Cover Butterfly:Cover

M ARCH 2010
T E E N IN K . C O M
OUR 21ST YEAR
PREPARE TODAY
TO LEAD FOR A
LIFETIME.
What do you need to succeed in today’s climate? You need to
START STRONG.SM In Army ROTC, you’ll do just that. While attending
college, you’ll gain strength, character, and unmatched leadership skills
to lead the most well-trained individuals in any field. And when you
graduate and complete Army ROTC, you can be commissioned as a
U.S. Army Officer. Plus, to help pay for your education, you can earn a
full-tuition, merit-based scholarship. ROTC will give you strength for a
lifetime of success. There’s strong. Then there’s Army Strong.
For more information, visit goarmy.com/rotc/startstrong.
©2009. Paid for by the United States Army. All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
M A R C H 2 0 1 0 | V O L . 21, N O . 7
COVER FEATURES
Working:
12
Tales from the Trenches
Art by Christina Vandian, Bayside, NY
“Lamentations of a Bus Girl” .........page 14
“Zoo Guest Handbook”...................page 14
“I, Sandwich Chef” ............................page 15
“Must Love Children”..........................page 15
SEND YOUR WORK
Where’s Our Woodstock?
WE NEED
“By the time we’re 20 the most culturally
significant event we attended will have
been a stop on the Jonas Brothers’
world tour.”
– Points of View, page 19
1. Your name, year of birth, home address/
city/state/ZIP, phone number, e-mail address,
school name, and English teacher’s name.
For art and photos, place the information on the
back of each piece. Please don’t fold art.
Movie Reviews:
SEND IT
“James Cameron’s epic, ‘Avatar,’ raises
the question: Are special effects enough
to launch a new era in filmmaking?”
– Reviews, page 20-21
THE FINE PRINT
• Label all written work fiction or nonfiction.
Please include a title.
Cover photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
• Published students will receive a copy of Teen
Ink, a pen, and a Teen Ink Post-it™ pad.
• All materials submitted become the property of
Teen Ink. By submitting your work to us, you are
giving Teen Ink and its partners, affiliates, and
licensees the nonexclusive right to publish your
work in any format, including all print, electronic,
and online media. Teen Ink may edit or abridge
your work at its sole discretion. Teen Ink is copyrighted by the Young Authors Foundation Inc.
However, all individual contributors to Teen Ink
retain the right to submit their work for nonexclusive publication elsewhere, and you have
our permission to do so.
All written work in Teen Ink
is checked for originality by
College Directory
Educator of the Year
Environment
Feedback
Fiction
Health
Heroes
Nonfiction
Poetry
Points of View
Pride & Prejudice
Reviews: Book
Up • Avatar • Sherlock Holmes • The Blind Side •
Up In the Air • Inglourious Basterds
30
Reviews: Music
The Beatles • Selena Gomez • John Mayer •
Adam Lambert • Ke$ha • Genghis Tron
31
Reviews: Video Game
Professor Layton and the Curious Village • World
of Goo • Batman: Arkham Asylum • The World
Ends With You
24
Sports
28-29 Travel & Culture
• Writing may be edited; we reserve the right to
publish our version without prior approval.
• Include a self-addressed, stamped envelope,
and we’ll send an acknowledgment of receipt.
22-23
27
25
4
33-37
16
26
6-10
38-47
18-19
11
32
20-21 Reviews: Movie
Oscar Nominees
• Type or print carefully in ink. Keep a copy.
• If, due to the personal nature of a piece, you
don’t want your name published, we will respect
that request, but we must still have all name and
address information for our records.
Art Gallery
Paintings, drawings & photos
My Sister’s Keeper • Double Helix • Crazy for the
Storm • Twenties Girl • Bringing Down the House
2. This signed statement must be written on each
submission: “This will certify that the above work
is completely original.”
Online – www.TeenInk.com
Mail – Teen Ink • Box 30, Newton, MA 02461
E-mail – [email protected]
DEPARTMENTS
SUBSCRIBE
■ CLASS SET
I want 30 copies of Teen Ink each month. If I
subscribe now, I will be billed $89 for the
remainder of the 2009-10 school year.
Name: ___________________________________________
Price includes shipping & handling.
