The Little Prince

CONTENTS
TEENS, GET PUBLISHED!
FEBRUARY 2012 | VOL. 23, NO. 6
Submit Online – www.TeenInk.com
Or by E-mail – [email protected]
4
Feedback
18-19 College Directory
23 Art Gallery
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24-27
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28-29
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POINTS OF VIEW
OUR WORLD
Texting • Makeup • Equal-opportunity dating
Inside the Bosnian Genocide
My special education
HEALTH
TRUE LOVE STORIES
Valentine’s Day focus
Fight club
SPORTS
COMMUNITY SERVICE
Educator of the Year nominees
HEROES
PRIDE
Guilty conscience
& PREJUDICE Standing up to sexism • Big is beautiful
New ‘do • 17 and pregnant •
Good-bye, ghetto • God is my head
MEMOIRS
ENVIRONMENT
TRAVEL
Beautiful cosmos • The Omnivore’s Dilemma
& CULTURE Ethiopia • Italy • Bangladesh • France
INTERVIEW
Author Kate Klimo
Reviews
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BOOKS Into the Wild • The Little Prince • The Girl
With the Dragon Tattoo • The Road • Peter the Great
32
MUSIC
33
MOVIES
The Sign of the Southern Cross • T-Pain •
INXS • Dead Man’s Bones
& TV Say Anything … • Easy A •
Bill Cosby: Himself • Teen Mom • Drumline
34-37
Fiction
38-47
Poetry
••••••
ON THE COVER
The Love Issue
Nonfiction essays on heartthrobs & heartbreak
Fictional tales of crushes & crushed hope
Passionate poetry
pages 12-15
pages 34-37
pages 38-47
I Joined a Fight Club
Sports, page 16
The art of fighting
Txting: the Gr8 Deb8
Can texting be educational?
Points of View, page 6
Bosnia: The Hidden Genocide
A survivor’s story
Our World, page 8
Phone number: ______________________________________________________
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Cover art by Tze En, Pulau Pinang, Malaysia
FEEDBACK
Missing the
Health Care Bus
I enjoy reading essays on national and
worldwide issues. These articles often contain strong, well thought out arguments. In
“Missing the Health Care Bus,” Rebecca
Booker explains why she believes that
everyone should have access to health care.
When she was younger her parents were unable to afford health insurance for her. She
had to live extra cautiously, always anxious
that she might get injured or sick and would
not be able to afford the medical expenses.
I agree that health care should be universal in the United States. In today’s modern
culture people should not have to forgo
medical attention because they cannot
afford it.
Maddie Brinker, Bethlehem, PA
A Peaceful Revolution
I’m not as hopeful as Amy Gofton is in
her article “A Peaceful Revolution.” Sure,
there were many revolutions in 2011, but
the world is not a stranger to revolutions.
We had the Atlantic Revolutions in the late
18th century, when America, France, and
Haiti liberated themselves from oppression.
We had post-WWII Communist revolutions,
when many Eastern European and Asian
countries were lit up in fiery red. We had
the Revolutions of 1989, when the world
witnessed the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe. In the past year, we have had
the Arab Spring uprisings, Russian election
protests, and the Occupy Wall Street movement. Frankly, I don’t see much difference.
Every generation is marred by hatred and
bloodshed. Every time, we believe our actions will change the future and that there
will be no more conflicts. That’s what happened during World War I. It was called
“the war to end all wars,” but little did they
know that it would soon be followed by
World War II, which would eclipse it in
both scope and casualties.
I’m convinced that as long as the human
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Teen Ink •
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
race survives, this cycle of violence will
continue. Call me a pessimist or a skeptic or
whatever, but I believe that this past year of
revolutions will be just another bullet point
on the list of revolutionary waves that have
rocked the world.
Timon Luo, Brooklyn, NY
She’s Beauty
I loved the nonfiction piece “She’s Beauty” by Courtney DeJoy. Courtney talks
about how she longed for a younger sibling
and how she would do anything to have a
sister/brother. Courtney’s lifelong dream
came true on October 31st, 2005. She got a
little sister.
However, this was not the ordinary “wait
nine months and watch Mommy’s tummy
grow” situation: Courtney’s parents adopted
a baby girl. Courtney’s love for her sister is
something only she can describe, but I think
I know how she feels. I longed for a little
sister too. On July 7th, 2002, she was born.
When my sister was born, I realized I had
my work cut out for me. We are nine years
apart, so I try to be the best role model and
always protect her. No matter what, she will
be by my side, and just like Courtney said,
my sister is the greatest gift ever.
Anyssa Maestas, Thornton, CO
Thank You, Teen Ink
Teen Ink is great entertainment because it
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reviews, and poems are all well written too.
I want to thank you for creating this
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Teen Ink is above all other magazines and
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It is impressively original and speaks the
truth.
“You Are Lucky” reminds us of what we
may sometimes take for granted: little
things do count. It’s true – we take lightly
what we are given. This article is a reminder
to be thankful for everyone and everything
we have in our lives, and how lucky we are
to be alive.
Jess made a brilliant choice in using the
second person point-of-view; it puts the
reader in a personal perspective, making her
words more attention-grabbing. “Out of
seven billion people alive on earth, you are
the only you that has ever existed or will
ever exist.” This sentence alone makes me
feel at peace with myself. There will never
be another me.
“You Are Lucky” is a breath of fresh air.
Anyone, from young to old, can relate to it.
Nicole Javillo, Wilmington, DE
The Snowman
“The Snowman” by Caeleigh MacNeil is
a story about an innocent subject: drawing
snowmen. However, hidden between the
lines is a message that shouldn’t apply today: don’t rock the boat. People who do
something different get ridiculed and
shunned. Though teachers claim that we are
all unique and should be proud of it, a boy
in Caeleigh’s third grade class was ridiculed
for drawing a purple snowman with four
circles increasing in size.
Today in our society, you must be part of
the “normal” group in order to be accepted.
You must look a certain way, act a certain
way, and have a certain set of beliefs that fit
with the crowd’s. The pressure to be part of
the group is enormous, and nobody wants to
be viewed as a weirdo.
However, what would happen if people
didn’t challenge the ideas of the “normal”
group and let their imagination take charge?
What would happen if people didn’t speak
their minds? What would happen if people
cared more about their reputation than doing the right thing? Without people like the
boy who draws a purple snowman, who will
stand out from the crowd and take chances?
These are the people who make a difference
in the world.
So instead of making fun of the boy who
draws a purple snowman, we should embrace his creativity. We can all change the
world, one purple upside down snowman at
a time.
Laolu Ogunnaike, New York, NY
Spreading the Word
About Teen Ink
My father lives abroad and is always
teaching us about lots of interesting stuff.
One example is Teen Ink.
When I told my father that I like to write,
he said, “Try browsing through this site. It
might interest you,” and he was right. When
I went on TeenInk.com, I realized that it can
help teens find our talents, share them with
other teens all over the world, and improve
our skills. Above all, what makes me happy
about Teen Ink is that teens who usually go
online without a purpose finally have something that will interest them.
I keep introducing Teen Ink to everyone.
When I was given a chance to speak in my
class recently, I told everyone about
TeenInk.com and had the pleasure of writing the URL on many notebooks so they
could check out the site. Teen Ink is indeed
a brilliant idea; thanks to all who are responsible for it.
Aafiya Fazie, Kandy, Sri Lanka
You Are Lucky
“You Are Lucky” by Jess Roberts definitely left a mark on me. Only seven paragraphs long, with its full-on power and
emotion, it will touch anyone who reads it.
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
5
points of view
Txting: the Gr8 Deb8
by Teresa Chen, Brooklyn, NY
most critics believe that in the instances when textand children have a sophisticated understanding of
as high tech really reached a new low? The
speak appears in schoolwork, the student has usually
the
appropriate
use
of
words,”
states
Dr.
Beverley
average teenager sends more than 3,339
done it on purpose.
Plester, lead professor of the study.
texts per month. We all know how easy it is
When looked at from another angle, texting may
This research is fueling supporters of texting by
to flip open your phone and type a quick “meet me
not be damaging our language, but rather, building
encouraging school boards to incorporate the use of
@ the mall @ 2 plz!” to your BFF. But is texting as
it. The English language has evolved over hundreds
texting within education. According to statistics, 54
harmful and destructive to grammar as teachers
of years, and English from the Shakespearean times
percent of those who text are teenagers. Because it’s
claim? Will texting cause – OMG – the death of the
changed greatly to become modern-day English.
such a huge part of a student’s life, educational orEnglish language? Despite popular belief, texting
Textese could be shaping the new and improved
ganizations
are
working
to
create
a
curriculum
that
isn’t creating a generation of illiterate teenagers. In
English language. It fosters creativity and, I believe,
involves
this
technology
and
engages
both
fact, it’s doing just the opposite.
is not just an example of linguistic laziness. Like the
the attention and the interest of teenagers.
According to recent studies by reclichés “all that glitters is not gold” and “starStates such as Connecticut are beginning
searchers at Coventry University and
Is texting as to see uses for this way of communicating,
crossed lovers” from Shakespeare’s works, texting is
the University of Toronto, texting actuinspiring new phrases, words, and symbols that are
harmful as and are convinced that “nonstandard Engally improves literacy. The studies
making their way into our culture, for example,
lish” doesn’t actually interfere with the
found that texting had no detrimental
claimed?
“smh,” “ily,” and “g2g.”
development of the ability to write in stanlink with linguistic development, and
Opponents of texting have also claimed that it
dard
forms
required
by
school,
higher
that it improved comprehension and
causes
grades to drop for many students, but it’s not
education,
and
careers,
as
opponents
claim.
They
reading development. The 10-year study, which
the physical action of texting that should be tarbelieve that it helps motivate students and can be
tested 88 eight- to 10-year-olds, found that those
geted; it’s the addiction. Instead of paying attention
beneficial in a teaching environment by testing stuwho were better at understanding and creating text
to the teacher and the lesson, some students focus
dents’ grammar and comprehension.
abbreviations did better on literacy tests. This
more on their phones hidden under their desks. One
But these new findings are definitely overshad“boost” effect is similar to what happens when
reason for this could be that teachers are not using
owed by public perceptions, shaped by the media,
parents talk to infants or read to toddlers; the more
good techniques to motivate and engage students
which is constantly unleashing stories of students
exposure children have to language, the more underduring the class.
using
textisms
in
formal
writing.
In
standing of the language they have. In the case of
But this doesn’t let the teen who
one
well-known
case,
a
13-year-old
texting, in order to comprehend shorthand abbreviagirl handed in an essay written entirely Textese could be write “LOL” in a term paper off the
tions, teenagers have to have a strong sense of the
Like any slang appearing in a
in texting shorthand. As shocking as
longhand behind it. “What we think of as misshaping the new hook.
formal research report, textese should
this may seem, it does not prove that
spellings don’t really break the rules of language,
the English language is
and improved be considered a grammatical error and
rebuked with a red pen. It may be true
disappearing. Dr.
English
that electronic communication has its
Plester’s report states:
own faults and fosters its own care“The alarm in the media
lessness, but texting slang can be seen as no differis based on selected anecdotes, but acent from academic terms or journalistic shorthand in
tually when we look for examples of
writing. And as for the texters, maybe they should
text-speak in essays, we don’t seem to
consider typing out the whole word once in a while.
find very many.” This is due to the
It really doesn’t take that much longer.
technique of code switching – knowIt’s time to loosen up the English language and
ing what type of behavior is appropritolerate texting as a growing part of communication
ate in certain situations. One example
today. It may bend all the rules, but it is still 100
of this is when teenagers switch from
percent a part of this language and is fostering new
talking in slang with their friends to
innovation with words, all while improving the literspeaking politely to a teacher or paracy of those who are heavily involved. Textese is the
ent. Slang is much like texting, and
modern dialect of the world, it seems, and our socithough there’s the occasional slip-up,
ety should accept it. That heathen Shakespeare
it doesn’t happen often. Even more
would have been on board. ✦
rare is the occurrence of texting shortPhoto by Tiffiny Le’Anne, Parker, CO
hand in a formal piece of writing, and
H
Texting While Walking
W
e have all heard about the
tragic deaths caused by
people who text while driving, but how about deaths from texting while walking? Like driving,
walking while texting can be very
dangerous. Has technology become
so advanced and texting so addictive
that these tragedies are now an accepted part of our culture? Some of
the worst cases of walking while
texting have led to death, injury, and
humiliation.
The most tragic cases of walking
while texting include the death of a
14-year-old boy from Florida in 2008.
He was so focused on his phone that
6
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
by Jake Langevin, Welch, MN
he stepped into oncoming traffic.
“The security officer responsible for
Who’s at fault? The distracted texting
sharing the video of this incident has
teen or the driver who hit him? These
been terminated and is no longer with
accidents warrant another look at the
the company.”
laws pertaining to texting.
Now wait a minute, he lost his job
On a lighter note, in
for sharing a stupid misanother incident, Cathy
take that occurred in pubJust as
Cruz Marrero was texting
lic? That’s a little harsh.
dangerous as
while walking in a mall
My point is that texting
and tumbled into a water
while walking will only
driving while make you look stupid.
fountain. But her humiliation didn’t end there. A
Exactly 40 years after
texting?
mall security camera
man first stepped on the
caught the mishap and it soon apmoon, a teen who was walking while
peared on YouTube. The video now
texting stepped into an open manhole.
has more than three million views.
City workers came to her rescue and
The company that provides security
apologized for the unmarked hazard,
for the mall issued this statement:
but the 15-year-old’s mother declared
COMMENT
she would sue. It may sound crazy,
but she may have a point. Under any
circumstances, the manhole should
have been marked to prevent accidents. But on the other hand, the teen
who was texting while walking
should have been alert enough to see
the hazard and avoid it.
So, in order to save yourself from
death, injury, or simple humiliation,
don’t text while walking. It may
sound crazy, but walking while texting can be life threatening just like
texting while driving. As addictive as
technology can be, it can wait. My
advice is to stay alert and keep your
eyes on the sidewalk. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
L
ast week I threw out my makeup. The mascara, the eyeshadow – all of it went right in
the trash. I hadn’t worn it in months, and as I
threw it away, I knew it was my final declaration.
When I was in middle school I gravitated toward
the stuff. I wanted to be grown up. I had visions of
maturity and beauty in it. My best friend taught me
to apply eyeliner and my mother showed me how to
put mascara on. I loved bright green eyeshadow and
pale lipstick.
The last time I wore makeup it was snowing. I
kept pulling out a pocket mirror to inspect my eyes
to be sure my mascara wasn’t running. I wore it for
the play I watched that night and for the guy in it.
That was last winter. I haven’t worn makeup since.
by Amy Gofton, Elmira, ON, Canada
more is bought and consumed. It’s a cycle that goes
Today I’ve come to a number of conclusions.
on and on, but where is the end? Women buy an
Makeup is unhealthy for the skin. Makeup distorts
overpriced product as if it’s something they require
genuine beauty and real confidence. Makeup is a
to be part of this culture. Maybe it is. Women are
product of a consumer society. Makeup is sexist.
told: you’re better, you’re more mature, you’re more
What’s in makeup? By reading a few labels you’ll
competent if you wear makeup.
find preservatives like BHT, chemicals, artificial colMakeup is sexist. Most women in high paying and
ors, and if you’re lucky, some natural things like oat
professional jobs wear makeup. It seems to be exflour or zinc. Most of the ingredients, the average
pected. Nobody says, “You must wear makeup,” but
person cannot pronounce. Every time you put it on
it’s the social norm. Take a look at your female
your face, your skin is absorbing it.
teachers, politicians, and those working in any job
Makeup has a way of distorting what is truly
that requires a suit. The majority wear
beautiful. In my eyes, everyone is
beautiful. It’s when a person covers
Makeup has a makeup. Why aren’t the men expected
to wear makeup too?
herself with products that I find it difway of distorting You’re laughing at that statement.
ficult to see that beauty. Beauty is
Why aren’t men expected to wear
something natural. It has to do with
what is truly
makeup? Well, because men don’t wear
the way a person sees and interacts
beautiful
makeup. That’s the logical answer. Yes,
with the world. It’s the way he or she
there are products for men, but only a
blends with nature, the urban envilimited number touch them. Welcome to inequality
ronment, and what is real. Makeup simply covers up
in the workplace. Makeup makes the professional
and distorts the beauty of being human. It’s stepping
woman.
into the world with a mask on, whether you conI say let’s scrap makeup! Leave it to actresses and
sciously see it as one or not. Logically speaking, no
actors who are playing a role. Leave it to the news
one would spend so much money on something to
anchor who doesn’t want you to be distracted by a
cover her face unless she truly believed, either conglare on his or her face from the lights.
sciously or unconsciously, that beauty could be
Throwing away the makeup is a statement that
gained from it. By trying to be beautiful, women
says “I care about my health. I’m beautiful no matcover their true beauty.
ter how ‘pretty’ I am. I am not a victim of a conMakeup is the product of a consumer society. We
buy and buy and buy. Makeup doesn’t last long.
sumer society. I am equal.” Those are all things I
can say about myself. ✦
When it runs out, the packing is thrown away and
points of view
Throw Away the Makeup
Photo by Jess Deibert, Klingerstown, PA
Good-Bye, Wallflowers
our society for ages. However, these
t always annoys me how willing
ideas are outdated and discourage
girls are to play the “damsel in
girls from empowering themselves.
distress.” Yes, we girls may not be
“I don’t think I’d ever ask anyone
physically as strong as boys (on averout because it’s so embarrassing. I’m
age). We are, for the most part,
not a very forward person,” says
smaller too. Evolutionarily speaking,
Stephanie, a junior at my high school.
we are supposed to depend on men to
She has always been shy and says, as
bring us food while we make babies.
a result, she does not have the confiHistorically it has made sense for
dence to ask someone out. Stephanie
women to look to men for protection.
does not directly relate this to societal
However, society now is set up so
standards but admits that this could
that we women can support ourselves
affect her on a subconscious level.
just as well as men can, if not better.
Some girls, however, are confident
We can be just as independent as
enough to take the first step. Imari, a
men. Even so, many double standards
sophomore, has asked two guys out.
still exist from the time when men
“I knew he wasn’t going to ask me
were seen as the dominant sex. For
because I wasn’t too obvious, so I
example, in high school, boys are still
thought, if he’s not
expected to initiate
going to ask me, I may
romantic relationships
Why shouldn’t
as well ask him.
and pay for dates,
There’s nothing to
while girls are exgirls initiate
lose,” she says.
pected to be passive
relationships too?
The first time she
and look pretty.
asked someone out was
I like the idea of a
for the Winter Semiboy treating me with
Formal Dance her freshman year. He
respect; girls should do the same for
turned her down. But last summer
them. However, it makes no sense
Imari asked out someone else, who
whatsoever that boys should be the
said yes. They are still dating, and she
only ones to initiate a relationship
enjoys the empowerment of taking
when girls are just as capable of
the initiative.
doing so. Many girls believe it is not
“When a girl asks a guy out, it’s
their place to approach a crush bedifferent. It’s a lot more fun because
cause of standards that have existed in
I
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people don’t do double takes every
the ball is in your court. You have all
time I explain that I’ve never been
the cards. You’re not sitting around
asked out but I’ve initiated several rewaiting,” she explains. Imari aclationships. I look forward to the day
knowledges that there are societal
when girls can, in the
standards that say boys
eyes of society, be
should take the initiaHistorically, girls equal to boys when it
tive instead of girls.
to initiating rela“There’s more pressure
could ask boys comes
tionships.
on a guy,” she says.
It’s the twenty-first
“Girls expect a guy to
out on Leap Day,
century. We women are
just ask.”
February 29
no longer fragile dolls
Imari believes that
who require special
it’s often surprising
treatment. We are capable of just about
when a girl asks a boy out because it
anything men are. Why shouldn’t we
is so out of the norm. “It shakes guys
initiate relationships too? ✦
up and makes them realize that you’re
not going to sit around waiting for
them.”
It takes courage and confidence to
ask someone out, regardless of gender. Whether you’re a girl or a boy,
there will always be that uncomfortable feeling of putting yourself on
the line, but that’s just part of the
dating experience.
I look forward to the day when it’s
just as common for a girl to ask a
boy out as it is for a boy to ask a girl.
I look forward to the day when girls
don’t hesitate to approach a love interest, and when shy boys won’t have
to assume that they’ll never get a
girlfriend if they don’t ask someone
out. I look forward to the day when
Photo by Corrine Ramstead, Kirkland, WA
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
7
our world
8
Bosnia: The Hidden Genocide
by Sabiha Masud, Salt Lake City, UT
concentration camp called Batkovici
was being held.
during the genocide. The soldiers
e’ve all heard of the Holowhere I spent a year. I was not killed
“They raped one woman whose
would pile the bodies on top of
caust. We’ve read about the
because of my position in the SDA;
children and parents were present,
sewage drains to get rid of the blood,
mass murder of 800,000
the Serbs still wanted information.
along with everyone else,” testified
almost as if to eradicate the evidence
civilians in Rwanda. People write
The men who were not as lucky were
Alija
Lujinovic,
another
survivor.
Acof
their
horrible
deeds.
books, make movies, hold memorial
ordered to dig trenches. They did not
cording
to
the
Red
Cross,
over
two
He
continues:
“At
the
jail
the
services, and advocate awareness of
know the trenches also served as their
million people were displaced from
guards questioned me every day, askthese terrible genocides. While it
graves. When they finished, the guards
their homes during the Bosnian War,
ing how many weapons I had and
would be nice to say that those were
would slit their throats.
and 200,000 people died, including
what political positions I had held in
the only genocides our world has ex“On the 9th of October, 1993, I was
12,000 children. Fifty thousand
Sanski Most. If I refused to answer, I
perienced, there are countless others
traded for Serbian soldiers being held
women were raped, tortured, sold, or
would be beaten. They took my
that are rarely mentioned.
hostage and sent to Tuzla, a free city in
killed. Men were sent to
clothes, documents,
The Bosnian genocide took place
northeastern Bosnia. I brought my
concentration
camps.
everything.
I
was
put
in
between 1992 and 1995, around the
daughters back from Slovenia, and my
Osman
Talic
was
a
a
room
the
size
of
a
time my generation was beginning. It
“No one was
whole family went to live in Vodice. A
survivor of not one, but
small garage with 70
was a result of the war between
trying to free us other detainees with no
few years later, we came to America.”
four camps. He was a
Bosnia and the Serbians (and a numOsman looks down at his hands,
witness for the Internawindows
so
there
was
ber of Croatians). In 1946, Yugoslavia
from the camp” no way to tell if it was
which are now clenched fists.
tional Court where he
was divided into six federated re“When I talk about what they did to
attested to the torture he
day or night.
publics: Bosnia and Herzegovina,
me, I get agitated,” he explains. “I
endured. I was fortunate to be able to
“We were beaten every day and
Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro,
imagine being beaten and tortured. I
talk to Osman Talic. His English is not
given very little food. Every day the
Serbia, and Slovenia. Bosnia passed
still have nightmares. It made no sense
perfect,
and
he
searches
for
words,
guards
would
bring
a
loaf
of
bread
for
a referendum for independence that
that my neighbor, someone I ate with
smiling after each sentence and saying
24 of us to share. We would get one
was supported by the country’s Musand invited to my house, would be the
“You understand?”
small glass of water for two. Before
lims and Croats, but rejected by reprefirst to turn a gun on me.
“I lived in a small town called Santhe war, I was 220 pounds. A few
sentatives of the Serb population, who
“I don’t understand the trauma and
ski Mos in Bosnia,” he told me. “After
months later, I weighed 130.
established their own republic, Repubtorture these people put on innocent
the breakup of Yugoslavia, there was
“I would think each morning, Today
lika Srpska.
Bosnians. My cousin watched 13
might be my last day. Sometimes I
fighting and anger between the Croats,
Following Bosnia’s declaration of
members of his family killed in front
would
wake
up
at
night
with
a
gun
to
Serbs,
and
Muslims.
In
my
town,
I
independence, Bosnian Serb forces
of him, including his eight-month-old
my
head.
For
some
reason,
once
I
was
the
leader
(with
a
few
others)
of
(supported by the Serbian governdaughter and two-year-old son. This is
woke up, the soldier would decide not
the SDA, an organization that reprement), accompanied by the Yugoslav’s
what gives me the most pain, the death
to kill me.
sented the Bosnian Muslims. In 1991,
People’s Army, declared war on
of children and women. I saw a house
“The guards would place my hands
there was the first election in Bosnia.
Bosnia so they could take the land for
burned to the ground with 30 people
on a cooker and put a knife to my
Since Muslims made up so much of
themselves. Although Croatia had first
locked inside. I will never forget these
neck. I was told that if I lifted my
the population, many of
supported Bosnian inthings. I can never forget.”
hands, the guards would slit my
those elected were Musdependence, their
We sit in silence for a few moments
throat.
My
hands
were
burnt
so
badly
I
lim.
The
Bosnian
Serbs
president, Franjo
“They did not
while
he gathers his thoughts.
still
have
no
feeling
in
my
fingers.
I
were
very
angry
that
the
Tudman, decided to
“It frustrates me that no one will
slept on a slab of concrete for two
join the war to secure know the trenches Serbians had become a
talk about what happened. It is not
years and not allowed to shower for
minority. The Serbs deland for his republic.
also served as
recognized as a genocide. It is painful
seven months. During this time, I was
cided to declare war and
Along with this came
to talk about, but it should not be forallowed no contact with the outside.
get rid of the Muslims.
an “ethnic cleansing”
their graves”
gotten. I wish more people knew
“Then, on August 28, 1992, I was
They had help from
of the Muslims in
about the genocide and the terrible
taken to a third concentration camp
Croatia, and the manBosnia, who reprethings Bosnian Muslims endured.”
called
Manjaca.
This
was
one
of
the
power
to
destroy
us.
The
Bosnians
had
sented almost half the population. This
He smiles at me, and though his
biggest,
with
7,000
to
8,000
people.
no
weapons
or
outside
help.
We
were
genocide wiped out 66.2 percent of
story is horrific and hard to hear, I
Here I was not scared. There were so
barricaded inside Bosnia.
the Bosniaks, or Bosnian Muslims, in
smile back. “My English is good?” he
many people, I knew that the soldiers
“On May 26, 1992, Serbian soldiers
the country, according to the Internaasks, laughing. It’s hard for me, a
could not hurt all of us. We were sent
came to my town and forced me and
tional Committee of the Red Cross.
sheltered teen living in Utah, to underto do menial labor every day. I reother men out of our homes. My
On October 13, 1991, on the eve of
stand how someone can even function
member, once I dropped a hammer on
daughters were 15; my son was 18 and
war, the future president of Republika
after surviving four concentration
the head of a Serbian guard. I thought,
had joined the Bosnian army. My wife
Srpska, Radovan Karadzic, expressed
camps.
Now
they
will
kill
me.
had
died.
My
sister
took
my
daughters
his view about the future of Bosnia
I ask one last question:
But
although
I
was
punto
Slovenia
to
safety.
I
was
taken
to
a
and Bosnian Muslims: “In just a cou“What do you want people
ished, I still had my life.
concentration camp called Betonirka. I
ple of days, Sarajevo will be gone and
“Our stories to know?”
“The lack of food was
spent two months there while Bosnian
there will be five hundred thousand
“My story,” he replies,
still a huge problem. I
men came pouring in from all over.
dead, in one month Muslims will be
should not be
“is the story of many
gave my food to anyone
“The last day in that camp was July
annihilated in Bosnia and Herzegovforgotten”
Bosnians. This happened,
who was sick or younger.
25, 1992. That day my name was
ina.” There were no Bosnian forces to
and it was terrible and still
When
we
went
out
to
called
from
a
list
of
men
who
had
fight back, and because they had been
hurts me, but people need
work,
we
would
we
been
businessmen
or
leaders
of
some
left defenseless, the country ultimately
to
know
what
they [Bosnian Serbs]
would
eat
grass
and
dirt.
If
we
were
organization,
and
we
were
put
in
ceased to exist.
did to us. We had no help for five
lucky we found a frog or bugs to eat.
buses. During the trip, the other bus
Bosnian Muslims and many nonyears. This was not only the Bosnian
The Red Cross came with food,
stopped. The men came out and the
Serbs were forced out of their homes,
war, it was the Bosnian genocide. The
clothes, and supplies. I did not
Serbian guards, who had long knives,
and women and children were sent to
past cannot be erased. Our stories
understand why no one was trying
slit their throats. One by one they fell
unhygienic detention centers or places
should not be forgotten.”
to free us.
at the side of the road. There was no
known as “rape camps.” Zehra SmaOsman has since returned to Bosnia,
“In December 1992, everyone was
reason. They acted like it was no big
jlovic, a witness for the International
but
he says his country still has many
released
and
allowed
to
flee
to
Croatia
deal
to
take
a
life.
My
bus
arrived
at
Court of Justice and a Bosniak surproblems
and will never be fully whole
and
Slovenia.
I
thought
I
would
finally
the
jail
later
that
day.”
vivor, stated that nearly two dozen
and peaceful. He is one of the
see my family, but instead I and 221
This method of randomly slaughterwomen disappeared when Bosnian
strongest people I have ever met. ✦
other men were taken to a fourth
ing innocent men was very common
Serbs came to the center where she
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• Teen Ink
9
health
Sponsored by
10
Sorting Screws
by Christian Rauch, Sarasota, FL
in a school for children with special
just cognitively delayed. From age
hen I was three, a doctor
needs. I received daily therapy for
two through five I seized constantly
told my parents I wouldn’t
eight hours, which continued at home.
for 20- to 30-minutes at a time. Some
be completely handiMy parents researched and took the
seizures left me paralyzed, some left
capped, but I would be “sorting
advice of many doctors on how to
me twitching, others wiped me out for
screws.” This came after an extensive
cope
with
my
changing
diagnoses:
days.
neuropsychological exam that indiepilepsy, sensory integration disorder,
When I turned six, the seizures
cated I had an IQ of 40. My classifiautism, oppositional defiant disorder
became fewer and farther between.
cation was “Trainable Mentally
(ODD) and conduct disorder (CD),
Because my immune system was
Handicapped.” My Ivy League-eduobsessive compulsive disorder
compromised, the doctor recomcated parents were devastated. When
(OCD), developmental delay, and on
mended a non-contact sport, so my
they asked what they should do with
and on. At various times
parents enrolled me and my brothers
my college fund, the
in my childhood, I was
in swim classes. After the first six
doctor replied, “He’ll
diagnosed
with
terms
I
months, the warts that covered my
need it to live in a group
I was in special
think were invented just
knees were gone, I suffered less illhome. College is out of
education my for me.
ness, and I was physically tired at the
the question.” My
My
parents
surrounded
end of the day. And I have continued
mother cried for days,
whole life
themselves with great
swimming to this day.
but with the help of both
doctors who gave them
In 2007 I informed my parents that
sets of grandparents, she
hope and encouragement. One, Dr.
I wanted to go to a regular high
found the strength to prove that
Jose Ferreira, my neurologist from All
school so I could play sports. They
doctor wrong.
Children’s
Hospital,
told
my
parents
agreed to let me take the entrance
My mother says I was a perfect
they needed to treat me exactly like
exam at a local Catholic high school.
baby. In fact, I reached all the milemy brothers – holding me to the same
Apparently my scores were the lowstones early. In the spring of 1995,
expectations and punishing me for the
est in the history of the school.
within hours of receiving my DPT
same things. It might take me 50-100
They suggested I return to seventh
(diphtheria, pertussis, and tetanus)
times before I learned a behavior that
grade and try again in two years. I
vaccination from the pediatrician, I
my older brother could easily grasp,
was crushed! My mom convinced
suffered a seizure that lasted over 15
but they had to be consistent. This
them to let me attend for a probaminutes. I was rushed to the hospital
was
reinforced
by
my
Opa,
my
dad’s
tionary period, and if it was a comfor a battery of inconclusive tests. I
father. He was very involved, since
plete disaster, they would pull me
went on to experience seizures for the
my dad was busy traveling and workout in December.
next ten years.
ing. Opa believed in me and treated
They agreed, but I was expected
me as though I was normal. This was
to earn at least a 2.0, and I would be
a saving grace.
enrolled in a class designed to help
As a child, my days were spent
develop study skills. Up until this
getting hours and hours of therapy.
point, I had no experience with
Weighted belts, educational toys, a
textbooks, tests, homework assignspecial diet, music therments, or reading requireapy, and deep tissue masments. Attending a
sages were all part of my
regular school would be a
Success is
daily routine. Of course,
huge adjustment for me.
completely in My parents knew I would
there were also many
medications, each requirrequire hours and hours
my hands
ing extensive research by
of tutoring just to learn
my parents. Finally, in
the basics.
2002, my parents said, “Enough!”
I managed to maintain a 3.7 GPA
They had a hunch that many of my
and finished my last semester with a
behaviors were medically induced.
