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CONTENTS
M AY
TEENS, GET PUBLISHED!
4
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18-19 College Directory
25 Art Gallery
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Grandfather knows best? • Prison is not the answer •
Online privacy • Feminism today
POINTS OF VIEW
8
9
16
20-24
EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR
26-27
TRAVEL & CULTURE
28
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2014 | VOL. 25, NO. 9
WW/PP
5/14
The Parents Issue
Bedtime Kiss
10
Water
10
Discovering Dad
11
Hiding
11
“Slow Down, Pete”
12
The Great Debaters
12
The Pink War
13
The Strand Bench
13
You, Me, and the Silver Screen 14
Moving On, Moving Out
15
Fragility
15
Plus fiction & poetry about parents
Online Privacy
“Being friends with someone on
Facebook means that I often
know everything from what he
did last summer to what he had
for dinner last night. How can I
be expected to feign interest in a
story I’ve already seen tweeted,
posted, and photo-tagged ten
times?”
“My Privacy Is Alive and Well,”
page 7
Cover art by Joseph Santiago-Dieppa, Northridge, CA
FEEDBACK
Fast-Food Nation
Reading “Fast-Food Nation” by “Allison”
made me want to flip my table. Her support
of fast-food restaurants was at first odd, but
as the article went on, it made me outright
outraged. She even had the nerve to make
statements like “Simply put, the U.S. is the
greatest country on Earth, and fast food is
the greatest concept we have ever come up
with” and “… fast-food restaurants are so
great that sometimes I think they should be
the only places Americans are allowed to
buy food.” Allison described the benefits of
the fast-food industry: “cheap, fast, easy,
useful and made ‘just as you like it.’” She
also claimed that it teaches children important habits and the value of time.
Without going into too much detail, I’ll
just say that I was constantly repeating, “Is
this a joke?” The sarcasm and irony were
way too overboard for it not to be phony.
And then I realized … it was. On the side of
the page, it said “Pointless Views” instead
of “Points of View,” and the bottom said
“April Fools ’14.”
I admit it – I was tricked.
Matthew Fine, Staten Island, NY
Thank You, Teen Ink
I first heard about Teen Ink in sixth grade
when one of my classmate’s poems was
published in the magazine. I remember
wondering what it would feel like to be a
published too. I had tried to write before but
without much success. I always got bored
and gave up before my story was finished.
Recently, I stumbled upon TeenInk.com and
started writing again. That’s when I realized
that writing is really fun.
The difference between Teen Ink and other teen magazines is that it has substance.
When you read magazines about celebrity
gossip and the latest fashion trends, what do
you actually learn? Nothing. I always learn
a lot when I read Teen Ink. This is where I
get my writing inspiration.
My favorite section of the website is the
opinions. Issues like eating disorders,
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4
Barbara Field
To submit your feedback or find the articles mentioned here, go to TeenInk.com
bullying, and other social problems are examined from various perspectives. I also
like to read stories written by other
teenagers. Most people understand what
I’ve been through, so they aren’t critical of
my actions. I can get feedback and support
from people my age. It’s a place where I
can share my experiences and feelings without worrying what people will think.
I’ve only been a member for a few weeks,
but I look forward to reading new articles
every day. I’m not going to pretend that I’m
a great writer, but I do love writing. Teen
Ink motivates me to write and care about
people in my life. I plan to keep writing and
hope that my writing will be published in
the magazine in the future. I believe that it
would mean a lot to any teen writer to see
his or her article in print.
I have a few questions: How long does it
take for your work to be published in the
magazine after you submit it? For example,
do you only consider articles submitted in
April for publication in the May issue?
Thank you, Teen Ink, for encouraging me
to write. Thank you for making me a better
person.
Yilin Chen, Noblesville, IN
Editor’s response: Yilin, now you are a
published writer too! To answer your question, we consider submissions for up to a
year after we receive them. Waiting can be
difficult, but don’t lose hope. Even if your
piece is not published, that doesn’t mean it
wasn’t good or we didn’t enjoy it. We just
get many more pieces than we can fit into
ten issues per year.
So What If We
Can’t Vote?
Through the passionate article “So
What If We Can’t Vote?” author Claire
Israel explained a growing problem in our
nation. Both voters and underage citizens,
especially teenagers, are growing increasingly ignorant about political matters. In
today’s society, most teenagers don’t care
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EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
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about who is elected, believing that it
doesn’t affect them. However, the author
states that many political issues impact
young people, such as the No Child Left
Behind Act of 2001. Claire did a wonderful
job shining light on this predicament by using specific examples and clear reasoning.
I agree with Claire that young people are
unappreciative of our voting rights. They
ignore or even scorn voting, such as the girl
on Facebook mentioned in the article. Furthermore, many Americans are ignorant of
political subjects, such as the names of important government figures.
For the future of this country, this issue is
crucial. Claire suggests that teenagers be
educated and informed about political topics and elections of governors, presidents,
senators, and other leaders. Teenagers could
also engage in activities that are similar to
the government of the United States, to foster a greater interest in politics.
“So What If We Can’t Vote?” is a magnificent article about the ignorance of U.S.
citizens. Hopefully this important piece
will inspire young people to become more
informed and involved.
Vincent Jiang, Brooklyn, NY
Like OMG Hi
I can relate to Elizabeth Corning’s
poem about cheerleading, “Like OMG Hi,”
because people at my high school judge
cheerleaders in a very similar manner. Other
students usually think that we are dumb,
stuck up, and rude, and they say cheer is not
a sport when in reality we work just as hard
as other athletes. Most of us are very intelligent, kind, and welcoming. Our practices
can get very intense as well. Sure, you can
catch a ball, but try catching a teammate
who is spiraling through the air. It’s not as
effortless as we make it seem.
People need to realize that cheerleaders
are not dumb and rude like in the movies.
Also, cheer is definitely a sport. The only
difference is that not only do we perform
and compete like every other sport, but we
have to look good doing it – with no mistakes. Elizabeth makes these points in her
poem, and I agree. There is so much more
to cheer than big, shiny bows and pom
poms.
Yesenia Vidales, Phoenix, AZ
Motivated
I would just like to tell you how much I
appreciate you publishing my work on your
website. It’s beyond motivating to me! I
have a passion for writing, and to have my
work considered by a real publisher is fantastic! Thank you for giving me the motivation to continue to write my heart out!
Kaylin Mahoney, Chicago, IL
I Like/I Hate
“I hate when people cry and I can’t help,”
wrote Sami Ng in her article “I Like/I
Hate.” It made me rethink what I like and
dislike. I guess other people hate being
helpless too, especially when seeing those
who mean the world to them cry. Actually, I
think just being there to support them is all
they can ask for. People are so lonely sometimes that they wish someone would be
there for them, just to hug them while they
cry.
I like when people talk to me because it’s
the hardest thing I can do. I hate myself for
not being more open to others. Sami put a
smile on my face with her article. She
showed readers that she’s a really caring
and smart girl. I hope she’ll continue doing
what she likes, and maybe what she doesn’t
like will change. I hope she will always be
this carefree person.
Linh Truong, Phoenix, AZ
Tell us what you think
about any article in this
issue, and you may
find yourself here!
MEET THE BULLY, THE BULLIED,
AND THE BYSTANDER.
“Wow. The only book
about the problem of
bullying entirely written
by teenagers. I know their
personal stories will move
you, anger you, inspire
you—even scare you.”
—R.L. Stine, author of
the Goosebumps series
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• Teen Ink
5
points of view
Grandfather Knows Best?
by Mikala Hood, Reynolds, GA
“S
ages 18 to 29 support it. The reasons for this divide
Rights Movement may still carry the beliefs and
are many. For some members of the older generacustoms of the world before this great change. For
tions they simply have never known anyone who is
them it is difficult to shake the ideas and prejudices
openly gay, which makes it harder for them to see
they lived with as children – a way of life so bitter
homosexuals as individuals. Many seniors view hothat it left marks on those who survived.
mosexuals as a threat to traditional values, rather
Inevitably, we still find racism in young people
than a group of people struggling for equality. Conwho have been influenced by their parents and
versely, the youth of today grew up
grandparents. Nevertheless, my genalongside friends and family members
eration is making progress. We did
who have bravely opened up about
not grow up in the grip of segregaWe are letting
their sexual orientation. Sympathy
tion; never in our lives has it been
go of the
bred from those close connections has
legal to discriminate according to
produced a liberal generation that
skin color. Today we see more interbigotry of past
empathizes with that struggle for
racial couples than ever before, more
acceptance.
biracial children, more social interacgenerations
Wars and genocides have been cartion and acceptance between races,
ried out in the name of religious beand we elected and re-elected a biraliefs throughout history. Religion is a very powerful
cial president. We are slowly but surely letting go of
social institution, but some believe it is on the dethe bigotry of past generations in exchange for a socline in America today, that the younger generations
ciety that is more colorblind.
have lost their faith, if they ever had any. The truth
Another issue that is viewed in vastly different
is, religion is not disappearing; it is changing into
ways by different generations in the U.S. is homosomething that older generations may not recognize.
sexuality. A recent poll taken by Princeton Survey
The rise of the non-denominational church indiResearch Associates revealed that 51 percent of sencates that America’s youth are not becoming atheiors oppose gay marriage, while 73 percent of those
ists, as many fear, but rather are embracing less
organized religious structures. Some youth today believe traditional religious institutions are hypocritical, judgmental, and intolerant, especially in their
views of homosexuals, minorities, pregnant teens,
ex-convicts, and outsiders in general. By not identifying as Christians, Protestants, Jews, or Catholics,
by Cooper Kelley, Cambridge, MA
young people can explore their faith without the
possible restrictions of these labels.
try on the list, Germany, had about a sixth that number.
magine you live in a country where 500 out of every
Politics also has its share of generational divides.
According to FBI’s annual report “Crime in the United
hundred thousand people are prisoners. A country that
Americans who are unemployed, unmarried, or less
States,” about 11 percent of crimes in 2012 were commitspends more money on its inmates than its students. A
educated are less likely to vote, and most young
ted by minors under age 18. Now, one might say, “Those
country where if being incarcerated was a job, it would be
people fit in one or more of these categories. Howkids should be in school. Why are they committing
one of the most common occupations. You’re probably
ever, when they do vote, they tend to be interested in
crimes?”
Well,
they
might
not
actually
be
in
school.
In
thinking, That sounds like a horrible place. I’m glad I
certain issues, like the minimum wage, marriage
2012
the
high
school
dropout
rate
was
7
perdon’t live there. However, you probably do.
rights, and equality. By contrast, issues like Social
cent. One of the main reasons for dropping out
The country I am describing is the United
Security and health care tend to drive elders to the
States of America.
The U.S. has the is socioeconomic status. Kids from low-income
polls. These divides are understandable; of course
families are 2.4 times more likely to drop out
The United States is home to about 5 permost prisoners than middle-class kids, and 10 times more
retirees are concerned with topics that directly affect
cent of the world’s population but 25 perthem, while youth have strong opinions about how
likely than high-income students. If we support
cent of the world’s prisoners. These figures
in the world
much they are being paid and who they are allowed
kids from lower-income families, they will be
just don’t make sense. In 1980 there were
to marry.
more
likely
to
stay
in
school.
about 500,000 people incarcerated in AmerAlthough our generations may be divided about
Getting
an
education
will
improve
not
just
their
future,
ica. In 2006, there were almost 2.5 million. That’s a 500
social change and traditional values, my grandfather
but that of their children. High school graduates on averpercent increase in just 26 years.
and I can still find some areas of common ground.
age make $10,000 more than dropouts annually, and someNot only does the U.S. have the most prisoners, but our
This usually begins with me admitting that, in some
one with a bachelor’s degree earns about $26,000 more
citizens commit the most crimes in the world by a landcases, “Grandfather knows best.” And for his part,
than that. If these kids succeed in school, they will make
slide – about 12.5 million crimes in 2011. The next counhe sometimes agrees that today’s world is much difmore money in the real world, so their kids will be more
ferent from the one he grew up in, and perhaps the
financially stable and more likely to succeed too.
society I have to navigate has taught me things he
Bringing this back to the crime rate, more than 80 perwill never know. Although this may be as close to a
cent of those who spend time in the corrections system are
compromise as we get, it’s something.
dropouts. If the money spent on incarcerating people had
The ’90s kids, as we are often called, are at times
been put toward providing a proper education for them as
reckless and indifferent to serious topics. This is
children, many probably wouldn’t have dropped out and
why we must always respect the opinions of those
would have led much more successful lives.
who came before us. We must let our parents
The U.S. has to start helping young people succeed in
and grandparents guide us toward being more
school in order to decrease the dropout and incarceration
responsible, and then we can put our ideals into
rates in our country. The prison system and social welfare
action. There can be no doubt that our youthful
programs cost a lot of money that could be used by the edperspective must win the day, because this new
ucation system instead. Instead of spending millions buildworld requires a different way of thinking from past
ing jails, we should be funding schools and keeping kids in
generations. After all, one generation could not surthe classroom.
vive without the other, and so we hope for comproWould you rather live in a place where everyone is edumise, but for now we must agree to disagree. ✦
cated and employed, or where many citizens are locked up
Photo by Maricon Villena, Dededo, Guam
and draining your tax dollars? Think about it. ✦
ugar, you need to listen to Granddaddy.
I’ve been around longer than you, and
you need to trust that I know better than
you.” This statement is how my grandfather ends
most of our debates over issues of race, homosexuality, and the definitions of sexual promiscuity. In
his gentle but firm manner, he claims that because
he is older, his opinions are automatically more
valid than mine, even if those opinions are at times
discriminatory, narrow-minded, or based on stereotypes. Grandparents and parents across America feel
the need to deliver such speeches to younger generations in an attempt to pass on what they consider to
be much-needed wisdom – but I believe some values
and attitudes are better left in the past. Those with
age and experience have valuable life lessons to
share, but they may also be passing on prejudices
that can hinder progress.
It seems that the world has never changed as
quickly as it has in the last hundred years. There has
never been so much freedom and equality on the
planet, yet it still seems not to be enough for my
generation. Racism has been made illegal through
legislation, but it remains in the hearts of many
Americans. Those who lived through the Civil
Educate, Don’t Incarcerate
I
6
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
R
account. She survives without any kind of social
ecently I realized why I have so much troumedia outlet, and has all the privacy she wants.
ble with small talk. Finding trivial things to
When she began new classes last fall, the students
say to someone to pass the time is really difsitting next to her didn’t know how she spent her
ficult when you already know hundreds of unimporsummer and wouldn’t have guessed that she visited
tant facts about them. Being friends with someone
a Native American reservation. Her other classmates
on Facebook means that I often know everything
knew all about each other’s activities, even though
from what he did last summer to what he had for
they didn’t necessarily know each other. The fact
dinner last night. How can I be expected to feign inthat people like my friend exist shows that privacy is
terest in a story I’ve already seen tweeted, posted,
not dead; social media doesn’t control us. We can
and photo-tagged ten times?
chose to opt out.
Privacy has been decreasing rapidly with the inOthers, like me, have social media accounts but
creasing popularity of Facebook, twitter, tumblr, and
use them carefully to maintain privacy. Although I
other social media outlets. More and more people
have a Facebook account, I don’t post information
are sharing private information on the Internet withabout myself. Where users have entered their educaout thinking twice. Websites make it easy and fun to
tion, hometown, and relationship stadivulge these details, including your
tus, I’ve left these blank. I never post
favorite ice cream flavor, relationship
“Privacy is
statuses about what’s on my mind, nor
status, and location at any given modo I post pictures showing what I’ve
ment. The increasing amount of infor- dead, and social
been up to. I’ve also turned my chat
mation shared by users has changed
media holds the settings to “offline” so when I log on to
social norms as well as the way many
message a friend or wish someone a
people perceive their own lives.
smoking gun”
happy birthday, no one knows I’m onAs popularity of social media mulline. This way, information I
tiplies daily, we need to evaluate the
want to keep private – like what I did on Sunrole these sites play in decreasing our privacy. Peter
day, or who I hung out with – stays private.
Cashmore, CEO of Mashable Inc., went so far as to
These options on sites like Facebook exist so
say, “Privacy is dead, and social media holds the
that we can make choices about what we
smoking gun.” However, I disagree. While it’s clear
keep private. If people have lost their privacy
that social media has assisted millions in expanding
on social media websites, it’s because they
their lives, making vast amounts of personal inforwillingly gave it up; social media doesn’t
mation public, we need to remember that we are still
force them to do so.
in control of what we disclose. Privacy is not dead;
Even those who use social media actively
it lives on despite being made unpopular by the risand regularly post personal information
ing tide of social media.
haven’t completely given up their privacy.
People who have resisted the pull of peer pressure
They choose what to post, and no one can fit
and decided not to participate in social media show
their entire life onto a blog or a tweet. There
that we have a choice: We can choose not to broadis some information that even the most avid
cast the details of our lives on the Internet. One of
blogger or up-to-date tweeter wouldn’t share,
my good friends decided after a month of using
and it’s up to each person to decide what’s
Facebook that it wasn’t for her, and deleted her
too much. We are all capable of turning off
Feminism Today
A
ny high school student could
probably tell you that males and
females are set apart by a single
X or Y chromosome. It’s difficult to
fathom that such a small difference decides gender. Gender once determined
who could vote and serve our country,
whether a person could enter the workforce or stay at home and tend the house
and family. Today, a fraction of the population is dissatisfied with the political,
social, and economic rights of American
women. This societal want is known as
feminism.
I often hear feminism being ridiculed
or called an embarrassment because of
how some feminists respond to discontents. When feminism is mentioned,
minds may race to the new Beyoncé
album. Some visualize a bubbly hipster
girl lounging with her MacBook Pro,
clicking the reblog button on a post that
states, in Helvetica font, “If guys talk to
a lot of girls they are viewed by society
as masculine and successful. If I were to
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
by Delphine Douglas, Brooklyn, NY
our phones and logging out of Facebook, Twitter,
and Tumblr, even if doing so is harder for some than
for others.
We can’t deny that social media has led to people
sharing more, and has made our private lives shrink
while making our public lives expand. does make it
easy to share, and seeing an so many of personal
posts on a popular Tumblr makes others want to
share. The fact that friends can tag us in posts
whether we like it or not makes it hard to always say
that we control what is shared. Despite all of this,
we do have a choice, and our privacy is not dead.
We control what we post, and thanks to changes in
the policies of sites like Facebook, we can make
sure that we are aware of what others say about us
online.
Social media may have changed our culture’s
norms and made less privacy acceptable, or perhaps
even made privacy uncool, but it definitely hasn’t
killed privacy. We are all in control of how much we
share. I have no plans to share what I ate for dinner,
and no amount of social media pressure can change
that. My privacy is alive and well. ✦
Photo by Lissa Alvarez, Hamilton, MI
by Claire Cornell, McDonough, GA
to feminist campaigns of the eighteenth
do the same I’d be called trashy.” Those
and nineteenth centuries. Regardless of
studying history may even envision the
the public’s opinion of feminism in the
Seneca Falls Convention or a suffragette
U.S. today, Americans rarely dispute the
marching for her right to check “yes” or
need for attention to women’s rights is“no.”
sues in other countries.
The modern feminist movement in the
While American women fight against
United States is tackling many important
the concept of acceptable rape, women
issues. One of the most critical gender
in India may be fighting for their lives
equality issues today is rape culture.
over dowry. Dowries were
Activists believe that our
made illegal in 1961 under
society condones, normalcivil law, however,
izes, and excuses rape beActivists believe Indian
many still practice this tracause we consider factors
such as what the victim
that our society dition where money and/or
gifts are given to a groom’s
was wearing, blood alcocondones rape family by the family of the
hol level, race, and/or debride. If the groom’s family
meanor of the victim.
is dissatisfied with the
Also, cultural clichés
dowry, a wife may be abused by her husmake some women feel objectified as
band and viewed as not worthy. Accordvehicles for pleasure and reproduction;
ing to the World Bank, 32.7 percent of
this is referred to as the “sexualization of
India falls below the international
women.” Another current feminist issue
poverty line and cannot afford the tradiis equal pay and the treatment of worktional practice of dowry.
ing women. Skeptics write off these isWhile American women fight for
sues because of their mildness compared
ACCOUNT TO
points of view
My Privacy Is Alive and Well
FACEBOOK
equal pay, female babies in China and
India may never experience the gift of
life. For a poor family, the birth of a girl
can be viewed as a financial burden,
which has contributed to the prevalence
of gendercide. Female gendercide – the
termination of a fetus or infant solely because it is female – is shockingly prevalent in China and India. If an Indian
family cannot afford dowry, they may
choose to kill their baby girl soon after
birth. Even with the loosening of the
one-child policy in China, it is still common for a family to have prenatal tests to
determine a fetus’s gender. Females that
are born to underprivileged families are
often neglected or abandoned because of
the financial burden they bring to their
families.
Some believe that women have already won the war for equality and that
no more battles are necessary; however,
for many women – in America and
around the world – the war has just
begun. ✦
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
7
educator contest
History • West Nottingham Academy
Rusty Eder
by Ben Gross, Chevy Chase, MD
H
e has a lot of wrinkles, and if you didn’t know better, you might think he is in
his seventies. A former army man, he hoards anything that reminds him of his
military past. One might classify him as cynical, but that would be a gross exaggeration. An avid liberal, he does not shy away from sharing his views on current issues.
Now, long past his days in the military, he teaches U.S. History and Humanities at
West Nottingham Academy, a small boarding school in rural Maryland. And boy is
WNA lucky to have him!
To say Mr. Eder is a conventional teacher is absurd. He refuses to use any technological teaching aids, including a smart board or projector. He rarely checks homework and
does not give quizzes. Instead, he gives a few unit tests, whose grades coupled with
your final make up your trimester grade. The only tools he uses to teach are a whiteboard and a marker. But he makes it work.
He conducts class lecture-style, each day leading a discussion on the topic we are
studying. He writes important ideas and concepts on the board, in semi-neat handwriting, to visually illustrate his points. He makes these discussions interesting by occasionally asking students to fill in the blank or explain what he
wrote on the board. Thus, we all pay close attention. In fact, I
seen anyone nod off in his class.
A phenomenal haven’t
It is easy to tell Mr. Eder loves history from the excitement
in his voice when he talks about it. This makes the class exteacher and
cited to learn about history. In fact, his contagious passion has
human being led students who dislike school to suddenly develop a real interest in American history. He encourages this passion in history by allowing them to read books in his personal collection
to learn more about America’s past. In fact, just last week, I borrowed a book from him
about the Civil War.
His teaching style is not the only reason that he is such an outstanding teacher. He
also knows a remarkable amount about history – more than any other history teacher I
have had. His superior knowledge enables students to gain a comprehensive understanding of past and current events.
Outside of class, he is willing to take on extra tasks to help his students as well.
Whenever anyone needs help understanding a concept, he finds time to meet, even if it
means taking time from his lunch. With his expert guidance, I was able to start a debate
team at our school. He helped me recruit members, allowed me to use his room as a
meeting place, and even drove our team three hours so we could compete in a regional
tournament. In addition, he acts as a resource if you are ever having a problem, whether
it’s educational, social, or emotional. Students flock to him.
Beloved by all at WNA, Mr. Eder is not just a phenomenal teacher; he’s also a
phenomenal human being. By demonstrating his excellence inside and outside of the
classroom, he is undoubtedly Teen Ink’s Educator of the Year. ✦
AP Language and Composition •
Olentangy High School
Sarah Zettler
A
writer at heart with dormant inspiration, I never took pride
in school essays until Ms. Zettler’s AP Language and Composition class senior year. Rather than promoting the cutand-dry essay writing I’d grown accustomed to, she gave me the
motivation to develop a unique writing style, a literary voice with
resounding personal inflection. Ms. Zettler renewed my confidence
in myself and encouraged me to be bold – to silence the doubting
voice in my head that restrains my innate determination to write.
Beginning with my summer reading assignment, Bird by Bird by
Anne Lamott, she provided time and the spark to ignite my inspiration. This book’s insightful yet unconventional method of supporting aspiring writers foreshadowed the classroom experience to
come. Instead of note-taking, memorizing, and definition-based
learning, class time was often spent closely annotating the timeless
works of profound authors. These pieces
interested the class and helped us sharpen
Ms. Zettler
literary techniques in our own writing.
Ms. Zettler’s daunting expectations were
renewed my shrouded
by her utter conviction in each
confidence
student’s ability to excel far beyond what
they could envision. Rigorous feedback
in myself
stimulated growth, and astounding improvement provoked pride following each
rewrite. Guided to view these essays as an exploration of life and
the world rather than the pursuit of a mere grade, Ms. Zettler offered me a chance to cultivate my writing – a gift far greater than a
letter grade. Always available to assist discouraged students, Ms.
Zettler worked not only during school hours but also after class to
ensure each student had a chance to succeed.
Well beyond the classroom, Ms. Zettler enhances our school as
organizer of the Diversity Club, a group promoting cultural acceptance and openness – in essence, maintaining a friendly, anti-bullying atmosphere among the student body.
Ms. Zettler should be recognized for her dedication helping our
school as a whole, as well as individual students. The skills I mined
from her class are precious literary jewels I will carry with me the
rest of my life. ✦
Winners will be announced
in the Summer issue.
Latin • Temecula Preparatory School
Bryanna Vaughn
by Maya Pirschel, Murrieta, CA
I
“I’m fine,” I said with a little light laugh and a
t was about a month into the school year, and I
weak
smile. I didn’t think she would want to hear
was struggling. I had awful grades and was overabout
my petty problems. So I sat down and started
whelmed by my intense schedule. That week I
my test.
had a history essay and an Academic Decathlon
I had stressed myself out so badly that I compresentation due on the same day, and I hadn’t even
pletely blanked on the test. I messed up quite a few
started. This was in addition to my normal workload
simple things I should have known. Ms. Vaughn
and play rehearsal every day after school.
asked if anyone had questions about the test after we
By Wednesday I was on the verge of a breakturned it in. When I asked a question, I realized I
down. I had made it through the first two periods,
had made a pretty big mistake. That
but as I entered my third period
was just the cherry on top of my
class – Latin – I was using all my
awful day. However, I was still destrength to hold back tears. We had
She wrapped
termined not to cry.
a test, and everyone was scramme in a big,
“Hey, what’s going on? Are you
bling to get in some last-minute
studying. I had a culture question
understanding hug all right?” Ms. Vaughn asked when
she noticed my reaction to her anand got up to ask my teacher.
swer.
Ms. Bryanna Vaughn is my
I
just
nodded.
She asked me come up to her desk
crazy, wiry, redheaded teacher, who the year before
and
go
over
my
test
with her. When I got to her, I
had been my Academic Decathlon coach. She is
just lost it. My resolve to not cry melted like snow,
sassy and funny, besides being one of the best teachand I broke down in front of the whole class. It was
ers I’ve ever had. We have similar personalities, so
so horrifyingly embarrassing I could have just died!
she knows me pretty well. When I walked into class,
Ms. Vaughn was wonderfully kind about it though.
I had been completely silent, while everyone else
She wrapped me in a big, stress-relieving, underhad been extremely loud. I normally am loud too, so
standing hug.
Ms. Vaughn knew something was wrong.
I ended up staying during break to tell her what
“Are you okay?” she asked.
8
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
by Abbie Coogle,
Lewis Center, OH
COMMENT
was going on. I told her everything I had been struggling with socially and academically. I had too much
going on but felt pressure to accomplish everything.
“If you feel like you need to drop something you
should,” she told me. “I can help you make a pros
and cons list to figure out what you want to focus
your energy on.” Somehow I was able to persevere
without having to drop anything, but I did make the
decision, with Ms. Vaughn’s help, to opt out of the
next play and focus on Academic Decathlon and
school.
Mrs. Vaughn listened to all the drama I had experienced since freshman year and gave me advice on
my friendships. She was somehow able to get me to
spill everything – and to a teacher no less! She was
so incredibly understanding, even telling me about
some of her own problems. She encouraged me to
come talk to her whenever I needed to, saying she
would do what she could to help.
My Latin teacher is the lifeline I need at this point
in my life. She allows me to vent and bounce ideas
off her. She helps me with important decisions and
understands where I’m trying to go with my life. I
now have the assurance that if I ever need help she’s
there, and that means everything to me. Thanks to
Ms. Vaughn, I just might survive this year. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Alyssa Hwang, Florham Park, NJ
Jambo
Jambo, Bwana
Habari gani?
Mzuri sana!
Wageni, mwakaribishwa
Tanzania
Hakuna matata!
must have looked pretty funny: five-foot-two,
glasses smudged with dust, lips gritty with dirt because I had naively chosen a spot downwind. No
wonder this area had been empty – the gusts would
blow everything directly into my face! Luckily, a
African construction worker came to my rescue.
“Sister,” he laughed. “Here, trade.” He offered his
shovel and I gladly took it.
he first of many lessons I learned at Faraja
“Thank you,” I said.
School in Tanzania was this simple welcome
“Asante,” he replied. At my blank look, he exsong in Swahili. I was a freshman on a servplained, “That is ‘thank you’ in Swahili.”
ice trip to a primary school for chil“Asante!” I repeated. We grinned
dren with physical disabilities. We
at each other.
were going to help build a warehouse
For the next week, we made a
Kids without
(the area the school had been using
formidable team. He wielded the
as storage space was actually suparms pushed
pickaxe (squatting low, raising the
posed to be a room for physical
Alyssa with Namnyaki
pickaxe to head level, then dropping
wheelchairs for
therapy) and help teach students. I
it with precision, and wiggling loose
the students didn’t move. Just then, the door opened,
was excited to give back to the
kids without legs pieces of rock), and I shoveled rock
and another Faraja student pushed in a wheelchair
greater community and impact othand dirt behind him (also squatting
for one of the these students. When she pointed at
ers’ lives on a personal level, and
low and rotating – not swinging – to
something behind me, I noticed another wheelchair
with the company of seventeen classmates ranging
prevent the dust from wildly flying about). I learned
in the corner of the classroom. Of course! I rolled it
from freshmen to juniors, I thought nothing could be
to position my back to the wind, wear extra sunover, accidentally knocking over chairs and nudging
better.
screen, and appreciate long pants, even with the sun
desks in the process. I helped wheel the other stuAfter weeks of preparation, two vaccinations, and
bearing down on us.
dent out the door and watched him zoom off to find
sixteen hours of flying, we finally touched down in
After tea time (I am now addicted to black tea
his friends.
the capital, Dar es Salaam. As I got off the plane, I
with two lumps of sugar), my group made its way to
At the Faraja School, a simple walk to the dining
stole a glimpse of the unfathomable sky. Back in
the classrooms. Picking a room at random, I walked
hall was an eye-opener for me. I saw kids without
New Jersey, saying “The skies are clear” simply
into the kindergarten class and was suddenly overarms pushing wheelchairs for kids without legs.
meant there weren’t any clouds. In Tanzania, withwhelmed with nerves. My vision tunneled, I remarkOther people moved at a snail’s pace to walk with
out the pollution and distraction of the cities, I could
ably started stuttering, and my friend had to drag me
their friends who used crutches or walkers. Everyalong to say hello to a child sitting at a desk. How
one moved leisurely without stress. Handicaps that
was I supposed to communicate without a common
would be regarded as unfortunate limitations in
language?
America barely caught anyone’s attention, and the
“Jambo,” we said.
members of the school community were masters at
“Jambo,” she greeted back.
playing off each other’s strengths. There was an at“What are you doing?” I pointed at her book.
mosphere of inclusion and cohesion that each kid
“I am learning to read,” she told us.
exemplified. Somewhere in the mix, Namnyaki
Having already run out of things to say, I sudfound me and we walked together for tea and bread.
denly burst into song, “Jambo! Jambo, Bwana.
After only the first day, I realized the importance
Habari gani …” but I forgot the rest of the lyrics.
of time: I would only have four more days with
Her eyes lit up.
some of the most wonderful people on the planet.
“Mzuri sana! Wageni,” she sang, clapping her
For perhaps the first and only time in my life, I lived
hands and slowing down for us. “Mwakaribishwa.
second-by-second, never worrying about the future
Tanzania, Hakuna Matata!”
or being anxious about the past. Time moves quickly
Soon, the entire classroom was
when you’re looking back and slowly
singing this simple song about welwhen you’re looking forward, but for
coming visitors. It was better than any
those seven perfect days under the gorUnder
the
spontaneous music moment that
geous African sky, the universe was
could have been concocted on televigorgeous African timeless and infinite. I fell asleep to
sion. Somehow, through a series of
In the playroom
sky, the universe the symphony of the crickets, saw an
bilingual charades, funny hand geselephant up close, and lived lessons
tures, and drawings, I learned that my
was timeless
that could never be taught without
see straight through the skin of the universe,
new friend’s name was Esta and that
experiencing them.
sparkling with gentle, unassuming beauty. Someshe was twelve. She was two years
I learned to connect with people detimes when I miss my friends from Faraja I look up
younger and nine grades beneath me, and yet her
spite a language barrier, whether that meant squatting
and remember that gorgeous African sky.
maturity dwarfed mine. She worked hard, was a
at eye level with a boy in a wheelchair or using posThe next day, the eighteen of us split into two
calm role model for younger classmates, and was
ture, body language, and tone of voice to get my
groups. Group A would work on the warehouse and
always eager to learn, teach, and help.
meaning across. I realized that community service
Group B would work in the classrooms, then switch
Some days, after working in the field and teaching
isn’t necessarily about giving back or emulating
after tea time. I went with Group A, passing fields of
in the classrooms, I played soccer, basketball, tag, or
Robin Hood, but rather about doing what you can, no
vegetables, a cow pen, and what looked like a small
just sat in the grass with students. Namnyaki, a fourmatter who you are, to improve the lives of others.
brick hut. Later I learned that the brick hut was actuteen-year-old fourth grader, enjoyed relaxing with
I stuffed my bag full of souvenirs, but the things I
ally a chicken coop and a bread-baking creation
me in her free time. She was shyer than Esta, but our
wanted to take with me couldn’t be touched, only rebuilt by my high school on a previous trip. It felt
quiet friendship was more like a hushed embrace
membered and passed on: Esta’s spirit and selflessgreat to continue the legacy of help and teamwork.
than a tongue-tied silence. Hand-in-hand, we were
ness, Namnyaki’s patience, Emanuelli’s happiness,
At the work site, everyone quickly grabbed shovtotally inseparable. My fears of communication flew
Upendomuchi’s gentle heart, Godbless’s easy confiels. All that was left for me was a heavy, awkward
away into the breeze. Somehow, Namnyaki and I
dence, and Godlisten’s friendly smile. Tonight, the
pickaxe. Taking a spot in an empty area, I raised the
didn’t need words.
sky is inky and without character, but I can always
axe above my head, nearly fell backwards, and
The following day, as I was leaving a classroom
remember our gorgeous African sky beyond the
dropped the point with an unsatisfying thud. Frownfor tea time, I noticed two kids left behind. “Come
clouds. ✦
ing, I tried again, but only repeated my blunder. I
on,” I said, motioning to the door. “Let’s go!” But
T
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M AY ’ 1 4
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Jambo, Bwana
Sponsored by
• Teen Ink
9
parents
Bedtime Kiss
by Anabel Jenkins, Natick, MA
T
your mind, overwhelming you and making you
he squeak of the screen door opening and
cry even harder. Your chest heaves as the drownshutting was followed by the lethargic
ing feeling surrounds you. The only cure is for a
heavier inside door thwumping closed.
loved one to hold you, and then hold you even
These are the sounds of someone arriving home.
tighter, until everything doesn’t seem so bad
The sounds that come before the “I’m home!”
anymore.
and “Hello?” The sounds that told me my parents
But I didn’t want to seem like a baby, so I
were back from their late-night dinner party. I
stayed in bed. Growing up in a house with three
was already in bed, nestled under my comforter.
older brothers, I had learned to keep crying to a
The rhythmic breathing of my golden retriever
minimum, only ever allowing the tears to fall if
matched the faint music drifting from my abanthey were truly required. I was also embarrassed.
doned headphones.
My 14-year-old self had reminded my loving parI waited. I waited for my mother to come in
ents countless times how independent I could be.
and kiss me good night, for my father to say
With a recently acquired job, activities that kept
something goofy and give the dog a pat on the
me at school until seven, and the
head. The familiar creaks of the
ability to cook uncomplicated meals,
floorboards grew louder as they
I felt like I was self-sufficient. So, inwalked down the hall toward my
I didn’t want
stead of seeking their comfort, I lay
room. My parents made no effort to
to seem
in bed, clutching the pillow to my
be quiet, casually talking to each
chest, reminding myself that this is
other. As their footsteps grew closer,
like a baby
what growing up is. Independence.
