be unaware of the amount of work,
day. Self-inflicted? Yes. Intentional? No. I was only
preparation, and thought that typically precedes a
eight. But, it was just as painful as if a veteran riotsuccessful venture. At least that’s what my father
squad officer had tried to take me down. This was the
says. But then he goes to the emergency room almost excruciating pain I had ever felt – easily outmost as often as I do, and for similar reasons, exdone later but, at the time, a galvanizing, teachable
cept that one of his trips involved a chain saw
moment. The message? Do not look straight down
mishap. My mother has gone more often than any
the barrel.
of us, but frequently on more mysterious trips that
I doubt that my eclectic collection of ER visits is
I’m not usually invited on.
unique. But, I don’t actually know anyone else who
Like many kids, my childhood idols have been
has needed surgery to remove a rock from his nose.
professional soccer stars, basketball
And although this was also self-inplayers, and freestyle skiers. For me,
flicted, I assure you that it is not indicathe problem was that I grew up thinking
tive of anything more worrisome than a
I would not
I would actually do these things. As it
quirky sense of curiosity and an uneven
turns
out, I lacked the greater talents of
learning pattern. In my further defense, I
call myself
the skiing wunderkinds around me.
was only three when I found the rock
a klutz
I was a more-than-competent skier.
that looked like it would fit perfectly in
When he was home my dad would pick
my nose.
me up from kindergarten and we would
The surgery came with little pain,
go
ski
black
diamond runs for the afternoon. But I
maybe too little, because when my dad came home
grew up in the ski-town that produced Bode Miller
and asked me how on God’s green earth I managed
and, I’m pretty sure, several stars of future generato get a rock stuck in my nose; I sprinted out to the
tions based on the way they are already skiing. A
driveway to find a stone of appropriate size and atbroken arm, finger, thumb, five dislocated vertebrae
tempted to do it again. I’m not sure how to verbalize
in my neck, severe migraines, and a couple of conthe object of this lesson, but I’ve kept my nose clean
cussions have been the reward for my confidence and
ever since.
ambition while participating in “extreme” sports.
All this notwithstanding, I would not call myself a
Now, I am positive that there were some lessons
klutz. My sister Natasha, one year my senior, seems
available about caution, humility, and maybe interto almost take pride in holding claim to the family
pretive physics, however, I’m not sure they were entitle, and she is world-class. She once came home
grained in me as well as they should have been. I left
from a hike with 25 staples suturing a gash in her
the terrain park that winter thinking all I really
calf, having managed not only to trip while jogging
needed was a change of venue.
down the mountain on a class hike (easy enough, I
Two weeks later, at a basketball tournament in Versuppose) but to land on the one rock in the White
mont, I ended up being taken by stretcher off the
Mountains capable of inflicting that sort of damage.
floor and to the ER by ambulance, having suffered a
Her ability to handle all of the curveballs she has
minor neck injury and another concussion. I was a
been thrown inspires me, but I digress.
smallish 13-year-old and had decided to jump in the
I have always taken comfort in my athletic
M
The Letter A
A
is a powerful letter. It can be a word
by itself. Add a scarlet hue and it
ostracizes a woman from society. Its
shape resembles the great pyramids, the
only wonder of the ancient world still standing. And as a grade, it represents achievement, hard work, being the best.
I have always earned A’s in school. I’m
not grade-obsessed, I simply work hard to
understand and retain the material. But this
year, my classes are pushing me further than
I’ve ever worked before. In my AP calculus
and biology classes, I have generous
amounts of homework every night.
Hunched over my calculus book at 10 p.m.,
I curse its seemingly unending questions. In
biology, we begin a new lab before we’ve
even finished the last. And between labs
24
by Max Simpson, Franconia, NH
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
•
by Alia Schroeder, Oconomowoc, WI
there are Latin root quizzes, study guides,
and readings. There’s always something for
me to be working on.
Though I’m more dedicated to my homework this year, my grades may not reflect
that due to the rigor of my classes. And I’m
okay with that. Of course I would love to
maintain my 4.0 GPA, but getting a B in a
class or two won’t affect what I’ve learned
or what I’m capable of doing in the future.
It won’t change the fact that I want to study
engineering or how I want to use that
knowledge to improve the world. It really
only changes the way I am labeled for the
future.
And when it comes down to the basics, A
is merely a letter. ✦
COLLEGE CONNECTION
Photo by Connor Ryan, Darien, CT
way and take a charge from a 15-year-old who turned
out to be Wilt Chamberlain’s nephew or some such.
I’m not sure he even felt it when he flattened me on
his way to the hoop, and I like to think I got the call,
but I don’t remember. No surprise there.
Danish physicist Neils Henrik David Bohr said
something I find humorous yet inspiring: “An expert
is a man who has made all the mistakes which can be
made, in a narrow field.” I have made my mistakes,
admittedly, in a rather broad field. My theme here
was supposed to have been “lessons learned” and I
wanted to paint a picture of a young man who is
smart and mature and thrilled to embark on a fresh
set of more intellectual ventures in college. However,
I’m afraid there is nothing in this essay that suggests
I am exceptionally bright, keenly interested in college, or even adequately teachable. But I hope I have
shared a bit of who I am with you, and that is what I
keep hearing I should attempt on my campus tours.
I would love to play college soccer, and I look forward to enjoying college life in typical ways. But I
am even more determined to embark on a life of the
mind in a new venue, and with any luck, substitute
some of my ER visits with trips to the library.
I started writing this thinking that so many visits to
the ER were probably unusual. But it turns out there
were nearly 100 million visits to the emergency room
just last year. One in four adults went, and there were
38 visits per hundred people. And contrary to the
widely held image of people without insurance or
means seeking basic care in the ER, half the visits
were for people who believed they needed emergency assistance, and the majority of the rest needed
care during hours when doctor’s offices were closed.
Also, to my surprise, these statistics are very similar
across socioeconomic levels.
Notably, people with postgraduate degrees visit the
ER least often, and this is the final and perhaps most
compelling reason for you to help me on my quest
for higher education. And perhaps at some point in
this journey, I’ll find the club for students who have
been victims of bizarre injuries and I’ll feel right at
home. ✦
Inquisition
by Madison Seely, Mission Viejo, CA
by Somer Galal, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
for all to enjoy. Every country from Argentina
very day I wake up wishing I were more
to Zimbabwe takes part, and I’m the oneethnic. I’m a white girl from South Orwoman United Nations in charge of making
ange County, California – why couldn’t I
sure they all get along.
have been born Samoan? Or Filipino? They
I take immense pride in my position as Mulhave wonderful food. My dad’s idea of an ethticultural
Commissioner and the irony that goes
nic meal is steak and potatoes. Thanks, Dad,
along
with
it. I wasn’t appointed because of
way to contribute to our family’s overflowing
personal experience, but because of my passion
cultural melting pot.
for diversity as a change agent. It took me, a
The dilemma I face is proving to the rest of
third-party observer of sorts, to recognize the
the world that I have just as much to offer in
importance of maintaining a healthy mix-andterms of diversity as those with more colorful
match environment and creating the programs
backgrounds than I. This is a daunting task for
that keep it alive.
someone like me, someone who
Everything I’ve learned as Multisighs in frustration whenever clickcultural
Commissioner has preing the “Caucasian/White” bubble
I’m not seen as pared me for a full-fledged Boston
on any standardized test or formal
experience. Knowing
document. I strive to find a way to
just another University
full well that BU prides itself on its
contribute despite my genetics,
white girl
multiculturalism, I plan on stepping
keeping the multicultural flavor I
up my game as part of the student
long to taste alive however I can. I
body to bring my enthusiasm for
suppose this is why I was so exdiversity
to
every facet of my undergraduate
cited to claim the title of Multicultural Comcareer.
missioner for my student government.
There’s something wonderful in knowing
Of the dozens of applicants from the
that I could walk around my former hometown
thousands of students at my high school, the
of Boston and feel like part of a community,
Student Executive Board, which included Hisone where I’m not seen as just another white
panic, Japanese, French, and Chinese teens,
girl, but as an old friend returning home to
chose the pasty white girl to represent the
help make it a better place. And who knows?
myriad ethnic groups on campus. As such, I’m
Maybe upon returning to the city I still adorresponsible for organizing all student-run assoingly call home, I’ll trace my family lineage
ciations, every ethnic and heritage-related
and discover that somewhere in my blood
event, and perhaps most daunting of all, the
there’s a small streak of Native American or
annual Multicultural Week. Days of cultural
Pacific Islander. Something in my splotchy
celebrating conclude with an enormous food
freckles and obnoxiously white skin tells me
fair where every club on campus represents a
otherwise, but a girl can dream, right? ✦
country and provides corresponding delicacies
T
hey tie me to a chair, wind my legs in thick laces of rope,
gag my mouth, and blindfold my eyes. I can’t see anything; I can’t hear anyone; I can’t move. I fidget with the
pencil in my hand, and I know I am supposed to write. My head
pounds and my heart thumps feverishly. Perspiration builds at
my temples and my teeth grind, crying for the relief that only
contact with fingernails can bring. They are asking me to tell
them who I am and what I have achieved in my measly 17 years
on this planet.
I am no musical prodigy, no Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart or
Ludwig van Beethoven. I am no master Iron Chef; instead, to
scramble eggs without burning them is an accomplishment for
me. I am no great explorer like Christopher Columbus. The greatest voyage I’ve
They are
ever embarked on was in my own backand the greatest discovery I ever
asking me yard,
made was of a quarter wedged between the
to tell them sofa cushions.
I am not Bill Gates, nor am I Mark
who I am Zuckerberg.
I can, however, access Facebook using Windows on a PC. I did not
write papers on quantum theory like Max Planck and Werner
Heisenberg, but I do have a theory on the quantity of jellybeans
in the jar in the contest at school. I can’t dance like Shakira,
smile like Mona Lisa, lead like Obama, or sing like Santana. The
only time I sing is when I have a problem, and only then because
I find solace in knowing at least something sounds worse than
that problem.
I have never met anyone famous; the closest I have come to it
was the letter I wrote to President Obama this summer, and he
didn’t even write back. My impression of an Indian accent is impressive, but I am no great peace-preaching Gandhi.
I am none of these things – yet. Four years from now, tie me to
a chair, lace my legs in rope, gag my mouth, blindfold my eyes,
give me a pencil and ask me the same question again. ✦
E
Wag Every Day
Attitudes and Characteristics
of Freshmen at 4-Year Colleges
by Rebecca Lienau, Canaan, VT
was as though I was expected to be completely deom died five minutes ago.”
pressed and sad.
I looked up at my dad, underThere is a look that people give when something
standing in that moment that our
terrible has happened: a slight tilt of the head,
15-month ordeal was over. My life could finally
pursing of the lips, arch of the eyebrows, and a soft
begin again.
sigh. My first few weeks back at school, this look
My mom was diagnosed with stage four colon
followed
me everywhere, from teachers and stucancer in 2008. I spent my entire sophomore year
dents alike.
with cancer as the first thing on my mind when I
My mom’s favorite quote was “Wag your whole
woke and the last when I went to sleep. My probbody every day.” In other words, live life to the
lems, my life, did not matter for over a year.
fullest as if it were your last day. I refused to let
My mom bravely fought the disease, surviving a
my mom’s death take me down. I
year longer than doctors expected. I
would not allow myself to spiral into
was there for every step of it. I
depression.
watched as the radiation made her hair After my mom
Life needs to be enjoyed to the
fall out, as the chemotherapy ate away
at her. I sat by, helpless, as the cancer died, I was able fullest because it can be over quicker
ravaged her body. After 15 months of
to live again than expected. A day spent in a terrible
mood is a day that has not been lived
this, the only thing I wanted for her
to the fullest. I take the awful and find
was for it to end. Eight days after my
a bright side. If I did not do this, I would not have
sixteenth birthday, it did.
made it through that year.
Relief dulled every other emotion. It was over,
After my mom died, I was able to live again. I
and I could finally live again. I felt alive for the
was
able to wake up in the morning and not think
first time in more than a year. Smiles could reach
about doctor’s appointments and cancer. I felt
my eyes; my laugh became bubbly. A great weight
lighter than I had that whole year. This happiness
had lifted from my shoulders. I could relax and
was not because my mom was gone, but because I
focus on things other than cancer. I slowly began
had faced a tough situation and survived.
to regain everything I had lost during that year.
I am not afraid for the future and what it will
Walking into school my first day of junior year
bring. I know that I can tackle any challenge that
was when it really hit me how different my life
life gives me. I just remind myself to smile, relax,
was now. Everyone stared at me, even my best
and
always wag my whole body every day. ✦
friend, whom I had seen since my mom’s death. It
“M
college essays
Ethnic Ambassador
Top reasons noted as important in selecting college
1. This college’s graduates get good jobs
2. The cost of attending this college
3. A visit to the campus
4. I wanted to go to a school the size of this college
5. This college’s graduates gain admission to top
graduate/professional schools
6. I wanted to live near home
7. Information from a website
8. Rankings in national magazines
Activities in the past year
Studied with other students ................................87%
Performed volunteer work ..................................85%
Used the Internet: For research or homework ....77%
To read news sites .................43%
To read blogs ........................25%
To blog ..................................14%
Attended a religious service ...............................75%
Socialized with someone of another
racial/ethnic group ...........................................69%
Came late to class ...............................................58%
Tutored another student ......................................54%
Played a musical instrument ...............................44%
Was bored in class ..............................................39%
Asked a teacher for advice after class ................27%
Felt overwhelmed by all I had to do ...................27%
Participated in political demonstrations .............26%
Voted in a student election ..................................22%
SOURCE: “The American Freshman: National Norms for Fall 2009,”
published by the UCLA Higher Education Research Institute
COLLEGE CONNECTION
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
25
community service
Seattle to Portland – by Bike
pact with my aunt to join 10,000 bikn day two of the Seattle to
ers for the annual fundraiser ride from
Portland (STP) bike race, I
Seattle
to Portland, a two-day journey
have met utter exhaustion. I
across 200 miles. The ride raises
pedal continuously, every descent of
money for Group Health, a nonprofit
my foot causing shooting pain in my
organization that promotes good
thigh. But by mile 155 there is no
health through active lifestyles, and
stopping, and just as the persistent
Cascade Bicycle Club, a nonprofit
northwest drizzle carries on, my body
group that raises awareness about susfollows in tune despite the pain. The
tainable transportation.
rain calms my sore muscles and throbTime passed after the pact, and I got
bing knees. Miles behind me now,
involved with varsity
Aunt Audrey has
and tennis,
stopped for a break, but
Our effort can be basketball
and ultimately forgot
I continued without her,
despite my aching
described with about the ride. It wasn’t
until sophomore year,
joints. My rare stops
two words:
when I biked up Queen
consist of rapidly filling
my water bottle and
exhausting and Anne hill, a treacherous
incline in Seattle, that
rolling on. Men on carexhilarating
memories of our pact
bon-framed road bikes
resurfaced.
race by my heavy old
It took me more than 10 minutes to
Raleigh hybrid, one of only a few in
crest the hill at five miles per hour in
the ride, but I cruise by them when we
the lowest gear; sweat beading at my
face large inclines.
hairline and buses zooming by. I kept
The pleasant agricultural experipedaling, stripping layers of clothing
ences of yesterday are behind us now.
as I went, until I finally reached the
The country roads that curved in and
top. Elated with my hard-won success,
out while we admired farms and silos
I called Aunt Audrey to propose we do
hidden in the clouds have been rethe STP together three months later.
placed with a busy highway. We no
My training was sporadic. It was
longer weave along bike paths in thick
difficult to make time for 50-mile
evergreen foliage. The grind of day
practice rides when tennis monopotwo has made me forget the welcomlized my schedule and the workload
ing faces that greeted us as we finfor AP European History never let up.
ished the first day.
A month before the ride, sharp pains
How did I get here? At 14 I made a
O
by Zoe Kasperzyk, Seattle, WA
in my foot ended all exercise when
my doctor diagnosed me with plantar fasciitis. My foot was strapped
into an inflexible boot. Still determined to participate, I began biking
in the boot. On long rides, sweat
would trickle down my ankle; the
boot accumulated an array of peculiar smells. Nevertheless, I continued to prepare, and by July 11th, I
was ready to embark on the most
grueling physical challenge of my
life.
I turn on my iPod and sing along
to the Beach Boys for the final 45
miles. Getting to the finish in Portland is a moment of internal celebration. I had sped ahead of Aunt
Audrey and crossed the finish line
without her, but I realize that all the
riders helped each other carry
through to the end.
During the ride when huge
groups of bikers passed me, I joined
the end of their line and picked up
my pace. At rest areas, people had
shared energy bars. I’d learned the
lingo too: If there was a pothole ahead
I would signal those behind me. When
cars approached, an echo would pass
through the group as everyone yelled
“car up” or “car back.” At the finish
line I looked around at all those joyful
faces, young and old, the onlookers
smiling at us with admiration. We had
all pushed through injuries, fatigue,
Photo by Kellie Seldon, Everett, WA
and hunger for a wonderful cause. We
had done this together.
Our effort during the STP can be
described with two words: exhausting
and exhilarating. My legs shook when
I dismounted in Portland. Despite my
fatigue, a huge grin was plastered on
my face. I was proud. Achieving the
unthinkable reminds us that anything
is possible. ✦
Sponsored by
Down on the Farm
“R
oughing it on a farm for a week.” Those
were the eight words my mother chose
to describe what I was about to endure. I
had signed up for this mission trip months earlier
with little knowledge of what I was getting myself
into. When day one rolled around, I was terrified.
I arrived at my friend’s house at 7:30 a.m. We
Photo by Maggie Marten, Stow, OH
26
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
by Kristen Fischbach, Stony Brook, NY
kissed our parents good-bye and drove to the church,
milk. (Did you know that authentic mozzarella
where about 40 kids were eagerly waiting, armed
cheese is made this way?) I really enjoyed it.
with duffle bags, sleeping bags, and pillows. An
The most eye-opening part of the trip was our
enormous bus pulled up, and before I could think
night in the Global Village, which is made up of
twice I was headed to Massachusetts.
replicas of homes from countries like Kenya and
After a four-hour ride, we reached our destinaPoland that receive help from Heifer International. I
tion – Overlook Farm – and moved into our new
spent the night in a replica mobile home from northhomes: wooden and canvas shelters with cots and
ern Kentucky, which really made me realizes that
countless flies. This was the Heifer International
poverty doesn’t just happen in third-world countries;
Project location in Massachusetts. We were here for
it can exist in your own community.
a week of environmental, educational,
While spending the night we read
dirty-goat-milking fun.
about the Nash family, who live in KenOn day one we learned about the
They wrote to Heifer to tell them
Environmental, tucky.
farm’s origins, how to be eco-friendly,
about their community’s situation and
educational,
and Heifer International’s beginnings.
ask for help. Heifer sent them a cow. I
Their mission is “To work with commuwas shocked; I never imagined that anydirty-goatnities to end hunger and poverty and to
one in the United States needed this kind
care for the earth.” They help communiof aid.
milking fun
ties in need by providing them with a
On the bus ride home, I reflected on
heifer (cow), a goat, a pig, bees, chickeverything I had learned and accomens, or other useful animals. The community can use
plished that week. I had gotten to milk a goat, made
the animals in numerous ways (milk, meat, trans40 new friends, and learned about Heifer Internaportation, etc.).
tional’s mission. Most importantly, I had my eyes
I became immersed in working on the organic,
opened. I never realized how many people were
eco-friendly farm. We milked goats, picked vegetastruggling every day just to feed themselves, let
bles, weeded gardens, and fed the numerous anialone survive, and I learned how Heifer comes to
mals, including water buffalo and even a camel. We
their rescue.
spent a good portion of our days in a classroom
This trip inspired me to take action personally to
learning about people who sought aid from Heifer.
help others in need. This fall I organized a food drive
We also did fun activities including team-building
to help stock local food pantries. This trip led to my
games and making mozzarella from water buffalo
hands doing the helping. ✦
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
I
t is said that writers write about
what they know. Fortunately,
Carrie Ryan doesn’t have much
first-hand knowledge of zombie
apocalypses. However, her Forest
of Hands and Teeth series incorporates many of the same themes she
has dealt with in real life. This
keeps her novels fresh and unique,
and helped her become a New
York Times best-selling author. The
third and final book in the trilogy is
The Dark and Hollow Places.