School name (for Class Set): _______________________
PO# (if available) ____________________
Address: ________________________________________
■ INDIVIDUAL SUBSCRIPTION
Please send me one copy per month for a year
(10 issues). I am enclosing a check or credit card
information for $35.
■ CHARITABLE DONATION
Title/Subject: _____________________________________
City: ____________________________________________
State: ____________ ZIP: __________________________
E-mail: __________________________________________
Phone number: (_______) __________________________
I want to support Teen Ink and
The Young Authors Foundation.
Enclosed is: ■ $25 ■ $50 ■ $100
■ Other _____________
If paying by credit card:
Mail to: Teen Ink • Box 30 • Newton, MA
Card #: ______________________________________
02461 • or subscribe online at TeenInk.com
Expires: _______________
■ VISA
■ MC
MSL
3/10
FEEDBACK
The Day I Threw a Kegger
After I read “The Day I Threw a Kegger,”
by Allie Rich, I was surprised by how much I
could relate to the story. However, I slightly
disagreed with her statement: “It is smarter
to learn from the mistakes of others than to
make them yourself.” Though this is true in
most cases, learning from one’s own mistakes is a normal part of life.
When I was in third grade, a friend traded
me a cap gun for a cheap top. I foolishly accepted the deal, and brought the gun home,
concealing it in my closet. The next day,
guilt started to sink in. I sneaked the cap gun
into my pocket and gave it back to the boy.
The secret got out, and I got in serious trouble, but everything turned out okay. This
affected me greatly, and served as a good
example of learning a great deal from one’s
mistakes. The feelings and thoughts of the
person from whom the lesson is learned must
also be considered.
Overall, Allie wrote an inspiring piece that
helped me know I wasn’t alone. We just need
to understand that making mistakes, to a certain extent, is perfectly fine.
In Allie’s story, she wrote about the time
when she threw a party in her home without
her father’s consent. During the party, Allie
watched her house “crumple” around her. I
must ask: do you think you learned a lot
from that experience? Would you have
learned more if a friend told you about it?
Brandon Ngai, Brooklyn, NY
The Dreaded Bus
When I read “The Dreaded Bus” by
Christina Grisanzio I found I could really
relate to it. When I moved to a different
school I was most worried about sitting on
the bus. I found social status to be one of the
most important things.
I really like the line “I take a breath and
prepare for the worst, at the same time hoping for better.” I love this line because you do
not know what’s going to happen next, which
makes me want to keep reading. I also like
the ending: “at least you are not alone.” Because it’s true, you are not alone.
Taylor Brasefield, Oak Bluffs, MA
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
I Kissed the Boy Who
Hit Me
Brianna Weidman’s article, “I Kissed the
Boy Who Hit Me,” covers a sensitive subject.
Her article was about putting her feelings for
her boyfriend before her own. This was a
well-written article tackling a topic that
many teens go through. Many girls put on a
brave face and make it seem as if everything
is all right, but deep down they are in a world
of hurt.
I believe Brianna opening up with her story gives girls around the nation hope for a
better outcome if they are in an abusive relationship. I hope it helps girls take a stand and
not let their loved ones step all over them.
Brittany Tafolla, Avondale, AZ
Discrepancy
The beautiful poem, “Discrepancy,” honestly touched my heart. It’s very abstract, one
that I’m sure people will interpret differently.
But the overall theme of someone changing
right before your eyes into something utterly
different reminded me of so many instances
in my own life.
The metaphor of someone being blue and
then suddenly becoming orange is equally as
beautiful as it is thought-provoking. I could
feel her pain in the lines, “Your heartbeat
thudded orange, And the look in your eyes
was sharp with rust” mostly because I’ve experienced that heart-wrenching glare so
many times in some of my best friends.
Thank you, Eliza, for writing this. When a
poem can evoke so much emotion in even a
single person, it marks a truly talented writer.
Savannah Fleming, Jacksonville, FL
Video Game Reviews
Your magazine is awesome! Your articles
are full of character and feeling. They describe
experiences that some people only dream of.
Your magazine is the bomb, but I have an
idea that might skyrocket your reading ratings.
Many people love video games. I know that
for a fact because I am totally addicted to my
game system. All I’m saying is it would be
nice to bring back video game reviews.
Please consider putting them into your
already awesome magazine to make it
extraordinary!