I quickly closed my eyes and pulled
There is no single moment in your
the covers up around my face,
life when you suddenly grow up. We grow until
preparing for them to come in and perform the
we feel we can’t grow anymore, and even then we
sweet routine of “bed time.” Then I heard the
keep on growing. We are the judges of our own
opening and closing of their bedroom door as
adulthood because all it takes is for us to step up
their voices faded. No good-night kiss, no goofy
to the plate and start swinging. However, we
comments, and no “I love you” – just the sound
don’t go through this journey alone. Many join
of a girl growing up.
us, whether for just a moment or a lifetime.
I cried that night. It was one of those drowning
Though, the most important backseat drivers are
cries. The kind of cry when every bad thing that
our parents.
has ever happened to you comes flooding into
The story I am telling – of my tearful bedtime – represents a miscommunication that forms
between parents and children. It’s not their fault,
nor is it ours; it just happens. It usually happens
during our teenage years, which are arguably a
time when parents’ guidance is most needed. We
become trapped, treated like children but expected to act like adults. As teenagers we strive
for independence; everything we do is working
toward the goal of soon being on our own. Yet,
we are gently tugged back by our heartstrings,
played by the love of a mother and the protection
of a father. In subtle ways we show them that we
aren’t ready, that we haven’t finish growing, that
we still need that bedtime kiss. ✦
Photo by Maisha Rachmat, Depok, Indonesia
Water
by Jessica Jiang, Marietta, GA
F
I panic. This is not the same water that had enootprints behind me disappear slowly,
closed
me. It is lung water – pulmonary edema.
evaporating in the heat. I look back and see
How can I help my father? I can’t, physically.
my father smiling at me. On the edge of the
My father took the water from my lungs and
bright blue shining pool, I bend over my tiny feet
saved me. However, I cannot take away the water
and look into the deep abyss. Suddenly I am subthat is crushing his lungs. I cannot break through
merged. I inhale and liquid rushes down my
the barrier between the United States
throat. Water floods my lungs and I
and China, like he broke the barrier beam drowning. I can no longer think,
tween air and water to save me. Any
and I panic. Quickly, a hand breaks
I cannot
arm that I reach out will not touch him.
the barrier of water and grabs my arm,
save him as I cannot save him as he saved me.
and I am lifted from the abyss. I look
However, I can support him. I can
into the distressed face of my father
he saved me
sympathize with my father, telling him
and cry. My father, my hero, holds me
that it was the tobacco’s fault, not his
and comforts me.
usage. I tell him I love him and that we miss him.
Thirteen years later, I wait for my father to
I listen to his grievances.
come home from his visit to China. The phone
In my mind, I picture my father young and
rings, and it is not my father. The woman speaks
strong.
Now, through the telephone, I hear the
Chinese and reports that my father is ill and unage and weakness in him.
able to return home on schedule. Water has filled
Who is my father? He is human. ✦
his lungs.
10
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
Poem to
My (Future)
Daughter
Cradled in the crook of my arm, safe
Against my sturdy chest
I am the one who will keep your fingers warm
Lay you down to rest
My darling, I pray you dream
Peacefully
That the rough edges and scattered lines of
this life I give you
Do not intoxicate you
Do not poison your softened mind.
There are roads you will not take, my love
There are words you will not say
But I beg you
Build your earthen skin into a castle
Let the tears fall
From your dark cheeks
Dig your fingernails too deep into the dirt
And lick the red juice of the pomegranate off
your swollen lips
Love ceaselessly
Love endlessly
Every leaf, raindrop, butterfly, and ladybug
That creeps along the forest floor
Every windowsill and rough pathway
That tugs at you to
Go, go, go
Scoop it all into your arms, my dear
And hold it to your chest
Let the piercing wind fill your lungs
So you have the strength
To laugh
Louder than all the rest.
There will be times
When the walls and doors
Scream curse words at you
When the ceiling sinks too low to the floor
But do not dig down, my love
It is okay to say
Yes
Stand up and let the floorboards fall
Crashing to your feet
Revel in the sound of old wallpaper
Crumbling as it peels to the ground
For, you see,
The house is never broken
Only preparing for the new
And if I’ve said nothing here, my love
Then may these be the words that hold true
Let it change
Let it crack and break and bend and move
Metamorphosis
It’s all that’s left here
In the end, my love
So put on your rain boots
And splash in the mud, for your bones are still
strong and
Your unbroken heart is only just beginning
To hum the tune of this
Newborn song
by Haley Grey,
San Francisco, CA
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
parents
Bedtime Kiss
by Anabel Jenkins, Natick, MA
T
your mind, overwhelming you and making you
he squeak of the screen door opening and
cry even harder. Your chest heaves as the drownshutting was followed by the lethargic
ing feeling surrounds you. The only cure is for a
heavier inside door thwumping closed.
loved one to hold you, and then hold you even
These are the sounds of someone arriving home.
tighter, until everything doesn’t seem so bad anyThe sounds that come before the “I’m home!”
more.
and “Hello?” The sounds that told me my parents
But I didn’t want to seem like a baby, so I
were back from their late-night dinner party. I
stayed in bed. Growing up in a house with three
was already in bed, nestled under my comforter.
older brothers, I had learned to keep crying to a
The rhythmic breathing of my golden retriever
minimum, only ever allowing the tears to fall if
matched the faint music drifting from my abanthey were truly required. I was also embarrassed.
doned headphones.
My 14-year-old self had reminded my loving parI waited. I waited for my mother to come in
ents countless times how independent I could be.
and kiss me good night, for my father to say
With a recently acquired job, activities that kept
something goofy and give the dog a pat on the
me at school until seven, and the abilhead. The familiar creaks of the
ity to cook uncomplicated meals, I felt
floorboards grew louder as they
like I was self-sufficient. So, instead
walked down the hall toward my
I didn’t want
of seeking their comfort, I lay in bed,
room. My parents made no effort
to seem
clutching the pillow to my chest, reto be quiet, casually talking to each
minding myself that this is what growother. As their footsteps grew
like a baby
ing up is. Independence.
closer, I quickly closed my eyes
There is no single moment in your
and pulled the covers up around
life when you suddenly grow up. We grow until
my face, preparing for them to come in and perwe feel we can’t grow anymore, and even then we
form the sweet routine of “bed time.” Then I
keep on growing. We are the judges of our own
heard the opening and closing of their bedroom
adulthood because all it takes is for us to step up
door as their voices faded. No good-night kiss, no
to the plate and start swinging. However, we
goofy comments, and no “I love you” – just the
don’t go through this journey alone. Many join
sound of a girl growing up.
us, whether for just a moment or a lifetime.
I cried that night. It was one of those drowning
Though, the most important backseat drivers are
cries. The kind of cry when every bad thing that
our parents.
has ever happened to you comes flooding into
The story I am telling – of my tearful bedtime – represents a miscommunication that forms
between parents and children. It’s not their fault,
nor is it ours; it just happens. It usually happens
during our teenage years, which are arguably a
time when parents’ guidance is most needed. We
become trapped, treated like children but expected to act like adults. As teenagers we strive
for independence; everything we do is working
toward the goal of soon being on our own. Yet,
we are gently tugged back by our heartstrings,
played by the love of a mother and the protection
of a father. In subtle ways we show them that we
aren’t ready, that we haven’t finish growing, that
we still need that bedtime kiss. ✦
Photo by Maisha Rachmat, Depok, Indonesia
Water
by Jessica Jiang, Marietta, GA
F
I panic. This is not the same water that had enootprints behind me disappear slowly,
closed
me. It is lung water – pulmonary edema.
evaporating in the heat. I look back and see
How can I help my father? I can’t, physically.
my father smiling at me. On the edge of the
My father took the water from my lungs and
bright blue shining pool, I bend over my tiny feet
saved me. However, I cannot take away the water
and look into the deep abyss. Suddenly I am subthat is crushing his lungs. I cannot break through
merged. I inhale and liquid rushes down my
the barrier between the United States and
throat. Water floods my lungs and I
China, like he broke the barrier between
am drowning. I can no longer think,
air and water to save me. Any arm that I
and I panic. Quickly, a hand breaks
I cannot
reach out will not touch him. I cannot
the barrier of water and grabs my
save him as save him as he saved me.
arm, and I am lifted from the abyss.
However, I can support him. I can symI look into the distressed face of my
he saved me
pathize with my father, telling him that it
father and cry. My father, my hero,
was the tobacco’s fault, not his usage. I
holds me and comforts me.
tell him I love him and that we miss him. I listen
Thirteen years later, I wait for my father to
to his grievances.
come home from his visit to China. The phone
In my mind, I picture my father young and
rings, and it is not my father. The woman speaks
strong.
Now, through the telephone, I hear the
Chinese and reports that my father is ill and unage and weakness in him.
able to return home on schedule. Water has filled
Who is my father? He is human. ✦
his lungs.
10
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
Poem to
My (Future)
Daughter
Cradled in the crook of my arm, safe
Against my sturdy chest
I am the one who will keep your fingers warm
Lay you down to rest
My darling, I pray you dream
Peacefully
That the rough edges and scattered lines of
this life I give you
Do not intoxicate you
Do not poison your softened mind.
There are roads you will not take, my love
There are words you will not say
But I beg you
Build your earthen skin into a castle
Let the tears fall
From your dark cheeks
Dig your fingernails too deep into the dirt
And lick the red juice of the pomegranate off
your swollen lips
Love ceaselessly
Love endlessly
Every leaf, raindrop, butterfly, and ladybug
That creeps along the forest floor
Every windowsill and rough pathway
That tugs at you to
Go, go, go
Scoop it all into your arms, my dear
And hold it to your chest
Let the piercing wind fill your lungs
So you have the strength
To laugh
Louder than all the rest.
There will be times
When the walls and doors
Scream curse words at you
When the ceiling sinks too low to the floor
But do not dig down, my love
It is okay to say
Yes
Stand up and let the floorboards fall
Crashing to your feet
Revel in the sound of old wallpaper
Crumbling as it peels to the ground
For, you see,
The house is never broken
Only preparing for the new
And if I’ve said nothing here, my love
Then may these be the words that hold true
Let it change
Let it crack and break and bend and move
Metamorphosis
It’s all that’s left here
In the end, my love
So put on your rain boots
And splash in the mud, for your bones are still
strong and
Your unbroken heart is only just beginning
To hum the tune of this
Newborn song
by Haley Grey,
San Francisco, CA
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parents
Discovering Dad
by Chenoa Yorgason, Laie, HI
F
internationally. I cried about it. I prayed to God
or more than half my life, my father was my
about it. I didn’t want my dad to leave.
favorite parent. He never yelled, only gave
Then, the summer before my eighth-grade year,
short time-outs, and was very easily permy father, the blandest, safest, Type-B individual I
suaded. He congratulated me even when I didn’t
know, took a job 4,500 miles away, in a country
win first place. He was always home when I was.
that he had never been to before the interview. AlWhen he had to be in his office, he would take my
though we have daily Skype sessions, my family
sister and me along with him. He was the parent
has changed. The only American foods we eat now
who cooked American foods like pasta, pizza, panare frozen pizzas and Prego sauce. There’s no one
cakes, grilled cheese sandwiches, and rice pudding.
to complain about my friends to, no one to drive
He would make rice pudding for two reasons: to
me into town, no one who can be easily convinced,
eat it, and to get my Asian mother mad for “wastno one who will listen to me rant about my weird
ing rice.” We would play board games together; he
teenage emotions.
didn’t care if it was Strawberry Shortcake themed.
This January, my dad accompanied my speech
My mother brought home most of the family inand
debate team to our tournament on Hawaii Iscome, made rules, and decided where we would go
land. While the rest of the team ran around a large
on vacation. My father was the one who asked
wooden playground, I sat in the rented van with
about my day and checked my homework. My parDad. Basically I complained and cried for half an
ents were definitely not like most parents I knew.
hour. I’m not a crier. During the last four years I’ve
While my mom never wore “mom jeans,” my dad
cried no more than four times. I complained about
swore by the very blue, very ugly, very shapeless
how I could have had a bigger trophy had I just
variety purchased at Costco.
found an additional statistic or had my partner
Despite his nurturing personality, he was and is a
worked harder on her speeches. I
hardworking person outside of the
whined about how I always do too
house. Nine years ago after he’d written a book and was going to present it
My father was much when I work in groups. He
didn’t tell me to man up or to grow up.
at a conference, I gave him a certifimy favorite
He didn’t deliver an “it gets better”
cate and a huge thousand dollar bill I
speech. He just listened.
had made. When he returned, he
parent
The next day, in the same van, we
brought back a TY bear for me, and –
drove up the bumpy, unpaved road to
sure enough – a $1,000 prize for exMauna Kea’s peak. There are few things scarier
cellence for his book.
than being about a mile above sea level in an extra
I think my dad was socially awkward as a child.
large vehicle with a driver who’s accustomed to a
His family were liberal Mormons from Utah.
small Honda and who’s distracted by the beautiful
Growing up, his best friend was his brother. He
scenery along the narrow road. I must have told
sported a bowl cut, wore large-rimmed glasses, and
him to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on
played the trumpet. When I read his yearbook, I
the road at least ten times. We reached the peak
found lots of hastily written notes that only said
just in time for sunrise. Never in my life have I felt
things like “Stay cool,” “You’re good at basketso warm and cold at the same time – cold from the
ball,” or “See ya later.” The most personal message
altitude and lack of gloves, but warmed by Dad’s
advised my father that if he stopped picking his
love as we stood in front of the rising sun.
nose, he might meet more girls. He has since unThe journey back down the mountain was almost
dergone quite a change, I think. While he still is a
as scary. The road was just as bumpy, and the tires
liberal Mormon, the bowl cut has been replaced
started to smell like burning rubber. Somehow, Dad
with what looks like a grown-out buzz cut. The
managed to stay calm, while the rest of us in the
’60s-style large-rimmed glasses are gone to make
van worried about whether we’d make it to the airway for a pair of sleek wire bifocals. The only way
port in one piece. Did I mention that we almost ran
he expresses himself musically nowadays is
over a nene (Hawaii’s state bird) – a crime that
through hymns at church, and whistling nursery
could have earned him a year in jail?
tunes to embarrass my sister and me.
I love my dad. Even though I talk to him almost
Then a few years ago, despite having a decent
every day, it’s just not the same living without him.
job, two kids, a car, a growing bank account, and
He left on Tuesday morning to spend another four
half of a duplex in a nearly homogenous neighbormonths teaching college geography in South
hood, he decided he wanted more. Maybe he
Korea. I’m not sure if the experience has turned
would get a job in Washington, D.C., for the
out to be what he expected, but to me, he will alCensus Bureau or teach at a college in Ohio or
ways be the kind and nurturing parent. ✦
Utah. He had some interviews here in Hawaii and
Hiding
by “Rita,” Crestone, CO
I
used to hide in my mom’s closet. I’d perch up on the shelf and pull her itchy sweaters
around me. I remember pressing my forehead to my knees, the walls leaving indentations on my arms that reminded me of continents.
I would press the walls all around me. Stick my toes in between the wooden slats of the
shelf and feel safe. Safe from the thunder that would pound down and shake the walls.
From my perch I would look down at the bumpy cream-colored carpet, at her shoes lined
up neatly, at her collection of bridesmaid dresses, and feel like I was in my own little box.
I don’t fit in that box anymore. Even if I compress myself, I don’t fit. And even though
the same things scare me – even though I have a multitude of new fears – I don’t fit. ✦
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Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
Gravity
My mother’s love is gravity.
It is the moon’s pull on the ocean,
creating waves on the shore
and delivering gentle, soppy kisses
to the sands.
She loves to tell me about how she used to
toss me up in the air as a toddler
and how, no matter how high I flew,
I would always fall back to her reaching,
expectant arms. (Thank God.)
Her love is what kept scientists like Newton
and Galileo up at night
wondering, contemplating
how it was possible.
Not so easily definable as:
force = mass x acceleration.
Her love is what brings comets streaking
down to the earth,
bright shooting stars,
the gentle pull that brings a feather
swaying to the ground.
Without her pressure,
I would be free, weightless,
but lost with no rotation,
left behind by my brothers,
my fellow planets.
My mother’s love is infinite and unfading.
It’s unaffected by my life decisions.
She cries now that we cannot be together,
but my thoughts still orbit her,
always seeming to find their way back
to her.
The love is unstoppable,
undefinable.
She has taught me her secrets,
her equations of love,
and with her blueprint words of wisdom,
I hope to one day tie my children to me
as she has.
As impossible to stop
as the moon’s pull on the ocean,
creating waves on the shore
and delivering gentle, soppy kisses
to the sands.
by Rosie Palacios, Phoenix, AZ
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
11
parents
“Slow Down, Pete”
N
obody warned me how easy
my life would be, how painless, how full. They didn’t
bother to caution me about all the fun
I would have. They didn’t express
concern for how I would look, act,
feel. People never feel the urge to
warn you about the good stuff.
I am nine years old. It’s five in the
morning, and we’re already on the
mountain, our faithful Ford F-150
rumbling up the serpentine dirt road
toward the ideal location to capture
the choke cherry sunrise.
Dad’s out of the truck before the
dashboard stops shuddering, a
smudge of jeans and XXXL button-up
blue. He treks up the steep incline,
one hand on the tripod (doubling now
as a hiking stick), the other on the
camera slung around his neck. I
trudge behind, a willing pack mule,
with the slow patience that has earned
me ridicule among my friends.
When I catch up, Dad puts a hand
on my shoulder, staring into the blinking eye of a wild flower sun.
“Some day you’re going to be miles
Not Chanel
No. 5
My mother does not wear perfume
She applies makeup to her eyelids
in the morning before work
while her hair sits atop her head in curlers,
but she does not wear perfume
The bottles on her bathroom counter
are not completely full,
but they gather dust
and sit unused
They must have been used when she wore
more makeup
And yet there is a scent
that is unmistakably hers
It is a mixture of soft flowers,
cotton,
and something that I can’t describe
I have opened bottles of vanilla,
canisters of cinnamon,
and bags of brown sugar;
I have stalked through nature
and tried to capture every smell,
but I cannot capture that scent
All in all,
I suppose that it’s for the best
When I inhale that scent
I do not instantly try to place it
Instead I feel a sense of comfort
because I am reminded of the powerful woman
who is my mother
by Sarah Bridgeport, Columbus, OH
12
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
by April Seymour, Joliet, MT
than the marrow: it dwells in the
ahead of me,” he winks. “I’ll be
mind.
yelling, ‘Slow down, Pete! Wait for
As Pudgy Pete grew long legs,
your old dad!’”
strong muscles, and a fast stride, her
I grin at the nickname and shake
father went through a transformation
my head. “No way,” I say. “That’ll
of his own. His steps faltered, breathnever happen.”
ing stuttered, arms shook. As Pete fiSeven years later, Pete’s grown up.
nally learned to stand on her own,
Now, living the life that nobody
Dad’s knees could no longer hold
cautioned me about, I must face the
him. Pete got running
sting of the one predicshoes. Dad got reintion that somebody did
“Some day
forced braces. Pete fimake.
learned to love
I could stagger beyou’re going to nally
herself. Dad’s body
hind my father forever.
be miles ahead turned against him, and
The hours I spent
he against it.
slowly trudging up
of me”
His day starts at 6 p.m.
mountains are worth
In the morning, while I
more to me now than
am outside working, Dad is asleep. At
ever. I would give anything to need,
noon, as I prepare lunch for my mom
just one more time, for him to wait for
and brother, Dad gulps down a fistful
me while I catch up.
of prescription medication. In the
There is a monster called Mystery
afternoon, while I am chasing pipe
Arthritis. It begins in the knees, then
dreams, Dad is eating waffles
creeps to the back, then the neck, bedrowned in sugar-free Mrs. Butterfore finally insinuating itself into
worth’s.
every bone in the body. It laughs at
Dad doesn’t feel well enough to do
the doctors as they try to chase it out.
anything until about 6 p.m. Anything
Then it goes somewhere even darker
The Great Debaters
we need his help with – maintenance,
repairs – has to wait until then. I’ve
forgotten what his face looks like
when it’s not in pain.
Then it’s back inside. For me, that
means back to writing, then off to
bed. For Dad, it means watching the
Discovery Channel or TruTV, often
until six in the morning.
I watch him sometimes. I watch the
pain cross his face. He doesn’t bother
trying to hide it, or complain. He is
afraid that he is getting old because
he keeps losing things, but I beg to
differ. Superman lost an entire planet,
after all, and he was half the superhero my dad is.
Nobody warned me how little I
would have to suffer as I grew, nor
did they warn Dad how much he
would. There is a certain bravery in
that silence, though. A promise that
says he will never give up.
Long ago, Dad told Pete that some
day she would be miles ahead of him,
and he would call to her, “Slow down,
Pete!” But nobody told him that there
is more to a mile than distance. ✦
by Caileigh Lydon, Park City, UT
E
from the Middle East.”
ver since I was little, I’ve listened to my parents
“But what about the chemicals polluting our water?” my
fight. Maybe fight isn’t the right word – more like
mom asked frostily.
debate over dinner about the latest political issue or
“What chemicals? There haven’t been any chemicals so
new technology. When I was little, it worried me. I would
far, and lots of planning has gone into this.”
sit between them with wide eyes as they battled over their
“Tell that to Florida’s Gulf Coast. There were some
opinions. I constantly needed them to reassure me that
pretty big assurances about that too.”
they loved each other and were not going to get divorced.
“Where’s the sea salt?” I intervened.
It’s just that my parents are opinionated people who fre“This is different,” Dad said.
quently don’t share the same opinion.
“Really?”
They were both very informed about world events,
“Where’s the sea salt?” I asked again.
which made our dinner conversations strange at times.
“Fracking is carefully organized and planned. And it’s
There I would be, eight years old, eating my chicken tengreat because we can get our own oil here at home.” I got
ders, as my parents argued over presidential candidates.
in my dad’s face and grabbed his shoulders.
And it wasn’t just at dinner. I heard their
“Where. Is. The. Sea. Salt?” I asked.
voices downstairs discussing what was hap“What? Oh, it’s in that cabinet,” he fipening in the world. Sometimes they would
Their
nally answered. “As I was saying ….”
get louder or softer as they debated a point.
My poor brother looked back and forth
When I had a bad dream or was scared of
disagreements
between our parents, trying to figure out
monsters in my closet, I would sit at the top
comforted me
which side he wanted to take. They continof the stairs and let their voices soothe me.
ued this discussion as my mom made dinner
Over time, their disagreements began to
and my dad helped my brother write his
comforted me. I heard their arguing voices
paper. As they sparred, it dawned on me how funny this
during car rides, while watching television, doing chores,
was – and normal too. Cooking dinner while arguing. A
homework, or relaxing in our living room. Anything could
perfect picture of domestic tranquility, with a little spice
set it off.
thrown in that’s all our own.
For example, take this recent argument. While driving in
During all those nights as I listened to them talk, and the
the car, my brother asked my mom her opinion on fracking
days when their voices would grow loud, the power of arfor an English paper he was writing. Fracking – or hygument began to run through my blood too. When we had
draulic fracturing – is a relatively new method of extractguests over one time, I spent the entire dinner locked in a
ing oil from the ground, and it is very controversial. My
debate over whether handkerchiefs are sanitary after I saw
mom is completely against it.
a guest pull one out of his pocket. My brother and I can
“It’s causing environmental problems. We’re pumping
argue for hours over whose turn it is to empty the dishall those chemicals near the groundwater, which is becomwasher, until my mom or dad let out a sigh of frustration
ing a huge commodity,” she replied. Later that day, as I
and settle it themselves.
cooked asparagus in the kitchen, my brother asked my dad
“Honestly, where did you learn to fight like this?” my
the same question.
mom will say.
“It’s great,” he said. “We’re getting so much more oil
Where, oh where indeed. ✦
than we could before, and now we don’t have to buy it
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A
lmost every night, I go into
my parents’ room and tuck
my mom into bed. I’ll lie next
to her until my father comes upstairs
or until homework calls. We’ll sit
there and talk and I’ll play with her
hair, plug in her phone, and poke fun
at her. She pokes right back. I’ll turn
out the light, kiss her forehead, pat
her shoulder, and tell her good night.
This is among my more peculiar
habits, but her presence in mind and
body is one of the most precious
things in my life.
I remember it was an aberrantly
warm day in February, especially for
Vermont. The winter had been mild
that year; the grass was especially
green, and the sun was pleasantly
golden, suspended in a cloudless sky.
I skipped off the bus to find her car
in the driveway. I knew then that
something was wrong. My stomach
clenched and my chest throbbed, lead
feet eventually brought me to the
door. She was crying.
My mother looked at me through
raw eyes and said, “I have breast cancer.” We cried, we hugged, I sat on
her lap. I was in fifth grade, scared
and confused, just leaving behind the
years of cooties, flips on the monkey
by Kayla Coursey, Charlottesville, VA
Mom’s, came over with trimmers. We
bars, and bedtime cuddles. Five years
put a sheet on the floor, and in no
before, my grandmother had had the
time Mom’s hair was a half inch long.
same cancer. She showed me where
Soon that half inch of fuzz fell out
metal staples held her skin together in
too, and she was left with a smooth,
the strangest way. Was that going to
shining, pale scalp. Around the house
happen to my mom?
she’d wear a wrap on her bald head.
We cried a lot as my mom told relaNone of us liked looking at it. It took
tives and arranged appointments and
me a while before I could think of her
bought a wig for when chemo began.
bald without crying. Before all the
I went along to help her choose, alhair was gone, I told her to put some
though she didn’t like the one I
of it under her pillow for the “Hair
picked out and instead bought a short,
Fairy.” She agreed, to
curly wig a shade or two
humor me. I snuck into
lighter than her normal
her room while she was
hair. She stayed strong
She stayed
asleep and put a quarter
for us during this time
strong for us
under her pillow. My
that I have come to asmom still carries that
sociate with tears.
quarter with her.
It was March when
She became distant, both in mind
Mom went to the hospital to have the
and body. I remember Dad telling my
tumor removed. I went to school,
brother and me to play quietly beneeding the distraction. Dad called
cause “Mommy needs to rest.”
my teacher during the morning with
I didn’t feel like I had a mom that
updates. Then, during our silent readsummer. She is absent in those meming time, as I was sitting between my
ories, simply not there. She continued
two best friends, my teacher smiled
and said, “She’s out of surgery.”
to work, despite the chemo and radiaWhen chemo began, the warrior
tion, but was always exhausted. At
home she was either asleep or on
scarves and the pink ribbons came to
mean something more than “support
“chemo-brain.” She’d laugh off her
newfound absentmindedness, saying
the cause” and became “support my
she might even lose her head if it
mom.” That was also the time that our
wasn’t attached. Even though she
family hairdresser, a close friend of
The Strand Bench
I
by Kristin Hopkins, Aspen, CO
walk, strut, and jog by. I wonder what kind of peounfold the Carl’s Jr bag and take out two cheeseple they are, what kind of lives they lead. A young
burgers, two fries, and too many packets of
man walks past with a cell phone to his ear and gripketchup. My dad looks at the packets and chuckping a dog leash. He seems frustrated with the perles while he takes a sip of his Diet Coke. Evening
son on the other line.
joggers and dog walkers pass by, probably looking
“Isn’t that everyone’s problem, though? We’re
down on our fast food, but we don’t mind. It’s not as
afraid to be alone, so we hide the craziest and realest
though the fat we eat is riding low on our stomachs.
parts of ourselves,” I say.
He hands me my Dr. Pepper, and I chug until the
Dad looks at me closely with narrowed eyebrows,
carbonation stings my throat.
deep in thought. “Is that what you do?” he asks.
The sun is on the brink of falling beneath the horiI sigh. “And yet I feel alone most of the time,” I
zon, an orange glow lighting up the coast. I curireply,
taking another sip of soda. The ice has diluted
ously look at the three-story mansion behind us and
it, but I don’t mind.
see our shadows sitting on the bench on
“You don’t have to feel alone,” he says
the strand. A group of tourists stop and
take a picture of themselves in front of
“I feel alone quietly. The sun has now vanished, to
show its face to another side of the
the magnificent sight. They’re probably
most of
world, the side that has been asleep and
the kind of people who take their picdreading daylight breaking through their
ture holding up the Hollywood sign.
the time”
curtains.
My dad notices me staring and turns to
“It’s easier to be alone. You aren’t
watch.
judged by who you associate with, and you don’t
“Might as well stamp ‘tourist’ on their foreheads,”
have to remember birthdays … but when I see two
I say, and he laughs.
best friends drinking milkshakes downtown, or an
“Not something you see every day,” he replies,
old couple walking their terrier – that’s when I don’t
turning his attention back to his burger. The orange
like being alone,” I explain.
glow is beginning to fade as the sun sinks to the size
He doesn’t seem to know what to say, looking off
of a muffin top.
at
a lifeguard closing up the tower for the day and
“If I were a tourist, I’d try to be subtle about it,” I
driving
off in a beach cruiser. I have a familiar feelsay. He purses his lips tightly.
ing – the kind I get when I say something I’ve been
“Life’s too short to care about what other people
repressing and it surprises me.
think. You might as well not live if you live for
“I was very independent too when I was your age.
everyone else,” he says.
Loneliness consumed me, because I thought it was
I don’t speak for a while, just watching people
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would look at me and try to listen, she
often wasn’t able to understand what I
was saying.
This spring, my mom is five years
cancer free. Her hair has grown back
wavy and not gray, as she had feared.
She claims to still have chemo-brain
some days, but now it really is just a
joke. The wig is sitting on my shelf.
Our warrior scarves are collecting
dust. We still have pink ribbons everywhere. The remains of her war against
cancer are spread throughout our lives
like battle scars to brag about to the
world. After that difficult year of
tears, my mom is back and here to
help me through the simple problems
of high school.
So I don’t fight with my mom. I
don’t ignore her intentionally, nor do I
talk about her negatively. She is
healthy and strong and present in
every sense of the word. She’s my
mom again. Every night, I tuck her in,
turn out the light, and kiss her cheek
because I know that we are lucky;
there are plenty of girls out there
whose moms didn’t find their lumps
early enough. Never before have I
been so thankful for my mother and
so grateful that she is here with me. ✦
parents
The Pink War
what I deserved. But now that I look back, I realize
that I missed many opportunities because of it.
Maybe you’re good at being alone, but can you say
that it makes you happy?” he asks.
I slowly shake my head, my throat becoming dry
as my eyes absorb all the moisture. Dad puts his arm
around me, and I lean into his chest as the breeze
dies and everything is still again. No one walks by,
and our shadows no longer shine on the house behind us. The sky is darker than it was a minute ago,
and one cloud drifts where the sun had been. We sit
as still as the air, holding each other close in this
crazy world. ✦
Photo by Gustave Tausch, Tirana, Albania
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
13
parents
14
You and Me and the Silver Screen
P
I suppose the aural battle between
eople file in, their shoes stickthe snoring and the film’s soundtrack
ing. The lights dim, and the
was what helped me become more
emerald screen bathes their
acutely aware of sounds in film. I had
faces with a collage of trailers lasting
to strain at home when listening to dinearly half the running time of the acalogue, to make sure I didn’t miss
tual film. Finally it begins. Five minanything critical.
utes into the film, my mouth full of
When I was in middle school, my
popcorn, I look to my right. Not surparents
separated briefly. Their fights
prisingly, my father’s neck is arched
would be painfully recalled during
back, his mouth agape, his eyelids
Sam Mendes’ “Revolutionary Road”
fluttering. His snoring is masked by
and episodes of
the Dolby Surround
“SpongeBob
Sound. I’m not surMy faprised he’s asleep; acSomething about Squarepants.”
ther moved back into
tually, I’m surprised it
Dad falling asleep his family house with
took this long. He’s
his mother. I never
normally out by the
in theaters was
though how unconvensecond preview.
tional this was; divorce
comforting
Something about Dad
was something I heard
falling asleep at the
about in the movies. I
movies was comfortnever realized how close my parents
ing to me. It was a quirk I thought I’d
were to it, despite slipping me books
always live with.
like “How You as a Child Can Deal
How do you write about your fawith Parents on the Brink of Divorce”
ther’s death? How do you write about
and “It’s Not Your Fault, Even
any death and make it meaningful
Though You’re Probably Going to
avoiding sentimentality and clichés?
Require Years of Therapy.”
My father died a month into my freshDuring their separation my father
man year from a subdural hematoma
would still pick me up from school on
after a car hit him. He died in his
Fridays, and we would go to the
sleep. The last movie we watched tomovies. We would watch anything
gether was Disney’s “Up.”
and everything – from action flicks
As much credit as I give my mother
and romantic comedies to animated
for introducing me to my favorite
films. (My father never saw the fruit
films, like “Bringing Up Baby,” it was
of his efforts: I am an unapologetic
my father who fostered my love of
film snob.) And with each film, there
film. If not for him, I probably would
was a kinetic bond between us; we
never have set foot in a movie theater.
weren’t experiencing the same thing,
I do not think he ever realize how imbut our connection was strongest
portant he was to my passion.
when the pictures were moving.
I would watch and he would sleep,
The first times my father took me
but we’d do it together, like fathers
to the movies, I plugged my ears. At
and sons who play ball. Watching
six I was too young for blasts of gunfilms with him was less about the
fire and the roar of dialogue by
movie and more about spending time
George Lucas. (“You’ll never know
together. It was soothing sitting by his
the power of the Dark Side!” Senator
recliner, or next to him in the theater.
Palpatine yelled.)
I didn’t have to look to see if he was
As the film played, I would look
asleep. That roar wasn’t from gunfire
over at him, even though I knew exin the film – it was his snoring.
actly what I would
see. This man, who
wasn’t so much rotund as potbellied
like Santa Claus,
would be almost reclining. He looked
like Ted Levine in
“Heat” or “Monk.”
He always wore flannel and shorts, even
in winter. I think he
enjoyed the movies as
much as me, partly
because his multiple
sclerosis did not permit him to stand for
long and partly because it was our
thing.
As the credits
Photo by Claire Gill, Richlands, NC
rolled, we would roll
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
by Kyle Turner,
East Hampton, CT
on out, often to Walmart. While my
Brooks” with Kevin Costner. As we
father shopped, I would hang around
were reading the back of the box, a
the DVD section. You can blame half
man walked up and said, “Are you
of my collection on him. It was like
sure he should be watching that?” I
giving someone prone to drug addicwas probably 14, had watched “The
tion their first fix. And I needed my
Exorcist” at ten, and was a frequenter
fix to come with two discs and lots of
of the horror movie marathons on
special features.
AMC. But I think I was more ofWhat was strange about this was
fended by my father, who quietly batnot that I enjoyed wandering around
ted him away with an amiable “I think
Walmart stacking DVDs in my arms,
I know what I’m doing.”
but that I made an acquaintance there.
This was not the first time someone
I’ll call him Tom – with his shaggy
would try to parent for my father
hair and unkempt look and his Walabout which films I should see. Once
mart uniform whose smiley tag would
we were at a supermarket, and was set
have been more appropriate upside
to rent “There Will Be Blood.” A
down. We would talk about movies –
woman asked my father, “Are you
it became a routine. Every Friday, I
sure your son should be watching
would head to the DVD section and
that?” Again, I was offended at the asthere Tom was. He was nice enough
sumption that a) I was, like, nine
and knew a lot about films. I was a
years old and b) that at 14 I was not
budding film enthusiast. I had not
old enough to decide for myself. I
started my blog yet, and I watched
glared at her, about to shout, “I’ll see
voraciously nevertheless. I made
you at my Pulitzer Prize reception!”
notes of his recommendations.