Interviewed by Shelby DeWeese, Chattanooga, TN
easy not to acknowledge when you’ve
met those goals and constantly keep
moving the goal line. You need to stop
and think, Hey, I had this book published. This is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. The hardest thing is
remembering to step back and just
enjoy the process. To be an author still
feels insanely surreal to me.
writing, and so, round about 2 p.m.
when I start panicking that I haven’t
done any creative writing for the day,
I’ll work on that.
Part of the fun of being a full-time
writer is that every day is a little different. When I am revising, I tend to
ignore e-mail, I tend to ignore everything and just put my head in that
book and stay in that world all day.
What message do you want readers to take from your books?
What skills are important for someI don’t necessarily want readers to
one who is interested in being a
writer?
feel like they need to
Shelby DeWeese: How did you get
That’s a good queswalk away with a messtarted writing about zombies?
tion. One of the great
sage, though I defiCarrie Ryan: I’ve always been
“My book isn’t as things about being a
nitely work in themes
afraid of scary movies, and then someis that there’s no
of hope and persevermuch a zombie writer
how when I was in law school, my
required skill set other
ance. More than anythen-boyfriend, now-husband conbook as a book than the ability to write.
thing I want them to
vinced me to go see the “Dawn of the
a lawyer, you have to
enjoy the story and I
that happens to As
Dead” remake. And I was terrified the
go to law school and
hope that they think
whole time, but I couldn’t get it out of
about how they live
have zombies in it” you have to pass the bar.
my head. I’ve always been fascinated
As a doctor you have to
their life, what’s imby what people will do to survive
go to med school. But
portant to them.
when everything around them has
writers come from various backWhat I did want, what I played
changed. My husband found Max
grounds.
around with at least in the first book,
Brooks’ The Zombie Survival Guide,
There are writers out there who
was the idea that we should question
and would read it to me. It was sort of
have graduated from college and those
what we’re told. It’s very easy to cona joke between us. A couple years
who haven’t, those who have an MFA
trol a population by limiting informalater, I was doing National Novel
and those who don’t. I know a lot of
tion, and you should try to get as much
Writing Month, and one of the rules is
authors say one thing you need is a vainformation as you can to make inthat you have to start a new project, so
riety of experience to draw on. I just
formed decisions in all areas of your
I was whining that I didn’t know what
think you need to be able to write. You
life.
to write, and he said I should write
should know grammar – you should
what I love. Sort of as a joke I said,
Have you ever felt discouraged as
probably read Strunk and White at
“That would be the Zombie apocaa writer?
some point – but editors are there to
lypse,” and he looked at me like yeah.
There have definitely been moments
help you with all of that stuff.
So I started writing The Forest of
with each book where I’ve found myHands and Teeth. The first line came
self feeling like I didn’t like the book,
Do you ever experience writer’s
to me a couple days later, walking
block?
and I thought it was broken and I
home from work. I e-mailed it to myYes and no. I think there
couldn’t fix it. But I feel the same with
self so I wouldn’t forget, and when I
are varying degrees of havevery book, and with every book I
got home I wrote the first 2,000 words.
ing a difficult time writing.
somehow figure out a way to fix it. So
I didn’t even notice time passing. I
Sometimes I have a diffinow whenever I feel lost, I just remind
never thought it would
cult time because I’ve writmyself that I’ve been
get published. I wrote it
ten something leading up
through this before, I’ve
because I have always
“To be an author gotten through it, and I
to that point that is wrong.
loved the idea of surIt’s a gut feeling saying
can
do
it
again.
still feels insanely I know people whose
vival and zombies.
you made a mistake and
need to go back and figure
surreal
to
me”
first book published was
With the current
out what it is. Sometimes
the thirteenth they had
prevalence of zombie
I’m just distracted and will
written. Beth Revis – I
and vampire books, how do you
force myself to write anyheard her give a talk the other day –
keep your ideas unique?
way knowing that nine
said, I think, Across the Universe
Well, when I was writing Forest in
times out of 10 I’m going
might have been her tenth book.
2006, there wasn’t that prevalence. I
delete what I wrote.
think mine stand out from other zomAnd generally if I don’t
What is your average day like?
bie books because I go so far past the
know what comes next and
I once thought life as a full-time
zombie apocalypse. The zombies are
I’m really stuck, a lot of
writer would be having a clean house
such an everyday part of life; they
and organic home-cooked food, and a
the time I ask myself, what
have existed for 100 years. I feel like
trip to the gym every day. And the reis the worst that could hapmy book isn’t as much a zombie book
ality is, in a typical day I still get up at
pen? Happy people make
as a book that happens to have zomthe same time I did when I was a
for short books; you need
bies in it.
lawyer, and I have an office in my
to get your characters into
house but I still write on the couch.
trouble.
What is the most difficult thing
And
so
I
sit
and
I
check
my
e-mail,
I
about getting published?
What words of wisdom
deal with anything with urgent, cook
You think that when you get your
would you offer a young
breakfast,
read
the
news,
and
then
it’s
book published, you won’t have to
writer who is working on
just
a
matter
of
going
through
the
list.
worry anymore. But anyone who has
his or her first book?
And
it
can
change
depending
on
where
the tenacity to keep writing books and
I would say read – and
I
am
in
the
process.
Like
right
now
I
submitting them and dealing with reread things beyond your
have
a
book
that
I’m
waiting
for
edits
jection is someone who sets really
comfort zone. If you experon and I’m getting ready to go on tour.
high goals for themselves. And it’s
iment with what you read,
And I have a short story that I’m
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
it really opens your mind to new possibilities. I also think that what becomes
difficult for lot of people who are
starting out is writing the beginning.
They keep going back and revising
and revising and revising. One of my
pieces of advice would be to push past
the opening and complete something
so you know that you can.
And also, be gentle with yourself. I
think a lot of writers are very hard on
themselves, and there are some days
when you have to say, “The words just
aren’t coming today, and that’s okay.
I’ll go outside and take a walk.” Just
make sure you are not taking so many
walks that you are not writing every
now and again.
interview
Author Carrie Ryan
For a young writer who has already written a book and wants to
get it published, what advice do
you have?
Well, I’ve heard from a lot of writers who’ve been published as teens
that they wish they’d taken more time
before they were published. But I’ve
also heard from other published teens
that they’re doing fantastically and
love it.
So I guess I’d say, go for it, but at
the same time, don’t rush. You have
your whole life ahead of you to write.
Make sure you take the time to revise.
Make sure you take the time to find a
good agent. I think the adage is true
that a bad agent is worse than no
agent. A life of writing isn’t about the
end point of getting published. It’s a
lot more than that. We must enjoy all
aspects of it. ✦
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
27
points of view
Time for “The Talk”
by Keilah Sullivan, Eureka, MO
had terrified expressions on their
had a profound revelation a few
faces. What were the editors thinking?
years ago: Sex must be pretty darn
2) “You know how I told you the
awesome.
mailman delivered your brother? Well,
Obviously I’m not speaking from
I lied.” He then went on to explain the
experience. Virgin with a capital V
whole sperm-egg thing. I didn’t underright here, everybody, and uber proud
stand most of this at the time, but we
of it too. I’ve never even kissed a guy,
went over it again in health class the
though my friends lament my tragifollowing year. Nothing like sitting in
cally sheltered life and inability to
a room full of giggling 12-year-olds
understand the sheer joy of tonguewatching a video of poor little sperm
wrestling. I’m sorry, but the fact that I
swimming desperately through a toxic
haven’t swapped spit with some acnewasteland to get to Big
faced, slimy-tongued,
Mama Egg.
hormonal A-bomb doesn’t bother me, and I
The more I looked, At the conclusion of
our chat, after a shellpromise this isn’t a case
the more I saw shocked moment, I
of sour grapes speaking.
looked at Dad, did
Of course, everyone
how obsessed
some quick math, and
who has kissed (includour society was said, “So, you and Mom
ing my parents) dishad sex … three times,
agrees with me. My dad
with sex
then, right? Once for
is the first to say that
me, once for Mak, and
when he and Mom
once for Z-man?”
dated, they spent the majority of their
Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth
time trading globs of ice cream
shut? Dad went on to illuminate Fact
mouth-to-mouth or parked in empty
Number Three:
lots sucking the skin off each other’s
3) “Sex is incredibly fun! Crazy
faces until their lips were chapped.
fun! The funnest thing on earth!” I
I was 11 when Dad gave me The
pointed out that “funnest” was not a
Talk. Yup, that talk. I was going to
word. He said I was missing the point.
public school for the first time, and he
Dad said he and Mom had had sex lots
thought it was time. Normally the first
of times … because it was fun.
sex-chat is awkward for both parent
I couldn’t understand. Sometimes I
and child. Most of my friends never
still don’t. Sex? Fun? Getting attacked
by a sweaty, icky, drooling train-boy is
fun? How can that possibly be?
But the more I looked, the more I
saw how obsessed our society was
with sex. It was everywhere: music,
movies, TV, magazines, books. In
sixth grade my friends would giggle
over trashy novels with graphic love
scenes, daring each other to read explicit passages. The music we listened
to was full of sexual innuendo. Every
time I went to the grocery store with
my mom, I would surreptitiously scrutinize the magazine covers, displaying
scantily clad models and bold print
that read “What Men Think About
Sex,” “How to Improve Your Sex
Art by Monika Jasnauskaite, Panevezys, Lithuania
Life,” or simply “Sex Sex Sex.”
Even now, we regularly drive by a
even had The Talk with their parents.
huge billboard of a woman’s bronze,
They learned from watching TV, lookbulging breasts advertising a tanning
ing up forbidden words in the dictionsalon. While browsing in the movie
ary, and attending slumber parties
store, I constantly see DVD jackets
where the ones “in the know” were the
with pictures of women holding bowlstars of the night as they erroneously
ing balls in place of their breasts or
informed their peers about sex.
posing erotically. At the library there’s
But Dad being Dad, I don’t think he
a whole section devoted to romance
thought twice about telling his little
novels with pictures of half-naked
girl about sex. I learned several things
couples clamped in vice-like emthat enlightening night.
braces, the men shirtless and some1) “Have you noticed that men and
times the women too. There are
women kind of fit together like puzzle
magazines devoted to naked women
pieces? There is a reason for this!” He
and men (who hasn’t heard of Playboy
showed me an outdated children’s biand Playgirl?). There are hundreds of
ology textbook that illustrated sex as
thousands of pornography websites.
two trains moving toward one another
Our society idolizes people like Kim
at the speed of light, the male train
Kardashian simply because she has a
with a scary looking ramrod and the
bust big enough to kill a man and
female train with a gaping hole in her
she’s curvier than macaroni.
engine. I’ll add here that both trains
28
I
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
Horcruxes in J.K. Rowling’s Harry
Sex drives people to do incredible
Potter series. In the story, every time
things (I have “The Iliad” in mind –
you kill someone, you split your soul.
ten years of war for one super sexy
chick), and it drives people to do horAccording to Dad, when you have sex
with someone you are giving a big
rible things – rape, kidnapping, and
murder – for just a few moments of
part of yourself to that person.
pleasure. And so I came to my revelaHowever, I realize that for many
tion: Sex must be pretty darn awepeople, what the Bible says does not
some. Which led to my second
count. I understand that, for some
revelation: Why shouldn’t it be?
readers, waving the Bible and spouting
For some reason, people seem to
verses is simply not enough. So here
think that Christians are prim, anti-sex
are the straight facts:
prudes. But when Adam was sitting all
According to Students Against Deby his lonesome looking at all those
structive Decisions (SADD), almost
happy animals with their mates, God
50 percent of high school students
said, “It is not good for man to be
have had sex. Now get this: 50 percent
alone.” You know the story. God took
of sexually active teenagers will conone of Adam’s ribs and made his gortract an STD by age 25. If you do the
geous babe of a wife, Eve. Adam took
math, this means that one out of four
one look and said, “Whoaaaa, man,”
high school students will have an STD
so God named her “woman.”
by age 25. Granted, the range of STDs
At a meeting of my sixth-grade
is wide. Some may get genital warts.
youth group, Dad read from Song of
Some will get syphilis, gonorrhea, and
Songs. For those of you who don’t
chlamydia. Some will die. If that’s not
know it, it’s a part of the Bible that’s
enough, teenagers are more susceptibasically a really sappy letter between
ble to STDs than adults.
two young lovers. To be honest, I’ve
Additionally, more than half of new
never read it straight through; I’m not
HIV infections worldwide occur
into lovey-dovey stuff. Nevertheless,
among adolescents, according to the
Song of Songs was written to show us
American Social Health Association’s
two things:
2005 annual report. A shocking 13.5
1) The kind of love God has for us
percent of the population has syphilis,
and that we should have for him (not
gonorrhea, or chlamydia. The U.S. has
sexual, just pure and eternal).
the highest rates of teen pregnancy and
2) That God intended sex to be flipbirths in the Western industrialized
pin’ awesome. He wants husband and
world.
wife to enjoy each other physically. As
Finally, the facts show that 70 perDad says, “We’re puzzle pieces, peocent of teenage girls who have had sex
ple! We’re intended to go together!”
wish they had waited. A majority of
That was the point Dad was trying
boys do too. A survey done by Univerto make, but I don’t know if the parsity of California at San Francisco
ents or the kids
tracking the sex lives of
turned redder as he
618 ninth- and tenthread to the group
graders found that 40
It’s much
from Song of Songs.
percent felt guilty, reharder and more gretful, and used after
If there’s one thing
no kid wants to do,
having sex.
meaningful to
it’s imagine her parWhy would someone
prove love through risk pregnancy, STDs,
ents having sex. If
there’s one thing parHIV/AIDS, guilt, deabstinence
ents don’t want to do,
pression, and pain? I
it’s imagine their kid
mean, come on, people,
imagining them having sex.
who would risk genital warts, for cryAnd yet despite the obvious facts
ing out loud? If that’s not the grossest
that, yes, God created and endorses
thing ever, then I don’t know what is.
sex, sex is supposed to be awesome,
I also think waiting for sex until
and the Bible has a whole book demarriage is a test of real love. We can
voted to said awesomeness, Christians
learn the sincerity of our partner’s love
remain anti-sex, finger-wagging
by his/her willingness to wait (or lack
prudes, according to most of society.
thereof). Does your partner love you
Why? Oh yeah, because there’s that
or the physical aspect of your relationone little rule about keeping sex only
ship more? It’s easy to “prove” love
within marriage.
through sex, but it’s much harder and
God endorses sex, but not fornicamore meaningful to prove love
tion.
through abstinence.
As a Christian I always turn to the
Sex is obviously incredibly fun –
Bible for guidance, and the Seventh
the funnest thing ever, as my dad says.
Commandment says point-blank not to
But it’s also like fire. Fire is a good
commit adultery. Adultery isn’t just
thing, as long as it’s kept in the firesomeone (who’s already married) havplace. When it’s not kept in the fireing sex with someone other than
place, it can burn down the house.
his/her spouse. The Bible is speaking
When sex is kept within a marriage,
of non-marital sex, period.
it’s great. When it’s not, you get
My dad has compared sex to the
burned. ✦
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
H
ow many times on television
shows, in movies, or on the Internet have you seen someone
suffering, being hurt, or murdered?
Today in the U.S., entertainment has
become obsessed with the pain of others. From reality TV to YouTube
videos, people seek to escape their own
problems by watching others being
hurt and humiliated. Like the gladiator
matches of Roman times, reality-show
contestants are pitted against each
other with prizes of money and fame
dangled in front of them. A shocking
number of Internet videos feature humiliation and suffering. Movies have
also become extremely graphic, and
the violence has been brought to an unprecedented level with more and more
explicit depictions of death.
Reality shows like “Wipeout,” “The
Challenge: Cutthroat,” and “Survivor”
require contestants to endure various
levels of pain and humiliation to win.
In “Wipeout,” viewers take pleasure as
contestants flail and fall as they navigate a challenging obstacle course.
Whenever I watch this particular show,
I find it hard not to laugh at the contestants as they are flung through the
air. One particularly humorous segment features the “Shake-a-Lator” –
contestants must cross a platform that
jerks and shakes beneath their feet,
causing most of them to fall off into
the water.
Another show that exhibits the pain
by Jonathan Dow, Cumberland, RI
of others and has been successfully
episode, Moe, Larry, and Curly
running for 21 years is “America’s
are accidentally injured in exagFunniest Home Videos.” Many of the
gerated ways. The difference bevideos are of the slip-and-fall variety,
tween the slapstick humor of the
in which innocent people get hurt in
past and the entertainment of today
stupid situations.
is that instead of skilled actors faking
Like reality shows, many videos on
getting hurt, now the pain and injuries
YouTube exploit the pain of others as a
we are laughing at are real.
form of amusement for viewers. One
Even in movies, screenwriters and
example is a three-second video called
special effects artists create new and
“Go! Bwaaah!” In this clip, a little girl
ever more graphic ways for characters
is playing with a large golden retriever
to be maimed and killed. In the movie
while holding its leash.
series “Saw,” everyday
She throws a ball and
people are abducted and
shouts to the dog “Go!”
put through gruesome triPeople escape
The dog bolts, dragging
als or “games,” often rethe girl with it like a rag- their problems by sulting in their death.
doll, causing her to fall
These movies showcase
watching others many squirm-in-your-seat
face down on the cement. As she falls, she
that leave you
being hurt and moments
shrieks something that
wondering how the horsounds like “Bwaah!”
rific scenes are conceptuhumiliated
The first time I saw this
alized and made so
video, I struggled to
realistic.
suppress my laughter, but as I watched
Another example of how movies
a second time, I was disgusted with
have become more violent and gruemyself. That video has had over 2 milsome is the film “127 Hours.” This
lion views, with 16,000 likes and not
movie is based on a true story of an
even 300 dislikes. There are hunoverly confident solo hiker who bedreds – maybe thousands – of videos
comes trapped in a crevice with his
like this on YouTube.
arm pinned under a boulder. Being illThe depiction of someone getting
prepared, his only escape is to cut off
hurt and the humorous reaction it
his arm with a pocket knife. It will be
causes is nothing new. This type of
interesting to see how audiences react
comedy is called slapstick. Probably
to this graphic, gut-wrenching scene.
the most well-known example is the
With our newly evolved slapstick
Three Stooges. In each hilarious
humor, it seems as if we have reverted
It’s All in the Bag
to a semi-barbaric society.
Similar to the
Roman Empire,
we have become
fixated on the pain
and humiliation of
others. We live in a great and
powerful society, much like Rome in
its glory, but if we ignore the lessons of
the past, we may unknowingly contribute to a decline of our own.
I believe that many factors are causing this obsession. The rapid expansion
of worldwide connections is one of
them. Global news reports show us images of graphic true events and suffering affecting thousands of people
around the world. I believe this causes
us to become desensitized and less
shocked by individual misfortune. As a
result, the entertainment business must
up the ante to get a reaction from its
audience, whether it’s humor, fear, or
pity.
In the 20 years since the World Wide
Web was popularized, the ability to
share information has grown exponentially. Also with the availability of digital video cameras, anyone can record
and upload a video to the Internet instantly. Finally, it seems that many people watch others being humiliated in
order to escape their own troubles. For
these reasons, entertainment on TV, the
Internet, and movies has become obsessed with the pain of others. ✦
points of view
A Painful Obsession
by Trevor Eakes, Dupont, WA
ally. As the leather satchel grows to be part of you, what
the greatest bags ever. Even Indiana Jones had one.
’m taking college classes now, and it’s impossible
good satchel owner would know exactly when he got
Still not convinced? Well, fine, then, to each his own.
not to notice the array of cameos, purses, satchels,
it?
And,
if
he
did,
why
would
he
share
those
first
tender
All that’s really important is that I love my satchel.
and backpacks we students use for our item-carrymoments
with
an
outsider?