4.1. Unfortunately, as a result of my
They decided to go against the docstruggles freshman year, I will not
tors’ orders, wean me of my drugs,
have a career GPA high enough to
and re-evaluate my situation.
make National Junior Honor SociAccording to my family, what
ety – one of my goals.
emerged was a miracle. I still had
Today I have my driver’s license,
seizures, but not every day. I was in
which is great for getting to school
school and could read, but had fine
and to my nine swim practices each
motor skill problems, speech issues,
week. I hold a leadership position in
Art by Zuzanna Czerny, Phoenix, AZ
and needed occupational therapy for
the Mission Club and hope to run
help with coordination. But one new
for president this year. This club
positive side effect was that I finally
reaches out to less fortunate stuSeizures are a funny thing. When
had a personality, something they
dents to enlighten them and open
you’re having one, you don’t have
hadn’t
seen
since
I
was
a
one-yeartheir eyes to possibility.
control of your body, and you have no
old. Eventually, I was put back on
I am the captain of the swim team
memory of it afterward. This incredimedication for obsessive-compulsive
and have swam in several high-level
bly scary event affects everyone
tendencies and remained on these
meets. My times continue to imaround you, but you are strangely prountil I was 15, at which time I told my
prove, which indicates that the next
tected. I have never witnessed another
parents I no longer needed them, and
few years should be my best. Last
person having a seizure, so I have no
they agreed.
season I was the team statistician
idea what it looks like. I wish I could
To say I was in special education
for varsity football. It was through
say the same for my older brother,
my
whole
life
is
an
understatement.
this experience that I realized my
Marty. Many times he cared for me
When I was three, they didn’t even
gift: I have an incredible ability to
when I was seizing, laying me down,
have schools for kids like me. I
retain sports facts. I have always
protecting my head, and calling 911.
wasn’t a behavioral problem; I was
loved sports, with football, baseball,
At the age of three, I was enrolled
W
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
COMMENT
and basketball being my favorites. It
is this interest and gift that led me to
my current goal of wanting to study
sports management and broadcasting
in college.
Current testing indicates that my IQ
is within the normal range, but this
test does not measure my will or determination. My experience in high
school continues to help me realize
that I am willing to work twice as
hard as most of my classmates. I still
struggle with final exams, but I am
more skilled with day-to-day study
habits. Academic growth is always
my top priority, with swimming being
a close second. My high school experience has taught me many things, but
the most important is that success is
completely in my hands. I know I will
not be sorting screws, because I have
the desire to be great! ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
Asthma
(the Price of Life)
Inhale
Exhale
I remind
Puff
1…
2…
3…
4…
5…
6…
7…
8…
9…
10 …
Medicine flows
Through
Trachea
Larynx
Or was it pharynx
To alveoli
Clearing airways
Letting oxygen through
To the slowly
Pulsating
Beast.
Giving it
Renewed
Life
Vigor
So its
Eternal
Hunger
Craving
For affection
Attention
Love
Can go on
Because that’s the price
Of life.
by Lizzy Buckingham,
Memphis, TN
TEENINK.COM
AAttention
t t e n t i o n FFilmmakers!
ilmmakers!
VVid
i d eeoo PProduc
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Q &A s ❖ READINGS
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
11
true love
Patchwork
by Catherine Malcynsky, Chester, CT
unoriginal, and predictable, like every other book
t was a patchwork blanket. Just a sheet of fabric,
on the shelf. But you said you liked my pages and
torn and sewn and stitched a hundred times, then
that my words kept you on your toes. I’d told you
folded up and tossed over a chair in the corner of
once that you liked complicated things, and you
the world.
told me that was why you liked me.
Before I met you, my front yard was dull. I know,
When you first held my hand, you picked the
it sounds weird. But the trees were dead and the
patchwork
blanket up off the floor. It was cold beroses were dry and the fingers of winter were still
tween your fingers, but I hope it felt soft. You studdragging through the mulch. You hadn’t come yet to
ied every square of fabric, quilted into a forgotten
drape silly string all over the garden and the sidemasterpiece, and memorized every wrinkle and
walk, or to shower the driveway in a thousand sharp
tear. And I loved you right then, when I was
pieces of glass. You hadn’t come yet, and my front
wrapped around your fingers.
yard looked tired. It didn’t look like Spiderman had
You asked me once if someone had
thrown up on it yet, and my feet didn’t
gotten sick of me before. I thought of
sting when I walked out to my car.
the boy who called himself Superman,
Before you sat next to me and gave
I thought I
and the others before him who had
me a pencil you did not borrow, the
tugged on my strings until patches of
blanket was wrinkled and torn. A boy
was simple,
me had come loose. I couldn’t explain
had wrapped it around his body like a
unoriginal
it to you, even though it would feel
cape, calling himself Superman, and
good to have you understand. But you
then had changed his mind and torn a
understood just fine anyway, and you
patch out – the patch of fabric that
traced shapes on my skin with your fingertips. You
looked like my Halloween costume and smelled like
pressed your lips to my forehead and said, “Well,
him – and he tossed the blanket aside.
I’ll just have to show you how much I like you.”
I asked you once if you were sick of me. You
When you came into my room that night, you
laughed. Silly me, for thinking that after five days of
saw the blanket on the floor. You picked it up and
my face, you might want to look at someone else’s.
sat beside me, draping the quilt across our bodies.
Silly me, for thinking that you would tell me even if
You held me against you beneath the broken and
you did. But you smiled and said you didn’t think it
repaired pieces of fabric, all sewn together to
was possible to get sick of me, and swore that you
keep us warm. You liked that blanket, every tatter
never thought you would. I appreciated that you
and tear, and so I gave it to you. You took it with
thought I would believe that. To me, it was only a
you, and I hope it kept you warm. I hope you
matter of time.
breathed in the smell of me that clung to it.
Before you told me I was, I never thought of
It was just a patchwork blanket. But in your
myself as complicated. I thought I was simple,
hands, it didn’t look as battered. You sewed the tears
I
I Want an Honest Poem
I want an honest poem,
where “I did it on purpose” and “Yes,
it’s my fault” are dutifully wed,
wrapped in a honeyed-moon
and in a few years “It’ll never happen
again” poem
is born.
Truthfully, I could use an honest
poem
so that emotions can gaze upon
metaphors
with unconditional love and tell them
those jeans
are not flattering,
and say so because they care.
Photo by Katya Kantar, Westfield, IN
closed and cut off the loose strings. You patched on
new fabric where pieces were missing, and you
made the blanket whole and new.
I was just a patchwork blanket, forgotten and
tossed over some chair in the corner of the world.
And then I met you. ✦
Yes, I dream of an honest poem
so that similes are not subtle
but as potent as the scent of another
woman’s perfume
or loud like lipstick stains on a
white collar.
No, I don’t want my similes to
stay silent
for the sake of the kids.
I want a poem so honest
it cries.
With tears woven in stanzas
and stanzas woven in tears,
a Matt Damon in “Good Will
Hunting” poem
where what we’ve seen and where
we’ve Ben
Affleck’s our sensitivity
and it is not our fault poem.
We are just victims of ourselves
poem.
Photo by Holly Cooper, Mole Creek, Australia
12
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
I want a deliberately honest poem
that admits even though all the world
is a stage,
the audience Jekylls us from time
to time
to the point of Hyding ourselves and
we can’t
help that sometimes we give in poem.
COMMENT
We all wear masks poem.
Any doctor can see that.
I want a poem so vulnerably honest,
that it
… hesitates before exposing its soul
and
st-st-stutters when it talks to a
pr-pr-pretty girl
and asks
a lot of questions when it’s nervous
poem
why are we here
where do we go
why is it I would do anything for
you, even write you an
honest poem, but you can’t seem to
return the feeling
poem
I want a poem so free of deceit,
you say our hearts beat the same,
and even though we can’t be together
we always are poem.
You feel like home poem.
But we’re not like that poem.
So maybe I just want a love poem.
by Jenzo DuQue,
Crown Point, IN
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
W
hat were you doing a year
ago? You sat in the second
row of the clarinet section,
listlessly staring ahead, probably
wondering when the period would
end. I watched you, only a couple of
feet away. But the distance between
us stretched for miles. What are you
thinking? I used to wonder. Look at
me! I only dared to hope. An entire
year has passed, and here we are, separated by real distance. You’re happy
where you are, and me, I’m all right. I
manage.
What were your dreams a year
ago? You had ninth and tenth period
free and spent your time with friends.
by Grace Zhou, Douglaston, NY
I was stuck in the research room, staring into the depths of a microscope.
Were you happy then? For months I
was so near but never attempted
more; I regret it always. I think that
maybe if we had had more time together we’d be somewhere different
now. But I’m tired of what-ifs. I’m
tired of wondering, because now I
know. You weren’t available a year
ago. You’re still, in a sense, not available now. Yet I keep staring. I
watched and observed you a year ago
and I’m still doing it. Some things
never change; I didn’t change. Or perhaps I did but I can’t see it because
retrospect hasn’t kicked in yet.
Memory Thief
The trophies I have of you are not written
in photographs or notes.
Not in tape recordings or sound bites,
and our movie is about a German serial killer
with a penchant for whistling.
But I’ve been a memory thief for quite some time now,
and I want every sense of you seared into my temporal lobe.
Your eyes after you’ve been crying
are gleaming malachite cobblestones
in the gray downpour.
You don’t show teeth when you really smile,
your lips pink as sunrise barely part.
Sweat at your temple curls dark your hair,
and I tilt your chin up for a feather’s kiss.
A Geek’s Guide to Love
by Maia Silber, Cortlandt Manor, NY
plan the date. (Date [n]: A word used by
t’s spring. The sun is shining, the birds
non-geeks that refers to socializing with
are singing, and love is in the air. Perone’s significant other outside of school.)
haps you’ve been noticing how cute that
Despite the fact that a date takes up hours of
boy in your AP biology class looks without
precious studying time, it seems to be a
his protective goggles on, or maybe how
very popular activity. But don’t worry – you
that girl in your SAT prep classes (that
can plan a date with just the right mix of
you’re retaking just to be safe, even though
academics and romance.
you got a 2300 the first time) has been
Many geeks accompany each other to the
sporting a sexy new backpack, equipped
library, where a romantic afternoon can be
with an extra pocket for a mini dictionary
spent reading Shakespeare’s love poems or
and graphing calculator. Yes, love is all
researching courtship in the Middle Ages. If
around us, and we’re all dying to find that
you get tired of the library (as if
special someone.
that’s possible), you can always
Now, we geeks are not
known for our social skills,
We geeks are take your special someone to
the museum and perhaps share
but with a couple of easy tips,
not known for an ice cream while discussing
you’ll be able to get a date
techniques of post-Impresfaster than you can complete
our social skills the
sionism. Or if the geek you’re
a complex trigonometric
interested in is more of a homeequation. (Trig is easy. We
body, you can just spend some time staring
mastered that in third grade.)
into each other’s eyes, thinking deeply
First you need a catchy pick-up line. For
about the electro-chemical impulses in your
example, you could approach that attractive
photoreceptors that connect light with
girl/boy in your chemistry class and say,
movement.
“You must be really electronegative, beIf all goes well, you’ll soon be involved in
cause I’m highly attracted to you.” Or if it’s
a whirlwind romance with the geek of your
a physics student who catches your eye, you
dreams. It might not seem as great as
could try, “I think I’m falling for you, and
achieving a 4.0 GPA or writing the perfect
it’s not just because of Newton’s law of uniresearch paper, but studies have shown that
versal gravitation.” No sexy supergeek will
those with life partners live longer on averbe able to resist your charm.
age. (Yay, more studying time!) So go polish
Now that you’ve successfully asked out
that pocket protector and get out there! ✦
the guy/girl of your dreams, it’s time to
I
I swallow down the earthquake sounds you make,
a laugh and a growl and a moan
like a landslide in your white throat.
I draw your kiss with my teeth like a bee sting,
good and painful.
I breathe your air
like the atmosphere of a different place,
stepping out of a plane and
“this is Africa, this is somewhere else.”
Salt and sweet and hot
like foods never tasted,
wine never drunk, alien,
you smell like exploring a new planet, a new star.
You sparkle, effervesce,
a shock through my teeth like purple cocktails,
electric buzz over my skin,
pain and strange sherbet powder static on a tongue.
A blue lightning jolt that rewires me to you,
sent through synapses, every one,
branding you to my tongue.
My palms and fingers and nails
know you.
I learn you, your movements
and shivers and luminescent shudders,
the width of a joint in teeth, the scrape of callous
or soft of hair on scalp,
burning pathways through my brain.
YOU.
by Beatrice Waterhouse, Santa Rosa, CA
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
A whole year of memories: good,
that zipped and zoomed through my
bad, terrifyingly real. A year of expestomach as you held my hand for the
riences just waiting to be revisited
first time are imprinted in my mind.
five years from now. I look back and
The cuddling in the park, cold as it
watch her fall in love with you. I see
was, romantic as can be, is forever enher walk along a road that could have
graved in my heart. I looked at us in
been better. Half a year of waiting,
the reflection of the building. You
three months of happiness, the rest,
were handsome, tall, and illuminated
pain. Was it worth it? Was the year
by the sun, and I stood next to you,
amazingly beautiful?
fingers intertwined and
Yes. Could things have
gloriously moved by the
I watched and image in front of my
been different if I had
changed what I did?
beauty.
observed you a eyes:
Yes. Could it have
Three hundred and
been better? No. Nothsixty-five days, that’s
year ago and
ing is better than
long it’s been. Or
I’m still doing it how
knowing that there is
maybe a bit more since I
potential to love. Nothfirst saw you in class. A
ing is greater than waking up in the
lot has changed; you’re no longer inmorning to someone’s face in my
nocent and I, I’m no longer cynical.
mind. Nothing compares to the soarYou changed me, more than I like.
ing feeling of a first kiss. I would
You gave me what I was looking for:
change nothing.
redemption. To this day, I love you,
A whole year of growing up – I’m
more than words can express. I’m
finally an adult. I experienced the
thankful to have met you – so even
magical moment of being kissed in
though I can’t remember the day that
the rain. I explored the thrill of a
I first laid eyes on you, and though
movie date. The fluttering butterflies
we’re not together, happy one year. ✦
true love
365 Days
FACEBOOK
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
13
true love
Waiting
by Coral More, No. Vancouver, BC, Canada
him. Head over heels, irrevocably, painfully,
t was evening on a Saturday and I was
heart wrenchingly in love. And want to
running late. Flustered, I clutched my
know the funny part? I loved every second
bag with my free hand and darted across
of it. He loves my smile and he loves my
the narrow, crazy streets. Fair lights bubbled
family and he will wait for me. He makes
up like rainbow sparklers in front of my
me pinky promises and kisses me in the rain.
eyes. My feet, clad in navy ballet slippers,
With a rainbow and a sunset, no less.
squished across the grass and into the midst
This picture-book-perfect love is a new
of the tourists in belly tops and braided hair
experience for me, but I can’t say I don’t
adorned with flowers. As I passed our meetlike it. I deserve devotion. I deserve this boy
ing spot (he wasn’t there) and walked up the
who will give his heart to me,
aisle between the rows of fair
and he deserves me. He derides, I saw his Mohawk hair
bobbing in the crowd, his head
In long-distance serves to hold my heart the
way he holds me, because I
searching. I was twenty minrelationships, it’s know he won’t let go without a
utes late, but he waited.
Our hearts fold perfectly
In long-distance relationall about waiting fight.
together like origami paper,
ships, it’s all about waiting.
and our hands are perfect puzWaiting for an Internet conzle pieces. And when I look into his eyes, I
nection. Waiting for a letter, a postcard, a
trust him.
phone call. Waiting and saving and hoping
I want to spend more evenings on the
for a plane ticket. You spend hours of your
couch with him, just sitting there in perfect
life waiting, traveling, missing. But in the
silence, because I’ve never been happier
end, it’s worth waiting for something as
with anyone. These butterflies are crazy;
close to perfect as a 75% off sale at River
every time he breathes, my heart jumps
Island. Honestly, the fact that I know he will
a beat.
wait for me is enough to staple my heart toFour thousand miles is a long way. An
gether until I see him again.
eight-hour time difference is difficult, to say
the least. Internet connections are unreliable
and post offices go on strike. Four months
between visits is a long time to wait, and a
year is a long time to wait for him to move
here. But in the long haul, what is a year?
It’s a blip in the flow, an ebb in the tide. It’s
not enough to fracture this love.
Yeah, I miss him so much it’s hard to take
sometimes. I have to let myself remember
our time together in mediated gasps, in intervals and stretches that aren’t long enough to
cause my heart any further damage. The one
thing that keeps me believing? The fact that
he makes me so happy that missing him
doesn’t cancel out the happiness. ✦
I
Charm
Photo by Kebree Alyzandra, Bartlesville, OK
I’ve never been a strong believer in love at
first sight. I criticize friends who fall head
over heels on the first date, and bathe in bitterness about love songs and Shakespearean
plays that always seem to have a tragic ending. But something clicked with Connor.
Something clicked for both of us, like a latch
falling into place or that cracking sound
when a tennis racket hits the ball. Spot on.
Perfect. Even though I’ve always preferred
older guys and he’s a year younger. Even
though I wanted a summer fling and got true
love. Even though he’s the nephew of the
wife of my uncle, and that’s undeniably
weird. Even though I tell myself I’m done
with falling in love, I’m not.
It took me five days to fall in love with
14
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
You took my hands
Though they were cold,
Redeemed my body
Young for old,
Returned my silver
Hair to gold
And said it was a dream.
You stole the shadow
From my eyes,
Replaced the dark
With starry skies,
Then softly laughed
At my surprise
And said inhale the theme.
You kissed a smile
From every frown,
Our bodies danced
In eiderdown.
We fell so deep
As if to drown
In passion’s racing stream.
by Carly Pierre, Stamford, CT
Art by Jessie Archer, Lawrenceville, GA
In a Matter of
Eight Minutes
There’s a boy sitting in front of me.
One table up, two chairs to the right.
I use my pencil to help me squint.
He’s got nice hair.
If only his stupid hand would quit blocking his face.
I think he’s doing homework. Looks like math.
I hate math.
It’s too quiet in here.
He’s texting someone.
Probably his girlfriend.
I’ll bet she likes math.
His leg is twitching, and he’s sitting at the edge of
his chair.
He looks stressed.
Or maybe disciplined.
Intently studying his calculator.
What is he really thinking?
About his math,
Or his girlfriend,
Or that girl in the blue sweater
One table down from him?
He can probably hear every scratch of my pencil.
I get out my glasses to help me see.
Is that too obvious?
Yeah, he’s definitely cute.
But I don’t think he’s all that good at math,
Because he’s counting on his fingers.
Legs outstretched,
Penny loafers lazily erected off of his feet.
He touches his face a lot.
Insecure, maybe?
Or just thoughtful …
He’s fidgety.
He’s texting again.
I wonder if his girlfriend wears blue sweaters.
I bet he dreams of going to Princeton, or Harvard, |
or Stanford.
He sees a girl in a pink shirt run across the room.
He smiles.
(He has a beautiful smile)
Maybe he dreams of having a family.
I hope he marries someone
Whom he meets at Harvard
I hope they have a daughter
Who likes to wear pink shirts
(Or maybe blue sweaters)
And I hope, one day, his daughter meets a boy
Who is one table up
And two chairs to the right.
by Tori Sargent, Middlefield, OH
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Brian Fanney, Gaithersburg, MD
we tried again.
We drove to Charlottesville, down the Blue Ridge
hat about the minute chance that we
At heart, I’m far more of an emotional person
Parkway to Myrtle Beach, and then to the Outer
actually survive senior year and this
than Julie. She is the logical one, the cold one, the
Banks and Chapel Hill. It was 75 degrees on the last
summer?” I said.
thinker. Our biggest arguments have been about
day of our road trip. We were listening to the radio
“That doesn’t seem likely,” Julie said.
whether it is better to be guided by our minds or our
and I had the T-tops off my freshly waxed Firebird
“But what if it happens?”
hearts.
Clearly,
we
were
not
normal.
and a Slurpee in my hand.
“Stop thinking so much.”
But
what
bothers
me
is
the
thought:
what
if
I
am
“Why does everything keep breaking?” I yelled.
“I don’t think I want to date in college,” I said.
not the emotional one? What if I am the cold one?
“You mean in our relationship?” Julie asked.
The thing I’ve always liked/hated about Julie is
What if I am everything I argued against? What if I
“I mean in my damn car. Relationships can be
that she is an absolute pragmatist. She isn’t romanam a penny too and my personality has its own dark
healed. My car requires time, pain, and money.
tic, and it’s reassuring to know exactly where I stand
side that must accompany what’s good about me?
You’re relatively cheap.”
at any given time.
Trying again was hard. During the school trip to
“Why did you buy a 13-year-old Pontiac?”
So many of Julie’s behaviors have both a light
Europe, we weren’t back together
“Because it’s awesome,” I replied.
side and a dark side. Because of this, I always imagyet,
but
I
was
sick
and
she
took
care
“Well, the CD player is skipping, the
ined her personality as a penny. I couldn’t have
of
me.
When
we
walked
into
stores,
pop-up
headlights don’t work, we
heads and not tails. I couldn’t have pragmatism and
I did not know
we played a game. I would pick out
don’t have turn signals, we can’t open
logic but also sentimentality and romanticism.
her top three favorite articles of
the trunk, and the sun visor just fell in
But I can never forget that I was the one who
how easily our
clothing, and if I got one right, I
my lap.”
spoke the words that broke us up more than a year
love could
won. I was actually fairly good at it,
“We don’t really need the sun visor.
later. The simple phrase “I don’t think I want to date
because Julie’s style is pretty simple.
Although
the CD player is unfortunate.
in college” turned out to be so much more signifidissipate
She likes bright clothes with flowers
Plus I have a tool kit and I’m a future
cant than I ever thought.
and anything with a Spanish influjournalism major,” I coolly added.
And yet, I had broken up with her before.
ence.
Her
clothing
reflects
her
personality.
“What
could
possibly
go wrong?”
I couldn’t always stand Julie’s degree of detachToward the end of the trip, we walked into one
She just shook her head and turned up the radio.
ment. I was tired of always trying to reach out. I was
store, and I was trying to describe how a shirt would
“The car’s still moving, we have one sun visor,
disgusted that I felt so far from her after a couple
look on her. I went on and on about her body type
and I’m with you,” Julie said. “Everything’s okay.”
months of dating and years of friendship.
and how it would make her look beautiful, and sudI thought for a second and then replied, “Like I
When she told me nonchalantly that her youth
denly she kissed me on the cheek. It was so powersaid, you’re relatively easy.”
group was the only reason she was glad she didn’t
ful that I was speechless.
We had our moments and our chemistry, freaks
graduate early, I was frustrated and jealous. But
It
took
months
to
get
back
together
from
there,
but
though
we may have been. And it was, to summamost of all, I was done.
I
always
consider
that
innocent
kiss
the
turning
rize,
a
damn
good day.
I tried to talk to her about it, but it wasn’t going
point. We talked about the future during my time in
I popped in a mix tape and Semisonic’s “Closing
anywhere, so I gave up. I was breaking up with her
relationship purgatory, and that’s when I told her I
Time” blared through the speakers: “Every new bebecause I was unhappy and didn’t see any other
ginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
didn’t want to date in college. Little did I know that
choice. I could only see half of the penny.
My summer ended when I watched the girl I
this statement was both more innocent and more sigAs I sat with her in my car outside Borders, ready
loved leave for college. I did not know the meaning
nificant than Julie’s lips on my cheek.
to say those final words, a truck crashed into us. I
of bittersweet before that moment. I did not know
I asked myself, “What do we live for, if not to
should have taken it as a sign. God was clearly
how easily our love could dissipate. I cannot forget
make
memories,
despite
whatever
pain
may
come
of
pissed. Instead we broke up a week later, and I
that it was me and not her who spoke the words that
them?”
started to date someone else a month later.
broke us up twice. I have not yet been able to figure
If it wasn’t some inherent warmth that made her
This was not my proudest moment.
out whether I regret giving in to cold-hearted logic.
take me back, then she must have been either dumb
A month after that, my new relationship turned
More significantly, I do not know which side of
or crazy. Logic should have told her to run. But she
out to be an unmitigated disaster and mercifully
the penny this makes me. I hope one day I will be
gave me a second chance. She loved
imploded. I took some quality alonesure that I made the right choice, but throughout this
me far better than I loved her. In our
time.
first year of college, my mind has been awash in rerelationship, we were certainly two
Months passed, and then Julie and I
She was my
gret and indecision every day.
sides
of
the
same
coin.
But
which
side
arranged to meet at a local café to talk
best
friend
and
The lyrics to “Closing Time” echo continually
was
me
and
which
side
was
her?
Am
I
about everything that had happened.
through
my head.
cold
or
caring?
As I approached her, I caught her scent
my first love
“I know who I want to take me home. Take me
If I had ever asked Julie this, her
and a tremendous weight hit me in the
home.” ✦
first question would have been “Why
chest. I stopped walking. I was frozen.
am I a penny and not a quarter? Is that all I am to
I guess what I was perceiving was shampoo, beyou?”
cause Julie is an all-natural kind of girl. I couldn’t
But here’s what I know. Julie found
stand it when she wore makeup, which thankfully
a
penny
on the road heads-down. She
she only did for dances. Makeup looked like plastic
turned
it
over to make it good luck.
on this girl’s face. Perfume would only have been a
She made me better.
further insult.
The summer before I left for college
I can’t begin to outline all the memories that small
was the best of my life. Our relationsensory reaction set off in me. My heart beat in difship was exponentially stronger than it
ferent directions as my mind raced. I thought several
had ever been. She was my best friend
things, the most important being that Julie had loved
and my first love. She put up with my
me as best as she knew how, and that was all I could
quirks and I had faith in her love. I
have ever asked for. I had more faith in this fact than
don’t think I had ever had faith in anyI had in God, and I knew that I wanted her back.
thing before I had faith in her.
Weeks later I told Julie, for the first time, that I
She and I traveled over the summer.
loved her. I hadn’t said it in the six months we had
We camped near Frank Lloyd
dated. In fact, I had never said it to anyone else. I
Wright’s “Falling Water” because
always hated the way others threw that term around.
Julie was interested in architecture. I
I wanted it to mean something. “Chasing Cars” by
remember watching “Toy Story 3” at a
Snow Patrol played in my head – “Those three
drive-in and being thankful that no
words, said too much, but not enough.”
one but Julie could see my man-tears
I think that she had been waiting to hear it. It must
Photo by Maria LaFauci, Boise, ID
at the end.
have counted for something because, miraculously,
“W
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
true love
Pennies
• Teen Ink
15
sports
The Art of Fighting
I
don’t know why fighting is
frowned upon. It is a primal, visceral experience that releases a
number of chemicals in your body
that are designed to make you feel
good. And yet, in modern society,
we’re supposed to shy away from
fighting. We’re supposed to suppress
these urges that are as old as the
human race itself. That’s why I was
shocked to find myself standing outside of a tattoo parlor one cold February day, a duffel bag in hand. I knew
that in the basement was a dingy little
Photo by Gemma Arioli, Lubbock, TX
gym containing roughly a dozen professional fighters. My plan that day
was, in essence, to go down there and
let them fight me.
I am a very self-confident person; I
can’t remember ever backing down
from a challenge. I had just finished
wrestling season, and I thought I was
in great shape. So I threw the door
open and stormed down to the gym.
Inside I found some of the most intense people I’d ever seen in my life.
They were pounding on heavy bags,
sparring, shadow-boxing, and
wrestling. They barely noticed me,
which was fine with me. I found the
owner, Norm, in the corner, teaching
Muay Thai (a combat sport from
Thailand) to a group of men. It was
an intense session, with all of the men
sweating and grunting. The thunder
clap when a man kicked the mitts was
deafening.
After he finished, I introduced myself. Although Norm is not a large
man, he has the ability to fill a room
with his presence. Quiet determination radiated from his fierce eyes. His
dark skin looked like beaten leather. I
outweighed him by 30 pounds easily,
but I still found myself slightly intimidated by this man who had dedicated
his life to the art of fighting.
16
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
by Josh Burkhard, Saint Joseph, MI
Locking me in his steely gaze,
Bam’s. He twisted my body into a
sounds, those men became like brothNorm asked if I had any experience in
pretzel, locking me in what I later
ers to me, and all because I was willMixed Martial Arts, or MMA. Unsure
learned was called a triangle choke. I
ing to weather the initial beatings.
whether a wrestling background carfought against the blackness for what
Not everybody I saw come down
ried much weight in this room of profelt like eternity.
those stairs was as passionate as I
fessional tough guys, I played it
It was closer to three minutes.
was. I saw many arrive with my same
down, simply telling him I had wresFinally I had to tap out. That was
cocky attitude, and watched Bam and
tled without any specifics. After askwhen Norm blew the whistle. It was
Ed put them through the ringer too. I
ing about my height, weight, and
time to begin warming up. Class hadsaw perhaps two of them return.
body fat percentage, he looked me up
n’t even started yet, and I had already
Then, after three months, my definand down. He then snapped his finbeen given two of the most severe
ing moment came. It was a typical
gers and waved over two of the meanbeatings of my life. It was time to
Monday practice. Everybody was
est-looking men I had ever seen.
make a choice: I could slink out to
stretching and talking about the fights
They smirked as they swaggered
lick my wounds and pretend I’d never
that happened over the weekend,
over. They were utterly confident,
even been there, or I
when the door flew open
and I could tell that they were thrilled
could stick it out for
and a new guy came
to have some fresh meat to play with.
the practice.
in. He was
In modern society, strutting
I was instructed to box with the first
It wasn’t even a
big – around six foot six
man, Ed. With the second, who was
close; I chose to pracwe’re supposed and 260 pounds – but he
called Bam, I was to do a form of
tice with them. Mushad clearly gelled his
to shy away
grappling where the goal is to cause
cles tightening, head
hair before practice and
your opponent so much pain that you
throbbing, and body
his arm band tattoo
from fighting
make him quit. This is called submisaching, I threw myself
screamed “poser.” He
sion grappling.
wholeheartedly into
swaggered over to Norm
I strapped on a pair of gloves and
the push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, tire
and introduced himself as “The
shoved in my mouthpiece, ready to
flips, and sprawls. We must have
Wrecking Ball.”
show these guys exactly what I was
spent an hour on that alone. But I
Norm put on his most serious face
made of. When the buzzer went off, I
could see that Norm was impressed
and shook his hand. Everybody in the
touched gloves with Ed, then immethat I hadn’t given up. I got a chance
room had stopped their warm-ups bediately began firing off punches with
to talk to him briefly before the next
cause they knew what was coming:
murderous intent. I had been in my
set of drills, and found out that nine
Norm was going to call over Bam and
fair share of scrapes, but I knew nothof every ten who come to the gym
Ed.
ing about the science behind throwdon’t make it past the initial rounds of
Norm snapped his fingers to silence
ing a punch, and Ed easily avoided
sparring. That gave me the extra boost
the room and yelled for Bam to submy blows with a series of deft head
I needed to finish the class.
mission grapple with the guy. But inmovements.
I lay in a heap on the mat, sucking
stead of Ed, Norm called my name. I
He shot back with a single punch
in gallon-sized gulps of air and chugjogged over, not completely sure what
that went straight down the barrel. It
ging water, when Ed walked over.
I was doing there. Norm said he
connected flush with my nose, and I
Thinking he wanted to spar again, I
wanted me to spar with the guy. I was
felt like I had been hit with a bat. I
began to put on my gloves. Instead,
a little nervous, but I nodded and
kept fighting, but less aggressively.
he gave me tips on how to defend
jammed in my mouthpiece.
The wild punches stopped, and I foagainst certain punches and how to
I touched gloves with Mr. Wreckcused on keeping my face out of the
bob and weave my head. He said that
ing Ball, and he started throwing wild
way. My hands stayed up high, and
he looked forward to seeing me tohay-makers at me. I used slight head
my chin stayed tucked in close to my
morrow. I hadn’t even thought about
movements and easily avoided them.
chest. I kept circling Ed, but knowing
tomorrow.
Then I saw my opening – he dropped
nothing about boxing, I was circling
When I woke up the next morning
his right arm after throwing a punch –
into his power hand. It didn’t take Ed
every inch of my body was sore. I had
and I quickly threw a left hook with
long to realize that I had no business
a black eye and was covered in
everything I had. It connected flush
being in the ring with him, and he
bruises. I knew that the last thing I
on his chin and he went down hard,
toned it down a bit. He
needed was to go back
out cold. The entire room erupted into
stopped trying to reto the gym, but a few
cheers.
arrange my face and
short hours later I found
The Wrecking Ball didn’t even
I knew nothing myself walking down
focused instead on my
make it to submission grappling. He
footwork and stance,
came to a few minutes later and imabout the science those stairs toward what
occasionally stopping
I was sure was going to
mediately scrambled out of the gym.
behind throwing be another beating. And
to give me pointers.
He had obviously seen enough. From
Regardless of all my
I
have
to
tell
you,
it’s
that point on, Norm used me to break
a punch
mistakes, and relying
much harder to go back
in the new guys; I was a little bigger
heavily on a strong
a second time, because
than Ed, but most guys thought they
chin and pure stubbornness, I suryou know what is waiting for you
could take me simply because I was
vived the initial five minutes of boxdown there. The first time I could preyoung. Only two got past my initiaing. However, I had forgotten all
tend I was going to be the toughest
tion, and they’re some of the best
about Bam and the submission grapguy, when in reality I wasn’t even
guys we have now.
pling. I was heading for my water
close.
As for me, I’m currently waiting
bottle when I heard the buzzer. The
But for some reason, I went back,
until the end of wrestling season benext thing I remember was being
and I continued the day after that too,
fore I go back. I’ve been talking to
slammed onto the mat. Bam was
and the day after that, until eventually
Norm, and he said that if my parents
freakishly strong and threw me
I began looking forward to those
agree, he could get me my first pro
around like a rag doll. I put up as
classes. I started noticing openings in
fight as early as July. Then I’ll have a
much of a fight as I could, but it was
other people’s defense, and even
whole new challenge ahead of me. ✦
no use. This was not my world; it was
started winning rounds. As crazy as it
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Irina Huang, New City, NY
passing commuters, gently shaking an aluminum
lease, Mom. It’s on sale for $24.99! It’s
can. Printed in fading but delicate Chinese handwritAbercrombie, and you know how expening was the word “money.” Her hair was greasy and
sive that store is!” I whined, my eyes
uncombed; her clothes were soiled. I couldn’t bebrimming with tears.
lieve what I was seeing. I felt my throat tighten as I
“Exactly. I don’t see why you can’t just get the
looked at her younger brother, sprawled in her arms.
one at Gap for five bucks! You can get five for the
At most, he was two years old. Like his sister, the
price of that one at Abercrombie.”
boy’s scraps of clothing were covered in dirt. Trem“But it’s not Abercrombie!” I stormed out of the
bling, I reached for my shopping bags that now
room. She just didn’t understand.
seemed to weigh a million pounds. I moved closer.