Fortunately, my father put his hand
After somehow convincing my faover my mouth.
ther to buy me yet another DVD, we
My father was, by no means, irrewould head to Hollywood Video,
sponsible in allowing me to watch
known as the Poor Man’s Blockwhat I did. Actually, were it not for
buster. I’m old enough to remember
his somewhat apathetic stance on ratwhen video rental stores were not
ings, I would not have the view of
only a thing, but the main way I discinema and art that I have. I knew
covered good, bad, and strange
what gratuitousness was and did not
movies. I would talk to these clerks
squirm through it, unless it were
too, usually about what horror movies
something like medical procedures or
I’d seen. These were probably the
scenes that involved children being a
only ones impressed with my ability
nuisance to the adult protagonists.
to name all the James Bond films in
On our trips to Cape Cod in Dad’s
backwards chronological order in
RV, we would visit the Drive-In Theunder 30 seconds. Someone had to.
ater in Wellfleet. I consider myself
We would spend hours deciding
lucky to have had that experience.
what to rent. I had not yet developed a
There were double features and carpretension for any type of film, so I
toons, and it was like walking into the
was fairly open. By then, I was alpast. I experienced a nostalgia for a
lowed to watch almost anything short
time I didn’t even experience. It was
of porn. Once I began my blog and it
after going to a drive-in eight years
received recognition, my mother
ago that I started my blog.
threw any meagre restrictions out the
I never realized how important
window, saying, “It would be like
movies were to my relationship with
forcing the horses back into the barn
my father until I thought about writafter they’d entered the
ing about him. InadverKentucky Derby and
tently, he exposed me to
started a blog about it.
all kinds of films because
When the
Just without the funny
he never limited what I
credits rolled, could see. Most imporhats.”
Now, I have a rule
we’d roll on out tantly, he supported and,
not to get any food at
in his own way, nurtured
the theater unless somemy love for cinema.
one else is buying. My father and I
Sure, he might have been asleep half
shared a good traditionalism about
the time, but there was something
snacks: popcorn with no butter and a
there, something that I miss. It may
soda. It was that simple. At home, we
have been fate that I found someone
were ice cream guys. We would get
for whom film meant as much as it
pints from Cumberland Farms and inmeans to me. When the lights went
dulge in our creamy and silky smooth
down and the speakers went up, and
pleasures. Only later did I hone my
our faces – one rapt with attention and
skills at crying into said pint of ice
the other calmly nodding off – were
cream.
bathed in the light of the silver screen,
One rainy evening, my father and I
there was an undeniable connection
were searching in the horror section
between father and son. There we
for something to watch. We were
were, waiting for the coming attracabout to settle on a film called “Mr.
tions. ✦
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I
was always a “little kid” to my
parents. It didn’t matter how old I
got, the fact that I had friends and
other interests besides Mom and Dad,
or that – especially in high school – I
started to live in a completely different world from theirs; I was always
“Davey,” especially to my dad. And
for the most part, I didn’t mind.
My brother is the stereotypical teen
who spends a lot of time alone in his
room. He may not fight with our parents, but he resents them. I think
there’s a whole background of how he
wants to be seen as different from
how they tried to raise him, and, in
general, he isn’t big on family. And
that’s fine by me. I completely understand where he’s coming from. When
your parents make you go to church
every Sunday, try to control who your
friends are, and don’t let you go to
parties, there can be bitter feelings.
More so today than ever, kids –
teens especially – live in two drastically different worlds. One, obviously, is our family. The other is our
social life. At home, we have nobody
to impress. At school and friends’
houses, we’re always trying to climb
the ladder. Make friends. Fit in. Dress
right. Get ripped. Look good. Be
funny. At home, none of that matters.
There’s a difference in the goals of
these two worlds for teens. At home,
we have to be “good”: not make a
mess or talk back, always do your
chores and homework. But when
we’re trying to impress others, we’ll
do almost anything. That’s why at
school, “good” kids may make fun of
others, talk differently, even walk differently.
Teenagers have a natural desire to
be accepted. We need, more than anything, to fit in. Since we are constantly told that our parents love us no
matter what, we focus our energy on
our social world. In addition, we all
leave home at some point – many go
to college, where finding friends feels
even more important – so the social
world seems more and more important to teens. Eventually, it always
wins.
The desire to dissociate from our
parents, then, makes sense. They represent home life, “good” kids, nice little boys who aren’t ripped and don’t
fit in. When we’re trying to survive in
the social world, we don’t want to be
seen with our parents. We know that
we won’t be with them forever, and,
more than anything, we want to grow
up, and hasten the inevitable.
I know this because I’m living it. I
lead two completely different lives,
and I know how hard it is to balance
them. I’ve seen what it has done to
my brother’s relationship with my
parents – the distance is painful. So, I
didn’t think it was a big deal that my
LINK
YOUR
parents
Moving On, Moving Out
by David Nolan,
Manchester, VT
parents still clung on to their view of
never push him off.
me as “little Davey.”
Now I regret pushing my dad away
Parents don’t want their kids to
more than anything. But I can’t live at
grow up, begin to resent them like
home forever. My home life and my
they resented their parents, and leave
dad aren’t the center of my universe
home feeling bitter. Parents want
the way they once were, and I think
nine-year-olds who listen, help out,
that has been hard for both of us to
and give kisses when they say good
realize.
night. So I let them cling to Davey. I
I’m lucky; having seen my
was okay with being their little kid
brother’s strained relationship, I had
who would never leave home, who
16 beautiful years of childhood, and I
would make sacrifices
did my best to make the
in the social world to
most of them. It feels like
have a good relationit’s ending now, but I
ship with them. Part of
think it’s time. Too often,
The desire to
me even wanted to
push away too hard.
dissociate from kids
stay like that forever,
They separate from their
to stop time and live
parents at 13 or 14. Sure,
our parents
forever where I’m
every kid wants to grow
makes sense
happy and they are
up. Realizing that you’re
Photo by Katie Locke, Red Hook, NY
too. But as I grew, deleaving something beevery time. Kids grow up. It would be
spite both our efforts
hind, though, can be
helpful if they had allies in that
to hold on, that world has been
painful, even more if you only realize
process instead of dictators.
fading.
after it’s too late.
If I could, I would go back and do
My memory is filled with events,
And parents face the opposite probsome things differently. I would hold
not even very long ago, of me as a kid
lem: they pull. They have 13-year-old
on to my family more, but I don’t
with my dad. I remember him going
infants who must follow every rule,
think the outcome would be any difout to do errands. As he backed out of
be home at this minute or else, comb
ferent. Looking back, I realize how
the driveway, he would call through
their hair a certain way, eat this, think
lucky I was that even though I made
the car window, “Oh, and Davey? I
that. Parents need to see the problems
mistakes, I was able to enjoy life at
love you” with a big smile. In recent
kids face, the struggle between two
home. I’m just ready to move on. ✦
years, instead of saying I loved him
different worlds where one will win
too, I would tell him to go get the
groceries. So now he doesn’t say
that anymore. Social life over home
life.
He used to ask me about girls – a
by Kiyoko Reidy, Knoxville, TN
cardinal sin. The two worlds don’t
mix. I told him to stop being so
waking up.
am afraid.” It’s the first time my
awkward, so he stopped asking. He
“I know. But one feels frailer, somefather
has
ever
said
those
words
to
used to jump on me, shouting, “I’m
how.”
me.
Kitchen,
10:47
p.m.,
he’s
falling!” and squash me into the
In the invincibility of youth, fragility is
holding a spatula. I glance at my watch –
couch. That ended when I was 14
for
petals and the hardened shell of snow,
the world isn’t going to wait for an apocaand yelled at him to cut it out.
not fathers. Only perceiving perpelypse; it’s going to end in minutes.
He used to call me Davey. One
tuity, I open crusted eyes. He’s
If
my
father
is
afraid,
there
is
defi“I’m
day I told him, “I’m sick of being
dreading the mornings I spend
nitely
something
wrong.
treated like a little kid.” He asked
turning
without his stubble-scarred kisses.
“What’s
scaring
you,
Dad?”
The
what I meant. I explained that in a
Empty spice shelves, drawers
words
pop
out
one
by
one,
thudding
50”
year I would be leaving home, but I
stripped of their spatulas, an unagainst
each
other
and
trying
to
still had to follow all his rules. “I’m
filled space by the stove. I wish I
scurry
back
beneath
my
tongue.
The
still ‘Davey,’ and you still think that
had
never
spoken, that the question had
kitchen is my father’s; he inhabits the oil
this is the center of my life,” I said,
found
its
refuge
behind my teeth and
burns and the shelves full of spices. I almotioning to the house around me.
stayed
there.
I
want
to outrun his fears. ✦
most
walk
away.
I
can
imagine
the
sound
The next day, he called me David.
of
scuffling
footsteps
and
the
isolaAnd I felt my stomach sink. To me,
tion after the door slams – angsty
and maybe to my dad, “Davey”
buzz to thicken the air between us.
meant I was still his good little nine“I’m turning 50.” The age of wisyear-old. “David” meant the end.
dom
and halfway done if you’re
I find myself torn between these
lucky.
The age of everything at once,
two worlds. I want to be an adult –
with retirement unpacking its things a
to do what I want, choose my
few doors down. The age of heart
friends, stay out at night. But inside,
attacks and will to live.
I still long for that bear hug, the pro“It’s just another year.” A step from
gression of bear hugs from “baby
decade
to decade, year to year, day to
black bear” to “daddy brown bear” –
day.
Easier
than his coffee-drowned
the hardest bear hug of them all. Or
sunrises.
Do
I wish him happy birthgames of HORSE in the driveway.
day?
The
consolation
of continuity,
Or helicopter rides on his shoulders.
late nights are always
Or how he used to jump on me and
red-rimmed, early mornings are
shout, “I’m falling! Catch me,
Art by Maya Kendrick, Tucson, AZ
always grouchy. Forty-nine years of
Davey!” And he would land on me,
and we would laugh, and I could
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Fragility
“I
ACCOUNT TO
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• Teen Ink
15
pride & prejudice
Deprogrammed
A
s I glanced around the classroom, an awful
realization struck me: I’m the only female in
an all-male computer science class. I could
tell by their stares that my new classmates assumed I
had blundered into the wrong room. I too was wondering if I had made a mistake – whether this elective had been a smart choice after all. I had been in
the class for less than a minute and already I felt like
I didn’t belong. But nothing was less welcoming
than having my new teacher ask me, “Are you sure
you can handle this class? It’s easier for guys.”
That was the first time someone had told me I
couldn’t do something simply because I was a girl.
At first I thought I had heard him wrong, but there
was no version of that sentence that was better. I
seriously questioned if I could handle a class taught
by a teacher who doubted my ability without even
knowing me. I couldn’t believe my teacher meant
what he said – and my classmates agreed with him.
I felt like an outsider because of my gender, but I
had no intention of dropping the class. I stayed because I wanted to prove to my classmates – and to
my teacher – that girls are not somehow inferior
by Shania Pierre, Edison, NJ
every day was tiring, and I debated if it was worth it.
when it comes to computer science. But doing that
But then something wonderful happened. I became
meant working hard to catch up, since unlike the
fascinated with programming and resolved that I
guys in class I had no prior experience with coding.
was not going to let my classmates take my chance
I also learned right away that feeling isolated in
to learn more away from me.
class was my new norm.
My teacher assigned the class to create a game
Before this class, I had never been told I couldn’t
called Brick Breaker. I was scared that my game
do something. As a consequence, I went through
school with a false understanding of
would seem simple compared to my
classmates’. Interestingly, I got the
what it means to work hard to accomplish something. When my teacher
highest grade for this project. This was
Feeling isolated the moment that I felt I finally proved
questioned my ability to handle his
class, it caused me to want to work my
to my teacher and my peers that
in class was
hardest to prove him wrong and prove
women can do computer science just as
my new norm well as men – or better.
to myself that I really could do anything I set my mind to.
Now I see this experience as a blessHow long does it take to get used to
ing in disguise. I am more motivated as
ignorant statements? For me, it took a long time to
a student, so the feeling I get when I accomplish a
become numb to the sexism I experienced from the
goal happens more often. I also now realize that others’ opinions about whether or not I can do someguys in class. They would make a seemingly innothing are irrelevant as long as I believe I can.
cent comment like, “Oh, don’t you know that comI have no regrets signing up for that unlikely elecmand?” but in a condescending way. I struggled not
tive. Without this experience, I would not have
to react to their cutting comments, not wanting them
found my true passion in life. ✦
to think I was weak. Facing these sexist attitudes
My Awakening
by Rujan Ahmed, Atlantic City, NJ
R
Despite my religious upbringing, I couldn’t
aised in a conservative Bengali Muslim
agree with my dad that what happened to
family, I was taught to fear God and
Clementi was okay. I wanted to talk to someone
never do anything that went against His
about this, but I didn’t know who. At home, my
will. I knew how to pray by the time I was four
parents and siblings despised homosexuals, and
and finished reading the Quran when I was nine.
in school almost everyone seemed to use the
Among many tenets I learned by studying the
word “gay” as either an insult or to refer to
Quran was that under Islamic law, homosexualsomething mockingly. So instead, I decided to
ity is considered not only a sin but a crime.
do some research on how exactly homosexual
Most of my childhood was spent in Bangladesh,
kids are being affected by bullying.
where I neither met nor even saw homosexual
I was beyond horrified by what I found. My
people; thus my understanding of them was enwhole
body felt numb as I learned about the
tirely based on the Quran, my parents’ views,
thousands of kids who committed suicide beand the beliefs of my culture.
cause they couldn’t stand being bullied for
Born into a community that viewed homosexbeing who they were. I felt sick to my stomach
uals as the vilest of sinners, I learned to despise
as I learned about Asher Brown, an eighth
them from a young age. It wasn’t until I learned
grader who shot himself after he
about Tyler Clementi’s death that
was physically bullied for his apmy view on homosexuality took a
180-degree turn.
In Bangladesh, pearance and his religious beliefs,
and accused of being gay. After
“Jumping off the gw bridge
I never saw
reading about teens like Brown,
sorry,” was Clementi’s final Facebook status, posted just minutes
homosexuals Seth Walsh, Billy Lucas, and countless others apparently bullied to
before he plunged to his death
death, whatever prejudice I had
from the George Washington
against homosexual people disappeared. I realBridge in New York City. The 18-year-old Rutized that I could no longer use my religion, my
gers student committed suicide in 2010 after his
parents, and my culture as excuses for my horoommate, Dharun Ravi, and a fellow hallmate
mophobic behavior. I was ashamed to think that
used a webcam to spy on Clementi in his room
all this time, I was no different from people like
with another man, then attempted to broadcast
Tyler Clementi’s roommate.
the images. The first time I heard about his
Before I heard Clementi’s story, I knew very
death, I was watching CNN with my dad. When
little about the plight of homosexuals and never
the reason for Clementi’s suicide was revealed,
bothered to form my own opinion beyond what
my dad changed the channel, saying, “Guess
the Quran had said: that they should be loathed.
this Clementi boy should’ve seen it coming,
I was only able to overcome my prejudice after
huh?”
taking the time to learn and attempt to underI was shocked. My dad is not an unkind perstand the struggles of homosexuals. In doing so,
son, so hearing him condemn someone because
I have neither abandoned my religion nor
he was gay was something I couldn’t accept. All
thrown away my culture. But I have learned that
I could think was how a boy only four years
all ignorant prejudice does is provide an illegitiolder than me had killed himself because he was
mate excuse for inhumanity. ✦
ashamed of his identity.
Beauty Product
Genocide
The foundation bottles lay, cut open,
Strewn like carcasses in the aftermath
Of a beauty product genocide
The ground is smeared with my running mascara
and my mangled hairbrush
Looking like a war happened with no
Winning side
Just chaos without cause and violence
Without passion
But that’s not entirely true
Seventeen magazine told me all the ways
I could look prettier
If I tried
And Vogue made this ideal seem even more
Unattainable
So I did what any sane woman would do:
I killed that which only made me feel beautiful
On the outside
But whispered to me that I’d never be truly so
On the inside.
by Callie Zimmerman, Fishers, IN
Photo by Tanner Abel, Rome, NY
16
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
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U N I V E R S I T Y ,
A B U
D H A B I
write-ins. On-campus dorms will be available
Abu Dhabi, UAE: When NYU Abu Dhabi first
when the university moves to its Saadiyat Island
opened its gates for students in the United Arab
campus.
Emirates, most were skeptical. It is not uncomAt every event during my visit, and in every
mon for international universities to set up
corner of the university, the importance of the
branches in the UAE, but this one stood out. Year
liberal arts curriculum was apparent. Student inafter year, NYUAD became more and more imterests ranged from recycling to visual arts, and
portant and known in the country and internathe library contained everything from nevertionally, and now, as a high school junior, it is at
before seen 3-D printers to old, historical books.
the top of my college list. Earlier this year, I
Education at NYUAD is central, and it is what
attended the university’s open day to find out
truly sets the university apart. With majors that
exactly what makes it special.
are uncommon in the Middle East
I was first struck by the simand the option to pursue concentraplicity of NYUAD’s downtown campus. Located in a
Offers majors that tions rather than minors, NYUAD
diplomas are very sought-after. Its
busy area of Abu Dhabi, the
are uncommon in Humanities and Social Sciences
campus is small but practical.
departments distinguish NYUAD.
The building is painted NYU’s
the Middle East
Students are encouraged to spend a
traditional purple, and is in a
few semesters abroad at NYU’s inU formation; in the middle, a
ternational campuses, and exploration of courses
garden is visible. The university will be moving
unrelated to one’s major is encouraged.
to its permanent campus on Saadiyat Island this
My visit to NYUAD and the information I reyear, however. This campus will boast numerous
ceived left me very impressed. I believe that
buildings, one of the biggest libraries in the rethose with a passion for knowledge and the degion, and unique facilities.
termination to work hard while enjoying everyCurrently, students live on Al-Reem Island,
thing Abu Dhabi and NYUAD have to offer
one of the many islands in Abu Dhabi famous for
should definitely look into this university. All in
its spacious towers and projects. Dorms include
all, NYUAD is definitely a place to consider.
study spaces and facilities such as gyms and eatLearn more on their website: nyuad.nyu.edu. ✦
ing areas. The dorm building is where many activities take place, such as dance classes, exercise
by Khulood Fahim, Abu Dhabi, UAE
groups, and, during NaNoWriMo last year,
U N I V E R S I T Y
Colorado State
U N I V E R S I T Y
Fort Collins, CO: As a high school student planning
for college, I recently visited Colorado State University. As soon as you enter Fort Collins, you will realize that you are in a city well known for its amazing
hills. The whole city is flourishing with natural
beauty. If you love hiking, this is the best place for
you. As a lover of nature, I really enjoyed the green
atmosphere of the university.
Though Colorado State
is one of the oldest universities in America, it has
Modern
modern buildings. I was
amazed by its massive inbuildings
frastructure. This campus
and massive
is home to more than
27,000 students; it’s so
infrastructure
large that it took almost
an hour to walk all the
way around. Students from 80 nations study there, and
the university offers bachelor’s degrees in 65 fields of
study, as well as 55 master’s degrees.
Selecting a university is a difficult task for any high
school student. We only get to experience college life
once in our lifetime. At CSU you can enjoy learning
and experience different cultures.
Find out more at colostate.edu. ✦
college reviews
New York
by Austin James,
Parowan, UT
O F
New Hampshire
Durham, NH: At first the University of New Hampshire may
seem large, but don’t let that discourage you from considering
it. This year, UNH has 13,000 undergraduates. In order to accommodate this number of students, UNH’s campus is spread
out over 2,600 acres. Surrounding the campus are numerous
restaurants, coffee shops, convenience stores, barber shops,
and other retail outlets. Several hangouts around campus provide students with an ideal college experience. Not everyone
wants to spend hours in their dorm, so
having places available to hang out is
important.
Don’t let
Students here can choose from over
the size
100 majors and 100 clubs and various
discourage intramural sports. Attending a bigger
school typically means that the studentyou
to-teacher ratio is fairly disproportional,
but professors at UNH make great efforts to create relationships with students regardless of class
size. Larger schools are also typically considered research universities. For those high school students seeking a classy New
England liberal arts college, with the opportunity to partake in
major research projects, this is the school.
I have seen many new buildings constructed on campus over
the years. With a not-too-pretty in-state tuition of over
$16,000, some people might be turned off. But those fees are
creating an excellent campus and a prospering university. Find
out more at unh.edu. ✦
F==@:<F=LE;<I>I8;L8K<8;D@JJ@FE
/'' =FI;?8Ds\eifcc7]fi[_Xd%\[lsnnn%]fi[_Xd%\[l
by Patrick O’Brien, Newmarket, NH
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
17
Teen Ink • May ’14 • Page 18
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
UA has a rich tradition of excellence in
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Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs:
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• Private New England College founded in 1784
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Office of Admissions
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CORNELL
U N I V E R S I T Y
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Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
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8 Garden Street
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617-495-1551
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Teen Ink • May ’14 • Page 19
Princeton
BACHELOR ❘ ASSOCIATE ❘ CERTIFICATE
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
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• 100+ campus organizations
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memoirs
Life of Dad
O
by Jennifer Du, Mississauga, ON, Canada
find a safer, better life with his
ne day I was in the car with
brother and uncle, who owned a boat.
my dad, on our way home. I
Many Vietnamese citizens, including
was talking animatedly about
half of my father’s family, were una book I had just read, Life of Pi,
able to leave and remain under North
which you probably know is a surVietnam’s oppressive reign even
vival story about a boy stranded on a
today. Others paid to get on the boat.
life raft with a tiger.
The voyage to reach safe neighboring
“Write my story,” my dad joked. “I
countries like Malaysia or Indonesia
could have my own book, even better
was expected to take about two days,
than that boy with the tiger.”
but terrible luck loomed over the voyAlthough he was kidding, I thought
age like a thunder cloud.
it was a good idea. I
The refugees sat quiwanted to tell others
etly
shoulder to shoulabout my dad’s dangerMy dad – then der with their knees
ous, epic journey – a
story that rivals Jason’s
15 – was forced against their chests.
Three hundred men,
or Odysseus’ in my
to flee Vietnam women, and children
eyes. Dad had often told
crowded the boat, leavme about his experiing little room for
ences as a refugee, each
anyone to move.
time fleshing out different details, but
Taking advantage of the political
always with the same harrowing narunrest, modern-day Thai pirates sailed
rative.
the waters to intercept escaping VietIt all began long ago, just after the
namese boats, loot them of valuables,
Vietnam War ended in 1975. North
and more often than not, brutally kill
Vietnam, which supported commuthe refugees. One of these ships
nism, had just taken over South Vietstopped my dad’s boat as they crossed
nam, and it wasn’t until 1978 that the
the South China Sea.
people of the South began to realize
The pirates robbed the refugees on
just how inadequately the communist
my dad’s boat of whatever money and
government ruled.
gold they had (which they had inMy dad – then 15 – fled Vietnam to
tended to use to begin new lives),
broke everything, including the
motor, and attacked women. Then
they left the refugees stranded on
the open sea, though thankfully
alive. All in all, they were lucky.
There’s something about trains that makes people
They put up an emergency sail
endlessly nostalgic
to
replace the broken engine, but
Like some echo of Gatsby or Kerouac
bad
luck once again struck. Ancriss-crossing America
other pirate ship looted them, and
Looking for a past that never really was
the thieves broke the sail and left
I traded one city for another
them stranded a second time.
Left Toronto for Ottawa
Although the Western countries
And with it left a string of lovers
had
sent Navy ships to deter the
And friends who promised to call but after a while
pirates,
my father’s boat was plunwould find themselves unable
dered
over
and over – pirates findOr unwilling, our friendship becoming something
ing
the
last
gold coins tucked
akin to calling estranged relatives
safely in a child’s shirt, or morsels
Something you do only to prove – more to yourself
of food hidden by a mother – until
than anyone –
there was nothing left except
That they still occupy some tiny piece of real-estate
starving refugees. One pirate ship
on the outskirts of your mind
punched a hole in my dad’s boat
And I knew I’d hate it
to make it sink. In sheer desperaKnew that there would be tears
tion, the passengers used buckets
A twenty-year-old reduced to a child of ten years
to bail the water, taking turns
Wondering why the world keeps going even though
round the clock just to stay afloat.
I’ve gone
With no food left, men, women,
But I didn’t hate it
and children starved. “Children
Not really
were so hungry that they would
Waking up was like starting over
look for uncooked pieces of rice
In this place where no one knew me
on the floor to eat,” my dad exI like writing alone
plained somberly. “But every time
Riding the bus alone across the bridge to Montreal
I thought I was going to die, someDrinking and thinking alone feeling no need to pace
how, it would rain just in time and
myself or keep up
we would collect the water.”
I like being alone, but I’ve never been much for
For what seemed like an eterbeing lonely
nity, but was probably a month,
by Ben Horrobin, Courtice, ON, Canada
they survived on rain water and
floated on the open sea, going
Going to Ottawa
20
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
whichever way the
current pleased.
At last, a lucky day
came when a fishing
boat found them and
towed their broken
boat to Malaysia. The
police took the
refugees to a military
camp, where they
were evaluated for
transfer to other counPhoto by Marisa Freedman, Sharon, MA
tries. They remained
there for two months,
During the next three months, the
but no one was transferred. Eventurefugees
mingled with the Indonesian
ally, officials told them they would be
locals
and
managed to survive by
towed to an island where other
catching
fish,
picking fruit, eating
refugees lived. It would only take one
canned
food
they
were given by the
to two days, the officials claimed.
soldiers,
drinking
from a waterfall,
Three days and no islands in sight,
and
making
campfires
and shelter.
they knew something was wrong. The
Eventually,
the
soldiers
relocated
boat towing them cut the line and left
my
father’s
group
to
a
larger
island
them stranded in the open sea again,
where
more
refugees
lived
while
they
in the same broken vessel they had
waited
to
be
accepted
into
a
firstused to escape from Vietnam. Howworld country. Meanwhile, life conever, this time, the conditions were
tinued, and the refugees built a
worse; storms and rough seas threatthriving community on the island,
ened to capsize them. It was tropical
complete with barracks, convenience
season, and the violent sea bore no
stores, coffee shops, schools, temples,
regard for the tiny boat filled with
and other businesses. This become
terrified refugees.
their lives as they waited for years to
My dad discovered later that the
be accepted into safe countries like
Malaysian government had done this
Canada, America, and Australia.
to all the refugees they sheltered beRefugees could apply for asylum to
cause the UN had not given them the
whichever
country they wanted, but
relief money they had demanded.
they
could
only do it one at a time.
The passengers somehow managed
Sometimes
they heard back quickly,
to fix the engine, and they flagged
but
many
were
stuck in limbo for a
down a fishing boat for some oil.
long
time,
depending
on the country.
Then they continued their search for
More
popular
countries
had longer
land. One day, they spotted an island
wait
times.
and a submarine with a soldier wavEventually, my dad’s relatives went
ing a flag in the air.
to
Australia. My dad and his brother
“Nobody knew what it meant, so
weren’t
able to go with them because
we continued toward them until they
Australia didn’t accept
opened fire,” my
lone minors, and his
father recalled.
relatives didn’t want the
“Everyone dropped to
responsibility of caring
When
my
dad
the deck. They apfor them. So the brothproached us in a small
left
the
boat,
he
ers journeyed to
boat. We were terrified
and began a
was so weak that Canada
that they were enenew
life
in Toronto,
mies.”
he
had
to
crawl
Ontario.
However, when the
I am grateful for this
soldiers boarded their
turn
of events because
boat and the refugees
Canada
is
my
home,
and I wouldn’t
somehow explained what they were
want
to
live
anywhere
else. And if
doing, the soldiers agreed to tow them
my
dad
hadn’t
come
to
Canada, my
to another island. Although this
parents
would
not
have
met, and I
sounds like good news, the refugees
wouldn’t
have
been
born.
were terrified of being towed again,
More than twenty people died on
especially when they were so near
that
journey, and I am so grateful my
shore. They threatened to jump overdad
was
one of the survivors. I am
board and swim to shore, so the solglad
that
he is here today to laugh
diers took them to the nearby island.
when
I
make
funny faces behind my
When my dad finally left the boat,
mom’s
back.
I am grateful he is here
he was so weak and unused to walkto
give
me
hugs
and kisses, whether I
ing that he had to crawl on his hands
want
them
or
not.
I am so grateful.
and knees. Since he hadn’t eaten for
I
love
you,
Dad.
✦
so long, he was not allowed solid
food and had to settle for soup.
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
W
e started dating after the
church retreat. I had known
him for years but never
thought of him as more than just another
rambunctious guy in my youth group. I
had never had a boyfriend, or even a second glance from a boy, so this was a
major first for me.
The church retreat really broke the ice.
I remember him stealing my jacket as a
joke, an all-black hoodie with white stars
on it. It fit him terribly, but he proudly
ran around with it on all night. On the
last night, he walked me to my cabin. He
opened the door and stood so close to
me I could barely breathe. He put his
arms around me and held me for what
felt like a century. I could have sworn he
was going to kiss me – what a romantic
time for my first kiss! It would have
been picture perfect. But instead he let
go and said, “Well, I guess I’ll talk to
you tomorrow.”
The next day we exchanged numbers.
When he asked me out a couple weeks
later, I was ecstatic. My first boyfriend,
and maybe even my first kiss!
One night we went to see “Nick and
Nora’s Infinite Playlist.” I was sweating
through the whole movie, anticipating a
kiss. At the end, as everyone was leaving, I looked over at him, and he at me,
and a mutual decision was made. We
kissed.
Well, it was more like his tongue attacked the back of my mouth, but there it
was. My first kiss! Romantic right? Then
he pulled away and said, “Your mouth is
really wet.” Aren’t most mouths? So
Underwater
by “Kim,” Seattle, WA
were so wrong.
much for my picture-perfect moment.
We had been putting Christmas lights
After our first awkward kiss things got
on a tiny tree in my room. As we finbetter. We went to the movies, out to
ished stringing them, we noticed that
dinner, or just hung out at my house or
only the bottom half of the tree was
his. I thought things were going great.
blinking. He had said he knew what he
We talked a lot, shared stories, made
was doing, but clearly he didn’t. We
time for each other, and just had fun. But
laughed as the tree blinked out of sync.
then our relationship took a turn for the
One minute we were admiring the
worse.
tree, and the next I was lying on the bed
•
•
•
and he was pulling down his jeans. Not
E-mails, texts, calls, voice mails, and
much happened in between. No kissing,
Facebook messages. From people I
no touching. There was no time to say
didn’t know, numbers I had never seen,
anything. It just happened. To be honest,
and names I had never heard of. HorriI didn’t even realized what we’d done
ble, insulting, profane, abusive mesuntil it was over.
sages.
The lights were still on,
“You’re disgusting, dirty,
I didn’t realize my clothes were still on,
I’m surprised anyone
there was no eye conwould even want to do that
what we had and
tact. We looked at each
with you.”
done until it
other briefly afterwards, but
“I heard what happened
that was the last time he met
the other night.You’re such
was over
my eye for the rest of the
a skank. Go die.”
evening. As we heard, “The
“He was a good guy.
movie’s starting!” from downstairs, he
Why would you do that to him?! He’s
zipped up his pants and ran ahead, leavone of my best friends. And you’re a
ing me in the empty room. I felt conwhore. Stay away from him.”
fused and worried. During the movie we
“You’re so ugly, you should just go
sat next to each other, but we might as
hide under a rock and stay there forwell have been miles apart. His eyes
ever.”
were fixed on the screen but a huge
My heart sank, and my lungs felt
smile was plastered on his face as if he
heavy in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I
was thinking, My goal has been
couldn’t even cry.
achieved.
•
•
•
I wanted him to hold me and tell me
I vividly remember what happened
everything was going to be okay. Instead
that fateful night. How could I forget?
I got silence. We didn’t talk for the next
We were so young. We thought we
three days. No e-mails, no texts, no calls,
knew what love was, and we thought
no voice mails.
that having sex would prove that. We
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The people I did hear from
were the kids from his
school, his friends. Boys and
girls. Everywhere I looked
there were mean words, rude
comments, heartbreaking
messages. At that point all I
wanted to do was hide under
a rock and stay there forever.
There was never an explanation for those calls and messages. No apologies, not even
a word about it. He and I
never talked again.
I’m telling this story for a
reason. Believe me, I am not
having a pity party for myself. I’m pouring my heart out because I’ve struggled
over the past few years, blaming myself
for what happened, hating myself for letting it happen. I’ve grown up a lot since
then, and I know now that I’m not to
blame. It’s finally time to let go of those
feelings. It happened, and I’ve accepted
that it will be a part of me forever. But
though I will always regret what happened that night, I have learned a lot
about myself, who I am, and who I want
to be.
I have many friends who complain, “I
haven’t even had my first kiss yet!” And
I always say to them what I’ll say to you
now: Wait. Just wait.
There’s no reason to rush. When you
finally do have a first, make sure it’s
with someone special who respects you.
Everyone deserves that. Life is full of
firsts, but you only have one chance to
make them special. ✦
by Cassidy Phillips, Springboro, PA
Again and again, until the water rose up from her lungs
don’t remember much from that day. I was only nine,
and out of her mouth.
after all. There are details, however, that time simply
They rushed her to an ambulance before she could even
cannot wear away. The sirens are one of them. And the
let
out a cry. The way she looked at me, though, she didn’t
blue tint of my little sister’s skin. Emily was only five,
have to.
practically a baby, her torso encased in fiberglass due to
She was one of many who cried that day. I did, my
scoliosis. There was no way she could have swam, even if
brother did, and my mother – my strong, fearless mother
she knew how.
cried. It was so foreign to me, so strange; I had never seen
I started panicking when I looked around the pool, quite
it happen before. Someone must have called her at work.
literally swimming with people, and couldn’t spot Emily.
As she approached the hospital’s emergency
My breathing became labored as panic
entrance, I rushed over to meet her. She
gripped me. I ran across the slick tile, nearly
I
scanned
hugged me tightly, then ran inside. I
slipping and falling in myself. I found the
stood and watched as the doors
woman who had been in charge of watching
the pool for
closed. They wouldn’t let me see my
my sister in the hot tub, a forbidden place
any sign of my sister until the next morning.
where only the grown-ups could go.
I remember lying in bed at my
“Where is she?” I demanded, fear and
little sister
babysitter’s house late into the night,
worry pushing their way up from my gut.
not awake, but not asleep enough to
“Where is Emily?”
dream. What could they be doing to her? Was she
She looked at me for a moment, stunned. She reminded
connected to a bunch of wires like on the medical
me of a deer caught in the headlights of my mother’s car. I
shows my mother watched? Was she being prodturned to scan the crowd for a sign, any sign, of my little
ded like some lab experiment, like I had read
sister.
about in science-fiction books? I didn’t have to
Everything that happened afterward has blurred together
wait long to get the answers. What seemed like
in my memory. I remember the sirens – so loud I had to
minutes later, I was being shaken awake and told
place my hands over my ears. I remember her tiny, discolto get dressed.
ored body being lifted from the pool and placed gently on
I had been to a hospital before, of course. I had
the ground. One pump, two pumps, three pumps, a breath.
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regular checkups for my back. But the hospital I was used
to had colorful floors, brightly painted walls, and silly doctors that made me giggle. This hospital was gray, gray,
gray. Gray walls, gray ceilings, even the people looked
gray.
When I saw my sister laughing and playing with my
mom, though, none of that mattered. I was no longer
standing in the doorway of a gray building. No longer felt
the awful pressure in my chest, that feeling of guilt that I
should have been watching her, should have protected her.
She smiled at me, and everything was bright again. ✦
Photo by Emma Cloe, Longmont, CO
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
21
memoirs
The Girl Is …
by Zephyr Allen, Maryville, TN
P
high school, I realized that many of
oorly drawn graffiti on the walls of dilapidated
my friends hadn’t been so lucky.
gas stations is a common sight at vacant highMany of them had parents who were
way exits in the Appalachians. Yet, as I waited
unkind, or simply uncaring.
for my dad to pay for gas, one phrase stood out from
Because of my disillusionment, I
all the others spray-painted on the wall. The vandal
found
myself driving the empty
had clearly been interrupted, perhaps chased away
roads of Maryville early one mornby a gas station employee. Though the other graffiti
ing to pick up a friend for a pancake
screamed out in colorful paint, the words “the girl
breakfast. These weekly “breakfast
is” stood out to me in black.
clubs” filled our overworked Friday
Long after I had climbed back into my dad’s car
mornings with the blessto escape the biting winter wind, the
ing of good food, and
phrase still tugged at my mind, making
somehow by together
me wonder, What could the girl be?