Wyatt Long, Denver, CO
I had to write and praise Emma Wood for
“Am I Cain?” It was both compelling and
touching, and despite writing it from a
deeply personal place, she managed to focus
on the feelings of her family as well as her
own. I greatly admire her, not only for her
fine writing, but also for her ability to write
from a raw, honest place. I struggle with
writing personal pieces too.
In my opinion, going back and sharing those
innermost thoughts that shamed her is courageous. Emma’s mature perspective at the end
and ability to tell such a heart-wrenching
story truly made “Am I Cain?” extraordinary.
Amanda Jahn, Fox Island, WA
In response to “The Homework Revolution,” by Lauren Miller, I would just like to
say that I agree with Lauren about her beliefs
that there is just too much homework. Getting these assignments done is even tougher
if you participate in a sport or other afterschool activities.
I come home every night dreading the
fact that I will have to open up my backpack
and start working on hours of homework.
Lauren is right when she describes how
students get sick, and don’t get enough sleep.
I get, at the most, five hours of sleep a night.
This then carries over to the next day where I
fall asleep in class, missing important lessons, because I was up too late working on
homework.
Schools in the United States need to reduce the amount of homework. Give students
a chance to prove that we can get high test
scores and better grades with less homework.
I guarantee there will be a noticeable difference in classroom participation and test
scores within the first couple of weeks.
Brian MacCleary, Phoenix, AZ
iCan’t Hear
Kickers
Tania Joakim’s article “iCan’t Hear”
opened my eyes to the danger of listening to
iPods. Her article explains that teens don’t
realize how listening to music for long periods of time with the volume up is bad for
their hearing. She also explains that it could
lead to permanent hearing damage.
I feel strongly that makers of iPods and
MP3 players should show how many decibels we are listening to so that we can turn
the volume down to a safe level. Tania says
that iPods’ decibels go up to 115 and the acceptable volume is 80 decibels.
I have an iPod that I listen to regularly. I
had no idea that it could have such an impact
on my hearing, so big that it could affect me
in the future. I also thought listening to music for long periods of time was perfectly
fine. I definitely think all teens who have
iPods and MP3 players should read this article in order to save their hearing.
Bailey Branch, Monticello, IL
Has “kicking” ever happened to your
Teen Ink article? Imagine it – you write an
amazing story that you are so proud of and it
gets posted on Teen Ink’s site. Many read it,
but there is just one comment! You click on
the link because you are so excited to see
what other authors thought about your story.
You scroll down and this is what you see:
“OMG ur story is so good. By the way –
could you please read my story and give me
feedback?”
It hurts, doesn’t it, that that’s the only
comment on your story? Kicking is becoming an increasingly popular way of getting
readers, but it needs to stop. Everyone here is
working to get published in the magazine
and to get themselves known as authors, but
kicking isn’t the way to get it!
Emily VanEeuwen, Morris Plains, NJ
Editor’s Note: We try to publish video
game reviews whenever we have enough
and coincidentally, we have a page this
month (page 31)!
Am I Cain?
Introducing …
TEEN INK'S TWITTER CHALLENGE
Think you have what it takes to get your
point across in 140 characters or less?
Step up to the challenge!
March Twitter Challenge:
Finish this sentence and tweet your ideas to @teenink:
“If I could change the world, I would …”
Just tweet us your ideas in 140 characters or less!
Winners will receive one year of Teen Ink FREE!
4
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
The Homework Revolution
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: TeenInk.com
Publishers:
Stephanie Meyer
John Meyer
Senior Editor:
Stephanie Meyer
Editor:
Emily Sperber
Associate Editor:
Jessica Ullian
Production:
Katie Olsen
Publisher’s Assistant: Susan Tuozzolo
Outreach:
Elizabeth Cornwell
Meagan Foley
Editorial Assistant:
Cindy Spertner
Advertising:
John Meyer
Interns:
Emma Halwitz
Liza McVinney
Volunteer:
Barbara Field
CIRCULATION
Reaching millions
of teens in junior and
senior high schools
nationwide.
THE YOUNG AUTHORS
FOUNDATION
The Young Authors
Foundation, publisher of
Teen Ink, is a nonprofit
corporation qualified as
a 501(c)3 exempt organization by the IRS. The
Foundation, which is
organized and operated
exclusively for charitable and educational purposes, provides opportunities for the education
and enrichment of young
people.