And my satchel loves me. ✦
ing needs. You can really tell the character of a person
So I guess I’ve already had half the
by the quality of his bag. And nothing says cool, abjourney completed for me. My bag is
stract, and adventurous better than a leather satchel.
aged. It really does have soul. But
Am I biased? Absolutely not. The leather satchel
there is one more requirement before it
stands without competition as the leader – nay,
becomes the ultimate bag of the gods –
model – of the bag world, because a bag should have
its transformation into the legendary
character. People should walk by you and say, “Dude,
sticker bag.
your bag’s got soul.”
Now, the concept of the sticker bag
Of course, it’s not all in the bag – you have to put in a
is quite simple. You see, that
little work too. The bag’s not going to do it all
treasured and loved bag
for you. There are two pivotal characteristics
Enter the Teen Ink Points of View Contest*
A bag
you’ve always had, well,
that will take your snazzy leather satchel to
Teen Ink has partnered with EBSCO Publishing to create the Teen Ink
the next level. First, it should look aged. You
should have you take it places. Places
Points of View Contest. Each month, $200 will be awarded to the
where you find thoughtful,
can really tell the classiness of a bag by how
character
cultured
stickers.
You
don’t
student
with the winning essay, which will be published in our
worn it appears. It should have an aura of
get
dumb,
worthless
stickmagazine,
on our website and on the EBSCO Points of View website.
being loved and loving in return. It should be
ers;
your
satchel
is
too
good
for
that.
adorned with scuffs and faded in a way that says, “I’ve
Soon your bag is literally covered in
Give us your point of view on any
been loved because my owner has taken me through the
stickers saying things like “Antarcthick and thin, rich and poor, hikes and strolls. He’s kept
issue that is important to you. For topic
tica – been there, done that” and “I
me through it all. And I’m loving him in return because
ideas, check out TeenInk.com/pov.
wanted to learn another language but
I’m still kicking.” Of course, this doesn’t actually have
the four I know are already enough”
to be true, but it should look that way.
To enter, submit your work online at TeenInk.com under the Points of
and “Nothing like a day in the Sahara
I’ve only had my satchel for a short time, but it was
View category. Be sure to indicate “POV Contest Entry” at the
saving African children from starvalove at first sight. That whole, “I didn’t believe in love
beginning of your article. It’s as easy as that.
tion.” That’s when a satchel really beat first sight until I met you” line – it happens. My stepcomes a legend.
dad passed this bag down to me actually. When I asked
If you have any questions, e-mail [email protected]
With all this going for satchels, it’s
how long he’d had it, he simply replied “a long time,”
*This contest is sponsored by EBSCO Publishing and the
hard to imagine how they could not be
chuckled, and walked away. It was a silly question, rePoints of View Reference Center (powered by EBSCOhost).
I
Make your opinion count
and win $200
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APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
29
music reviews
ALTERNATIVE
My Chemical
Romance
Danger Days: The
True Lives of the
Fabulous Killjoys
F
rom “Skylines and Turnstiles” to “Welcome to the
Black Parade,” My Chemical
Romance has made amazing
strides in their musical career.
Last fall, the long-awaited
“Danger Days: The True Lives
of the Fabulous Killjoys” created a commotion among fans
and newcomers alike. This
album introduced a whole new
sound for the band but kept the
integrity of the music that made
fans like me fall in love with
them.
To clear up some history, and
perhaps unveil the reason for
Why the sudden
change in sound?
the sudden change in sound,
we look back to the release of
their previous album, “The
Black Parade.” Fans widely accepted it with excitement. I was
captivated by the message of
perseverance that songs like
“Welcome to the Black Parade”
and “Famous Last Words” conveyed, and drawn in by the
same amazing sound that had
caught my attention when I first
was introduced to MCR. Those
life-giving songs were beautifully balanced by the raw anger
and emotion in “Dead!” and
“The Sharpest Lives.” Overall,
I, like so many fans, adored
“The Black Parade.”
So why the sudden change in
sound on “Danger Days”? In
2007, lead singer Gerard Way
married LynZ, bassist in a band
called Mindless Self Indulgence, a good band that mixes
rock with a mellow techno
sound but has some questionable songs. Then Bandit Lee
Way, Gerard and LynZ’s
daughter, was born into the
spotlight. This onslaught of
good news, I expect, affected
Gerard’s music, creating this
new album that is so tantalizingly happy. It’s almost sickening, really, the techno-pop
sound that has seeped into
MCR’s music.
Of course, to some this is a
breath of fresh air for the band.
Others, like me, prefer the
harder, angrier sound. My favorite, “Three Cheers for Sweet
Revenge,” was the first to catch
my attention. With songs like
30
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
“It’s Not a Fashion Statement,
It’s a Deathwish” and “I Never
Told You What I Do for a Living,” I was blissful. I could,
and still can, listen to those
songs all day.
So, of course, when I first
heard the new CD, I was less
than amused. Opening with the
cleverly paired couplet of
“Look Alive, Sunshine” and
“Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na
Na Na Na Na),” I was reminded of a pair of songs from
their last CD: “The End” and
“Dead!” For a start, it wasn’t
bad. Then things took a turn for
the worse. Each song that followed slipped more and more
into the techno trap, and I
found myself missing Ray
Toro’s epic guitar solos and
Gerard’s anger in the lyrics.
This new dancey feel was not
what I’d expected.
With “Goodnight, Dr.
Death,” I found myself wishing
that Dr. Death Defying (better
known as Steve, the guitarist
from Mindless Self Indulgence)
would stick to his own band.
I’d figured that with Gerard’s
marriage, the sounds of MCR
and MSI would begin to fuse,
but I didn’t expect something
this major.
Granted, the band still has
more talent than most. Despite
the downturn in their music,
My Chemical Romance remains in the hearts of their
many fans. I am thrilled with
the music MCR has given me
in the past, and I will remain a
long-term fan.
“Danger Days” wasn’t a bad
CD, however, it wasn’t nearly
MCR caliber. I, like so many
others, eagerly await the next
installment from this wonderful
band. ✦
by Lauren Friedrichs,
Virginia Beach, VA
ROCK/REGGAE
Trevor Hall
Trevor Hall
I
’ve never been so mesmerized by an opening act as I
was by Trevor Hall, a singer/
songwriter who opened for Matisyahu at the Marquee Theatre
in Phoenix, Arizona. His voice
was absolutely immaculate and
breathtaking. I was captivated
throughout his extraordinary
performance. All I could think
was, I need get my hands on his
music! Right after his set, I
went up to a table where merchandise was being sold and
bought all three of his CDs.
This was the best purchase I
have ever made. His self-titled
album has been in my CD
player ever since the concert,
and I listen to it almost every
day.
This CD contains 13
astounding tracks infused with
Hall’s rock/reggae style, including a bonus track featuring
Matisyahu. The songs have a
feel-good sound that will stick
with you for days.
The best tracks are “Unity”
and “The Lime Tree” (although
every song is worth mention-
A feel-good sound
that will stick with
you for days
ing). In addition to Hall’s
beautiful vocals, I find his
songwriting impressive and inspiring. The songs clearly express his peaceful attitude as
well as his genuine love for the
beauty in life. His message,
like his music, is something
that should be heard by all.
This is a must-hear. ✦
by Katie McCardell,
Phoenix, AZ
POP
Katy Perry
Teenage Dream
“L
ess cute and more sexy”
than her previous albums, claimed pop star Katy
Perry before the release of her
new album, “Teenage Dream.”
It contains the hits “Teenage
Dream” and the Teen Choice
award-winning single “California Gurls” (featuring Snoop
Dogg), as well as other songs
that express her one-of-a-kind
personality.
Overall, this album is
amazingly written and sung.
“Teenage Dream,” “California
Gurls,” “Last Friday Night”
(aka TGIF), and “Circle the
Drain” are upbeat and perfect
for parties. Her unique lyrics
include an enticing chorus that
will keep people hitting the replay button. I enjoy the first six
songs because they keep my
spirits up and I like singing and
dancing to them.
Another side of Katy Perry is
revealed in the last six songs.
These tracks are slower and
more meaningful. “Firework,”
“Who Am I Living For?” and
“Pearl” share the theme of not
being afraid to express who
you are. They also talk about
showing others how you shine.
“Who Am I Living For?” is a
question directed toward the
listener, and you have the
chance to answer that question
after listening to the song.
“Not Like the Movies” and
“The One That Got Away” are
break-up songs. They are more
Amazingly written
and sung
subtle and the lyrics go well
together, similar to “White
Horse” by Taylor Swift.
“E.T./Futuristic Lover” shows
the subject of not being afraid
of true love. I enjoy these
songs, but they are slow-paced
and not easy to dance to. Despite that, they are very meaningful and help me gain insight
into my life. They are the perfect contrast to her bubbly
songs.
Even though Katy Perry is
one of my favorite artists, I feel
that this album is geared more
toward older teenagers or
adults. Her lyrics, especially
in “Peacock,” are a bit farfetched compared to her previous album. Also, some of the
lyrics don’t really make sense
and are hard to relate to. Despite these flaws, I would still
listen to Katy Perry’s fantastic
album. ✦
by Rebecca Chang,
Brooklyn, NY
BIG BAND
Michael Buble
Crazy Love
A
s times change, usually so
does music. From buffaloskin drums to pan flutes to
Mozart, from Sinatra to Van
Halen to the Jonas Brothers,
music shifts to match the ages
and innovations. When it
comes to music, we rarely look
back to appreciate the songs
that got us where we are today.
And what does this leave us
with? An insatiable craving for
new, better, and different
music. But what about the classics? The swing bands? What
happened to them? They slowly
blend into the recesses of the
musical graveyard.
Occasionally, though, a
singer steps up to the challenge
of bringing back the classics.
Young, talented Michael Buble
is the man for the job. On
“Crazy Love,” Buble masterfully mixes songs of the past
with his own flavor, voice, and
style, including a few of his
own tunes.
As I put in his CD, I had no
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idea what to expect. I had never
heard of Michael Buble and I
knew no classic swing songs. I
immediately fell in love with
the first song, “Cry Me a
River,” a spin on a classic bigband song, with a James Bond
flavor. Next came Buble’s
cover of Frank Sinatra’s “All of
Me.” I instantly appreciated the
swing and rhythm of this song
as well as Buble’s wonderful,
full-range voice. The next
songs, “Georgia on My Mind”
and “Crazy Love,” both covers
of popular older tunes, caught
my attention, as the soft, easygoing songs bored me.
“Haven’t Met You Yet,” written by Buble, climbed its way
up the charts, letting the world
know his voice and name. “All
Mixes songs of
the past with
his own flavor
I Do Is Dream of You” is one
that was also sung by Buble’s
predecessors, including Judy
Garland, Ella Fitzgerald, and
Dean Martin. It has a fun, upbeat melody and uplifting
lyrics. “Hold On” is an emotional song that reaches into the
listener’s heart to inspire love
and our will to let it live.
“Heartache Tonight” is fun to
sing along to, and whether most
people realize it or not, they
probably know a few words,
considering The Eagles sang it
decades ago. My favorite is
“You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You,” a classic
once performed by Frank Sinatra. Buble adds his own style,
transforming it into a different
song.
Throughout “Crazy Love,”
the listener can experience the
swing and big-band feeling,
with blaring trumpets, powerful
bass, and smooth clarinets and
trombones.
Every so often, as I listen to
these songs, I’m taken back to
the 1940s, where I imagine myself with Frank Sinatra and Ella
Fitzgerald, listening to a
smooth, jazzy song sung by a
classy, suited man. These daydreams don’t last long as the
twenty-first century commotion
and craziness bring me back.
But at the end of the day, it’s
wonderful to know that I can
escape into the past and feel relaxed as Michael Buble’s
“Crazy Love” echoes in my
head. ✦
by Ashton Smyth,
Colleyville, TX
TEENINK.COM
The King’s
Speech
A
s a history film buff, it
takes quite a bit to impress
me with a historical film interpretation and Oscar-winning
“The King’s Speech” completely blew me away. With all
the current hype about special
effects, sci-fi, and Westerns
(which are fine in their place),
it was refreshing to see a quality movie that was spectacular
simply because of the actors’
and director’s talent.
Many of the characters in the
story of King George VI are
iconic, weaving in and out of
the WWII section of any history textbook. Not a single
character in this movie was
static; there was constant but
realistic character development.
Quite a few films about inspiring stories of historical figures portray a single moment
when the character’s life turns
The best movie all year
around, resulting in that person
performing his or her wonderful deeds. “The King’s Speech”
steps through the entire process
without being long-winded and
effectively shows the work and
time Prince Albert put into
everything he did before becoming King George VI.
Winston Churchill (Timothy
Spall, who also played Peter
Pettigrew in the Harry Potter
series) could have walked off
the screen and given one of his
iconic speeches. This was the
most prominent example of a
historical character being
brought to life. Helena Bonham
Carter and Colin Firth, as
Queen Elizabeth and King
George VI, drew the audience
into the pressure and stress of
their lives. They made viewers
feel the scrutiny that they experienced every second, juxtaposed against the moving and
often hysterical friendship between Lionel Logue (Geoffrey
Rush) and “Bertie.”
Director Tom Hooper made
good decisions about the timing
of the movie and what to emphasize. Dwelling on the
months spent for more than the
minutes allotted to it would
have been overkill, and he
made it work by showing how
King George was applying the
techniques during a real
speech. The lengthy scene with
the king’s brother was another
fantastic director’s choice because it showed the psychological damage that came from his
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brother’s taunts.
Overall, this was the best
movie I have seen all year.
Even viewers who know how it
ends will be on the edge of
their seat rooting for the characters. From the adorable
daughters to the infamous “Do
you know the f-word?” scene to
the final declaration of war at
the end, this movie will make
you cry, laugh, grit your teeth,
and want to punch Archbishop
Cosmo Lang. One line sums up
this movie completely. According to Lionel Logue, “You did
good, Bertie.” ✦
by Amelia Brownstein,
Columbus, OH
DRAMA
Black Swan
“B
lack Swan” is a visual
masterpiece, a disturbing character study, and a gutwrenching psychological horror
film. In one of the best films of
the year, Darren Aronofsky directs with a bold artistic vision,
documenting the rapid mental
breakdown of the paranoid,
perfectionist ballerina Nina
(Natalie Portman). In an Oscarwinning performance, and certainly the best of her career,
Gut-wrenching
psychological horror
Portman sheds her sweetheart
attitude and travels to new acting depths, at the same time as
her character loses her innocence and descends into madness.
In fact, “Black Swan”
abounds with artistic parallels.
It is a film about ballet, and
moreover it is a ballet; it features over-the-top theatricality
and uses the nightmarish music
of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake,”
the ballet around which the film
is centered.
In “Swan Lake,” one dancer
must portray both the innocent
White Swan and her evil twin,
the sensual Black Swan. The
psychological duality of these
roles parallels Nina’s own duality, which she explores with
devastating results. The doppelganger aspect of “Swan Lake”
is also evidenced in the film as
Nina is haunted by her double,
the free-spirited Lily (Mila
Kunis), who becomes Nina’s
understudy and seems to embody her darker side.
As Nina struggles with her
ballet role, she must deal with
other issues as well, ranging
from her strained relationship
with her repressive mother
(Barbara Hershey) to unwanted
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attention from the ballet company’s director (Vincent Cassel). Also suffering from an
eating disorder, obsession, and
paranoia, Nina bends under the
immense pressure and begins to
see grisly hallucinations that
take a toll on her mental health.
But in a film with an unreliable protagonist, reality and
hallucinations are often indistinguishable, and this is what
makes the film so compelling.
The viewer must judge whether
Nina’s perspective is accurate
and if certain events even happen. Thus “Black Swan” becomes a multilayered film with
many possible interpretations.
This complexity is further
enhanced by Aronofsky’s
clever manipulation of mirrors;
with a mirror in almost every
scene. Mirrors are often associated with deception, desire for
perfection, and duality, all concepts explored here. Moreover,
small details including the
color of Nina’s clothing illustrate her struggle. Her wardrobe changes from light to
dark, paralleling her collapse
and psychological transformation from the pure White Swan
to the evil Black Swan.
Symbolism and parallelism
aside, “Black Swan” is an audacious declaration of Aronofsky’s creativity. He constructs
an unlikely blend of horror and
ballet, mental illness and artistic devotion. These mismatched
themes work surprisingly well
together, and we soon realize
that the music of “Swan Lake”
totally suits the atmosphere of
this horror film.
A film like “Black Swan” is
rare: it is as nightmarish as it is
exquisite, as disturbing as it is
beautiful. It explores not only
the duality within everyone but
also the fine line between hallucination and reality. The film
takes us to intimate places with
Nina, and we cannot help but
empathize with her, making the
film, though over-the-top (and
intentionally so), seem frighteningly real. ✦
by Karen Jin,
West Chester, PA
This movie is rated R.
DRAMA
The Fighter
“T
he Fighter” was advertised as a traditional
boxing movie featuring a
small-town boxer hoping for
his big break. But this film, directed by David O. Russell
(“Three Kings,” “I Heart Huckabees”), is not a sports flick – it
is, above all, a saga of a
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maudlin and dysfunctional clan
strangely reminiscent of Shakespearean families.
Mark Wahlberg plays Micky,
a boxer trying to rise above his
working-class roots in Lowell,
Massachusetts. His trainer is
his half-brother, Dicky (Christian Bale), a former boxer who
dreams of making his comeback and often overshadows
Micky by reminding town residents of his former glory days.
Dicky also has an intense crack
addiction that limits his commitment to Micky’s training.
Micky’s manager, Alice, portrayed by Oscar-winner Melissa
Leo, is the matriarch of the
family – feisty, controlling, and
presumptuous about her contributions to her son’s career.
The film’s conflict comes
into full focus when Micky realizes that his family has become a liability. After losing an
important fight, he becomes increasingly disheartened about
their involvement in his career.
The film itself is mediocre at
best, taking a page from similar
films of the last few years.
(“The Wrestler,” “Cinderella
Man,” and “Million Dollar
Baby” come to mind.) At times,
it lacks a true emotional pull,
except in its most dramatic moments. But if anything, see it
for the first-class performances.
Wahlberg is commendable,
but his key scenes receive
major boosts from the support-
First-class
performances
ing actors. Leo provides just
the right amount of tough love
that her character embodies.
Amy Adams is remarkable as
Charlene, Micky’s girlfriend,
the only one who sees through
his cacophonous family.
Finally, Bale steals the show.
He completely immerses himself in Dicky, becoming virtually unrecognizable with his
Boston accent and gaunt
physique. He easily creates the
most three-dimensional character in the film. Bale juxtaposes
moments of levity with elements of a classic tragic hero, a
man who once shined but now
must muster up the strength to
face the harsh realities of his
troubled existence. He presents
Dicky as a fragile soul, teetering on the edge of insanity.
Bale has received numerous accolades for this performance
(including an Academy Award),
which is perhaps the best of his
career.
In the end, “The Fighter” is
not really about who wins the
fight. Instead, it implores the
viewer to ponder the often tenuous ties binding loved ones
and the painful tug-of-war between family and ambition.
Though it is at times borderline
cliché, “The Fighter” ultimately
stands on the shoulders of its
formidable cast. ✦
by Marina Fang,
Allison Park, PA
This movie is rated R.
COMEDY
Cry-Baby
“C
ry-Baby” opens with a
scene in which Johnny
Depp, playing Wade “Crybaby” Walker, is receiving
some sort of injection at his
high school and, at the sight of
a beautiful girl, cries a single
tear. This may sound unusual,
but this is pretty much the way
the movie goes. “Cry-Baby,”
written and directed by John
Waters, is about two 1950s
teens from different backgrounds falling in love, redefining their images, and singing
songs about “High School Hellcats.” The movie is a sort of
spoof of every musical involving rebellious students who use
song and dance to resolve their
problems (“Hairspray,”
“Grease”) but with a lower
budget and less well-known
actors.
This movie is funny almost
to the point where it’s uncomfortable, and you might find
yourself wondering why you
just spent an hour and a half
watching it. Well, I have an answer. You watch because it is
fun. The movie doesn’t have a
symbolic story line that keeps
movie reviews
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Simply entertaining
you thinking about it long after
the credits. It is simply entertaining.