We could
consuming the pancakes
The girl is nice.
start losing
and coffee courteously
The girl is bad.
by my father,
The girl is stupid.
our ingrained provided
we had transformed
Or perhaps the author intended to
from a gaggle of girls fitting in converself-hatred
use one of the many words I wish I
sation in the odd hours of the morning,
hadn’t known at 15.
to a support group where we could start
Many of those words were the
losing our common religion of ingrained self-hatred.
choice vocabulary of my school’s population. They
There was the girl who had been raped freshman
could be heard whispered in gossip or thrown across
year who could finally walk into school knowing
crowded hallways. Some were aimed at me. Some
that “the girl is not dirty.”
were aimed at my friends – words that labeled us as
There was the girl who learned that, despite her
people we never were, stones in a civilized Lord of
less than perfect grades, “the girl is not stupid.”
the Flies, never truly guarded against, because half
And then there was me, who had been struggling
of them we believed to be true.
with my passion for mathematics. For me, learning
Sometimes I think that the girl is just messed up.
math has always seemed more like remembering a
Even after my parents separated, I lived a childstory I heard as a child than work, yet when I told
hood of halcyon naivety. However, when I began
Photo by Madeline Hertz, Shaker Heights, OH
my mother’s family that I wanted to be an engineer,
they laughed. Unfortunately, I can understand their
surprise. Over the years, I’ve watched the girls in
my math classes dwindle until there were just five of
us left senior year. I know the expectations of my
gender and how rarely we are given the message that
“the girl is capable.”
But I also know that it’s time to disabuse ourselves of the stereotypes. It’s time to teach the world
that “the girl” is not a prude or a tramp or stupid. I
want my female friends to know that they are anything but worthless. I want to give them the confidence to say that “the girl is fine.” ✦
Good Books and a Green Purse
W
hen I was eight years old I
sat in a yellow and fuchsia
yurt, drawing with a fat
beeswax crayon made specially in
Germany for me (or so I was told).
My mom’s childhood copy of Nancy
Drew and the Mystery of the Old
Clock, with its musty pages, sat at my
feet. I clutched a green messenger bag
that I pictured Nancy Drew using. My
mom had bought it for me on an
emergency cat-food run to Target the
night before. The sun shone on its
green surface, giving it an unearthly,
radioactive hue. The air was cold and
smelled of wet sheep, and all around
Photo by Addison McTague, Oak Harbor, OH
22
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
and the guttural trill of Hebrew bomme children were screaming in Engbarded our quaint living room. My
lish, Spanish, Japanese, German, or
grandmother had arrived. I thought
Elvish. And I was alone.
she was a god.
I was wearing a purple sweater that
Her hair stood, literally stood, on
had holes in each cuff where I had
top of her head in an orange rectangurubbed the wool thin. A tensely
lar mass: a vestigial structure of her
fought battle of consumerism and
glory days. She wore five scarves –
popularity was being waged outside
five – wrapped around her neck and
as competing friend groups strove to
the back of her head. My dad folcreate the finest mud bakeries in all of
lowed her in.
Altadena. The bakeries were competShe stood there grinning, her arms
ing for a “Michelin star.” Waldorf was
outstretched. We sat down on the
an affluent – though quirky – private
couch and in what even I could tell
school after all. My skills as a mud
was an American accent,
baker were apparently
she read me a book in
not up to par, so I was
Hebrew, about Jerusalem.
only hired as a partI’d never
The book had 3-D glasses
time employee. But it
and 3-D photos. When
was okay; I had a book
felt so alone
she was done, I examined
and a green detective
the book closely, then
bag.
carefully tucked it away
Perhaps it was that
in my green messenger bag.
night, or weeks later. Whatever the
I should add something. Her husdate, it was raining. A fierce wind
band was a Russian Jew. After they
came in gusts and torrents, whipping
got married, she asked him to not be
through the fruit trees in my garden,
Jewish anymore, and for whatever
purloining oranges, lemons, and
reason he obliged. Apparently she
peaches. I sat by the hearth in my livdidn’t want to attract attention in their
ing room, drawing castles and mersmall suburb of Stockton, California.
maids, waiting. I was sleepy but
But when her husband died, riddled
watchful. My eyes scrutinized the
with guilt and self-hatred, she moved
front door as I added a pink flower
to Jerusalem and became a Jew herhere and a green bird there. The door
self.
opened. Exotic, damp, unrecognizable
Years later, I stood in Paris, staring
smells, the chink of costume jewelry,
COMMENT
by Betsy Roy, Pasadena, CA
at a green purse in a department store
window. It was made of supple
leather, and the pastel-colored afternoon light made it glow. I was with
my classmates, but I’d never felt so
alone.
I’d saved all my money to be able
to buy something in Paris, but I didn’t
know what to get. My mom was with
my dad in Philadelphia, getting treatment for a rare cancer. The purse
looked as if it could carry at least two
books. My mom would love the rich,
dark green color. I went into the store
and bought the purse. Paranoid, of
what I cannot say, I protected it for
the remainder of the trip. When I got
home, I gave my mom the green purse
just before she left for Philadelphia
again. As she walked out of our front
door, I thought I caught a glimpse of
Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the
Old Clock in her green purse alongside a copy of An Empire of Their
Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood.
Neither I nor anyone else could say
what would happen. Maybe I’d become a baker, maybe I’d move to the
Middle East. As I watched my mom
go, it seemed that with all the uncertainty in life, it was not only right but
necessary to have good books and a
green purse. ✦
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TEENINK.COM
M
y parents are making their
bed. Struggling to shove an
enormous pillow into a pillowcase still stiff from the dryer, my
father mutters, “I feel like I’m stuffing
raw beef into a balloon over here.”
My mother laughs and makes sure
that the sheet is even on both sides.
When the pillow finally flops into
place, they look at the bed with satisfied smiles. “Mm, clean sheets,” my
mother sighs, as though she’s devouring dark chocolate almond bark. She
smooths a crease in the blankets with
reverence. You can tell that she feels,
physically, some kind of relief.
My room, on the other hand, probably gives her ulcers. In contrast with
my parents’ smooth white-and-blue
walls, my room is plastered with endless paraphernalia, including (but not
limited to) needlepoint, old birthday
cards, and photographs. To my credit,
the floor is clear, but only because my
clothes are heaped artlessly on a chair
in the corner, the chair intended as a
reading nook. My desk is clean
enough to be functional, but I never
put my laptop away.
And we don’t even talk about my
closet.
•
•
•
“The problem isn’t cleanliness,” my
mother claims. “The problem is clutter.”
She’s right. While I did go through
a brief stage where I had an arbitrary
and unfortunate aversion to showers, I
have never really struggled with hygiene. My face is almost untouched
by acne scars, my clothes always
smell faintly of detergent, and you
won’t find moldy pizza crusts in my
bedroom. Even when I was little, it
wasn’t that the things I owned were
dirty; it was simply that they were
everywhere.
My mother referred to it as the
Tessie Trail: anyone could find me
simply by following the string of
books, jackets, and toys strewn behind me as though I had dropped
them as I went. In fact, that usually
was what happened. I was simply no
good at picking up after myself.
Everything else was so much more
important: the dragon in hot pursuit of
my American Girl doll, the smell of
grilled cheese from the kitchen, the
bouncy ball under the couch. There
was too much to do, always, to worry
about organization. And getting rid of
things was never an option. Finally,
with some defiance, I taped a sign to
my door that read “Geniuses are
rarely tidy.”
•
•
The first time I saw “An Inconvenient Truth,” I was astonished by the
trash. Unbelievable amounts of trash,
sliding out of monstrous trucks into
jewel-bright incinerators and endless,
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Geniuses Are Rarely Tidy
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nightmarish landfills. The voice-overs
contortionism to sleep at night. It was
played in my ears whenever I lingered
also true that this was completely
over my own small trash can, grimly
avoidable, if only I was willing to sacinforming me how much people
rifice the comfort of my toys for my
throw away yearly. Throwing things
sleep. But how could I choose myself
away became a cause of revulsion
over the things I loved enough to
and, eventually, guilt.
share a bed with every night, the creaTo make things worse, I had always
tures that comforted me when I was
believed that inanimate objects were
scared or sad for the past ten years? It
alive. This, at least, I
was the same dilemma
can mostly blame on
I’d encountered when
my parents.
Getting rid of standing over my trash
Photo by Ellie White, Sitka, AK
“Go get Mrs. Spraycan: How could I choose
things was
there comes a time when you need to
bottle,” my mother
to condemn a plastic
bite your lip and move the toys to the
would say every night,
wrapper
to
a
fiery
death,
never an option
dresser, or move the tearful e-mails
wielding my hairbrush
especially if it meant the
from sick friends to the “trash” folder.
in one hand. She was
planet would continue to
It’s a hard lesson: Sometimes you
referring to the bottle of detangler on
be poisoned? How was it ever fair to
need to take care of yourself first.
the back of the toilet that conversed
choose myself over the things that
We have more battles before us,
with me in an accent my mom had
had done so much for me?
this lesson and I, to determine who
picked up in high school French.
My view of the world, the only
will change the other first. But until
My dad would clean my face with
neatly organized thing I possessed,
then, if anyone needs pencil nubs,
“Mr. Washcloth,” who also had a spewas divided into piles of “good
paper shreds, used notebooks, or
cial voice, and every night I was told
things” and “bad things.” I didn’t unshoeboxes, come find me.
my bed was “happy to see me.” So it
derstand that empathy, like all good
I’ve got a whole bunch in my
should hardly be a surprise that I
things, turns sour when there is too
✦
closet.
started to murmur apologies and
much of it. I didn’t understand that
thank-yous to my toothbrushes
and flossers when I threw them
away. Empty paper towel rolls,
socks with gaping holes – nothing deserved The Trash, because
it would be burned alive or left to
rot, alone, forever. So I kept it
by Brendan McGuigan, Newtown, PA
all, saying, as so many hoarders
do, “You never know. It may
perhaps a first love. A second choice that’s
am standing on a blank white stage. The
come in handy some day.”
second best, a second chance second guessonly voice that can be heard is mine. I am
•
•
•
ing what he does with the seconds passing. I
speaking to you, and I am speaking to no
My clutter was hardest on my
am an infinity expanding in whichever direcone in particular. I am getting nervous; I
mother. She is a person who
tion I choose. I am near, I am far, I am wherdidn’t properly prepare for this. I am getting
finds beauty in empty jars, clean
ever you are. I am singing “My Heart Will
to the point now.
expanses of wall, and surfaces
Go On.”
Who am I? I am the lump sum of the adwith nothing on them. She atI am an anatomy: a heart, a brain, some
jectives assigned to me: lazy, forgetful, quiet,
tacks messes with as much vilungs and kidneys, and other organs. I am
intelligent. Or am I only the adjectives I
ciousness as she would attack
whatever I choose to be until I am told otherchoose to be? I am a proper noun, a name I
someone who had threatened her
wise, or am I still what I choose to be even
had no say in. I am also pronouns, mostly he,
daughters. Living with me presafter?
him, I, you, me, and sometimes a portion of
ents a challenge, which peaked in
I am making words and choices and sense
us or we. I am the regretful owner of a loft
sixth grade.
and carbon dioxide and mistakes.
bed. I am the thing that goes
It began because my bed was
I am not, however, perfect. Nor
bump in the night, but that’s
too small. Not for me, but for
only when I hit my head on the I didn’t properly am I a character or an idea. I am
me, two pillows, five stuffed raba real person, unshaped by one
ceiling.
prepare
for
this
bits, two extra blankets, a doll, a
singular mind, born of flesh and
I am a burden to bear, and
mouse in a corduroy dress, and a
bone, striving to be more than
one bear of a burden. But I am
sizeable elephant. I had to move
flesh and bone. I am the platelets that rush to
not my failures or my shortcomings. I am
them or sacrifice sleep.
heal your wounds. I am the endorphins that
“okay” and sometimes I’m not, but that is
“But they’ll be offended,” I exaccompany them to ease your pain.
okay too. I am the fall, the onset of someplained, anxiously fingering the
I am contradicting myself. I am more than
thing to come. Some days I am warm and
silky ear of Pumpernickel, one of
the name I have been given by myself or anyothers I am cold. To some I am funny, and to
the rabbits. “They’ll be mad that
one else. I am letters and words and syllables
others I am troubled. But mostly I am amorI took the bed for myself.”
and sentences and paragraphs and chapters
phous, a word assigned to something that
“Sweetheart,” my mother said.
and volumes and volumes and volumes of
cannot permanently retain any other words.
“They’ll be fine. You need your
volumes.
I am a collection of cells that has formed a
sleep, so the toys need to move.”
A curtain is falling. The stage is going dark
consciousness that strives for individuality
We went back and forth for a
now; I am exiting. My voice cannot be heard
among other collections of cells that have
few minutes, and finally she
anymore. The only sound is the light murmur
formed their own consciousness. I am bigger
shrugged, and said, “Honey, it’s
of the audience. They are unknowingly ason the inside; we all are – that’s nothing new.
your choice.” And so I curled up
signing me more adjectives. I am absent yet I
I am striving, striving for more than just puras an inchworm might (that was
am lingering. They call me many things, but
poseless survival.
the only way to fit on my bed)
one thing I am not is forgotten. ✦
I am numbered: A first child, a first kiss, or
and thought about this.
True, I had to practice
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• Teen Ink
23
memoirs
Common Language
M
y past feels fragmented as
though I’m looking at it
through shattered glass. But
I think the truest part of the past is in
the cracks, where adhesive memories
hold the pieces together.
I was enrolled in the River School
from kindergarten through second
grade. The school’s inclusion program for the hearing impaired enabled my first brush with irony: my
affinity for words began with a girl
who could not hear them.
We had reading time every day, and
my group consisted of six students,
two of whom were deaf. One, Sydney,
drew my attention with her colorfulness – the palette of Saturday morning cartoons. In the quiet periods
when everyone settled into their
books, I would occasionally peek at
the coiled apparatus in Sydney’s ears.
If she caught my gaze, she would giggle and a light flickered in her eyes.
That light communicated, with the
intensity of a lighthouse beam, a
glimpse into her mind.
During recesses of Goldfish in
paper cups and crayons, ripened baby
teeth rattled under the volume of the
messy conversation. But I only remember listening to Sydney. In her
garbled speech, I could pick out few
coherent words; the rest seemed like
flourishes of a language only she
knew. It was a language lacking
consciousness of its own sound.
An externalization of her thoughts
that transcended neatly sequenced
consonants and vowels. A symphony
Stuck
by Christian Prince, Washington, DC
of her mind.
language of our own.
This seemed like a salvation to me,
I believe there are many more lana soft-spoken child who was starting
guages than people acknowledge.
to realize that many spoke just to hear
Take, for example, when I’m in a
the sound of their own voice. Sydney
crowd and want to be left alone. I precouldn’t, and I wouldn’t – even then I
tend to text on my phone, typing
realized my sloppy sylsomething like “adkjflables betrayed the
naks” repeatedly. There
Written word is a language to the nonshapes of my thoughts.
Sydney and I began a
I type: it communibuilds bridges sense
written correspondence,
cates the imperative to
and through the medium
either talk or appear disof crayons on napkins, we both found
tracted in social situations. But when
voices distinct from our speech. Our
the necessity of talking becomes a
misspelled words, uneven spacing,
distraction in itself, people select
and broken grammar felt less like
words no more carefully than my
betraying English than creating a
thumbs select cell phone keys.
Also, during my quotidian
Metro ride, the agreed-upon silence and the rehearsed, blank expressions of riders are a language
of their own. Language too often
conveys a fear of meaningful communication.
Hiroshima
Photo by Anna Goodling, Washington, VT
by Daniel Kwiatkowski, Essex Fells, NJ
I
sister crouched nearby, ready to pull.
was trapped beneath it – completely immobi“On three … one, two, three.” He held his
lized. My younger sister heard my muffled
breath and – in what would later be called an
screams as I struggled to take a full breath. She
adrenaline-fueled feat of superhuman strength –
rushed downstairs to the kitchen, which was under
the officer lifted the fridge just enough for my
renovation, and saw that the refrigerator had fallen
sister to pull me out.
facedown on top of me.
When the officer released the fridge, the vibraMy head was barely visible beneath the huge aptions from the slam resonated through the house.
pliance. My sister stood paralyzed for a few secHe picked me up and carried me like a sick dog
onds, unsure what to do – we were the only ones
out to meet the ambulance, which had just arrived.
home. She tried moving the fridge off me, but it
In the back of the speeding vehiwas much too heavy for her.
cle, I moaned in agony as an EMT
“What should I do? Who should I
The refrigerator pulled my shirt up to reveal a profucall?” she asked in a panicked voice.
sion of marks covering my twelve“The police!” I yelled. After she
had
fallen
on
year-old midsection. The policeman
made the frantic 911 call, the minutes
called my mom, and I could sense
passed like hours. I could feel myself
top of me
her panic as I listened to him attempt
starting to black out.
to calm her so she could focus on
Finally a lone cop arrived. As he
driving safely to meet at us at the emergency room.
stepped through the door, he reassured my sister
Doctors determined that I had cracked four ribs
that an ambulance was on its way. But when he
and they would need to operate immediately to
saw me, his shock was worse than my sister’s. His
stop the internal bleeding. My mom arrived at the
first attempt to move the fridge was barely more
hospital as my stretcher was being wheeled into
successful than my ten-year-old sister’s.
the operating room.
Then he was hit with an idea. “Okay, honey,” he
When I saw her tears, I tried to explain. “I’m
said to her, “when I lift, you’re going to pull him
sorry,” I said. “I only wanted a snack.” ✦
out, okay?” He squatted next to my head, and my
24
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
Writers distill the gratuities of language and inject meaning back into
words. Spoken word sprouts dandelions that blow away with the wind,
but written word builds bridges. Sydney and I managed to build a bridge
with our crayons. I ran to the quiet of
her world and she ran to the noisiness
of mine. We pursued the experience
of someone else’s mind – its aesthetics and sound – to find commonalities. The bridges allow everyone’s
inner monologue to find an audience.
But every bridge requires maintenance, which is why I must continue
to write.
Sydney never knew this, but I never
read the last page of our favorite
book, The Giving Tree. When we
reached the last page, I would watch
her eyes speeding over the words. I
could tell the story had ended when
the light in them flickered out. That
was my ending. ✦
When they bombed Hiroshima,
all I inherited was fire.
My mother lent me her ashes, my father left me
his burned leather shoe.
I have often heard “love conquers all”
but flames have burned the edges of my white flimsy
paper body, curling back the charred edges,
threatening to collapse on the love inside me.
Nothing survives but the black waste that fills my
nostrils, clouds my eyes, and feeds on the anger
that refuses to subside.
When they bombed Hiroshima,
little boys held on to unmoving marble fingers.
Mothers clawed to find bits of their own creations,
all their dreams crumbling into dust.
No man was left as himself, the tar hid their claim
to the roots they had embedded.
Nuclear fumes, hatred, and death seeped like poison
into our intertwined trunks.
When they bombed Hiroshima, my sister held on to
my mother’s tooth nestled in the rubble.
The only pearl white reflecting a darkness filled with
blood and defeat.
In Times Square, people clutched flags like that
very tooth, surrounded by red, white, and blue
as we swam in a sea of black.
The tooth illuminated my sister’s last hope,
feet still unsure and burned, she ran to the tracks,
embracing death as if she were our mother.
When they bombed Hiroshima,
I gave up on light.
I gave up on the hope of the blackness ever lifting
and the burns ever healing.
Some have the courage to die.
Others have the courage to live.
When they bombed Hiroshima,
they left me the courage to do neither.
by Ananya Bhasin, Cambridge, MA
COMMENT
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M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
25
travel & culture
Dancing in the Rain
by Ruchi Chitgopekar, Hoffman Estates, IL
D
where her husband was now.
uring my stay in India, I lived in my grandShe stiffened, her graying hair wound tightly in a
mother’s flat, a small two-bedroom in the
braid
down her back. “He left me for an actress and
heart of downtown Pune.
passed away of a heart attack soon after.”
We lived within minutes of the famous Laxmi
I thought about that for a while, unusually quiet.
Street, the bhajaii valas selling their fruits and vegVaiju Maushi had once told me that she had no reetables, hawking their goods loudly as a parade of
grets. Maybe she still missed him. Or maybe it
religious worshippers carried a statue of Ganesh
was, as the saying goes, better to have loved and
down the road, and a lady’s clear soprano rising
lost than to have never loved at all.
above the others’ in the recitation of the Bhagavad
•
•
•
Gita, the Hindu religious script, the Sanskrit words
Monsoon
season
was
imminent.
The
clouds
fusing with the chaos of the street vendors and the
looked heavy with rain, as if holding their breath
trumpeting of an adorned elephant ambling down
until the sun slipped off to sleep. My cousin, Kruthe street.
tikka, and I sipped mango milkshakes
Sometimes a woman would pause
on her glossy red motorcycle, parked
to greet my mother and inquire after
haphazardly in front of our flat. I was
our family; my mother once had a life
There was a
thinking about living life to the fullest,
here, in this country where everything
simple
kind
of
about having no regrets, about love
felt so alien to me. I would stand awkwardly by her side as her friends
spirituality here and loss and other things I knew little
about.
gushed about me, how tall I was by
“Paise for your thoughts,” Krutikka
Indian standards, how pretty I had
offered, tossing a coin in my direction.
become over the years.
“They’re worth a lot more than a measly paise.” I
“America?” they would ask, their heavy accents
grinned, distracting myself from my thoughts, savorrolling the vowels, adding hills and mountains, making the sun, the scent of jasmine pinned on my damp
ing my home sound like a totally new place.
hair and the creamy mango lingering on my tongue
My grasp of Marathi, my mother’s first language,
like the last note of a song.
is basic at best, but it didn’t hold me back. I spent
“I’m a college student, beta,” Krutikka teased.
days with my neighbor, Vaiju Maushi, whose Eng“That’s all I can afford if I want to eat today.
lish was as good as my Marathi. I would sit on an
“You’re eating with me tonight!” I squealed. “Reold wooden stool with an omnipresent cat on my lap
member? You promised to visit the street food cart!”
as Vaiju Maushi told me endless, beautiful stories.
Krutikka laughed. “Your mother will kill me if I
Noticing an photo book on her shelf one day, I
let you die from food poisoning.”
asked about it. Vaiju Maushi smiled wistfully as she
“Not if she doesn’t know,” I said. “She’ll be out to
pulled it down and handed it to me. It was her weddinner
with a friend, and I promise not to die.”
ding album, filled with photos of a man and her decKrutikka finally gave in, and we spent that night
orated in intricate henna designs and gold jewelry.
watching TV with my grandmother and popping
“Tho atha kooteh ahe?” I asked, wanting to know
Principe de Vergara
by Romana Pilepich,
Bethel, CT
I
didn’t even know his name, I had made a connection
never realized the freedom of metro travel until I
with him. We knew each other; we were friends.
visited Madrid, Spain. One station, Principe de
As my time there drew to an end, I thought about
Vergara, proved most memorable. Every time I
how to say good-bye. I settled on a thank-you card
walked through it, I saw the same man. He was old
made of red construction paper with a message in
and well-dressed in a button-down plaid shirt and
Spanish introducing myself, thanking him for his
belted khakis. He always played a violin and smiled
music, and wishing him luck. I decided against writin a way that made his face a mess of wrinkles and
ing my address. Our friendship was like a work of
brought his chin to his nose. It made him look like a
art – once painted, it should not be added to.
happy crabapple and invited smiles in return.
On my second to last day in Madrid, I
After some initial shyness, I finally
took the card with me to Principe de Verdeveloped a routine. Approaching the
Our friendship gara. But when I arrived, the man wasn’t
station, I took out ten euros, ready to
there. The security guard said the smiling
veer from my straight path in order to
was like a
violinist had packed up early. I wouldn’t
drop the change in the violinist’s case.
work of art
see him again. I wouldn’t be able to deHe inclined his head to acknowledge
liver the card in person. My only option
my donation as the music played on,
was
to
entrust
it to the guard, who promised to give it
and smiled – always smiled. I’m certain he came to
to the man the next day.
recognize me as the girl with her purse slung crossI hope the security guard kept his promise, and I
ways to discourage pickpockets, perpetually wearing
hope I was memorable enough for the violinist to figBirkenstocks and rushing in one direction to see the
ure out that the card was from me.
city or in the other direction to make it home in time
My time in Spain taught me how to be independent,
for dinner.
how to ride the metro, and how to strike up friendOne time he thanked me for my donation. “Graships with strangers. I will always remember the smilcias, cariño,” he said. Thank you, sweetheart. I was
ing violinist. If you ever find yourself in Madrid,
startled and only nodded, but as I turned away, a smile
please stop at the Principe de Vergara station and give
split my face. His words were better than a first kiss.
him my best wishes. ✦
Regardless of the language barrier and the fact that I
26
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
Photo by Arindam Roy, Routhgram, India
open cans of fizzy soda like they were imported
champagne, the spicy chilies from my sev puri –
classic fried street food – bursting in my mouth, setting it on fire. Vibrant fire, full of life and flavor and
languages and culture that I didn’t understand but
was beginning to, slowly.
•
•
•
My mother woke me up early one morning to visit
her favorite place in India, a small temple on top of
Parvati, a nearby mountain. The way she described
it – with the avatars of the gods rinsed daily, the
handcarved marble statues, the beautiful sunrise
view – made me long to see it. Just as we reached
the top, the brass bells began to toll, filling the air
with sound, bringing everything to life. Everyone
kneeled – men, women, children, the pious and nonpious alike. There was a simple kind of spirituality
here; it was about beauty and faith.
•
•
•
We took a rickshaw home from Parvati, the canvas seats smelling of pungent betel leaves and jeera,
a sharp Indian spice. As we passed an alley, my
mother suddenly stopped the driver. She pulled out a
handful of rupees and gestured at the alleyway. The
driver shook his head emphatically, trying to discourage her. But she pulled me out of the rickshaw
and we walked into the alley.
“Every coin has two sides,” my mother told me,
pulling her hair into a messy bun. “This is the back
side of India’s.”
I tried to absorb all I saw in the slum. The miniscule shacks with board walls and corrugated tin or
tarps for roofing. The children peering from behind
their mothers’ knees, dark eyes blending with their
skin, blackened from dirt. Men sat in a circle, soiled
undershirts clinging to beer bellies. They spit tobacco in steady streams, reddish brown like blood.
The wives stood near their huts, their saris dulled by
the work of poverty. With the mud and rain and
tears, the place reeked of urine and depression. I
covered my nose covertly with my odhni, a scarf.
One little girl let go of her mother’s sari and
walked to me, and in the middle of the grime and the
dirt and the stench, she smiled. As she smiled, something inside me broke. It began to rain, and she
danced. The sudden torrent mixed with my tears,
like a waterfall able to wash away the ocean.
As I sat curled up in the wooden swing on my
grandmother’s veranda that night, I thought about
India. India is a paradox, I realized. It is chaos in a
way – the crowded streets, the yelling vendors, the
children and stray dogs. But there is beauty in the
chaos, a simplicity, a sort of faith or spirituality.
India isn’t about waiting for the storm to end. It’s
about learning to dance in the rain. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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In my backyard,
in a sleepy suburb west of Chicago,
I sit,
rocking forward and backward
in a springy copper chair,
fist curled around a sweating drink.
The sun looms overhead
and coaxes insects out of hiding,
who buzz around my head
like a halo.
A lone mosquito
breaks free of the swarm
and bites me, with a single
sharp prick.
With the welt rise memories
of a time
my skin was blanketed
with rosy spots
as I wandered
the slick slate pathways
of a Taiwanese mountain forest.
That morning
I climbed the tail
of Elephant Mountain
alone.
Walking upward
on the steep stairway
struggling
to draw a breath
in the humid air,
I admired the view
and fought with my lungs
to stay upright.
The city sat at my back,
sheathed in fog,
its buildings pointing
to my destination
higher
up the mountain,
deeper
into the forest.
by Frances Enger, Riverside, IL
Reaching the top,
the muted chirping of birds
stood in for the fanfare I craved.
Over my shoulder,
skyscrapers continued to gesture
while I walked further
across the Elephant’s back.
Enveloped by the greenery,
and with my lush surroundings,
multitudes
of stealthy tiger mosquitoes,
I felt a pull
back to my temporary home
where stopping
for a bowl of sugary cereal
wouldn’t be an invitation
for a blood transfusion.
After hearing my pauses
as I racked my brain
for a forgotten vocabulary lesson
about meeting strangers
during a morning hike,
a silent shift to English
pricked me with a guilt
that was quickly drowned
by a wave of relief.
I understood
that I was welcome
to trek further into the forest
to a mountain garden
where their speedier friends
had begun brewing tea.
Calling upon my extensive Chinese
vocabulary,
I said, “Sure.”
Nearing the Elephant’s
I wandered
I clambered up mossy stone
head
stairs after them
I walked behind hikers
the pathways
until a red corner
who turned and gaped
of a Taiwanese of their shelter came into
at my polka-dotted skin.
Rapid syllables
mountain forest view.
Smiley went under the roof,
flew from their mouths
floating on four pillars,
into my deaf ears.
and plunked down on a seat,
Cocking my head,
pulling me beside her
I repeated my well-worn phrase:
and presenting a container,
“Please,
Pepto-Bismol pink,
speak very, very slowly.”
of Tiger Balm
A laugh
whose sharp scent felt like fire
like a delicate bell
in my nose,
came from within the group
but worked like witchcraft
from a petite, middle-aged woman
on the mosquitoes’ little gifts.
who stepped forward
Her friends scoffed at me
and peered at my bites.
and I was handed a heap of shredded
She introduced herself:
leaves.
Smiley.
One of the men
And greeted me to show
made a kindling motion
her English name
with the leaves between his palms
wasn’t an accident.
and I did likewise,
Kenya, My Land
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YOUR
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ACCOUNT TO
Quickly gulping a thimble
of earthy tea,
I was led around the garden,
past miniature curling shrimp flowers
and bunches of jade bananas
to a mesh square
around a small plant
that was feeding a caterpillar
she was raising to become
a butterfly.
After effortlessly stepping back
down the Elephant’s tail,
I found myself directionless
once again.
With the buildings rising around me
I wandered for no more than a minute
until I entered a store
and flexed my vocabulary
asking for directions to the train.
The store clerk paused,
no doubt searching for an English
answer,
drumming her fingernails on the
register
and staring
at the shelf of chocolate off to my side.
I felt a familiar feeling of guilt prod me,
but I brushed past it and said
I could understand
enough for her to explain,
but it would be nice
if she could “Please,
speak very, very
slowly.” ✦
by “April,” Chiang Mai, Thailand
Masai Mara, you are the one in the cage,
enya is a country filled with rugged
traveling in a van in search of animals in
mountains, grassy valleys, and fertheir natural habitat, including lions detile soil. Living there for 11 years
fending their kill against the bold hyenas,
gave me the opportunity to soak in its
cheetahs sprinting after Thomson’s
unique culture and experiences firsthand. If
gazelles, or immense herds of wildebeests
you were to visit this distinctive country,
migrating from Tanzania’s Serengeti.
you would fall in love with its contagiously
Of course, you don’t go
happy, carefree people. They
Masai Mara just to see the
aren’t shy, and will boldly
wild animals that Africa is
The people
confront you with their broad
for. I remember driving
smiles. Even though the peoboldly confront known
to Kenya’s capitol, Nairobi, on
ple are fantastic, what you’ll
fall most in love with is the
you with their a road filled with potholes,
stopping to take pictures of
beautiful land.
wide smiles
crossing giraffes, then a bit
When I was young, I had
later zebras and hyenas. Or
the privilege of visiting
even camping by Lake Baringo, where hipKenya’s famous national park: Masai
pos grazed at night just feet from our tents.
Mara, a vast open land containing many
Kenya indeed is a land filled with adwild animals that roam freely. The Masai
venture, though not all pleasant. For two
Mara is named after the local tribe, native
years my family lived in Kisumu, a city by
to the land.
Lake Victoria. Every night at 7 p.m., bats
Your typical downtown zoo is nothing
would fly above our rooftops, flapping and
compared to Masai Mara. At most zoos,
screeching, scaring little girls and boys,
the animals are confined to cages. In
LINK
garnering a pool of sticky emerald
juices
that I smeared on my arms and legs,
which left me feeling more like a
piece of flypaper
than impervious to insects.
travel & culture
Elephant Mountain
FACEBOOK
and threatening any possibility of sleep.
Living by the lake also meant thousands of
mosquito bites. Every month, my dad,
brother, and I would be sick with malaria,
which eventually led us to move to Eldoret. However, food from the lake was
superb. Coming from the Philippines, my
family loved the wide variety of fish that
was caught and served daily.
We also fell in love with local foods including sukuma wiki, a favorite vegetable
dish of locals; mandazi, a sweet baked
dessert; and other delicacies that my
brother and I to this day still beg my mom
to make, including Kenyan tea. Once colonized by the British, Kenyans have a great
love of tea. A famous Kenyan saying, Kila
wakati ni wakati wa chai, means “Every
time is tea time.” If you were to drive
around Kenya, you would probably not be
able to count the number of tea plantations.
Looking back, I question my parents’ decision to raise me and my baby brother in
Africa, which isn’t the most ideal place
Photo by Lily Clurman, Providence, RI
when it comes to safety and health, but I
wouldn’t change it for the world. I’m proud
to have survived many adventures, and I’m
pleased that I have unique stories to tell.
All these tales come from the Kenya that I
remember as a girl. I would love to visit
again one day to see what has changed and
what remains the same. ✦
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
27
heroes
Thanks, Hermione
I
remember her hair – big, bushy
and brown, framing her face, highlighting her eyes. It was everywhere. I gazed at her, brow furrowed
as I struggled to understand why my
dad was lying to me.
He said it again – that the girl on
the screen, Hermione, reminded him
of me. But with my black hair, black
eyes, and brown skin, how could I
look like that girl on the screen?
“She’s just like you, Maya!” Does
he never tire of the deception?
I was about to call him a liar when I
heard her speak. It was as though
someone had plopped Santa Claus
right in front of me. Her words were
as miraculously large as the books she
dragged through the hallways, and
she seemed to be so much wiser than
the two boys she befriended. After all,
she was the one who could make the
feather float and the fire burn; she
was the one who found out about the
by Maya Murthy, Cupertino, CA
and I was lonely.
Sorcerer’s Stone.
We were at Target, and I can reNo, Hermione Granger wasn’t me
member stacks of green books, half
at all; she was everything I wanted to
missing, though it had been just hours
be as a four-year-old watching “Harry
since they were placed on the shelves.
Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.”
My grandfather bought the sixth book
“I love her,” I whispered, my full
for my father and then the first five in
attention on the girl on the screen.
the series for me, saying, “I know
Hermione Granger gave me inspirahow much you like to read.”
tion. At age six, I was more forceful,
I pursed my lips. Readmore headstrong – more
ing was what got me into
like my forgotten hero
She gave
this mess. Maybe if I read
Hermione. Two years was
less I would actually be
one-third of my life span,
me hope
hanging out with friends
and the girl with the
instead of shopping at Tarbushy brown hair who
get. But I decided to try the series
could do anything had become a wisp
anyway.
of a memory, inconsequential in a
As I read, I found myself again.
world of schoolyard bullies and my
Here was a girl who, despite being
inability to make friends. Summer
bookish, made friends, a girl who
had arrived, and I found myself in a
house I hated on principle; no house
knew so much, who read as much as I
did, a girl who spoke her mind and
could replace our home of the last
could do anything! As I devoured the
five years. I had no friends after a
series that would become my life, I
year at my new elementary school,
felt the burning of something that I
hadn’t felt in a while, not since I had
left my old life and my friends a year
ago.
Hermione Granger gave me hope.
I have friends now, people I would
die for, people who are the reason I
get out of bed when it’s still dark outside. I go to school and try to learn
everything. I want to be able to do
anything, and it is my firm belief that
a working knowledge of all subjects is
an essential part of life. My heroes
aren’t actors, veterans, or politicians.
My hero is a girl whom I modeled my
life after. A girl who tried to learn
everything but never had many
friends. A girl who would do anything – suffer torture, kill, or be
killed – for the few friends she had. A
girl who became a hero without wanting to, without trying to.