NOTICE TO READERS
Teen Ink is not responsible for the content of
any advertisement. We
have not investigated
advertisers and do not
necessarily endorse their
products or services.
EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
journal dedicated to
publishing a variety of
works written by
teenagers. Copyright ©
2010 by The Young
Authors Foundation, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Publication of material
appearing in Teen Ink is
prohibited unless written
permission is obtained.
FREQUENCY
Monthly, September to
June.
ADDITIONAL COPIES
Send $6.95 per copy
for mailing and handling.
PRODUCTION
Teen Ink uses Quark
Xpress to design the
magazine.
!cftu!tvnnfs
pg!nz!mjgf"Ô
Kpjo!puifs!ubmfoufe!ijhi!tdippm!tuvefout!uijt!tvnnfs!!
gps!uisff.!boe!tjy.xffl!bdbefnjd!qsphsbnt/
y! Ublf!dpmmfhf.dsfeju!dpvstft!xjui!Dpsofmm!gbdvmuz
y! Fyqmpsf!dpmmfhf!boe!dbsffs!pqujpot
y! Mjwf!po!uif!cfbvujgvm!Dpsofmm!dbnqvt
Dpsofmm!Vojwfstjuz
Tvnnfs!Dpmmfhf
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.
PHOTO BY JAMIE ROSKKO
giaaYfWc``Y[Y"WcfbY``"YXi
ÓUif!
I OVA
INN
OVAT
AT
TION
N
IIN
N THE
T H E VISUAL,
V I S UA L , PERFORMING,
P E R FO R M I N G , MEDIA,
M E D I A , AND
A N D COMMUNICATION
C O M M U N I C AT I O N ARTS
A RT S
6&$8Um<U``O=h\UWU BM%(,)'!&,$%OD\cbY.*$+"&))"*&$'
:Ul.*$+"&))"***)O9!aU]`.giaaYfSWc``Y[Y4WcfbY``"YXi
Schedule
Schedule
e a visit on-line and see how we
e provide the
rigorous academics and unparalleled rresources
e
esources
that will
future.
turn yourr talents into a rreal
eal futur
e.
colum.edu/admissions
colum.ed
du/admissions
[email protected]
admissions
@collum.edu / 312.369.7130
A fall leadership program
for idealistic high school women
who want to change the world
September 30 – October 3, 2010
Nominations due April 7, 2010
For nomination forms and applications visit
www.mtholyoke.edu/takethelead
or call 413-538-3500
Experience AIB
Life, Art, and Creative Solutions:
Mount Holyoke College, South Hadley, Massachusetts
College art & design courses for high school students
AIB offers studio art classes in the areas of artistry, technology, and
professions in the visual arts.
tFYQFSJFODFBOBSUDPMMFHFFOWJSPONFOU
tFBSODPMMFHFDSFEJU
tFYQBOEZPVSLOPXMFEHFPGDBSFFSPQUJPOTJOUIFWJTVBMBSUT
tCVJMEZPVSQPSUGPMJPGPSBQQMZJOHUPBSUTDIPPM‰POMJOFPQUJPOT
Summer Pre-college program:
July 6–July 31, 2010
Summer Young Artist Residency
Program (YAR)
offers a comprehensive program of
courses and activities.
6 college credits.
Application deadline is
May 17, 2010.
standout
IF YO U ’ R E A
YO U ’ L L BL END R IG HT IN.
The U
University
nivveersity of Chicag
Chicagoo SSummer
ummer Session—where
Session—where studen
students
nts ar
aree engaged at ev
every
ery
lev
el—intellectuallyy, socia
allyy, personally
y, and pr
ofessionallyy. JJoin
oin us this summer for
level—intellectually,
socially,
personally,
professionally.
an extraordinary
extraordinary learning experience at the home to 82 N
ob
bel laur
eates.
Nobel
laureates.
for students
students in high school,
s
college,
c ollege, and beyond.
beyond
d.
june 21–august
21–august 27, 2010
201 0
3, 4, 5, 6, and 9-week
9-w
9 w eek sessions
seessions
For
F
oor more
morre information,
information, visit
hjbbZgg#j
hjbbZg#jX]^XV\d#ZYj$i^
# X]^XV\d#ZYj$i^^
ddgXVaa,,($-()"(,.'
gXVaa,,($-()"(,.'