“Cry-Baby” does not have
any particularly notable actors
besides Depp, but that’s another plus. You can’t judge the
actors’ performances or question their sanity in choosing the
role if you don’t know them,
right? (However, just for clarification, I will note that Depp is
said to have joined the cast to
rid himself of the image of
being a “teen dream.”)
I highly recommend “CryBaby” if you’re looking for a
fun movie that won’t make you
think too hard. You just may
find yourself watching it over
and over again. ✦
by Rebecca Jenkins,
Phoenix, AZ
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
31
book reviews
MEMOIR
Half Broke
Horses
by Jeannette Walls
T
he newest book by Jeannette Walls, Half Broke
Horses, is outstanding. While
her first, The Glass Castle, was
an autobiography, this one centers on her grandmother’s life,
though it is also written in the
first person. Because of this,
you may have the same issue I
did at first. Throughout the
book, I kept wondering
whether the story really happened exactly as told.
Realistically, a lot of it is
probably not totally true. It
seems a bit like the game telephone, where the story gets
more and more messed up as it
is passed along. In addition, she
didn’t visit her grandmother
very much (which was a detail
in The Glass Castle). However,
this small issue faded as I read
the book, and I enjoyed it immensely.
The way Walls writes is genius. It’s smart. She writes
from an innocent perspective,
telling exactly how things were
Smart, exciting,
fascinating
(to her knowledge). Some are
born with the gift of storytelling, and she certainly has it.
Because of the consistent greatness I have seen in her writing,
I now consider her one of my
favorite authors. (J.K. Rowling,
Laurie Halse Anderson, and
Alice Hoffman are the others.)
She by far tops the list, however.
If you are looking for a
smart, exciting, fascinating
story detailing the hardships of
one incredibly strong woman,
this is the book for you. The
way Lily Casey, Walls’ grandmother, handled the hurdles in
her life is exhilarating and inspiring. Reading about her triumphant life makes me believe
that anything is possible. This
book showed me that hard
work pays off. ✦
by Rhiannon Edwards,
Adel, IA
NOVEL
Climbing the
Stairs
by Padma
Venkatraman
F
ifteen-year-old Vidya wants
to go to college. This is, of
course, a rather weird choice in
British-occupied India in the
early 1940s. When Vidya receives encouragement from her
charismatic, loving father, she
is thrilled. Then they happen
Rich description and
immaculately chosen
vocabulary
upon a peace march in the
street, and despite Appa’s
warnings, Vidya follows him
into the crowd and her universe
collapses.
Written gently, with the flavor of an exotic and beautiful
tongue, but with rich description and immaculately chosen
vocabulary, Climbing the Stairs
is a novel of heartrending devastation and the terrifying truth
of history. The reader, whether
male or female, teenage or
adult, will not be able to close
the book until Vidya’s last
words. I recommend it to those
who hurt and to those who long
to be absorbed in a culture not
their own. ✦
by Lihua Emily Bai,
No. Kingston, RI
NOVEL
Hacking
Harvard
by Robin Wasserman
W
hen I picked up this book
at my local bookstore, I
was immediately hooked and
wanted to buy it. Considering
I’m a picky reader, this was an
awesome feeling.
It had everything I like. The
hacking part was really good; it
had action and skill and the secret mission aspects that go
along with hacking. This all
combined with the ultimate
goal: winning a bet and getting
The characters
are great
one very unqualified high
school senior into Harvard.
The other factor that makes
this book so enjoyable is the
characters. The four main characters are so well-written I felt
as though I knew them. I like
books like that. They each had
their own personality, so you
knew what to expect from each.
One, Max, is pretty obnoxious,
but the other three are likeable,
so I didn’t mind his obnoxiousness and it added to the reality
of the story.
Obviously, since the book is
called Hacking Harvard, one of
my favorite parts was the hacking. I loved that they always
knew what they were doing and
when something went wrong,
they knew what to do next. I
also loved being shocked by the
surprise ending.
I totally loved this book. It
got me out of my non-reading
phase. I think anyone who likes
hacking or spy stories will
enjoy it, especially since the
characters are great and very
relatable. ✦
by Laura Bluhm,
Acton, MA
Rosa, a wardrobe of a woman.
Although narrated by Death,
the story is not dark in the expected way. Liesel’s story is almost like poetry, as Death
describes Rudy, Liesel’s best
friend with lemon hair, and
Max, a Jewish fist fighter with
feathers for hair, and the many
adventures Liesel has with
them.
by Victoria Guillory,
Harpers Ferry, WV
Made me laugh, cry,
and fall in love
NOVEL
This book is my absolute favorite. It makes me laugh, cry,
and fall in love every time I
read it. It shows the challenges
a young girl faces in Nazi Germany when she discovers the
power of words. It is perfect
for those who like historical
fiction, poetry, sarcasm, suspense, friendship, symbolism,
and meaning. It shows the
poorer side of Germany during
the war and the consequences
of hiding a Jew, the struggle to
discover words and the problem of that one boy who will
always love you. It shows how
to let go and live. This is one
book I recommend to all my
friends, and not one of them
has disliked it. ✦
by Kylie Walsh,
Edmonds, WA
ADVENTURE
Stormbreaker
by Anthony Horowitz
S
tormbreaker is an actionpacked adventure about a
teenage spy. Set in London, as
well as a computer factory, it is
the story of one boy’s determination to save the world.
Fourteen-year-old Alex Rider
thinks he is an average teenager, until the day his uncle
A real cliffhanger
HISTORICAL FICTION
The Book Thief
by Markus Zusak
“First the humans.
Then the colors.
That’s usually how I see
things.
Or at least, how I try.”
his is how The Book Thief
begins. It is the story of
Liesel, a child in Nazi Germany. Unlike most World War
II books, Liesel is not a Jew, although she befriends one who
appears in the dead of the
night. She grows up with her
foster parents, Hans, a man
with melting silver eyes, and
T
Photo by Yelyzaveta Pavlyshyna, Metairie, LA
32
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
dies. Alex then discovers that
the rich uncle who raised him
was not the banker he thought,
but a British spy. Once this is
revealed, Alex is drawn into a
world of secrets and spies, missions and gadgets, danger and
death. In order to save millions
of children from a type of
smallpox, Alex is forced into an
organization he wants no part
of. He becomes a young James
Bond!
Anthony Horwitz is a great
writer. His use of sarcasm, dry
humor, and teen angst – combined with his articulate use of
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language and insight into the
teen mind – result in an amazing story. It’s a real cliffhanger
that had me on edge the whole
time. It’s an adventure you
won’t soon forget.
I think everyone should read
Stormbreaker, especially if
you’re an action-adventure fan.
Anyone who likes James Bond
will love this book. ✦
Fight Club
by Chuck Palahnuik
F
ight Club is a sensational
book that takes readers inside the mind of an insomniac.
The unnamed narrator possesses a deteriorating mind, and
his world crumbles more each
day. He visits cancer support
groups to relieve his suffering
and barely knows who he is. In
his shoes, you see his mind
flash and bend under the constant pressure of no sleep. He
comes home one day to find his
condo has been blown to bits.
In his efforts to restart his life,
he visits a new acquaintance,
Tyler Durden, who gives him a
room in his house.
From that day on, his life
changes rapidly. He and Tyler
start a club that uses bloody
fighting as a stress reliever and
a coming-of-age stage for
young men. However, Fight
Club turns into something
more. Men become addicted to
the adrenaline and pain. As this
world expands into something
A unique
experience
neither of them expects, the
narrator begins to see things
about himself that could set
everything right but won’t.
Reading this book was one
of the most unique experiences
I have ever had. It felt as if
Chuck Palahnuik brought me
into a basement where I got my
face punched by a stranger, and
liked it in a weird way. Palahnuik writes in a way that what
he tells, or sometimes doesn’t
tell, effects the story and leads
to a surprising and shocking
ending. His twisted story reveals something about the true
nature of man. If you’re looking for a book that will make
you think, Fight Club is one for
you. ✦
by Abe Kipnis,
South Salem, NY
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by Josh Brown, Granger, IN
decided I’d have to at least say somehated animals. I had always hated
thing.
animals. I would never not hate an“I don’t really see much in common
imals, and I had told my biology
between the horses and me; I mean …
teacher, Mr. Winalt, a thousand times I
they have hooves!”
wanted to drop his class and yet here I
After some murmurs of agreement,
was on this damn field trip to the zoo.
Mr. Winalt said knowingly, “True,
Before we left, my teacher confronted
true. But take a look at your fingerme personally. “Josh, I know you
nails. The same dense material is actudon’t share my affinity for nature, but
ally found in that horse’s hoof!” This
if you allow me, I guarantee you my
drew some intrigued whispers from
class will offer plenty to learn about
classmates as they looked back and
biology. Who knows, you may even
forth between their nails and the
discover a thing or two about yourhorses’ feet. “As a matter of fact,” said
self.” I don’t know if he meant to capMr. Winalt, “you will find
ture my interest or earn
there are deep-rooted gerespect, or whatever the
similarities between
purpose of his little heartI had always netic
several animals and us.
to-heart was, but he sure
hated animals These commonalities are
didn’t accomplish it. I’m
some of the strongest evinot one to be swayed by
dence that pointed sciensome teacher’s corny
tists to the theory of evolution. Did
speech coated with theatrical empathy.
you know that 99 percent of chimNow Mr. Winalt was leading us
panzees’ genetic makeup is exactly the
through each exhibit in some sick state
same as humans’?”
of euphoria he was thrust into by the
Despite more oohs and aahs, for me
animals, insects, and other creatures
this
field trip was every bit as dreadful
here. “Fascinating, aren’t they?” he
as I had expected, and required every
said with child-like enthusiasm as he
drop of will power from the tips of my
gazed dreamily at the herd of horses
toes and fingers to the strands of hair
we had stopped to study. One student
on my head not to ditch everyone when
was switching songs on his iPod. Anwe moved on to the chimpanzees.
other was texting on her phone using
I can’t explain why, but when the
only enough discretion to fool our enrest of the class found this field trip as
tranced teacher. After what should
dull and meaningless as I did, it gave
have been a disheartening silence from
me some sort of satisfaction. But now
the class, Mr. Winalt continued,
that Mr. Winalt had earned their undi“Okay, who can tell me what biologivided attention, the part of my brain
cal similarities exist between these
that had previously been spamming “Ihorses and us?”
don’t-want-to-freaking-be-here-rightI turned to see the milky, dark eyes
now” had me overloaded and into the
of a brown horse and a white horse
realm of “your-mom-just-walked-inwith black patches by the feeder as
on-you-and-a-girl-kissing” restless jitthey absent-mindedly chowed down
tering. Even Jake had given up trying
lunch. A few beige horses with their
to sleep and was paying attention. As
knees folded into their stomachs were
my class was soaking in Mr. Winalt’s
either resting or straight-up asleep.
teachings like sponges of biological
And some muscular dark ones were
knowledge, I drifted off to the other
galloping aimlessly making their sleek
end of the chimpanzees exhibit in
tails and smooth manes fly in the
order to get Mr. Winalt out of my
wind.
sight – and earshot.
I compared their features to my
The chimpanzees were at least
own. I have brown hair that isn’t
slightly more interesting than horses.
straight but isn’t quite curly. It goes
Instead of just eating and sleeping,
past my ears but isn’t long enough to
they were more active. One was pickmake me look like a girl. My eyes are
ing bugs from another’s head and eata soft brown, and I have a wide jaw
ing them, which was gross but funny.
with a white scar on my chin. I’m 5'5"
And another sat in a corner away from
and Caucasian with tan skin. Now,
the others scratching its butt, which
granted I am short, but nobody was
was also gross but really funny.
half the size of the horses. They have
I thought about Mr. Winalt’s quesfour legs; I have two with arms. And
tion back at the horse display – about
finally, I’ve got leg and arm hair but
having stuff in common. I looked at
nothing compared to the full coats of
the furry creatures through the Plexithe horses.
glas wall and decided I could accept
I leaned over to my friend Jake and
the fact that we shared some genes,
whispered, “If, on a scale of one to
but 99 percent seemed a little farten, one is thrilled and ten is bored to
fetched. Still, the chimps had hands
the point of death, I’d say I’m about a
and I had hands, even though theirs
9.5.” The corners of his mouth curved
were black. They had two eyes on the
into a smile that said he was too tired
front of their face and two ears, and
to laugh.
they seemed to interact with each
Finally, after a good 30 awkward
other in a human way. What I mean
seconds of Mr. Winalt roving his
is, they recognized each other as
gaze over the class with no answer, I
I
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individuals, whereas the horses just
I was not in a dream. After having had
the most intense feeling of my life, I
came off as a herd. I was still ready to
expected to feel more below my ankle.
get the hell out of the zoo at the first
opportunity, but pretending to be
Instead I just became more aware of
vaguely interested in biology was at
all the bones in my foot.
least curbing my boredom.
A lot happened in the next few secAs I compared myself with the buttonds. First I felt the marrow in my
scratching bug-eaters, I noticed certain
bone become warm. In the latter half
differences they had that actually
of that second, the same warmth
seemed … better. One chimp extended
spread to the rest of my bones and my
its leg, and then using its foot, picked
actual marrow’s temperature was
up a banana and reeled it back into his
flaming. By about the end of the next
hand. Instead of just pinching the fruit
second my entire foot was searing
between its toes, which any human
with heat and I could feel an enormous
can do, the thing curled its toes around
pressure as if every joint and bone in
the banana and trapped it against the
my foot was being pulled apart,
base of its foot. It was as though the
stretched, and flattened at once.
chimp had two extra hands. Considering the time I had wasted trying and failing to pick things up
with my toes to avoid wasting energy bending over, I was sold on
the idea that the chimpanzee had
outdone us on this particular evolution. And, the chimp was now
happily peeling his banana.
As the chimpanzee munched, I
was looking down at my shoe and
testing to see what maneuverability I did have with my foot. I
curled my toes one way as far as I
could and then flexed them the
other way, but never reached quite
the same flexibility as my genetic
cousin. Giving up, I looked back
at the chimp. He’d beaten me to it.
As soon as I picked my head up
I realized I had become the exPhoto by Carol Chu, Arcadia, CA
hibit. The chimp was staring straight
at me – no, straight at my right foot.
Between the heat and pressure, I was
sure my bones from my ankle down
He then started curling his toes in the
were undergoing a change and melting
same way I had just failed to. But he
to liquid.
wasn’t reaching for anything, just reSomewhere in the midst of one or
peating the motion and looking
straight at my foot. It was almost like
two seconds passing, I had opened my
… like he was showing me. He then
mouth to tell the whole world my
made some chimp noises at me,
agony but found I had no breath or enlooked directly into my eyes, and
ergy for any conscious bodily funcpointed straight at his foot not once
tion. I was just a fraction of mental
but twice. He was showing me.
sanity away from full-blown comaFirst I was disturbed. A
tose, unaware of anything
chimpanzee at a zoo was
but the hell that had been
interacting with me – no,
unleashed in my foot. This
The chimp
reacting to me. I wasn’t
I would call pain.
sure chimpanzees were
The entire event took
was staring
supposed to be capable of
barely five seconds but felt
straight at me like an eternity. I was on
this level of communication. Even more unsetthe ground in a pool of
tling was that under my
sweat in front of the chimpanzees. My foot continued to pulse
shoe nobody could tell I had just been
with pain and felt constricted. I limped
trying to pull off the chimpanzee flexible foot stunt. The chimp certainly
with difficulty, focusing on each
didn’t see me trying to mimic him; he
breath and willing myself not to pass
seemed to literally have read my mind.
out. I reached the closest restroom and
After processing this I was fairly dislocked myself inside a stall.
turbed. There’s no better way to put it
When I tore off my shoes and socks
than I was scared.
I only found a moment’s relief. My
I wondered if I was dreaming when
foot no longer felt excruciating pain.
a sensation like I’d never felt or heard
As a matter of fact my foot didn’t feel
described ran from nerves in my brain
anything. My foot was gone. And in
down my spine and through the back
place of it, connected to my ankle in
of my right leg, finishing at the arch of
bone and flesh, was a hairy black foot
my right foot. I wouldn’t call it pain,
with an opposable big toe. ✦
but it was close enough to confirm that
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
33
fiction
34
What We Did for Freedom
Mary Jane put her spoon down and
turned to me. “This heat can’t do
nothin’ but bad to a woman as pregnant as you.”
white.”
I gave her a look. “Well, what d’you
I looked over at my two-year-old
expect me to do, Mary Jane? I can’t lie
daughter playing with pebbles she had
around, just waitin’. There ain’t
collected from the river bank. She
nothin’ for me ’cept work. Nathaniel in
picked them up one by one and
the fields and me in the big house. If I
dropped them into an empty glass jar.
don’ work they might take lil’ Hannah
She looked up at me and smiled, her
away. I don’ think I could bear it. Ain’t
light brown curls bobbing and her
nothin’ gonna help us here.”
brown eyes sparkling the way young
The small windows were open, and
people’s eyes do. “No,” I said to Mary
so was the door, but the brick kitchen
Jane. “That don’t trouble me.”
was still hotter than a red cooking skil“She be Massa’s?” Mary Jane asked
let. Things were not made any better
as she fried onions on the stove.
by the fact that the ovens had to be
“Young Massa. Right when I firs’
kept going all day. It
come.” I went back to
was just me and Mary
peeling the red potatoes
Jane in here, and somefor supper in the big
There were
times one of the chilhouse. For us it would
40 blacks down dren. “I’d better go get
likely be beans and corn
cakes again. Then we
on this tobacco- changed. ’Bout time for
supper.”
would all get together at
“I gotta get them pies
the big fire pit, and we growing plantation
cooked first.” She geswould talk and dance
tured toward the blackand tell stories about
berry pies sitting on the counter,
how life used to be back in Africa. If
waiting to go in the oven.
there was a couple jumpin’ the broom,
“I know,” I said, wiping my hands
that’s when they would do it.
on my apron, “but I wanna wash up
There were only about 40 of us
first an’ put little Hannah with old
counted-for blacks down on this toBess.” Old Bess was the oldest slave
bacco-growing plantation in South
on the plantation. She was 86, and
Carolina, but with plenty of children
looked after the small children while
nobody bothered to put in the books
their mammas were working.
until they could work. The masters
I picked Hannah up and put her on
mostly left us alone to do as we
my hip. I jiggled her a little as I left,
pleased once the work was done.
promising Mary Jane to be back in
“That babe his too?” she asked,
half an hour. I walked down the narnodding at my bulging belly beneath
row footpath, my shoes kicking up
my blue serving dress and dirty apron.
dust. The field hands I passed were
“Nor for certain. Might be
barefoot, not because they didn’t have
Nathaniel’s,” I said. “We been married
shoes, but because they fit so badly, it
six months.”
was more painful to wear them than to
risk gettin’ bitten or stung or pricked. I
was required to wear the shoes,
though, because I worked in the big
house.
Along the fields was a circle of
small cabins. The ground was hardpacked from so many feet wearing on
it through the years. Under the ancient
oak tree in the clearing was Old Bess,
sitting on a blanket.
“Another one?” she croaked when
she saw me coming with Hannah. She
was surrounded by 20 or so children,
ranging in age from infancy to about
four years old.
Art by Zoelle Metzger, Boston, MA
“You got anyone to help you with
these young’uns?” I asked as I set
Mary Jane studied my belly. “Might
Hannah down in a patch of shade next
be. ’Less you get another white chile,
to one of her friends.
there’s no tellin’.” She sighed as she
“Sally come down sometimes,” Old
stirred sugar into the blackberries for a
Bess squinted at me.
pie. “It be sad, but there be no shame
I wouldn’t be back until after the
in it. It be me a while back when
master and his family had gone to bed,
Massa firs’ get his land,” she said.
so Nathaniel would get Hannah after
“How old you be when you come?”
he was released from the fields. He
“Fourteen,” I sighed, rolling out the
would put her to bed with the other
pastry dough and flipping it. “Been
children in our cabin, then he would
three years.” I slapped at a mosquito
go to the bonfire with the other adults.
and wiped my forehead, leaning
They would tell stories, and I would
against the counter to rest.
“D
Teen Ink •
on’t it ever bother you?”
“What?”