Hermione Granger was my hero. ✦
Good-Bye, Barbara Park
Doses of Orange
by Monica Janiver, Brooklyn, NY
by Shannon Linder, West Orange, NJ
S
ing the Junie B. Jones series and her most popince I was six years old, I’ve enjoyed and
ular book, Skinnybones – readers learn that you
appreciated each book that Barbara Park
can’t always get what you want, sometimes
has written. Hearing about her death last
you have to go with the flow, and that you
year shocked me deeply. She died on Novemshould always stand up for yourself. Many of
ber 15, 2013, after a long fight against ovarian
the characters are confident. By example, they
cancer. Barbara was as strong and brave as the
show kids that they can also be
main character of her beloved seconfident and stick up for themries. Junie B. Jones taught me how
Now
I
selves.
to stand up for what I believed
Children enjoy Barbara Park’s
during my childhood.
understand
books because the characters are
I remember picking up books
realistic, humorous, and relatable.
the deeper
by Barbara Park and thinking how
Junie B. is sarcastic and loves to
funny they were. After finishing
meanings
use phrases, sometimes saying
each one, I felt very accomplished.
them incorrectly. In Junie B., First
Barbara’s books feature humorous
Grader
(at
last!),
Junie says, “But today I am
kids with distinct personalities. In the Junie B.
dropping
her
like
a
hot tomato!” These silly
Jones series, the main character is a sassy girl
mistakes make children laugh as they learn.
who tries to act like an adult. Her personality
The characters also have relatable experiences,
brings joy to readers as they go on fun advenlike being bullied, having a new sibling, or gettures and learn the meanings of new words and
ting glasses.
phrases. In each of Barbara’s books – includAs a teenager, I responded differently to the books than when I
read them as a child. Now I understand the deeper meanings. Junie
B. used to be my role model because I wanted to be stylish, sassy,
and confident too. I used to think
that she was perfect. Now I realize
that Junie isn’t perfect. Like me,
she gets abandoned by her friends,
feels lonely at times, makes embarrassing mistakes, and suffers
the consequences. Junie shows me
there’s always a bright side to any
sad event.
Reading Barbara Park’s books
helped me grow and become the
person I am today. ✦
Photo by Nat Shank, Manhattan, KS
28
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
Y
ou sat cross-legged in a living room recliner. Swinging off your
slippers, you settled in. You always wore your long gray hair in a
high ponytail, selecting one of a thousand different scrunchies, depending on your outfit. I think that day it was brown. Your pretzel legs were
covered with paisley corduroy pants from a rich woman whose old clothes
you liked.
My favorite of all your eccentric attire was the burnt orange Princeton
sweatshirt. I told you that it was the precise color of Wednesday. You tried
your best to wear it on that day each week, though the laundry cycle didn’t
always cooperate. I remember one particularly overcast October day – a
Wednesday – as you read us Romeo and Juliet. You felt like my mother.
Not my actual mother, but everyone’s mother. You told us that we should
do one nice thing for ourselves every day. Until
that day, I had been relentless, and still am sometimes. We tend to forget that we are people too;
You gave me
that despite our shortcomings, we deserve to be
an hour each
loved.
I have to say that you gave me more love –
day that felt
though a distant sort – than I had ever expected. I
like home
think of you still, almost every day, because
when I was a scared 14-year-old girl who had no
idea who she was, you were my mother. You
gave me an hour each day that felt like home, you let me be content, and I
didn’t have to hold my breath.
I took you in like small doses of orange. You were a fire to warm my
hands. It helped to know that just a few rooms away I could always find
your open arms. I can hear your squash sandwiches sizzling in a pan in the
morning, just as I imagined them from your stories: two slices of bread,
bologna, and American cheese melted, squashed flat, and cut up into little
squares. I can hear your shrill calls as the bell rings, telling us to sit down
and fasten our seat belts. I did, and at the end of the year I walked right out
of that room with you. I unfastened my seat belt and now I’m traveling.
Wherever I go, I like to take with me small doses of orange – Post-it
notes, a tube of burnt sienna oil paint, the copy of The Catcher in the Rye
that I traded you for because the color was just right. Wherever I go I look
for orange, and not just on Wednesdays.
Wherever you go, you will be a blessing to the people there. And so,
though it is brimming only with sparkling apple cider, I raise my glass to
you, Mrs. Kim. Thank you. ✦
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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Benji
Sun Kil Moon
S
implistic but melodic.
Tragic but warm. Smallscale stories, grand-scale metanarratives. These descriptions
come to mind when listening
to Mark Kozelek’s sixth studio
LP with Sun Kil Moon,
“Benji.”
Folk-rooted, acoustic-driven,
and showcasing Kozelek’s
usual free-styling vocals that
give you the impression he’s
spouting them spontaneously,
by Parker Desautell,
North Attleboro, MA
R&B
Kiss Land
I
“Benji” dares to tackle some of
life’s toughest topics, all
through the intimate voice that
has become Kozelek’s niche.
To call him a songwriter is an
injustice. He is a storyteller.
The album has 11 tracks.
Each features a tragedy,
whether a death in the family, a
community-based horror, or a
failed relationship. Each song
is based on a true story, and is
told from Kozelek’s perspective. It’s as if he is taking a
tour of his past, and the people
and events that shaped it, and
inviting us to join him.
In the opening ballad,
“Carissa,” Kozelek relates his
struggles to “find some meaning” in the abrupt and seemingly senseless death of a
second cousin he barely knew.
“Carissa was 35, you don’t just
raise two kids and take out
your trash and die,” he sings.
In “Dogs,” he bemoans the
predictable and unavoidable
demise of an exclusively physical relationship, using examples from his past.
“Pray for Newtown,” a tribute to the victims and families
affected by the 2012 Connecticut shooting, describes how we
are all greatly impacted by
catastrophes, though strangely
go on living as though nothing
happened.
How much you enjoy
“Benji” ultimately comes
down to how much you appreciate Kozelek’s style and understand where he’s coming
from. This is not an album
meant to stimulate in short
bursts – most of the tracks are
long and feature similar minimal melodies. The saxophones
come out in the closer, “Ben’s
My Friend,” the album’s most
upbeat and unpredictable track,
but for the most part, “Benji”
YOUR
n a departure from his previous inclination toward
anonymity, last year Ontario
native and up-and-coming
R&B star Abel Tesfaye, a.k.a.
The Weeknd, released his first
solo album. From the cover of
“Kiss Land,” featuring a full
A groovy feast for
the headphones
headshot of Tesfaye, to track
12, this album presents us with
a more personal image of the
artist than we’ve ever had. In
tracks like “Love in the Sky,”
and “Pretty,” we get a deeper
look into his world.
While a departure from
some aspects of “Trilogy,”
“Kiss Land” is in no way a departure from his previous
sound. In fact, it is more concentrated, more “Weekndier”
than ever before. With falsettos
and synth pads galore, “Kiss
Land” is a crystallization of the
components of “Trilogy” into
nothing less than a groovy
feast for the headphones.
Tesfaye wastes no time in
showing this. At more than six
minutes, the first track, “Professional,” feels like a minialbum. The production is
phenomenal, and I’d sing its
praises even without Tesfaye’s
smooth voice narrating his experience with showgirls in and
out of the clubs. These themes
are explored in greater depth in
“Adaptation,” a tale of love
and loss on tour. They culminate in “Belong to the World.”
The song samples Portishead’s
“Machine Gun,” a visceral riff
that emphasizes the cruelties of
showbiz and the night life.
The second half of “Kiss
Land” is more personal. With
less urgency in the lyrics and
more hints to specific events in
the singer’s life, “Wanderlust”
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ACCOUNT TO
develops his struggle with
women whose ideas of love are
based on movies and the
media. The upbeat, groovy
sound and true-to-form
Weeknd wails make it my favorite track. The horror story
seems to crescendo in “Pretty,”
a painful diatribe to a past love
and her new man.
I have been constantly
playing “Kiss Land” for the
past few weeks. The main
draw is its fantastic production,
but the pictures The Weeknd
paints are definitely worth the
listen too. ✦
by Mitchell Mobley,
McDonough, GA
The Weeknd
Kozelek is a
storyteller
LINK
has the feel of an album more
concerned with its content
than with its immediate
surroundings.
Arguably Sun Kil Moon’s
most intriguing and thoughtprovoking work to date,
“Benji”’s simplistic aesthetic
approach and gritty subject
matter make for one of the
most complete albums this
year. ✦
ELECTRONIC
Shrines
Purity Ring
F
ormed in 2010, Canadian
band Purity Ring consists
of lead singer Megan James
and instrumentalist Corin
Roddick. The group creates experimental, witch house, and
post-dubstep-influenced music.
Their only album, “Shrines,”
released in July 2012, caused a
surge in their popularity. They
received much praise for their
deeply immersive music – so
much, in fact, that the day they
Dominant vocals and
saturated synths
released a cover of Soulja
Boy’s “Grammy,” their
website crashed due to high
demand for the song. “Shrines”
reached number two on Billboard’s Dance/Electronic
Albums list.
Purity Ring has a unique
sound with dominant vocals
and saturated synth that draws
in the listener. While the tone
of Megan’s vocals gives off
soothing optimism, Roddick
evokes an ominous sensation
with energized musical genius,
as is clear in the single
“Fineshrine.”
“Amenamy” paints the air
with a subtle tranquility while
introducing an inexplicable yet
undeniable witchy darkness.
Roddick balances these moods
impeccably by producing a
tune that will effortlessly repeat in one’s head.
Purity Ring is a band that is
definitely worth a listen. ✦
by Faliha Eshai,
Milwaukee, WI
FACEBOOK
INDIE ROCK
Day of
the Dog
Ezra Furman
W
ith Chicagoan Ezra
Furman’s fifth album, he
further proves himself to be
not only an adventurous songwriter and musician, but also
possibly the most unique voice
in underground music. Furman
released his first recordings
with his band, the Harpoons,
while still in college eight
years ago.
Playing earnest and dementedly humorous punky folkrock in the vein of the Violent
Femmes, and singing with an
emotive, nervous yelp, he
gained a sizable following and
high praise from critics. Since
then, he has left his boisterous
band and headed out on his
own. Given this change, and
the growing market for semipolite indie songwriters with
polished, layered instrumentation, one might expect Furman
to tame his wilder muses and
aim for a wider audience. This,
fortunately, is not the case.
The album begins with a
pounding drum and a hoarse
declaration that “all the world
is rising up like vomit,” which
segues into an explosion of
loud, messy, beautiful noise.
This incredibly eccentric
album delves into a variety of
sounds from classic underground, punk, folk, and early
rock and roll, yet none is
clichéd. Every song bears the
thumbprint of Furman’s distinctive lyrical and musical
An incredibly
eccentric album
style, and more importantly,
genuine emotion.
In every way, this music defies description. Similar to his
last album in theme, though
not in execution, Furman
tackles isolation, desperation,
spirituality, and America’s
growing culture of nihilism
and materialism. With such
topics, another artist might
seem heavy-handed or overtly
scholarly, but when Furman
sings, you know he is genuine.
The writing and delivery are
clear and powerful, exuding a
natural empathy for the downtrodden and anxiety over the
future. Lines like “I am broken
wide open, bleeding everywhere” or “sometimes in the
night when I’m out of my
senses, I see a wide open
country with no sign of fences”
pack a punch and rattle around
the listener’s mind long after
the final note.
Musically, he does what is
usually impossible. He took a
slew of contradictory styles
that lesser artists often rip off,
tossed them into a blender, and
instead of making something
unsavory or familiar, has, with
just pure skill and enthusiasm,
created something brilliant.
There is an unstoppable,
manic energy in these 13
tracks. Still, every chaotic song
is complicated and impeccably
well done, despite sounding
unrehearsed and spontaneous.
A loud, ripping saxophone is
featured heavily, adding to the
colorful chaos that further separates Furman from the lump
of indie singer-songwriters.
“Walk On in Darkness”
comes off as punkish Tom
Waits, as he growls, sighs, and
yelps while the sax and viscous
instrumentation cast a strange,
surreal feel. In what is probably the most jaw-dropping
song, Furman struts Lou Reedlike through the first few minutes of “Slacker Adria,” his
voice intertwined with blistering guitarwork, before the song
soars into prophetic lyrics and
muscular guitar, finishing with
a swell of noise.
On another highlight, “My
Zero,” Furman shows his skill
at creating pop music. A love
song on the surface, underneath it is a longing fantasy of
a lost, surreal America. It
makes prominent use of a
bright sax, which, by the end
slips into tense, broken blares.
Furman (with help from his
band, the Boyfriends) has
poured his heart into “Day of
the Dog” and created the best
kind of album. You can feel its
thumping pulse, and every listen reveals more. ✦
music reviews
AMERICAN FOLK
by “Paul,”
Black Mountain, PA
Photo by Katherine Boyle, Mountain Lakes, NJ
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
29
video game reviews
30
PC, PS3, XBOX 360
The Elder
Scrolls V:
Skyrim
Y
ou let out a breath you
didn’t know you were
holding as you watch Alduin
fall to the ground, dead. You
wipe the blood from your
Daedric armor and face the
swarm of cowering faces.
Many of the spirits of Sovngarde give you praise and
thanks, but they mean little to
Develop a character
however you like
you. After all, there was an ancient prophecy that foretold
your arrival and power. For
your Thu’um is the strongest,
and you are Dovahkiin, the savior of Skyrim!
“The Elder Scrolls V:
Skyrim” was released a few
years ago for Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, and Xbox
360. About 10 million copies
were sold in the first eight
months. It received great comments from Jason Schreier of
Wired, who described “Skyrim”
as a “Viking-inspired treasure
trove of flavor and charm.”
The main objective of this
fifth installment in the Elder
Scrolls saga is to defeat Alduin,
a dragon that has been dubbed
the “Nordic god of destruction,” and to save Skyrim and
its people. Set in the lands of
Tamriel, “Skyrim” is a great example of a fantasy-action roleplaying game.
You begin as a prisoner
whose execution is prevented
by Alduin’s return. As you continue, you encounter numerous
enemies and allies that either
help or hinder your quest,
which eventually culminates in
a battle with Alduin, who has
been resurrecting dragons.
The game can be played in
either first or third person. You
can customize your character’s
appearance by choosing details
as significant as race or as
minute as nose size. Some
races may benefit the type of
character you want you create.
For example, choosing a High
Elf is a good pick for someone
who wants to be a mage character. It adds 50 extra points of
Magicka (the energy needed to
cast spells) as well as five skill
points to all magic-related
skills (like destruction or alteration). This game’s flexibility
will please gamers searching
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
for a multi-talented character.
This installment of the Elder
Scrolls saga has many changes
and advances in the graphics
and gameplay. The melee is
more realistic compared to the
previous Elder game, “Oblivion.” It even uses a new engine,
the creation engine, which
varies the environments and advances the game’s graphics. It
also features an improved version of “Oblivion’”s Radiant
A.I. system, which enhances
non-player characters. Their activities continue even when the
Dovahkiin, or Dragonborn, interact with the NPCs.
Overall, this game is a complex but extremely fun way to
spend your time. It allows you
to step into a world where you
can be the hero, where you are
free to choose your own path
and develop your character
however you like. With countless adventures that continue
even after the main storyline,
you’ll never tire of this great
game. ✦
by Amanda Flores,
New York, NY
MOBILE
Bloons Tower
Defense 5
B
alloons are floating down
Monkey Lane, and they’re
homing in on Monkey City!
Luckily the monkeys are there
to stop the onslaught. Developed by Ninja Kiwi, “Bloons
Tower Defense 5” is a unique
and creative twist on the classic
tower defense game.
This fifth installment of the
successful Bloons Tower Defense series was released in
2011 with a massive amount of
hype. Having played the previous games, I thought it lived up
to expectations. The series is
focused on popping balloons
(or “bloons”) using monkeys.
Its addictive concept kept me
glued to the screen, and it never
got old.
What makes the game so
brilliant is the creative concept.
You use an army of monkeys to
defend Monkey City from an
onslaught of bloons. Each map
has a unique plan, such as the
Switch map, where the track
changes every round. The game
makes you strategize. Each
stage gets harder, and the strategy changes.
“Bloons Tower Defense 5”
uses many aspects to keep you
interested. For example, there’s
a co-op mode that allows you
to interact with other players.
You hear an iconic pop every
time a bloon is hit. The sound
is always pleasing, since it
means that Monkey City is
safe. The graphics make me
feel like I’m in a cartoon world.
They are well drawn and
polished.
In the game, you drag the
monkey or machine onto the
map and attack when the
bloons come near. Each tower
has unique qualities to help
A creative twist on
tower defense
fend off enemies. For example,
a dart monkey throws darts at
the bloons. A monkey village
supplies many beneficial elements for a tower, such as camouflage detection and wider
attack radius. This offense and
support makes the game more
exciting.
Mobile versions are available
for the iPad, iPhone, iPod, and
all Android platforms. With
hundreds of thousands of players online daily, “Bloons Tower
Defense 5” is one of the most
played tower defense games.
The bloons are coming so get
popping! ✦
By Matthew Wong,
Brooklyn, NY
PC, PS3, XBOX 360
Assassin’s
Creed 3
“A
ssassin’s Creed 3” provides players with unmatched experiences ranging
from fighting alongside George
Washington to base jumping
off a high cliff in order to take
the enemy by surprise. Anyone
can enjoy the feeling of fighting for their freedom alongside
characters like Sam Adams.
Following the yearly release
pattern for games in this series,
“AC3” shows the most improvement and change in
gameplay and format, standing
alone in the series. The new
controls give a much more fluid
feel, allowing better control
over your character.
“AC3” is a refreshing change
from in action games. Instead
of choppy graphics with distorted faces and little emotion,
“Assassin’s Creed 3” has
graphics and sound that make
you shut everything out and
focus on the task at hand. The
sound of a thunderstorm made
me think it was actually raining. You can see every emotion
on every face. The sound is like
being right in the middle of a
bustling colonial market, with
merchants angered at British
taxes. The sound and picture in
“AC3” are unmatched and
could only be topped by being
part of the revolution itself.
The controls are easy to pick
up and flow very smoothly. The
games in this series always play
fluently. Some sequences feel
prolonged and make you wonder when they will end, but others provide constant action and
easily make up for the dull
parts.
This game has a way of making you come back for more.
From running between volleys
of musket fire to escaping an
enemy platoon on horseback,
the play is paced perfectly.
Stunning graphics,
compelling story
“Assassin’s Creed 3” provides hours of side missions
and optional objectives. A
series of naval missions provides a refreshing change from
the ground combat.
“AC3” exceeds the standards
for this genre with stunning
graphics and a compelling
story. Despite some dull parts,
it provides a dynamic conflict
corresponding with the events
of the American Revolution. I
would give it a 9.5/10, since the
story keeps you wanting to
play, no matter how boring it
gets at times, and the emotions
on characters’ faces make you
feel like they are real. If you
are looking for a top-notch action game, “Assassin’s Creed
3” is for you. ✦
By Matt McClintick,
Berwyn, PA
SEGA DREAMCAST
Jet Grind Radio
“J
et Grind Radio” was released in 2000. It received
many good ratings and is still a
treasured childhood memory
for many older gamers.
Let’s begin with the plot.
You’re a rollerblading rebel in a
Japanese city called Tokyo-to,
who builds a team of rebels that
ride on modified Rollerblades
with high-powered motors. You
compete against other teams
and graffiti on their turf to earn
reputation and become the
biggest, most popular group. A
DJ named Professor K hosts a
pirate radio show called Jet Set
Radio. He gives news to the
rebels and plays nothing but
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
hardcore electronic music 24/7.
Meanwhile, the police chase
you down and try to arrest you
using every possible means.
The controls are fairly simple, resembling other games
that use vehicles. Sometimes
the controls get a little picky,
but it’s rare. When you go to
the menu, or the garage, you
can select different features.
Online mode works if you have
purchased a LAN modem for
the Dreamcast. Yeah, this game
if from a time when everyone
had dial-up. You can create
your own graffiti, too, which is
really cool, and even better – if
you get the Dreamcast mouse,
you can use it to make freehand
graffiti! If freehand is not your
thing, you can type in letters or
your name and customize it to
look street flashy. You can save
the graffiti on the memory card
to display and share with other
players.
My only complaint, which is
a common one, is about the
camera control. It’s so fussy
Part of video
game history
that sometimes I don’t even
know where I am going. I actually turned a sharp corner and
the camera got stuck inside the
building! The graphics show a
comic book-like effect, with
bold outlines, bright colors and
the visual feel of both a game
and a comic book. Of course,
the graphics aren’t modern like
today’s, but back then you
didn’t need good graphics to
make a good game.
My favorite part is the music.
The soundtrack is so amazing it
deserves its own album – and it
got it! The soundtrack includes
a ton of remixes of electronic
music. It plays very well with
the game and gives you the
“radio playing in your ear”
feeling. You can even have it
just play music so you can listen while doing other things.
This is the kind of game that
should be played with a stereo
system.
“Jet Grind Radio” is an
amazing part of video game
history that should not be compared to modern games like
“Half-Life 2” and “Call of
Duty” with their advanced
graphics. The music is absolutely amazing and the custom graffiti mode still blows
my mind. ✦
by Stephen Kellogg,
Wilmington, DE
TEENINK.COM
12 Years a Slave
H
ope is a dangerous thing.
It can make someone
cling to a dream with all their
might, but it can also destroy
their spirit in the process. Hope
is all that Solomon Northup
(Chiwetel Ejiofor) has left, and
he clings to it, believing he will
eventually find freedom and
justice.
Brilliant, important,
and well-made
Solomon, a free black man
living in New York, is a violinist with a loving family. He can
read and write. He knows the
people who live in town. One
day, when his family is away,
he thinks he’s scored a great
gig. Two men promise he will
return home with good money
in hand. Instead, Northup finds
himself in shackles and his
story as a slave begins.
This is not an easy film to
watch. Director Steve McQueen (“Shame,” “Hunger”) is
known for his bold telling of
difficult yet honest stories.
Here, he takes his time, especially during the most gutwrenching moments. He never
hides the truth and never allows his actors to lie. Honesty
is key because many scenes involve evil human acts that are
almost as hard to believe as
they are to witness.
All the actors, from Paul
Dano and Benedict Cumberbatch to Lupita Nyong’o and
Michael Fassbender, are impeccable. Each embraces his
role and is not afraid to look
evil or vulnerable. Some are
placed in devastating and humiliating situations. Nyong’o
is a standout and deserves her
Oscar for her heartbreaking
and complex portrayal of
Patsy. Fassbender is despicable, yet you can’t look away.
Ejiofor embodies Solomon and
gives his character dignity.
Even among whippings, laborious cotton-picking, and
beautiful shots of the landscape, the film remains human.
The contrast between the natural world and what happens inside the homes is haunting.
The beautiful images of nature
serve as a break from the horrific scenes, but these shots are
not gratuitous; they add a layer
of poetic storytelling.
One particular scene I
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YOUR
enjoyed was a short one. As the
slaves are being transported by
boat to the South, the camera
focuses on the massive steam
engine. Suddenly, Hans Zimmer’s beautiful score grows
louder and more jarring. The
audience becomes aware that
the people on this ship are
about to live through the one of
the worst periods of American
history.
Calling “12 Years a Slave” a
great film does not suffice.
With a film as gritty, evocative,
and poetic as this, it is better to
let the story speak for itself.
McQueen advises viewers to
take a moment of silence after
to process what they’ve experienced. Don’t let the subject
matter keep you away from
this brilliant, important, and
well-made film. “12 Years a
Slave” is one of the best of the
year. ✦
by Ariana Vargas,
Danville, CA
This film is rated R.
COMING-OF-AGE
The Perks of Being
a Wallflower
H
ave you ever sat in the
back of the room so you
wouldn’t be noticed? Do you
observe things that no one else
sees? Perhaps, then, you can
relate to Charlie in “The Perks
of Being a Wallflower.”
Released in 2012, this teen
Not a stereotypical
teen drama
movie was directed by Stephen
Chbosky, who wrote the novel
as well.
Charlie (Logan Lerman) is a
traumatized high-schooler
prone to flashbacks who believes nobody knows he exists.
Over the course of the movie
we watch him grow out of his
shell and make friends, improve his future, find his first
love, and realize that he is important.
This fun and thrilling movie
has a talented cast including
Emma Watson, Ezra Miller,
Nina Dobrev, and Mae Whitman. Watson plays Sam, an
outgoing, multi-talented sweetheart who struggles to realize
the amount of love that she deserves. Her step-brother and
best friend is Patrick (Miller),
the class clown who is gay but
hides it because he’s afraid of
not being accepted. The two
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ACCOUNT TO
welcome Charlie into their
clique as they help him cope
with the loss of his best friend,
who recently committed suicide. Chbosky clearly and accurately develops these
characters using small details
so teens can relate to them.
Each is given such a distinctive
personality that you forget it’s
just a movie.
“The Perks of Being a Wallflower” is not a stereotypical
teen drama. Instead, it’s an
emotional film that shows both
the dark and bright sides of
being a teenager, and explores
issues of romance, bullying,
peer pressure, schoolwork, and
popularity.
Songs such as “Heroes” by
David Bowie and “Could It Be
Another Change” by The Samples add to the film. Memorable quotes such as “We are
infinite” and “We accept the
love we think we deserve”
make this film unique. Each
character makes you see the
world from a new perspective.
“The Perks of Being a Wallflower” will leave you in tears
and wishing it didn’t have to
end. ✦
by Monica Janiver,
Brooklyn, NY
ACTION
The Italian Job
“T
he Italian Job” is perfectly clichéd. First the
heroes commit the ultimate
heist of $30 million in Spanish
gold, then one of their own betrays them, and then the heroes
try to recommit the heist – this
time stealing it back from the
traitor. Of course, the heroes
don’t care about the $30 mil-
Perfectly clichéd
lion. No, the motive is more
noble: revenge. This movie
plays like “Mission Impossible” and a James Bond car
chase combined.
“The Italian Job” poses a
problem. When every character
is a thief, how does a director
distinguish the good guys from
the bad guys? In movie making, playing shirts and skins
will not solve this issue of ambiguous teams. So the movie
opts for the next easiest identifier: Classic good and evil
clichés.
Let’s look at Team Good.
The expert thief (Donald
Sutherland) regrets that he
didn’t spend more time with
FACEBOOK
his daughter. Everyone can relate to this. Since the audience
sees him as a sincere father figure, they agree with his pursuit
of revenge. Another “good”
thief (actor Mos Def) started as
an innocent 12-year-old pyromaniac with an afro, and goes
by the name “Left Ear.” I laugh
with the audience, and conceded that he must be harmless. The female lead (Charlize
Theron) boasts a voluptuous
body, consistently flaunts tight
clothes, drives fast cars, and
begrudgingly admits she needs
a man to help her through her
struggles. Enough said.
Now let’s look at Team Bad
Guy (Edward Norton). He
commits two cold-blooded
murders. Done. We hate him.
And to put the cherry on top,
he’s rich. Everybody hates a
rich killer.
The movie-makers filmed
every heist (the movie treats us
to three) like a collage of
Home Depot commercials.
Each character is assigned a
job. One paints over a thousand-year-old mural as if
showing off BEHR’s new
primer. Another demonstrates
the usefulness of a laser measuring tape as he installs explosives. And another boasts the
torque of Rigid’s new wireless
drill as she breaks into a safe.
The audience muses over how
the henchmen plan to use
home improvement skills to
steal Spanish gold.
Since the camera switches
rapidly from henchmen to
henchmen, the audience is
fooled into believing everything is happening quickly.
Even the music taunts us by
building up, then dissipating
into nerve-racking staccato.
Then the tension explodes in
the high-speed chase.
This film suffers from mild
schizophrenia. Theft and revenge are rewarded and condoned. Boats fly through the
canals of Venice. Motorcycles
chase custom cars through Los
Angeles. The guy gets the girl
in the end. As I said, perfectly
clichéd. ✦
by Ian deMoura,
Los Angeles, CA
COMEDY
Keith Lemon:
The Film
R
ecently I endured the
horror that was “Keith
Lemon: The Film.” Maybe horror isn’t the right word. Torture. Calling this a film is a
complete and utter joke.
It has been categorized a
comedy, but I fail to find a single funny part. The only joke is
at the expense of the film itself
and not a result of the performances by Leigh Francis as
Keith Lemon or the rest of the
cast. Even cameos from Gary
Barlow, Kelly Brook, and various members of the Spice Girls
could not save this sinking ship
that rivalled the Titanic in regards to catastrophes. I was left
feeling like I wanted to switch
places with Rosie (Laura Aikman), who is kidnapped in the
film, just so I didn’t have to sit
through another minute. The
Avoid this film
film was a who’s who of
washed-up celebrities.
The narrative lacked any
imagination. The plot revolves
around Keith Lemon, who is
hoping to get rich through selling his latest invention, the “securipole.” The opening scenes
of this 85-minute-long disaster
offered no hope in terms of entertainment, and my struggle to
stay to the end was in vain; I
was left feeling embarrassed
for having watched.
The IMDb rating of 2.6 is
generous. This film has not
even been a hit with fans of the
ever-flamboyant Keith Lemon.
Despite the popularity of his
comedy panel show “Celebrity
Juice,” fans clearly have been
disappointed in the film.
The idea for the film mimics
something formulated by two
extremely intoxicated individuals. However, I feel that even
people in a drunken state
would reject its premise, realizing that it’s time to stop drinking when you think of an idea
as ludicrous as this. There were
groans and sighs of frustration
where laughs should have
been – not a good sign for a
“comedy.”
Avoid this film completely.
Go and exercise or read a book
instead. I urge you to do something more meaningful and interesting with your time;
watching paint dry would
achieve both of these objectives better than this film. ✦
movie reviews
HISTORICAL
by Chloe Heyde,
Devon, England
This film is rated in
the UK for viewers
15 and older.
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
31
book reviews
MYSTERY
FANTASY
Paper Towns
More Than This
by John Green
by Patrick Ness
W
T
hether or
not
you’re a fan of
John Green, he
absolutely hits
it out of the
park with
Paper Towns.
This novel sets itself far apart
from the others by showing the
world through the eyes of an
average teenage boy who experiences love, loss, joy, and
stress, just like the rest of us.
Masterful tale of
mystery and romance
Its shocking realism and relatability will captivate you.
After just the first chapter
you will find yourself attached
to the novel’s characters, feeling everything they feel. When
Quentin gets screamed at by
bullies, it feels as if you are
being screamed at. Quentin and
his friends endeavor to have the
best senior year ever while
searching for Margo, the love
of Quentin’s life who has gone
missing. This story will keep
you on edge throughout and
leave you in tears.
I promise that the storyline is
believable. The mystery of
what happened to a girl who
ran away after being driven
mad by the monotony of high
school and family drama seems
a lot less far-fetched than the
classic deranged serial killer
plot. Not only is the plot believable, but it also switches directions extremely fast. One
minute Quentin may be discovering secret notes with clues to
Margo’s location, and the next
he’s driving his drunken friend
home from the biggest party of
the year.
Paper Towns is certainly not
a mindless read. From the first
clue to the last, I found myself
thinking through every possible
scenario to figure out the mystery. Green’s masterful tale of
suspense and romance, all interpreted through the endlessly
wise eyes of a teenaged boy,
provides real insight into life.
You come away learning that
people aren’t paper; they are
complicated beings who can’t
be accurately viewed based
only on their image. ✦
by Sam Johnson,
Castro Valley, CA
32
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
here are
plenty of
book-lovers
who confine
themselves to
one genre.
They get a
thrill from a magic that doesn’t
exist on earth. Sometimes the
truth is just too much to handle.
Or maybe it’s as simple as
being comfortable and staying
with what they know. But once
in a while, a book is published
and the story within holds the
power to break these confines
and take these bibliophiles into
a world they’ve never seen –
and perhaps get them to love it.
Patrick Ness’s More Than
This is one of those books. It
Chilling, riveting
centers on a boy named Seth
who suffers a heart-wrenching,
lonely death – all in the first
few pages. Then, sometime
later, Seth wakes up. Not in his
bed or in a hospital, or even on
the beach. He wakes up in his
childhood home in England.
But it’s not the same. Everything has been abandoned. The
grass is overgrown, and there’s
a dense layer of dust covering
everything. There isn’t a sign of
human life anywhere. Just as
when he died, Seth is completely alone, and he’s wondering if a higher being sent him
here to this place that holds his
worst memories as a type of
personal hell.
Seth soon discovers that his
loneliness isn’t the worst part
of his apparent “afterlife.” No,
the worst part comes whenever
he closes his eyes. The memories catch him by surprise; they
pull at his heartstrings for the
world he left behind. Seth
knows he’s reliving the memories, but they feel very real.
Every touch is solid, every
scent is fragrant, and every
emotion is as powerful as the
first time. But that can’t be.
Seth wonders if he’ll be stuck
in this horrible world forever or
if maybe, just maybe, there’s
more than this.
In his latest novel, Ness has
accomplished what many strive
to but most fail to do. With
More Than This, he has created
a world that not only should be
experienced by readers of all
ages and lovers of all genres.
More Than This is chilling, riveting, and will leave readers
questioning, like Seth, whether
they are purely living life, or if
they are possibly living something more. ✦
by Morgan McKenna,
Somers Point, NJ
MYSTERY
Cornwell’s beginning, I can’t
wait to read what she writes
next. ✦
Liv, Forever
by Amy Talkington
by Audrey Neal,
West Hollywood, CA
L
NOVEL
Panic
by Lauren Oliver
FANTASY
I
Tides
by Betsy Cornwell
B
efore reading Tides,
I had very little
knowledge of
selkies. I considered them to
be the not-asimportant cousins of mermaids,
and in the hierarchy of mythology, they were many ranks
below the literary titans that are
vampires and werewolves.
Tides completely altered my
opinion for the better.
Set on the Isle of Shoals off
the New England coast, Tides
follows siblings Noah and Lo
Weaves selkie folklore
with a modern setting
Gallagher in the summer before
Noah’s freshman year of college. Staying with their grandmother on tiny White Island is
not supposed to be exciting.
Noah has landed the marine biology internship of his dreams,
and Lo plans to draw and paint
while trying to conquer her
bulimia.
However, things get interesting when Noah encounters
Mara, a mysterious naked girl
who appears to be drowning.
Mara rejects his help and after
a brief conversation, they part.
The novel grows more riveting
from there, as Noah and Lo are
drawn into the mysterious
world of selkies – half human,
half seal – and the dangers they
face living so close to humans.
Betsy Cornwell masterfully
weaves together selkie folklore
with a modern setting, which
leaves you utterly spellbound
and wanting more. While some
stories with multiple narrators
flounder, here the drama is
heightened through more insight into the characters’
thoughts and motivations.
Cornwell’s debut novel is a
fantastic read that you won’t be
able to put down. If this story
of legends, love, and loss is just
n Lauren
Oliver’s recent novel,
Panic, the idea
behind the
game is fear.
Fear paralyzes
the body during most of the
challenges, but the motivation
for each player to keep going is
the payout of $67,000.
Set in the small town of
Carp, the novel takes place
during the summer where one
thread keeps all of the teenagers tied together even after
graduation: a game called
Panic. They all have their own
reasons for participating –
some to prove they are fearless
and some for revenge – but the
game quickly weeds out the
weak as the challenges get progressively harder.
Through Panic, Carp’s
teenagers are brought together
by unlikely circumstances to
face their fears and look death
in the eyes. Both Heather and
A present-day
Hunger Games
Dodge learn that when participating in Panic, no secret stays
below the surface, and suddenly they find themselves no
longer in control of their own
lives but at the mercy of the
game’s judges. Will they end
up winning? That is one secret
you will have to read the book
to find out.
As a fan of Lauren Oliver’s
other novels, I had a feeling I
would enjoy her newest, and I
was right. Once I began reading, I could not put Panic
down. With every twist I
wanted to know what would
happen next. I love the idea behind the novel, but cannot picture myself participating in
such a game.
In a way, Panic reminds me
of a present-day Hunger
Games, though more realistic.
Overall, I highly recommend
this great novel and advise you
to get your hands on a copy. ✦
iv Bloom
would do
anything to escape foster
care. So when
she gets an art
scholarship to
Wickham Hall, the fanciest,
most prestigious (and allegedly
haunted) school in the country,
Liv is ecstatic. Sure, some of
the rituals at the school are a
little weird, but she is happy
because she might make a few
friends.
Then Liv is brutally murdered, and her soul is forced to
linger in the halls of the school.
No one can hear or see her except Gabe. And there are others
spirits that only Gabe can hear
and see. Using Gabe as her
connection to the real world,
Liv has to find out what really
happened and tell the world
that she’s still there. Along the
way, she uncovers a plan even
more gruesome than the hauntingly silent night of her murder.