That was the summer of 2007, and my 11-yearI could see the girl had a water bottle that was alold mind was polluted with its obsession over demost empty. Her forehead was beaded with sweat as
signer clothes and Coach handbags. Every part of
she lifted the bottle to the boy’s lips. His tears
me longed to be at the mall buying the latest fashstopped and for a moment, so did the world around
ions. Instead, I was trapped on an airplane dragging
me. He smiled, and I witnessed happiness in its
me halfway across the world to Beijing, China.
purest form. The girl’s face broke into
Once off the plane, I knew China
a smile too, and I broke into tears. I
was different from any place I had
wanted so badly to say something to
ever been. People seemed conservaI didn’t want
her. I wanted to walk over and hug her.
tive and appreciative. An unfinished
to believe that
I wanted to tell her that I loved her. I
sandwich belonged in the fridge,
wanted to do so much.
never abandoned in a garbage can. At
children
lived
She coaxed the little boy to sleep.
the marketplace, a shopper would
spend countless minutes haggling
shattered lives Rocked between her delicate knees,
his expression eased from stressed to
with a storekeeper just to save a Chiserene. A tear slid down the girl’s face,
nese dollar or two.
leaving a brown streak on her cheek. I covered my
My mom and I spent a full Sunday afternoon
mouth to keep from screaming. How could children
emptying her wallet at a local mall. Our arms filled
be living like this when all I cared about were
with bags of clothing and shoes, we exited the shopclothes and shoes? As if she felt my connection with
ping center to be immediately strangled by the stiher, the girl looked up. Her eyes shot emotions at me
fling heat of a typical Beijing day.
all at once: anger, frustration, and loneliness.
“Ice cream?” my mom suggested.
For days, all I could think about was the girl and
“Sounds good,” I replied. We found a shaded area
her brother. As if it wasn’t enough to handle, my
to sit, and my thoughts drifted to the shirt I had just
aunt took my family out to dinner one night. As we
bought, perfect for the first day of school. Everyone
pulled up to the fancy restaurant, my jaw dropped. It
at school is going to be so jealous. This shirt is to die
was beautiful; the massive chandelier hanging in the
for! Mid-thought, something caught my attention.
doorway pierced the surrounding night.
My eyes were drawn to the nearby subway stairA boy of about eight approached the car to tell us
well. I had taken those stairs a number of times in
where to park. I was uncomfortably close to him,
and out of downtown Beijing, but I’d never before
our faces and lives divided by the thin car window. I
seen the two kids sitting below the handrail. A girl
couldn’t help but wonder who he was. I saw his tatof about six or seven hid in the shadows of the
tered clothes and his sad brown eyes, but I didn’t
“P
want to believe that there were children living such
shattered lives.
“Hold your purse close,” my aunt warned. She
pushed past the boy and tugged my hand.
As we sat down to dinner, my appetite disappeared. I ate in silence, haunted by the boy’s face.
God, why him? He doesn’t deserve this. At the end
of dinner, my eyes darted across the table to an untouched plate of food. I silently thanked God and
asked the waiter for a take-out box.
“For him?” my aunt asked tenderly. I nodded.
Stepping out into the heat of Beijing, I looked toward our car. The same boy was standing next to the
passenger door, still but alert. I ran over, growing
more self-conscious with every step. “Here. This is
yours. Eat it, please,” I begged. My American accent
seemed to strain my words.
Unsure what to expect, I stepped back. Would he
want my leftovers, my garbage? Everything seemed
to flash before me: the dress I spent hours begging
for, the excessive amount of food I’d devoured in the
last hour. I was scared.
The rustle of the plastic bag shook me from my
thoughts. He inspected the container’s contents, then
looked up. For a second, I thought I was looking
into the eyes of Brian, my little brother. I shivered.
“Thank you,” he blurted in an angelic voice. He
ran off behind the building and out of sight. That
could be Brian.
I don’t know what the boy did with the food.
Maybe he shared it with his family. Maybe they all
enjoyed it. The possibilities were endless. Now, four
years later, I wonder if that boy knows I’m writing
about him with a full stomach, in an air-conditioned
room halfway across the world, in a promising
country called America. I wonder if the subway girl
has a home. I wonder if she still has that strength I
admired – the strength to smile even when the treasures in her life are practically invisible. I wonder if
they both know how much they mean to a spoiled
young girl like me. ✦
Beulah’s Story
community service
Spoiled
Sponsored by
by Katie Collins, Manteno, IL
and a pen. I said, “So, start at the beginning.” She took a
eulah Corum was 90 years old and dying of lung
sip of water and began talking.
cancer when I met her. Her sparse cotton-white
Words flowed and wrapped around each other, weavhair was meticulously curled, and her lips were
ing pictures. I could suddenly see a three-year-old in a
painted red. She wore huge bifocals that went down past
hospital bed. Tubes snaked from the girl’s left arm, and a
her eyes, making her look bug-like. Her arms were
younger Beulah clung to her right. A machine screamed
folded across her chest, and she wore a pink sweater
the death. I watched the tears flooding the creases of
with tan trousers. It was burning hot outside, and the
Beulah’s cheeks. We were both quiet for a long time.
nursing home did not believe in very much air conditionI visited Beulah many times over the next
ing. I remember my blue volunteer polo
eight weeks. Each time, she would talk and I
stuck to my back and my hair looked like ten
She taught would listen. She gave me piles and piles of
hairdryers had hit it all at once.
some with more weight than others,
I sat down on her loveseat and crossed my
me to step memories,
and I complied them all into a scrapbook and
legs. As my foot bobbed up and down nervtyped her biography. She held my hand and
ously, I asked her how she was doing. “I sat
carefully
smiled when I presented it to her.
at lunch for an hour before my food came.
I know that what I did for Beulah would fall
I’m ready to get out of this place.” Her apartunder
the
category
of community service. And yet when
ment reflected that feeling, with its sparse decoration. I
I tell people what I did that summer, no one seems to uncouldn’t see a single personal item anywhere. The only
derstand the gift she gave me in return. I was able to see
thing that made it different from the rest was the huge
a life laid out from beginning to end. I learned that a sinplastic breathing mask tucked under the television cabigle event can melt and spread its colors onto every monet. She caught me staring at it and explained the treatment thereafter. She taught me to step carefully when
ments she had to undergo to fight the cancer. I put the
needed and to leap high when not. Best of all, she was
mask into the cabinet, out of sight.
my friend. ✦
The next time I came to see her I brought a journal
B
Art by Leonora Jew, Placentia, CA
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Teen Ink • February ’12 • Page 18
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Dartmouth
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
Built on Catholic education
values of academic excellence,
DeSales University is driven
by educators and advisors that
inspire performance.
2755 Station Avenue
CenterValley, PA 18034
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu/teenink
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
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Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
140 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: [email protected]
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where YYou
o
ou
Want To Go
www
www.hpu.edu/teenink
.hpu.edu/teenink
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
inquiry and care of the whole
student, in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences, and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
Teen Ink • February ’12 • Page 19
BACHELOR ❘ ASSOCIATE ❘ CERTIFICATE
Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
Arts & Sciences, Business Administration,
Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.
Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
Princeton
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
• 100+ campus organizations
• 23 NCAA Division III sports
• A tradition of service-learning
61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu
Pace University offers talented and
ambitious students the opportunity to
discover their potential and realize their
dreams. Campuses in New York City
and Pleasantville, NY.
Experience the Power of Pace.
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: [email protected]
www.pratt.edu
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email [email protected]
www.pace.edu
A picturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
Communications, Health, Arts and
Sciences, Nursing, Education and Law.
Located midway between New York City
and Boston with Division I athletics.
Consistently rated among the top
Regional Colleges in the North
in U.S. News & World Report.
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
SlipperyRock
• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT 06518
1.800.462.1944
www.quinnipiac.edu
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh, the University is ranked number five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic quality at an affordable price.
University
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
SWARTHMORE
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
Located in beautiful northeastern
Pennsylvania, Wilkes is an independent
institution dedicated to academic excellence,
mentoring and hands-on learning. Wilkes
offers more than 36 programs in pharmacy,
the sciences, liberal arts and business.
Check out www.becolonel.com.
www.wilkes.edu
84 West South Street
Wilkes-Barre, PA 18766
I 1-800-WILKES-U
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www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
called “Writing and Rhetoric.” Prepare yourself for a career as a journalist, a novelist, an
advertising copywriter, a public relations
professional, or an English teacher! Located
minutes from RI’s gorgeous beaches.
Newman Hall, Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100
uri.edu/artsci/writing/
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
Columbia College Chicago
believes in the power
of your creativity, and is
proud to offer an education
specifically tailored for
students—like yourself—
who want to pursue a life in
the arts.
I OVA
INN
OVAT
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T H E VISUAL,
V I S UA L , PERFORMING,
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Schedule a visit on-line and see how we provide the
Schedule
rigorous academics and unparalleled rresources
esources that will
future.
turn your talents into a rreal
eal futur
e.
colum.edu/admissions
[email protected]
admissions
@colum.edu / 312.369.7130
www.TeenInk.com
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
Written a Book Lately? Submit Your Novel Online!
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential –
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
TM
PHOTO BY JAMIE ROSKKO
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
heroes
History Teacher • Carmel Valley Middle School
Gino Scalo
by Morgan Chen, Encinitas, CA
B
efore I first stepped into the
frigid atmosphere of Mr.
Scalo’s realm, I pulled on my
fur-lined parka and took out my sealskin gloves, well-prepared and ready
to brave the cold.
Well, actually, I just shivered and
tugged at the ends of my T-shirt,
wishing I had brought a jacket. I
stepped through the door and craned
my neck to look for familiar faces
that first day of school. Unfortunately,
I did not get to sit with my friends
since the assigned seats were
arranged in alphabetical order. I was
forced to sit in the front column of
desks while my friends sat far away,
in the other half of the frozen tundra
of a classroom.
I have an abundance of friends who
had Mr. Scalo as their history teacher,
and I heard he was challenging. I
heard his classroom was an icebox.
But all my friends described him as
funny. Whether they meant odd or humorous, I wasn’t sure. Now I consider
him to be both.
Mr. Scalo was a contestant on
The 21st Annual
had slick whiteboards.
“Jeopardy” a few years ago. On the
His classroom is home to an aglast day of school before winter
glomeration of rusty, antique-looking
break, he showed us a “special video
Swingline staplers that are probably
presentation.” Though we did not
older than I am. I had never seen a
watch the whole show, we saw him
stapler like his before. But despite
make it past his first day on the show,
their apparent age, they have never
and we couldn’t help but cheer him
broken. Mr. Scalo once joked that
on. We were impressed with his
Abraham Lincoln had
knowledge of presiused one of his staplers.
dents’ inaugural
Had his tone not been so
speeches (to teens this
His humor
comical, we might have
seems the most boring
makes history believed him.
topic ever), but we were
Mr. Scalo never fails to
not the least bit sura class to look make
us laugh, which is
prised.
forward to
why he still is my favorite
Mr. Scalo is undoubtteacher. His humor is irreedly odd in his own way.
sistible, and he makes hisInstead of the flexible
tory – a subject that some consider
document cameras that some teachers
bland and boring – a class to look foruse, Mr. Scalo insists on an oldward to. The words in our history
school overhead projector that rebook become an enjoyable story when
quires transparencies and squeaky
told in a clever way. Of course, Mr.
markers. In fact, he even told us that
Scalo’s talent of speaking in hilarious
he refused to change from chalkaccents with edgy humor helps.
boards to whiteboards in his previous
However, his class is still a chalschool. Eventually, he was forced to
lenge for even the brightest students.
use them when he moved to teach in
We have to memorize the states, their
sunny Cali, where the schools already
capitals, and their locations at the beginning of the year. This was just the
start of a long, hard struggle with
memorizing that year. After states, we
learned the presidents, from George
Washington to Barack Obama, and
their vice presidents and terms. This
once caused me to have a dream that
Justin Bieber changed his name to J.
Danforth Quayle (for those who are
not familiar with him, Quayle was
vice president under George H.W.
Bush, the 41st president). We are currently halfway through memorizing
100 important dates in U.S. history.
Mr. Scalo is a dynamic teacher, one
I am very lucky to have. Though I’ll
admit his classroom no longer feels
like Antarctica, he is still significantly
different from most of my teachers.
His way of teaching through humor is
appealing and easy to follow, but his
challenging requirements keep students on their toes. He is unique in his
teaching skills and his quirkiness,
which makes him an unequaled mentor in the lessons of yesteryear. ✦
English Teacher • Harlan Independent High School
Vickie Ball
by Nicholas Howard, Harlan, KY
“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his
influence stops.”
– Henry Brooks Adams
Educator
Year
of the
Contest
Do you have an outstanding
teacher, coach, guidance
counselor, librarian,
or principal?
1) Tell us why your nominee is special. What has your educator done
for your class, you, another student,
or the community? Be specific.
2) Essays should be between 150
and 500 words.
3) Only junior and senior high
school educators are eligible.
4) Include your nominee’s first
and last name, position or subject
taught, and the school where he/she
teaches.
Online: TeenInk.com/Submissions
or E-mail:
[email protected]
Winners and honorable mentions will
be announced in the June 2012 issue.
Deadline: May 1, 2012
on the first day, I remember Mrs. Ball presenting a humorous
PowerPoint slide that compared a student chewing gum to a
cow chewing her cud. On another occasion, she showed a Powknow that those who taught me were once taught by others.
erPoint illustrating the dangers of misplaced modifiers. As we
In that way, one teacher’s influence on a student is a refleclaughed at the funny examples, we learned and became more
tion of another teacher’s work. I know that one day the imaware of our own mistakes. As Shakespeare would say, “There
pact my teachers have had on me will allow me to impact
is a method in the madness.”
others. This is one of the many reasons I am privileged to know
Mrs. Ball’s experience as a mother helps her build character
Mrs. Vickie Ball, English teacher at Harlan Independent High
in
her students. Those in her classroom are treated more like
School. Her influence on my life and my education more than
her
children than students. She takes time to work with each of
qualifies her as Educator of the Year.
us
individually
– something a good mother and a good teacher
Regardless of background, Mrs. Ball makes all students beknows to do – ’til we understand the content. She expects all
lieve in themselves. I have seen students enter her classroom
students to be well-mannered in and out of her classroom, and
expecting to breeze by and get on with their lives. However,
to develop morals and virtues to guide them in life.
what they soon realize is that no one in her classroom will be
I also believe Mrs. Ball deserves this award due
allowed to “breeze by.” She believes in and ento
her outstanding teaching skills. She begins teachcourages her students to the point that they begin
ing
before the tardy bell rings, making sure that not
to believe in themselves. One thing she never alShe takes time a second
is wasted in her class. I have experienced
lows students to do is tell themselves they cannot
days
where
I begin writing before the bell and do
to
work
with
do something.
not finish until two minutes after class is over. Mrs.
She expects her students to put forth their best
each of us
Ball teaches students to retain the knowledge they
effort – in other words, to try. She expects this so
gain, rather than memorize for a test. Her assessstrongly that none of her students ever utter “I
ments
are
designed
so students must explain what they have
don’t know” in her presence (to do so would be near blaslearned,
as
well
as
apply
those concepts on a deeper level.
phemy). Mrs. Ball will not accept that answer. Newcomers tend
I
can
say
(without
a
doubt)
that of all the tests I have taken in
to use that as a safety answer, expecting her to move on to
my
life,
Mrs.
Ball’s
have
been
some of the most difficult, besomeone else, but they are sorely mistaken. Like a bird of prey
cause
I
actually
had
to
think.
One
of Mrs. Ball’s best skills is
circling, Mrs. Ball will patiently wait for that student to delve
her ability to realize when she has made a mistake and to cordeeper for the answer. She knows that they know, so she will
rect it, which few people are humble enough to do. And so,
not accept defeat, and she teaches them to not accept it either.
Mrs. Ball teaches by example for me how to admit my own
Another reason Mrs. Vickie Ball should be Educator of the
mistakes and correct them. She teaches her students humility.
Year is the way that she teaches students to have inner strength.
The way I see it, Mrs. Ball’s influence on my life will last for
In tough situations, Mrs. Ball will kindly tell her students (male
eternity.
As I influence those around me (whether it be offering
or female) to “put on your big girl panties and deal with it.”
advice,
mentoring,
instructing, or counseling), I know that the
She says this often when her students feel as if life is pressurpart
of
me
she
has
impacted
will reach others. Mrs. Ball goes
ing them or that something is too difficult. Although the phrase
above and beyond what is asked of her, and it has made all the
is comical, Mrs. Ball uses it to teach her students that they can
difference to me. ✦
endure – they can “deal with it.”
I
Mrs. Ball tries to include life lessons in her teaching. Even
20
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
COMMENT
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pride & prejudice
Take a Joke, Sweetheart
by Jess Rockeman, Cottonwood Court, MN
talk instead of towering over me.
e leaned over my desk, his body casting a
“They may mean those jokes to be harmless, but
shadow over my writing. Two fists were
they’re ignorant,” I continued. “Believe me, the
suddenly pressed hard next to my book, givjokes don’t end at ‘Women should stay in the
ing him an air of undeserved authority. “You know
kitchen.’ They continue until they become sexual
they’re just joking, right?” His voice was gentle, as
and inappropriate. I want them to stop now before I
if he were speaking to a timid animal.
have even more reason to be angry.” I’d been down
I nodded slowly, confused, trying to focus on my
this road before, many times.
work as my blood boiled. “I’m aware that they’re
“I think you should just give it up before they
joking, but jokes can be offensive, and I was feeling
gang up on you,” he replied, calmly and reasonably,
uncomfortable,” I said.
like an adult pacifying a cranky child.
He took a deep breath, a small, nearly undeI was so upset I wanted to cry, but the steam gathtectable smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
ering behind my eyes made tears imHe shoved his sleeves up his arms.
possible. I wondered who he thought
“The more you ask them to stop,
was, standing over a girl he’d never
the more they’ll just keep doing it.
“The more you he
spoken to, telling her that her words
That’s how they work.” He was
ask them to stop, were useless, that she could try but
telling me what many men had
always fail. If we had been
tried to explain before: men don’t
the more they’ll she’d
friends, I would have listened; if he’d
change, men don’t stop, men won’t
just keep doing it” spoken to me like a peer, I would have
listen to you.
cared. But he was just pushing me
And oh, he was so very smart, his
down, stuffing me into a box until
words so very wise. I knew that he
I suffocated on all of my useless, silly words.
thought he was imparting some helpful, kind-hearted
I looked him in the eye and said, “If they’re
wisdom on me. He was trying to save the silly girl
going
to be rude, then I will be rude back.”
who was making a fool of herself by refusing to tolerMy comment didn’t even make sense. Ten
ate something that made her and other girls uncomminutes earlier, a group of boys had been tradfortable. He was playing big brother, daddy, the
ing sexist jokes about women. I had turned
savior on a white horse sent to shut me up.
around in my seat, looked one of the boys in
I looked at him, anger burning the back of my
the eye, and said, “Just please stop, for me. I’m
neck and my cheeks. “So, because they won’t stop, I
asking you to stop.” That boy looked doubtful
should just give up? I should let them make sexist
but he stopped, and I resumed my work. I
jokes that make me very uneasy?” We were in hisdidn’t yell, lecture, or swear. I simply asked. I
tory class. I thought I deserved to feel safe.
used words, the only weapon I knew how to
His smirk faltered a bit. “They’re just joking.
use, and everything was okay.
They don’t actually mean what they say.”
Now this boy had the nerve to tell me that
People were watching us; I could feel their eyes. I
my words didn’t mean anything. This boy hurt
was suddenly vulnerable. I wanted them to stop starme more than he realized. He tried to take
ing, to go away. I wanted this boy to sit down and
H
Loving My Size
by Kellie Scholefield, Hollis, NH
clothes because I thought they only looked good on
have size 12 women’s feet, and I’m proud of it.
girls who wore a size two and had size seven feet. InI like walking into shoe stores and having only six
stead, I would wear a sweatshirt and sweatpants, or ocpairs to choose from – it cuts down the decision
casionally jeans if I was feeling adventurous. In stores,
time. I also enjoy being able to order my prom shoes
I resented the cute clothing as if it was the clothes’ fault
from yourfeetmakeyouunique.com because I know no
I couldn’t try them on. I wished I could wear my
one else will have the same shoes. It doesn’t hurt, either,
smelly softball uniform everywhere because that was
that the name of the store is a confidence booster.
what I felt most comfortable in. On the softball field, it
People ask me how I deal with having big feet, but to
didn’t matter what size I was, only how well I played.
be honest, I rarely think about it. I have been the biggest
I don’t know exactly when it happened,
girl in my family, among my friends, and
but one day I realized I didn’t hate my
in my grade my whole life. I am athletiOn the softball body anymore. Maybe it was the day I
cally built and am not meant to wear size
five games in a row and could have
four clothing like my sister.
field, it didn’t pitched
kept playing, or the time I tried on a bikini
There are benefits to my size. When I’m
matter what for laughs and saw that it actually looked
playing softball, I am able to maintain my
good on me. Maybe I just grew tired of
balance if a girl slides into me at home
size I was
wishing my body was different.
plate. My feet, hands, legs, and arms are all
Now I’m happy when I step onto the volin proportion, so if I were to lose 30
leyball court wearing tight spandex, because I know I
pounds, I would look abnormal and might even be miscan serve a ball that most girls can’t dig up. I am even
taken for E.T.’s twin.
happy walking on the beach in a bikini because I feel
I used to be uncomfortable with my body, which is
powerful. And when I walk down the halls at school or
normal for kids my age, but I always thought I was
the mall, I am not self-conscious. I wouldn’t change a
worse off than everyone else. I never ate more than northing, even if my fairy godmother gave me three
mal size portions, and I played sports, so I was not lazy.
wishes. I will just keep walking with my head held
When I was young, I was pretty frustrated, thinking I
high, putting one size-12 foot in front of the other,
had been born with a less than ideal body. During junior
knowing that I am beautiful. ✦
high and into high school, I was afraid to wear nice
I
22
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
COMMENT
away the only weapon I had to defend myself.
But he didn’t have the power to do that. I will
never stop fighting for what I believe is right. I will
never stop standing up for myself, my friends, and
my gender, and I will never stop using my (stupid,
useless, fruitless, beautiful, powerful, amazing)
words.
He backed away, easing off my desk. Frustration
was apparent in his face, but he kept his features
stony and emotionless. “Fine, whatever. But you’ll
never get anywhere with them, believe me.”
I didn’t believe him. To this day, I don’t believe
him, because I have continually used my knowledge
and my words to make others rethink their actions.
Sometimes I fail and they don’t stop. Sometimes my
words get me into trouble. But sometimes I even
make a new ally.
Little did he know, that boy didn’t break me
down. He made me stronger. ✦
Perfection
My body is perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
My head, shoulders, knees, and toes,
My eyes, my ears, my mouth, my nose
Are all fully functional, fully beautiful.
Sure, not everyone will look at me and love
everything they see.
I am not blonde,
I am not flat,
My nose is big,
My legs are fat,
My tummy’s too chubby,
My skin is too white.
I have cellulite.
But these “flaws” are okay; I’m only human,
right?
Well, these chunky legs let me walk upright,
Let me walk right down the street with a smile
stretched across my cheeks.
These crooked teeth, they let me eat french fries
and gummy bears and oranges and chocolate.
Look at this – Look at ME!
I can dance.
I can do a cartwheel.
I walk extremely well in heels.
And at the end of the day when those heels have
blistered my feet,
My eyes
Will not cry because this body feels no pain.
Even when they leave me stained black and blue
My brain lifts me up and carries me through.
But my heart,
I can feel it in this heart, my favorite body part
that feels sorrow, joy, love, and hate
And I love to listen to the constant beat,
The steady flow of blood through my veins
Giving color to the stains on my pearly
white skin,
Giving life to all my parts within
And all my parts without.
Pumping
Pumping
Pumping to every beautiful, functioning cell in
my beautiful, functioning body.
So even though I may not look like much to you,
I dare you to tell me this body isn’t perfect.
by Blythe Culpepper, Gibson, GA
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• Teen Ink
23
nonfiction
Just a Little Off the Top
by Keilah Sullivan, Eureka, MO
She buries those pointy red claws
here’s something fundamentally wrong about
deep in the shadowy recesses of a cabiputting your hair into the hands of a scissornet drawer and emerges bearing the
wielding fiend in stilettos and designer clothflashing blades of the dreaded scissors.
ing with a hunk of congealing, over-gelled
The first thing you think is, If she trips
who-knows-what growing on top of her head. She
in those heels while holding those scishobbles up in her heels, grips your hand with clawsors, good-bye Left Eyeball, ol’ buddy.
like red fingernails, and shows her teeth in a pained
It’s been nice seeing out of you. Don’t
smile somewhere between passing gas and extreme
worry, the glass eye will never take
constipation.
your place in my heart.
“Do something,” you say, “just wipe that pained
She’s poised over your hair, then
expression off your face and pull your lips back over
snatches a handful and positions the
your fangs before someone mistakes you for
blade. You squeeze your eyes shut, pray,
Medusa and chops off your head.”
and stifle a scream as the
Okay, so maybe you don’t say that.
scissors rasp shut. You sit
But you think it. As the time-worn epiIt’s never good in stony silence for the rest
taph goes, “Speak to the hairdresser at
the haircut, gripping the
your own risk.” It’s never good to ofto offend the of
seat until your knuckles are white, refend the one wielding the scissors. One
wrong snip and – “Oops! Sorry.”
one wielding fusing to respond to the hairdresser’s
attempts at conversation. Maybe she’ll
Maybe you can tell your friends you
the scissors
think you’re deaf. Or maybe you could
were mauled by a bear to explain that
say something like, “Me no speaky
giant chunk of missing hair on the side
Eenglee.” It’s a special case, you can say: normally
of your head.
you speak perfect English, but once or twice a day
After she shakes your hand and wins the Prize for
you undergo a vocal-cord bypass and suddenly all
Most Constipated Expression, she leads you over to
you can speak is stilted Russian. Exacerbated by
one of those squishy swivel chairs and runs her
creepy hairdressers in stilettos with pointy red
claws through your hair. You try not to shiver. You
claws. Nothing serious.
fail. It’s a shiver of epic proportions, starting at the
You keep your eyes furiously glued to the floor,
tip-top of your head and popping down each vertejust
waiting for the scissors to slip, skewer your eyebrae of your spine. She takes you to another chair to
ball, and then pop it out again like a shish kebab.
wash your hair, getting shampoo in your ears and
Just waiting for her to make an irreparable mistake
making you shiver again. She leads you back to the
and shatter your life before your very eyes. Just
chair and drags her claws along your scalp once
waiting for her to turn into a flame-eyed, bat-winged
more. Of course you shiver.
demon from hell. Wielding the Scissors of Death.
Maybe she’ll just think you have a weird twitch.
Finally the moment has arrived. She asks you
Or maybe you can tell her you’re mildly epileptic.
to look in the mirror. No amount of twitching,
It’s a special case, you can say: no real seizures,
shivering, and sudden deafness can save you now.
only spastic shivers 12 or 15 times an hour. ExacerYou raise your head, feeling like a 100-pound
bated by creepy hairdressers in stilettos with pointy
weight is attached to your chin. You stare at yourself
red claws. Nothing serious.
T
Photo by Olivia Ezinga, Alto, MI
in the mirror. Silent. Speechless. Thunderstruck.
Flabbergasted.
Because you love it.
It’s beautiful and light and stylish and sassy and
perfect. Everything you wanted but didn’t ask for.
Couldn’t ask for. Wouldn’t ask for.
You gush over it, and fondle it, and feel the ruffled edges with your fingertips. You thank her. Then
you thank her again. And again. And again. Because
each “thank you” is a secret “I’m sorry” that’s glued
to the roof of your mouth. Your smile stretches from
the bottom of the ocean to the sky, the Golden Gate
Bridge to New York, Mars to Pluto, Earth to Heaven.
So you thank her again.
Maybe she’ll think you’re bipolar. Maybe you can
say you suffer from convulsive depression. It’s a
special case, you can say. Every once in a while you
undergo a sinking gloominess and you can barely
raise your head and look at yourself.
But it’s cured by smiling hairdressers in cute
stilettos with pretty, red-painted fingernails.
Nothing serious. ✦
Through the Eyes of a Pregnant 17-Year-Old
breaking point
I walk
Movement inside
Books and paper in hand
Small twitches of thrashes and kicks
Head down
Are all that keep me moving
Eyes to the floor
All that keep me alive
Just trying to get through school
unnoticed
The life I carry inside me
I am a mountain
He is holy
A freight-train carrying unwanted
He is perfect
luggage
He is clean
I am a dumpster
tiny little life
Where some boy threw
I am that This
Defenseless against the cruelty
away his excess
girl no one of the outside world
And then walked away
tiny alien
Without looking back
wants to be My
Now complete with toes and
fingernails
I am that girl no one wants
to be
I can’t give up
The girl who wears her sin on her skin
I can’t let go
I am unclean
Not when I am so close
Unholy
Not when everything I ever feared
Unworthy of any affection
Ever hated
Besides the snubs and snide comments
Ever ridiculed
From the sides of everyone’s mouth
Has become the only thing I love
And cherish
Silver-violet rivers cut
Through my pale island shores
So let them scorn
Stretching the fabric of my body to its
24
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
Let them snub
Let them avert their eyes
Like I am a disease
And he will never know the edges of his
child’s heart
Because I am so much more than that
I am brave
I am strong
And I am going to be a mom
At 17
So when I see him
Walking down the hall
In his red shirts and faded jeans
When I see him avert his eyes
And walk away
When I see him sit alone
And when I see his unshed tears
I know
He will never love the way I do
He will never care for something
The way he pledged those many
nights ago
He will never hear my baby’s heartbeat
Or know his tiny fingers
He will never know his little face
Looking just like his father
COMMENT
by “Sara,” Fort Wayne, IN
Because he is afraid
Because he cannot bear to stand up
And face the world the way I have
been forced to do
Because he is not strong enough to say
those three words
To a life he helped create
He will never mean those three words
to anyone he says them to
He will never say “I love you”
Because I am the only one who carries
our broken secret
Like a tattoo upon my skin
I am a mountain
Complete with silver-violet rivers
And a knocking sound within
I am an alien
Bearing life forms in my womb
But more than that?
I am a mother
Thrust into life too soon ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Antonio Lopez, East Palo Alto, CA
philosophy. However, in spite of its native features,
here is the problem since day one: I don’t belong
there. As a kid, I’d walk to school, hoping to greet a
group of students as passionate and devoted to
learning as I was. Instead, I’d see a bunch of preteens who let their impoverished state, their chauvinist community, and their misguided intuition
identify them. They made the ghetto look like the
ghetto, playing the Hispanic stereotype of baggy
pants, knotted hair, long white T-shirts, and worst
of all, malicious faces. They preached racism toward white people, homophobia, and a general intolerance for anyone who refused to conform to
their lifestyle. I, however, strove to remain resilient,
reminding myself that this environment was an
interim step toward success and that the greatest leaders have always faced oppression, even
from their kin. I remained resilient – until my
family wasn’t there to support me.
Art by Heather Rose, Mill Valley, CA
I love my family: they provide me with food,
Magnetic attraction
refuge, and constant concern for my needs.
when peers slander the very place I live, saying
My fingers hover
However, in my final year of middle school, my
they’d “get shot instantly.” Yes, I am vexed at the
poised over the paper with purpose
mother suffered a severe clinical depression. In
sheer aristocracy that I immerse myself in every
other words, the sole person who brought me
day, where teenagers take luxuries for granted and
Praise the woman
into this world, who always slapped a giant kiss
criticize perfectly good food, when I am simply
Who, like Enheduanna,
on my greasy forehead when I came home from
thankful to no longer be eating moldy hot dogs for
loves the smell of concentration
school, who always cooked my favorite dish of
lunch. Yes, I am annoyed at the perfect academic/
Who writes
frijoladas, transformed virtually overnight. No
athlete profile this school has strived to maintain.
As if walking around a wall
longer did I wake up to smell pancakes sizzling
Yes, I am infuriated when students assert that
Could bring it down forever.
on a cold morning. Now, I woke up with both
poverty is a result of laziness and a lack of diliPraise the woman who has trampled that wall
the
house
and
my
psychological
state
an
abgence, not unfortunate circumstance. And yes, I feel
To the ashes
solute mess, with my mother, for reasons I still
poorer when my peers know everything about colWhere the prejudices of humanity crumble
cannot understand, sobbing silently in the corleges and financial resources to visit them, not to
to nonexistence
ner. And so, when I confessed that I’d been
mention SAT coaches to increase their odds of adIt calls me by my name
beaten, bullied, and ostracized from our commumission, while I grew up in a place where high
My real name no one knows
nity, she met me with empty eyes.
school dropouts are as common as iPhones are here.