HjbbZgHZhh^dc
Hjbb
bZgHZhh^dcÉ&%
Experience summer in Boston and college life.
www.aiboston.edu/info/teen
The Art Institute of Boston
AI10_PRE_PA012
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
5
nonfiction
The Elephant Man
by Elizabeth Cono, El Cajon, CA
horror. Right there in the grocery store. Right next to
don’t know why he frightened me so. Perhaps it
the safety of my mother and brother. And right in
was my innocence, childish fears, or simply the
earshot of that monster.
cold hand of reality that caused me to react the
And that’s exactly how I viewed him: a separate
way I did. But as the years passed, my subconscious
species from mankind, come to prey upon innocent
began to develop a small corner of long-term regret.
children and do other horrible things to them. I was
Like a tumor in the body, this spot in my mind
afraid of being one of his victims. I can’t understand
slowly infected my personality, causing me to behow, at the time, I could idolize Quasimodo, the anicome passionately aware of the evils of the world
mated, deformed hero of Disney’s “The Hunchback
and making me want to stop them. Human evils,
of Notre Dame,” yet be terrified by this real-live
specifically. Outwardly, I know my reasoning is foolQuasi.
ish: what happened all those years ago was simply
Most of my memory of that day is lost forever.
due to childish ignorance. It had nothing to do with
What store it was, what we bought, whether it was a
making me into a hypocrite or a sinner. Yet somehow,
school day, weekend, or vacation – these are all forthat biting corner in my memory remains to remind
gotten. But the sight of the man’s grotesque features
me of the way I treat others.
sticks in my mind.
I try to fight back this infection by thinking not of
To this day, I wonder whether the elephant man
what I did, but of him. Does he still remember that
recollects the incident. Does the memory of my
his presence, his haunting face, held so much horror
scream still haunt him? Or, is he so
for a little girl? But most of all, does
used to similar – and possibly worse –
he remember what I did?
reactions that my particular scream did
I uttered the
I screamed. That’s my crime. I saw
not affect him? If he does remember,
a man, not 20 feet from me, whose
loudest bloodhe might think I have forgotten him by
face seemed to be disconnected from
his skull, a cascade of worn, velvet
curdling scream now, as the world tends to overlook
those like him.
curtains descending upon a dusty
any child could
But how can I forget? I must have
stage. Resembling a beard made of
hurt
him terribly then, even if he’s foruseless flesh, his defective features
ever create
gotten it now. I imagine that he
appeared so distorted that they no
glanced in my direction, not meaning
longer resembled human skin, but
to give me a full view of his distorted features, but
rough, crinkly elephant flesh. His dark skin tone
just to gaze at me, as if willing me to see into his
completed the visage, making him truly look like an
heart.
extra-terrestrial being having a tour of planet Earth.
What’s the matter? he would have wanted to say.
At least, that’s what my six-year-old eyes perThere’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m still human.
ceived. And so I screamed. It was not a yelp – quick,
I picture his eyes staring at me as I sob in the groto the point, and over before you knew it – or even
cery aisle with my mother hovering over me. Maybe
the squeal of a child who is startled or caught redhe was angry, fed up with the negative reactions
handed. Either of those would have been forgivable.
meeting him at every turn. Maybe the incident motiNo, I uttered the loudest, most high-pitched,
vated him to leave town. Maybe I caused him so
blood-curdling scream any child could ever create.
much pain that he did something rash, like attempt
People in Mongolia may have heard the echo of my
suicide. Maybe it was none of those; maybe I just
cry from the inland city of El Cajon in San Diego
recreated a memory from his past, when other chilCounty. My scream must have interrupted every
dren treated him cruelly at school.
Broadway show in New York City.
I guess that’s one good thing. I didn’t laugh or
At least, that’s what it felt like at the time. I didn’t
mock him. But I still screamed. I didn’t just stare, or
care if the world heard me. I wanted help, though I
gasp, or yelp and hide; I screamed.
wasn’t hurt. I wanted an explanation, though I didn’t
So how can I forget? At the time, the memory of
ask for it like a normal human being. Instead I
his face was burned into my brain and visited my
screamed, without words. Just one long scream of
worst nightmares. Now the only thing I fear is his
I
I Hear Voices
Photo by Julie Pingitore, Rochdale, MA
soul and how badly I hurt it.