“That your girl be
APRIL ’11
by Hunter Peterson, Hood River, OR
be back just in time for the dancing.
the Master snapped his fingers at me
I climbed up the stairs to the cabin
again. As I hurried to refill his glass,
and grabbed my clean dress, apron,
Master’s son spoke.
and cap. Two cabins down, I saw my
“You going to sell him, Father?” he
best friend, Nan, coming out of her
asked, a malicious glint in his eyes.
cabin. She was also a serving girl. We
“Maybe,” Master said slowly. He
waved and walked together to the
suddenly grabbed my arm and
kitchen. Mary Jane was just pulling
wrenched me toward him. He hissed
the pies out of the oven.
into my ear, “You want your little girl
“’Bout time!” she huffed, “Get
to stay on this plantation, you get that
those dishes lookin’ all fancy-like for
husband of yours under control.” He
the mistress.”
released me, and I staggered back.
*
*
*
“Yes, Massa,” I said hurriedly.
By the time we were done, Goldie,
The master looked thoughtful. “I
the third serving girl, was walking in
changed my mind,” he said suddenly,
wearing her matching uniform. Each
pushing back from the table. “I’m sellof us picked up a silver platter of food
ing that little girl of his.”
and proceeded cautiously down the
This time I could not stay silent.
stone steps, not tripping if we valued
“Please, Massa,” I pleaded, “don’ sell
our lives. A girl poked her head out of
my girl!”
the doorway to the back of the big
He answered with a backhand slap
house, urgently waving us in.
as he stalked out of the room.
“Massa ain’t in the best mood,” she
*
*
*
whispered, then she cracked open the
The master didn’t reappear for the
door to the dining room. Sally and
rest of the evening. The three of us finGoldie were holding the soup tureen,
ished serving, and the mistress reand I was carrying the bottle of wine
leased us early. Goldie and Nan
the master had requested. The dining
supported me on the path back to the
room was facing west, and the wall
cabins, where the entire plantation’s
was all windows, so the gorgeous sunslaves were congregated. They were
set was visible to all but the master,
all whispering.
who sat with his back to it. If I wasn’t
“Rose!” Someone jumped up and
serving dinner, I would have looked
led me to a seat. “You gotta leave
out, maybe hoping to see Nathaniel in
quick!”
the field, but my thoughts were dis“Nathaniel? Hannah?” I asked. My
rupted when the master snapped his
grief-clouded mind was suddenly
fingers in my direction. I hurried to fill
sharp.
his glass, then his son’s, then his
“He’s sleepin’. Overseer beat ’im
wife’s, then his oldest daughter’s. I repretty bad. She sleepin’ too.”
ceded into a corner, looking at Kayla.
There was no way around it. All
She looked just like Hannah.
three of us had to leave, even though
The quiet clinking of silver and
there was a good chance only I would
china and glass was interrupted by the
make it to safety. I looked up at the
sound of approaching footsteps and a
stars, hoping for an answer. I saw a
frantic cry.
shooting star go right over the cabins.
“Please, Sir, they’re eating dinner!
A good sign.
Don’ disturb them,
“We’ll leave tonight,” I
please!”
whispered, then looked up
“Shut up, wench. Get
at the other slaves. “Sing!”
“Please,
outta my way!”
I told them, “so Massa
The overseer stormed
suspect nothin’!”
Massa, don’ don’t
into the room, dragging a
Mary Jane started a slow
sell my girl!” hymn, and most of the
slave with him.
“Mr. Jackson!” he
slaves joined in. Goldie
huffed, “this slave up and
pressed a bundle of food
hit me!” He was holding Nathaniel by
and clothes into my hands, and somehis shirt front.
one asked, “You takin’ the chile?”
Overseer struck him over the head,
“Leave Hannah,” another said.
and I felt the blood drain from my face
“We’ll take care of her.”
as I watched my husband crumple to
“You can’t leave the girl here. You’ll
the floor. Nan and Goldie’s eyes
be invitin’ trouble.”
flicked over to me in concern. I felt
“You gotta take her. No tellin’ what
helpless. I bit my lip and felt a tear roll
Massa will do to her if she here.”
down my cheek as I witnessed my
Nathaniel had been woken up, and
husband being beaten.
he stopped the discussion with a wave
Master held up his hand. “Mr.
of his hand. “We’ll take her. It’s for
White, that will do.”
her own safety.”
The overseer stepped away from
We would leave as soon as Massa
Nathaniel, but I could see blood trickand his family had gone to bed and the
ling from the corner of his mouth.
fire died down. As I lay in bed next to
“Bring him downstairs, he won’t
Nathaniel, I asked him why he wanted
cause any trouble in that state,” Master
freedom, besides the fact that he
said.
would probably die if he stayed. He
There was silence in the room until
yawned and answered, “You ➤➤
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fiction
Vyed’ma
by Erin O’Connor, South Plainfield, NJ
Akalina tried to determine what could be causing
t was hot in the graveyard that day. The sunlight esher paralysis. She felt vaguely as she had when
caped through the wispy clouds and beat itself upon
she was younger and her brother had slammed a
the newly upturned soil, upon the stone markers,
pestle down on her hand as they were pounding
and upon the mourners with a vengeance previously
chicken flesh for the evening meal. The doctor
unheard of on a November day in Aksay, Russia.
had used a medicine that made her feel as dull as
Lizaveta Ivanov was one such mourner. She wore an
an old knife while he molded her hand back to a
impressive full-length black gown reaching high on her
semblance
of its former shape.
neck, and a black veil that shrouded her papery, powDid I have an accident? Did he use
dered skin.
the medicine again? Akalina wonThe casket had not been lowered into the
Brimstone
dered dazedly, trying to remember
earth yet; it lay menacing and dim behind
the last thing that had happened bethe minister’s podium. No flowers adorned judgment was
fore she woke up.
its hulking presence, and no eyes seemed
spelled clearly
All of her thoughts and memories
to be able to rest on it for more than a moseemed twisted in a giant knot that
ment. Not wanting to be noticed as differin their eyes
slumped at the base of her neck. Tears
ent, Lizaveta also tore her eyes away.
welled in her eyes as she tried to disassem“Such a shame. Someone so young,”
ble the mass of confusion. Finally, a face tore itself
the woman whispered heavily into the ear of the
from the mass – Adam. She remembered meeting with
woman standing next to her, Klara Elios.
him in the back of her father’s farming land and build“Shh,” was her answering reprimand. “The minising a little fire on the hard ground. She remembered
ter’s beginning.”
being overcome with joy that they were together. She
“Today we gather to mourn the loss of Akalina Magremembered leaping up to grab his hand and dance
novska. She was a smart, young, promising addition to
around
the warmth, and she remembered how her
Aksay, and we all grieve as ….”
cheeks
had
burned when she pulled him in and touched
The minister’s words grew hazy in Lizaveta’s ears,
his lips. Her mind’s eye recalled one more
and she focused her attention on the stony faces of the
thing before the panic set in: Gospazah
others clothed in ebony. None seemed to be particuIvanov’s scandalized face as she came
larly sad or sympathetic. Instead, brimstone judgment
“She’s
upon the sacrilegious scene.
was spelled clearly in their eyes.
she’s
The word “witch” flung from the old
Among the crowd, the faces of the Magnovska famwoman’s
pious
lips.
ily stood out most clearly. Their gray and navy scarves
Akalina dragged herself out of the remhid the thin, pale lines of their mouths, but the martyrnants
of the drugged stupor; she beat her small hands
dom in their eyes burned Lizaveta’s own. An emotion
against the unsanded boards of her casket. Her palms
that was hard to place had seated itself on Akalina’s
became a raw pulp, and blood dripped onto her face
mother’s face, and despite the scorching sun, Lizaveta
mingling with the tears that leaked uncontrollably from
shivered at the fury she sensed beneath the surface.
her eyes. She choked on her own bile and screamed
*
*
*
*
until the deafening, ringing sound of her shrieks filled
Inside her casket, Akalina Magnovska sluggishly
the casket and smothered her, reaching its spidery
lifted her eyelids. Her pupils dilated furiously in a vain
black
hands to creep along the edges of her consciousattempt to capture any remnant of light. All was blackness.
ness; Akalina blinked and blinked but could see nothing.
*
*
*
*
Her body felt leaden, and it was a great effort to
The minister was only halfway through his eulogy
twitch the little finger on her right hand.
when the casket began to shake and a howling came
Where am I? she asked herself silently. What’s
from inside. The old man coughed briefly and then
wrong with me? Why can’t I move?
raised his voice in an effort to overpower the sound.
Panic began to slide its fingers across her chest, as
I
may not be feelin’ the lash in the
kitchens, Rosie, but we sure feelin’
it in the fields. The men an’ the
women an’ all them children. We all
feelin’ it. Them overseers gettin’
heavy with the whips. We people
too. We don’ deserve to be treated
like spit on Overseer’s shoes.”
He fell asleep soon after that,
while I lay awake. I didn’t know
why I wanted freedom. I had to protect my family, and I knew life
would get a whole lot worse for me
if Nathaniel and Hannah ran off and
I stayed. To tell the truth, day-to-day
life for me in the kitchens wasn’t so
bad. And I had gotten used to the
nights. I guess that’s why I was leaving – so my children would know
who their father was. I also had an
ache to be free that I couldn’t understand. To do whatever I pleased
would seem like someone was handing me the key to life, not to have to
serve someone else or harvest someone else’s crops.
I was just drifting off when Goldie
stuck her head in and motioned for
me to wake Hannah. She was
groggy and confused as I put her
shoes on and draped her shawl
around her. Nathaniel got the bundles together and strung them on his
back.
I picked up Hannah and quietly
followed Nathaniel. I looked over to
the fire pit and the coals burning low
for the last time. I shivered against
the cold, and Hannah buried her face
in my shawl.
Goldie draped an amulet around
my neck, and gave Nathaniel a map
of the Underground Railroad. She
said we should head for a house on
the other side of the forest. She
kissed my cheeks and Hannah’s.
“Godspeed,” she said.
Nathaniel took my hand and
Photo by Su’aad Amatul-Malik, Laurel, MD
An embarrassed buzz swept through the crowd, and
they collectively ignored the screaming as though it
were a rude child disrupting a family meal. Akalina’s
uncles restrained her mother as she tried to reach her
daughter.
“She’s gone,” they whispered. “She’s gone.”
She sank to the ground, screaming, drowning in her
helplessness.
“They didn’t give her enough medicine to keep her
asleep long enough,” Lizaveta mused to
Klara. Klara nodded vaguely; her mind already back home, wondering if she had left
the
coals in the oven smoldering or if she
gone …
had remembered to put them out.
gone”
The minister gave up on straining his
thin voice and exasperatedly motioned for
the young men to lower Akalina’s casket
into the grave. One of them shook with sorrow; Lizaveta recognized Adam as she pushed her way through
the crowd to view Akalina’s grave marker. It was unadorned except for her name and two dates.
Akalina Jarene Magnovska
1876-1892
Underneath, someone had crudely scratched the
word cataha into the gray stone. Satan.
“Pozor, pozor,” Lizaveta hushed as she passed the
trembling, howling casket. “Shame, shame. So young.”
She pulled the black veil a little lower so no one noticed the self-satisfied smirk on her witch-crying lips
as she shoved through the throng to return home. ✦
squeezed it, assuring my heart that
everything was going to be all right.
We turned toward the trees and took
off running.
I felt as free as the wind.
Only Nathaniel and I made it to
freedom. Hannah fell into a river we
were trying to cross and drowned.
We used 24 Underground Railroad
houses to get to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. We had several close calls,
including one where a bounty hunter
actually sat on the bed I was hiding
under, and once when the barrel
Nathaniel was hiding in fell over and
the top popped off.
Nathaniel now works six days a
week hauling ice to people’s iceboxes, and I stay in our tiny apartment and keep house. My baby was
born two days after we arrived in
Philadelphia.
Nathaniel and I named our new
daughter Freedom. She is black. ✦
Art by Paul Weiner, Centennial, CO
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APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
Me, Shawn
I was there.
I remember my birth.
After all, I remember everything that’s
Ever happened to me.
I remember emerging from my little
sheltered cave,
Becoming life itself.
A tiny bird, crying, calling out,
My spirit blossoming, alighting in my
family’s chests,
Meeting them all for the first time.
Cindy, Paul, Mom, Dad.
And I realize that a dream is fluttering
inside me,
Deep within my heart,
Pulsing,
Growing stronger,
Mirroring the beating of my family’s
heart:
This is my life.
I want to live it.
I remember my very first seizure,
Like a swirling, blinking, swarm of light
Spiraling out of my body into the
Fresh air of a new world.
Brand new possibilities flowering
before me,
And along with that,
A realization,
Like a door of light,
Slammed shut before you,
Leaving only darkness.
A realization of who I am.
by Hannah Soyer, Johnston, IA
Of what I am.
A realization that sends me stumbling
and sobbing
Back into my body,
My spirit a boomerang out of control.
And I remember the look in my
grandmother’s eyes as I settled
back into myself.
Two little dots
Sparkling with a newfound fear.
And a murmur, an agitated whisper:
“Syd! Syd!”
My father’s arms around me,
embracing me,
Sheltering me,
And his face swimming into view.
And I see the fear there, mingled with
sadness at what he sees.
I remember how much this look hurt me,
An arrow in my heart,
Splintering the dreams and hopes kept
there into a
Thousand
Forlorn
Pieces.
I am flung back by this explosion,
My spirit falling,
Falling.
And there is just one thought in
my mind,
Swirling throughout me:
“Yes, I am damaged.
But I am still
Your son.”
Life for Dummies
by Cydney Lawson,
Birmingham, AL
“You don’t look like a dummy.”
first saw her in the self-help section.
The girl dropped to her knees, squinting
The glossy covers swallowed the fluoat the large font on the books. “Well,” she
rescent light but smiled, still allowing
started, her voice a sarcastic whisper, “I’m
the glow to show through the teeth. I took a
glad my Looking Smart for Dummies
few tentative steps toward her and tried to
wasn’t a waste of money.” Scanning the
watch her discreetly. Ironically, she looked
books. I noticed that however many times
completely lost.
her eyes darted back and forth across the
Her green eyes flitted from cover to
shelves, she never touched any of the
cover, her gaze scrolling along the bindings
books. Her fingernails, all ten now, rested
of every “For Dummies” book. She
in between her teeth.
whined, hopping in place like a toddler
“Did you know that even though they
with a full bladder. I couldn’t contain my
were written by different
curiosity anymore. I felt it eatpeople, the For Dummies
ing at my rib cage, demanding
Her eyes darted books are always in alphato know what she was doing.
“What exactly are you
back and forth betical order?”
I shook my head. She
looking for?” I asked, peering
over her shoulder. She did not across the shelves could not see me. She mumbled something incoherent
jump, nor did she look at me.
to
herself
that
sounded
like a garble of
She continued to nibble nervously at her
questions and complaints.
fingernails, scanning the books. I had to
She dropped her hand and began fercrane my neck to see around her massively
vently tapping her thigh. I asked why she
messy hurricane of a hairdo.
needed a Life for Dummies book. To which
“The ‘L’ section,” came the answer. Her
she readily replied, “I suffer from CDO.”
murmur sounded more like a distant wave,
“Don’t you mean OCD?” I asked.
solitary and far away. I mentally generated
“Yes, but CDO is in alphabetical order.”
a list of self-help books that could be loShe
turned, looking at me for the first time.
cated in the “L” section. Lacrosse for
I had the sudden urge to leave. “The way it
Dummies, Laminating for Dummiesshould be.”
“Life for Dummies.” Her meek voice inAnd I could do nothing but fall to my
terrupted my thoughts. Startled, I watched
knees and help her look for Life. ✦
her scanning the books.
I
36
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
I remember my father’s disappointment
As he observed me getting older,
But not growing at all.
I remember my loneliness,
Not being able to control my body.
Brittle.
Fragile.
Alone.
I remember my parents’ divorce,
How they gradually became more and
more disjointed.
I felt like a wedge driving them apart,
My disease something they couldn’t
Both cope with.
They became stones,
My mother and father,
Indifferent to each other
To the point of living completely apart.
But I can’t help think that in some way,
In some form,
They didn’t divorce each other.
They divorced me,
Their own son.
I remember wondering,
Why is this happening to me?
I lie there for days,
Encompassed by so many things.
My fear.
My family’s fear.
My loneliness.
My family’s loneliness.
But I know I have something they
don’t have.
The hope, the dream,
It’s all still there,
Like a patient mentor,
Waiting,
Watching,
There for you when you need them.
And I know the answer to the question
that plagued us all for so long:
Because God willed it this way.
I remember my family trying to hide the
sadness they felt over me,
Like I was an embarrassing mistake.
Sometimes
My father and my mother make
eye contact,
And I can tell from this silent exchange
that they have
Given up hope.
I do not understand.
Why must they think that because I
can’t control my body
I also can’t control my mind?
I remember the day on the porch.
The sun was warming my skin,
The breeze ruffling my hair.
I remember my father stepping up
behind me and sitting down.
I remember the crow,
The word “hopeless.”
Bits of glass lay shattered,
The blotches of iced tea like
gruesome bloodstains.
I remember the conversation,
Threads of my father’s words strung out
before him with nowhere to go.
And most of all,
I remember the line:
“Maybe you’d be better off if I ended
your pain?”
COMMENT
With this,
I remember being enveloped in a cloud
of fear,
A black, ruthless tornado
Spinning around me,
Threatening to engulf me forever.
I remember the desperation bleeding
through into my thought of
“No! I want to live!
You cannot judge the quality of
my life!”
I do not understand.
I remember realizing that my father
thought I was already dead,
Gone, just an empty wasteland.
I remember these thoughts coming to
me in the time that passed.
The fear so deep.
The loneliness so wide.
And with each new day,
The churning, roiling ocean would rise a
tiny bit more.
But it was enough
To make me realize that life is like one
of those towers you build out of cards.
More and more precious with each
new story,
And more and more fragile
With each new character you add.
One little breath in the wrong direction,
One little bump in the wrong place,
And you can send it flying,
Swirling out of control,
Til it is no more.
And I remember my father and me on
that night.
Alone together.
Cindy, Paul, and my mother gone away
for the night.
The waves of fear came crashing down
at the sound of
“I’ll stay with Shawn for the night,”
And the door closing as the babysitter
left.
I remember that by the time he reached
my room and sat down
I had calmed the waves
So as not to have them slamming against
the sides of my heart,
Threatening to break through any
moment now.
And I remember him talking to me,
Telling me things about love,
About responsibility,
About sadness.
And the tears, like little rivulets
of redemption,
Flowing down his face in life and mine
in spirit.
But there is one thing I don’t remember
seeing or hearing,
And that is the words:
“You deserve to live, Shawn. After all,
if I killed you,
Then you’d never have a chance to live
without suffering.”
And I remember meeting my father’s
eyes with my own,
Willing him to see what I see,
To feel what I feel,
To know what I know.
I am here. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Favorite Song
Solitude
Branches
My favorite song can’t be heard
On a radio or iPod.
You can’t buy it, can’t download it,
This song comes straight from God.
Some call solitude lonely,
But in it I find the most company.
Perhaps not the best company,
But beggars can’t be choosers
And a voice is a voice all the same.
Some call solitude quiet,
So why does it scream the loudest?
Colorless? My walls are covered
By the spectrum.
How is it solitude, if you’ve more than
one mind?
I’m the Dreamer of many beings,
I carry the lost, the found, the trite,
and uncouth;
To me, it is a plain on which my mind
may graze
If I can find a spot among the herd.
Solitude has always been the most crowded.
At night,
Black skeletons dance
The chorus is a few faint chirps
With the wind chiming in
Then comes a verse of gentle rain
Tapping on metal tin
The chorus repeats with crunching leaves
And this time the wind is stronger.
Then with the next verse there is snow
Which means warmth’s not much longer.
poetry
Art by Erica Pace, Wolfforth, TX
Definition
My life is defined by the piles
I left sitting out:
Finally the a cappella solo
Which is lead by a few soft purrs.
Then more chime in with growls and barks
As the mood begins to stir
The next verse is my favorite
It gives me a warm feel.