And pensively I contemplate,
I began to wear long white tees as well, and
In short, I have jumped from one stereotypical experhaps it named me
my accent was laced with an
treme to another – from attending an
urban
voice.
But
I
realized
that
inner-city school where being MexiMy face shines with awe at the woman
I
couldn’t
just
loiter
around
the
can means that you are normal, to a
Who, like Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Conformity is
front door; if I wanted my
suburban bubble where being Mexidoes not mind inky hands
brothers to welcome me, I
As if the work of her small hands
simply the absence can means you probably clean toineeded to demonstrate that I
lets, serve food, or pick up trash.
could compel tears
could be as hostile and as menof the courage to
However, despite the financial and
I radiate awe to the woman
acing as they were. All of this,
racial
isolation I face at this school, I
Who has united this world through emotion
be different
frankly, I would have done, but
am generally thankful for escaping
And has wet the faces of her neighbors
I quickly realized that this life
my self-subjugating former commuPerhaps it is a fatal addiction
was not what I wanted; these
nity and joining a collection of bright minds in a
If so, I beg to capitulate to its poison
clothes weren’t mine.
place where pursuers of knowledge are not mocked
Spare me the opiate if this is pain
Over time, I came to two important conclubut exalted. I have been challenged to manage my
Rather, hone the weapon which afflicts me
sions. First, everything you love, every piece of
time wisely and to write a paper effectively, lessons
fabric you weave together into the quilt that is
I may not have learned otherwise. It has prepared
Honor the woman
your life, can be ripped apart in a moment. Secme as the son of a man who never graduated from
Who, like Maya Angelou,
ond, when a friend was
sixth grade, as the first member of my family who
Fans her face with the wings of a book
killed in a drive-by
plans to attend college, as that young boy who tried
As if freeing her words
shooting, I immediately
so hard to fit in and make his peers laugh, to develop
could
realized that this is not
into a powerful, confident individual for whom neiLiberate people from their
my home; despite the
ther of his worlds can take sole credit.
hurting
fact that I grew up and
I cannot be a Mexican-American; I am either too
Honor the woman
live here, I cannot surMexican for whites or too white for Mexicans. I
Who has left the cage
vive here. And so,
cannot be a ghetto intellectual; I am either too ghetto
door ajar
without my mother’s
for the intellectuals or too intellectual for the ghetto.
and still does not forget
approval, I applied and
But to be blunt, who cares? Conformity is simply
the prisoner’s laments
was accepted to a private
the absence of the courage to be different, and
Long after it has flown
high school in privileged
wealth is a poor, arbitrary way to measure such
Praise the Woman who
Atherton, a place I so
assimilation.
Writes
wanted to belong.
These stereotypical extremes have only strengthHere, I feel relieved.
ened my beliefs. I sometimes get confused about
by Keely Hendricks,
Yes, I am angered when
which universe is the real one and which is the alterNashville, TN
I hear a white boy maknate reality. But in the end, it does not matter. I shall
ing racist allusions, or
Photo by Michelle Moy, Brooklyn, NY
intertwine them. ✦
S
ometimes I forget I am an adapted pariah, an
outcast who fits everywhere but belongs
nowhere. Which universe is the real one? Both
realms seem surreal to me, for both shock me on a
daily basis and both have remarkably redefined my
perceptions of right and wrong. I have come to see
that. And both realms, despite their vastly different
teaching conventions, have together molded my
socio-political identity.
I was born into a humble Mexican family 17
years ago in the city of East Palo Alto. It was, is,
and always will be my hometown, the roots that
hold together the blossoming flower that is my
intellect, the soil that erects the stem of my
nonfiction
I Can Move Through Worlds
Enheduanna
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
25
environment
The Beauty of the Cosmos
by Alex Fong, Golden, CO
millions in the known universe.
young man, not yet a high school gradHis mind’s eye now abandons its useless
uate, lies in a canoe floating on a still
forms of measurement; the distances he perlake deep in the North American
ceives now are of such dizzying scales that
woods. An almost imperceptible breeze flutters
they render his puny world inconsequential by
just above the water’s surface, its chilling tencomparison. He imagines the distant quasars
drils faintly brushing over the contented teen.
and pulsars, gamma ray bursts and red-shifted
It’s just past midnight, and the cabins lining
galaxies, toeing the edge of what the lightthe shore show no signs of life. This, coupled
speed boundary allows us to see, and he is
with the only nearby town being a small comthankful.
munity, means that light pollution is negligiHe is thankful for the rod and cone cells
ble. Without that nuisance, the heavens are
covering the walls of his retina, reacting to
fully revealed in all their glory.
every ray of light and firing a
He lies, overwhelmed. The
pulse down the optical nerves to a
earth drops away and his breath
The
heavens
central location in a web of neuis taken from him by the splendor
rons. He is thankful for every
of the night sky. He observes a
are fully
chemical reaction, every electron
glowing band of light, a highway
revealed in all transfer through the synapses of
of billions of stars known by the
his brain that allow him to feel the
ancients as Via Lactea – the
their glory
cool water into which he now dips
Milky Way. The galaxy above
his hand. He is thankful for the
him spans the entire night sky,
sun,
the
magnificent
fusion bomb that powers
horizon to horizon, illuminating the otherwise
every
action
and
reaction
on Earth’s surface.
dark, pitiless vacuum of space not 200 miles
Tears brim the edges of his eyes as he reabove his head. He knows it’s massive,
flects on the laws of the universe, the notes,
100,000 light-years across and another 1,000
melodies, and harmonies through which the
thick, the distances almost inconceivable.
cosmos plays its tune. Quarks form hadrons
But he knows there is more. He lets his
form atoms form molecules form objects from
imagination pierce the confines of the visible,
grains of sand to galaxies. Gravity, electroand his mind perceives the Milky Way as just
magnetism, the strong and weak forces, therone galaxy of 30 in the Local Group, and even
modynamics – all play their pivotal roles in the
further as a member of the Virgo Supercluster,
intergalactic opera, and he is thankful. The
an immense collection of galaxies over 110
universe is an incredible place. ✦
million light-years across. His mind staggers
as he realizes this supercluster is but one of
A
21st Century
Evolution
We’ve lost their wings
So we sprout plastic ones.
Grow radar goggles to see
What we want
Through the film
Plastered
On our airplane windows.
Try to ignore nature
Knocking. Facing
Our own destruction
Hurts too much. Yet haze
Threatens us. It’ll engulf
Our precious cities.
It’s already started.
We shut the shade
To sweep over the gash.
We want to ignore
Nature screaming, curled
Up in a corner.
But it bangs
On the glass. Claws
Us to wake our dormant
Brains, to open
Them to scarred fields
Below. It begs us to hear over
The propellers, to not
Let them shred
Mother into withered husks.
It tells the bubble people
They’ve broken one wing.
It pleads with our closed eyelids
To protect the other.
But we crumple its pleas
In a paper fist
To toss behind
And litter
Our footsteps.
BOOK REVIEW
The Omnivore’s Dilemma
by Michael Pollan
T
he main problem I’ve always had with books about the food industry is, if they do their
job, they end up making you not want to eat anything. I’m not saying that that’s necessarily
a bad thing, but it makes me hesitant to recommend The Omnivore’s Dilemma.
The first half of the book is a look inside the industrial food industry. All you self-loathing
neo-food-nature-hippies who want fuel to protest with should look here. It contains a startling
amount of information about the state of the food industry, from feedlot conditions to cattle
feed to chemical processing plants. It even goes a bit into the industrial organic industry, which
is in some ways just as bad as traditional industrial food. If, however, you are a more optimistic
neo-food-nature-hippy, you’ll be more interested in the second half
of the book.
Here, author Michael Pollan looks at a more natural way of obPeople should
taining food: through local food chains that include grass-fed
be personally farms, and by foraging in the wild. This section is less informative
more philosophical, which made it more interesting to me. It
connected to and
delves into the idea that people should be personally connected to
their food, an idea supported by Pollan’s loving descriptions of the
their food
meals he enjoys during his expeditions into the natural food chain.
In fact, Pollan prepares a meal completely self-reliantly, learning
how to identify mushrooms, hunt for wild pig, and harvest yeast from the San Francisco air.
The way the book is divided into two separate world views helps to brilliantly demonstrate
the contrast between how we eat and how we should eat. The description of the cynical – some
would say realistic – portrayal of food in the first half, however, pales in comparison to the loving detail given to the wholesome, delicious food prepared in the second half.
Reading how the animals actually live good lives on local farms may make you feel bad
about eating a Big Mac next time you’re hungry and short on time and cash. But does that guilt
make reading this book not worth it? In short, no. ✦
by Helene Lovett, New Orleans, LA
by Kyle Ferris, Littleton, CO
Photo by Joanna Eaton, Spotswood, NJ
26
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Mark Levin, Los Altos, CA
was Jewish because I refused to particihen a person is born they
pate in Christmas activities. While they
know nothing, and I was no
caroled, I mouthed the words. While
different. All I knew was
they made Easter eggs, I stood on the
what they told me to believe. I didn’t
tables and made noise. They wore
know that what they had told me made
Santa hats, and for a time in sixth
me different.
grade, I wore a kippah under my
At my preschool in December, Santa
49ers hat, reminding me that God had
Claus was all the talk. Most kids had
control.
sat on the big red hero’s lap. Siaosi
I loved the 49ers. In sixth grade, durwanted a Nintendo 64. Brian wanted a
ing
a crucial playoff game, I prayed to
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bed. And
God that the 49ers would win. The
I wanted a Batman movie. I knew who
49ers had fumbled the ball
Santa Claus was. Like
with only a four-point
everything else my
How did I know lead. I know people usuworld had told me to
ally turn to God when a
believe, I believed in
God was out
ship is sinking or when
him. I believed in his
there if he never their child is drafted to
jolly smile. I believed in
join the armed forces, but
his godly powers. I was
responded?
the 49ers making it to the
a nice kid, so he’d
Super Bowl was just as
surely be stopping by.
important to me.
When my father came to pick me up
“God, please let the Niners stop them
I asked, “When can I tell Santa what I
here,” I pleaded. “Please. I’ll do anywant for Christmas?”
thing.”
“Santa doesn’t come to our house,
The opposing quarterback took the
Marky,” he confessed with a chuckle.
snap,
dropped a few steps back, and
Something was funny, but I didn’t get
threw a long pass downfield to the end
it. “We don’t celebrate Christmas. Jews
zone.
don’t believe in Santa Claus.”
“Let there be an interception. Let the
So now I knew. I was a Jew. My god
receiver blink,” I begged, kneeling and
was not Allah. My god was Adonai. His
gazing up at the TV screen. Everything
son is not Jesus, but we were all created
was moving in slow motion. “Somein the image of God. Christians, Musthing. Anything. Please.”
lims, Buddhists, Hindus. They’re all
The ball continued in a perfect spiral.
wrong, and we’re right. My rabbi may
I expected God to make it wobble like
not have taught me this, but that’s the
an injured bird in flight. The receiver
feeling I got.
continued downfield, galloping ahead
My pride began to gleam blue, silver,
of the defender. I expected God to
and white. Judaism was my identity. It
make him trip.
made me feel like I belonged. I was one
The clock wound down to the last
of the “chosen people.” My ideas surfive seconds. I was still waiting for a
passed those who had not been chosen.
miracle. The ball continued to fall. The
Pretty cool.
only force acting upon it was gravity
My parents entered me into classes at
now, propelling it into the hands of the
my temple. The stories of the Bible
receiver. I made one last prayer. Perwere taught to me like facts – what
haps locusts would eat the ball. But
goes up must come down, and a glass
instead it fell into the fingertips of the
half empty is the same as a glass half
receiver. Touchdown. Game over.
full. There was no question: On the first
Niners lost.
day, God created light. There was no
I didn’t understand. How did I know
disputing that God took the next day to
God was out there if he never reseparate the skies from the seas. He
sponded to my wishes? I thought back
created everything in existence. No
to what I had been taught in temple. On
doubt about it. God had the power to do
the first day, God created light. But
anything. No one would suspect anywho created God? For the first time, it
thing else – except maybe the kid sitdidn’t make sense to me.
ting next to me in third grade.
The next week, my doubts increased;
Chris and I had no reason to hate
we
started learning about evolution in
each other. We both liked sports. We
school. It seemed that each day in the
were both nice people. We both had
Bible was millions of years in evoluJansport backpacks. We could have
tion. On the first day, we were apes. On
been great friends. We should have
the second day, we were Homo habilis.
been great friends. Chris and I got
On the third day, we began to walk on
along until one day when he asked if I
two feet. On the fourth day, we became
believed in God. I didn’t know this was
cavemen – Homo sapiens. On the fifth
something to be debated. Of course I
day, we became human. It was awfully
believed. Who didn’t?
different from what I had been told. I
“You’re an idiot,” Chris muttered.
felt I had been lied to.
No, Chris, you’re an idiot. After all, I
The next week in sixth grade social
was chosen and you weren’t.
studies, we learned about the HoloChris wasn’t the only idiot, though.
caust. That week, I found out that six
My class was full of them. Kids knew I
W
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God Is My Head
FACEBOOK
million Jews were killed because they
the whole time. I just hadn’t realbelieved something that others did not.
ized what it meant.
Six million chosen people, including
You brought her here, the
much of my family and almost my
voice in my head reminded me.
grandma. And where was God?
You’re responsible for her. God’s
I began to question every moment
words resonated inside me, and
something had gone wrong for the Jewmy feet stayed glued beneath
ish people. Had he just ignored us
Sarah’s head. There was a God.
when we were kicked out of Spain in
There is a God.
1492? Had God been sleeping for the
It was then I realized that for
past 60 years as Israel has existed in
me God is not a supreme being.
constant turmoil? God was supposed to
He can’t make seas part and he
protect us. Why would he let us face
can’t control the weather. I have
such oppression? Why would he let us
my own god. I created him. He
be constantly attacked?
didn’t create me. My god is my
Like he created conflict between me
head.
and Chris in third grade, God had been
He can’t save lives. He doesn’t
creating conflicts for as long as he’d
create miracles. But my god does
existed. The Spanish missionaries and
create nonetheless. He creates
the Native Americans had fought over
morals and beliefs, talents and
God. People had killed in the name of
interests. He tells me what’s
God. A suicide bomber had smuggled a
good and what’s evil. I don’t albomb in his underwear for God.
ways follow his orders, but I do
First Chris told me God didn’t exist.
believe in him. I believe in my
Then God gave up on the 49ers. Then
god. My god is my head.
evolution made me doubt that God creGod helps me when I need to
ated everything around me. And then I
make a decision, and to me, he’s
learned a troubling history that God
always right. He’ll rationalize my
had failed to prevent. All this pointed to
choices and make suggestions like a
the same inconceivable idea: God isn’t
mentor, like a conscience.
out there. We’re alone.
My god has been my head ever since
And that was what I believed until a
I could think. When I sin, my god punfew months ago.
ishes me with guilt, and that’s enough
•
•
•
to make me want to do good. So I don’t
Her eyes were shut. Her lips were
need heaven or hell to guide me. I just
painted with vomit. Her legs were limp
need my god. And while everyone
as she dropped to her knees. Her head
fights over where or whether or how or
slid down my legs to rest on my feet.
when God existed, I won’t fight. I
The smell of alcohol attacked my
know my god is my head and no one
nostrils as Nick pulled out his phone.
can convince me otherwise.
This wasn’t our fault. Everyone was
So, with Sarah at my feet, I had a
saying we needed to get her help and
choice. I could stay and make sure she
get out of there. If my parents found
was all right, because that was my reout that once again I had gotten myself
sponsibility, or I could flee to avoid
into trouble, I’d be
punishment. Then, red and
shipped to Utah by
blue lights flashed, and a
tomorrow.
Sarah was still paramedic hopped out of
Nick dialed, gave our
ambulance.
passed out at the“She
location, her name, and
had too much to
her condition. A voice
my feet. I was drink,” I told him.
echoed in my head, my
As the paramedics loaded
all alone.
voice, reminding me that
Sarah into the ambulance, a
I had brought her here
cop questioned me. He
and there was no God to save her.
asked who gave her the alcohol and
I looked down at Sarah. She was still
where everyone went. I answered popassed out with her head on my feet,
litely, knowing there was no way my
fastening them to the ground. I looked
parents weren’t going to find out. He
around me again. I was all alone. Why
nodded with each answer, then pushed
had everyone else left? Should I leave
me against the hood of the squad car
too?
and proceeded to pat me down.
I begged for an answer. I needed
“That was an honorable thing to do,”
some guidance, and so I waited. I
he said as he clicked the handcuffs
thought maybe, just maybe, God was
around my wrists and guided me into
real and would help me. Maybe he’d
the back seat of the cruiser. “Why’d
make me invisible or make Sarah reyou stay?”
cover in time for me to get her out of
I looked at him through the barred
here before the police arrived. So I
window of the back seat and smiled.
waited. Frustration pulsed through my
“Something in my head told me to.
veins.
Maybe it was God. Maybe it was my
“Goddamnit!” I screamed. Everyconscience. But I like to think it was
one’s a liar. God’s a liar. God isn’t real.
both.” ✦
But then, I heard it. It had been there
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
27
travel & culture
Mother Tongue
by Leeya Mengistu, Somerset, KY
to boys, and back.
“Sometimes I wish I had never come here.”
I didn’t know that because of my skin
My father doesn’t realize that his words stick with me.
I already had a predestined track
Backwards, not forwards
I didn’t know that I was expected to
to the day he arrived in this country
wear hoop earrings,
somewhere in 1992.
listen to hip-hop,
Nothing in his hands but a medical degree,
and love fried chicken.
a waiting, pregnant wife,
So just as I had denied Ethiopia,
and his family’s blessing.
black America denied me.
The epitome of the American dream:
I remember going to the hairdresser’s
an immigrant building himself up in the land of
one day,
opportunities.
and an elderly black woman asking me,
Even if that land killed one of his daughters,
“Oh you’re not really black … are you?”
failed his wife’s business,
I was flabbergasted.
and crumbled his family.
Just as I had
I vaguely nodded and moved on.
He said those words in a conversation
started the awakening.
about how I still couldn’t speak
denied Ethiopia, That
No one accepted me.
Amarangya, the language of his people.
black America Even though I wasn’t biracial,
Not-so-secretly, I blame my older sister
I felt split between two cultures.
who spoke Amarangya first,
denied me
Be black, or be black?
but eagerly drank up English at school.
I remember being little and saying,
And I, always eager to follow her,
“I’m not black, I’m brown!”
refused to speak Amarangya,
and I’d hold out my small arm
waiting at the door like a friendly puppy,
so no one could tell me otherwise.
ready to hear what she had learned that day:
Is it odd that I found myself raceless?
“Hi”
Clear as a glass pitcher,
“My name is Leeya”
waiting to be filled.
“L-E-E-Y-A”
One day, in my grandparents’ house
“See Tom run”
on a hot day,
“The cat is fat
I asked if I could look through some old albums.
and the rat has a hat”
I flipped through pictures of my grandmother
I absorbed the words and disregarded my parents’
before she got her gold teeth
I was a first-generation American
that used to mesmerize me as a child.
God bless the USA.
Pictures of my father as a boy,
But I guess I loved “my country” too much
scrawny as he was,
Always jumping from phase to phase that this place had
with his eight other sisters and brother.
to offer
Before long, my eyes began to sting and
Princesses, then monkeys,
I swallowed back the rock in my throat
then musicals, then photography,
when I saw the picture of my great-aunt as a
New York, to indie music,
young woman,
stunning, yet docile,
wearing a shy smile,
like she had a secret that no one would ever know.
I guess I was crying because I would never know
why, even in her seventies,
she still hasn’t married.
Was she ever in love?
Did she ever want to be?
I guess I was crying because,
with her barely passable English,
and in my terrible Amarangya,
I would never be able to ask.
And I think my father said what he said
because with every day that his accent faded,
he realized that I would never have one. ✦
Red Ruby Memory
Il Gato
by Lauren Mabie, Brattleboro, VT
T
H
Photo by Madeline Wood, Fayetteville, NC
is beautiful tanned skin didn’t look like it belonged in Brattleboro. His jet
black hair was short on the sides and longer on top, the army cut. He wore
fitted Levis, caked with dirt, and tan workboots that came above his ankles.
His shirt was just tight enough that it clung to his body. His small blue eyes were
tucked back in his head, but when he got excited, they immediately lit up. Outside of
his truck, he looked like a regular country boy. But inside the rigged-up white Chevy,
his pride and joy, he looked like a true hick – the most beautiful hick I’d ever seen. ✦
28
Photo by Zoe Case, Upper Arlington, OH
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
by Mikayla Becich,
Bradfordwoods, PA
he beautifully ragged cobblestone streets of Manarola,
Italy, were no place for such an unkempt cat. Shabby and
dilapidated, the stray wandered the bright avenues of the
coastal community. This creature was as misplaced as the bumbling American tourists who ambled about the Piazza del Popolo.
From behind, fur matted tightly to its bloated torso, the feline
easily could have been mistaken for a canine. Its misshapen form
hobbled along, the left leg dragging, bringing up the rear. Ears
mauled, the animal was oblivious to the distant crashing waves
by the sheer cliffs on the Cinque Terre. One eye held the cloudiness of a murky pond, blind to the passing pedestrians who
gawked at the scraggly figure.
Paved paths, absent of cars and the grumbling sounds that accompany them, allowed for this beast’s existence. Slinking
among villas shaded in every hue of the spectrum, the vagabond
sported a gray-black coat like a spilled drink on the white tablecloth of an open-air café. Dirt-encrusted hair trailed wherever the
nomad treaded.
Fresh, salty ocean air blanketed Manarola, but this aroma was
marred by the fetor of the feline. Some attempts were made to
disconcert the grimy degenerate by brashly swinging brooms in
its direction. Elderly local inhabitants sympathized and embraced
the outcast, leaving gourmet scraps of pastas, breads, and fish
that added to its rotund belly. A quaint town is the last place to
find a bedraggled alley cat. Such a desirable location for such an
undesirable animal. ✦
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by Tausif Noor, North Babylon, NY
than a rite of passage; it is the entrance into civilized
come from two worlds.
society. The scent of the air is strong, mixed aromas
One is a land far, far away where barefoot girls
of Victoria’s Secret Love Spell and new money. This
with gold studs through their noses carry chilis Long Island, New York, where I live.
dren barely older than they are on slender hips, coI sit astride a line that divides these two lands.
conut oil combed carefully through their plaited
They
are separated by 8,000 miles, but I can close
hair. Where dirt roads, cheap sandals, and immense
this gap with a blink of my eye; I can erase the
crowds reign supreme. I come from a land of rice
space with the nudge of my finger. If home is where
paddies and lotus flowers, of corrugated tin roofs and
the heart is, my heart is everywhere. Pieces of me
occasional air raids. A land of teeth stained red from
are in the bungalows of Rampura and the quiet, culbetel leaves, of gold bangles and bright silk, of venturally barren streets of suburbia. I try to complete
dors and henna tattoos. A land where unaccustomed
the puzzle, but there is always something missing.
eyes water from pungent chili peppers, where feet
I cannot say that I feel equally comstruggle to pass through packed cars and
fortable
in both homes, but, perhaps pararickshaws.
doxically,
I am equally uncomfortable.
This is a land where hungry eyes
Bangladesh
To my suburban friends, I am an anomaly
wander the streets, rags tied to thin bodis the land of every time I chatter in a strange tongue to
ies, begging for a spare anna. This is a
my parents; to my relatives in Dhaka, I
land I’ve seen, felt, dreamt about, and
my birth
am forever whitewashed. I don’t know
longed for. I’ve walked the dirt roads of
where the Bengali Tausif starts and
a quiet village; I’ve seen the taut backs
where
the
American
Tausif ends – all I can say is
of young men carrying sugar cane. I’ve sailed along
that
I
am
an
alien,
foreign
to all, but grateful of the
the Padma River in a canoe, and sampled puri from
fact. I am a first-generation American; I am not sufa vendor, his stall lit by a kerosene lamp. This is
fering an identity crisis. It is difficult to merge the
Dhaka, Bangladesh, the land of my birth.
two cultures that compose my life, but I am lucky I
My other world is equally exotic, equally real. It
am not torn between the two – that would be such a
is a land of SUVs and spray tans, of ranch houses
cliché.
and homogeneity. Here, waves lap endlessly against
If I dig through the file cabinets of my memory, I
boats in the bay, and the sun rises on dewy, manican
distinctly see a young, frail woman dressed in
cured lawns. Here I travel highways that stretch into
her
new
green salwar kameez, her hair done in a bun
the distance. This land is dominated by swimming
for the first time at a fancy Dhaka salon. She is
pools and strip malls; it is run by PTA mothers who
holding the hand of a small boy dressed in his nicest
operate minivan carpools like KGB missions. Here,
suit, and her other hand is tightly grasping a British
Juicy Couture bags and blond highlights are ubiquiAirways boarding pass. This woman, my mother,
tous among females. Here a driver’s license is more
I
Idealizing France
New Yorkers
Like vultures with talons out
They scramble for the last seat on
the subway
The last H&H bagel
The last Marc Jacobs bag at a sample sale
Flying through the streets
On neatly tailored wings
Claws tucked in silk
Hard, sunglassed eyes stalk their prey
Those elusive yellow taxi cabs
Mating calls join the chorus of the streets
Blackberry shouting and kosher deli
ordering
Heels up, heels down, clickety-clack
On the gum-strewn pavement.
At sundown comes the stampede
They emerge from steel caves to
Jump on loud grumbling trains
Fold wings down and read the Times on
slippery seats
Rush-rush, clickety-clack
The New York vultures burrow into
Pottery Barn nests
Handcrafted beds with lavender
scented sheets
At dawn, they fly again
by Maia Silber, Cortlandt Manor, NY
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manifested her hopes and dreams of a brighter future in this little boy, and boarded a plane to meet
her husband in order to realize these dreams.
Thirteen years later, my mother tells me that I am
not an American, that I will never be American.
Although I don’t tell her this, I think she is wrong. I
will always be American and I will always be
Bangladeshi, but I don’t believe in the hyphenated
love child of two cultures. They are separate worlds,
but I have found a way to coexist in them. I am not
confused about who I am or how my race will play
in the rest of my life. I am not afraid of losing my
identity in either world. I am simply trying to say,
this is who I am; this is where I come from. ✦
ACCOUNT TO
travel & culture
Two Worlds
Photo by Toria Rose, Bethesda, MD
by Tim Rebholz, Stafford, VA
the rows of enchanting cherry trees. I want to visit
y desktop wallpaper is a merry-gothe St. Martin monastery on the way down and
round of places I’d like to visit.
stare off the edge of its tree-covered cliff at its
Previously, it was a black-and-white
pastel-toned buildings. I want to spend the fall in
checkerboard of broken hearts and band-aids,
Beaune, where the leaves match the latticework of
superimposed over what appears to be a couple
the rooftops and the world becomes a wonderland
kissing. Go figure.
of orange and gold.
Anyway. That was then. Now it’s a picture of
And even then, my need for France and all
Paris. Conveniently sans Eiffel Tower. I’ve never
things French would not be sated. The cycle
really liked the Eiffel Tower.
would repeat ad infinitum. A few months in
I find myself drawn to France recently. The
Chateauroux, a year in Orleans, a great
countryside, Lyon, the Louvre,
while spent in Avignon, simply sitting
espresso, cafés with little wiry tables,
I want to go at the fabled bridge, watching, thinkchâteaus, Normandy, wine, film.
ing, writing, free from worry.
French nights and simple food and the
to the land
This is the allure of France: a place
trickle of the river as it passes by our
where inspiration runs freely in the
of Voltaire
picnic blanket. Everything so stereohearts and art of her people. A place to
typically French. Except for the Eiffel
and sauces
find peace, a place for contentment. A
Tower. And baguettes.
place where materialism can be put on
I want to go to the land of Voltaire
hold
and
at
last the human connection can rise to
and sauces. I want to experience Hugo and Notre
prominence. A place where life can be what it
Dame and the Bastille. I want to see Versailles
wants to be, where introspection can form the
and the Jardin du Luxembourg. I want to breathe
core of being. A place where life strolls leisurely
the atmosphere in which the opera Carmen was
along the road that defines it. A place for rejuvewritten. I want to hear the music of Debussy in
nation and restoration. A place I want to be so
the land of its origin. I want to feel the French
desperately. But until I get the chance to bask in
grass on my back as I admire the French clouds
French sunlight, I will sit, bathed in the glow of
and ponder the French penchant for stripes.
desktop pictures, and reminisce and idealize about
I want to be in Annecy for Christmas, and on
things that never were and that will never be. ✦
the beaches of Lorient by summer. I want to climb
the Pic du Canigou in spring and look out across
M
FACEBOOK
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
29
interview
Author Kate Klimo
K
ate Klimo has been creating
worlds since she was in the
fourth grade. Now, she is the author and editor of an array of published books. Her latest work,
Daughter of the Centaurs, is a fantasy that tells of a girl’s quest for
survival and companionship in a
world populated by half-human
creatures.
Daughter of the Centaurs is full of
mythology and unusual creatures.
What made you want to write a
fantasy novel?
Ever since I was in fourth grade,
fantasy has been my favorite genre. Of
course, when I was in fourth grade, I
believed that the magical realms I read
about – Narnia and Neverland and
all – were real. Now, of course, I don’t
… except that the older I get, the more
convinced I grow that this world, the
one we live in, is but one room in a
large house filled with other rooms.
So I guess you could say that I am
gradually returning to a state of suspended disbelief, which is very useful
in the writing of fantasy.
What was your reaction when you
discovered you were going to be
published?
I’ve been a publisher/writer for
most of my 30-year career, so I can’t
say that I experienced the anticipation
of publication that other writers might.
Nor, however, have I experienced the
inevitable letdown authors discover
when, on publication date, the earth
doesn’t actually move. I also generally
write my books in their entirety before
I get a contract, so when I find out
30
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
Interviewed by Devin Murphy, Jackson, MO
from my editor that the book I have
written is actually publishable, that’s
when I feel a genuine thrill: that all
my hard work has paid off! That the
book will be read by more than just
me and one other person.
some pretty epic world-building for
you. I love the books of Tamora
Pierce, Susan Cooper, Nancy Farmer,
and Peter Dickenson. I love mysteries
for the escape, and history, especially
biographies, for the details of lives
lived in other times. I am working my
way through the presidents right now.
I’m only up to Madison.
and do other things. Sometimes I
write all day.
I have to be careful, though, I don’t
write myself stupid. That can happen.
I have to give myself time to regenerate my mind and my ideas. If I drive
myself too hard, then I start muscling
my way through the narrative, bossing
the characters around and depriving
them of the independence they need to
be surprising and interesting.
What advice would you give to
aspiring writers, like me, who
hope to be published some day?
Write, write, write. Get up every
Why did you choose to write a
day and write. I write
daring character like
very early in the
Malora?
What do you hope your readers
morning, when my
I
don’t
think
of
Malwill take away from your novel?
“It’s a delicate
mind is fresh, before
ora as being daring so
I hope that reading my book will
thing, letting your much as a survivor. I
the distractions of the
take readers to a time and place they
day set in. And don’t
to write about a
never imagined. I hope that the charcharacters come wanted
listen to the voice insurvivor. Malora is the
acters become lifelong friends with
side your head that
alive on the page” sole survivor of her set- my readers – friends they will want to
sometimes says you
tlement, and possibly of
come visit in future adventures.
suck. That voice is
the human race. In the
just subversive noise. If you write
last five years, I lost my mother, my
Did writing Daughter of the
every day, and put your heart and soul
brother, and a son. I know what it is to Centaurs change you in any way?
If so, how?
into it, you’re going to wind up,
survive, and I wanted to share the orI surprised myself by creating a
sooner or later, with something that
deal of it, and the ultimate joys.
complete
world. The more I write
very likely won’t suck … at least to
What do you think makes a piece
about it, the more I discover. And this
some readers.
of writing worth reading?
world feels real to me. I enjoy spendIts honesty.
ing time there. I am always eager to
What is the hardest part for you in
the process of writing? How do
find out what’s going to happen next.
What inspires you?
you overcome those obstacles?
Dreams, traveling, my editor,
The hardest part of writing is not
If you were not a writer, what
Mallory Loehr.
would your life be like? What
overwhelming my characters with my
would you be doing?
own considerable personality. It’s a
Why do you write?
If I were not a writer, I would be
delicate thing, letting your characters
Because I am happiest when I am
outdoors a great deal more. I would be
come alive on the page, giving them
writing.
leading a much more physical life as a
room to breathe. It’s so easy to lean on
horse trainer. Working with horses is
them, to hover over them, to pick them
What
do
you
do
when
your
river
one of the most gratifying experiences
up in my sometimes ham-handed fists
of ideas runs dry? How do you
of my life. I’m only sorry I came to it
and move them around like dolls on a
overcome that and start writing
so late. I started taking lessons, which
stage, rather than letting them – their
my husband bought me, for my fiftieth
characters and their own inner voices – again?
I give myself permission to stop
birthday. I started out in classes with
determine their fate.
writing for a few weeks or months.
eight-year-old girls. My husband and I
The other hard part of writing is
During this time, I usually take a trip
now have our own horses, and we ride
dealing with reviews. Let’s face it –
and visit someplace new with my husevery chance we get. Horses keep you
not everybody is going to love everyband,
almost
always
on
the
back
of
a
in balance; they make you aware of
thing that’s written. But a bad review
horse.
your moods and quirks.
can really hamper the creative process,
Riding, day after day,
They keep you honest.
make you doubt yourself and every“You have to
puts me into a zen state
thing you’re doing. I learned this lesof mind. My inner voice
son the hard way.
get out and What have you learned
stops chattering and I
during the publishing
promote
settle
down
to
just
being.
process?