Is it possible that my instinct to always do unto
others as I would want them to do unto me was
caused by my upbringing? Or did this singular experience plant that lesson in my heart that day?
For some reason, I can’t help but believe that the
elephant man did more than leave a nightmarish addition to my memory. He unknowingly implanted a
powerful monitor in my conscience that will forever
govern my treatment of others. Naturally, I have
screwed up many times, whether out of juvenile jealousy or a spiteful temper. I have never screamed at
another poor soul like that, but when it comes to controlling my other emotions, I sometimes break away
from my internal leash.
That’s when the elephant man comes in; instantly
after my little rampage, I feel a horrible emptiness, as
if what I just did created more pain for him. My regretful soul clashes constantly with my hot head; the
two weights of my life (my temper and my moral
sense) are often shifting my secure seat in the world
until I am trembling so violently I don’t know which
way to turn.
Then the memory of the elephant man returns, this
time to coax me, to remind me of that crucial truth
we all must face in life: I am only human. I am not
perfect. I cannot change others’ problems. This does
not mean I should inflict pain on them, nor can I prevent myself from slipping once in a while. That man
is more than just a memory; he lives in me, in my
mind, soul, and body, guiding me every day. ✦
by Bryanna Niswonger, Seneca, IL
It is not what you say, but how you say it that truly
hear voices.
makes an impact.
That being said, I am not insane nor do I believe
Teachers and lunches aside, chorus is a class of wonin ghosts or spirits.
ders
for me. I never can seem to wait for it to come,
I just love to listen.
and
when
it does, time washes away. On a good day,
I can hear the music in the deep voice of one of my
with a song we enjoy, it is an amazing sound like no
teachers as he gives his instruction. The pitch of another. But oh, on a bad day, all I want to do
other teacher rises as he tries to make a
is bang my head on the piano’s ivory keys
point over the chattering of students. A
in frustration at the lack of music we sing.
wonderfully foreign accent fills the most
The cafeteria Everything from a heart-wrenching love
dry and insipid sciences with explosive flavor. The same voice amuses me to no end
is an explosion ballad to a swing version of Santa songs resides in our folders, all with their own feelas it orders her senior lab-aide about.
of
sounds
ings that cannot be expressed in mere
The cafeteria is an explosion of sounds
words and notes. Our voices bring their
and voices. The high-pitched frenzy of a
melodies to life.
pair of girls fighting, a hushed conversation
Music is so much more than rhythms and pitches.
between lovers, and the general exclamation of people
Class is so much more than notes and lectures. Even
over a poor choice of words can be heard in almost any
the simplest conversation is more than a collection of
lunch period. The waterfall of tones and pitches imwords and meanings.
merses me in a constant stream of sound. Even at my
I hear voices.
table, not two voices are alike; I will sit and listen, but
Do you? ✦
not just to the words. I listen to the people behind them.
I
Photo by Darby Cox, Asheville, NC
6
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
nonfiction
Bright Red Snow Pants
by Lydia Abend, Concord, MA
sat where she wanted to sit. I went to parties when
fact that I was a late bloomer in the girl world, and
rrring! The recess bell was quickly drowned
Lauren approved of who was there, and had girls’
considered myself lucky to have someone to bring me
out by the sound of eager eight-year-olds trynights in when she didn’t. I waved to the people Lauup
to
speed.
ing to put away books, push in chairs, and be
ren deemed acceptable, and bowed my head when I
A few weeks before Halloween in sixth grade, Lauthe line leader simultaneously. It was early December,
would pass an old friend in the hallway with whom
ren informed me that my neighborhood was boring
and more importantly, the first real snowfall of the
my communication had been cut off. There were the
with its small houses, and none of the sixth-grade
year. This wasn’t a flurry or a light dusting; it was
expected catfights, of course, when she would trick
boys would be there. Madison Drive was home to all
snowball and snowman material. As I looked over at
me into saying something bad about a friend and then
the big houses with the best candy, and if we were
my new friend Lauren, I noticed she was moving
tell her, or when she kissed my ex-boyfriend whom
going trick-or-treating, that was where we
slower than the rest of our third-grade
she knew I still had feelings for. We were inseparable,
would do it. My parents weren’t happy
class. The line leader took us out to our
I
had
a
lot
of
and when we were separated, she always knew where
about
my
decision
to
break
our
chickencubbies, where the majority of the class
I was and who I was with. We lived our two lives
finger dinner tradition, but I explained
worked harder to put on their snow gear
learning to
woven as one.
what Lauren had said about our neighborthan they had worked in school all day.