Waves are crashing, sea gulls are squawking
The sound is so surreal.
Alas, the song continues,
In fact it never ends.
Like we’re holding down “repeat”
To hear my favorite song again
Old school notebooks,
Dirty laundry,
Clean clothes,
Bags overflowing with junk.
by Rebecca Dowden, Shrewsbury, NJ
Colorful leaves of every color.
Dusk Never Dies
Homework due tomorrow,
Papers due Thursday,
Forms to be filled out,
College applications.
Fear,
Anxiety,
Apprehension,
Procrastination.
Still at night, the sun sheds light –
Faint, dusty-purple embers,
Softly powdered
Upon the Western canvas –
Like a lone candle lost
Amidst the black sea without stars,
Quaintly shedding its husk;
Clinging to dusk.
As each leaf falls,
The feeling builds in my chest
Until the weight is so much
That I need to explode.
by Kyle Stocker, Lake Tapps, WA
I can’t bring myself to rake it all up.
I can’t look at the piles without
Regret building inside me.
In the symmetry of the still-dark morning
She greets the coffee percolator:
If you can’t rake them up,
But you can’t stop piling them,
There’s only one option left:
Jump in.
by Anonymous, Bethesda, MD
Red Light District
These compliments
You throw at me
All dressed in
High heels
And deep red lipstick
The price on them
Is way more
Than I can afford
The corners
To which they are assigned
Usually feel
Like home
Percolator
“and how are your fresh pure thoughts today?”
it drips a nothing and sings careful
steam response.
The snow outside her window casts a
pink shadow
across the wall and half of the silver percolator.
A cup of fresh coffee and toast with butter
and jam
On a ceramic plate is enough. She can sigh
this morning
and revel in the geometry of arc and shadow –
concentric ripples in her coffee cup as she
adds the milk
and sugar.
by Rosa Druker, Champaign, IL
worms
To me at least
And the little boy cries on
the sidewalk for the loss of the
worms, dried out by the sun after a rain.
But the clicking
Of their heels
Is unbearable
At best
Eat them! the birds cry
into the dark of the tree tops and the inside of
his head. Their words become echoes in his
brain.
by Karol Legutko, Wallington, NJ
by Hannah Steketee, Ft. Collins, CO
To me.
by Nathan Mathewson, Somers Point, NJ
Sculpture Garden
Over the toes of a frowning geometric
giant, a chipmunk scurries,
and calla lilies twist and thrive
beside glaring glass balloons.
Atop piano monsters
With dull, white teeth,
Lacerate walls
With peeling skin,
And tap coded messages to the
Lonesome living in their beds.
by Heather Gambrel,
Middlesboro, KY
slipping
I see you slipping,
Falling from sight,
I try to reach for you,
Try with all my might,
I hear myself call for you,
And that’s when I realize
That you don’t want me to.
You don’t want me to catch you,
You weren’t even bumped,
You’re not slipping at all,
You jumped
by Ashle Smith, Dixon, IL
Meringues of crystal float
languidly around a twilight lake,
a little ballerina’s feet kick from the
trunk of a shaggy copper tree.
Why, I’m Flattered
Upon the hill stand solemn sunset spears,
ivy creeps daintily over the
ornate whitewashed gazebo.
And between the reeds,
a fragile vibrant fire burns of glass,
tongues of scarlet, vermilion thrusting in a
cloud, upward to the stars.
They’re lovely. Really,
the marble glowing subtly,
and the bronze, deep, strong
people, shapes, an impossible
titanium tree. Immortal, almost.
They will be so for centuries.
they shirk off compliments
needlessly like clouds
rain their droplets
flattery and envy
swirled with jealousy
hidden behind the refrain(s)
of
“You look great!”
and
“Awesome!”
tainted and accepted
trickling like poison
dripping into
veins of satisfaction.
by Anonymous, Brooklyn, NY
And the callas, the moss, the squirrels, they
are lovely too, and unique. But the
chipmunk will fall prey to foxes, trucks,
or snow, that exquisite murderer.
The plants will wilt and wither,
flowers fading in the dappled shade.
Art is ever. Life, in all its glory, is here
and now.
But though the fire of Chihuly’s hands will
thrive through rain, the dancer will through
blizzards hold her grace, they will not know
the sunrise. Through their
game of eternal chess the players will never
taste the wind or hear
the buds of daffodils stretching,
yawning to life.
Sculptures are safe,
sophisticated, set in solemn stone.
Life is wild, careening unpredictable
through the centuries.
But though the art is proud and permanent,
though never
will it die,
neither will they live.
by Francesca Lupia, Ann Arbor, MI
POETRY
Gloria
Oh, the days of Gloria.
She licked the cream-colored crown moldings
and announced that they tasted pink.
That sure-footed stumbler
weaving precariously between the garden gates
scooped into the rusty cavern of a
veteran wheelbarrow.
Her laughter makes the timid fingers of
baby’s breath quake.
Gloria
sprawled in black soil
red hair intertwined among tender
pea sprouts.
Rusty curls
that you draw from her face
as your lips find hers
to hang in golden silence.
Gloria
startled among the earth
and the fertile summers of your existence.
by Isabel Henderson,
Bedminster, NJ
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
37
The Universe Fits
Under a Bandage.
I Bet Wonder
Woman …
This body is holding this soul is holding
these thoughts
Are holding me tightly,
With a steadfast assurance that should be
a comfort,
A marring of vagueness fights me.
Without the rest of my life figured out,
I ostensibly haven’t a care,
But I must assure you that with my
soul’s prison
Comes its load of despair.
Don’t misunderstand me; I’ve got a good life,
I’d not wish for what I can’t have,
But I’d like to conceive of my significance
Darling, please before my stab
Wound leaks.
Leaking, leaking, I strike on a patch
I can’t let the world see my blood.
It’s leaking, leaking, show me a sign;
An omen
Of positivity.
Paradox is my way of life,
Sanity’s far overrated
I have not decided to let the world in
At the moment, my essence is jaded.
Saving the world is a lot harder than it used
to be.
Whatever happened to the masked men,
With their capes billowing bravely in a
fictitious wind?
And the alter egos:
Suspiciously buff newspaper reporters,
Who won our hearts but only occasionally
won the girl.
by Gina Lione-Napoli, Maywood, NJ
One Sentence
And the fireflies lit up the field in between the
trees and all around us as I took the turns
speeding without the brakes and wishful
thinking (that was soon crushed by one too
close and the sight of an empty court) still
in my head as I ignored my responsibilities
toward you and only played a song that
wasn’t painful (which made me skip way
too many) and depending on what was next
as the sweat dripped down my face and
refusing to tie my hair back because I
welcomed the wind (no matter how
polluted) to come and tangle my hair.
by Jordan Coughlin, Dallas, TX
I Dream
I dream in gray,
(No technicolor hues)
100 shades of mottled gray.
As I sleep
Each thought made of pencil smudges,
Unformed, hums through synapses
Colliding with memories:
Ink-stains.
I dream in gray,
(No black and white)
1,000 shades of interlacing gray.
As I sleep,
The image on the screen
Beats with fragile balance
A paper heart, pounding:
Life.
I dream in gray,
(No watercolor splashes)
10,000 shades of breathtaking gray.
As I cease to sleep,
The sky illuminates,
Layers of slate-colored clouds
Invite the day:
Dawn
These days, saving the world is,
Like,
Planting a tree.
There’s so much environmentalist
propaganda out there,
That yesterday, a man tried to sell me “green”
tampons.
But this is not a poem about the environment.
This is a poem
Concerning that half-smile, gather-of-airinside-your-heart
Feeling
That arrives when you hold an undefined
dream,
A slice of incredible,
Inside your chest.
And you think, Oh, the places I’ll go!
And, just for once, your plans don’t
make sense.
They don’t even have to be plans.
I’m talking about those moments,
When destiny can be nothing more than
an idea,
When your crowning glory can be an
incomplete thought,
Clutched close and savored.
It’s a major in college, right?
“Undecided.”
That’s what I want to be when I grow up –
undecided.
I’m not into this strings-attached success
you’re pitching down our throats.
For me, success is an adventure,
A journey,
A legacy,
A lifetime that can’t be repeated.
I want to see the whole world and write down
everything.
I never want to be tied down.
If I need to jump behind the wheel,
And just leave,
To follow a story (or make up a new one of
my own),
Or chase a shiny new pipe dream,
I don’t want to have to stop and think:
“But what about [insert obligation here]?”
To Say Good-Bye
My Girl No More
I get the suitcase
so you’ll let me help you pack.
Push all your things into it,
and the hinges sag.
You’re making it hard to say …
and I hate you for that.
If you haven’t yet
let’s make breakfast.
It’ll taste great.
We’ll burn the toast
and simmer the eggs,
until they pop.
Watch the flames go high.
You won’t ever come back.
I hate you for that.
And someday soon
I’ll stop all this pretending
that you’ll be back
I wish it were true.
Someday soon,
I’ll write you
a simple song
it won’t hurt me to try.
It’ll be nothing new,
just a song to bring you home.
Broke up with her today.
We was walkin’ up the stairs
like we always do.
An’ I turned to her
an’ said, “Baby, you can’t be my girl no more.”
She said, “Why, James?”
I said real quiet-like,
“Because, baby, I need my space.”
She got real red an’ said,
“But I love you.”
An’ I said, “Tha’s kinda weird seein’ as you
ain’t my girl no more.”
She looked at me real hopeful-like,
like maybe I was jokin’ around with her,
the way I done before.
Then she started cryin’
tellin’ me she wants me,
an’ asking what she’d done wrong.
I just walked away
’cause I didn’t wanna be
seen with that girl
who ain’t my girl no more.
Then she tried to hug me
so I started runnin’
yellin’ that she was nuts.
But now I kinda wish I hadn’t
’cause I wanted to ask her
would she do my homework
one last time.
by Tilly Alexander, Vineyard Haven, MA
The Ride
It is as if everything is moving
past me as I sit.
Quick glimpse at a tree,
And soon it is history.
Brief look at a shop,
until it flies behind.
Children toddling
Mothers dragging
Impossibly fast
openings and closings
Pigeons cooing
Laughing, begging, mumbling, shouting
And I sit in my seat staring
The eavesdropper, spy, the pointer and chuckler
As the yellow vehicle halts to a stop
I say farewell to all I have passed,
encountered and pointed at.
All of the things that I would never see the
same way again
A movie
except for one difference,
there is no remote control.
by Charlotte Lee, New York, NY
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
Divorce sizzles,
like rain splattering summer sidewalks,
like bacon crackling on an open burner.
Divorce is a slow build up,
the friction of fault lines
pushing and pushing and pushing,
stern to sterner.
Divorce is not
quiet
nor thoughtless
as is the way we
blink without notice,
snap without plight.
Divorce is not a silent affair;
it’s Rocky against Balboa;
clenched fists and gritted teeth,
two minds both shouting fight, fight, fight.
Divorce is a battering to the ribcage;
it shakes the walls,
it plunges you into a war
where we’re all redefined.
Divorce is not
a skinned knee,
a broken elbow,
nor the loss of a goldfish hastily flushed.
When the rain turns to thunder,
And the bacon has burned,
And Rocky has fallen
So, I’m going to save the world.
But to do that,
It only makes sense to save myself first.
divorce is the end,
quiet and
by Marlee Cox,
St. Louis, MO
hushed.
Art by Jose Hadathy, Marietta, GA
38
The Dinner Table Is
Empty Again Tonight
Divorce is slow, agonizing;
like a deadly disease that crawls up your
toes and
cowardly huddles, hidden in your mind.
The world could really use someone who
knows how to be there for it,
Who can navigate its back alleyways,
And keep its diary.
Humanity could use another legend,
Who wears a cape and is vintagely valiant,
Who does what she wants and what she loves,
And doesn’t let the un-biodegradable state of
her feminine products slow her down.
by Hannah Landsberger, Caldwell, NJ
by Brittany Kirkner, Towson, MD
•
POETRY
by Anonymous, Worcester, MA
The Book
The Call
She sits on your nightstand.
Tempting, she says
“Look, here’s a flashlight.”
You roll over, stuff your pillow over your head.
“Leave me alone,
I’m trying to sleep,” you mumble. “I have to
go to school tomorrow.”
She smiles wickedly.
“So? You had to stop
in the middle of
the most exciting part.”
You burrow under the covers. “C’mon,”
she pleads,
“just one chapter.”
You sigh in defeat.
“Fine. One chapter.”
You reach for her.
Turning page after page
you finish and close her, exhausted but excited.
“I need the second book!”
you mutter, then
tumble into sleep
for a very short time.
Four days I’ve known you, and where do I
find myself?
With fingers hovering over a telephone’s
buttons,
dialing the one number I’ve been taught since
age four
is “only for emergency use.”
I can picture you with that pill bottle in your
quivering hand
thinking that this time, just maybe, your
attempt will work
and you’ll never be seen or known again.
What it is that makes you do this, I will
never know
and I mention that to the operator
who types all the information I have for him
into a computer at the Crisis Center.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up,
wake u- OUCH!”
You slam the snooze button
on your alarm clock
and fall back asleep.
“WAKE UP, WAKE UP! 30 MINUTES
UNTIL THE BUS COMES”
You roll over groggily.
SLAM! You hit your alarm clock. “OW.
What did you do that for?” He is hurt.
“You never hit me.” You groan,
“I’m tired.
I was up late.”
He snorts. “Up until
three in the morning,
gallivanting with HER.”
He points to the book
by your pillow.
She looks up mischievously.
“One chapter, huh?”
You ignore her
and go get dressed.
After school you go to the library and check
out the second book.
It is as good as the first,
and in the middle of the night
you hear, “C’mon,
just one more chapter … Please?”
by Emma Ordahl, Northfield, MN
Night’s Song
Cool
Dark
Enveloping Night
Wraps around the bitter light
Reaching
Up
Toward the moon
The gnarled limbs fade all too soon
Dark
Wood
Blocks soft bright stars
Reach out to touch them all too far
Arms
Stretch up
As if they long
To be one with the cool night’s song.
by Margaret Christie, Sequim, WA
I rattle off your phone number, high school,
and scour my brain for any other little details
I can recall.
Anything that might help the ambulance get
to you
before anything too terrible can happen,
and before your time runs out.
Four days and where do I find myself?
Fetal position on a mattress on the floor
staring at a clock, knowing the sooner they
find you, the better
and trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears.
I hyperventilate and try to shake
the awful feeling that the ambulance is
too late,
while doing all I can to not break down
completely.
I force a steel curtain in front of my eyes,
blocking out
the image of you in a hospital bed and gown,
getting your stomach pumped.
The outline of my cell phone ends
up imprinted
into my palm, after being clutched for at least
an hour,
as I try to crush it,
angry at an inanimate object solely because if
it weren’t for it
I never would’ve gotten the message saying
that you swallowed much too many
Advil, Nyquil, and Tylenol
and I never would’ve had to tell on you.
I worry about what will happen when
you find out that I called the police, I messed
up your plans,
and I imagine it like tattling in grade school
once was,
worrying that the next time I see you, you’ll
be filled
with steely glares and zipped-up lips, acting
like nothing happened,
wishing I had never made the call.
that you won’t be at school
for awhile but that things would be okay,
and not to ask questions.
I can’t bring myself to reply.
choking back tears again, this time I’m more
than thrilled
knowing that you’re safe and getting help,
whether self-sought or not.
I realize that you’re presently in an
emergency room,
soon to arrive in intensive care, and with
limited or no access to
a cell phone or computer that I could use to
communicate with you.
I realize that it could take weeks, if not
months, before the
depression and suicidal thoughts will
go away,
not to mention uncountable hours of therapy
and even
numerous medications.
I don’t care about that, though.
I just care that you’re safe.
Dictionary
I was stronger
On those days
When I dropped the match.
Just as words
I too shall fade
From everyday speech
And everyday conversations
by Theresa Kelly, W. Pittston, PA
His Name
Was George
Olsen Dalore
When people say
“I never heard that word before”
I think of people saying
Years after my descent into the grave
“I forgot all about her”
On a Sunday his body washed ashore,
A crown and jewels his body bore.
He was nine feet tall,
As solid as a wall,
And the people named him George
Olsen Dalore.
So I write and I read
So I can know
That these words I am seeing
Are remembered
And are important
And so am I
He was already as dead as could be,
But his magnificence they could still see.
They made up legends of his voyage,
And each was filled with his courage.
Finally they set his body free to the sea.
by Ebony Johnson, Bridgeton, NJ
Long Walks
My uncle takes long walks:
He inches to still houses
To utter rejected truth to unprepared families.
My uncle looks into the eyes of wives
And delivers notes of pain, deaths of heroes:
Facts that shatter every piece of reality
they know.
My uncle bears the piercing screams of mothers,
Sees the tears of strong fathers
And witnesses scared little brothers and sisters.
Four days and where do I find myself?
Sliding open and unlocking my phone to find
a message from
none other than your number, stating not to
worry, it’s nothing too terrible,
but that “something happened” and you will
“be in the hospital for quite some time,” and
I wish I was
A goldfish
With no faith and
With no goal
Turning around
In a bowl
I am afraid
Every day
To burn more bridges.
And I’ve blown away the flame
And seen my strength blow with it.
When I look at a dictionary
I think about the fact that
I too shall be gone
One of these days
by Tiffani Hemcher, Gilford, NH
Burning Bridges
I’ve poured the gas
And lit the match
And held it in my hand
So long
That I shook.
by Katie Rust, Mesa, AZ
More than that, I brace myself for the worst,
that rather than living long enough to develop
a hatred for me,
you spend your night lying on a
bedroom floor
more than a thousand miles away
eyes closed and mouth shut, never to reopen.
Art by Kara Merrill, Topeka, KS
Men fight war, families mourn losses,
My uncle takes long walks.
However, his beautiful face they would
never forget.
It was as if he had caught them in a net.
They seemed enlightened,
Convinced that their lives were brightened,
But they felt that they owed George a
huge debt.
They would shower him with gorgeous gifts,
Claiming that nothing would ever be fit,
For his majesty.
And they would all agree,
That they would never forget this.
These people started to live only for him,
And claimed he was like a phantom limb.
How he was gone for good,
But he still stood,
In their hearts and minds as a whim.
fish wish
They didn’t even know his true name,
Or even if he had a claim to fame.
But he was king of their land,
Owning every grain of sand,
And soon their God he became.
by Roxane Catelas, Saint Cyr, France
POETRY
by James Yu, Wyckoff, NJ
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
39
Jellyfish
death by losing you
I Am Walking
Linear
jellyfish,
like little
poisonous,
copious,
glassy bells,
receiving
the respect
of many
seafarers –
but only
when sighted
from afar.
on a sunny October day
I fell hard
I lost my balance
and skinned my knee
on the hard, rough surface
known as hate
I am walking with no destination,
On a path painted with moonlight,
With strokes of green and splotches of white.
it left me with a gash
the size of Africa
tie-dye oozed from
the fragments of skin
but I didn’t cry out in pain
like they do in movies
I sat there,
silent,
quiet,
hateful
by Tim Galati, Maine, NY
Too Far
Now, maybe something has fallen through
I’ve waited too long
Walked these halls too far
Because I’ve discovered the scratches hidden
deep beneath
The simple impurity of the so-called pure
I won’t turn away, I won’t give in, won’t
give away
Watched her crumble under the weight
of the thousand moons
Setting an eternal night
Seen him toss pins in the air
into sickened hearts
Bounce back to his eyes
Noticed them burn each other’s souls
among the smiles
Ignoring their own ashes
Felt my heart crack
from these nightmares
Bleeding innocence so false – so corrupted.
I dug the wound deeper
with the hoe from your mom’s garden
as she screamed bloody murder
I tried to rip all of you
from me
to the ordinary eye
I had only made things worse
in my eyes
it was fantastic
I wanted a big damn gory
mess
a Passion of Christ mess
I wanted to crucify you
for nothing
I wanted all sanity
spilled out on the floor
in front of me,
visible,
where I could ruin it at arm’s length
I wanted no help, only
the dirt and asphalt as my friends,
the black tar to dissect you
from me
don’t record my last words
don’t
they’ll only be of hatred,
beyond repair
like a suicide
on a sunny October day
Lie, I scream
Lie to me one more time!