Did you always want to be a
During these times, I
No publisher is going to –
writer?
yourself”
keep a journal and write
poof! – turn you into a bestI always wanted to be a writer. At
letters to friends where I
seller. You have to get out
least since I became a reader. I still
am storing up impressions, stockpiling
and promote yourself. This is somehave my notebooks from fourth grade,
ideas and images for the day when I
thing that one of my favorite writers,
containing the unfinished fantasy
am ready to fit them into a narrative.
Esther Friesner, told me. There is no
novel my best friend, Justine, and I
room for shy and retiring and modest.
worked on. My parents are dead, but I
What
sort
of
schedule
do
you
As a writer, I am a more modest perhave recently discovered, going
follow when writing a novel? Are
son than I am as a publisher. But I
through their journals and letters, that
you organized or do you just sit
have to learn to get out there and use a
both were frustrated writers. This
down and write?
little of my publisher’s brashness to
makes me all the more determined to
I’m pretty organized. I start with an
toot my own horn.
write my heart out. I’m writing, not
outline, even though I may not wind
just for me and my editor and my
up sticking to it. The outline is sort of
How does writing affect your life,
readers, but to honor my parents’
like
the
Ouija
board;
you
push
it
for better or for worse?
memory.
around until you hear the voice of the
Writing makes me a bit more
muse actually breaking through and
thoughtful person, but it also makes
What kind of books do you read?
talking to you. Then the outline usume a bit of a slug. In the best of all
How have they influenced what
ally gets abandoned.
possible worlds, I would hook up my
you write?
I wake up around four and I write
laptop to a treadmill and write while I
All kinds. I’m halfway through The
until
I’m
spent.
Sometimes
I’m
finwalked. ✦
Game of Thrones right now. There’s
ished by 10 o’clock, and can go out
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
CLASSIC
Into the Wild
The Little Prince
by Jon Krakauer
by Antoine
de Saint-Exupéry
D
ead. That is how they
found Chris McCandless –
just another crazy drifter who
thought he could survive in the
wild without the necessary experience or knowledge. However, Into the Wild presents a
deeper and clearer picture of
this misunderstood man who
died alone in the Alaskan
wilderness at the age of 24.
Chris McCandless was not
your average drifter; he came
from a good home, graduated
The solitary journey
of Chris McCandless
from college with excellent
grades, and had planned to attend law school, but something
in Chris made him steer his life
in an unorthodox direction that
some consider but few actually
try. In 1990, he donated his college savings, packed his belongings, and set off to see
America. Two years later, he
burned his remaining money
and headed into the Alaskan
wilderness with a gun, a diary,
a knife, and a 50-pound bag of
rice, never to be seen alive
again. His body was found in
an abandoned school bus.
When he died he weighed a
shocking 67 pounds.
As his story circulated, people began to wonder who Chris
was. An outdoor writer and adventurer himself, Jon Krakauer
traces the solitary journey of
McCandless from the Gulf of
California all the way to
Alaska, comparing his story to
other courageous adventurers’.
Through the journey,
Krakauer reveals a much
deeper look at McCandless, unveiling a life led by few. As you
read, you may find yourself
connecting to a man who seems
nothing like you and wishing
things could have turned out
differently for him.
One flaw of this book is that
after Krakauer tells his story, he
rambles on comparing McCandless to other adventurers, even
himself; it’s pretty dull and
adds nothing to the story. This
diminishes some of the awe
you initially feel at Chris’s effect on people. Up until that
point, however, Into The Wild is
a book that you won’t be able
to put down. ✦
by Olivia Ryckman,
Littleton, CO
LINK
YOUR
A
lthough The Little Prince
is classified as a children’s
book, it should be required
reading for every grownup –
those who, according to the author, are blinded by time and
numbers and cannot recognize
that a drawing of an elephant
inside a boa constrictor is obviously not a drawing of a hat!
In no more than 80 pages,
The Little Prince teaches us
how to live a meaningful life.
The little prince persistently
asks questions, never answering any, but the marooned pilot
who befriends him in the remote desert manages to put together the prince’s magical
story.
Teaches us how to live
a meaningful life
The little prince comes from
a planet the size of a house.
There he owned three volcanoes and a beautiful red rose
that, with its vanity and pushiness, made the prince leave his
home. On his journey, the innocent prince meets a lonely king
and a greedy businessman and
finally arrives on Earth, where
countless beautiful truths about
humanity are revealed. For example, the little prince discovers that his rose is different
from all others because he
loves it for itself. He learns the
“secret of life” from a wise fox:
what is most important in life,
like love, is invisible.
With each page it is as if you
are peeling away, layer by
layer, the mistaken priorities
we all have in life. This
poignant book could be read a
thousand times, for all ages and
for ages to come, and the story
would still be as magical and
true. After reading it you will
never look at the stars the same
way again. ✦
by Sugee Liyanage,
Mississauga, ON, Canada
THRILLER
The Girl with
the Dragon
Tattoo
by Stieg Larsson
L
isbeth Salander is one of
Sweden’s socially unacceptable citizens. She has been
TEENINK.COM
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in and out of psychiatrists’ care
and foster homes, there are tattoos and piercings all over her
body, she never finished high
school, and she has a police
record. However, she is a talented hacker and a near genius – and a good character for
a thriller.
This book is about the missing niece of one of Sweden’s
most distinguished millionaires, Henrik Vanger. The mystery of her disappearance has
Suspenseful and
exciting plot
remained unsolved for almost
40 years and Vanger wants one
last chance to discover what
happened. He asks Mikael
Blomkvist, a disgraced reporter, to help. In a weird tangle of events, Salander and
Blomkvist end up working together. That combo creates a
suspenseful and exciting plot.
I really like Larsson’s style.
He has no boundaries when it
comes to language. That said,
the business parts of the book
can get a bit confusing. This
book is definitely targeted for
an adult audience.
This novel didn’t grab me in
every aspect, although I really
liked the suspenseful buildup to
the end. The resolution was
kind of lame, in my view, and
the antagonist could probably
have been identified from the
beginning. This is a good book
just shy of great. I’m really interested in the sequels and look
forward to seeing the movie. ✦
give me nightmares, or at least
persistent thoughts the rest of
the day. But McCarthy wove
these unsettling moments so
smoothly, it was impossible to
untangle them without unbalancing the rest of the story. It
was etched beautifully through
the use of careful details.
What propels the story is the
relationship between father and
son. This part is what I most
enjoyed. I think the main idea
is the love between father and
son, which often saves them.
Without the powerful drive of
love, they could not have sustained the energy or desire to
survive another day. Because of
his love for his son, the father
was driven to provide food and
shelter. Because of his love for
his father, the boy was able to
protect his father and trust him
completely during their long
journey.
I am totally overwhelmed by
my reaction to this book. When
I began reading, I could tell it
would be a dull and wearisome
novel. But coming to the intriguing and mystifying parts
opened my eyes to the power of
Hauntingly disturbing
love, survival, and dark sin in
the world.
Especially in this day and
age, Cormac McCarthy’s powerful and haunting post-apocalyptic world inside The Road is
chillingly close to our reality. ✦
by Ruth Arriaga,
Goodyear, AZ
by Joe Keller, St. Louis, MO
HISTORY
NOVEL
Peter the Great
The Road
by Robert K. Massie
by Cormac McCarthy
I
T
he Road is a tangled yet
straightforward look at a
post-apocalyptic world where a
man and his young son are
forced to wander through an
ashen, desolate America. They
have no one but each other to
rely on as they walk on an endless road south.
The book is profound, but I
found most of it monotonous
and dreary. It did have exciting
moments, but they were short
and happened in the middle or
at the end. Although it was a
book I had to plod through, I
did enjoy it.
I had not expected The Road
to be so hauntingly disturbing
yet darkly beautiful. I must
admit there were parts of this
book that I thought I would
FACEBOOK
t took just the copyright page
to discover that Robert K.
Massie’s Peter the Great: His
Life and World is an oddity.
Penned by an American historian during the 1981 tensions of
the misguided Cold War, it
turns out to be an eloquent and
erudite narrative of a dedicated
leader who transformed a primitive realm.
Though Massie sidesteps the
Russophobic tendencies that
will soon send R.R. Palmer’s A
History of the Modern World
into textbook retirement,
Massie cannot escape the influences of his environment. Put
simply, the author is an American historian writing for an
American audience. And with
Peter the Great, he delivers a
beautiful American tribute to a
man with “American Dream”
activism – a man who isn’t an
American.
I began the novel with a set
of preconceived notions, or
rather, worries. What could an
American historian possibly
understand about a Russian
king? Would it be yet another
piece of Reagan-era Russophobia? Anti-communist propaganda? A diatribe on Russia’s
backwardness? A compelling
case for capitalism? Most importantly: 800 pages? Really?
Let me set aside those
worries by first giving you a
glimpse into the historical context. Before Peter, foreign relations were seen as necessary
evils; unorthodox obsessions
with the Orthodox Church fed a
Honest, factual,
and fascinating
book reviews
NONFICTION
self-defeating xenophobia; and
monarchs, fearing for their
lives, were powerless to the
demands of their own soldiers.
Peter took control of his
church, his people, and his
armed forces. He transformed
Russia into the Russian Empire – and himself into Peter
“the Great.”
So, what did I – with my
Russian heritage, Russian
patriotism, Russian spirit, and
“Russia! Russia! Russia!” attitude – think of the book? It’s
absolutely fantastic. The narrative format makes it both readable and relatable to audiences
spanning a historical, educational, and yes, even ethnic
spectrum. Students, teachers,
and even casual readers will
relish Massie’s approachable,
well-researched, and respectful
prose.
Massie does not sacrifice the
dignity of his writing for either
border of the Cold War barricade. Rather, he writes genuine
history. Profound history. Honest, factual, and fascinating history. The book demands little
but for the reader to simply
pick it up. Despite its Harry
Potter-esque length, it is a tome
that is almost impossible to put
down.
Whether you’re looking for a
book to fill the Potter void, historical nonfiction that isn’t a
textbook, or simply something
to do on a lazy afternoon, give
Peter the Great a chapter or
two. You’ll be hooked before
you know it. ✦
by Anastasia Golovashkina,
Naperville, IL
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
31
interview
Author Kate Klimo
K
ate Klimo has been creating
worlds since she was in the
fourth grade. Now, she is the
author and editor of an array of
published books. Her latest work,
Daughter of the Centaurs, is a fantasy that tells of a girl’s quest for
survival and companionship in a
world populated by half-human
creatures.
Daughter of the Centaurs is full of
mythology and unusual creatures.
What made you want to write a
fantasy novel?
Ever since I was in fourth grade,
fantasy has been my favorite genre. Of
course, when I was in fourth grade, I
believed that the magical realms I read
about – Narnia and Neverland and
all – were real. Now, of course, I don’t
… except that the older I get, the more
convinced I grow that this world, the
one we live in, is but one room in a
large house filled with other rooms. So
I guess you could say that I am gradually returning to a state of suspended
disbelief, which is very useful in the
writing of fantasy.
What was your reaction when you
discovered you were going to be
published?
I’ve been a publisher/writer for most
of my 30-year career, so I can’t say
that I experienced the anticipation of
publication that other writers might.
Nor, however, have I experienced the
inevitable letdown authors discover
when, on publication date, the earth
doesn’t actually move. I also generally
write my books in their entirety before
I get a contract, so when I find out
from my editor that the book I have
written is actually publishable, that’s
30
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
Interviewed by Devin Murphy, Jackson, MO
when I feel a genuine thrill: that all my
hard work has paid off! That the book
will be read by more than just me and
one other person.
and Peter Dickenson. I love mysteries
for the escape, and history, especially
biographies, for the details of lives
lived in other times. I am working my
way through the presidents right now.
I’m only up to Madison.
I have to be careful, though, I don’t
write myself stupid. That can happen. I
have to give myself time to regenerate
my mind and my ideas. If I drive myself too hard, then I start muscling my
way through the narrative, bossing the
characters around and depriving them
of the independence they need to be
surprising and interesting.
What advice would you give to
aspiring writers, like me, who hope
to be published some day?
Why did you choose to write a
Write, write, write. Get up every day daring character like Malora?
and write. I write very early in the
I don’t think of Malora as being darmorning, when my mind is fresh, being so much as a survivor. I wanted to
What do you hope your readers
fore the distractions of
write about a survivor.
will take away from your novel?
the day set in. And
Malora is the sole surI hope that reading my book will
don’t listen to the
vivor
of
her
settlement,
take
readers to a time and place they
“It’s a delicate
voice inside your head
and possibly of the
never imagined. I hope that the characthing, letting your human race. In the last
that sometimes says
ters become lifelong friends with my
you suck. That voice is
five
years,
I
lost
my
– friends they will want to
characters come mother, my brother, and readers
just subversive noise.
come visit in future adventures.
If you write every day,
alive on the page” a son. I know what it is
and put your heart and
to survive, and I wanted Did writing Daughter of the
Centaurs change you in any way?
soul into it, you’re
to share the ordeal of it,
If so, how?
going to wind up, sooner or later, with
and the ultimate joys.
I surprised myself by creating a
something that very likely won’t suck
complete
world. The more I write
What
do
you
think
makes
a
piece
… at least to some readers.
of writing worth reading?
about it, the more I discover. And this
Its honesty.
world feels real to me. I enjoy spendWhat is the hardest part for you in
the process of writing? How do
ing time there. I am always eager to
you overcome those obstacles?
What inspires you?
find out what’s going to happen next.
The hardest part of writing is not
Dreams, traveling, my editor,
overwhelming my characters with my
Mallory Loehr.
If you were not a writer, what
would your life be like? What
own considerable personality. It’s a
would you be doing?
Why do you write?
delicate thing, letting your characters
If I were not a writer, I would be
Because I am happiest when I am
come alive on the page, giving them
outdoors a great deal more. I would be
writing.
room to breathe. It’s so easy to lean on
leading a much more physical life as a
them, to hover over them, to pick them
What do you do when your river of
horse trainer. Working with horses is
up in my sometimes ham-handed fists
ideas
runs
dry?
How
do
you
overone of the most gratifying experiences
and move them around like dolls on a
come that and start writing again?
of my life. I’m only sorry I came to it
stage, rather than letting them – their
I give myself permission to stop
so late. I started taking lessons, which
characters and their own inner voices –
writing for a few weeks or months.
my husband bought me, for my fiftieth
determine their fate.
During this time, I usually take a trip
birthday. I started out in classes with
The other hard part of writing is
and visit someplace new with my huseight-year-old girls. My husband and I
dealing with reviews. Let’s face it –
band, almost always on the back of a
now have our own horses, and we ride
not everybody is going to love everyhorse.
every chance we get. Horses keep you
thing that’s written. But a bad review
Riding,
day
after
day,
puts
me
into
a
in balance; they make you aware of
can really hamper the creative process,
zen state of mind. My inner voice
your moods and quirks. They keep you
make you doubt yourself and everystops chattering and I settle down to
honest.
thing you’re doing. I learned this lesjust being. During these
son the hard way.
times, I keep a journal and
What have you learned
“You have to during the publishing
write letters to friends
Did you always want to be a
where I am storing up imwriter?
get out and process?
No publisher is going to –
pressions, stockpiling
I always wanted to be a writer. At
promote
poof! – turn you into a bestideas and images for the
least since I became a reader. I still
seller. You have to get out
day when I am ready to fit
have my notebooks from fourth grade,
yourself”
and promote yourself. This
them into a narrative.
containing the unfinished fantasy
is something that one of my
novel my best friend, Justine, and I
What sort of schedule do you
favorite writers, Esther Friesner, told
worked on. My parents are dead, but I
follow when writing a novel? Are
me. There is no room for shy and retirhave recently discovered, going
you
organized
or
do
you
just
sit
ing and modest. As a writer, I am a
through their journals and letters, that
down and write?
more modest person than I am as a
both were frustrated writers. This
I’m pretty organized. I start with an
publisher. But I have to learn to get out
makes me all the more determined to
outline, even though I may not wind
there and use a little of my publisher’s
write my heart out. I’m writing, not
up sticking to it. The outline is sort of
brashness to toot my own horn.
just for me and my editor and my readlike the Ouija board; you push it
ers, but to honor my parents’ memory.
around until you hear the voice of the
How does writing affect your life,
muse
actually
breaking
through
and
for better or for worse?
What kind of books do you read?
talking to you. Then the outline usuWriting makes me a bit more
How have they influenced what
ally gets abandoned.
thoughtful person, but it also makes
you write?
I wake up around four and I write
me a bit of a slug. In the best of all
All kinds. I’m halfway through The
until I’m spent. Sometimes I’m finpossible worlds, I would hook up my
Game of Thrones right now. There’s
ished by 10 o’clock, and can go out
laptop to a treadmill and write while I
some pretty epic world-building for
and
do
other
things.
Sometimes
I
write
walked. ✦
you. I love the books of Tamora
all day.
Pierce, Susan Cooper, Nancy Farmer,
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
CLASSIC
Into the Wild
The Little Prince
by Jon Krakauer
by Antoine
de Saint-Exupéry
D
ead. That is how they
found Chris McCandless –
just another crazy drifter who
thought he could survive in the
wild without the necessary experience or knowledge. However, Into the Wild presents a
deeper and clearer picture of
this misunderstood man who
died alone in the Alaskan
wilderness at the age of 24.
Chris McCandless was not
your average drifter; he came
The solitary journey
of Chris McCandless
from a good home, graduated
from college with excellent
grades, and had planned to attend law school, but something
in Chris made him steer his life
in an unorthodox direction that
some consider but few actually
try. In 1990, he donated his college savings, packed his belongings, and set off to see
America. Two years later, he
burned his remaining money
and headed into the Alaskan
wilderness with a gun, a diary,
a knife, and a 50-pound bag of
rice, never to be seen alive
again. His body was found in
an abandoned school bus.
When he died he weighed a
shocking 67 pounds.
As his story circulated, people began to wonder who Chris
was. An outdoor writer and adventurer himself, Jon Krakauer
traces the solitary journey of
McCandless from the Gulf of
California all the way to
Alaska, comparing his story to
other courageous adventurers’.
Through the journey,
Krakauer reveals a much
deeper look at McCandless, unveiling a life led by few. As you
read, you may find yourself
connecting to a man who seems
nothing like you and wishing
things could have turned out
differently for him.
One flaw of this book is that
after Krakauer tells his story, he
rambles on comparing McCandless to other adventurers, even
himself; it’s pretty dull and
adds nothing to the story. This
diminishes some of the awe
you initially feel at Chris’s effect on people. Up until that
point, however, Into The Wild is
a book that you won’t be able
to put down. ✦
by Olivia Ryckman,
Littleton, CO
LINK
YOUR
A
lthough The Little Prince
is classified as a children’s
book, it should be required
reading for every grownup –
those who, according to the author, are blinded by time and
numbers and cannot recognize
that a drawing of an elephant
inside a boa constrictor is obviously not a drawing of a hat!
In no more than 80 pages,
The Little Prince teaches us
how to live a meaningful life.
The little prince persistently
asks questions, never answering any, but the marooned pilot
who befriends him in the remote desert manages to put together the prince’s magical
story.
Teaches us how to live
a meaningful life
The little prince comes from
a planet the size of a house.
There he owned three volcanoes and a beautiful red rose
that, with its vanity and pushiness, made the prince leave his
home. On his journey, the innocent prince meets a lonely king
and a greedy businessman and
finally arrives on Earth, where
countless beautiful truths about
humanity are revealed. For example, the little prince discovers that his rose is different
from all others because he
loves it for itself. He learns the
“secret of life” from a wise fox:
what is most important in life,
like love, is invisible.
With each page it is as if you
are peeling away, layer by
layer, the mistaken priorities
we all have in life. This
poignant book could be read a
thousand times, for all ages and
for ages to come, and the story
would still be as magical and
true. After reading it you will
never look at the stars the same
way again. ✦
by Sugee Liyanage,
Mississauga, ON, Canada
THRILLER
The Girl with
the Dragon
Tattoo
by Stieg Larsson
L
isbeth Salander is one of
Sweden’s socially unacceptable citizens. She has been
in and out of psychiatrists’ care
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
and foster homes, there are tattoos and piercings all over her
body, she never finished high
school, and she has a police
record. However, she is a talented hacker and a near genius – and a good character for
a thriller.
This book is about the missing niece of one of Sweden’s
most distinguished millionaires, Henrik Vanger. The mystery of her disappearance has
Suspenseful and
exciting plot
remained unsolved for almost
40 years and Vanger wants one
last chance to discover what
happened. He asks Mikael
Blomkvist, a disgraced reporter, to help. In a weird
tangle of events, Salander and
Blomkvist end up working together. That combo creates a
suspenseful and exciting plot.
I really like Larsson’s style.
He has no boundaries when it
comes to language. That said,
the business parts of the book
can get a bit confusing. This
book is definitely targeted for
an adult audience.
This novel didn’t grab me in
every aspect, although I really
liked the suspenseful buildup to
the end. The resolution was
kind of lame, in my view, and
the antagonist could probably
have been identified from the
beginning. This is a good book
just shy of great. I’m really interested in the sequels and look
forward to seeing the movie. ✦
give me nightmares, or at least
persistent thoughts the rest of
the day. But McCarthy wove
these unsettling moments so
smoothly, it was impossible to
untangle them without unbalancing the rest of the story. It
was etched beautifully through
the use of careful details.
What propels the story is the
relationship between father and
son. This part is what I most
enjoyed. I think the main idea
is the love between father and
son, which often saves them.
Without the powerful drive of
love, they could not have sustained the energy or desire to
survive another day. Because of
his love for his son, the father
was driven to provide food and
shelter. Because of his love for
his father, the boy was able to
protect his father and trust him
completely during their long
journey.
I am totally overwhelmed by
my reaction to this book. When
I began reading, I could tell it
would be a dull and wearisome
novel. But coming to the intriguing and mystifying parts
Hauntingly disturbing
opened my eyes to the power of
love, survival, and dark sin in
the world.
Especially in this day and
age, Cormac McCarthy’s powerful and haunting post-apocalyptic world inside The Road is
chillingly close to our reality. ✦
by Ruth Arriaga,
Goodyear, AZ
by Joe Keller, St. Louis, MO
HISTORY
NOVEL
Peter the Great
The Road
by Robert K. Massie
by Cormac McCarthy
I
T
he Road is a tangled yet
straightforward look at a
post-apocalyptic world where a
man and his young son are
forced to wander through an
ashen, desolate America. They
have no one but each other to
rely on as they walk on an endless road south.
The book is profound, but I
found most of it monotonous
and dreary. It did have exciting
moments, but they were short
and happened in the middle or
at the end. Although it was a
book I had to plod through, I
did enjoy it.
I had not expected The Road
to be so hauntingly disturbing
yet darkly beautiful. I must
admit there were parts of this
book that I thought I would
FACEBOOK
t took just the copyright page
to discover that Robert K.
Massie’s Peter the Great: His
Life and World is an oddity.
Penned by an American historian during the 1981 tensions of
the misguided Cold War, it
turns out to be an eloquent and
erudite narrative of a dedicated
leader who transformed a primitive realm.
Though Massie sidesteps the
Russophobic tendencies that
will soon send R.R. Palmer’s A
History of the Modern World
into textbook retirement,
Massie cannot escape the influences of his environment. Put
simply, the author is an American historian writing for an
American audience. And with
Peter the Great, he delivers a
beautiful American tribute to a
man with “American Dream”
activism – a man who isn’t an
American.
I began the novel with a set
of preconceived notions, or
rather, worries. What could an
American historian possibly
understand about a Russian
king? Would it be yet another
piece of Reagan-era Russophobia? Anti-communist propaganda? A diatribe on Russia’s
backwardness? A compelling
case for capitalism? Most importantly: 800 pages? Really?
Let me set aside those
worries by first giving you a
glimpse into the historical context. Before Peter, foreign relations were seen as necessary
evils; unorthodox obsessions
with the Orthodox Church fed a
Honest, factual,
and fascinating
book reviews
NONFICTION
self-defeating xenophobia; and
monarchs, fearing for their
lives, were powerless to the
demands of their own soldiers.
Peter took control of his
church, his people, and his
armed forces. He transformed
Russia into the Russian Empire – and himself into Peter
“the Great.”
So, what did I – with my
Russian heritage, Russian
patriotism, Russian spirit, and
“Russia! Russia! Russia!” attitude – think of the book? It’s
absolutely fantastic. The narrative format makes it both readable and relatable to audiences
spanning a historical, educational, and yes, even ethnic
spectrum. Students, teachers,
and even casual readers will
relish Massie’s approachable,
well-researched, and respectful
prose.
Massie does not sacrifice the
dignity of his writing for either
border of the Cold War barricade. Rather, he writes genuine
history. Profound history. Honest, factual, and fascinating history. The book demands little
but for the reader to simply
pick it up. Despite its Harry
Potter-esque length, it is a tome
that is almost impossible to put
down.
Whether you’re looking for a
book to fill the Potter void, historical nonfiction that isn’t a
textbook, or simply something
to do on a lazy afternoon, give
Peter the Great a chapter or
two. You’ll be hooked before
you know it. ✦
by Anastasia Golovashkina,
Naperville, IL
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
31
music reviews
32
METAL
The Sign of the
Southern Cross
Of Mountains and
Moonshine
F
or being as far north as possible to still be considered
Southern, The Sign of the
Southern Cross is one of the
most Southern bands you’ll
ever hear, and they’re damn
proud of it. Their debut album,
“Of Mountains and Moonshine,” is littered with Southern
Fast-paced, punchin-the-face metal
influence. You can hear it in the
lyrics, riffs, grooves, vocals:
just about everything. They
draw influence from multiple
genres including groove metal,
sludge, blues, and – dare I
say – perhaps even country.
They blend them all together
extremely well, but they may
rely a bit too much on their influences for their own good.
“Of Mountains and Moonshine” isn’t the most original
album ever, or a groundbreaking masterpiece. Rather, it is
simply a fantastic slab of
groove metal. And riffs – don’t
forget the riffs. This album has
tons of ’em, and while they
might sound similar at times,
you’ll find yourself headbanging and air-guitaring anyway.
Everything about this album is
thick and heavy, from the guitar
tones to the sound of the skins
pounding away in the rhythm
section, even the vocals.
Seth Uldricks’ voice is similar to Phil Anselmo’s of Pantera, but he can produce grunts
even lower and shrieks even
higher, all while maintaining a
bluesy melody. In ballads like
“Eating the Sun” and “Weeping
Willow,” he sounds like he’s
ready to beat the tar out of you
and steal your cattle. Sadly, the
bass is hardly audible, but I
guess that’s the price you pay
for riffs and solos this good.
The lyrics are basically what
you’d expect in an album as
Southern as this. Covering
topics including Huckleberry
Finn, fathers who leave, and
pig slaughtering, they’re well
written, albeit ridiculous at
times. They might be a tad over
the top, but I’ll be damned if
they’re not awesome.
I’ve used the word “Southern” a few times to describe
this album; another appropriate
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
word would be “energy.” Songs
like “Unwelcome in That
House” and “Hog Callin’” have
energy that you can’t find in
the most brutal death metal
tracks. You can’t sit still and
listen to this; you’ll be moving
in one way or another by the
time its 68 minutes are through.
It’s a hell of a ride.
Not only is this the ultimate
backyard barbecue album, it’s
just an amazing record that deserves your time. If you like
that swampy heaviness that
bands like Down bring to the
table but want some fast-paced,
punch-in-the-face metal, this is
for you. It’s the best of everything the South has to offer:
great riffs, blistering solos, and
some crazy man vocals. Let’s
party! ✦
by Jordan Baker,
Romeoville, IL
HIP HOP
T-Pain
Revolver
T
-Pain, a rapper known for
his reliance on Auto-Tune,
brings a familiar, slow vibe to
his new album, “Revolver.”
Best known for his 2007 hit
single, “Buy U a Drank,”
T-Pain grew up in Florida and
joined the rap group Nappy
Headz in 2004. In 2005, he
began riding solo, cutting his
first tracks on “Rappa Ternt
Sanga.” Six years later, his
style hasn’t changed, aside
from the addition of excessive
Auto-Tuning and endless monotone lyrics. The songs on
“Revolver” are similar to most
of his previous work.
“Revolver” contains a few
slower, sweeter songs. Very
different from artists like Eminem, T-Pain bases all his lyrics
on love, not hate. Even though
these songs may be more appealing in an emotional sense,
they grow extremely repetitive.
At the start, T-Pain includes
heavier club tracks that are
great for party-goers, while the
middle and end of the album
get more and more dry. It
would have been better if he
mixed the party tunes with the
slower love songs.
Most of the tracks feature
generic T-Pain qualities, including endless monotonous beats
and the same robotic vocals.
The album kicks off with
“Bang Bang Pow Pow,” a great
collaboration with Lil’ Wayne,
who rarely disappoints. Here
his style lights up the song and
makes it pop.
The third track, “It’s Not You
(It’s Me),” is a great party song
and stands out on this painful
album. It also features, Pitbull,
one of the greatest Latino rappers of all time. He gives a
spicy flavor to the song, making you want to jump up and
dance. In the next few tracks,
the album’s earlier potential
drops. They’re basically TPain’s old style, twisting the
Standing still while
the world is moving
lyrics around a bit and keeping
the same slow instrumental
beat. This kills the album and
makes it very hard to listen to.
Instead of changing his style,
T-Pain shows he does not want
to move on. He is standing still
while the rest of the world is
moving around him. He mixes
it up a little in “Best Love
Song.” Chris Brown’s vocals
add to the track, making it fun
to listen to and sing along with.
Overall, “Revolver” is bland,
with a few fun songs to dance
and sing to.
Two out of five stars. ✦
by Jojo Jorge,
Roslyn Heights, NY
ROCK
INXS
Kick
I
f I had to describe INXS’s
breakthrough album, “Kick,”
in one word, it would be
“funky.” Each song throbs with
a dance beat, moving listeners
to their feet. “Kick” propelled
Australian band INXS to superstardom back in 1987, winning
them acknowledgment and hit
singles. And it’s no wonder –
every track is upbeat and
danceable, even the weakest.
The album opens with “Guns
in the Sky,” in which vocalist
Michael Hutchence grunts and
groans over a pounding drum
track. As soon as the infectious
guitar riff hits, it’s impossible
to keep from nodding to the
beat. Next is “New Sensation,”
an uplifting track with jangly
guitars that was the album’s
third single. Indeed, “Kick”
seems to thrive on its singles,
certainly living up to guitarist/
saxophonist Kirk Pengilly’s
hopes that every song would be
perfect for airplay.
“Devil Inside” is undeniably
the sexiest song here. “Mystify”
contains an almost folksy piano
riff and spot-on guitars, as well
as some of the sweetest lyrics
for a lover. “Need You Tonight,” the band’s first numberone single in America, is
perfect for dirty dancing, with
its driving drumbeat and catchy
guitar hook. “I need you
tonight, ’cause I’m not sleeping,” Hutchence sings.
However, all of these tunes
pale in comparison to “Never
Tear Us Apart.” Its string
arrangement and convincing
lyrics make it one of the best
love songs ever.
Looking past the singles,
“Kick” doesn’t have much else.
With the exceptions of “Guns
in the Sky” and “Tiny Daggers,” every other song is filler
Every track is upbeat
and danceable
and, for the most part, forgettable. This is especially true for
“Calling All Nations,” which
contains some cringe-worthy
lyrics.
Overall, “Kick” is a solid
album, but despite its fame, this
is definitely not INXS’s best.
(That title would arguably go
to their 1984 effort, “The
Swing.”) This album is worth
buying even if the singles are
all you want, but the rest would
only be recommended for hardcore ’80s fans. Though “Kick”
has not aged too well for teens
of today, it remains the perfect
party album. ✦
by Keely Burn,
Richmond, VA
INDIE ROCK
Dead Man’s
Bones
Dead Man’s Bones
M
ention Hollywood heartthrob Ryan Gosling, and
the grungy, bearded guy in
“The Notebook” comes to
mind. Most don’t picture him at
an indie rock music festival
with his best friend, Zach
Shields, and a bunch of kids
dressed in Halloween costumes, and definitely not playing in an indie rock band.
Zach and Ryan met in 2005
when they were dating sisters.
They discovered a mutual obsession with ghosts, zombies,
and monsters, and decided to
write love songs about them.
Their first album, self-titled
“Dead Man’s Bones,” was
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
released in 2009, and they collaborated with the Silverlake
Conservatory of Music Children’s Choir. They chose to
play all the instruments on the
album, including those they had
never touched, and never did
more than three takes, believing
that imperfections highlighted
the strengths of the music.
My initial thoughts were
What the …? and This is the
creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.
But after I got over these feelings, this album started to grow
on me. The songs provided a
feeling of comfort through the
trance-like voices of the men
and the choir of children. Each
song has its own feel. Some are
catchy and humorous while
others are resonant and serious.
I’ll start with the first creepy
song, “Dead Hearts.” It begins
eerily, with something that
sounds like a heartbeat and
rhythmic guitar. At the climax,
glass shatters in time with the
music, then it slows and you
hear footsteps and scraping
noises. I would probably get
scared if I listened to this alone.
Background music
from a zombie movie
The title track is my favorite
because of its upbeat rhythm.
The beginning is similar to
jazz music. When the chorus
comes in, a tambourine and
piano join as well. The lyrics
explain that no matter where
you are, chances are you’re
standing on a dead man’s
bones.