Senior year, my mom and I decided to go crossdo about how hood and that what I was doing was norAs I pulled on the second leg of my
country skiing on New Year’s Day. The friction of my
mal for a girl my age. They weren’t as
snow pants, I saw Lauren’s platform
girls act
skis on the blinding snow was white noise in the
convinced as I was.
sneaker-clad foot.
background of our conversation and laughter, and the
As dusk approached on October 31st,
“Oh, hey, did you forget your snow
air was cold. As I glided through the wilderness, I felt
Lauren, Zoe, and I dressed in identical witch cosstuff at home?” I asked. Lauren cringed.
something I could hardly recognize: relief. I didn’t
tumes.
The
only
difference
was
that
my
tights
were
“No.”
know where it came from or what it meant until we
green striped, Lauren’s red, and Zoe’s orange. Lauren
“’Cause I’m pretty sure the nurse keeps extra stuff,”
were back at the car, where my cell phone – with five
chose who wore which. Zoe was an old neighborhood
I continued.
missed calls from Lauren – was waiting for me. The
friend of mine whom Lauren had decided to take
“I didn’t forget it, I just didn’t bring it.” She let the
pit in my stomach returned to its rightful place, the
under her wing, and Zoe brought me a certain ease
last words linger, dropping a hint that I couldn’t pick
same place it planted itself in third grade. That calm
that I couldn’t identify. We were adjusting our obnoxup.
feeling was ripped away, and I felt the bars come back
iously tall and feathered witch hats when Lauren
“But you aren’t allowed to go off the blacktop withdown over me.
ordered, “Okay, stand in a row.” She planted herself in
“Ugh! I hate her.” I startled myself when I realized
the middle of her vanity mirror and beckoned us to
I had said that out loud. My mom and I exchanged a
either side.
look that opened a door to possibilities. What if I did“Okay. We’re in matching costumes, but we aren’t
n’t return these calls? What if I chose whom I sat with
all the same, obviously. So if one of us had to be the
at lunch tomorrow? What if I took control of somepretty witch, which one of us would it be?”
thing that had been out of control for too long? As I
“I think we are all pretty.” I tried to take the easy
let my phone fall out of my hand, a switch turned on
way out. Lauren cocked her head and stared harder.
for me that would never turn off. That was the last day
“True, we are. But we can’t all be the same witch.
Lauren was a part of my life.
So, Zoe, you would be the skinny, pretty witch ….”
Every time that I feel my cell phone buzzing from
As soon as the words left her mouth, Zoe’s eyes fell
my pocket, that pit in my stomach shrinks
away from the mirror. Zoe was naturally
smaller as I answer to find a greeting rather
slim, and a late bloomer as a result. I knew
an order. My friendship that I thought
that Zoe was self-conscious about it, but
We lived our than
was routine and natural was controlling
instead of coming to her defense, I stood
and manipulative, but an eight-year-old has
in silence.
two lives
a harder time seeing that than an eighteen“And Lydia, you can be the busty, pretty
woven as one year-old. It took me ten years to get the
witch.” As I processed her words, somecourage to escape the prison I had so willthing that dangerously resembled satisfacingly entered. Now, I buy coffee where I
tion spread across her face. Given the label
Photo by Jessica Markowitz, West Bloomfield, MI
think the best lattes are, wear the jeans I think are
Lauren had assigned to Zoe, it was painfully obvious
cute, and spend my free time with the people I
what she meant by mine.
choose. And on the first snowman-material snowfall
“So … you mean the fat pretty witch?” The words
out pants, boots, and a coat, remember?” I stopped zipof the year, I wear my bright red snow pants and roll
came out, but they wavered as my face turned scarlet
ping my coat. This was my new best friend, so I could
around in the snow. ✦
beneath the glitter and blush.