Tell me it’s all right
That it’s okay
That she bleeds her own blood
And he stabs the weak
And they burn themselves
I must’ve looked too hard
Must’ve stayed too long
Walked too far
Because I’ve discovered the truth
And I will never believe in it again.
by Gabriella Ciaccio, Bethlehem, PA
The Birdcage
by Abby Newell, Gibsonia, PA
Photo by Sami Martinez, Juneau, AK
I’m stuck sitting,
frozen in frustration.
These white walls wipe out
any inch of individuality
that once sang in my soul.
I’m a mime in a box not only in my memories.
It is precisely present,
suffocating and strangling my spirit
before my now empty eyes.
I gravely grasp onto
any small shred of myself
I can possibly protect from this oppressor.
I’m a radiant rainbow
Extinguished in gray drabness
to appear alike to all the others.
I push, push … painfully pressing on
the walls.
They’ve carelessly clipped my wings,
but they’ll grow, and I’ll go on my own.
Gone,
going,
gone.
by Ali Brustofski, Oakland, NJ
I am walking outside of my body,
With a soul free of its owner,
On a path that never ends,
I am walking with a ghost,
On a journey with a stranger,
On a path painted with moonlight.
I am walking with my eyes shut,
A path in any direction I go,
I have no destination.
I am walking,
Dreaming,
Floating.
by Corrinne DuRoss, Wilmington, DE
Scarlet Lies
Wasted in the night,
Sanguine fills your sight,
But she cries out your name
She is your compulsion, a vile obsession.
Nothing else is concealed in the dark
Other than the cries of scarlet
Regret drips from every crook
Each drop that stains the book
The book that binds the secrets
Of you before the change
But as you try to move away
She wouldn’t let you sway.
As you see the ray of hope
Once more,she lets you dream
Before tearing you away from what seems
And hauls you with her
Again the darkness clouds you and her
With Despair, Sorrow and Fear
The darkness and she alike,
Even as you try to fight
Faith leaves your sight.
She let me narrate her tale,
As to liberate you, she tries.
But Scarlet lies
by Aayushi Rathi, New Delhi, India
Expression
Shake. Move. Get yourself in the groove.
Hit. Split. Make your body go with it.
Twist. Turn. So many things to learn.
Leap. Kick. Pivot turn and end with a flick.
Pop. Contract. Go with the flow then bring
it back.
Point. Passe. Make sure you end with a chasse.
Flex. Step. Pick up your energy with pep.
Drop. Roll. Let your body go with control.
1, 2, 3, 4, make your feet feel the floor.
You love it so much you dance out the door.
5, 6, 7, 8, stay with the beat and don’t be late.
Dancing as if you’ll determine your fate.
Breathe. Motion. Dance is like a magic potion.
Press. Lift. You can be soft but swift.
This is your life, it expresses you,
And you wouldn’t be able to live without
doing what you love to do.
by Ashley Monnecka, Oakland, NJ
Happiness lights
the sky
Happiness to a child
is infinite as the sky,
bathing in the hot pink of sunsets and the
smiles of snowflakes,
ignorant to everything but the taste of icicles
and the snowman you are building in the
park and
the curious way that twilight
can taste as blue as heaven.
In third grade I built a time machine tunnel in
a snow bank.
Linda fell through the top,
smothering me, like my grandpa’s pale face
in the coffin and my mom’s sobbing,
clutching me so tight I couldn’t even see
through her arms to the color of the sky.
Tissues of tears being passed around,
because there weren’t enough in the world to
dry our red eyes.
Me, weeks later back in my life, living happily,
through the old vague blue sky
getting to rollerblade on my plastic
rollerblades,
too fat to get the rubber ones I always wanted.
Ich bin froher (I am happy)
Shoua May would always say
when all other galaxies up and above the
double rainbows exploded
there were new ones,
creating and recreating their world.
by Shoua Xiong, Oshkosh, WI
I Am From
I am from a weightless sea
Dormant, floating, ripping by
Above the crowd absorbing me
Congested lungs breathe in the sky
I am from the open air
I am from the silver bird
Carving through the fading ink
Resounding; never heard
I am from the clear crisp winds
The brace beneath the wing
I am from the aspiring climb
To where the eagle sings
I am from the lifting off
From horizons, far as the eye can see
Into the incessant blue escape
Captivating; Free
by Aleah Howell, Willow Spring, NC
Dead,Voiceless,
Manic
Dead.
Lying face down,
Body still, decaying,
Leaving nothing but memories;
Vacant.
Voiceless.
Lips glued, sewn shut,
Actions, emotions unsteady,
A prisoner of my own mind;
Stifled.
Manic.
My mind racing,
Pick up a pen, escape,
Emotions, thoughts now blueprinted;
Alive.
by Mariela Cerda, Clewiston, FL
40
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
•
POETRY
Jessica’s Thursdays
Locks of blonde
Slip out
Of a dancer’s bun
So tight,
To keep blue eyes open.
In this room
So bright,
All are the same
Parallel mirrors
Reflecting this sameness
Back to them forever.
Same rises onto her toes.
She gracefully lifts an arm.
You cannot tell how much
My feet hurt
From standing on these blocks of wood
Pain is not allowed
In Same’s world.
One leg up,
Caressing a knee
With a perfect arch of the heel.
The world on my shoulders,
It all comes down to a
Tiny pink foot
In a
Tiny pink shoe
The color of
Jessica’s Thursdays.
Today.
When all the Sameness girls
Are even more the Same
But not so much as Jessica,
Queen of Same.
by Rachel Wolfeiler, Fairfield, CT
Disenchanted
every day i pass that crack on the stairs
i never knew it could be so dangerous
it was like you were walking and walking
and suddenly
they ran out
from underneath you
they ran
from you
i put your picture on the stairs and i never let
anyone touch it
i still hear the sound of your head hitting
the floor
the sound of your life snap like the wings
of a butterfly
snapped and broken to pieces
my heart is broken to pieces
what was the palace we built up is in ruins
that reside in the empty cavity of my chest
where my heart used to be
before you died and took it with you
enchanted
your eyes were enchanted
every day when you looked at me
you looked at me and i became enchanted
you were my life
without you, i am dead too
music plays in the background
all the time
when i turn it off
i hear your voice
like whispers in my ears
and it’s too painful
by Clara Swan, London, England
“What Road Taken?” The Darkness
Often asked and often over-looked.
Beneath
A question frequently said, but never
fully understood.
What road taken?
A fleeting thought and the decision is made,
Viewed without consequences, never
looking back.
And those who do decide to turn around,
See moments past and choices made.
Photo by Tricia Turney, Spotsylvania, VA
Hazel
Tell me what color my eyes are.
You’ve missed out on a hell of a girl
As your blood, she is ashamed
Swinging on a fraying rope
Trying to drop her name
If a man is not known
A man cannot be missed
Except by the girl
Whom he never kissed
Letter torn open, blurred up to “sincerely”
Something you’ll never be,
This girl is musing her half-empty heart
As her rope cascades from the tree
Vati, Papá, Daidí, Daddy
Names you’ll never inherit
Before she hits the ground she swears,
She’ll try to grin and bear it
Her strength is infallible,
“Can’t know what’s not had”
You weren’t her first words
You won’t be her last.
Father is a teacher, teacher is a man
Former nor latter is you;
Girl is she, she is me, I am her.
Tell me what color my eyes are.
by Gina Lione-Napoli,
Maywood, NJ
An Unlikely Friend
In the trees
Hung an oval-shaped figure
A cozy home
For a tiny, yet deadly friend
Tempting to approach at first
I had learned my lesson then
The honey dripped
To the bottom of the grass
The fuzzy
Black and yellow friends
Left their “sweet” home
As they buzzed to me
Knowing the weakness
I ran to safety
As if they would
Stab me to death
Through all the excitement
Someone called me
My good-bye is what was said
To my tiny, yet deadly friend
A long and twisted path is left behind you.
Unique in every way,
for you are the only one to have taken
this path.
You are surrounded by other paths;
lives untaken.
You come across yourself, a small child.
Crying and alone, you try to console him.
Tenderly you comfort him, tears falling down
his face.
You try to remember, but you cannot seem
to relate.
It is as if you are two separate entities,
Once alike and now completely different.
You look at your reflection in the mirror to
find yourself crying.
Not tears of sorrow and pain, but of praise
and rejoice.
And you recall the feelings long past,
A sense of self being.
You are whole once again!
You say your good-byes to the small child,
Continuing on your way, no longer afraid of
the future.
Instead you feel something you once did,
A long time ago: excitement.
And you ask yourself
What road taken?
by Anonymous,
Osceola, WI
Birds of Death
What’s under my bed?
A box of yarn
A forgotten shirt
An old pair of jeans
Pens and other writing utensils
Dead batteries
One sock
A fork
A black hole
by Ash Sealy, Smyrna, TN
When Bees
Get Lonely
Seven-thousand, nine-hundred-and-seventy
octangular suns
and none of them were made for you.
Drunk on golden syrup
and too heavy for your own wings,
you’ll drift in and out of the reality some
genius named “the sky.”
Flowers tangle among each other to
strangle cobwebs.
The earth’s getting old and you feel like
being younger.
Paint yourself yellow with scars of black
because contrast is interesting and drama is too.
Seven-thousand, nine-hundred-and-seventy
octangular suns
and none of them were made for you.
by Jenese Hornsby, Chapel Hill, NC
Origin
I am from
the harsh biting wind
on a chilly night
in the “Windy City”
to the thick humid air
on a sweltering day
Of the populated Shanghai.
I am from
the pine smell
of sticky amber rosin,
the dynamic melody
expelled from
the wooden keys
of a piano.
These children of Ink,
Messengers of death,
Carrying sorrow on their wings,
Fear on their breath.
Blood on their beaks,
Bones in their claws,
Eliciting loud shrieks,
With soft, gentle, “caws.”
I am from
an old dusty pair
of tiny pale pink ballet shoes –
a memory of what used to be
to the hues
of oil paints
pure and brilliant.
Whether flocking in murders
Or murdering in flocks,
Their coal wings glint,
And their black eyes mock.
Beware these stony-eyed beasts
Answer not their call,
For if you dare,
Hard shall you fall.
Warn your neighbors against them
For we all know
Nothing is deadlier
Than a murder of crows.
I am from
the enticing smell
of sticky white rice
releasing swirls
wisps of smoke,
the clean wooden smell
of brand-new books –
an adventure contained
in crisp flawless pages
by Sierra Simmons,
Atascadero, CA
I am from everywhere
from a time
of a worn baby blankie
to the plastic colored Legos
and finally to the futuristic metal iPod.
by Anonymous,
Melrose Park, IL
by Ellen Zhao, Lake Zurich, IL
POETRY
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
41
Break Down
and Dance
There was a period of revolution.
From the 1920s to the 1930s
where every black man had stories
and
every white man had one too many glories.
But,
Mickey Mouse didn’t just sit down and watch
Charlie Chaplin
on his television set,
without listening to jazz.
Big guys
with folk lies
tellin’ stories you wouldn’t believe
without seein’ it with your own eyes,
and
explaining life with their musical manual.
And stop dreamin’ on shootin’ stars
just reach up and grab one.
Wrap
your fingers around the speed of light.
Let’s try to slow it down.
And hitch a ride to heaven.
Or just put your initials on it.
So next time it flies over the ocean,
steamboat willy’s gonna look up and go
damn,
I know him.
by Ben Militello, Sandown, NH
The Little
Lost Things
So much depends upon
the little lost things
bits of clocks
and teddy bear fluff
and worn out pencils
left in a dusty corner somewhere.
Tellin’ you do what you must do
and
always remember who to be true to
and stay on the path god tried to lay down
for you
but
take a sidestep.
Dance off the path that’s been beaten and
fallen on
by everyone you come upon
by Quinn O’Hara-Brantner,
Northfield, MN
Public Speaking
We impart our knowledge
To part with our self
And now,
push it outta the way because your roots
say slave
but your harmony screams soul
All our esteem
Raised to public voice
To elevate our image
Or, for our downfall
To diminish our conceit
and though your documentary hasn’t begun
your song has just started.
Each black note has not quite become whole
black,
representing your
note,
representing your goal
still dreamin’ of itself
and every broken melody it was
banned
from fallin’ on.
Then take your sidestep and old
jazz guitar
and carve that path the king
put on reserve.
A balloon,
APRIL ’11
“Why does it fly, Daddy?”
A cloud,
There in the sky,
A sailing shadow in the light,
A boy asks;
“Why does Mum cry, Daddy?”
A plane,
There in the sky,
A bird tossed amongst stars,
A boy asks;
“Why do men lie, Daddy?”
A bomb.
There in the sky.
A crash of white against black.
A boy breathes;
“I don’t want to die, Daddy.”
by Tom Porteous,
Lancaster, England
Advice
They say to color inside the lines,
But think outside the box,
They say to keep one step ahead,
But still turn back the clocks.
scribbles and scratches
blotting of spills
fill up journals
They say to listen to my folks,
But still to swerve and sway,
Insist I play by all their rules
When none have been displayed.
these illegible scrawlings
pour out of my mind
as the sky feeds
creation below
and just as the tears
of the sky
feed the earth
these scribbles and spills
nourish my heart
by Annika Virden, Franklin, TN
POETRY
They say to wash my hands with soap,
But then to hug a tree,
They say discrimination’s wrong,
While on a killing spree.
They say to follow on their path,
But take untrodden road,
They urge my questions to come forth,
While stuck in silent mode.
Demand the perfect answer to
Queries they have not posed,
Expect me to still read their mind,
With privacy imposed.
They say that all will come to end,
But new cannot be taught,
They say to climb my way up top,
While keeping down my thoughts.
They contradict and contravene,
They mix and mash and mold,
They play my heart on plucked bow strings,
With wisdoms of the old.
by Caitlin Rubin,
Lido Beach, NY
by Kaimana Miguel-Ah Sing,
Honolulu, HI
•
A boy asks;
They say to blend into the crowd,
But also stay unique,
They say to have an outspoken voice,
While still remaining chic.
Photo by Jazzlyn Liggins, Costa Mesa, CA
Teen Ink •
A red splash in the blue,
drips, splatters
splotches of useless words
burn slowly as the sky cries
its foggy tears
blatherskite.
Now Stand Up.
42
There in the sky,
With the bruising of the Superego
The Id is exposed
And focus descends into primal yearnings
Of group dynamics
And the body gives into native reflexes
As our counterbalance crimsons
he looks at her.
she looks at him.
both thinking ??
about what the other is thinking about.
he walks to her.
she walks to him.
both thinking ??
about what to say.
he opens his mouth.
she opens her mouth.
both thinking ??
who should go first.
he asks her out.
she asks him out.
both thinking ??
about their answer.
he says yes.
she says yes.
both thinking ??
about their future.
Starin’ down the sixteen-inch barrel.
Between you
and the man in the foggy mirror you’ve been
drawing all over for years.
And realizing you’re the only one with a
finger on the trigger!
At first,
carefree
so innocent
so angelic
Clueless but curious
An explorer
in uncharted land
Cautious but daring
to go anywhere
and everywhere.
Climbing
Crawling
Creeping
through your habitat.
The mind
open to new things
new places
new worlds
in your newfound excitement
of adventure.
Then;
cold
hard
unmoving.
Defiant
like a rock.
Refusing to change
its place in the world
and who it is.
Stubborn
ignorant
unwilling.
As if there is no other way
to live life
than how they do.
The result
of growing up.
by Eric Thurston, Lake Zurich, IL
he and she
Steppin’ outta the jazz club,
named after memories of men you
can’t remember
but would never forget.
Cigarette in mouth.
Goin’ from nobody
to somebody.
And landin’ on the clouds
you dreamed of reaching.
daddy?
All the efforts to carry oneself
In upheld pride
Are void
At the disapproval of contemporaries
by Grant Mueller, Newark, DE
Take that scale of your life
then bend it.
And scribble all over it.
Because though your fingers are playin’ jazz
your heart is still beatin’ the blues
and countin’ off your life like it’s a chorus,
That’s tryin’ not to repeat itself.
Growing Up
The Neighborhood
TiVo!
Not a Pretty Girl
I live in a neighborhood of silent black windows
Black windows on houses of cardboard brick
Houses with chimneys that haven’t smoked in
sixteen years
Chimneys mounted high on roofs of peeling
gray
And gray on cars parked at the bottom of the
driveway
And gray on the cheeks of softened children
And gray in the eyes of busy adults
And gray
Real life should have TiVo.
So, you know, if you ever want to
take a break, you can just hit
“pause” and come back later
because sometimes you
just need to stop for a minute,
slow down, loosen up,
get a snack, answer the phone,
yell at people to shut up
because you can’t hear a thing.
Then unwind and rewind and do over
and get it right this time without
anyone shouting in the background.
I am not a
pretty girl
but my clock
doesn’t strike at midnight.
I will dance ’til dawn.
No push up, push in
pin ups
100% Natural
Made in America
Like my Converses
used to be
by Christopher Kennedy, Mableton, GA
fetal escape
Art by Alice Levene, Coquitlam, BC, Canada
Poem in Blue
I’m feeling kind of morose.
In the stillness between morning
and night, where the blazing blue
light plays tricks on your eyes,
I skim the pads of my fingers
over a delicately frosted window.
When the crest of the sun licks the horizon
and life is breathed into the soil,
I remember you
and the melancholy feeling in my throat
melts away with the ice.
by Dewey Gelnaw-Brickley,
Maplewood, NJ
Atmosphere
Childhood
I remember days in childhood where I would
plop myself down on the grass
And tug on its blades,
Then tilt my head upward,
Where I would see clouds as animals constantly morphing shapes,
A turtle that curls in his feet to become a
snail,
I would giggle,
And the turtle-snail would extend his neck
And poke out his feet
To shift into a goofy-looking giraffe
That reminded me of the animal cracker ones
That I had reduced to crumbs
On the corner of my mouth.
Years have passed,
My days of short hair,
Overalls and bare feet over,
But childish wonder remains,
Even though countless dull science classes
have explained to me what the sky is,
I see it differently,
The sky itself seems like that endless blueand-white blanket
I used on late cool summer nights
To hide from darkness
By pulling it over my body
And holding up the small electrical sun.
by Nina Fromal,
Roanoke Rapids, NC
hey there bed and wheelchair
and Mother is everything
going to be rosy
after i go under your wing?
and i eat my spinach and meet
spinachgirls when i grow up and become
tall and
bullstrong like Papa
i know he does everything
right it breaks my heart to see him
come home
hey there white pills with the boring red
stripe down the middle like a
Canadian flag will you with
your human body make the sky beautiful
and never say good-bye
“love-don’t-leave-because”
hey there stranger-friends who never saw
it happen
i’m thirsty and my throat is parched so i
can’t tell
you how much i care and don’t care but
really i know we’ve set out far past
the playground
on one of those pirate ships we used to
make out
of paper
outside the window i see paper houses too
they float together like fish in my
old aquarium
the sea is being pummeled by rain
and nostalgic motion
sauna-and-fire sparks
thunderclaps as dry as a
funeral drum
but i’m so clumsy with words
what i’m trying to say Momma is
every storm has a rainbow
at the end
and if you keep massaging my fading
body and giving me those pills
i would be like an angel
You could slouch on the couch
in your pajamas with
a pint of Ben and Jerry’s,
start from the beginning again and
watch your memories unfold in
high definition,
recognition of your worst and best moments,
yelling at the screen as if your life was a football game
and you’re waiting for a touchdown.
And if life had TiVo,
you could fast forward past
all the homework, the boring job, the blandness
and witness only the interesting bits,
skip those commercials and get
straight to the action,
satisfaction that with this
same device, you can also
redo, redo, redo
all those times where
the sitcom happy ending
didn’t happen.
Wouldn’t it be great?
You’d live in your own Reality Show
Relish it all in slo-mo
And make your favorite parts
Last twice as long;
Click the delete button
And erase from your memory
All that you regret,
Reset your recordings to
The proper priorities
And hit “play.”