“Pa Pa Power” is one of the
better-known tracks. It begins
with a techno beat and tambourine, drums, and synthesizer. Then a man and the choir
of children alternate singing
“Pa pa power pa pa power.”
Lyrics like “Burn the streets,
burn the cars” and “Broken
glass, broken hearts” seem to
be about the destruction power
can cause.
“Dead Man’s Bones” was
definitely not what I expected,
but turned out to be a lot less
creepy than I first thought. This
album is worth the listener’s
time, and I’d recommend it to
any fan of alternative or indie
music. It’s a combination of
creepy, upbeat songs and background music from a zombie
movie, and it’s perfect for any
fan with an open mind. ✦
by Kristina Mills,
Waverly, KY
TEENINK.COM
COMEDY
Say Anything … Easy A
A
s a teenage girl, I have always wanted a boy to lift
his giant radio to my window
and replace the sun with the
wise words of Peter Gabriel. In
simpler terms, I have always
wanted “Say Anything …” to
be my life. “Say Anything …”
is one of those movies that is
best to watch on a rainy day.
Every character, every detail,
and every breakup and makeup
will leave you laughing and
crying for more.
The movie stars John Cusack
as Lloyd Dobler, a recent high
school grad who, like many, is
Will leave you
laughing and crying
for more
wondering what to do with his
life. He’s a real “man’s man”
whose two best friends are
women. He’s not only the popular guy from Lakewood High,
he’s also the nicest guy you’ll
ever meet, and happens to be in
love with the beautiful and
smart Diane Court (Ione Skye).
Diane, like Lloyd, just graduated, but she has her whole life
planned out and has won a
scholarship to study in England. Also unlike Lloyd, she
doesn’t have many friends until
their first date, when Lloyd is
given the role as “key master”
of the party and Diane is left to
socialize.
Once Lloyd convinces Diane
to go out with him, he picks her
up in his blue Chevy Malibu. At
the party everyone is wondering
how a guy like Lloyd got a girl
like Diane. “He made me
laugh” is the only explanation
she gives. He made her laugh. If
only love were that simple.
Lloyd and Diane seem to be
perfect except for one thing:
how different they are. She
grew up in a wealthy, protective
family, while Lloyd lives with
his sister and spends his time
training to be the world’s best
kickboxer. The two are great
together, but their lives couldn’t
be more different.
The movie is not just every
girl’s fantasy – it seems to be
taken straight from the pages of
a 15-year-old’s diary. Watching
“Say Anything …” hits a soft
spot in my heart that just feels
good. ✦
by Madie Rapp,
Cannon Falls, MN
LINK
YOUR
O
n the surface, “Easy A” is
a comedy about the reality
of the high school rumor mill.
However, the film has several
deeper themes drawn from
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The
Scarlet Letter, including sin
and redemption.
Published in 1850, The
Scarlet Letter tells the story of
Hester Prynne, a young woman
living in Puritan Boston, who is
forced to wear a scarlet A because she gave birth to a child
out of wedlock. “Easy A” offers a unique, modern version
of Hester Prynne’s tale.
Protagonist Olive Penderghast (Emma Stone) is the
archetypal high school nobody,
unknown and unpopular. Unlike Hester, however, Olive
never commits adultery; she
simply lies to her best friend
about having sex. As any high
school student knows, gossip
Great acting
and great humor
spreads like wildfire in a
schoolwide game of telephone.
Olive, rather than deny the
rumor, embraces her newfound
attention and even decides to
affix a red A to her own clothing, inspired by The Scarlet
Letter, which she is reading in
English class. Olive’s new
reputation sets off a chain of
events that drastically change
her social life.
Emma Stone delivers a convincing performance. She fits
into the high school setting,
even three years after playing a
high schooler in “Superbad.”
The supporting cast is surprisingly excellent, especially Stanley Tucci as Olive’s extremely
liberal father, and Thomas
Haden Church as her favorite
English teacher. The writing is
clever, with clear and meaningful themes.
It is obvious that “Easy A” is
inspired by The Scarlet Letter.
In fact, my one and only issue
is that this connection may be
too obvious, beaten to death by
the fact that Olive is reading
Hawthorne’s novel for school. I
would have preferred if “Easy
A” followed a similar plot to
The Scarlet Letter but didn’t
mention it, as the Coen brothers’ “A Serious Man” followed
the biblical story of Job. I feel
that this style would have enhanced the experience for those
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
of us who had read the novel
and could identify similarities
along the way.
Overall, “Easy A” has great
acting and great humor. It’s a
film for everybody, even my
chick-flick-hating father. The
fact that it uses The Scarlet Letter as inspiration allows it to
explore themes not normally
found in this genre, including
sin, redemption, and slander.
Olive is able to ask important
questions: what is the worst
sin – lying, adultery, or perhaps
lying about adultery? ✦
by Gregory Briker,
New City, NY
COMEDY
Bill Cosby:
Himself
T
hough the days of the VCR
are long gone, the demand
for excellent old-fashioned
stand-up comedy is still high.
“Bill Cosby: Himself” satisfies
this need with laugh-out-loud
humor. Cosby’s amusing twists
on normal situations keep audiences laughing throughout this
spectacular show.
“Bill Cosby: Himself” was
filmed in 1983 at the Hamilton
Theatre in Canada in front of a
Best comedy I’ve
ever watched
live audience. This whimsical
performance, including antics
about everything from going to
the dentist to giving birth, is
definitely worth the 105 minutes. Cosby combines stories
such as his “people who drink
too much” sketch with comedic
anecdotes from his life. His facial expressions play a key role
in the reason audiences have
been laughing for years.
Another reason “Bill Cosby:
Himself” has been so popular is
because of his routine. When
he comes on stage and begins
his performance, he is having a
conversation with the audience.
He doesn’t try to force a joke
but goes with the flow, taking
the audience with him. His
jokes are also relatable. From
changing stinky baby diapers to
dealing with annoying siblings,
everyone can relate.
However, this film, along
with every other movie out
there, has its flaws. Since it’s
old, the video and sound quality aren’t that clear. This film is
also not for those who want
punchy one-liners. Cosby takes
FACEBOOK
time to develop his jokes.
Nevertheless, “Bill Cosby:
Himself” is the best comedy
I’ve ever watched. Cosby’s relatable jokes and hilarious expressions are a treat. The live
audience laughing and reacting
with him make it feel like you
are watching him live too. ✦
by Laolu Ogunnaike,
Brooklyn, NY
REALITY TV
Teen Mom
T
he MTV reality show
“Teen Mom” is based on
four teenagers who allow us to
observe their lives as they face
the challenges of the first year
of motherhood. Maci, Farrah,
Amber, and Caitlynn all share
anecdotes of their struggles,
complications, and accomplishments.
“Teen Mom” is an inspiring
show for other teen mothers.
Being one myself, it has helped
me understand that I am not
alone. Seeing other people’s
point of view helped me to be
more humble and flexible about
certain situations as well. It has
truly become therapy for me. I
can totally relate to the show
and I’m certain, or hopeful, that
others will be affected in a positive way too.
However, for certain viewers
“Teen Mom” has had a negative impact. Some teens believe
that the moms on the show are
doing well despite having a
young child. They overlook the
struggles and only pay attention
Inspiring show for
other teen mothers
to their good fortune: the fact
they own a home and car or
have a job. They don’t understand how difficult it is being a
teen mother, and the hard work
that’s necessary to get these
luxuries. Some believe “Teen
Mom” glorifies having children
at a young age, but that is not
the case at all.
One of the show’s stars,
Maci, demonstrates the real
struggles of being a single
mom. She faces custody and
child support battles with her
son’s father and the challenges
of balancing school, her son,
and a new romance.
Another mom, Farrah, shows
what it’s like for her child to
have no father, since her daughter Sophia’s father died. Farrah
struggles with her decision to
leave her child with her mother
and father in order to attend
college.
Caitlynn and her boyfriend,
Tyler, deal with being “birth
parents” and their decision to
give their daughter, Carly, up
for adoption.
Last but not least, teen
mother Amber faces domestic
violence from Gary, her
boyfriend (and her daughter’s
father). Their verbally, emotionally, and physically abusive
relationship affects everyone,
including their toddler, Leah.
I would recommend “Teen
Mom” to reality TV fans. Other
teen mothers especially may
love this show, as I did. ✦
by Felisha Feliciano,
Hockessin, DE
DRAMA
Drumline
“D
rumline” is an inspirational story about
Devon Miles (Nick Cannon), a
drummer from New York City
who earns a scholarship to Atlanta A&T University to play in
the marching band. As Devon
finds his rhythm within the
band, he develops a conflict
with Sean, the leader of the
drum section.
Devon thinks he can carry
the whole band by himself, but
after challenging Sean to a
drum-off, Devon soon realizes
that it takes more than talent to
succeed. I believe the movie’s
message to teens is simply “the
will must be greater than the
skill.”
I particularly liked the
development of the relationship
between Devon and Sean.
Through their forged friendship, an outstanding marching
band is created. The team begins to work in amazing ways
movie & tv reviews
DRAMA
Teaches about
teamwork
and coins the phrase “one band,
one sound.”
“Drumline” is a spectacular
movie I would recommend to
all teens. It not only entertains
but also teaches viewers about
teamwork.
I really enjoyed “Drumline.”
The rage, action, and excitement made it awesome. It’s
definitely worth watching. ✦
by Khadia Baptiste,
Wilmington, DE
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
33
love story
Confessions of Prince Charming
I’ll tell you my story.
I’ll start from the top.
I’ll leave out no details,
And at the ending I’ll stop.
My troubles with women
Began right from birth,
With my very own mother,
Queen Beth Merryworth.
That name that she gave me
Is one no mother should give.
I mean, what was she thinking?
“Charming” is an adjective!
I was only sixteen
When I ticked off a witch.
She made me a beast.
Man, that girl was a b***h.
I would have been beastly
For the rest of my life,
But Belle came and saved me.
So I made her my wife.
That was a mistake
I learned pretty quick.
My new wife was crazy,
A pure lunatic!
She was convinced that the teapot
Was the teacup’s mama,
And had long conversations
With the candelabra.
So I put her in a madhouse,
Went to France with a friend,
And out walking one day,
I saw a long braid’s blond end.
Her name was Rapunzel
And with my strength and power
And none had been great.
I climbed up her hair
One in a madhouse, the other in jail,
And freed her from her tower.
Hadn’t talked to Rapunzel since
I was already married,
our wedding date.
But I’m a sucker for blonds.
My parents were desperate.
And on the eve of our wedding
So they hosted a ball.
She got a dye job!
And I met Cinderella,
The passion fizzled and died.
The most famous of all.
I was in love with her hair.
She was gorgeous and lovely,
I explained this to her
But I missed all the signs.
And then ran out of there.
Something was wrong
Not three weeks later,
With my pretty wife’s
One crisp winter night,
mind.
I met another woman.
My troubles
I know that I found her
Her name was Snow
With the glass slipper’s
White.
with women
match.
And she was a darling.
But that girl would lose
No one was patient or
began right
her head
kinder.
from birth
If it wasn’t attached.
She’d been living for
She misplaced her ring,
years
Lost her tiara, my crown.
With seven short miners.
And when I’d question their
But Snow White had a problem:
whereabouts
She loved talking to strangers.
She’d ponder and frown.
I’d come home each night
“Your wife has dementia,”
To find her in danger.
Said Dr. Gerome.
She’d shelter the wanted,
And she moved from the palace
Have thieves in for tea.
To a retirement home.
“But they were so nice!”
I was defending the border,
She’d say later to me.
Doing my princely duty.
I hired a doorman,
When I first came across
A gateman and some guards.
My dear Sleeping Beauty.
But she cohorted with criminals
She awoke with my kiss
And was put behind bars.
And we were happy awhile.
Three times I’d been married,
Stupid Love
I
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
But the queen of my country
Needed this century’s styles.
Now at this point
My mother went crazy.
She assembled a plan
Of which the logic is hazy.
We had one different princess
Over each night
And they slept upon mattresses
At a great height.
My mom put a pea
At the base of each stack,
And we waited for the girl
Who felt a rock at her back.
The one girl arrived
And we were married like that.
But she was not sensitive,
Just an insomniac.
She could only sleep
If she was doped to the gills.
And it wasn’t too long
Before she was addicted to pills.
My wife was a drug addict.
She was locked in a ward
After two more attempts
To take her life with my sword.
By this point in my life,
I’ve been married six times.
And I’m totally sick
Of those wedding chimes.
So I’m swearing off women.
My dreams of wedlock are sunk.
It’s just not working out …
I’m now Prince Charming the Monk. ✦
by Katie Callahan, Valrico, FL
And what I have to say is so important that I
dial and my hands are trembling oh-so-slightly
laugh and forgive you for calling me stupid, because
holding the phone to my ear, as I wait for you to
of course you don’t know why I’m calling or how
pick up and say hi, and I’m praying because this
important it is.
is really really important even if you don’t realize it
But part of me is secretly hoping you do know
yet.
why, that you’ve already figured it out and have a
And the phone rings eight times before finally –
fantastic speech all planned so that as soon as I’ve
finally – you pick up and say “Hello?” and your
fumbled my way through this first bit, you can
voice has that little question at the end that people
sweep this whole situation away with your words
get when they don’t know exactly who is calling
and your voice like you always do.
and they’re a little annoyed but still being polite.
So I cheat, kind of, and say, “So, I’m guessing
So I say, “Hi, it’s me,” and you kind of laugh and
you know why I’m calling ….” And
say, “Oh, duh, of course it’s you.
wait, holding my breath, hoping you’ll
What’s up?”
in the blanks.
And for a moment I’m swept away
“I’d like to hang fillBut
you don’t. You stay there breathby your voice, what I know you look
out
more,
just
ing
on
the other end, not saying anylike – your eyes, your hair, half-gelled
thing, and I start to doubt myself just a
and mussed from where you were
you and me” little, and still you don’t say anything,
sleeping on it. And I know that you’ve
and now I’m seriously worried. I know
probably ruined yet another couch
now you must need a bigger hint, a clue, so I say,
cushion with all that gel, and that this is why
“Well we’ve been hanging out a while” and “You
your mother knits those little cozies that cover the
know you’re one of my best friends, right?” and
pillows.
“I’m really fond of you.” It’s a big nudge, really;
And then you say “Hello?” again, like you’re not
how can you not see where this is going?
sure if I’m still here, like maybe I’ve hung up or
But still you’re silent, so I take a deeper breath
walked away because I really didn’t mean to call
and curse you insincerely in my head for letting
you. But I did mean to call you, so instead I laugh
words fail you now when they never have before.
and say, “Hey, I’m still here. Just had to think for a
And I clinch it, saying, “I really like you. I’d like to
second,” and you give that half laugh again and say,
hang out more, just you and me.”
“Think about what, stupid? We haven’t even started
I’m proud of myself for getting through this
talking yet.”
whole speech without any help, all by myself,
34
by Annie Krueger,
Ilderton, ON, Canada
COMMENT
nerves and awkward silences and everything.
You say slowly, stuttering, your voice dull and
dim instead of bright and intelligent: “What are you
talking about?”
I start laughing, thinking you’re just pretending to
be stupid to be funny, even though it’s really not,
and any moment now you’ll cover up the awkwardness by laughing with me and saying, “Of course I
know, stupid. I was just kidding.”
But then you speak up again, all confused, and
say, “Why are you laughing?” And immediately I
stop.
For a long, tiny eternity I’m frozen, realizing
you’re not pretending, that maybe you really are just
stupid. I’m horrified, and wondering, How could
this have happened? and Could I really have fallen
in love with a stupid person? And I’m confused,
too, not wanting to believe it, wondering how you
could sound so stupid after how brilliant you
sounded in math class on Thursday. How could you
stutter now when you have always armed yourself
with words before?
You say “Hello?” a third time, sounding really
uncertain, maybe a tiny bit afraid, and not at all
smart. And I don’t say anything, just hang up,
knowing you must have been stupid not to have any
idea this was coming.
And really, I can’t be in love with you, anyway, or
if I was, I’m not anymore, because God forbid I ever
love a stupid person. ✦
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by Elizabeth Waldie, Phoenixville, PA
Androphobia. Fear of men. I know she isn’t ansit and watch the clock, hood over my head,
drophobic, but it fits. It almost makes me laugh.
hands gently resting on the coolness of my desk.
“Desiree, right?” New Boy asks, looking at me. I
Epistemophobia. Fear of knowledge.
hate my name, so I have people call me Des. New
I am not saying I’m epistemophobic. I am simply
boy doesn’t seem fazed by my name, though. He
stating that I am not in the mood to be in school
grins a perfect, pearly grin. Gosh, even upside-down
right now. Is that such a crime?
he’s gorgeous. I sit up and turn to him, well aware
Mr. Patterson started class with a boring lecture
that gravity has made my frizzy brown hair a tangled
and then left. He must be ephebiphobic. That’s
mess. I try not to look directly at him. He is too
pretty much saying that he’s afraid of teenagers. I
distracting.
guess I can understand why. I mean, considering
“Yes,” I say. “I never caught your-”
that most of the girls have a crush on him and half
“Ash.” He grins. “Call me Ash.” That smile …
the boys try to light his room on fire once a week,
My legs go numb as he runs his thin fingers – Tara
I’d be pretty ephebiphobic myself if I were in his
would call them piano fingers – through
shoes. The thing is, he’s always makhis dark hair.
ing excuses to leave. A coffee stain on
“Right.” I swallow as he moves
his shirt. A paper cut. It never ends.
Out of the
forward.
I peel my eyes from the clock as
corner of my eye, “Can I sit here?” he asks.
Mr. Patterson walks in. Apparently
“Umm …” I look at Tara. Will she
today’s excuse is a new student. Mr.
I see the new
be upset if somebody – a boy – sits
Patterson doesn’t even bother to introwith us?
boy staring
duce him to us. The boy simply saun“I need to go to the library. See ya!”
ters in with a peculiar confidence in
She winks at me and hurriedly exits the
his stride, walks to the back of the
lunchroom.
room, and sits next to me. I notice he doesn’t make a
“Well, I guess you can now.” I smile at Ash.
sound. He is so very silent.
He sits across from me. “No lunch?” he asks,
The new boy is dark – his vibe, I mean. His long,
Photo by Katya Kantar, Westfield, IN
gesturing to the bare table.
pale fingers curl into a folded position, and the room
I want to shoot back, “Okay, hypocrite. Where’s
I shake. I will not be tremophobic. I will not be
suddenly feels thick, dense. Nobody watches him
your lunch?” But instead I shrug and say, “Sitophotremophobic.
like I do. They’re either asleep or plotting another
bia.”
“If you were tremophobic, you wouldn’t be shakway to light Mr. Patterson’s room on fire. Out of the
He laughs. It’s such a genuine sound. “Fear of
ing like this,” Ash says, brushing a piece of hair
corner of my eye, I see the new boy staring.
eating?”
from my face.
Ophthalmophobia. Fear of being stared at.
“Nah,” I said. “I’m just not very hungry.”
“It’s like you know me – like you can read my
I feel the color rise in my cheeks.
A period of silence follows before he says, “So I
mind,” I whisper.
Ereuthrophobia. Fear of blushing.
have English next period, and I heard that you do
“Come with me. I have something to show you,”
“What?” New Boy asks, as if wondering what I
too. Would you mind if I borrowed your poetry book
he says as the next class files in.
said.
to see what I missed?”
•
•
•
Shoot. I must have said it out loud.
I
pull
the
old,
torn
poetry
book
out
of
my
bag.
The
clearing
in
the
woods
is
soggy
with rain. I am
“Nothing,” I mutter, hiding my face. It’s going to
I’ve written “metrophobia” all over it – fear of
grateful for my old rainboots and jacket.
be a long class.
poetry.
Nyctohylophobia and ombrophobia drift through
•
•
•
“Wow,” he says.
my mind. Fear of dark wooded areas and fear of
I am lying across the bench that connects to the
“What?” I ask, suddenly nervous. Does he think
rain.
lunch table. It’s raining, so we are not allowed to eat
it’s weird that I wrote all over my book?
“Why did you bring me here?” My body tenses.
at our regular tree. I wouldn’t mind sitting in the
He doesn’t answer at first.
My voice comes out raspy. “How did you know?”
rain, but apparently the principal doesn’t agree. Tara
Macrophobia. Fear of long waits.
“Des,” he says, his voice thick and
looks at me with her unusually bright green eyes.
“There
must
be
a
lot
of
poetry
in
tired
as he looks into my eyes. I look at
“What is wrong with you?” She pokes my stom“Will you just him. God, he is so familiar. I’d know
there.” He whistles.
ach with a plastic spork. I think there should be a
I sigh. Right. “Yeah, the book really
face anywhere. Why didn’t I see it
word for the fear of sporks. Sporkiophobia. Yes. I
shut up with that
is huge.”
before?
quite like that.
“Well,” he says, standing up and
“Ash … as in Ashton.” My eyes widen.
I shrug.
all those
stretching. “I’ll give it back in English.
Mnemophobia. This is a fear I have
“You’re lying on the bench. Are you sick or somephobias?”
Thanks.”
had for the past year and a half. Fear of
thing? Protesting the cafeteria tables? You could at
He walks away, and I wonder why he
memories.
least sit on the floor.”
didn’t
just
stay
and
walk
to
class
with
me.
It
all
comes
back: the fire, the accident, the
“Kathisophobia,” I say. “Fear of sitting down.” I
•
•
•
death ….
close my eyes and don’t need to open them to know
We work in pairs in English, and Ash is my partArsonphobia, dystychiphobia, thanatophobia.
that she is sniffing her purple Jell-O, debating
ner. He hands me my poetry book, takes a look at
Fear of fire, accidents, death.
whether or not the lunch lady’s latest experiment is
the test paper and says, “Testophobia,” showing me
“Ashton.” I take his face in my hands. His long
edible.
his famous grin.
fingers move to cradle my face as well. “Oh,” I
“Will you just shut up with all these stupid phoI smile. I’m beginning to like this guy.
whisper. “How?”
bias?” she asks, accidentally knocking over her tiny
We are the first to finish the test, so we talk quiHe kisses me. My boyfriend, my love, the one I
cup of raisins in the process. I know this, because I
etly.
“Why’d
you
transfer?”
I
ask,
and
immediately
thought
I had lost. They said he was gone. How
hear them. It happens almost every day, only the
regret it.
could he be back?
ants usually get to them before she can scoop them
His face clouds over and his eyes go dark. Those
Philophobia. I’ve been philophobic ever since the
up. Because we’re inside, I hear her drop each one
full lips form a thin, white line. “Things happened.”
accident – afraid to fall in love.
back into the container. “Ms. Rickle really needs to
“Oh,” I say. I am grateful when the bell rings, and
I open my eyes while my hands curl in his hair.
stop the phobia lessons, or you need to switch to a
I move to leave, but Ash takes my arm.
The pressure of him – of the kiss – is still there, but
different class.”
Haphephobia, I think, my heart pounding.
he is not. I pull away and gasp.
“I think it’s cool,” says a warm, honey-like voice
“Fear of being touched,” Ash says quietly, as if
“Phasmophobia,” I whisper, my lips quivering.
from above me. I open my eyes and see the new kid.
reading
my
mind.
I
shudder.
“Look,”
he
says,
“I’m
Fear
of ghosts. ✦
I turn my head and see Tara’s eyes go wide as she
sorry I stoned up on you like that.”
brushes a strand of purple hair behind her ear.
I
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F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
love story
Panophobia
• Teen Ink
35
love story
36
The Dreams of Fred
As the man in the apron began
Thursday Afternoon
grilling the hot dog, a peculiar smile
he first time it happened to
found its way onto Fred’s face. It was
Fred Perls, the setting was a
a feeling he couldn’t explain. It
hot dog stand.
wasn’t really that he was happy, but
It had been a cold morning, and by
rather that he was amused. Fred could
half past noon, when Fred left work
not – not yet, at least – explain why.
for his lunch break, it had not gotten
Once Fred’s Hot Dog Was Done
much warmer. As he walked along the
Being Grilled
crowded sidewalk and passed the
As Fred took the bills from his walscent of delicious, smoking hot dogs,
let and handed them to the man in the
there was little doubt in Fred’s mind
apron, the strange feeling took hold of
that it was a hot dog kind of day.
him again and his tongue stopped
The Night Before
working in the middle of saying
Fred slept on his stomach, as al“thank you.” Only when Fred said it,
ways, his left arm draped over the
it sounded more like “thu.”
side of the bed. He was fast asleep
The man in the apron, who was of
and a small circle of drool had formed
course unaware of the strange feeling
on the sheets under his mouth.
Fred was experiencing, was unsure of
When he woke at 5:30, he sat up
what to do. Thankfully, Fred regained
and thought about his dreams, but by
his composure, handed
5:42, as he walked to
over the money, took his
the bathroom to brush
hot dog, and hastily
his teeth, he found
Fred had just
turned toward his office
them impossible to
remember.
dreamt about a building.
What Was Happening
Thursday Afternoon
hot dog stand in Fred’s Mind
Again
What was happening
Fred’s mind was
in Fred’s mind was the
happily empty as he
same as when he would hear an old
stood in line to get his hot dog. The
song and struggle to remember the
two large women in front of him wore
title. Or when, in college, he had studeven larger coats, restricting his view
ied all night for a French quiz and
of the hot dog stand to just the metal
then could not remember the French
shelf for ketchup, mustard, and relish.
word for an English one. It was the
After a few minutes, the women
nagging, annoying feeling of knowing
left, and Fred took a final step toward
that you know something but just not
the hot dog stand. “One hot dog,
knowing it at the moment.
please,” he said, although he felt
In fact, Fred was trying to rememstrange saying it because this was,
ber something. He did his best to igafter all, a hot dog stand, and there
nore it. Instead, he focused on all the
was nothing else to buy.
reports he had to finish by that
evening.
Thursday Evening
Fred had not finished his reports.
Thursday Afternoon Again
Of course, the exact moment Fred
began focusing on something else
was the moment he figured it out.
When he had woken up at 5:30, Fred
remembered, he had just dreamt
about a hot dog stand. What’s more,
the man at the hot dog stand had been
the same man as in his dream.
And the more he thought about it,
the stranger it became, because he
had dreamt about the two fat ladies
with their big coats too.
The smile still on his face, Fred
walked over to a nearby park bench
and sat down. It was, for sure, the
strangest and most excited that Fred
had ever felt. It wasn’t just that he
had dreamt about the situation he had
been in; he had dreamt of those exact
people, their clothes, their fuzzy blue
coats. He had dreamt of the ketchup,
the mustard, and the relish.
All the details of the dream suddenly flowed into Fred’s mind.
He imagined that this is what it
would feel like to discover a new
Art by Ashley Lian, New Milford, CT
T
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
by Anonymous, Newton, MA
country, or to use magic. He got up
And Carla said yes.
quickly and walked back to work.
Even Fred could not have dreamt
He had not eaten his hot dog.
this would happen.
Early That Night
Once They Were Finished Eating
He was in his long green pajamas.
It had been decided over lunch,
Fred was 30 years old and unmarried,
which had gone very well, that neither
and this was the most excited he had
Fred nor Carla felt like returning to
ever been to get into bed. He lay a
work for the rest of the day, even
notebook and pen on the bedside table,
though two adjacent empty cubicles
took off his socks, and climbed in.
would be very noticeable, a point
He reached out from under the
Fred had brought up.
down covers and moved the alarm
They left the restaurant and began
back ten minutes. He squeezed his
walking away from their drab office
eyes shut and, incredibly, fell asleep
building, east along the river.
The river and the boats, thought
within minutes. The only sound was
Fred.
the ticking of the clock down the hall.
“I need to step into that bank,”
Early in the Morning
Carla said suddenly, letting go of his
Immediately after waking, Fred
hand and jogging across the street.
began scribbling furiously in the notebook. He wrote about a box of ChiShe turned and yelled, “Wait there!”
nese food, a river clogged with boats,
Fred turned toward the water and
a giant key, masks, a girl, a shoe, and
thought about how strange the last
a bulls-eye. With a snap, he flipped
two days had been. He reached into
the cover of the notebook back into
his jacket and took out the notebook,
place and rolled out of bed.
and judging by the rest of what he had
Pleased with himself, Fred began
written, decided that this day could
his morning routine. As he dressed, he
only get stranger.
slipped the notebook of dreams inside
Fred turned back toward the street,
his jacket. At 7:15, he walked out the
leaning against the chains that kept
door and wondered if it would happen
people from falling into the water. He
again.
looked into the windows of the bank
Fred’s Lunch Break
and saw a man in a mask pulling
Unfortunately, it was cold again.
down a shade.
Fred walked in the opposite direction
There’s the mask, thought Fred.
from the day before, toward the
At this point, Fred realized that the
restaurant district and the shopping
bank was being robbed and that the
malls. Fred and his coworkers did not
love of his life was inside.
usually head this way because it was
Shoving the notebook into his
quite a ways to walk and their lunch
jacket again, Fred walked toward the
break was short. But work, and the
bank with a confident stride. It was
pile of reports left on his desk, were
the stride of someone who thinks he
not on Fred’s list of priorities.
is much braver than he is, someone
Later That Day
who is probably about to do someThe reports were still not done.
thing very stupid.
Back to Fred’s Lunch Break
He walked right up to the front
In the restaurant section of town,
door and peered through a crack in
delicious smells once again found
the blinds. A man in a mask, a differtheir way to Fred’s nostrils. He
ent man who was much taller and fatsmelled garlic chicken.
ter than the other one, pulled back the
There’s the Chinese food, he
blinds and shoved a gun in Fred’s
thought.
face, thus confirming Fred’s suspicion
Like the day before, Fred followed
that the bank was being robbed.
his nose. He opened the
Fred backed away, his
door of Oriental Panda.
stride much quicker now.
Fred was
Sitting at a small table to
On the one hand, he wanted
the left, with a menu obget as far away from the
no superhero tobank
scuring most of her face,
as possible, because he
was Carla Hall.
had almost died. On the
Carla Hall worked in a cubicle next
other hand, Carla was in the bank.
to Fred and, like Fred, rarely finished
And so Fred neither walked away
her reports on time. She collected
from the bank nor toward it. Instead,
he walked around it, and at the back of
quarters. She often wore green, and
the building, he found a fire escape.
brought orange juice to work in a cofFred did not call the police, a decision
fee mug. And if Fred were ever going
he would later ponder. What he did
to be married, he wanted it to be to
was take a step back, get a running
Carla Hall.
start, and jump onto the bottom rung.
With a smile and a confident stride
On the Roof of the Bank
unlike those that belonged to the
He looked around, trying to think
usual Fred, Fred made his way over to
of a plan. There were some metal
Carla and asked to join her.
boxes, a flagpole, and right in the
What he said was, “Hi Carla, mind
middle of the roof, a metal ➤➤
if I join you?”
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Leah Barteldes, Olney, MD
everything). If that was your motive, then you didn’t
or some reason, I cannot put away the memthink it through too well, because you certainly
ory of you in that picture on your Facebook. It
don’t look too all-American: good looks and Ralph
wasn’t a particularly spectacular one, just you
Lauren polos, yes, but football, Coca-Cola, trucks
in that perfect light blue shirt that matched your
and/or baseball caps, no. I’m sorry, but your logic
eyes, goofing off with your best friend, being boys
failed. Besides, she has a boyfriend.
for whatever reason. But between the
I never liked baseball caps anyway.
way the sun made your hair shine like
Maybe
for
Maybe for some reason you did take
melted butter and the fact that your
this
picture for me. It would mean the
carefree laugh showed off your smile
some reason
entire world to me if you had. At the
in the most flattering way, I became
you did take this very least, it would make me feel better
infatuated with you. And yet, I don’t
knowing you just took it to show
even know what your motives were
picture for me than
off that you had friends and a life. I
for taking this picture. You certainly
don’t want to sound like one of those
didn’t mention them in the caption.
melodramatic Nicholas Sparks movies, but I wish I
Maybe you were trying to look masculine, like the
could tell you how much I love this picture. More
perfect All-American teenage boy for that perfect
than Cherry Garcia ice cream, more than a new
All-American girl, the one who’s a cheerleader
episode of “Glee,” more than what it felt like to have
and a straight-A student and Student Council presithe Miss Maryland Crabs Jr. crown placed on my
dent to boot (and much better than me in, well,
head last summer. Did you see that picture? I may
F
This procedure took quite some time,
hatch. Fred scrambled over and tugged
and he made so much noise that, had the
with desperation on the massive iron lock.
storage closet actually opened into the
Although he was discouraged, he knew
safe room where the robbers were, he
it couldn’t end here. His dreams told him
would have been shot before his hand
it couldn’t. He felt along the sides of the
even touched the ceiling. Lucky for Fred,
hatch, trying to find something to tug on.
but not so lucky for the robbers, the storThere was nothing on the right, but his
age closet was situated between the men’s
left hand grazed something small.
and women’s bathrooms.
There’s the key, thought Fred.
After Fred Managed to Pull Himself
Ecstatically, he ripped off the tape that
into the Ceiling of the Bank
held the key, jammed it into the keyhole,
Fred knew that he had done a pretty
and twisted. The lock popped open.
good job so far, at least in terms of his
Fred paused for a moment to consider
athletic feats, but he still had no idea what
what he was doing. Fred was no superhe was going to do about the bank robhero, nor had he worked out since his trial
bers. He didn’t know how many there
gym membership had expired the year
were (there were two), if they all had
ago. Also, his fighting experience was
guns (they did), if they were holding
limited to two years of karate in elemenhostages (they were), or how he was
tary school.
going to get out of this
A Moment Later
ceiling (by accident).
Fred dangled his feet
did the only thing
over the open hatch and
He had no idea heFred
could think of, which
found the first metal step.