Eerie and spooky, Liv, Forever is a book that you won’t
be able to stop reading. I
couldn’t put it down because
of the endless suspense and
surprises. I loved all the characters, especially Liv. Her approach to life will connect with
aspiring artists who read this
book.
Overall, I loved the way it
was written, with each ghost
Eerie and spooky
telling its side of the story,
which let the mystery slowly
reveal itself. With some mysteries, I can predict the ending,
but for Liv, Forever, it was
quite the opposite.
Speaking of the ending, it is
beautifully executed. I felt sad
that such a great book was
coming to a close, but that feeling was replaced with that awesome “I just read a really, really
good book” feeling.
I’d definitely recommend
Liv, Forever to anyone who
likes paranormal, horror, or
mystery novels. I give it 5/5
stars! ✦
by Sophie Cronin,
Chapel Hill, NC
by Aly Paparello, Hamburg, NJ
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Khulood Fahim, Abu Dhabi, UAE
A
Sitting up, he noticed blood running down his leg.
t dawn, the sun rose powerfully, illuminating
He stared as the bright liquid trickled onto his foot
a land it remembered to be barren. Its rays
and was absorbed into the ground. Then he threw his
swept over the rows of tents that now occuhead back and cried “Mama!”
pied the area, penetrating their feeble fabric. A fiveA woman jumped out of a truck and tried to calm
year-old boy frowned as the light pushed against his
him.
She spoke in an accent he did not understand.
eyelids, urging him to wake up. He yawned and
He tried to crawl away, but she held him firmly and
squinted. He saw the light reflect onto a glass frame
dabbed at his knee with a wet cloth. Then she
attached to the tent and onto the ground, where it
pressed on a bandage. The boy lowered his screams
created a beautiful rainbow. The boy sat up and
to whimpers. He put his small hands in the woman’s
looked around to show his sister, but no one else
hands and allowed his tears to run freely. His mind
was in the tent. He stumbled outside and stood lookwandered back to a time not long ago at home in
ing up at the sky. With his natural innocence, he
Syria when his mother would sooth him after he had
welcomed the day.
scraped his knee falling off a bicycle. Her tone was
The boy was oblivious to the hardships of life at
filled with warning, but her eyes were shining with
the refugee camp. He skipped toward the well where
relief and amusement. “After all,” she had said,
his sister was struggling to pull up a heavy bucket of
“you’re not a true biker until you’ve fallen for the
water. She pulled it up and dropped it to the ground.
first time!”
Deciding it would be fun to impersonate his father,
Speaking slowly and clearly, the woman told him
the boy held one handle and pointed to the other.
to go back to his family. He shook his
Laughing, his sister picked it up, and tohead. “I want bread,” he explained. She
gether they carried the bucket back to
looked at him sadly and jogged over to
their tent.
“I see they
the truck, returning with a big bag.
They washed their faces and drank a
“Here,” she said. “Now go!” He felt
few cups of water, and then she took
gave you
the gazes of the other boys follow him as
him into her lap. Playing with his hair,
bread early” he stood. He clutched the bag tightly and
she said gently, “The bread truck is
hurried in the direction of his tent.
coming today.” She paused and looked
“Hey!”
at him. He looked back in understandThe boy stopped and turned around. An older boy
ing. “You have to be strong and make sure you get a
was looking at him. The boy recognized him as one
bag, then hold it tightly so the other boys don’t take
of their old neighbors from Syria. The boy smiled
it from you.”
and waited for the older boy to approach. The
He nodded and muttered, “I can bring the bread.”
teenager extended his arm, and the boy did the
He wrapped his small arms around her neck and lay
same. They shook hands.
his head on her shoulder. This reminded him of his
“How is your father?” the older boy asked. The
mother, whom they’d had to leave behind in Syria.
boy nodded timidly in assurance that his father was
The boy ran to meet a friend, and together they
fine. “How is your sister?” The boy nodded again.
raced to the edge of the camp. There, parked in a
The older boy noticed the bag. “I see they gave you
long line, were big white trucks with a huge red
bread early. Is it fresh?” The boy shrugged. “If
crescent painted on each one. The boys knew that
they’ve given it to you first, they were probably getthese trucks carried good food, clean water, toys,
ting rid of the old bread. Eating this could make you
and clothes, so seeing them triggered excitement in
sick. Let me check the date for you.”
the children crowding around the vehicles.
The boy hesitated. Then he remembered his father
As they waited, the boys kicked bottle caps as
saying that they should always trust their neighbors.
makeshift soccer balls. Their voices rose in enthusiHe handed over the bag. The older boy turned the
astic shouts. The boy grinned and ran around
bag over. Squinting at the tiny label, he said, “Fresh!
blindly. Suddenly, he felt someone push him, and he
Made just today.” He smiled at the boy. “Thanks!”
fell. He found himself lying facedown in the dirt.
Blessed Darkness
he said, and jogged away.
The boy ran after him in a panic. “Wait!” he
shouted. “That’s mine!” The people around him
stopped to stare at the five-year-old chasing a fifteen-year-old. The older boy pushed the boy down.
“Go home,” he growled. The boy howled in pain as
he struck his hurt knee on a rock. The bandage was
ripped off, exposing an even deeper wound.
The boy put his hands on his knee and ran as fast
as he could back to the trucks, arriving just in time
to see the last one leave. He chased it as fast as he
could, but he ended up back on the ground, staring
after the trucks as they disappeared.
Limping, the boy reached the tent in tears. His sister greeted him with concern. When he recounted
what had happened, she hugged him and waited for
him to calm down. “Never mind,” she said gently.
“We have some canned beans left.”
His father arrived as they were about to eat. He
looked at his children with weary eyes. The sister
looked down at old beans in poorly hidden disgust,
then at her brother in fear of what the future might
hold for him.
The boy, however, regarded the night as a feast.
He laughed when his father told jokes, and jumped
around energetically as he described the soccer
game from that morning. His five-year-old joy had
helped him forget his pain.
When it was time for bed, his sister sat next to
him until he fell asleep. “Remember,” she said,
“you’re not a man until you’ve fought back for your
right for the first time, and that’s what you did
today.”
The boy smiled at her with shining eyes. “I’ll get
the bread tomorrow,” he murmured sleepily. His
sister nodded, lifting a finger to her lips to remind
him that his father was already asleep.
“By the way,” he whispered. “This morning, the
sun made a rainbow on the ground. I wanted to show
you.”
“Show me tomorrow,” she said. “Good night.”
The boy looked up. He could see the outline of
the moon through the tent fabric, shining brightly.
He raised his arm and waved, as if bidding the moon
farewell.
“Good night,” he said to the moon. He closed his
eyes, looking forward to greeting the sun again. ✦
fiction
The Bread Line
by Natalie Richards, Aurora, OR
T
here are so many things I wish I remembered more clearly. The first time I read Pride and Prejudice.
My tenth birthday party when all my friends came and we laughed and danced. The first time I stood
on a stage and sang just for the sake of the music. My first kiss.
I still have all these memories; they’re not lost, but muted. Their bright colors and indescribable emotions
have faded to pleasant echoes of their former selves. They make me smile when I visit them, but I can’t live
them anymore. I can’t feel them.
Only one memory still has the power to drag me through time, kicking and screaming, into the past.
The more I try to forget, the stronger it becomes. The harder it pulls.
I can see every drop of rain as it hits the windshield, tiny missiles that had never
I can see
threatened me before. I can feel the familiar tightness of the seat belt across my chest,
every drop the edge digging into my neck because I was a little too short. I can hear my dad singing
“Yellow Submarine” off-key, my mom laughing. I can smell the faintly floral shampoo I
of rain
had used that morning. Every detail is crystalline, frozen forever.
The shriek of brakes, the acrid scent of burning rubber, an explosion of fragmented
glass. My mom’s hair, my dad’s hand, a bright burst of blood.
Sheer terror, blessed darkness.
Some people don’t remember anything when they wake up. I’m not so lucky. ✦
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Art by Katelynn Mock, Bryan, OH
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
33
fiction
34
The Adventures of Reagan Laidir
by Michaela Crow,
Port Mathilde, PA
I
knock out a bull-headed prince who wouldn’t take
specifically his smirk. And that’s when I realize that
never expected to find myself in this situation.
no for an answer. This should be the easy part, yet
instead of running top speed in the opposite direcAs I duck for protection behind an ancient oak
telling myself that does little to calm my nerves.
tion, I have been foolishly gawking at this frightentree, the peril of my position sets in. I am standMy stomach flutters as if hundreds of fairies are
ing body.
ing approximately one hundred feet from the cottage
desperately seeking an escape through my esopha“What do you think you’re doing, little girl?” His
of an old witch, more importantly, a witch renowned
gus.
Well,
here
goes
nothing.
Quickly
I
deposit
my
voice
comes out in a boom that has me in a near
for her temper and wicked spells. And if her home
cloak on a nearby branch and dive into an adjacent
quivering puddle on the grass.
bears any resemblance to the rumors of her characpugna bush. As if to punish me for my
“Err … just passing through.” I attempt to sideter, I am in colossal danger.
negligence, the bush attacks me with surstep him. “But I really must be moving on. You see
Small in size, the cottage’s brick
vigor for an inanimate object;
that cottage over there?” I point, not pausing for an
foundation is slowly crumbling in on
Promising to prising
branches jab harshly at my flushed face
answer. “An evil witch is told to live there. Rumored
itself. Its roof, a mixture of straw and
steal from a
and tangle their bright leaves into my
to have turned a man into a flea for looking at her
sticks, comes to a curved point. Black
hair. Rolling onto my stomach, I escape
funny.” Creepy’s smile only seems to grow as I rambars cover the windows, and a short,
witch’s
garden
the
aggressive
bush’s
grasp,
dirtying
my
ble. “Real hideous too. You’re gonna wanna get out
razor-sharp fence surrounds the immeof here.” By now I have managed to put a good five
was a mistake white bodice and crimson skirt, before
diate space around it. I always have
army-crawling in the direction of my
feet between us, and the distance is growing.
considered myself a smart girl, but by
goal, the vitam.
“You don’t say?” His tone strikes me as mocking,
coming so close to a witch’s house I
All this trouble for a dumb flower? In truth, I
but I fail to understand his amusement.
am practically jumping into her cauldron.
don’t understand what is so significant about the
“Yes! Look, I’m getting out of here. If you want
I internally scoff. Deus, I am such a cliché! Unasvitam, except the fact that it is necessary to complete
to wait for the old hag, be my guest!” With a quick
suming village girl facing danger for the sake of a
Gretalia’s potion. Regardless, the importance of the
glance to affirm that he hasn’t moved, I sprint, grabgreat adventure. My sensible side has finally made
flower
is
only
proof
that
Gretalia
trusts
me
and
has
bing my cloak on the way.
an appearance as countless doubts weigh heavy on
begun to acknowledge the fact that I have matured
Refusing to turn around, I focus on the terrain in
and am worthy of her faith.
front of me. I dodge roots and duck under branches
When the vitam enters my view, I pause to study
for a good mile before stopping at a small lake to
the apparently critical flower. The plant is isolated in
rest. Bent over my knees, my breath is coming in
a patch of dug ground. Light purple and similar to a
short gasps, lungs desperately craving oxygen.
calla lily in shape and size, there is nothing visually
There’s no way he could have followed me.
striking about it. Nothing that screams “I am worthy
The thought has barely left my head when a terriof a three-day journey through the Magusal Forest”
fyingly familiar voice says, “You didn’t think you’d
anyway.
get away that easily, did you?”
Not very well guarded either. My hands inch tenI didn’t even have to turn around this time. This
tatively out of the bush, as my eyes dart toward the
guy has officially crossed the realm of scary to
cottage door. For something so important you’d
downright irritating.
think that the old hag would guard it better.
“What do you want from me?” My exasperation
The flower is almost in reach. A spell? She is
seeps through. “Do you have any idea what I’ve had
supposedly a witch, right? Or at least a fence! Don’t
to go through to get here? For the past three nights
animals live around here?
I’ve slept in the dirt! The dirt!”
And then I have it! Grasping the vitam triHis only response is an arrogant chuckle. And
umphantly, I carefully pull the plant out by its roots
now he’s officially done it. The monster has been
before depositing it in the makeshift bag I created
unleashed. “To make my journey even better I’ve
from an elf’s red cap and a clump of dirt. With a
run into every infuriating male in this whole forest!
quick twist the hat is securely shut, and I make my
The ogres, elves, and prince ‘I-am-the-best-thinghasty retreat out of the bush, the cap tucked securely
since-fairy-dust’! What are you looking so smug
Art by Emily Linville, Columbus, OH
inside my bodice. Crawling backwards on my hands
about? You’re worse than the ogres, you ugly
and knees, my head is still in the bush when my
creeper! The only other thing that could have gone
back foot meets the base of a tree.
wrong is if I ran into the witch!”
my mind. There is no way that I would still be
“Cyclop’s eye!” I hiss, and unskillfully roll out of
I only now notice his expression shift from arrostanding here if it wasn’t for the shameful thought of
my cover. I scramble to my feet in a cloud of dust
gant to angry. Too bad that, in this mental state, I
going back to Gretalia empty-handed. She had been
and once again back toward the safety of the forest,
can’t find it in myself to care. Creepy takes a threathesitant to send me for the vitam she needed for her
arm outstretched in search of an
ening step in my direction.
potion, but I had convinced her after much begging
oak tree refuge while keeping my
“Now I am only going to ask you
and arguing. Better boiled than prove Gretalia right.
eyes on the cottage, half expecting
once. I have been a very patient man.
Promising to steal from a witch’s garden was a
“What do you
the witch to appear in the doorway.
Give me the vitam.” Too bad for him I
mistake, but I always feel the need to prove myself
think you’re doing, don’t respond well to demands.
Fortunately, the door remains shut,
to Gretalia. I met her when I was just four years old,
and my hand makes solid contact.
“No, I stole it from the old lady fair
and she has been a mother figure of sorts to me for
little girl?”
Unfortunately, the solid that my
and square. You can go steal your
twelve years now. Gretalia found me not far from
hand grasps is not a tree but a very
own.”
her cottage, in the thickest part of the woods. I was
distinct male frame. My head, a mess of leaves and
“You misunderstand me.” The menace in his voice
wandering lost and alone after my parents abancurls, whips around, the rest of my body following.
is actually quite blatant.
doned me in a village far from our home. She took
The first thing my eyes come in contact with is a
“Give me back my vitam flower, and I might not
me in and taught me all the necessities of living innaked
male
torso
with
crazy
muscular,
tree-trunk
turn
you into a flea.” Something pointy prods me
dependently: where to find edible plants, how to
arms that appear as if they could snap me in half,
squarely in the chest, causing me to look down. A
hunt, and the art of potion-making. So how could I
and a chest rapidly heaving up and down. My heart
wavy stick is digging into my skin. It takes me a
not jump at this opportunity to help her with such a
rate picks up as my eyes travel upward. Around a
couple of seconds, but his words eventually register,
simple task as swiping a flower from the garden of a
beefy neck is a tooth, looking disturbingly like a
and I figure out what he meant by “my vitam
senile old woman?
human molar, strung on a piece of yarn. My eyes
flower” and what the stick is.
Except things are never that simple, at least, not
continue their journey up to meet his. Metallic silver
“Bu-but …” I sputter. “You’re a guy!”
when it comes to me, Reagan Laidir, the red-headed
and catlike in shape, they have to be the most intimiBrilliant, Reagan. Good one. Why don’t you just
orphan child with an anger-management problem.
dating
eyes
I’ve
come
across
in
my
sixteen
years.
spit
in his eye while you’re at it? “I mean wizard!
So far on this quest alone I have had to outsmart a
His face is wrinkle-free and youthful – possibly
You handsome, charming wizard, you! You are ten
pair of cannibalistic ogres, ransack an abandoned
middle-aged? Then I notice his lips, or more
times better than that ogre!” As I go off
➤➤
elven camp (turns out it wasn’t abandoned), and
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
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fiction
Eight
by Jeanna Carlsson, Coppell, TX
T
of the groups sitting at the circular tables scattered
ap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Eight taps
in the cafeteria. I eat my pizza, each slice conof my pencil. No more. No less. Exact, even,
sumed in eight even bites.
equal. Repeat. I hear others tapping as they
I sit amid the cacophony of the cafeteria, staring
try to conjure an equation lost in the maze of their
at a smudge of an unknown substance left from
minds. I count the taps as each pencil touches the
the previous lunch period. Ignoring the stares of
table. I attempt to discern a rhythm, some semblance
other students who question my solitude, I lose
of order in their tapping, but I cannot. If only they
myself in thought.
knew that uneven tapping, in multiples of five and
Eight. Eight. The number evokes a
six and seven – but not eight – will be
memory of days that were more
the cause of their low test grades.
peaceful and less lonely. Eight. Eight
Some say I’m crazy for believing that
Eight is my
times my mother would kiss my foreeight is a magical number that brings
head each night. No more. No less.
luck and success. Some say I’m super- only connection
Eight blessings for her beloved child’s
stitious. Doctors say I’m obsessive
to her
blissful slumber. Exact, even, equal.
compulsive.
But those good-night kisses are gone
The bell rings to signal the end of
now, just as she is gone, off to someplace better.
class, and we all turn in our tests. We head to the
Someplace without me.
cafeteria for lunch, shuffling across the grimy gray
Perhaps she swims in the warm waters of an iscarpet squares of the main hallway. One, two, three,
land paradise. Perhaps she hikes in the Himalayas,
four, five, six, seven, eight steps. Repeat. I walk at a
high above the mundane world. Perhaps I’ll never
consistent pace, while those around me speed up and
know. I cling to the number eight in hopes of discovslow down as they side-step around others with a
ering a hidden message, a map, a guide, anything
slower gait.
that will take me to her. Anything that will bring her
My stomach growls in response to the smell of
back to me, and with her my sense of security and
pizza wafting from the serving line. I sit alone with
my sanity. Eight. It connects me to her. It is my only
my two slices, unable to handle the random numbers
Anaconda
W
hen I was a child.
I remember her ruby-red
signature, the way the cosmetic would glide over her lips with a
delicate point. I remember the jetblack hair that stank from being dyed,
and I remember her hugging me and
being too bony in all the wrong
places.
I remember being chocked by the
cigarette smoke. That thick, phosphorous smoke curled around me, recoiling back and threatening to strike
with its dripping fangs at any moment, a hanging, unseen threat. And
she hugged me tighter and tighter, and
I remember feeling like I was being
YOUR
connection to her. Eight consumes me.
I’m shaken from my reverie by someone sitting
down across from me. The newcomer is a girl who
glances up at me from the pages of her book and
smiles softly, having sensed my surprise. Big eyes.
Brown eyes. Kind eyes. As I return to my thoughts,
a movement catches my eye. The girl slides a napkin
across the table, passing me a cookie replete with
chocolate candies, which I count immediately. There
are sixteen. Eight and eight. Two perfect sets that
complement each other. A sudden calm washes over
my chaotic thoughts.
I hesitate, then reach for the cookie. ✦
by Mia Martins, San Jose, CA
squeezed by an anaconda, restricting
When I was a teenager.
me more and more and more and
I vowed to be nothing like her. I remore until I would finally just …
member the screaming fights and the
implode.
yelled words. I remember hating her,
I burst away from her grasp, gaspa washed-up nobody, and the fact that
ing for air, my lungs so
all she had given me was
appreciative for the fresh
the remnants of her brooxygen.
ken life. I remember
“Mama,
“Mama,” I remember
knowing that I was a remdon’t hug
pleading, “don’t hug me
nant of her broken life. I
so tight.”
me so tight” never let her hug me beShe laughed, a gutcause I remember hating
tural, throaty chuckle, but
that suffocating feeling,
she somehow managed to make it airy
yet she still constricted me in every
and girly by upping her pitch. “Don’t
way possible because neither of us
worry, kid,” she said in her delicate,
could just let go.
raspy voice, “nothing in this world is
When I was an adult.
gonna be tighter.”
There is nothing left for me to not
“Oh no! She’s ours!” This time the statement is
on another ramble, I watch his face transform from
voiced by a collection of small men. The elves have
anger to confusion to blank. “Really cool eyes too,
gathered in a tight circle on top of a nearby heath.
by the way! Of course you can have the vitam
“What? No ogres?” I question the sky, glaring in
back!” I may not always be the smartest, but I’m no
dummy. If the scary wizard wants the flower, I’ll
hatred.
give him the flower. “Just don’t do anything rash
“Back off, pip squeaks. That our dinner!”
while I get it, okay?”
Nevermind.
“Halt!”
Everything is happening so rapidly
My hand has barely brushed the colI’m
finding it difficult to follow. Thank“Step away
lar of my bodice when I am stopped by
fully I will always have my smart mouth
from the
a different masculine voice.
to fall back on. “Sorry, Uglies! Creepy is
Like every clichéd story, my hero has
taking me back to his cottage. I guess
maiden …”
come to save me. Sitting valiantly on
you’ll have to eat someone else.”
his white steed, who has come to my
My statement has the desired effect.
rescue but Prince Fairy Dust, wildly brandishing his
Both ogres let out a mighty roar and charge. Even
sword in Creepy’s direction.
better, a chain reaction seems to have taken hold of
the various creatures as their male pride drives them
“Step away from the maiden and I will let you go
to defend what they considered rightfully theirs. In
free!” he cries. My snort is hidden by a well-timed
cough.
my defense, the prince reacts immediately, attacking
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be like.
“Ms. Smith?” the receptionist calls,
peeking her head around the door and
smiling when she sees me. I stand up
nervously, tugging my blouse down.
“They’re ready to see you.”
I nod and hastily fumble in my
purse as I walk unsteadily to the doorway. I pull out a purple tube and
uncap it to reveal a bright red lipstick
that I quickly glide over my lips,
puckering them together when I’m
done.
“Love ya, Mama,” I mumble as I
take a deep breath and knock on the
door.
“Ana? You can come in now.” ✦
the ogres. Not to be left out, the horde of elves prepare to fight, pulling daggers from inside boots and
drawing their bows.
Predicting the impending chaos, I manage to
swing my body onto a nearby branch, narrowly
missing getting pulverized by a fist flying in my direction. My terror is masked by a greater feeling of
amusement at how easily manipulated everyone
was. The scene unfolds before me perfectly. Creepy
disappears in a puff of smoke. After being thrown
from his horse, my hero prince runs away screaming. And the ogres roll away, elves firmly attached
by their teeth to their meaty thighs.
With a short jump off the tree limb, the dangerous
part of my journey is over. All I have to do now is
not anger any more creatures on the way back and
I’ll be fine. A quick flip of the hood later and this
“little girl” is on her way home – vitam, humanity,
and limbs still attached. ✦
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
Shopping
by Katherine Orfinger, Ormond Beach, FL
T
calls me Charlotte instead of Charlie,
he mall smells like efficiency and conbut I’m willing to compromise with her
sumerism. It makes me feel a little strange, a
on that one.
little dizzy, a little used, like the best thing I
Hannah says I’m too cute to be a
can do is mindlessly spend all my money here. It aldyke, that my features are too delicate,
most makes me feel productive, as though I’m conthat I’m too petite. To prove her point,
tributing to society by pumping my meager cash into
she likes to make a show of leaning
the economy. My senior economics class has
down to kiss my nose when she tells
messed with my head.
me this. I grin just thinking about it.
But what really gets me about the mall is the
I’m here to get her birthday present.
promises it makes. I walk past makeup counters
Normally we get each
where young women with long eyeother small gifts. But this
lashes can show me how to correct
going to be the last
the freckles that pepper my face.
She says if we’re isbirthday
we get to spend
There’s a nail salon to take care of
together, what with gradmeant to be
my ragged nails, a hair salon to give
uation right around the
Photo by Julia Perry, Andover, MA
me a haircut that will make me look
together,
fate
will
corner. So I’ve been
less like a twelve-year-old boy and
pitch as it does when I talk to adults. I hesitate and
planning to do something special. I
more like an eighteen-year-old
bring us back
wait for her to say something else. She doesn’t, and
started saving as soon as I saw the
woman. It’s manufactured selfI shift uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. Finally,
necklace on display a few months ago.
improvement. They’re selling happishe finishes wiping the counter and asks, “Can I
It’s a teardrop-shaped glass pendant with a silver
ness, and I can’t afford it.
help you with something?”
heart suspended in the middle, and in the middle of
And of course, there are endless clothing stores
“Yes, please,” I say. “I’m looking for a necklace. I
the heart is a tiny piece of rose quartz polished to an
that will sell me clothes promising to accentuate my
mean,
I know which one. One I’ve seen here before.
unbelievable
shine.
curves, lengthen my legs, make my eyes “pop.”
A
specific
one.” Great job, I think, groaning inHannah
has
been
talking
a
lot
about
“growth
and
Racks and rows of dresses that would look ridicuwardly
as
I
take in Amanda’s stony expression.
change”
lately,
as
if
I
don’t
know
what
that
means
lous on me, shelves of high heels I don’t know how
“Okay,” she says. She looks me up and down, as
for us. I understand that with her moving to the West
to walk in, tank tops and blouses that would showif she’s trying to picture any kind of jewelry on me.
Coast for school and me staying in town for commucase the cleavage I prefer to hide. Not to mention the
“Which one?”
nity college, it would be difficult for us to stay toendless stream of men and boys who look at me
Stammering, I describe the necklace. “I don’t
gether. We talked about it a lot, but decided that
with everything from confusion to amusement as I
know
if it has a name,” I finish lamely.
some time apart might be good. She needs room to
rummage through the men’s section looking for an
“It
does.
You’re talking about the Sally Collec“grow
and
change,”
while
I
will
stay
in
the
same
XXS.
tion.
That’s
a very expensive necklace,” she says,
small
town
with
the
same
small-minded
people.
But
My mom has long since stopped dragging me to
without
moving
toward the case.
I
know
how
shy
she
is,
how
terrified
she
is
of
makMacy’s to try on A-line skirts and cream-colored
“I know. I have the money,” I say. The statement
ing new friends. I imagine her standing in her unfablouses, and has resigned herself to the fact that her
sounds odd coming from me. I don’t know why.
miliar dorm room, looking in an unfamiliar mirror
daughter is a “big dyke in a small town.” She still
She nods. “Is it a gift for your mother?”
and seeing the necklace on her neck.
I start to feel hot under her scrutiny. “No.”
I want to get her something tangiShe inclines her head and twists her lips into
ble. A reminder that she was happy
something that might be a smile if it were directed at
at home, that she was happy with
by “Karen,”
someone else. There is a question in her face. I think
me. She says if we’re meant to be
Cleburne, TX
of the squeal that Hannah will make when she opens
together, fate will bring us back to
the box.
each other when the time is right. I
am being forced to write this. Well, not exactly forced – I mean, it’s not
“It’s for my girlfriend. Her birthday’s coming
don’t believe in fate, but I believe
like someone is holding a gun to my head or yelling at me – but this is for
up.” I try to smile.
her when she says that.
a grade. And I am an extreme procrastinator, so I suppose I will tell you a
She purses her lips and sighs quietly through her
I weave through the department
story. For the sake of my grade, I will tell you a story. This, mind you, very
nose.
“It’s right over here.” She unlocks the jewelry
store to the jewelry counter. I pass
sarcastic story will be told in a very particular order: introduction and backcase and takes the necklace out. She is wearing
purses, bathing suits, bras, jeans, and
ground to the main character, whom you will follow throughout their boring
acrylic nails. “Is this the one you want?”
finally the glass jewelry cases appear
life, a middle section where somewhat unexciting things will happen to said
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, taking out my wallet.
around the corner. A woman with
character, and an ending. This ending may or may not be sad, happy, or any
We walk to the register where I pay for the neckher back to me is wiping off one of
other adjectives that bring about images of texting
lace. “Would you like it gift-wrapped?”
the cases. She is tall
emojis or Walmart stickers.
She asks.
and thin, with her hair
Speaking of Walmart stickers, there used to be an
“No, thank you. I want to wrap it mytwisted into a butterfly
All she ever
“It’s
for
my
girlelderly woman who worked there. I know that’s a
self.”
She nods and gives me the white
clip on the back of her
did was give
super-detailed description, but just bear with me
jewelry
box. I take the receipt and shove
head. Her hair is a
friend. It’s her
here.
Every
time
I
would
go
there
as
a
child,
she
it
into
my
pocket. “Thank you.”
funny
orange
color,
me stickers
birthday.”
would be standing by the shopping carts, waiting
“Have a nice day,” she says stiffly.
and for a moment I am
with a big roll of smiley-face stickers. Just as I
As I walk toward the exit, I begin to
reminded of Nurse
would put my hand on a cart, she would hobble over and place a big yellow
unclench. Amanda’s face fades from my
Ratched, but then I resmile on my hand. I know that her intentions were kind and genuine, but each
mind and is replaced with Hannah’s smile. I can picmember that it was the Big Nurse’s
time I felt her cold wrinkles engulf my tiny hands, my heart stopped and my
ture the necklace on her, and I know she’ll wrap the
lips, not her hair that were a “funny
mind whirled with pictures of evil monsters and scary child-eating witches.
chain around her fingers when she’s wearing it.
orange.” The woman turns around,
Now that I think back, I almost feel bad for being so afraid of her. All she ever
As soon as I’m out of Amanda’s sight, I stop and
and she is older than I expected,
did was give me stickers; why did I always have to run? Now, whenever I go
peek into the jewelry box. Without warning, I feel as
probably pushing sixty. Her nametag
to Walmart, I wish I could see her and apologize for my rudeness, but I think
fragile as the necklace. I hope it doesn’t get broken
reads Amanda. Her face is caked in
she’s probably dead by now.
on some midnight adventure of Hannah’s at college.
makeup, but she looks strangely
So I told you I’d tell you a story in “a very particular order,” but it looks
I hope she won’t take it off and throw it in the botclean. She raises her eyebrows and
like I lied to you. At least you’re here to know that I’m sorry. ✦
tom of a drawer where the glass will crack. I hope
says, “Hello,” without smiling.
she’ll come home and remember she was happy. ✦
“Hi,” I say, my voice going up in
Written Today
I
36
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Francisco Seambelar, Buenos Aires, Argentina
W
paddled awkwardly toward the shore. No one took
one that I had never seen before, nor since that day.
hen I was a boy of ten living in Uganda,
notice of him; he was a Ugandan local and therefore
How strange it was to see both the whites and the
my father’s undying love for sailing drew
unimportant. Yet I divided my attention between the
blacks, the rich and the poor, sharing a single unbroour family to a small sailing club called
canoe and a Dutch man wearing a polo shirt and too
ken moment of grief for the black boy. But by this
Mukumbo that lay on the banks of Lake Victoria.
much sunscreen directing two bare-chested African
time we did not see him as black. Nor did we see
Unless you took the banana boat ferry from the outmen
how
to
rig
his
boat
for
him.
The
yellow
speck
him as white. In this instant we saw him as a color
skirts of Kampala, Mukumbo was an hour’s car ride
slowly drew closer to the northern shore.
that was curiously familiar to both groups. Perhaps
and involved crossing several kilometers of devasI was seated on a patch of grass next to the clubit was the thin stream of red flowing from his mouth
tated dirt roads and large villages. The club itself
house. From this plateau towering over the northern
that reminded us that we were all the same.
was beautifully placed on the long, marshy banks of
territory I was granted a perfect view of the island,
It was then that I decided I wasn’t white, and that
the golden lake.
the bank, and the iron fence. Fresh air filled my
the people beyond the fence weren’t black. Every
The southern shore was where the boats were kept
lungs as the trees above me groaned in
single one of us was red. It had taken
and rigged for sailing, and where most of the activthe wind. A single black and white
death’s cold touch to strip us bare of our
ity happened, second only to the clubhouse. The
kingfisher
flew
off
toward
the
papyrus
colors and reveal what lay within. It had
northern shore was mostly untouched and generally
One day, a
swamp in the south.
taken decades of hatred to realize that
avoided. Despite its location in the heart of the
grave incident we were all from the earth, and from
As usual, there were about fifteen
African continent, Mukumbo’s members were all
naked Ugandan boys in the water beeach other.
white – predominantly British, Dutch, and German.
happened in
yond the fence, splashing and yelling.
From the death of this child a new life
The only black men and women inside were the
Mukumbo
Their teeth glimmered white against
was born, a life that would affirm that
workers and cooks, whose sole purpose was being
their black skin as they played in the
we were all red, all the same. I turned
told what to do by the white men and what to cook
blistering sun while two Ugandan girls
away and ran to the sanctuary of the
by the white women. Together there were fifteen of
filled
yellow
jerry
cans
for
the
night’s
maize
porclubhouse.
I
never learned what happened to the
them, and they were usually sent to a small hut on
ridge and posho.
boy’s body, but it was surely given to his village for
Mukumbo’s west edge unless required in the kitchen
The yellow canoe was now thirty meters from
a traditional burial.
or down at the shore to rig the boats. There was only
shore, and the boy inside could be clearly seen. His
It was not until years later that I wandered, hesione black club member – a highly respected Uganskin was shining brightly with sweat from paddling.
tantly, to the edge of Mukumbo’s northern bank,
dan lawyer – but he seldom came.
The strong winds had waged war with the golden
where the iron fence lay. It was curiously silent. I
On the northern bank of Mukumbo stood a tall
lake, and the surface of the water had transformed
had not seen the children grasp its metal bars for a
iron fence, which ran straight across the shore and
into a rough canvas. Battalions of white horsemen
into the murky waters of the lake. Just beyond it was
rose from the water as small waves breached their
a gravel path along the edge of the lake that led to a
limits and then subsided before disappearing into the
small village.
lake. The boy struggled to keep his canoe from veerUgandan children would often walk in their worn
ing to one side or the other as the horsemen tramsandals, with heavy yellow jerry cans balanced on
pled the wooden defenses of his small vessel. They
their heads, to the lake’s shore to get drinking water.
toyed with him mercilessly before striking a final
Their clothes were ripped and seemed too large for
blow.
the thin legs that protruded from them. They would
My head turned, and so did the British woman’s
grab the iron fence and call to the white men benext
to me, as a faint cry drew our attention. The
yond. Only once or twice did I dare to stray close to
yellow canoe, now capsized, floated not twenty
the fence myself, for when in audible reach, they
meters from the banks of the gravel path on
would threaten us and swear at us in such a brutal
Mukumbo’s northern border. The Ugandan children
manner. A deep hatred had formed between us and
screamed in horror standing in the shallows but did
them. I never understood where its roots lay, but it
not dare enter the lake’s depths for fear of being
was there, and it was common. The white men
swallowed by the same darkness. The
couldn’t care less about the insults of
two Ugandan girls wailed and cried,
black locals, and spent most of their
dropping their cans and grabbing their
days on the southern shore shouting
A heavy hatred dresses in agony. I watched curiously
orders to the Ugandan workers. That
from above as five white men, includwas where the boats lay, which was
had formed
ing my father, ran from the southern
their only concern.
between us
bank into the water and swam toward
One day, in what could be said to be
the yellow canoe.
a truly enlightening experience, a
Desperately, they dove under, rising
grave incident happened in Mukumbo,
above to gasp air and then dive again, trying frantiand when it was over, it was never spoken of again.
cally to find the boy. The British woman next to me
Photo by Ellen Schueler, Franklin, KY
The day was clear, revealing an azure sky and the
held me as we watched. A small crowd of white club
warm touch of the morning sun’s rays on the neatly
members gathered behind us, hands covering their
long time, nor did I hear them taunting the white
cut grasses of Mukumbo’s southern shore. The formouths in disbelief.
men when they strayed to the northern border.
est that covered much of the sailing club’s southI do not know how long they searched for him in
As I drew near I inspected the fence and saw that
western territory shuddered as an unseasonably
the water, but I remember that every second felt unit was bent and uneven. What had once looked firm
strong wind gusted from the north, mounting
ending, and every minute lasted a lifetime. The waitand forbidding now proved to be almost useless. I
steadily and battling intensely with the water. The
ing finally ended tragically. The boy had drowned.
effortlessly swayed it back and forth with my arms.
white men were at the southern shore either rigging
The
five
white
men
lifted
him
out
of
the
water,
Beyond the tall grasses, smoke from the dead boy’s
or watching their boats be rigged for what would
and others helped carry him to the uncut grass near
village trailed across the sky.
have been a perfect day of sailing.
the fence. There they tried to resuscitate him, but to
I looked down to where the water met the metal
Around four hundred meters off the mainland, in
no avail. The Ugandans watched from behind the
fence. Two black and white kingfishers perched on
front of Mukumbo, lay a large, forested island; from
fence, clinging to the barrier while crying prayers in
the iron fence above the murky water. The grass was
it a yellow speck wobbled toward us. It was a canoe,
Luganda that would prove useless.
neatly mowed. I let go of the iron barrier and found
built and crafted in typical African manner from
The women behind me and the white men below
that my fingers were stained red.
tinted wood that had been splintered by time and
began crying along with the Ugandan crowd behind
The fence was rusting. ✦
hollowed from years in the sun. An adolescent boy
the fence. This was quite a spectacular scene for me,
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M AY ’ 1 4
fiction
The Iron Fence
• Teen Ink
37
fiction
I Don’t Want a New Daddy
by Alex Choi, Hinsdale, IL
I
examined the way her long brown hair blew over her
forgive Meg for leaving you?”
do believe it’s safe to say I will never forgive my
face.