And even if your cable connection sucks
And the picture gets pixel-y,
And the sound breaks up,
We could still accomplish so much
With just a touch of a button.
by Nicola Brown, Hinsdale, IL
A Hate/Love
Relationship
living dreams and suffocating
in and on stuffed summer heat
i came out of a cold
dark
room
into log cabin lights and humid floorboards
dreaming into and out of different machines
of hell.
by Claire LeDoyen, Suffolk, VA
by Anonymous, Canoga Park, CA
the beginning
of summer
You may tell us
to wait
for that prince,
Knight in Shining Hypocrisy
to mount the tower
and claim his prize.
Well, let me tell you:
I put myself
in that tower
You, sir, may be
stronger
taller
wiser
But that don’t break
my spine of steel. I will
fight you,
a tsunami of
blood
of life
This is my battle cry
my minute resolution
for who we are
and what we represent
Dolled up
Locked up
Was it always your plan to sabotage my life
and make it your own?
To run a string of emotions through my body
and puppet me with it?
You, manipulative charmer, you.
You, man unbearable, man irresistible.
You, the water-damaged pages of my diary.
You,whom I love in a melancholic sense of
the word.
I don’t know how to think when I’m with you.
Inanimate ragdoll, naive and so vulnerable to
your sweet talk.
You write my script, but you’re also the
leading man.
Dictate my next move, sir, because I don’t
know what to do.
by Joshua Jia, Kingston, ON, Canada
You may try to
thaw my heart
but it’s no popsicle
Sweet Cherry
Waiting for you to suck on
POETRY
You, sir, may have the power
to sell your sex
Market your ideals
But I don’t
buy machismo!
No longer will I
hide in the dark
bruised body and
sore soul
whispering prayers
by night.
Because I shall
waltz right past your rippling pecs
and shapely cut shoulders
Past your arms
in an embrace, ready
to hold me in my place.
I am on fire
Burning with a voltage
that rips through the night
A hunger that
cannot be satiated
with lip gloss
or polished
in pink varnish.
I am not
A pretty girl.
by Katie Trudeau,
Saranac Lake, NY
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
43
Oh, Sweet
Bathing in Riches
the water.
Melancholy Autumn Start
Plug the drain.
I wore a crown
of leaves today
to feel once more
like your Queen –
A man-made ocean;
Dig through the toy bin –
A ship, an angelic duck,
A bandit mallard.
My Lord,
the leaves have fallen,
faded,
gone,
and I am nothing again.
Add the bubbles.
And dive in
To find the buried treasure
Before tsunamis
Wash it away.
by Sami Martinez, Juneau, AK
Raging waves
And sea foam,
No match for this ship.
It takes on water,
Sinks
To the sandless sea floor.
Everyone Stares
Everyone stares,
Waiting for my next bite
I keep cutting it smaller
And smaller
Finally I got 24 pieces
I’ve been through this before
Stab on fork,
Why can’t they just lock me away?
Slowly lift to mouth,
I keep reaching the danger zone
Open mouth,
I want to keep going down
Bite down and chew,
Maybe if I chew enough, the calories
will disappear
Chew, chew, chew,
Only 23 bites to go
Swallow,
I wish I could go on
But I can’t risk another bite
They should just lock me up
A white bandana,
On a young boy’s forehead.
How can he mess up his life
So young?
the first
line
delivered clearly to the
crowd
under stage
lights
on the opening
night.
by Brittany Towle, Glenburn, ME
Humpty Dumpty, cool as can be, enjoyed his
iced tea as he sat on the wall.
It was perfect outside
a calm 65 degrees with a nice little breeze.
Nothing can ruin this moment
thought Humpty
until he saw an annoying old acquaintance fly
up to a near tree.
There was a terrible grudge between these
two, a fiery hatred.
Just the sight of Kirby, the irritating bird,
made Humpty’s very yolk boil.
And Kirby began.
The chirps and the tweets and the
infuriating peeps.
Humpty couldn’t stand it.
My God!
That has to be the most frustrating animal in
all of the world.
I can’t take it much longer. I’m gonna burst
with anger.
My perfect day just ruined entirely.
I hate that bird!
Aren’t they strange, windows?
Aren’t they strange, so clear and open
so transparent like people.
but sometimes if you
adjust your sight
you can see yourself reflected thinly
isn’t it strange, these perfect layers of glass
are so quiet and bright.
But even
quiet, bright, perfect things have stains.
Humpty Dumpty looked around for a rock
but only could find his still-full can of
Arizona tea.
Without thinking
Humpty heaved the heavy can and aimed
right for Kirby’s face.
But Humpty lost his balance mid-throw and
fell back off the great wall and onto
his shell.
What a disaster and, to top it all off,
the sound of a jerk chirping and tweeting and
peeping in laughter
rang loudly in Humpty’s cracked head.
And Humpty knew not that soon all the
king’s horses and all the king’s men
would have to put Humpty back
together again.
by Caroline Schmidt, Phoenix, AZ
Whispers
Whispers.
I do not look up as they fill the hallways
Every whisper filled with the sound of
my name
I do not speak as they look over me,
gossiping.
Their eyes tear through my confidence.
Tears that sting my eyes find a crystal path
down my cheeks.
They continue, forever labeling me as “The
Girl Who …”
by Phil Eide, Mt. Prospect, IL
So young, his voice
Is still child-like,
But he smokes,
Steals,
And kills people.
Smoking and stealing
Is what he always does,
With his white bandana
Always on his forehead
by Roberto Corona, Houston, TX
Limbs of a Dancer
Arched and bent,
Bruised and beaten,
They are busted and feel broken;
They are tired, but never defeated.
Off of the floor,
Into the air,
Pressed down,
they are pointed,
While the beats,
They are counted.
The Truth Behind
the Fall
Mother thinks I am
washing the windows with a
blue cloth and a bottle of Windex
that might smear the stains around
on a sheet of glass.
Art by Carter Neale, Charlotte, NC
The Largest
Creature on Earth
Beneath the shadow of the giant monster
I stood gazing, wondering,
How could anyone tame such a BEAST?
As any five-year-old,
anything bigger than you is considered
gigantic
Time to face the creature towering above me
I felt myself being lifted up to the ladder
Cautiously, I climbed higher and
higher, grasping
each bar, watching the ground getting farther
Farther
Farther
Away
When I reached the top, I settled in front of
my grandma on the blanket
Everything seemed so different, almost
mystical,
being so high off the ground made me feel on
top of the world.
The beast lumbered forward swaying its trunk
back and forth.
Sitting on the beast, time flew by, before I
knew it, I was descending down the ladder.
Gazing back at the creature I once thought
was so barbaric and vicious, was actually
gentle and innocent.
Never judge anything by its appearance
because you may miss one of life’s great
opportunities.
by Danielle Lecher, Park City, UT
Land on one,
Bend on two,
A thousand pairs of eyes,
All of them on you.
Like a flash of lightning
In the sky,
Legs reach out:
It is their attempt to fly.
And up again,
One last time,
Legs want to scream,
They want to cry.
But an overwhelming applause
Mutes their whining:
Heart still pounding,
Audience all rising.
And they carry themselves
Off of the stage,
Into a black abyss
Where the music played.
And there arrive
The tears of joy
As the makeup streams down
Like on the painted face of a porcelain toy.
by Stephanie Habersaat, Wyckoff, NJ
calmwild
Happysad
Goodbad
Lovingmad
Child’sDad
Hecticcalm
Rashbalm
Fearlessqualm
Child’sMom
Calmwild
Contentriled
Viciousmild
Parent’schild
by Callie Todhunter, Medford, MA
by Traci Parker, Windsor, CT
APRIL ’11
So much depends
upon
by Reid Duval, Gilford, NH
What Mother
Thinks
Teen Ink •
A White Bandana
Now it’s a race;
Outlaw to angel
Winner takes all
The glory.
An age-old rivalry
Challenged by opinion
Never to be concluded.
by Lauren Udell, Coronado, CA
44
Theater
•
POETRY
The Constant
Onlooker
I know an old man who lives down the lane
With a wrinkled old face and a thin
wooden cane
From time to another, will waver an inch
But never is he known to rise from his bench
His face a still surface and a window for
his eye
Content to be the witness to the world
gliding by
As it croons its happy-sad, slow melody
to him
A mind gently swaying to the never-ending
rhythm
The fellow sits there all morning to watch the
dawn of day
Our sun is climbing through its realm to find
its daily stay
Dabbed, at the old man’s feet, by diamond
drops of dew
On the face of all around the lane is brushed a
brighter hue
Creatures, every breed, deliver their
new-day song
A happy heart frolics with them all along
Persons stir from their homes; call down the
lanes to say
“Good morning!” to the one who always sees
the dawn of day
He sits there all afternoon to see the noontime
of day
Colors flit ’round and ’round to brightly lead
the eyes astray
A hand of warmth envelops him throughout
the lengthy hours
He sups the sun with budding leaves and
blooming flowers
Blithe butterflies flutter; the aged trees creak
and sway
A smile in the air when the children come
to play
Majestic clouds bow low to him, only to
swirl away
Bow low to the one who always sees the heart
of day
He sits there all the evening to watch the
close of day
Through windows of homes, to watch the
folks who pray
But darkness crawls across the sky, keeps the
light at bay
Lonely silence lingers when Day’s last sparks
die away
Save a twinkle from the dark depths; the stars
have come to stay!
Light, darkness, silence, sound – skipping
hand in hand
Beautifully joyous in the dusk-to-dawn band
A worn face in the shadows observes the array
The face of the one who always sees the close
of day
Every day
And feels Spring’s lively cheers
And Winter wielding chilly tears
And Summer with its golden grin
And Autumn with its crispy skin
The world so heavily embraced
By the wrinkled old man
Who sits on a bench
And lives down the lane
by Matthew Kennedy, Mableton, GA
Mango-Girl
A Vacation
i have lived
Fruit that likes to think
she’s exotic and foreign
and tropical.
She’s got fire-orange skin
from the surfer-sun;
no spray-tan faker-baker here.
She was bona-fide grown
in her island paradise,
gossiping with pineapple
in frosty smoothies
and flirting with banana
and papaya in fruit salad.
She wore a hula skirt
and a lily in her hair
until she got shipped
to the mainland,
where she got chopped
and freeze-dried
and frozen.
She’s still sweet and juicy-tangy
when you bite into her,
she’s just not
exotic and foreign and tropical
anymore, like she wishes
she was.
Type,
Click clack
The keys of white
And black.
Look.
Silence
A beach screensaver,
Providing a haven for an
Overstressed mind.
i used to play sailor moon
with a girl named judy.
i pretended i was a horse
with a girl named christina.
i kissed my first boy in kindergarten
because i was the mom and he was the dad
and that’s what mommies and daddies do.
i fell in love with harrison ford
the first time i watched star wars
[but indiana jones sealed the deal]
once upon a time, i decided to give pink
a chance
[the color not the singer]
that didn’t last long.
by Mallory Skinner,
Richmond, BC, Canada
Three cups of coffee;
Sip.
A mug
Entitled
“World’s greatest worker,”
Encouraging
A work ethic
Fueled by caffeine
And cash.
now people think i’m grown up
but i paint my nails in yellows, blues,
and greens
not the french manicures of a mature woman.
i still play with silly string
and dance with the rain pouring down on
my face.
i still watch cartoons and listen to my
music loud.
i do not inhibit my laughs, giggles, or snorts.
i pop bubbles as they float on by
and catch silly snowflakes on my tongue.
He takes a sip,
Tasting
The taste
Of being one sip closer
To the plane fare
From LAX to calmness,
Doesn’t everyone need a vacation?
by Ian White, Los Angeles, CA
plaster
the man of
one lonely face
looks down upon those of color
the man of
one lonely face
sees no reason to shine.
“but shy?” she dares to ask,
she of smiles and frowns and
twinkling laughter
and the man of one
lonely face
looks straight through her,
eyelashes unfluttered.
one morning, the man
of one lonely face
looks up and feels sunlight hit his cheeks
and the man of one lonely face
is aglow.
she had left so quickly,
out of
his reach, “good-bye,”
no time to change, no time
to switch to a new façade
(perhaps one of
pain, suffering, misconceptions
and maybe even
loneliness).
Just look
I open my eyes,
Look out into the world.
A world of big cities,
Buildings so high they’re in the troposphere,
Cars that give off more gas in a day than
every little boy in America.
Money that taunts and takes,
Driving the world into war,
And the economy into the toilet.
Or should I say the Atlantic,
Which is so murky that you can barely tell
the difference.
But if I let my eyes come out of focus, just
a little,
Then I can really look.
I look into a world of nature and imagination.
I revel at the view of the mighty trees
standing tall and majestic.
I giggle watching the fairies and chipmunks
waltzing in their shade.
And I smile as the King and Queens, of
countries everywhere, of every race,
religion, and language,
hold hands.
Just look, look at them.
by Kaylee Burns, Brooklyn, NY
i want to tell my great-grandchildren that i
have lived
but i know that even now
with a bucket list 10,000 pages long
and not one thing crossed off
that i could still say, i have lived
because i didn’t grow up too fast.
by Anonymous, Glen, MS
this pen and paper
heal me
As the ink drips to the paper,
In the form of words,
my pain slides out of me,
through the form of tears.
My words keep my sanity,
but can drive me insane.
My thoughts and words are constant,
when life is inconsistant.
If pain renders blood,
my blood is the words
dripping onto the page
that heals me.
by Nicole Kempf,
Mechanicsburg, PA
1969
so the
man of one lonely face
is thoroughly
lost
because there are no
smiles or frowns or twinkling laughter
only his tears to
wash away the grit and glue
to become a man
of no face, of one
lonely world.
The exposure of your body
You conform into the crowd
Sway to the beat
While the revolution of the lyrics hits
your lips
Suddenly your spirit escapes
As it watches your movement
A calm wave crashes surrounding you
Freedom comes at your fingertips
by Angie Kang, Franklin Lakes, NJ
Dreams become reality
As reality becomes your dream
Art by Amber Kruzel, Thunder Bay, ON, Canada
POETRY
by Chelbi Wade,
Westbrook, CT
•
APRIL ’11
• Teen Ink
45
Staring at
Light Bulbs
Is a great habit.
One can sit back
And float softly in the clutter.
Siamese deer statues,
Trashed haiku,
Brass horn flowers,
Long, long hours,
Broken clocks,
Pugnacious pots,
Toilet pipes,
So many gripes.
Seaside
I Can’t Escape
The old man turned and he told me
children brought up on the beach
do not go wrong.
His head was smooth as if
like driftwood it had been worn by waves.
He had frayed hair and balanced blue eyes
and I thought he must be right because
It’s late at night
So late
And in the light of my cracked laptop screen
I see your face.
(Blink it away, it’s just a face.)
I try to sleep
close my heavy eyes to the beat of my heart
But I feel your breath
Hear your laugh in my loud AC
(So I
wake up, turn on the TV)
And the boy on the screen
he looks just like you
going through life, playing with girls so I
(Turn off the TV)
Put on my iPod and there’s
Jaymay
Singing about how in love she is
I forgot that we used to be like that.
Are there a million miles
Between us now?
I curl up
Hug my pillow close because
For the time being
That pillow
Is all
I have.
I saw children growing up
with sand in their teeth and salt in their veins.
These were the ones who chased the waves
who cried at the ice-cream truck
as if it were the advent of an oncoming army
and the beach-goers sleeping regulars
who dared their way to the raft out far
where they mounted the diving board
and pursued pallid Popsicle sticks.
These things flow from you,
Staining a lampshade or ceiling
While your eyes sizzle.
It was for this
all this and the way the sun
textured their skin
that they grew up laughing
but also knowing when to be silent.
They saw the light change on the water
they let the light change on them
but never in them.
Like the ocean they know
they must give from their depths
and from scouring for shells and sea glass
they know how to treasure
what others give.
They lengthen as the day wears on
they leave but one day
they are drawn back.
Nothing is the same but still they breathe
like the rush of waves at tide
inout inout.
by Jordan Hellmann, Lancing, TN
Lick
This tongue may slip
on words and tongue-twisters,
R’s may not roll.
But this tongue is a vessel of language.
This tongue likes to talk,
and this tongue expresses thought.
I have not a forked tongue,
an easily morphed tongue.
This tongue has integrity.
This tongue has taste.
This tongue is in cheek,
it is sharp, not weak.
But this tongue stays in check.
I bite this tongue.
Not too much, however;
there is greatness on the tip of this tongue.
by Nora Sternlof, New London, CT
by Lauren Halter, Lambertville, MI
Lamentations from
the YA Section at
Barnes and Noble
It smells like Teen Spirit that’s just
gone rotten
They churn out these pages, but something’s
forgotten.
The words are all there, but they omit the
plot and
Any notion of theme, executed, gunshot.
Bloodsucking heartthrobs, at the head of
the craze,
End my vain attempts of escaping this maze.
Trashy paperbacks put me in a daze,
Twilight-vision goggles would see through
the haze.
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
Door-to-Door
His voice
matches the pitch of the doorbell he rings.
His foot
stamps impatiently in time to the raps on
the door.
The curtain flutters –
and falls;
no
one’s
coming.
He drags his feet and his case,
moving on to the next house.
46
Teen Ink •
APRIL ’11
When the rotting fruit of the day rolls onto
your tongue,
and the cold caffeine of sweet agitation
shocks your all-too-willing system,
you’ll awaken from your stupor.
When the heat of the desert combines
with the imperfection of agitation
(like splotches of ink
that adulterate
the ivory of paper)
you’ll awaken from your sleep.
When seizures of tangerine orange,
twitches of grating sound
open their midnight mouths, their sunken
eyes of liquid skeletons;
When the bees fly low, wings beating;
When the bells abandon their rhythmic
chorus in expectations of cacophony, of
pure chaotic
Autumn
A season of preparatory affections and drifting,
from ancient memories and cold friendships
by Caroline Schmidt,
Phoenix, AZ
Your innocuous remarks hold my head
under water
My own disgrace
by Ashley Magown, Dracut, MA
•
Damn Agitating
Hope
(off on a tangent)
Agitation,
you’ll awaken from your pathetic illusions
of tranquility.
And when the noise stops, when the
sound shatters,
and you miss it like the devil you are,
you’ll find
the escape
falls far from your hope,
that hopeless hope,
that damn agitating hope.
So pack it in, Holden, no more catching
in rye.
The cause was worthy, the fight worth a try.
But now it seems worthless, so kiss
it good-bye,
Your time is at hand, now just let it die.
by Tim Livingston, Pittsburgh, PA
by Jodi Blumenthal, Teaneck, NJ
by H.B. Smith,
Boca Raton, FL
POETRY
Why Does Your
Name Have to Be
the Same as His?
I can’t help but love that smile of yours
the one I only saw for the first time
on Monday
– a six-day lifetime ago –
the smile punctuated by blue braces,
the one that bubbles into a chortle
or a full-fledged, open-mouthed laugh.
I can’t help but want to just sit and
listen to you talk all day
– you’d do it, too, you chatterbox –
just sit and listen to your stories about
paintball, firecrackers, and NRH2O
the stories that make me laugh
and show off an already-patented
caused-by-you smile.
I can’t help but feel guilty as I hug
you good-bye,
– an innocent, “all arms, no body” hug –
but nonetheless, I feel like I’m breaking rules,
tearing down walls, trust built between
me and another boy with your same
six-letter first name
– that just makes this all the more tangled
and rough –
and when I smile and say, “Bye, Andrew!”
as you wander away,
I can’t help but wonder which Andrew I’m
moving in the opposite direction of.
by Lindsey Faust,
Keller, TX
Pomegranate
Penetrate
the dusky maroon and leathered skin
Gaze upon ivory veins spiderwebbing
clustered clumps of crimson-colored seeds
Honeycombed within dwarfed caverns
and chasms and grottos
by Aubrey Buck,
Williamsburg, VA
The Great
Expansion
What is the cost
of cutting this one
lonely piece of grass?
More grass.
So, I shall decapitate
one million blades
so that maybe grass
will grow in my house.
And then a tree.
Its roots buried deep
in my jade carpet.
I would swing on vines
to the den
so that I might run a mile
with a zebra on my tread.
I will cut this grass
for a greener view.
by Rachel Welborn,
Brown Summit, NC