He began climbing down,
what he was going was to crawl forward. He
over the women’s
aware how loud his
to do about the passed
bathroom, a hallway, and
breathing sounded in the
then the tellers’ booths.
narrow space. Every 30
bank robbers
To move past this point,
seconds or so, he passed a
Fred realized he would
landing that led to another
have to trust his weight to a thin beam.
floor. After a while, he lost count of how
With his shirt already soaked in sweat, he
many he had passed. After what seemed
gingerly placed his hands, then a knee,
like hours, a typical feeling for someone
and then the other knee on the beam. It
doing something they shouldn’t, his feet
creaked and then snapped, and Fred
finally touched the linoleum floor of a
began his descent into the lobby of the
storage closet.
bank.
Fred stayed far from the door, afraid of
Ten Minutes Before the Beam Broke
accidentally opening it and falling into
The two masked robbers, after forcing a
the safe room where the men in masks
teller at gunpoint to open the safe, had
would put a gun to his head and kill him,
stuffed as many bills into two black duffel
right then and there. Instead, he tried to
bags as they could. One, Jeremy, had
think of something to do with the mops,
stood outside the safe with the hostages
brooms, paper towels, and shelving
while the other, Stan, had done the actual
around him.
stuffing.
And then, because he had seen it in
Once the bags were full, Stan stepped
movies, Fred thought about crawling
out of the safe and threw one of the bags
through the ceiling. The shelves would
at Jeremy’s feet. “Let’s go,” he said to his
probably hold his weight, and then it was
partner in crime.
just a matter of pushing aside one of the
Jeremy was bending over to pick up the
tiles and hoisting himself up there.
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have looked stupid in a giant crab-shaped tiara with
tears streaming down my face, but I was thinking of
your reaction when I got it. I wanted you to know
that I’m special, like you, Mr. Quarterback.
Speaking of which, maybe you could come with
me to one of my appearances for MMCJ, unless
you’re allergic to shellfish. I hope you’re not, because for the next eleven months, I’ll be eating more
crab cakes than you can shake a can of Old Bay at.
If you did go, I guess you could eat the lemon. And
maybe some tartar sauce, if you’re into that type of
thing. At least you have options.
Oh my gosh, you just made a new status update!
Is it to ask me out? To confirm that you posted that
picture for me? To confirm that you’re not allergic
to crustaceans? To …
You’re now in a relationship with Miss All America. Three people like this.
I guess I should stick to Cherry Garcia. ✦
bag of money when
Fred fell from the
ceiling.
Back to Fred’s Fall
The beam, which
was pretty heavy, fell
on Jeremy’s head and
knocked him over,
while Fred collided
with the floor.
With pieces of ceiling falling everywhere,
Jeremy, Stan, Fred,
Carla, and everyone
else in the bank were
blinded and confused
for a moment. As Jeremy stumbled to his
feet and started to run,
Fred reached out and grabbed his shoe.
Jeremy tripped, hit the floor with a thud,
and fell unconscious.
There’s the shoe, thought Fred.
Jeremy’s gun skittered to the edge of
the room, and Fred followed it on his
hands and knees.
The debris from the ceiling had basically settled, and Stan had figured out
what was happening. He raised his gun.
As Stan Turned Off the Safety on His
Gun
Fred grabbed Jeremy’s gun. He had
never fired a gun before and had no idea
how it worked. On the other hand, Fred
had dreamt all of this the night before.
And as he slid around to face Stan, the
memory of his dream clicked into focus
as it had the day before as he sat on the
park bench thinking about the hot dog
man. Fred’s fingers found the safety,
clicked it off, found the trigger, and shot
Stan square in the chest.
Bull’s-eye, thought Fred.
Both guns clattered to the floor.
The lobby was silent now, as everyone
(other than Stan and Jeremy) tried to figure out whether it was safe to move. Fred
was the first to stand, and then the rest
joined him. Slowly, the realization formed
love story
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Art by Vivian Tong, San Francisco, CA
that the two robbers were either dead or at
least not going to be doing anything for a
while, and the lobby of the bank erupted
into applause. Even Fred began to clap
after he spotted Carla.
The police had been alerted to the robbery (Jeremy had not done a very good
job), and at this point they arrived, crashing through the door, and were surprised
to see that, apart from two men on the
floor and a heap of ceiling tiles, there
didn’t seem to be much out of place.
The Next Morning
Fred rolled out of bed, briefly reflected
on his dreams from that night, and went
to brush his teeth.
At 6 o’clock, he went into the kitchen
and put two slices of bread into the
toaster. He poured a glass of orange juice
and walked out to get the mail.
On the front page of that day’s newspaper was a small picture of Fred and a
short description of the failed robbery. As
Fred sat down with the newspaper, the
toast popped up. It was a pleasant light
brown color.
Carla came out of the bedroom, picked
up the glass of orange juice, kissed Fred,
and sat down to eat.
And there’s the girl, thought Fred. ✦
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
37
poetry
Photo by Grace Kim, Port Washington, NY
Rooftop
Hands dusted of peach pit,
Gravel, and feathered things
Which perch in souls,
Tiptoes clutching ledges,
Rawboned, everything that is us
Groped for the courage to leap.
Pulses jagged,
Vertigo in every direction,
A fraying tidbit of moment,
All we ever wanted to do was fall.
Where
Dandelions Roar
My Hands
Are Empty
Virginia, stop sinking –
take those rocks from your pockets
and step away from the river.
Let’s catch a ride, you and I,
to the place where dandelions roar;
where the alley-cat boys
use their cherry-red lighters
to ignite the stars,
inspired by fireflies
brighter than the sun.
Your green, green dress made me laugh.
This is as nice as it will ever get
You said, and your knees were bruised
Above red shoes ill-matched and still wet
With puddles of dirty rain.
Would you like to dance? My hands
are empty,
And your dress is green as love and coarse
as memory
What’s your rush, Virginia?
Heaven may be nice
but it may not be there at all
and death is on its way
but Virginia, I’m here now,
and I’ll give you some deliverance
à la I-75,
no Sunday dress required.
Think about it, Virginia:
you could drown in your sorrows, or
take a dip in the honey pot with me
but either way, Virginia,
promise me
you’ll keep trying to swim.
by Breanna Bowers, Burlington, KS
You examined the sprawl below,
The wrinkled visage of landscape and
fractal cities,
Watched the people pursuing the horizon,
And determined that the world was flat.
Excuses
I remember looking at my toes and staring
for a long time.
by Myesha Bolling, Richmond, VA
You didn’t laugh when I asked you,
But you didn’t say yes.
The Boy
We walked back home.
by Thomas Costello,
Hastings on Hudson, NY
self realization
through your eyes
Please have the decency
le couteau est dans le main, le coeur bat …
Don’t twist, don’t turn
Make the incision clean for my sake
Open my body and the revelation of the
beating is faint
Now you can see all that I am:
The weight on my shoulders that I cannot
continue to carry
The reason you should bend and break me
The clarity of just how sick I can really be.
Probe away at my lack of ambiguity
Analyze the absence of hope
You’ll become surrounded in the depths
of my cynicism
Continue to pry until it hurts, darling
For this will be as unguarded as I shall
ever be with you
Finally you will find just why
Keep prying until I scream and cry
Come to realize that I am the nectar of
forbidden fruit
I am poison
So poisonous to you.
by Myah Jones, El Cajon, CA
distance has never
been an issue. you let it
become an excuse.
I watch the boy
With blue eyes and the
Breathtaking sweep of his hair
Across his forehead.
He’s all jock.
Such a newbie
Striving to fit in, but I will say
He’s got good looks.
He’s probably a jerk.
The cocky thinks-he-knows-our-system
Kind of guy.
When he doesn’t and we all know it.
I watch the boy
With blue eyes and the
Breathtaking sweep of his hair
Across his forehead.
Light filters through the blinds.
Illuminating him, his face.
The excitement of first day
Has died down.
He’s reading quietly at his desk.
He looks sincere, real.
The kind of nice guy
Everybody wants to get to know.
It’s then I realize
That’s all he is.
A nice guy who, I must say
He’s got good looks.
I watch the boy
With blue eyes and the
Breathtaking sweep of his hair
Across his forehead.
by Grace Lemley, Highland, MI
38
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
•
POETRY
We are made of layers, layers, layers,
That has always been the way
And in season we shed these layers
Until there is nothing left to lose
And when you went home and peeled off
that green, green dress,
Inside there was a girl
Small and fair and young as anything;
Inside her was a woman
Strong and lovely, coursing energy,
And inside her, an old, old soul
An old, old heart,
A tree;
Green as love and coarse as memory,
Slowly
Shedding
Its leaves
Still, I cannot abstract you,
But what will be left of us
When we have lost every layer
And shed every shell?
What will we find together
In the cupped hollow of the hands of
friendship’s love?
Who can tell?
Love is
God is
Love
In empty hands
Waltz (2, 3)
Waltz (2, 3)
We danced the most terrible waltz (2, 3)
Oh, but our words danced incredibly free
And so sparse like the dances of stars
That our feet no longer mattered to us;
We were alone and time was ours
(2, 3)
(2, 3)
2,
3,
Fin
Thank you
This is as nice as
It will ever get,
You said.
Funny, I was thinking the same thing
by Ziggy Unzicker, Juneau, AK
And Then You
Were Gone
It was not
that they were too big
but my feet were too small
to fit your prints left behind
They never go away
and always lead opposite
the way I’m heading
by Hope Klingensmith, Stuart, FL
Balloon Catchers
We were the balloon catchers
The tree jumpers
And bread carriers
We were the coat pocket hide-n-go-seek
sunshine pals
We were the cat walkers
Boy kissers
Closeline hanging dirty-kneed trousers
We were the satin cigarette on the tip of
your fabricated tongue
We were the toad capturers
Drum beaters
And flower crown crafting field runners
We were the carriage-pushing crocheted
baby blanket thinkers
We were the picnic havers
Pipe smokers
Bunkbed whispering wing flappers
We were the paintbrush whisking tulips
of your withered garden
You are the war fighters
Love hunters
And pumpkin-patch hand-holders
You are the carnival-going popcorn
smile throwers
You are the music dancers
Test-takers
Picture-taking flower-pickers
You are the world fixing babies of
our destruction
Here’s the world, child
Don’t mind the bruises
by Emily Watterson, Algonquin, IL
Colors
I love to watch the people,
Rather, what is left behind:
A certain color, flowing free
Imprinted in the mind.
Adults shuffle hunchbacked
Brown, and black, and gray,
With cracking, folding faces
Corroding every day.
And have they not a reason?
For time has taken its toll
With future’s ceaseless task driving
Fretting at the soul.
Poised on the edge of adulthood,
Teenagers shift their hues
Alternating from brightest reds
To the darkest blues.
Most distill their colors
With cynicism, doubt.
Pastels quiver to explore,
Unwilling to venture out.
But my love is for the children
Streaks of crimson, teal and lime
Glancing off like rays of sun
light, striking every time.
They hear music for what it is
The magic behind the play
Flaring brightest in happiness
Slowly fading away.
I often have cause to wonder,
Do we lose something as we grow?
Is it children with the clearest lenses?
I believe, I believe so.
by Nina Kamath, Saratoga, CA
The Language of
Listeners
well, if you do happen to remember
how we used to take dictation
from the trees
and scribble their murmurings
onto the sky
in the script of our language
which everyone,
including us,
had forgotten how to speak
then please call me again tonight
and we’ll both stand alone
on our separate mountains
and maybe listen
to what the stars
have been trying to say
all these years.
by Evelyn Weinstein,
Cold Spring Harbor, NY
Dreamer
To pass the time I doused the light
and stumbled blind into the night
to brave the darkening twilight terror
in search of life’s most joyous error
In the deepening crushing black
I lost all hope of turning back
And so I tread uncertain steps
Where poets dreamt and madness slept
I left my common sense behind
For hollow prophets to someday find;
I threw my soul into a gust
Of fragrant multicolored dust
The skies were painted teal and gold
Where powdered-sugar clouds unrolled
and touched the cresting milky seas
while I gazed in awe from shaded trees
I danced with angels, and demons too
They’re not so different from me and you.
I cheated death, I beat the odds
And taught pottery to the gods
Of Jake
But when the end came slowly near
And my world was soaked in Heaven’s tears
I bid farewell to my friend, the strange
And tread slowly back from which I’d came
Jake told me the weather forecast
Even though he’s from Michigan.
He said he’d be thinking of me
And to stay safe.
A league of men and women all
With impressive papers on their wall
Will preach the worship of what is real
But I know none but what I feel.
All that day held foreboding.
I wondered how the padded sky
Could rear up and scowl
Enough to bring a thunderstorm.
But he always can.
by Zack Flint, Loveland, OH
Near supper
I went outside to touch the kittens.
I found the gusts
Had already raised their hackles.
Hot cotton rose in my throat
And I knew I couldn’t stop
What was coming.
Every time the wind began to waltz,
Every time the sky was grouchy
And I felt his outburst coming straight away,
I saw us frantically preparing
For clouds to
Explode.
With lightning lashing at our heels
And thunder taunting on every side,
We covered the little plants
Yanked jeans from the porch railing
Slammed and latched the barn door
And dragged the trampoline to the woods
So it wouldn’t flip.
Even filled with fright
I remembered Jake said he was thinking
About me.
And I could mock the fear.
We ate casserole and cantaloupe
In blackness for a few minutes;
Dread dripped from my armpits.
When the lights rejoined us,
My forehead cooled.
Later that evening
The sun danced a bit
For me.
It made me think of Jake.
by Kayla Ensz, Hillsboro, KS
An Old
Familiar Shirt
All of those memories
spinning together
the smells and the feelings
of those clothes
you can still remember
when you wore that particular shirt
on that date
with that boy
his name was
Christian
you went to the movies
but
it was boring so
you left
and walked around in the cool night air
and he bought you a cinnamon roll
which you ate
licking the sweet sugar from your fingers
which he held in his
intertwined
I wonder what it’s like
When
a heart
so over-used
is sick of trying
and loving
living
weeping
caring
making
breaking
keeping
Does it
stop altogether
its final beat
ringing
like a last note
in a song
and then the singer steps off the stage
that note still hanging
in the air
You get sad
remembering
the shape of his hand
the skinny fingers with their
beautiful bones
how they memorized your face
and his eyes
that shade of hazel
so deep you would swear
he could read your mind
and
see your soul
with its markings
not as beautiful as
his
Like a smell that lingers
long after the person is gone
Every Moment
Changes You
After just a moment
a different world is open.
You thought of something
but then you noticed
you never get everything right
at first glance.
by Andrea Aguayo, Clinton, OK
Her Legs
You wouldn’t think.
You wouldn’t think legs
would weigh much, particularly
these ones, withered
as they are. People starve
for legs like these, except
not exactly these.
no one passing by
looks jealously at them. Atrophied
muscles and acres
of nerveless skin would be highly fashionable
if they could support weight. Instead
they are carefully positioned
in scooters and chairs, dragged
behind walkers. She
has MS, and as we
slowly
get her upstairs, one
step
at a time, she pulling
her body up, I wrestling
with her awkward, heavy, unbending legs
I think
she is beautiful in all the wrong ways
for all the wrong reasons
by Emma Tremblay, Kirkland, WA
Art by Hillary Snyder, Waterloo, ON, Canada
Whole and alive
with your sometimes, maybe, beautifully
damaged, “alma”
and reminds you of
the boy
with his
paint-stained fingers
the shy smile
that makes you want to describe
in a hundred different ways
how he looks
in his
rumpled canvas jacket
with the gold buttons
the one you promise to never wash
for fear of
losing that smell of
paint and dusty rooms, of
sunlight pouring in the window
by Taylor Powell,
Ray City, GA
Room 201
And so you do the laundry
always leaving out the jacket
you watch the clothes
spin
around and around
maybe that is how a heart looks
when it is all used up
like an old familiar shirt
that has been washed many different times
and
mixed in with everything else
POETRY
Maybe a heart never wears out
maybe it just
hopes
and sticks it out
until
you find someone who can
hold it and never break it
someone who you can take your “fragile”
sticker off for
and
just be
yourself
•
Then came the quarantine. Four white walls
closing in.
Benedictions have become too feeble
to wrestle the debacle of body tissues.
All I hear is nickels clink as my dad leaves
to light a cigarette.
Now the inertia. Taciturn,
pretending to scrutinize cuticles.
As we listened to him respire under the thin
bed sheets
we knew the steps to take and arrangements
to make. Forty-five hours later, the
ice thawed
why did we linger by the doorsteps until
the moon
leaned over the private ward?
by Sera Park,
Southborough, MA
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
39
Burn My Heart
Another One
The View
Burn! Like a thousand flames.
Burn! Hear me scream your name
Burn! Like my heart tonight.
And I actually thought I might
be in love
Another tale of Romeo and Juliet
They fell in love, forbidden yet
They stayed together through the end
Here’s my take of Romeo and Juliet
You’ve got me smiling nonstop,
Laughing like a child
You are beautiful, wonderful,
Free-spirited and wild
There’s the lad who lives next door
To the beaut who washes hardwood floors
Always glances, never stares
Soon they swore to have evermore
I’d climb a mountain
As long as you are there
And when we’re up
I’ll stop and stare
Away they ran
A plan to seek
Each other out
Before dawn’s peek
Not at the trees
Or at the view
But at the stunningly breathtaking,
Beautiful you.
The beaut awaited for her lad
Until a cougar scared her mad
She ran in fright right out of sight
Leaving her veil of Persian white
by Camelia Alikashani,
Vancouver, BC, Canada
Burn! You alone made my heart sing
You were my everything.
But no more, no more love, no hate
Leave behind the past.
No more pain, no more tears,
like a burning photograph,
Burn!
by Nathan Hart, Enfield, CT
Tangled
The words are getting tangled
As they pass between my lips
They grow twisted and contorted
With every passing trip
You say you need some time
So you’ll avoid me for a while
You promise that we’ll still be close
But there’s reluctance in your smile
I never wanted what you asked for
Or for things to be displaced
I couldn’t give you what you wanted
So instead I gave you space
When I couldn’t handle waiting
I took to knitting hearts
But the yarn tumbled from my fingers
And our friendship fell apart
It’s the knotting of our strings
That keeps us terribly confined
And the fraying of loose ends
That unravel over time
One day you’ll grow entangled
As you dance on twisted threads
While the spider keeps on weaving
Catching insects in her web
by Marina Watanabe,
Fair Oaks, CA
The lad appeared
Then saw his end
It stabbed his heart
Which he couldn’t mend
A broken face can be replaced
Or glued back together
But a broken heart
Can fall apart
And feel the love forever
Fall came today
and with it, the spare blankets from
the cupboard
and the kiss of icy wind
that blows the leaves from their
watch towers
I will sleep with my window open tonight.
Fall came, so I spread flour on the
rolling pin
and tied back my hair
pulled the old cookbook from off the shelf
to make the first apple pie of the season.
But when I cracked the spine,
a handful of pressed violets fell out
onto the floor
paper thin, with summer’s lazy scent
still holding in their petals.
I have tried not to write about those days,
it would be too easy
or too hard,
those days we slipped away
and learned how our bodies worked.
Beforehand, you mowed the lawn
without your shirt
while I sat on the fence and braided violets
and told you about my father
but
every inch of my apple-white arms just
itched for you,
so we left the rest of the world to
its business
and played a little game,
geography lesson, can you find the capital?
Charting unknown territory,
mountains, valleys, forests
needed exploring
in the ocean of the blankets on the couch
you taught me how to learn
and how to want
I hadn’t really felt that before
it was strange
and fun, but not
poetic,
because
you were not sweet and
it really meant nothing at all
but
I still saved the violets
and pressed them in the cookbook on
the shelf
so I could remember that it wasn’t all for
nothing.
I better make that pie.
by Desiree Granados, Montebello, CA
by Indigo Erlenborn, Madison, WI
His eyes rolled back
Drooled crimson red
His hand on his heart
For he was dead
Out of the bushes came the maid
Shocked in sorrow here she laid
Next to her lad
This is where they stayed
They’d planned to get married
Their parents forbade
They were to meet up
In a harmless way
To make their vows
To be forever more
The wish came true
And I’ll tell you how
Instead of saying “I do’’
They took the plow
Forever will they have each other
Past the end with one another
by Becca Hooks, Homewood, IL
A New Kind of Fall
As the ribbon is tied and cut a piece of
glitter falls.
It falls right into her eyes, where everyone
says it belongs.
As she walks to the car, her heel gets
swallowed by a crack in the earth,
causing her to fall.
He is there to catch her.
The smell of pumpkin fills the kitchen as the
leaves fall off the tress.
A lightning storm approaches. Alone, you
cuddle up in a ball on the couch.
You listen to the thunder crash and heavy
rain fall.
As their lips meet for the first time, he
whispers, “I’m falling for you.”
A clear night opens up the wonders of what
they call a falling star.
Alone in the house, she falls down the stairs,
alone she slips away from reality.
by Rebecca Howe,
Springville, NY
Fall Came
Art by Emily Linville, Columbus, OH
A Broken Heart
Why I Shouldn’t
Text at Night
At night, I lose my inhibitions in the dark
And my filter in my brain all but
disappears, until
Suddenly it seems okay,
Even smart,
To tell you everything.
To tell you more than what you want to hear.
I will tell the truth as I see it,
With no smooth edges,
No – truth as ragged as a disc used as a
dog’s chew toy.
Truth as bare as an Arizona desert.
Truth as cold as the deepest secret corners
of the human heart.
If it pops in my mind,
I HAVE to share it.
My fingers twitch, my mind rushes, and all
I want to do is send
One
More
Message.
Maybe then my mind will clear.
But what will spill out?
by Kaitlyn Manley, Loveland, OH
Sunday Morning
Every Sunday morning
You can be sure to see
The beautiful old couple
Sitting in pew three.
I can’t help but notice
The love in his eyes
Not just for his bride
But his God lifted high.
The strong bond between
This man and his wife,
It’s something I’ll strive for
My entire life.
I sometimes notice
My thoughts drift away,
I think of their love
And forget to pray.
We say the Lord’s Prayer,
The church as a whole,
Her hand in his,
They pray with their souls.
He steals a glance
At the woman on his arm,
He smiles and blinks
As a tear causes alarm.
He bows his head,
Quickly finishes his prayer,
Squeezes her hand,
And smiles with care.
As Mass comes to close,
He looks at the cross,
Mouths a quick thank you,
Then nods in awe.
Now Mass is over,
I slide out my pew,
Smile at the man
Who then smiles too.
The lesson I learned
Is short but true,
Love is so strong
It captivates you.
by Katelyn O’Brien, Watertown, MN
40
Teen Ink •
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
•
POETRY
My Heart Is the
Only One Who
Could Explain It
I have twenty-seven hour glasses,
But there will never be enough time
In the day for me to say how your
Grin makes me smile, how your smile
Is the solemn lantern in this abandoned
Town that we have all to ourselves.
How your eyelashes battered and sparkled
And lit the hormones seeping from our
Bodies and into the air on fire like
A million fireflies, bred from your freckles,
Kissing my cheeks lightly, giving
endless warmth.
The silkworm sews the fabric of your
Thoughts in strands of dreams and luxury.
Forty-nine butterflies are born a minute
In your mind, in my mind, in our mind,
You pulled me from my cocoon and
Told me to just flap my wings and fly,
I did, and here we are, soaring like a
A pair of mighty eagles, as bald as we are;
The silkworm stole all our hair, our dreams.
Even if we could fly like the ostrich runs,
Chasing the sun over the fleeting horizon,
Making every second of a falling day last,
I could never explain why I chased the
Sunset to begin with, why I was brave
Enough to flap my wings and to fly,
Why I even left my cocoon in the first place,
And how I had the audacity to dream
with you.
Just take my hand, like a friend should,
Place your head against my chest when
You cannot hold your head high like
you taught
Me how to hold my head high, and listen;
My heart is the only one who could explain it.
by Phillip Helget, Kensington, MD
Thunderstorms
Zest of My Heart
An Old Friend
We sat on the sidewalk in the thunderstorm
that day.
It is the only day that I remember being
with you,
because fortunately, I have remembered to
forget everything else.
Or, I have remembered to want to forget
everything else.
Or, I have remembered to try to want to
forget everything else.
A piece of paper floated down from the
hands of a
Boy who held the rest of my heart in
his fingers.
Careful, he whispered, and i wished he’d let
the fake words linger.
Delicacy was on my mind in a way, and
Everything seemed to take longer in this
place that was quiet.
Forget me, okay? I haven’t been around
so long that you should
Give up on who I made you.
He pressed a piece of paper into the hands of
me, and
I realized I held the rest of my heart in
my fingers.
Just so, he whispered, I can’t
Keep myself away from you. You know
that I’ll
Linger:
and I remember that
Malt liquor was your father’s favorite
thing in the hands of a
New accomplice and none
Of those things were relevant to the fact
that we were
Protecting ourselves from asking
Questions. I
Revolved around you and my revolutions had
Stopped.
Turn around, you whispered, and I wished
he’d let his hands stay
Under my cashmere sweater, staying warm
and applying
Varying pressure to my hips that were
moving farther away from our diluted
Water of love. I forget about those
X-rated lies and I held the rest of my heart
in my fingers.
You threw that piece of paper down from
your hands and the remaining
Zest of my heart didn’t linger.
On my shoulders
A jacket tortured,
Enduring every aspect of living.
I remember the lightning as it dripped
down our throats.
It never tasted sweeter than on that day.
It almost tasted like
your tears.
And like
the millions of fireflies that lit up your chest,
making your heart look brighter than it
really was.
I remember holding the thunder in the
palms of our hands,
and I remember pretending that the thunder
was your kiss,
because, I really wanted it to be,
and because,
I knew it never could be.
I remember that there was no rain,
and I cried that day because of it.
Because,
what was thunder, no matter how soft it
was to hold,
and what was lightning, no matter how
sweet it was to taste,
without rain?
So then you told me that I was the rain.
It was a lie.
I knew that then, and I know that now.
But today, I would give anything to
believe in
Your Lies.
Before We Die
by Loisa Fenichell,
Nyack, NY
by Chela Novak, Southampton, NY
I thought of you tonight in sleep,
My heart you stole away.
You gave me yours and said to keep,
I cherish it every day.
How Far?
I Met You When
Red Met Blue
When bloody battles and wars we’ve fought,
Turn into desperate pleas.
I’ll think of you with my last thought,
And wait to be set free.
I tried to warn you about my wrongs,
My pain, my fear, my hate.
But I hear you singing our last songs,
I take it as too late.
One last thought, I’ll hold you tight,
Wipe your tears before you cry.
Remember, dear, the key to life,
Is to love before you die.
by Marilyn Wolbert, Dover, PA
Umbrella
i’ll always be your
umbrella if life tries to
rain on your parade
by Emily Jones, St. John, WA
how far would you go?
everyone asks but I haven’t a clue
I think it depends on the moon
and the stars and that blade of grass
you can never tell with a heart
it changes like dish cycles
one minute it’s on heavy rinse
next it’s on filter out …
but I think if you’re set like a table
then you’ll be fine
a glass will fall once in a while
yet it only takes seconds to clean up
but if you’re set like a calendar
then I’m sorry, but you’re better off dead
if you miss a week or even a day
your world is chaotic and topsy-turvy
how far would you go?
blank eyes and quivering lips
that’s not the answer she wants to hear
“I wouldn’t for you” realization.
how far would you go?
For the one you love?
by Lilian Cruz,
Medford, NY
A cigarette-burned hole,
Matching left-arm scar.
Hip torn by barbed wire.
Blood-stained from fights,
briars, and masochistic needles.
If I shake the sleeves,
the wafting scent of an October campfire
will kick-start memories.
He has warmed the bodies of several girls.
Loves, lovers.
He has caught their tears, and mine.
Fought off sickness and addiction
Made lonely feel like just a word in a song
Danced to every punk-rock power chord
that made my parents worry.
Reminded me that I’m used, not useless
Felt the wet of rain.
I wonder if He could use a jacket.
by Zach Turner-Ball,
Nashville, IN
Art by Kelsey Kenney, Denham Springs, LA
I met you
When red met blue
When Harry met Sally
Excluding the blending of primary colors
You left blue on me
As I rendered your face purple
Blue rained in my eyes
Looking at our colors clash
On my arms
Like a tiger being striped by God
With a color not his own
Like a whip we clashed and cracked
And I bled blue
I started to bleed
The day I met you
I saw red in my dreams
I saw red behind my eyes
Red was a flower in a field of flowers
Red was a volcano surrounded by volcanoes
Red was brave and funny and strong
Red had a heart, a soul, a song
Red was red until red was blue
Red was red
Until the day I met you
Shopping for Love
Is love ever considered gratis
Or is there an unspoken return policy
Who to ask
Operator: can you find me love’s manager
Certainly a well-spoken man, woman,
or neither
To be running such a large array of
department stores
splattered across the world in humans and
non-humans
alike
Put me through the line
Because I have a shopping cart of love’s
embodiments that
I’d like to return
For someone who wants or needs it more
than me
I’ve so much stock, it seems unjust and
I think I’d like the savings back, you see
That porcelain pig took many years to feed
by Kira Weiss,
Arcata, CA
by Abigail Holloway, Broken Arrow, OK
POETRY
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
41
What a Man
Your thin lips
curled at the ends
Telling me you lied about the
“No more than a movie”
night
I caught myself staring
At that stupid thing
You call a mustache
The handful of overrated hairs
on your upper lip
Refusing to shave them
You’ve only encouraged their stay
Beads of objective
Grew from the dimples in
your skin
Your thick eyebrows
Arched
Acting as though they knew nothing
of the lips’ intent
Your restless legs
Snitched on your thoughts as
you shifted in your seat
“It’s okay”
My thin bangs whispered back
I’ll be damned if I let your
Chapped reddened lips
Touch the soft surface
Of mine
I’ll be damned if I let your grease-filled
Mechanic’s knuckles
Invade the waves in my hair
And I’ll be damned if
My taste buds are soiled
By your
Heinous chew
In response to your face’s entrance
to my side of the vehicle
I introduced you to my
Left cheek
I hope you enjoyed the three
Carefully picked eye shadows
I applied for blush
And the grand view of my silver earrings
Placed perfectly
in my ear
Maybe you got lucky
As I turned my head
to smell the scent of black amethyst
As my neck was made exposed
Enjoy, stupid boy
Enjoy
But before I leave, let me
Reiterate
This was no
Shy
Accident
Hopefully your nose stung
With embarrassment
As I smiled and slammed the passenger door
To your feeble excuse
For a truck
As my hair waved good-bye
Maybe you answered a reply to
my mind’s only question
Who flaunts
a Ford?
by Valerie Williams, Oshkosh, WI
42
Teen Ink •
Pick Me Up
a Flower
Of Poets’ Eyes &
Mechanical Hearts
Pick me up a flower,
not a rose or an orchid,
don’t buy it,
I only want one.
Pick me up a flower,
off the side of the road,
from a meadow,
I don’t care,
I only want one.
Fine, don’t pick me up a flower,
buy one for someone else,
buy her a dozen long stem roses,
wrap them in crinkly plastic,
give her all the flowers you can buy,
all the flowers in the world,
I only wanted one,
just one.
A breeze, a breeze,
the sweet wind of winter whispers lovesick
fools in my ear
a sighing song of crystal butterflies that i
pinned in your hair
after we fell down dizzy from dancing
in the fog.
by Kelsey Traeger,
Palmetto Bay, FL
Stuck and
Unstuck Love
We were two birds stuck
On the wire between the telephone poles.
We were perched
Just far enough so our wings could
not touch.
Sparks danced between us,
Sizzling on the electrical wire,
And all we could do was gaze
Into each other’s beady eyes.
But when we did,
We felt like we were soaring
Above rooftops, and treetops, circling
each other
But we were two birds stuck in love
On the wire between the telephone poles.
Our feet gripped and could not ungrip
We could not scoot closer,
We could not shift farther.
We looked at each other,
Sorrow in our black eyes
As we began to realize
There was no point in wasting time.
For we were two birds stuck in love
On the wire between the telephone poles.
Our talons grew tired from gripping,
Our hearts became weary of wishing,
And we little by little accepted the
heartrending truth.
We could not scoot closer,
We could not shift farther.
Until one day,
A gusty wind came
And toppled our telephone poles
That had once held us in place.
We could stretch our talons.
We were two birds unstuck and free.
I flew and flew and flew away,
So shocked that I was unhandcuffed
Until I found you flew another way.
And it was with the freedom that the
wind finally gave
That I lost the love I had always meant
to save.
by Samantha Cassidy,
Duncan, OK
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
•
POETRY
The buzz of my mechanical heart
is beating away at your concrete walls and
brick by brick
I tear you apart
so that ice sharp love can pierce your soul.
Photo by Christopher Wright,
Cave Junction, OR
Cigarettes
and Tangerine
(the nearness of you
invoked a loneliness
i never knew before)
Only when I sleep,
am I awake.
Sleep,
and reels of thoughts
spin on infinitesimal hope
and sound waves
lock with ropes of tears
Sleep,
and I’m drifting
on the black waves of slumber,
dreaming of your opaque eyes,
the November sun,
cigarettes and tangerine.
But wake,
and you will be
just a quiet hope
tucked under
a wing of my prayer.
Wake,
and I cannot love you.
by Fatimah Zainal Abidin,
Georgetown, Malaysia
Dreary Arizona
Dreary Arizona, dripping cold, wet
rain today.
Blurry cars drive past out the windows under
a low gray winter sky, but
inside the temperature is rising
as anger seeps through the walls like
red paint poured on an altar.