With a sad smile, Mrs. O’Neal studied my face.
daddy for leaving me. Mama says to forgive
“But, Ma, why can’t you go and get yourself a
“Sometimes things can’t be helped, and the only
him – that it’s not his fault he died in World War
nice job so we can live in comfort by ourselves? We
way to move forward is to let go of the past. You
II – but I blame him just the same. My daddy died
don’t need a daddy, and besides, I will never, not
know, Meg used to say, ‘As long as forgiveness
when I was just seven, right at the end of the war, in
ever,
trust
a
daddy
again,”
I
said
with
a
stubborn
paves the road, love will always travel it.’”
1943. That left just me and Mama, until Robert
pout. “And-”
•
•
•
rolled around. Mama was convinced that
“We’ve been over this,” Ma cut me off.
That afternoon I walked back over to Mrs
he was a real man worth marrying, but
“Robert’s a fine daddy. Besides, I can
O’Neal’s house with a big basket of cookies. “Hey
all I saw was a fool. He didn’t seem to
“Robert’s a
hardly get a job, much less a well-paying
there, Mrs. O’Neal. I, uh, brought you some cookies
care about anything other than fishing.
fine daddy” one, in the middle of Alabama. Now, I’m ’cause, you know …” I trailed off, nervously shufFirst day he came into our house, he
sure you have chores to do. Or else,
fling my feet.
walked right up to me and said, “Grace,
make yourself useful and go fetch me
“Thank you, sweetie. They look delicious,” she
I know that this must be hard on you,
some
soap
from
the
general
store.”
Ma
handed
me
said
as she reached for the basket. “I got something
but I’m your new daddy and I need you to cooperate
20 cents. “Now hurry along. I’ll have a talk with
for you too. I’ll be right back.”
with me. Before the end of this year I want to go
Rob–I mean, your father.”
I sat waiting on the porch, thinking what she
fishin’ with you, or somethin’, so we can get to
Ma always did that. She would tell me that she
could possibly be giving me. Maybe it was a piece
know each other better. So what do ya say?”
would talk to Robert, but when I asked her, she alof jewelry or a nice dress that used to belong to her
At that point I ran out crying, feeling real sorry
ways said she got too busy and forgot, although I
daughter. Never mind, I thought. I don’t want to
for myself. First daddy I ever had left me, the
knew better.
wear a dead girl’s dress. Then I felt guilty and swore
I walked quietly to the general store, tossing up
to myself to be thankful for whatever Mrs. O’Neal
the coins Ma gave me. As I strolled along, I passed
happened to bring out.
Mrs. O’Neal’s fancy house. It had two whole stories
In a minute she returned with a slip of paper. “I
with more bedrooms than I could dream about. It
wrote Meg’s quote down. I thought you might like
had pretty white trim and fine lilac paint. I asked Ma
it,” she said, placing the thick cardstock in my hand.
why we couldn’t have a house like that, and she told
Her handwriting was elegant and fancy, just like her
me she would ask Robert about it. She certainly says
house.
that a lot.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
As I was admiring Mrs. O’Neal home, she must
•
•
•
have thought something was wrong with me and
A few days later, I sat in my room staring at the
came outside. Mind you, Mrs. O’Neal is just as
quote that Mrs. O’Neal had given me. I mulled over
fancy as her house. She’s petite with a
the words until they were imprinted in
pretty smile. She has shoulder-length
my eyes whenever I blinked. Then all of a
brown hair pulled back in a bun and a
“You have a sudden, it hit me. Maybe I could make
pleasant face with clear green eyes and a
things right for everyone.
daughter,
kind smile. Even her laugh is delicate beI padded down the hall to where
Photo by Katie Griffin, Beckville, TX
cause it sounds like tinkling glass.
Robert was sitting in the easy chair, readma’am?”
“Hey there, Grace. What’re you
ing the newspaper. I took a deep breath.
doing?” asked Mrs. O’Neal.
“So, uh, Robert,” I began shyly.
second was an impostor who just wanted to go fish“Oh, nothin’. Just runnin’ to the general store for
“Yes?” he asked, setting down his paper. “What is
ing. The way I saw it, no daddy could be trusted.
my ma,” I replied. It always surprised me how good
it.”
•
•
•
a mood Mrs. O’Neal was in every time I saw her, es“You, uh, still got those tickets?”
“Hey, Gracie? Can you come out here for a
pecially since her son, Tommy, was in Vietnam.
I had never seen a man smile so big in my life. “I
minute?” I rolled my eyes as Robert hollered down
“Well, why don’t you stop for some tea? I’m sure
sure do, Gracie. I sure do.”
for me with the nickname no one except him used. I
your dear mother wouldn’t mind.”
And you know how much I cared that he called
ran to answer his call. As I entered the living room, I
“Thank
you,
Mrs.
O’Neal,”
I
said
as
I
stepped
up
me
Gracie? Not one bit. ✦
tensed up.
to her front porch.
“You hear me callin’, missy? I called you two
“I wish I had your green eyes, Grace. And your
times,” said Robert with one of his “good-natured”
hair – it’s just somethin’ else,” Mrs. O’Neal comsmiles that really looked like a dog bearing its teeth.
mented, stroking my long blonde hair. “You remind
“Yes, Robert, but-”
me of my daughter.”
He held up his hand to silence me. He has big
“You have a daughter, ma’am? I would certainly
hands. And big brown eyes. But I’ll bet he has a tiny
like to meet her,” I said.
brain.
“Oh, yes. She was just your age, ten, with the
“Gracie, please. I just wanted to say that I got
same beautiful smile and eyes,” she recalled wistsome real nice seats at a baseball game this weekfully. “She was full of energy, always bouncin’ off
end, and I want to know if you’ll come with me,” he
the walls. I could never get Meg to stop.”
said. As relieved as I was that he had chosen a dif“I’m sorry, ma’am, but did you say ‘was’?” I
ferent bonding activity other than fishing, it didn’t
questioned, now thoroughly confused.
change a thing.
A tear pooled in her eye, which she quickly wiped
“Robert, I never, ever said yes to fishing, so why
away. “My darling died long ago, before I moved to
on earth would I say yes to this?” I tried to reason.
Alabama. One day Mr. O’Neal was drivin’ me,
With a sigh, Robert put the tickets back in his
Tommy, and Meg. He swerved the car right into anpocket and picked up his newspaper. “Well, that’s
other one by accident,” she said staring into her cup
okay. I guess I can take your mama.”
of tea. “I was fine, and so was Tommy and Mr.
I left quietly and ran off to Ma to ask her to tell
O’Neal, but Meg …” And with that, Mrs. O’Neal
Robert to stop trying to be friendly with me.
broke down crying. Unsure what to do, I sat there
“Honey, Robert’s a nice man. I know he may not
like a statue.
be the same as your papa, but he’s a caring gentle“I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping the tears from her
man and a kind soul. You’ll learn to like him,” she
face.
replied with a reassuring pat, as if that would help.
“Pardon me for asking, but how can you ever
I stared right back into her big green eyes and
Art by Jessica Padilla, Houston, TX
38
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
poetry
Charcoal Boat
please stay
Frequencies
when I was seven
I drew a boat in charcoal that I could so
nearly touch
I picked a bouquet of forget-me-nots
and they were a plea
because my heart fears that
You will find someone better – someone
who does not get sick in tricky situations
or pretty girls who lack crescent scars in
their palms
I’m afraid that I’m not getting
better and someday, someday soon
You will leave
Broken glass and gasoline, rubber from
the wheels
And pop tunes playing from the station,
into water
Rise. Let’s watch the fish, and listen to
the radio
and hear the waves that rocked underneath
that sang promises of the places it’d
take me
but when my fingertips touched
the paper
it smeared, and I realized that art
isn’t magic
and ten years later I keep making the
same mistake
with people,
Art by Fiona Lin, Beijing, China
Dec. 2nd
You don’t write about cigarettes or the sky
you saw driving home from work
You just can’t. You slip me a note about how
the washing machine rattles and reminds
me of a song I showed you
I bite the inside of my cheek till it bleeds
and kiss the outside of yours till it does
the same
Your stained-glass eyes tell me it’s all in
my head and I bury my face in your neck
I came home and ate an orange without
peeling it and stared at my reflection
Sweet and bitter simultaneously, I
swallowed and sighed
by Asia Adomanis, Beavercreek, OH
Hidden
Footsteps of students pounding
In the stampede to the cafeteria above
our heads,
We sat under the staircase in the west wing,
Hidden in our own little corner of the school.
You pulled the gummy bears out of
your purse.
The foreign language on the package
confirmed
Your claims of their German origin.
(I decided against admitting I could find
The same brand in the candy aisle
Of any local convenience store because
It was a special gift nonetheless.)
The floor, solid and smooth, held us
Up from the earth below it. My head
Rested on the steel window pane
While yours lay right under,
Not high enough to touch.
And as we turned to lock eyes in unison,
Like we had done so many times before, we
Both grinned, attempting to suppress
Giggles we both felt rising in our stomachs.
But the dam inevitably burst.
We both fell into a fit, laughing until
Our cheeks hurt.
As you mentioned many times before,
Nothing humorous led us into the chorus
of laughter,
For in this moment we had filled the other
with joy
Simply being together.
How could we not express that?
by Katie Witte, Pilot Point, TX
Who or whom?
The red-lit sun of traffic lights, glinting off
the water
Down below. Mangled guard rails,
static-buzzing radio
Remember singing to this song? Just us,
behind the wheel
in thinking they are more than
they are
The page is turned, but
does that signal a new start?
Or another end?
by Callie Zimmerman,
Fishers, IN
by Maryam Hosain,
Sydney, Australia
Sweet Home
Belleville
My Bedside
Reservations
The long road to Belleville is paved
with gold,
And the arch of St. Louis is a sparkling
diamond.
Tracing the railroad side, I spot the
Drury Inn,
And all I can think of is my sweet granny.
A tiny home and an even tinier refrigerator,
Stocked with an even tinier farm
fresh milk,
And tiny Dove chocolates in tiny glass
bowls.
Brown paneled walls and green linoleum
floors,
With pictures of John Paul and Papa Fred
hung,
Next to Katie and Timmy and my mom.
I used to stare up and only know Katie,
I never knew Fred or even sweet Timmy.
Krispy Kreme fresh on the cozy, oval table,
With a view of my family and the house next
door,
And the Price is Right blaring on the TV.
I used to sneak into my Granny’s room
While some stranger on TV won a new car,
And I’d drink chocolate milk and sit on the
green carpet,
Hoping to see what Beanie Baby she’d give
to my brothers and me,
Which were hidden up in the closet.
St. Clair’s Mall, the amazing ceiling of
Macy’s.
Lunch at Dillard’s and Smokey Bones for
dinner.
Another Busch Stadium visit for me to tally.
The Mississippi River, Althoff High School,
St. Augustine’s.
Aunt Francis always there with warm,
welcoming arms.
And my Papa always guarding over
my shoulder.
Although I am legally from somewhere
north,
I will always remember Belleville as
my home.
The knick-knacks we collect to collect
dust bunnies
and whats-its that whisper of stories stored
away.
Grandma’s chocolate turtle recipe speckled
with
tiny dark thumbprints, chapped lip balm,
spent gift cards, all –
by Grace Graunke,
Naperville, IL
A life of broken frequencies, caught by
the radio
Played on loop as memories, me behind
the wheel.
Remember fishing back in Baku? The
chilly water.
Eyes closed on the wheel. Into water.
Sing the song on the radio
by Nik Theorin, Landenberg, PA
but – inside inside jokes, bubble gum
wrappers and
faded book reports and nerdy rimmed
Ray-Bans coming-of-age
trinkets and declarations of independence.
The silly things that we just can’t seem
to forget.
These are the objects of my marker-stained
nightstand,
stashed away artifacts like a Crayola-washed
archive. I’m not a curator, precisely. Just
a wide-eyed pack rat, endlessly ruffling
through
layers of my life. Yet at the same time, I feel
as if I’m burrowing past gizmos, stuff past
its expiration date. Perhaps these wooden
drawers
list and exhibit the hidden, tell a simple
truth.
That we try hard to be try-hards just to forget?
The petty past holding hostage our planet
for a price that we can’t search up in
the libraries
of our life. That we store, all the while
ignoring
what is in store?
The time is now to cover the aged
birthday cards,
un-sticky glue sticks in the pallid blanket of
these flowery verses, the new frosty peak of
my bedroom pile, turn off the lights, and
go to sleep.
It’s my bedtime – I have a big day
tomorrow.
when you
asked why
because she is a hurricane
of confidence and joy and freedom
and all i want to do is get swept up.
because she is the center
of all our adventures,
the catalyst for all our friendships,
she is the glue
and the reason at the end
why our motley crew
means love to me.
because she is not pure but she is precious
imperfect, bright, alive
and she has danced up a storm here on earth
that sent her to the stars.
by Morgan Chesley,
Kasilof, AK
Too Many Times
Like tattered China
Dropped by nieces at tea
Or son-in-laws at Easter brunch
Too many times
Squandered, put down,
Chipped away
Living in fear of the
Mechanic swish, slush and
Clink
Abused by mouths ungrateful,
Distasteful.
But with its handle askew,
Its frame lopsided
Standing above the mugs and tea cups,
It waits
For the day antique will triumph.
But for the kettle that calls
It will always answer
With a welcoming mouth and
An endless depth to fill.
by Zuzanna Waler,
Konstancin, Poland
by Matthew Rice,
Buffalo Grove, IL
by Andrew Mack, Rochester, MI
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
39
poetry
Charcoal Boat
please stay
Frequencies
when I was seven
I drew a boat in charcoal that I could so
nearly touch
I picked a bouquet of forget-me-nots
and they were a plea
because my heart fears that
You will find someone better – someone
who does not get sick in tricky situations
or pretty girls who lack crescent scars in
their palms
I’m afraid that I’m not getting
better and someday, someday soon
You will leave
Broken glass and gasoline, rubber from
the wheels
And pop tunes playing from the station,
into water
Rise. Let’s watch the fish, and listen to
the radio
and hear the waves that rocked underneath
that sang promises of the places it’d
take me
but when my fingertips touched
the paper
it smeared, and I realized that art
isn’t magic
and ten years later I keep making the
same mistake
with people,
Art by Fiona Lin, Beijing, China
Dec. 2nd
You don’t write about cigarettes or the sky
you saw driving home from work
You just can’t. You slip me a note about how
the washing machine rattles and reminds
me of a song I showed you
I bite the inside of my cheek till it bleeds
and kiss the outside of yours till it does
the same
Your stained-glass eyes tell me it’s all in
my head and I bury my face in your neck
I came home and ate an orange without
peeling it and stared at my reflection
Sweet and bitter simultaneously, I
swallowed and sighed
by Asia Adomanis, Beavercreek, OH
Hidden
Footsteps of students pounding
In the stampede to the cafeteria above
our heads,
We sat under the staircase in the west wing,
Hidden in our own little corner of the school.
You pulled the gummy bears out of
your purse.
The foreign language on the package
confirmed
Your claims of their German origin.
(I decided against admitting I could find
The same brand in the candy aisle
Of any local convenience store because
It was a special gift nonetheless.)
The floor, solid and smooth, held us
Up from the earth below it. My head
Rested on the steel window pane
While yours lay right under,
Not high enough to touch.
And as we turned to lock eyes in unison,
Like we had done so many times before, we
Both grinned, attempting to suppress
Giggles we both felt rising in our stomachs.
But the dam inevitably burst.
We both fell into a fit, laughing until
Our cheeks hurt.
As you mentioned many times before,
Nothing humorous led us into the chorus
of laughter,
For in this moment we had filled the other
with joy
Simply being together.
How could we not express that?
by Katie Witte, Pilot Point, TX
Who or whom?
The red-lit sun of traffic lights, glinting off
the water
Down below. Mangled guard rails,
static-buzzing radio
Remember singing to this song? Just us,
behind the wheel
in thinking they are more than
they are
The page is turned, but
does that signal a new start?
Or another end?
by Callie Zimmerman,
Fishers, IN
by Maryam Hosain,
Sydney, Australia
Sweet Home
Belleville
My Bedside
Reservations
The long road to Belleville is paved
with gold,
And the arch of St. Louis is a sparkling
diamond.
Tracing the railroad side, I spot the
Drury Inn,
And all I can think of is my sweet granny.
A tiny home and an even tinier refrigerator,
Stocked with an even tinier farm
fresh milk,
And tiny Dove chocolates in tiny glass
bowls.
Brown paneled walls and green linoleum
floors,
With pictures of John Paul and Papa Fred
hung,
Next to Katie and Timmy and my mom.
I used to stare up and only know Katie,
I never knew Fred or even sweet Timmy.
Krispy Kreme fresh on the cozy, oval table,
With a view of my family and the house
next door,
And the Price is Right blaring on the TV.
I used to sneak into my Granny’s room
While some stranger on TV won a new car,
And I’d drink chocolate milk and sit on the
green carpet,
Hoping to see what Beanie Baby she’d give
to my brothers and me,
Which were hidden up in the closet.
St. Clair’s Mall, the amazing ceiling of
Macy’s.
Lunch at Dillard’s and Smokey Bones for
dinner.
Another Busch Stadium visit for me to tally.
The Mississippi River, Althoff High School,
St. Augustine’s.
Aunt Francis always there with warm,
welcoming arms.
And my Papa always guarding over
my shoulder.
Although I am legally from somewhere
north,
I will always remember Belleville as
my home.
The knick-knacks we collect to collect
dust bunnies
and whats-its that whisper of stories stored
away.
Grandma’s chocolate turtle recipe speckled
with
tiny dark thumbprints, chapped lip balm,
spent gift cards, all –
by Grace Graunke,
Naperville, IL
A life of broken frequencies, caught by
the radio
Played on loop as memories, me behind
the wheel.
Remember fishing back in Baku? The
chilly water.
Eyes closed on the wheel. Into water.
Sing the song on the radio
by Nik Theorin, Landenberg, PA
but – inside inside jokes, bubble gum
wrappers and
faded book reports and nerdy rimmed
Ray-Bans coming-of-age
trinkets and declarations of independence.
The silly things that we just can’t seem
to forget.
These are the objects of my marker-stained
nightstand,
stashed away artifacts like a Crayola-washed
archive. I’m not a curator, precisely. Just
a wide-eyed pack rat, endlessly ruffling
through
layers of my life. Yet at the same time, I feel
as if I’m burrowing past gizmos, stuff past
its expiration date. Perhaps these wooden
drawers
list and exhibit the hidden, tell a simple
truth.
That we try hard to be try-hards just to forget?
The petty past holding hostage our planet
for a price that we can’t search up in
the libraries
of our life. That we store, all the while
ignoring
what is in store?
The time is now to cover the aged
birthday cards,
un-sticky glue sticks in the pallid blanket of
these flowery verses, the new frosty peak of
my bedroom pile, turn off the lights, and
go to sleep.
It’s my bedtime – I have a big day
tomorrow.
when you
asked why
because she is a hurricane
of confidence and joy and freedom
and all i want to do is get swept up.
because she is the center
of all our adventures,
the catalyst for all our friendships,
she is the glue
and the reason at the end
why our motley crew
means love to me.
because she is not pure but she is precious
imperfect, bright, alive
and she has danced up a storm here on earth
that sent her to the stars.
by Morgan Chesley,
Kasilof, AK
Too Many Times
Like tattered China
Dropped by nieces at tea
Or son-in-laws at Easter brunch
Too many times
Squandered, put down,
Chipped away
Living in fear of the
Mechanic swish, slush and
Clink
Abused by mouths ungrateful,
Distasteful.
But with its handle askew,
Its frame lopsided
Standing above the mugs and tea cups,
It waits
For the day antique will triumph.
But for the kettle that calls
It will always answer
With a welcoming mouth and
An endless depth to fill.
by Zuzanna Waler,
Konstancin, Poland
by Matthew Rice,
Buffalo Grove, IL
by Andrew Mack, Rochester, MI
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
39
Wilderness
of Light
The cool night,
Envelops the landscape.
Tranquil, as a cricket
Chirps his lonely call.
Piercing glacial air.
The greenery canvassed
By fresh dew.
A mirror of
Water, glassed by stillness.
Crisp pine aroma
Hangs motionless.
Soft, blunt-nosed
Gray giants
Point at the spectacle above.
A glittering light show.
Endless microscopic spheres of cold,
Blue fire. Clusters,
Forming an arch.
Showing the way to
Endless beauty.
Monday creeps up on you, so soon after
Friday, a very happy day, but so long
before the next. Such a sneaky little day.
Forget about Friday the 13th, Mondays
are what I’m scared of.
The world is just a bunch of
forks and spoons and knives:
washed and rewashed
the meth heads eating with
the big tycoons
’cause the waitress,
in her scuffed white keds
(her eyeshadow a shade of dayglo)
is a bit like God, leveling the ground
with her objective coffee refills.
The tax collectors and the prostitutes,
the woman at the well and the one
caught in adultery,
the starving artists and mailmen and teachers,
all of them eating in the
same sun-warmed booth,
with the same
chipped cups.
Today the clouds
Envelop me,
(a weightless veil
by Kim McCarrick,
Langhorne, PA
by Bryn Bartel, Wentzville, MO
And She Sang as
the Chicken
Crisped Up
I am always caught
between dreams and the taste of
your name on my lips.
by Eden Hartley, Waterford, MI
Ode to the Library
Ode to the library,
underrated, overlooked and misused
by those who don’t know your full power.
Some say you smell old and musty,
I say the smell is of knowledge and adventure.
The shelves struggle to keep their bounties
from readers,
unwilling to share information, fantasies
and knowledge.
Books sadly lean at angles when a member
has been removed.
Sad and miserable are those with pages
destroyed.
Spines creak and bindings crack as ancient
tomes are opened,
new books make a whisper of sound punctuated by a crinkle of a protective sheath,
eager to share what they contain from
cover to cover.
Signs whisper things like “Fiction to the
left,” or “Biographies two shelves back.”
Huge, soft chairs are placed strategically
throughout the room,
ones so comfy a reader may sink into and,
promptly forget the day’s troubles
and events.
Newer arrivals are held in high favor
over ancient volumes.
Upon leaving she stood in the doorway,
one foot outside, and hand inside and body
in between.
She turned and thought, Don’t worry,
I’ll be back for the rest of you someday.
That promise is kept by the flash of a library
card as it is slid into a wallet.
by Katie Leenders, Oklahoma City, OK
M AY ’ 1 4
L’appel du Vide
Monday slouched into Sunday, making it
heavy and sad. Monday rudely poked
Tuesday, awakening it, annoying it
with just Monday’s presence.
Hushed
Teen Ink •
Judgment Day
Monday is slow. Monday is sleepy.
Monday is tired. Monday has an evil
smirk. Monday ruins my week. Monday
leaves an awful taste in the mouth on
Tuesday. Monday sends a shiver down my
spine. Monday, oh how I despise Monday.
by Jack Poshepny, Viroqua, WI
40
Monday
•
When my grandmother made fried chicken it
took on spiritual sublimity.
The way she would cradle the chicken with
maternal caress.
And she would sing, not sing sing, but
evolve into the mistress of song,
As the smell of paprika filled the dingy
apartment.
And she sang with a wispy tone only cold
nights can conjure.
And it was in this song, which soon became
a chant as time and sound collapsed
and collided
That no longer was I listening but experiencing
the sound of the woman’s voice.
A voice that ripped trees from their thick
roots and pulled the sun across the sky
with chains of cloud.
And, of course, I stood there watching from
across the kitchen and I felt the stiffness
of my bones,
Almost offending the situation, as if in my
awkwardness I was taking away from the
solar eclipse in front of me.
But she sang and I hated myself for standing
with bones loud as engines when I moved
them.
It soon became too much,
The shallow popping of chicken frying,
The woman before me exposing sound,
The creek of bone,
I felt as though the room around me was
coming closer,
As if the world outside the poorly polished
windows was beginning to cave in
And I felt nothing but the panic that I would
be caught because of my loud bones.
Finally I screamed and this woman, in all
of her primal glory
Looked from her pan of browned chicken
skin and stared
And I just stared,
As if wishing my existence had not tainted
the sanctified spectacle that occurred
some ten seconds ago.
by Daniel Coelho,
Westfield, NJ
POETRY
that clings to my lungs)
Whispering sweet lullabies
(intoxicating and sweet)
Today the air
Infests me,
(buzzing little bugs
creeping across my skin)
Conquering my body
(schizophrenic revival)
Today the air
Drowns me,
(a kind of dying
that brings you back to life)
Soaking me to the soul
(cleansing my withered existence)
by Simone Gwartney, Rio Rancho, NM
Brittle
Water isn’t as sweet here
anymore,
or maybe my lips do not meet as much
without you.
But still I’ve grown;
tired
of removing the extra pillow
so as not to feel like something
is missing.
Photo by Rebecca Levine, Twinsburg, OH
Lips Like
Lips like the ocean
endless and wide
hair: reckless
waves, breaking the tide
by Anabolena Loor Mendoza,
Kokomo, Jamaica
Green
The branches
looked full,
lush,
green.
They beckoned me forth,
whispering my name
against the breeze.
I reached forward
gently,
slowly
to touch a leaf,
to wrap pale fingers around strong branches
and hold myself steady.
But at my fingers
they turned
gray and bare.
Brittle.
Withering
at my
touch.
by Eli Roberts, McDonough, GA
I feel a rattling in my
skin.
See, these bones
were meant to
break
and so are we.
by Sabrina Koss, New City, NY
2 a.m. dreamers
you told me 2 a.m. was your favorite but
darling, you never belonged with those
early morning dreamers.
2 a.m. belonged to the
insomniac on the empty street filling
his mind with the memory
of her collarbones and
the girl who stopped
closing her eyes after she
realized that the monsters under
her bed were
nothing compared to
the ones in
her head.
by “Sarah,” Ottawa, ON, Canada
Smudge
we are just a dot
in this world.
a smudge
on a picture window;
small and undetected,
but still there.
until the janitor
wipes the windows clean.
by Savanna Lubbers, Cisco, IL
Flower Child
Never before have I
developed such depth
as I have with a puff of your breath
The dry air was filled with
bluish-gray smoke
and I couldn’t believe when the
butterfly spoke
The moon was a dandelion in
all the wrong places
and I wasn’t surprised when you
and I traded faces
Tell me again flower child
of our mysterious flee
as we fly back to our dream in the
hazy green tree
by Savanna Lamas, West Suffield, CT
Relapse
Darling, I haven’t smelled your sweet scent in
two years and I haven’t heard the cadence of
your half-husked voice since the summer,
when my heart throbbed too hard against
my fragile ribs and I caved in. I know you’re
bad for me, like chocolate and cocaine, but I
still crave the caress of familiar hands along
the smooth contours of my body. You carved
wounds in me, deep as the ocean and faked
band aids with duct tape. Flimsy and weak
they burst open and allowed spurts of pain
and nostalgia. Through the salt-soaked tears
from my eyes I speak your name. Turning it
over in my head like a treasure hoping if I
say it over and over all meaning will slip
away. But that never does happen. I remember the feel of your lips against mine, how
the love was so tangible it radiated from you
like a furnace on a frigid winter day, the way
the sun filtered in through the blinds as we
lay tangled together, naked with cigarettes
dangling from our mouths. Never speaking.
Just feeling. Feeling all the desire and lust
that comes with falling in love for the first
time. Those were the glory days. The days I
revert to when my soul calls for yours only
to echo on the empty walls of a broken
heart. And Darling, it’s funny how love
works. You remember all the beauty in the
lost. The days wrestling down hills and
dancing in the rain. You remember the goodbye kiss that turns into thirty because you
keep running back for more. You remember
hand holding and the “look.” That god-forsaken look that melts your whole insides into a slop of liquified affection that courses
through your veins and jump starts your
heart. You remember sitting cross-legged on
his lap listening to the sound of his heartbeat
in between inhaled nicotine and Starbucks.
But with all of the memories you forget. You
forget the way his eyes grew five shades
darker when he was about to scream. How
he grabbed your wrist and spat in your face
words of disgust and morose feelings. You
forget the way he made you shrink and the
way he made you feel stupid and worthless.
And I do forget. Until the days I relapse
when I lie crumpled on the floor with letters
written with the blood stuck in the bruises
you gave me, when I remember the fire you
lit that burnt me down.
by Taylor Morris, Cutler Bay, FL
The World for
the First Time
The Trooper
swirling clouds sliding over the ozone
diamond light dancing on tall robust trees
sparkling dewdrops sleeping soundly on
cloves
flaming leaves finally exhale and dream
moss swaying like seaweed on ocean floors
ballerina trees moving silently
cold wind desperately searching for warmth
streams traveling to the lake tirelessly
Photo by Rebecca Kim, Honolulu, HI
Your Future
Visiting my aunt’s house, downstairs,
I shuffle through a pile of clustered
old photos. I find a photo of you and your
grandpa under
your sixth birthday party pictures.
I stare at the sunglasses,
too big for your face, and chubby cheeks
in the ray of fading sunlight. Sitting
in Grandpa’s arms, you wear the old
race car outfit, bolding red and white
strips crinkling on your arms, grasping
for Grandpa’s hand, slipping
further down his left arm. Seeing your future,
I sit in the stands on the cold, hard
metal bleachers
and watch your blue race car with a red
and white
outlined 44 switch into fifth gear.
The innocent 2-year-old deceives you.
Like when you pushed Chuckie down
the hardwood stairs on “accident,” his body
convulsing in a mangled position.
Promising a great future, I want to warn him,
it’s the wrong path, the wrong night. I want
to warn you about the car in the garage rusting
under the left tire frame,
about the ventilator that contracted
your chest,
and the spilled
prescription on the counter
next to a pack of Newports
with one cig inching out.
by Mitchell Johnson, Wheeling, IL
Retrograde
The clouds remained motionless
no sound but the ringing of my ears
it continued its frequency,
matching that of the low-pitch whine
building in my throat.
As crows began to call, they set the world
in motion
slow motion
revolving on its axis in retrograde,
each day seemed to loop like an overplayed
show tune.
When at last I stepped forward,
I turned with the motion of the Earth
pivoting in the opposite direction
and returning home.
by Erin Blackburne,
Hendersonville, NC
when a breeze comes i taste life in their
scents
i see how they breathe and how they glisten
i hear their lonely tales that have no end
they speak and now i finally listen
violet waves have made me a child inside
the child inside is unwilling to die
?
by Michelle Montoya, Cape Coral, FL
The Ever Blowing
Breeze
Callused hands caress a wrinkled cheek,
I lean forward on my bed; bones seem
to creak.
A relic lies on my bedside, left by someone
who cares.
A long forgotten photo. A child’s face stares
Back up at me, and in shock I freeze
As I remember that I forgot that everblowing breeze.
The dust swirls around the neglected frame,
The child’s face, the backdrop, a forgotten
name,
I’ve let go of my past, left it far away,
Untouched, abandoned, until today,
Because I have forgotten the memories
Of childhood, of life, of that ever-blowing
breeze.
It was there that I was dropped to from
the skies,
The sacred air carried my infantile cries,
Scarred knees are redolent of the innocence
lost there,
The wood, the stones, the sun’s blazing
glare
The shade from the endless sky of trees
And the goose bumps raised by the
ever-blowing breeze.
I want to smell once more the sweet scent
of rain,
I want to listen for the rumbles of the
passing train,
To feel the crunch of pebbles under my
bare feet,
To run and run until my lungs accept defeat.
I want to hear again the buzz of the bees,
And be caressed and kissed by the
ever-blowing breeze.
The images are fading, like water on the
damp ground
In the chaos of my mind, they are drowned
In vain, I pull them, I imagine, I try
But I see naught but nought, in my
mind’s eye.
I think I’ve lost forever my sweet memories,
When from the still air, once more, I feel
the breeze.
by Kaavya Muralidhar, Hyderabad, India
1. Raindrops hit the old glass making
watery cobwebs,
Drowning red and orange traffic lights
in winter.
I wish it would snow.
And hold my breath, struggling to cry
silently.
I turn away from Mom and watch the
buzzing Exxon sign.
Swollen in the rain.
2. The hospital light scratches my retinas,
Like an emery board on fingernails clipped
too short.
My nose has that piercing pinch that comes
before sobbing,
But I sneeze instead,
And Mom steps away from the hospital bed.
“Charlotte, talk to him.”
No words. Not about this.
I take my dad’s balmy hand, and it tenses
meekly.
I watch the nurse.
She watches the catheters,
The tributaries that dip and coil before
tunneling under.
He squeezes my hand. A tiny firm hug.
3. Like a shattered Christmas ornament
Or being as tall as the kitchen table,
You can only cement something into memory
When you know it is gone for good.
by Charlotte Zaininger, Princeton, NJ
Emotions
Some things are meant for canvas
And other for music sheets
And some things are meant for words
And others for motions
We will always try
To express what we can’t tell
What we can’t understand
Because emotions are more than feelings
They are seas
They roil and roll
They sing and weep
They dance and they slink
They exist around us
And in the air
And they put off pulses
Signals, waves, auras
Some emotions
We can’t explain
Because they’re beyond us
We can’t always understand
What we want to
And sometimes we ask
The wrong questions
And our emotions fold and leap
Dive and fly
Wave and fall
They tug at us
Pull us
Push us
Throw us
They exist around us
They dig and dig
And bury and rise
They call out
And arc
And –
by Karis King,
Glennmoore, PA
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
41
My Daddy’s Hands
My Mother
stream
Love Note
He sits in his chair.
The throne of the barren room; unavoidable.
His fingers push the buttons.
Hopelessly they obey,
forcing the TV to change.
Her scent comes and goes with a flash,
Bright and suave like a summer haze,
As I shield the things she once touched,
And grow vigilant at her confounded ways,
i can count on the rain.
the rain pitter-patters
it’s constant,
sometimes,
it’s the only predictable thing in my life.
but now,
we’ve hit a dry spell,
the kind where we cannot
water our lawns
wash our cars,
or calm our brains.
so days like this,
when things go too
fast-fast-fast
and my mental muscles
are sore,
i run out and skin my knee
on the concrete
under the blue blue sky
and i run and run
until I get to the stream.
and then I sit,
with my feet in the silky water,
and listen to the dripping
over the rocks.
i close my eyes,
and pretend the dripping
is all that exists.
i let the water wash away
the thoughts.
I can spin you glittery from my spine,
hold you tight to my belly
until your small arms, exhausted arms,
are peeled lovingly from my backless gown
(soft palms on soft fabric, the give of my
swollen skin)
like bright strands of sweet candy floss
and that might be the day I think I love
you most
Heavy– his fingers are rough and stained.
Life has taken its toll.
His hands like trunks of helpless trees
ripped from the ground after a fierce storm.
The screams from the buttons echo through
the room.
His hands tell of a life I will never fully
understand.
They spew stories from every scar he
never forgets.
The gold band of the wedding ring catches
my eye.
Glued to his skin, it resides.
Unmoved by love or simply because it
is stuck,
it hasn’t moved in years.
Silence throws my thoughts off track.
The TV is quiet.
The buttons’ cries have stopped.
Life is not about anything limited,
To the five senses or a selfish moment,
She once said with pressed flowers,
In her hair that glossed my eyes with awe,
And her garden peaches were the sun,
When she’d push me in the summer,
One in hand on my creaky swing,
And she had the aura of a majesty,
Like the Morning Glories of our dusks,
Wilted and vibrant fighting to see her
eyes shine,
As the ornamented the picket fence,
That caged us in but she remained free,
And as her scent fades one last time,
I imagine that fence and the peaches,
What she would’ve said without trying,
In the bright and suave summer haze.
by Lizbeth Acosta, Fontana, CA
Whispers
He stands and leaves me alone.