This day was meant for the opposite
of what’s being felt right now;
roses lay crushed and forgotten
and the explanation is in pieces,
set aflame all on the ground.
Maybe if it was brought outside,
it would turn to steam and then
release the red-hate feeling to the gray
and float away, harmless, on
Saint Valentine’s day.
by Kara Wixtrom,
Gwinn, MI
Our laughter a husky smoke-stained melody,
we pop soda cans
and toast them like ambrosia.
the cliff we watch from withered with tattoo
love and hate.
But your poets’ eyes are fixed on me and
my sutured scars
throb with hope because your eyes are
freedom life hope
blue and
they whisper behind frozen shadows the secrets of life (of death?) I sometimes wonder
where you got those bruises on your arms
but i don’t ask ’cause
my bruises are pretty fresh too … (did i tell
you that I love you?)
So in my purple-leather princess trenchcoat
and ratty jeans my sister wore
I sit and watch the sunset with you, your
scarlet hair tickling my hands
as you rest your head on my thigh.
The patchwork quilt of black and silver
and garish blue is tucked around your
curled form
to keep off the winter’s laughter as we soak
in heat from our concrete bed.
And I sing us folk songs from countries
we’ve never been to with you humming
abstract chords to keep the roar of
highway traffic at bay.
as dreams and salt-scoured breaths take our
souls to flight to adventures
with our well-loved monsters and
closet-skeletons as our guide
while we wander away into the peace
of oblivion.
(Did i tell you that i Love You?)
by Erin Osterlind, Oceanside, CA
four letters
Guilt drips off and burns
like a melting candle.
I still can feel a lingering flame
haunting in the back of our minds.
you snapped the Us in two.
Summer nights with movies
Our own romantic comedy in theaters
Maybe you shouldn’t have said
those horrific things
and you wouldn’t have made
a cut into a scar.
I want to forget and let go
Of your lifeline
But a four-letter word
Tightens my grip.
by Hannah Schacherl, Oshkosh, WI
One of
Those People
She was one of those people who ate
breakfast in bed,
Who woke up alone and
Never listened to what her parents said.
She was one of those people who bought
window seats,
Who boarded the plane and closed
the shutter,
Complaining of heat
She was one of those people who closed
her eyes,
Who closed her eyes to the world
And mumbled her good-byes.
She was one of those people who put on
her headphones,
Who refused to talk,
Who preferred to be alone.
She was one of those people who thought
the world was beautiful,
Who believed it was good,
But never tried to live in it.
He was one of those people who lived
life with ease,
Who never took a coat
And who loved the cool breeze.
He was one of those people who loved
with his heart,
Who appreciated time together
After being apart.
He was one of those people who watched
with his eyes,
Who listened to his heart
And who deemed it wise.
He was one of those people who opened
his soul,
Who let into his life
The world as a whole.
He was one of those people who watched
the world,
Who lived,
Who never let a second go by too soon.
by Jason Tinero,
Calabasas, CA
Scar Tissue
I don’t need him
I don’t need his compliments
to float through the telephone wire
and slither in my ear
Because once he’s gone
they’ll fester
turn ugly and backwards
lies.
I don’t need his kisses
leaving trails from my
lips to my neck.
Bread crumbs that will lead me
to him
after he’s left.
I don’t need the butterflies
in my stomach
whenever I think of him.
When he changes his mind
they’ll turn to bees
and sting me
so I can’t hardly breathe from the
pain and swelling.
They’ll fly up
to my heart
puncture it.
And the scar tissue
will be so thick
that no one will ever
breach my security
ever again.
I don’t need him.
No.
But I want him
in a masochistic
self-harming way.
My bee-stung stomach
aches with the thought
of another love
but it’s a good ache …
He is a pain that hurts every part
but makes every part stiff
and stronger
with light pink
scar tissue.
by Hannah Kiel, Bloomington, IL
Series of Haikus:
Detachment
This is how it is:
I loved you a little then,
but not anymore.
I’m not hiding now
because trying to be yours
was too difficult.
We were not special
or brilliant or lovelier
than most. Not profound.
I Hate Your Laugh
I hate your eyes.
But it’s not that murky excuse for green
that I hate
It’s their ability to stare in mine
Hold them so intensely
And pour Grade A lies so fluidly
Sometimes I wonder why jewelers
make necklaces shaped like hearts.
They’re inaccurate, to begin with,
they get the shape wrong, every time.
I’ve never gotten an x-ray of my heart,
but trust me, I’ve seen enough doctor shows
on television to know what a heart
looks like.
Kay Jewelers, I’m sorry, but your design
is wrong.
Besides, why would I want to wear a heart
around my neck? I have one already, thanks,
beating loudly and proudly inside my chest.
I don’t need a hunk of gold impersonating it.
Plus, if I were to wear a second heart around
my neck
I would want it on something sturdy, maybe
a chain like the kind in prisons to lock up
the inmates.
I want my heart safe, not dangling from a
flimsy metal string.
Heart-shaped necklaces seem so unnecessary
Although I guess I can reason that
it’s always
convenient and even rather wise to hold
an extra heart, just in case mine
breaks somehow.
by Michelle Lesniak, So. Plainfield, NJ
Ninety-Four
You said you wanted to be with me till
we were 94,
but the more and more
I think about it I see
you played me like your own guitar,
you let me believe the distance wasn’t so far,
and all the while you never gave an answer.
You let me smile and trust,
and now it’s all rust
crumpled,
scattered in the dust,
and I must confess that I hate the fact that
even though it was rushed
I LOVED YOU.
I guess you have another girl to share your
insomnia with now,
I guess you’ll tell her how she’s a “cute
cherry” the same way you did with me,
and I guess you’ve shut the door on 94
and I hope you know you can’t open it back up.
Perhaps once, I fell
into old habits of love –
accidents happen.
There are no fancy
words to describe us because
we were simply there.
The Absurdity of
a Heart-Shaped
Necklace
Art by Juice Choe, Powell, OH
A Cadaver’s Heart
We just were, right then.
And so it worked, for a while –
Then time slowed us down.
Ashen light strikes his jigsaw puzzle heart,
Cut with precision so rapier sharp;
It’s fixed upon a tray, with gunk and grime,
And handed off, a macabre Valentine.
by Kaitlin Duchene,
Tallahassee, FL
by Amirio Freeman, Hampton, VA
I hate your laugh.
Like a teacher’s sturdy nails against
the blackboard
With a hint of base of course
To make up for the basics that define you
as a man.
Maybe.
I hate your hair.
The eight-dollar bottle of that pharmacy
chestnut brown
That now traps your natural beach
blonde locks
I believe your haircut has been long overdue
But that would mean chopping off your
wannabe Bieber shag.
I hate your teeth.
Who knew behind those pearly whites
Festered so much rage
When you would clench them together
Throwing one of your first-class hissy fits.
What [I] hate the most about you?
I don’t even know
If you would be ab[L]e to comprehend
the truth
That I’m about to sh[O]ot through
your veins
If it could e[V]en sink through that
thick skull
Lay[E]red with your various comics
And your classic John Ma[Y]er CD’s
Y[O]u wo[U]ldn’t even be able to grasp it.
So the question still stands.
I can’t exactly put my finger on it.
But.
I’m pretty sure I just hate you.
by Hannah Sawyer, No. Brunswick, NJ
This Much
I’ll write a love poem for you
On the graffiti-covered wall of the
bathroom stall
In a rundown gas station in the middle
of nowhere
And I hope that says enough for you
I hope it means enough to you
That you won’t leave me here
At a rundown gas station
In the middle of nowhere.
by Emi DeBruyn, Durham, NC
by Kelly Long, Holbrook, MA
Loveful Lust
Crying Love
Love is a funny thing
It can be a cruel game
Add -ed and it becomes what you were to me
Add -s and it is what
I still do to you
Add -r and it is the thing you were,
The thing that ended when we kissed
Farewell and good-bye
Love is funny sometimes
It delights us in messing with our minds
by Ellen Zhang, Troy, MI
I feel these butterflies biting at the lining of
my stomach,
And that shock burning through my veins
every time your hand brushes mine,
Sitting at this table
In this bar,
Drawing our names on napkins,
And sipping Dr. Pepper,
It’s obvious what’s going on.
But I’ve cried “love” too many times, and
no one will believe us now.
by Allyssa Lantis, Naylor, GA
POETRY
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
43
education
Spanish
Weirdo
they were learning each other.
figuring each other out.
there was no textbook, no equation,
no handbook, no rules.
they were trying.
experimenting, testing, working.
they learned each other by trial and error,
secret by story by fear by passion,
baby steps, then bigger, then bigger –
but still not too fast.
they asked questions
she wondered
he guessed
what made her smile
what made him laugh
when to talk – when to listen
when to challenge – when to accept
they reached in through their stomachs
and found each other’s soul
hidden there in a nook behind the ribs
adjacent to the heart
a place where no one would think to go
they mapped out the geography
the ridges and the valleys
the depths of the brokenness
the mountains of elation
they charted and plotted
bar graphs of happiness
line graphs of events
data tables of everything in between
they turned each other into math,
for a while,
before they knew better
they learned the contour of the other’s face
where the light had to hit to reflect their eyes
the size of their hands
the shape of her mouth
the curve of his chin
the freckles, the dimples, the indents,
the prints
some things they did wrong,
only to be expected,
here was an unexplored place –
the being of another –
they each knew to tread carefully
baby steps, then bigger, then bigger –
but still not too fast.
they were only learning.
Mira
she says
My name’s Mira
as she shuts our
front door
calm cool
and I nod
to her fake Crocs and
thick coffee hair
Weirdo is what we called her
because her name couldn’t fit into
our mouths.
In our second-grade classroom while we
were throwing books
across the classroom and wrestling on
the rug,
she was reading a chapter book.
In the corner, alone,
with concentration that couldn’t possibly
be natural.
All quiet
and peaceful.
It was like watching water stand still.
And I can’t remember her saying a word.
She didn’t like playing tag either.
She ran funny.
Her skinny legs took her nowhere.
Once she was it,
that was it – game over.
She wore green leggings
(Sometimes, they still had tomato sauce
stains from last night’s dinner)
with “sensible sneakers”
without any brand name.
Because her dad refused to condone
Nike sweatshops
A view that I would adopt later in life
But was allowed to be blissfully unaware
of until she told me
while she sat on the sidelines during gym
in middle school.
That same day
she told me she wanted pink spaghetti
strap tops
tight jeans
and platform sandals like all the other girls
She’d started crying in a shoe store once
when her mother wouldn’t buy them for her.
I nodded my head
But she never gave me the chance to tell her
“I understand”
before she went back to reading.
But I didn’t know that it mattered then
by Danielle Colburn,
Byron Center, MI
Contrasting
Shadows
I wish I could just
dip my hand into the light of morning
and spread it evenly
across your deepest shadows.
These are the places where you hide
and everything is tucked away neatly:
all the words you want to set free
but that remain caged
behind the soft darkness.
Don’t you know these things multiply?
They only strengthen behind the bars.
And someday they’ll spill,
made savage by time.
They’ll cut across this town
this sad, awful, beautiful town
where day and night lean toward each other
but never meet.
by Angela Adduci, Glen Ellyn, IL
44
Teen Ink •
Eyes careful
I think she
knows why I
stumble
red and shaky
Hello
Hola
I am embarrassed
I want to say
yeah we eat at
McDonald’s too
all the time
like you
like you
Mira’s mom
she cleans the
floors so
hard and shiny
I feel small
standing over the
small woman
as she wipes my dust
and smiles
We listen to “Swan Lake”
in my room
music box whirring
and her lighter eyes
softly clench my
darker ones and she
says
I don’t know
about you but
this sort of depresses
me
I want to
say me
too me too
but I keep quiet
And I wonder about
Spanish music
not sad droopy
but lights
gold hoops
like arms
legs spinning
hair waving
tumbling
She will be having
a quinceañera
in four years
Eating quesadillas
dancing with boys
who are tall and
know how
And I know it is
stupid
but
I want her to
take me
away
by Hayun Cho, Wilmette, IL
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
•
POETRY
I used to think of her when I watched
“Matilda”
I imagined that one day
she was going to prove us all wrong.
and start moving glasses of water with
her mind,
and that her name would be chanted in the
schoolyard
roll rhythmically off our tongues.
Mostly I imagined her huddled in the public
library on Saturday mornings
reading every book in alphabetical order.
She must’ve been in the Gs by now.
Smack in the middle of Great Expectations
She would show up in my dreams when
things got lonely
usually a white turtleneck and green
legging ensemble.
It was only in those dreams that I realized
that the green matched her eyes just right
I saw her for real once.
I was fifteen
and there she was on a fire escape,
with a cigarette dangling from her lips,
wearing a pink dress.
I had to look away.
by Cecilia Stein,
Brooklyn, NY
Art by Vivian Tong, San Francisco, CA
You are my habit.
You are nicotine-stained fingers,
A rattling cough that reminds me that,
yes,
there is still air in my lungs,
I can keep
breathing.
You are my ragged,
broken nails,
every chip and curve
a canyon filled
by nervous energy.
You are a bag of chips,
a banana,
a cheese stick,
a quart of ice cream,
a pack of Starbursts,
and a hot dog,
every bite struggling to
replace the empty pit that is
my stomach.
You are a shining, new credit card,
purchase after purchase
filling my arms,
a poor facade for
debt and guilt.
You are my habit,
and I’ve found,
that the first step to quitting
is admitting
that you’re not my habit.
You’re my addiction.
by Audrey Deiss, Bethel, AK
Coming Soon to a
Life Near You
In the air last night, there lurked an
all-too-familiar cat.
It snuck close and wrapped around us with
the sound,
a breeze that rustled soon rusted leaves
as we sang of opening a restaurant in
Santa Fe
since all this misery pays no salary
and as the L word fell like lightning bolts
through the silence of the night
The chill grew at the back of my mind
“It can’t be Fall,” said the left side
“It will be soon,” said the right
by Brian Fitzpatrick, Chicago, IL
The Year
The year they played Frac Jack
Was the one where he smiled
And told her she was fine the way she was
It was the year she blushed
And locked her feelings out like intruders
Because she didn’t know what to make
of them
The year they felt older
Was the one where he whistled in
the hallways
And made friends with the right kids
It was the year she forgot about him
And was satisfied because
She couldn’t handle any intrusions
The year they stopped listening
Was the one where his wrist borrowed the
razor from his face
And he kissed the pretty girl who had it all
But it didn’t make things any better
It was the year she opened the door
And they talked about the trees
While her stomach hurt and no one had
any idea why
The year they did nothing
Was the one where his road stopped
twisting for a moment
And let him take a rest
It was the year she spent in silence
And watched him sleep while she tossed
and turned
Waiting for something
Just anything at all
Carousel
Would you like to buy a ticket?
said the master to the girl.
And how could I refuse
the lure of the whirl in your smile?
Snow glare was our disguise,
and gold-gilt poles that glittered
east-to-west, in a spectrum
of white and blue.
The winds blew ice flakes
into my eyes,
they bit and stung, narrowed,
my horizons shrank to you.
You were beautiful, so bright,
your gaily colored wooden horses
spun us
’round and ’round.
A perfect picture show
you painted
in mirrors and cracked glass,
I thought it showed me everything.
When dusk gathered,
and the flying flakes slowed
to a thinning veil of bright,
I saw our horses
could only run
in circles.
by Beatrice Waterhouse,
Santa Rosa, CA
The year they made speeches
Was the one where he stopped and listened
And gave her the chance to change his mind
It was the year she begged and pleaded
And ripped her hair out
While he held her close
For no reason at all
The year they saved the world
Was the one where he chose redheads
over blondes
And felt like for once, he was nothing more
than ordinary
It was the year her wrist stole the razor
from his
And she began to give up
One scratch at a time
The year they almost finished
Was the one where he felt like things
were hard
And began to wonder why she always
looked so sad
It was the year she closed the book
And turned out the light
Gave him one last look because it was too
hard not to
The year he was leaving
Was the one where he couldn’t let go
And wondered why
He hadn’t held the book open with all of
his might.
by Isabel Kerr, Greensboro, NC
Capturing Love
If love could be drawn,
I’d grab every color,
Use the globe as my canvas,
And paint the world for you.
by Emily Jones, St. John, WA
Photo by Abigail Price, Uniontown, OH
Plumey’s Brother
I remember spotting you,
a sleeping flame pushed
against dirty glass and
my heart got attached
just from the very sight of
your burning.
After all, it was August and
that coat you were wearing
had me staring
because it was hot as f***
from the sun’s constant blaring,
and I wanted you out of that
heat-ridden cage.
And so it was; I unleashed
you and your brother
and only minutes passed before
my mother came to a decision
without my permission.
Although I am not upset about the
one we came to choose,
time after time my thoughts move
back to you, and I wonder
if your fire
is still burning like it used to.
by Lauren Skaroff, Yardley, PA
Memoir #67
Finders
I’d like to say we met at the homecoming
dance
But my Sneakers squeaked too much
And he was too curious
Because Shoes make sounds that grate
on nerves
In a way that lets you know they are here
I’d like to say that we both fell in love
Staring into each other’s eyes as we
passionately –
but he thought I was annoying and I had no time
for ones who did not appreciate my presence
Squeaky Shoes or otherwise
so a day passed and we saw each other in
the hallway
me with my Shoes
and him with his unnerving stare
Personally, though, I felt attached
As if every passing glance or blink in
My direction meant the world to me
and therefore
meant the world to him
I didn’t understand the importance of dance
But it was important to him
and therefore important to me
And so with loud Sneakers that sang along
with the music
and a dress that would much rather be
paired with heels
I moved and danced and my friends
laughed and I
squeaked and he stared and looked away
and stared
And I realized that prettygirls loved him
and wasipretty?
But he paid no mind to prettygirls and
walked to me
his shoes scuffled toward canary Sneakers
beckoning him with sounds that only Shoes
can make
And we Danced and He Talked and Smiled
and my
sneakers were less audible
Replaced by the beat of the music pounding
Within my chest.
I found the words hiding.
Curled between my toes,
Itching with every step.
by Annabel Sharahy, Wayne, NJ
Parallel Parking
Ink fingerprints stain the palms of my hands
And your terrified white words whisper
along alleyways
Masking my forearmed fear with hope
For starlight encrusted highways of tomorrow
Tingling sensations in my toes point me in
your direction
Knowing that I’ve taken these defiant
steps before
And even with car-crash likelihood
I’ll take them again
Tainted solemn cries
From one or two or all of us, together
Gasping for breaths or twinges or jolts
of happiness
Ringing from the ones we’ll somehow
justly love, always
Molten black asphalt stains the soles of our feet
As we chase after your soul along derelict
suburban roads
Palpably, I hear her grovel for more chances
Hoping, if nothing else, mine are superior
in eloquence.
They are the poems.
Poems hiding in corners of mouths
Pulled upwards in a smirk.
Drifting through fingers
Of pleading hands.
Fingers running rough,
Feeling the raised edges
Of blank canvas
And listening to whispers
Of words indiscernible
But still I listen,
Blessed by ignorance,
Blessed by things I can’t understand,
While my strained ears
Line thick with perfect words.
by Caitlin Wolper, New City, NY
On Life Not Having
a Pause Button
She likes a boy
And her grandfather’s in a hospital
Some six thousand miles away,
Surviving every day but
Slowly losing his smile.
She likes a boy
And her grandfather has thirty-six
Tumors on his spine,
Two in his pancreas
And says he feels fine but
He’s refusing to eat.
She likes a boy
And her grandfather might not
Make it until Christmas,
Her grandfather who played chess
And laughed his chesty laugh
And poured her wine she wasn’t
Really supposed to have.
She likes a boy
And she doesn’t know if she should
Keep on living or
Pause,
Temporarily, and pray that
Her grandfather, who sat every morning
Reading the paper and jumping at her hello,
Could make it through.
She likes a boy
And her grandfather was never religious,
And he wants to live so badly,
Because he never wants to waste a second
Of what he has,
Because life is the only thing that is
Solid and certain.
She likes a boy
And she feels selfish, living
When her grandfather’s life is so tentative,
But when she tries to
Pause,
She can’t get life to stop.
She likes a boy
And she walks with him
And she thinks of her grandfather
And she lives
Because it’s the only thing
She knows she can do.
by Amy Clark,
Santa Monica, CA
by Tess Edwards, Perry Hall, MD
POETRY
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
45
Liberty
Dragging Me In
A Winter’s Breeze
What Georgia Did
When the sun glares in from the
wrong direction,
I sit down in the kitchen with my coffee mug
in hand
peering down into valleys in the creaky
teak table.
Sapphire eyes
With little flecks of green
Bursting with light
Caught in the undertow of your stare.
The crisp wind, like freshly prepped
cookie dough, is
Numbing my skin with a burning brush.
As the soft air scrapes past me,
I peer across the terrace.
“I’ll paint them big,” she said,
and so she did –
sending huge splashes of color
rolling across sinewy canvasses,
rioting through art halls.
She escorted the dusky palette of the desert
to the ambitious New York skyline.
She brought the beauty of bypassed details,
blossoming with swirls of fluorescents
and pastels
to the eyes of the fast-walking, fast-talking,
fast-living city-people.
Her careful eyes searched out the
modest furrows,
the bold ripples of huddled petals,
breathing soft reverberations of life
into her page.
Georgia paid homage to what no one else did:
The flawless energy of a flower.
“It’s actually supposed to be a soup bowl,”
my mother would mention gently –
embarrassed by my incorrect usage of the mug:
Long black lashes
Contrast with the deep blue
Reach out and grab me
Dragging me in.
I can see a winter’s eternity burning
with passion
The liberated winter landscape concealed
with the color white
concerned, as she was
to teach me social graces and manners
tying me down arbitrarily.
Drawing my eyes to yours
Our eyes so close
Almost touching
Our lashes knit together
A house sparrow tickles the attic, giggling
And I hear bees dozing with a quiet purr
under my shutters
outside; it is cold, I remember
wiggling my toes inside woolen socks.
Making us
Part of each other.
Binding a couple into
One.
by Nick Lee, Clarkston, MI
by Rachel Henline, Irmo, SC
Fairy Tales
This Poem Will
Satirize Poems
I used to call you my white knight.
When we were five,
You saved me from the dragons in
my backyard
And promised to make me your queen.
“We’ll have to set traps to get them out,”
my father would conclude, sighing.
Still I climb the stairs,
carefully opening my attic door
and excited sparrows flitter
this way and that around my head,
past my ears with a sing-song longing
as they careen down the stairs with me;
I see their wings, striped tawny and white
blaze past me
and I let the windows fly open,
embracing the buzzing bees, awakened
from their winter nap
while the curtains float melodically in frigid air
surrounding me like a blanket of ice,
hugging me as the sparrows swerve into
the open
like freed souls dancing down from heaven
back to the life they had missed, to the
life they had wished for.
I remember now that my parents aren’t here;
and their advice, well-founded, maybe,
isn’t always right.
Dust bunnies hiding in corners cautiously
waltz onto the open floor
desiring the same freedoms, but too afraid to
ask outright,
“Go ahead!” I cry, “Go!”
The doorway accepts them without doubt,
without judgment, without prejudice.
An Apple (notice the capitalization
It’s important
(That line break
was too)
And the reference to Adam and Eve)
Sidles and slouches in a wrinkled
cluttered place
(the line is
Cluttered
and there is an alliteration
also I am vague)
Mold creeps,
With personification,
On our old apple
(I’m addressing you)
A worm won’t ever choose
To reside within
Such a place.
(Nobody wants the apple
because mankind has ruined
Our knowledge (that’s commentary
On society
with a rhyme.)
by Abigail Schneider, New York, NY
“Go ahead!” the hinges on the door
shout, “Go!”
and everyone now has found freedom,
I know,
myself included as I sink blissfully
to the earth
and blow away with the affectionate wind.
Just then a rabbit hopped across the scene
With clumsy yet precise movements through
the deep snow.
It’s time to go back to sleep.
It’s winter.
In time, you threw aside your
Plastic breastplate
And grew steel under your skin.
I always wondered whether you really
felt no pain
In your new armor
Or if it simply kept the hurricane in
your eyes from
Spilling out.
I dropped my tiara at the last show-and-tell
Before middle school.
The flexible plastic snapped on impact
And I learned to find a different kind
Of dragon: a dragon that breathed
sweet talk and empty promises
I learned to spar with my own words
I learned to stand my own ground
I learned to play carefully with needles
Never to accept fruit from strangers
And not to underestimate the utility of
talking mice.
But sometimes
When the walls of my castle feel a little
Too thin
And the drawbridge shakes under my feet
I think I still need a knight
And I wonder if that hurricane has
Finally seen its
Rainbow.
by Bethany Clarke, Gilford, NH
What Apparently
Seems Ordinary
An ordinary Experience of life,
So it would always Seem.
A life with Ordinary Leaves,
Randomly placed on Ordinary Trees.
A capture of Ordinary Skies,
Melted together with Ordinary Greens –
And some Ordinary Sea –
Past illustrations of how ordinary life –
Was previously Seen.
Years have added some “Ordinary” War.
Years have added some “Ordinary” Gore.
Years have added some “Ordinary” Sin.
Regretfully Now –
These are All seen as ordinary Happenings.
The ordinary Car-Crashes-into that
ordinary Tree.
The ordinary Plane-Falls-from that capture
of ordinary skies.
The ordinary Being-Dies-onto those
ordinary Greens,
And the ordinary Ship-Sinks-within that
ordinary Sea.
These used to be Unordinary things.
Until the moment He saw that Ordinary
Life as something –
No Longer – Interesting.
by Jenna Atta, Kensington, MD
by Catherine Kulke, Wellesley, MA
Kisses
by Rachel Spayd, Stockton, NJ
Faces
$limy
I told her that her face
was my favorite face of all
the faces I had ever been with.
First, exploratory, exciting, and nervous.
Fumbling, young, freckled, and watched.
Bossy, uncomfortable, worried, and new.
Titillating, right, wrong, and exhibited.
Deep, sweet, delicious, and loving.
Curious, devastating, exciting, and
of cannabis.
Casual, wasted, forgetful, and regretted.
Friendly, acceptable, fun, and arousing.
Funny, desirable, awkward, and a lost bet.
Erotic, swirling, hair-pulling, and exotic.
Rough, unexpected, hungry, and perfect.
Non-consensual, struggling, aggravated,
and slobbery.
Clumsy, doomed, musical, and unlikely.
The color of the bad weather
Has let go the hundred little fingers of
red, green,
yellow, blue, and numb of black sticks
Cecito and Arturito, scuttles off dodging
the many
schoolyard colors
With a geography of scars
Crooked hair and crooked teeth
by Jacob Wilson, Clinton, TN
Art by Ama Liyanage, Mississauga, ON, Canada
What Love Taught
So I told her I liked her laugh, too,
and she seemed to like that better.
Love has only taught
Me how to hurt somebody
Without a weapon
I asked her if she liked my face.
She said she preferred my hands.
by Kate Dudek, Memphis, TN
46
Teen Ink •
She laughed and told me
that her face had nothing
to do with who she was.
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
•
POETRY
by Tyler Peschel, Newburgh, NY
by Jenn Smith, Shelburne, NS, Canada
Sorry
I won’t do it.
I can’t.
Who do they think they are,
Trying to make me lose
All status at school, at home,
In all of my life?
To do that now
Would be
To back down,
To show weakness,
To be forever remembered
As the one who listened
To the voice
Of “authority.”
And who do they think they are anyway?
Just a bunch
Of people who come and try
To teach us stuff, but really,
Really,
Does anyone think that they actually
Succeed?
I can’t back down.
I’ve done nothing wrong.
I don’t need some adult taking my hand
And saying, “Come on, girl, apologize to
What’s-her-face,”
Because,
Goodness knows,
That would be the
Be-all, end-all
Of humiliation.
What’s the point of apologizing anyway?
Just because you maybe
Say someone’s shirt is not gorgeous,
Or that their art project looks like
An elephant painting
(Which was meant to be a compliment
Anyway, you idiots –
I was being kind and not calling
It the garbage heap it truly is!)
Doesn’t mean you should
Prostrate yourself before them, saying,
“Oh, you poor mistreated little person
(Calling them idiot, sadly, is not an option)
I’m sorry, so sorry,
Will you ever forgive my humble soul”
And all that nonsense.
It’s time people learn to grow up, ’cuz
In the big, wide world out there
Not everything is perfect.
Not everything is great.
And people need to get over it.
I’m not perfect.
Nobody is.
And how, just how,
Is it fair that some
Very imperfect
(Drinking coffee while we do their
stupid assignments,
Treating us like little kids)
People get to chose when and to whom
We repent?
There’s another thing I’m annoyed about.
When we have to say sorry
For every little thingy-ma-bopper,
It kind of diminishes the purpose
For when there are big “Sorry’s”
Necessary, when you
Kill people,
Hurt people,
Tell your parents big whopping lies –
That type of thing.
Sorry is overused now,
Like no offense.
So I don’t like apologies.
And while you have the authority,
And are determined to make it happen,
I will say sorry.
I will not like it.
And I will not mean one letter of it.
Goodness gracious, what’s happening
To the English language now?
Sorry if I’ve offended you.
by Katelyn Hefter, San Ramon, CA
Rapunzel
Her hair broke the scales.
5 minutes for every strand to reach the bottom,
celestial threads moving as one animal.
Undeniably,
it’s beautiful, like a National Park or a thin
golden hand.
But what would happen if each nervous
fiber was daintily
cut from its own system? Would the little
umbilical cords
scream in their own detachment like
stirred spaghetti?
Would a weight be lifted from her head?
There, she could
grow a halo.
I don’t
want to tell you how many hair stylists
have either cried or paid her just to touch it.
She hasn’t used it as a whip, or a lasso,
or a blanket, but she could.
If it came to her waist, maybe even skimming
her hips, I’d be satisfied.
I’d wait until she’d fallen asleep,
take out blades, scissors, and
hack it all off.
Grasp it in my hands, victoriously,
glue her severed locks to my own head.
by Claudia Taylor, West Tisbury, MA
Esmeralda
she wore daisies,
woven into a Crown,
in her hair.
her bones were thin, like the
pages of the Bible,
but her heart was strong.
her winged shoulder blades and
sharp elbows were batons.
she said the color gray smelled
deeply of The New York Times
and fish.
she said that power and beauty were
distributed
equally
like communism.
eventually her lips parted
to reveal
the gleam of a white
Lie,
mistaken for her teeth.
her words then made an incision
in my chest and stole
whatever remained inside.
that Esmeralda was in such a daze for so long
that one day,
she was
forgotten.
by Luo Qi Kong, Brooklyn, NY
The Mystery of Me
At first I don’t exist,
But I can be brought to life by anyone
or anything.
Just like everything else,
As I get older,
I get bigger
I grow and grow and eventually,
As I come to the end of my life,
I disappear …
But,
In contact with another person or
another thing,
I come to life again,
And the process starts over,
I get bigger,
And bigger,
And then I disappear.
This is my life.
I die,
I reappear.
A single touch,
Creates my entire being.
Young at first,
Then old not seconds later.
Here I am,
And there I go,
I am a ripple or a ring in a stream.
Photo by Michelle Kiss, Vancouver, WA
Today
I wrote a song.
I called an old friend.
I ate an apple.
Today
I drove barefoot.
I sang loudly in the car.
I let my hand
Catch the air.
Today
I rolled down a hill.
I caught a ladybug.
I named it Frederick.
Today
I bought a homeless person food.
I walked with him to the park.
I taught him how to play guitar.
Today
I realized life doesn’t have to be complicated.
by Kara Oyer, No. Tonawanda, NY
Pastoral Sea
A current whips across green tendrils
A wave of emerald spreading over a
vast void
A shoal of robins floats up to the sky
And come down again to glide over
the crests.
by Sarah Logan, Tulsa, OK
Maybe
Maybe today
The words will bloom
and I will walk barefoot through the grass
collecting them, sweet and ripe,
in a warm woven basket nestled
beneath my arm.
A school of wooly critters
Frolic in the foam
And a solitary trawl
Springs from swell to swell.
The fisherman wades in the depths
Whistling to his beast
A swiftly moving shark
That hauls the mob together.
by Mariah Cleveland, Gilmanton IW, NH
Break Up, Wake Up
Today I woke up
and washed the tears off my face
I made myself tea and not in the mug you
used last
in fact, I washed it twice, with fresh
lemon soap
and scrubbed all the coffee away
so yeah, mug in shirt in the box by the door
Oh, and I vacuumed up the footprints
even the teeny tiny crumbs of dirt
every last atom of you
Maybe today. But
The words hanging on their soft green stalks
are too high for my reaching fingers,
my thread is twisted and knotted,
your peeling picketed gate is closed
and my hammer cannot be found.
Maybe today
I will be brave enough to give you
My carefully strung garland of words.
Today I shut the door with a final click
and honey, I opened some windows.
Or maybe tomorrow.
by Lisa Moskowitz, Orange, VA
POETRY
Maybe today
I will take my dented hammer
with its worn wooden handle
and pound my words above your door
where you will see them
before I can change my mind
again.
Maybe today
I will watch you walk
through your green picketed gate
with its peeling paint I love so much
and see your kind lips shape
the message I have left you.
and I wrapped it up in the shirt you left in
my car
it's all clean now and smells like flowers
not you
I threw all the letters
and dead flowers away
and put the box out on the porch
Maybe today
I will thread my glistening needle
with long pieces of pale blue string
take the words from their place
and string them into a garland
of what-I-want-to-tell-yous
by Emma Vargo, Grand Rapids, MI
•
F E B R U A RY ’ 1 2
• Teen Ink
47