The throne of the room sits empty; It
sits haunting.
Maybe the buttons were screaming because
they felt his hands.
For a moment when he touched them
maybe they understood.
Maybe they saw behind the scars.
Maybe they felt the softness of his
old hands,
not the hands hardened and calloused,
but the ones who loved.
The ones who first touched his wife,
his baby boy – The hands that built a family.
No one understands his hands.
No one asks.
We see his scars.
They are unavoidable.
Our soft eyes beg him to tell the stories,
but sometimes words just aren’t enough.
Maybe the language we speak just isn’t
enough to explain my daddy’s hands.
by Harmony Bear,
Ormond Beach, FL
I could write a poem
that no one could tell was for you.
It would be about kiddie cocktails,
Mom’s eye shadow,
and Britney CDs strewn about.
I could describe all the tiptoeing
and whispering as we crept down the stairs.
We snuck cookies that would spoil our dinner,
spilled nail polish on the carpets,
and sipped soda through swirly straws
while sunbathing.
I would mention
the worn pages of Seventeen magazine,
Barbie doll experiments,
and sleepless slumber parties.
How we would talk of being older,
huddled beneath a pink comforter,
a flashlight between the two of us,
whispers floating in the air.
Torrent of lights
No pause to feel
The pulse of the night life
Echoes of sound
Rushing tunnels and
Twitching beams
I am adrift on a concrete river.
Set the clock in fast time
Don’t stop till it ends
But
It is endless.
Population 1.2 million
And desperately
Lonely.
Escape
Into the mountains we drive
with our pockets empty
and our gas tank full.
We don’t make many stops
but when we do,
they are memorable.
When we meet a new face
we cherish them,
our endless quest for company.
by Lindsay Perkins,
Arlington Heights, IL
We wore the clothes on our backs
and the holes in our hearts
ending each night the same.
Lost Girl on Sunday
Never do we look back
the road is paved
with adventure.
I cannot come up with a thing to write.
I’m full of hot wings, Pop-tarts, nicotine.
I’ve had too much caffeine, too late tonight
and my head aches from all the Broncos’
screams.
My brain would rather plan tomorrow’s
snacks,
which sweater, which jeans, which snarky
remarks.
And maybe for once, I’ll sit in the back,
then move back to the front before
class starts.
“Stay. No, go!”was the song of my weekend.
I hissed the tune behind my crooked teeth.
I’m the riot you were told to seek and
destroy before it leaked into the streets.
the city
by Rebecca Zaritsky, Fair Lawn, NJ
by Mo Deutsch, Louisville, KY
Teen Ink •
by Asia Groves, Longmont, CO
•
POETRY
If you pull away, glance over, when your
eyes are full of tears
shivering from your eyelashes, the kind
you don’t want me to notice
because Mamas never know the right words,
and I am no exception there,
I pray to God I’ll remember the way I
looked at myself
(also 16, also skinny, scared beyond
comprehension of the body that made me)
(thighs and belly and breasts spilt out of the
mold I assumed to be perfection)
I won’t know what to say, baby, I won’t
know what to do
(there are no words that evaporate that
kind of pain)
(which is a hard but necessary fact for a
writer to remember)
but in whichever misguided attempts
I make at healing you
I hope love echoes, like a bell chiming
in a cavern
dancing from wall to wall, reverberating
the story
of a Mama who thought she couldn’t love
her girl more than the day she was born
but was proved wrong.
Don’t Look
(you just might freak)
Don’t Think
(or you’ll end up running)
Forget the Stares
(this is for you)
One, Two
(Whew! That wasn’t bad)
I’ll write of my personal cataclysm.
M AY ’ 1 4
Let Mama hold her darling girl while the
moon shines clean and kind
keeping watch over our uncomfortable
embrace
and when your head is chock-full
of dreams you deem too silly to be dreamed
let Mama be the safe that keeps those
wishes close to your hands.
Performance
Photo by Kathryn Riman, Belle Mead, NJ
42
I hope with all I am, with all I’ve seen,
that if you look tired, I’ll recognize it
(your cheekbones like knives beneath the
bags of your eyelids)
(your skin hung dry on the stalks of
your shoulders)
by Kat Kenway, Kodiak, AK
I admit defeat to indecision.
by Kristian Rivera, Wasilla, AK
but baby. If you come home, all 16
and attitude,
when it’s past midnight and you reek
of smoke,
and I meet you at the door with my arms
folded, my brow furrowed,
the porch light illuminating you like a halo
by Barbara Yupit-Gomez, Novato, CA
Mother
Faces
Poem for You
Signature Recipe
I miss my mother, yes,
But I can feel her when I stand
In the middle of the street alone
At dusk, in my pajamas.
I can feel her brush my arms
When the sweet wind blows past
And when the trees rustle,
I hear her calling out my name,
“Maggie, Maggie, little peanut girl … ”
Looking into the face of a stranger makes
you want them
Makes you wonder how they got that scar?
Or who planted the seeds that grew those
teeth in such perfect
Little
Rows.
Makes you wonder of each glove that
knocked that grin off kilter
Makes you want to taste each mouth
it’s sampled,
or maybe makes you pity the Buffet.
Faces are one hell
Of a conversation
Starter.
You have taken me,
Placed me in a pot
And melted me down into a big clump of
Low self-esteem.
If it were to come down
to paper and pencil, I would draw
a thousand lines, all intersecting each other,
layers of graphite
upon graphite overlapping
and shining at different angles with each
little crumb of lead breaking off from the
pencil tip like Hansel tearing off bits of
bread to trace his way back.
I could write a poem
that no one could tell was for you,
It would be about indented soccer balls
in a jungle of grass,
a parched hose
and a scatter of rusted steel springs,
A tale of all of us,
diving behind recycling bins
and inhaling clean air to hold in silence
on top of a chipping brown shed
air shots crackling like fireworks,
leaving swelled purple welts,
infesting our stomachs
How your smirk would fade
into a vacant termination,
Your mumbled “Hello’s”
through muffled speakers
and your short remarks
ending with a pause
and then the dial tone,
I could write
coupled with the pungent scent
of cabbage and rice
and a single newspaper
adhered to asphalt,
Ink faded,
words of foreign dialect
and a single phone number
unscathed from the seasons.
Inked
by Marian Park, San Jose, CA
by “Kent,” Mount Prospect, IL
Unfriendly ink
Eats into the delicate skin
Of my wrist.
A cigarette burn,
An x marks the spot,
A tattoo to remind me,
A splash of paint to cover the stains.
I carry it with me,
Clenching and unclenching
My fist,
To make sure the hand is still
Mine.
The Ballad of No
One in Particular
by Meagan DeGrand, Clarkston, MI
knife in the water
I.
the water is soft
unlike the knives that are called
words spewing from you
II.
i can’t cry at all
i guess there’s someone to blame
for that misfortune
III.
water is swelling
in the deep part of my soul
but not in my eyes
by Honora Moore, Melbourne, FL
by Maya Unfred Montgomery,
Portland, OR
Ovals and Other
Besmirched Things
Thirty-three sunflowers danced with an
elephant in the dusks of Africa with
amazing gusts of wind and the fascination
of: a triangle.
Hello my colorful, wonderful friends, I am
light blue king of the trends, I am in the
sky, hair dye, and fruit fly.
Although I can be excessively, utterly,
crazily, shy.
Behold, amazing is the oval
Not angular but mellow, an evolved circle.
A questionable gift like a snowflake
or rubble
An underrated shape like a line or a circle
An underused talent like a door or some purple
Or a misunderstood personality, like myself
or a person in trouble.
I am a hyena, laughing at my predators,
howling at my prey,
I stalk the streets and
YELL
what I say.
by Jada Smith, Cary, NC
by Katie Fox, Chevy Chase, MD
My Parents
When I asked him,
my fingers still tasting like tobacco
As I bit them until they bled,
How bad are you?
He simply replied, “I don’t know
My own phone number right now.”
He has bruises on his arms
in the shape of crescent moons and
Deep cuts on his face from where
The shaving cream didn’t cover
He carries something you can’t see
Like nails through his back up his spine
He sings Simon and Garfunkel as I
fall asleep
And it sounds like a “thank you” covered in
Red lipstick stains
You let me simmer
Until every original part has
Evaporated into the air,
Steaming up your glasses.
All that is left is a
Disgusting concoction
That everyone is proud of
Except for me.
by Sera Thomas, Signal Mountain, TN
Stagnant
Stuck within these blue grey orbs,
The color of stagnant water, beckoning yet
never providing
Lost in these toxic depths, the lamentations
never surfacing
Instead, becoming trapped in the rampant
fields of algae that blooms out of
assumption
The spheres with their thick veils quiver in
the wake of tomorrow’s trials
Futilely trying to hold back the rapidly
intensifying monsoon
Never completely succeeding the water
pooling on tile and fabric
Creating tiny ponds before soaking into
their newfound homes
Keening for understanding
Yet the water remains still, unmoving.
by Shelbie Morrell, Spring Valley, WI
Photo by Tirzah Meditz, Austin, TX
My Mother
I can’t decide if he’s angry or pathetic or
Something entirely different
But I’m pretty sure at least half of him
is dying
He’s laughing as if his velvet bones don’t
Scream like God
And in this moment, he radiates a sense of
dizzying freedom
And he’s beautiful
My mother criticizes from the back
of her kneecaps at floor tiles and kitchen
cabinets
She thinks I hold on to every word she
shoots out of her mouth
with her twang as she
hacks up and spits out the swears from the
back of her throat
she hoists up a new half thought out
barb-wired insult
I know she has always been a time bomb
of rubber bands and thumbtacks
that have lost their resilience and sharpness
I used to think she was invincible
now I think she’s invisible
under the years of weathered mountains
that have planted themselves on her back
and forced avalanches down her spine
the wrinkles on her face scream stories
at everyone
whom she encounters
I always thought she’d look like an entirely
different human being if she’d just
curl up the ends of her lips
by Hanna Harris, Houston, TX
by Angela Sabo, Milford, MA
He could taste the stale cigarette smoke
in this poem
I can see him in his zodiac leather jacket
Shaking and smoking and self-soothing
and slipping
Away from reality, tasting blood
I should not be with anyone who forgets
my name
This easily
I should not be pretending that
someday we’ll
Stop talking about monsters
You stir my contents,
Adding in the necessary ingredients –
A dash of self-hatred,
Sprinkle in the depression,
Just a few more tears –
Until you have me exactly the way
you want.
Part-time Job
Give me your order
Which I will fulfill
I’m nothing but a waitress in your eyes.
Tip me a quarter
And pay the bill
Allow me to shed this silly disguise.
For twenty minutes
You’ve been debating
Between cheese curds and strudel
For twenty minutes
I’ve been waiting
Knowing next it will be the chicken noodle.
“You should smile more,” you’d say
Or “We should go on a date.”
And then you gave me a wink
So I spat on your plate.
And in your drink.
Someday you’ll see my name on a shelf
When I’m done with these minimum wages
You’ll buy a copy of my book for yourself
You’ll eat up my pages
And drink my words
But for now –
Just shut up and order the cheese curds.
by Madeline Henris,
Fairfax, VA
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
43
Wolf Boys
Caught Up
My Dad
The Way I
According to the wolf,
Romulus’s hands were rusty rakes
When he scraped away the stone
From his brother’s chest.
We piled into the big red Ford truck
as those initial solar spears glinted off its
fresh high-gloss paint
and the first warmth of the summer’s day
was eagerly shaken off by its air
conditioner.
My dad used to say time is money.
I didn’t believe him
I won’t change to please someone,
when I know someone else
will fall in love with
It was a hideous wolf-shaped thing;
The edges!
Were sharp at times,
The edges!
Were diluted at times,
Block-lugged tires roar across the
dew-stained pavement,
and then jerk sideways across a
bramble-ridden trail.
We crawl along, steadily conquering
nature’s feeble hooked barriers as though
they were only twine. The brambles open
like a gate and our rumbling
beast of burden enters a grassy clearing,
our target finally facing us:
Like the blood in Remus’s mouth
When the sky’s water guided it
To the river.
And just like that
Every river
Can be confused,
Every body of water
Can be faded,
The history of an empire jaded
The pond is innocent enough, sitting
serenely between the field and a stand
of mangled but strangely
stoic oak trees, a few windswept leaves
from last autumn forming a minuscule
flotillas on its surface.
We unsheathe from the truck bed our
implements,
a box of barbed hooks and flashy tablets of
copper and steel and painted wood, and
five Ugly Sticks, reels well-tended and
lines untangled.
By a pinch
Of red mud.
A little trickle
A little regret
It’s been raining
In Rome
Ever since
by Maria Menendez, Miami, FL
It’s Me! Mariooo
Rainbows aren’t scary
until you’re holding a wheel.
Then it’s rainbow road.
by Hannah Frankowski, Pewaukee, WI
Just Give Me a Day
Just give me a day
A day to blare my music as loud as possible
in order to drown out the rest of the world
A day to stay under my covers and
permanently hit the snooze button on
the alarm clock
A day to be angry at the world without
being told to appreciate all that I have
A day to feel sorry for myself
But this won’t happen
The world expects us all to plaster on
phony smiles and walk around as if
nothing is wrong
As if she’s not starving herself to be skinny
Or neglecting everything else to make it
to the top
There are dying children in Africa so I better
not even think that about saying I feel upset
Don’t I dare complain that I didn’t make
the team because at least I have a house
to go home to at night
But my problems matter to me
I want a day to just feel bad
Just give me a day
’Cause I’ll eventually figure out for myself
that my life is pretty good
I’ll turn down the music and welcome
the world back in
I’ll stop being angry and appreciate what
I have
But Just give me a day
by Sam Kenney, Naperville, IL
44
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
•
Making haste, setting our lures in the crystal
water as fast as we can;
I’m only old enough to know rudimentary
casting, and it shows
though skill with a rod isn’t bringing any
success to my companions.
Hours pass as the rods flick every variety
of bait in turn:
worms, flashers, and even crudely
thrown flies.
In the face of total dismay, we ready the
truck and load up discarded cans,
wrappers and
a spread of lawn chairs.
Woefully I toss my lure out one last time,
as voices impatiently call me back to
the truck.
In youthful optimism I sit on the bank,
waiting for hopes beyond hope to be
realized.
And then they are: the line yanks taut and
suddenly the reel twirls away, spitting line
for my apparent prey to wrap among
underwater forests and mires.
As the rod’s tip snaps skyward in my hand,
the calls from the purring truck change,
guiding hands steady my adrenaline-rattled
shoulders.
Now I’m gaining on the squirmy bugger,
under their guidance,
and the line comes back dripping from
the water.
I feel, finally, the fish surrendering.
I see silver scales shining and pooling
terror in the eyes,
and the essence of my conquest is apparent:
the forces of nature’s resistance overcome
like brush beneath the force
of human tenacity.
by Killian Gallagher,
Gilford, NH
POETRY
My dad used to say life is a roller coaster
I didn’t believe him
Maybe I should have
Because everything he said
Turned out to be true
The older I became.
by Samuel Davi, Oak Park, MI
True You
Red lips, pink cheeks
Trying to be what you shouldn’t be
Clothes too tight, shoes too tall
Wow, I don’t understand this at all
Black surrounds those big brown eyes
Yes, the ones you’ve always despised
You try to cover up these features
Try to please these rotten creatures
the way I
dunk Oreos in milk,
how I sneeze,
and the way I
comb my hair in the shower;
the way I
pop my neck on road trips.
how I curse,
and the way I
tuck the blanket over my head when I sleep;
the way I
stare into their eyes,
how I sing,
and the way I
cry watching Disney movies
me being me.
by Josie Crawford, Scottsburg, IN
They don’t want you to be
The great you that you can be
Can’t you see?
So let the true you shine through
That’s all you’ve ever had to do
by Gabriella Naquin,
Destrehan, LA
The Approach
What is the difference between
Talking with people and talking to people?
“With” brings unity.
“To” requires an approach.
It is that simple.
Approaching, however, brings complexity.
It can bring dispute,
It can bring rejection.
It requires courage,
A courage that causes anxiety.
I sit in one of many chairs lined up on
the stage.
A podium to my left,
Another student to my right.
Why does he seem to be so relaxed, while
I am sitting restlessly?
I covet his tranquility.
My turn is on the verge.
I aim to listen intently to others talk,
But all I hear is my voice fluttering,
Telling me to give up before trying,
Telling me to run away to relief,
To taciturnity.
It is my turn.
All eyes are on me,
Like the sun’s rays beating on my skin,
My face turns rubescent.
My hands are clammy, aimlessly fidgeting.
I look down: My foot is tapping to its
own rhythm .
My mouth opens, stumbling on what it
had practiced to say.
What a courageous fool I must look like.
by Sydney Finkelstein,
Cornwall on Hudson, NY
Art by Peizhi Rong, Vista, CA
On the Rocks
She watches them
with a virescence,
Emerald
and
jade,
in her eyes.
Her skin itches and simmers,
With festering blemishes
and
peeling skin.
The dam of resentment starts to crack,
the thoughts,
the urges,
seep through.
Her blanket calls her
Like a siren
Like a feather
Whispering in her ear,
Tickling her mind.
Glass
and
Condensation.
Laying on the rocks,
Her blanket warms her.
False confidence repairs the cracks.
Her eyes are blue again.
Her skin stops itching.
by Jenna Sherriton, Plantation, FL
Nightmare
Pomelo
Startled awake at 3 a.m
Out of breath
Clothes sticking to my skin
The room is quiet
Moonlight pouring in
I’m not dreaming anymore
But I wish I was
They wake up from nightmares
But not me
I wake up into one.
We peeled apart the foam-finger flesh,
Picked apart the fragile treasure inside,
Sucked the sunshine out of the pale
yellow rinds,
And watched as rubies dripped down each
other’s lips,
The hang nails on my fingers stung,
A bitterness remained on my lips long
after the fruit had gone
by”Sara,” Irvine, CA
by Isabel Ling,
Sunnyvale, CA
The Main Grove
What Is Perfect
my husband and i kayaked through the
main groves
on turks and caicos island
paddling our plastic boats against
the currents
and inevitably being pulled by the
lapping waves,
like the kissable freckle on my right
bum cheek
that the doctor looked at with concern –
snipped off – and pronounced precancerous.
i applied sunscreen thickly to my body
wary of the freckles the sun might dot on my
fair skin
and my husband:
“save some of the sunscreen
since we have to do that g******
kayaking trip”
and
“i’d rather sit on the beach than have to
paddle myself to nowhere.”
red mangrove, like all other plants,
needs fresh water.
so it shunts all the salt from the ocean
to one leaf.
that yellow one. it looks poisoned –
like the mole on my bum,
irregular in color and shape and size –
and it flutters onto the water, weakened
by alkaline poison.
two months later
i get another mole removed
and as the doctor injects anesthetic into
my forearm
i wonder how i will sign
the divorce papers
so numb.
Pore by pore,
I’ve seen the faults
in my skin.
Mirrors shard and
perfect pierces my ears.
When acne speckled
my forehead and my
eyebrows needed a tweeze,
he whispered beautiful. What
is beauty? Another glance
at a reflection, but
I’ll never see my eyelids
flutter during REM or watch
the wrinkles around my
lips when I smile.
But he thinks I’m beautiful,
so don’t let me ever be perfect.
by Rachel Troy, Greenwich, CT
Watercolors
Watercolors.
We were watercolors.
I was burgundy,
and you were crimson.
We slid on to each other
and made a runny ugly brown no one
would want to use.
But when our lips first met,
we were an explosion of bright reds,
fireworks,
and the stardust that is left on a little girl’s
eyelash
every night before she falls asleep.
We were beautiful,
even if for an instant.
by Nicolette Natale, Tappan, NY
by Angelique Maselli,
Island Park, NY
Bird-Shaped, GirlShaped Hole in
the Universe
Arched under the sky, she was beautiful,
(though others couldn’t see it)
she had feathers hidden
(deep in her bones)
in blue eyes like a bird held down
to the slope of the sun
(a glass globe of falling feathers).
The sweat gathered in lines within
her hands that touch the air
around you, fragile
(shatter it, she said),
even as she stands at the edge
waiting for her chest to hollow
(and it burst).
She willed her fingers to spread so she
could join the others,
thousands, with weeping words,
pleas carved into their arms around her,
that she only dreamed of after she woke.
And now it was only air that separated them.
You told her that you could help her forget,
but she shook her head.
Sometimes quiet things aren’t meant to be
understood, she told you,
but you knew she wasn’t a bird.
And that she wasn’t silent when she fell,
(so she flew).
by Madeline Day,
Princeton Junction, NJ
About the
Corinthians Verse
for Aaron
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not
envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It
is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not
easily angered, it keeps no record of
wrongs. Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth. It always
protects, always trusts, always hopes,
always perseveres.” – Corinthians 13:4-8
I once thought
that I couldn’t believe this anymore
even though I read it every day,
trying: some vain, crazed attempt
at reading in between those lines
(I wanted to hear another whisper
telling me that I couldn’t leave yet
but I wanted it for so long
to be a beautiful reason
instead of the ironically
caustic, murdering kind)
Seagulls
At least the waves still whitecap,
leaving an echoing crashing on the
pavement
for the abandoned building to hear.
The stop light still works, flickering
yellow to red, red to yellow.
The rusted red car on its four flat tires,
still plays its radio leaving a faint
static noise,
waiting for the light to turn to a dim green.
The seagulls still flap their wings,
fighting the wind that trashes them around,
letting out cries for help for only the
vacant town and open air to hear.
The once-populated town, with
its gas station on the corner for 78 cents
a gallon,
the town halls clock tower stuck at 12:41,
and the bakery with its smell of warm
soft bread right out of the oven,
but those are just washed out memories
now, washing away like waves.
by “Gary,” Arlington Heights, IL
I can’t believe in this
because love is not a solid entity
it’s liquid and it splashes and stains;
A Running Rumor
it burns.
I wanted to scream
that at you
then.
Today I realized: love is not
this corrosive liquid. it is solid, beautiful
and true; Leviathan’s love is the higher law;
It is God.
that liquid, I know now,
with visceral rumination:
It is me.
by Haley Boyer,
Windsor, CT
Point Limas
Point Limas, on a normal day
May remind you of a painting that used
to hang,
with a gradient of brown, black,
one that raised goose bumps on the nape
of your neck as you passed,
Cold sweat and a restless sleep,
with indecipherable visions
Of a nameless place where the sun is a
muted glow behind a tenebrous brow,
Scrunched over the roiling sea,
Salt-licked piers and paint pulling back to
reveal shoddy brick work,
an infestation of quixotic creatures in
every bracket, brace, and timber,
Pattering behind every surface,
The inhabitants sit down on the beach,
not inside their patchwork houses,
They are overcome by the ocean,
Flotsam bones too damp for tinder,
sinews stretched over every
Creaking tendon and taut fiber,
Sea air in their lungs,
permeated with salt and brine,
Sea foam in their veins and anemones
on their fingertips,
Soddening each page they turn of
their book,
by Luca Foggini, San Francisco, CA
He ran for president
now he runs the nation.
His fortune gave him a run in with a woman.
She ran her fingers down his hair.
The tabloids saw and ran the story.
The speculation ran around,
And his wife said, “Don’t come running
to me for cover.”
With his run of bad luck,
He said he was going for a run,
we didn’t know he’d ran away.
Since the roads run forever,
and the rivers run short.
We can only assume he made a run
for the border,
where the cartels run orders.
by Janai Robinson, Maplewood, MO
Photo by Abigail Olmsted, Rochester, IL
Desired Me
Five seconds and
I am in love
With the voice, the hair, the clothes, the face
Of a computer
That prints out
The desired image of
Me
by Kennedy Simone Marx, Dallas, TX
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
45
the plunge
Ice in the Water
Metaphors
I Am Not Wild
I remember how,
On a summer evening scented with the
traces of sunlight
And flushed with the warmth of the glowing
fields of flowers,
You held out your hand and invited me
into your boat.
It’ll be fun you said.
It’s perfectly safe you said.
Skin grazed against skin as I took your hand
and jumped
Lightly into the boat. Thin summer dress
brushed against cool jacket
As the ropes tying boat to shore were thrown
away,
And our bodies knotted together and were
borne away.
The powerful stroke of your oars lurched
me toward you:
I would not have thrown myself to you
of my own will;
Smiling as if you knew this would happen,
you locked your arms around me
And held me in your embrace, tightly.
Ice floated in the water while the Ship sank
The Cold of the water, the Chill in the air
Made the people even colder
On the deck they shivered
I tried to think
of a metaphor for you
the trees, the ocean,
a stone
skidding across a pond
but then i realized
you are the metaphor
and nothing worldly
could ever compare
to you.
I am not wild.
I am not wild;
Alone.
Families ran, not only families,
To the Boat, they ran,
Yet the Boats were full, they cried,
Some jumped into the water,
It fell slowly deeper, the Ship,
Into the water, Ice floated unmoving,
Music was heard by the remaining,
Sinking slowly, steadily,
Until it was gone, into the water,
Ice still remained there above below
The Cold of the water the Chill in the air,
Ice floated in the water.
by Benjamin Guo,
La Mesa, CA
Final Fight
p.s.
wish you were here.
The glint of sun in a mirror
drawing your attention.
The old hickory drawer
sits quietly in the corner.
A flashback,
a storm of memories.
The old brown farm with
Chiquita, a tawny barn cat
that was missing a patch of fur
on its left shoulder that she lost
in a fight with a coyote
sitting on the broken wooden fence
You check the drawer,
is it still there?
Reaching into the drawer
you feel the cool metal
On your fingertips.
The ironbound photo of him.
A cowboy hat,
jet black suit,
calm smile,
and a blue tie.
After being uprooted, all the turmoil,
A new country a new home,
A new language to learn.
he was still happy.
The anchor in the rapids for his family.
But he didn’t know,
he didn’t know his next challenge.
This time, it was his body that was
against him.
A final challenge he couldn’t overcome.
The white hospital bed,
sterile rooms,
the sickening smell of ammonia.
A late night call,
the terror grips your heart.
You glance down at his cheery face again.
You wish he had known,
in your selfish and unjust rage,
you wish he had fought harder.
That the stationary television screen
next to the white bed sheets
would continue to send
jagged green waves across the screen
each followed by an unemotional
electronic beep.
by “Emma,”
Seoul, South Korea
by Ziggy Zamora,
Mount Prospect, IL
But when the tides grew rough and fast
as night approached,
As the teardrop pinpricks of the stars struck
holes above us,
As pools of oozing ink replaced blue sky,
Your eyes grew wide with panic, and
your arms withdrew from me,
Gripping tightly to your oars, you began
beating your way back to shore,
Senselessly, not knowing exactly what
you were doing
Where you were heading
Who you even were.
I thought you knew what you were doing,
I cried.
But you were no longer listening to me; your
oar, in roaring up,
Struck the side of my face and sent me
hurling out of the boat.
I thought you said I’d be safe, I cried,
I never said that, you replied.
Help me, I begged, reaching out to hold your
hand,
But you only rowed further and further
away from me,
Your oar rammed against my face and
left me bloody,
Blinded, struggling to breathe through
my tears,
Leaving me to scream and gulp in
huge mouthfuls
Of brackish, briny black water
Screaming only one word:
Your name,
Over and over again,
Until I sank down like a stone to the
miry depths
And drowned in my cries for you,
Oh my love,
My love.
From,
The Girl You Left Breathless
On the bottom of your world.
46
Teen Ink •
M AY ’ 1 4
•
POETRY
by Maeve Early, La Mesa, CA
Lucid
There will be a 90% chance of rain
and the tropical storm warning is in effect
for the coastal areas and
my eyelids are trying to recall the drunken
lucid dream I had
where the storms were swarming after
the tail
of my bicycle.
I had to ride like grapes were under the pedals
crushing juice between my toes –
soft and almost guilty –
thrusting to the Secret Cabin not afar.
Did Katrina blow down all your fences
and make me think it was one of your
greeting hugs?
Did Irene wash off the mud stains on the
rocky path
and mislead me to believe that you
were clean?
Did Sandy make your world spin in circles
and misconstrue that it was my intoxication?
Funny how I loved you the most
when you were staring at her
but all I could ever do was duct-taping
your windows,
refilling holes in the walls,
building pipes to drain off the wine that
she spilled
all over the roof of your mouth
until rain dripped down every second
and made beats with the bottom of the ice
cold bucket –
I probably would still adore you
with a glass of Chateau 1855 in my hand
while I took a sip of the bitter liquid
that was fermented from something so
sweet.
Before I could almost understand why
hurricanes were named after people,
I would call this hiding place after you;
the haven that’s out of work;
the shelter I once felt safe to live in;
the home that I thought I had fixed;
the worst thing someone could ever be.
Placed among faces
with which I’m acquainted,
I find a time
where I was wild in a pack.
The sun rested and lent
the earth to its cooling brother.
That blind eye looked down on
five wolves, females,
before our prime.
The day was spent in celebration,
as was the night. Paws imprinted soft dirt.
Headlong we raced, young tongues lolling,
youthful eyes absorbing the moon-drowned
road ahead.
Crouched behind bushes we lay in waiting.
We waited for the light-filled eyes of
our prey,
speeding ever closer until our battle anthem
rose behind us.
We charged, pelts glinting ethereal dances
to the sky.
The car belted an energetic approval.
Startled by the noise, we flee, only to return
to the hunt later.
We were not wolves.
Yet wild with our dim dances beside
rural roads,
not to be remembered, nor found again.
Alone. Eyes glint only dimly,
darkened orbs that distract from keen teeth.
Precautioned people skirt left, right.
I crave only the life I live, with the
moon and myself.
Being a wolf, pelt dancing. Being a girl,
teeth clenched.
Unconfined. Free. Alone. Dangerous.
by Kaitlyn Knight, Rome, ME
by Diane Poon, Hong Kong
You you
like a whisper
you came
and piloted
my brain.
like thunder
you shook my soul
sending me whirling
away
by Isobella Cerceo, Collingswood, NJ
Art by Zachary Nguyen, Cooksville, MD
Rose Bushes
Your aura pricks my skin
Just like the thorns
On those oxymoron roses
And I wonder
If you planted rose bushes
Around your heart
by Brandalyn Booth, Waco, TX
Birthmarks and
Baby Teeth
How surprising when you find
that the song nestling in the corner of your
head is not the one your bruised heart
thought it was;
in this one, life and love go on.
And your bruised heart was thinking about
mapping someone else’s permanent
birthmarks on your own too-virgin
skin while
your head was remembering someone else’s
clever poem and something about baby
teeth, and
how to not need anymore.
by Mahalia Sobhani, Brookfield, WI
I Am a Young Lady
one time when i was little
my father gripped the collar
of my jacket a little too tight
and shook me
a little too hard.
he said,
“don’t you ever back talk me,
young lady.”
i’ve been a young lady for eight years now.
i’m not afraid to tell my father what i think
because my opinions matter.
right?
just last week i stood up
squared my shoulders
and i told him
“daddy, i don’t want to be a
young lady anymore.
i wanna throw tantrums on the floor.
i want my imagination to expand and i want
nap time in my own dream land.
i want my room in pinks and purples
and tomorrow i don’t want to see the people
that made me feel older than i really am.”
he told me he was never more proud of me
for saying what’s on my mind.
oh, and it’s okay to fall apart sometimes.
by Kylie Nelson,
Moorhead, MN
places of residence
perhaps your walls
are
solidly cemented
brick on brick
without a hole
(a gleam)
but tell me,
do seeds sprout
from the soil of your
soul?
do flowers grow inside of
you?
shine your floors as i
fertilize my dirt.
may neither one of
us be happier than
the next.
by Fadwa Ahmed,
Safat, Kuwait
Spring has came
Diseased Touch
The Trees Are Me
The breeze whispers down my throat,
She’s screaming that spring has came.
Spring has came.
Spring has been here.
All along
the dear sun,
my love,
is trying to manifest hisself through
the snow,
to penetrate the grass and dirt,
so the worms may crawl,
and the birds may caw,
all over again.
But my dear love,
cannot get through this snow and had
nowhere to go,
except back up into my eyes.
Blinded I can only stare at the pavement
laid in nearly straight concrete,
glazed with water,
of what the sun has already let himself into.
And though we wait and dance and cheer
for spring,
the sun has to rest to darkness, and in such
darkness comes the cold.
The cold that gives the snow a head start,
and a harder job for Sun.
One day again,
the rabbits will dance,
and the dogs will arf,
the flowers will bloom,
and I’ll see you,
waiting on a swing,
at the elementary school park.
Ironically, the walls were yellow.
As the days passed, the unbroken flat color
Forced its way into my retinas
Until I saw even the nurses
Through a film of gold.
The same leaf.
Fell on me.
Made of warmth.
Newborn.
New life.
Sap seeps into me,
making me be,
a seed.
A form.
A creature, that awakes me.
The trees are me.
As I lay in the stillness
I felt my soul dig slowly through my body
Starting at the base of my spine and gently
Burrowing up my throat.
My soul was a lump of gold.
I could barely discern
Whether I was living in the real world
Or if I had left my being
Deep under the soft earth.
Miners will find me when they search
for gold.
by Kevin McIlvaine, Freehold, NJ
I am surrounded by a cocoon of silence.
I feel the brush of clothes against my skin
And the dry hum of a mass of tongues
Vibrating, Rattling
But I am afraid to reach out. They will
turn to gold.
by Irene Enlow,
Pohang, South Korea
by Nyssa Cerny, Port Huron, MI
Drifting in
the Snow
Skiers, streaks of red and green,
vanish far below.
I exhale in a puff of mist,
and my board slides
over bumps of snow,
gliding down through the slope.
Chilly air blasts the side of my face,
snow swishes under my board.
I lower and weave in and out,
swirls of white scattering,
wind whistling in my ears.
Snow engulfs me in frosty haze,
and nimble shapes of skiers fade,
the ripples of snow
falling to a hush.
I skim forth,
steady and quiet,
a cool wave breaking the surface.
A stream of white breathes past,
and my chest fills with a gush of air.
I drift down on my board,
swift and light as snow.
by Daniel Zou, Vienna, VA
I should have been born a mermaid
To be able to play among the dolphins,
To sing in harmony with the whales,
To surf the currents with the turtles.
Enjoy the everblue surroundings
Watch as the light breaks through
The water
Lighting the stage for the coral
To unveil their vibrant
Show of colors of the lives on
The reef.
Maybe in my next life
I’ll be allowed to join the sea life
Making friends with the turtles
Making friends with the whales
Making friends with the dolphins
Connecting with the ocean in the way
I crave to as I look out on the
Everblue.
by Micaela Di Piero, Boulder Creek, CA
I Hope You’re Happy
I sweep my foot forward, the board
chipping into blankets of snow.
Icy wind scratches my face,
white flakes cloud my sight.
The path of white slithers
down the mountain,
deep and steep.
I peer into its pale mouth,
my palms tingling in my gloves.
Longing to Join
the Mermaids
Art by Kayleen Cooke, Grants Pass, OR
translucent
i tried once to pull the pieces of me
outwards until i was completely
inside out, but i soon realized that
no matter how many times i turned
myself around and out, everything
was still the same.
there were no disguises i could bear
to keep; there were no roles i found
fitting to play. and as i turned
in desperate circles, i realized that we
are given what we have for a reason
and maybe it isn’t all
so bad.
we just have to see in ourselves
what is so clear to everybody else;
that the same admiration we fling
without a second thought
could be spent on the reflection that
perhaps we don’t appreciate
enough
A wandering eye
Begins everything
Creates the
Despair
Emails, texts, phone calls
Find their way in your day
Go and ruin your family
How can you look me in the eye?
I know what you’re doing
“Just fishing,” or
Kissing your mistress
Lipstick stains on your uniform
Mom may be oblivious
Not me
Over and over again
Pork and beans for dinner, your favorite,
but it’s
Quiet, you’re
Reminiscing about the quickie you had
in your car after lunch
Stop
Tearing this family apart
Underneath all the sadness,
Vengeance and anger rises in me
Wow
Xilhirating, isn’t it? Losing
Your family. Destroying the perfect image
of happiness
Zero regret. I hope you’re happy.
by Hannah Cross,
Cape Carteret, NC
by Kalina Zhong,
Brookfield, WI
POETRY
•
M AY ’ 1 4
• Teen Ink
47
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