sacrifice one day in the snow to play on the blacktop
“I
didn’t
say
that.”
with her. I decided that Lauren probably forgot to
“But that’s what you
bring her snow clothes back to her mom’s house the
meant?”
night before, but didn’t want to admit she was still ad“Look, Lydia, I didn’t say
justing to her new living arrangements.
fat, you did. But you don’t
“Lydia, aren’t you a little old to be playing in the
have to look that way if you
snow?” Her look was sharp, one I hadn’t seen before.
don’t want to. Okay, so I’ll be
I fumbled to find words and take off my jacket all at
the blonde, pretty witch. This
once. Was she right?
by Charity Holm, Colorado City, AZ
wasn’t fun like I thought it’d
“I mean, do you really think boys want to talk to
be. Let’s go.” I lingered in
girls who are rolling around in the snow? Play fourhen I was a little girl, I asked my mother why she
front of the mirror. I couldn’t
square today. If you want to go back to the kindernever cried. With a glassy look in her eye, she
move. In that moment I degarteners tomorrow, fine.” Lauren flipped her
replied “Because when you grow up, things happen
cided that maybe Lauren’s
perfectly combed blonde hair to accentuate her point,
that break your heart. Sometimes we just forget how.” I was
words weren’t mean, they were
and I quickly tried to tame mine, which was nothing
more confused than ever. How could you forget something as
true. That was the last time for
more than a static mess under my pom-pom hat.
simple as crying? As I’ve grown, I’ve realized that my mother
a long time I didn’t hear them
Until third grade, my best friend had been a boy.
was right. A tear is not what it was when I was younger. It
every day in my head.
Now I had Lauren, and I apparently had a lot of learnused to be a way of letting go of my emotions, of saying goodHigh school for me was just
ing to do about how girls act, and how they don’t. I
bye and never thinking about them again. Now a tear is an
like it was for every other girl
didn’t know that you have to talk to your best friend
open door for liars and heartbreakers. I’ve forgotten how to
with a best friend. I went to
on the phone five times a day, carry her laundry bascry too, Mom. ✦
Art by Frandora Rogers,
football games until Lauren got
ket up the stairs if she’s tired, and sit together – alone
Church Rock, NM
bored and wanted to leave, and
– every day at lunch. I blamed my ignorance on the
B
Forget the Tears
W
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
7
nonfiction
What the Doctor Ordered
by Tiffany Garrison, Lenoir City, TN
flour as she rummaged through her kitchen cabinets.
rowing up, I immensely enjoyed listening to
I had to lead her to the one where she had kept the
the old fairy tales my grandmother would
flour for as long as I could remember.
share with me as she tucked me into bed. I
Soon after, she reluctantly saw the doctor. No one
would always smile when she concluded with, “and
expected the doctor to sit us down and gravely exthey lived happily ever after. The end.” I wish now
plain that she had developed an early stage of
that her own story had been that simple, with her
Alzheimer’s. After this, I watched her even as she
“happily ever after” ending. While thinking about her
cooked and cleaned, always ready to help should she
and looking into a sea of familiar faces, I’m grateful
forget something. I still remember the tearful voice in
merely because I can recognize them. I’m thankful
which she timidly suggested, “Maybe when I get
too because, unlike my dear grandmother now, I
really sick, you can help your mother take care of
know who I am. My grandmother, Lula, is a victim
me.” From that day I felt our roles slowly but surely
of Alzheimer’s disease, which causes severe shortreverse as I begin to function as both a
term memory loss and interferes with
babysitter and caregiver.
daily life. Unfortunately, it is a proit wasn’t long before the disgressive disease with no cure.
My grandmother easeSadly,
forced her into an assisted-living
Watching my grandmother struggle
is a victim of
center. While it was a relief for her to
with this horrible illness has had a prohave help, it was also sad that her stubfound impact on my life. I have learned
Alzheimer’s
born independence was beginning to slip
to cherish every moment with loved
away. With the rest of the family, I took
ones. I have learned to tell them what
disease
turns watching and helping her. Amazthey mean to me before it’s too late.
ingly, we grew even closer. Before long,
Most importantly, I have learned to
we knew each other like a reader knows a favorite
look past all the negativity and stress in life, and
book. I found myself discovering what family really
cherish every moment I have. Throughout the course
means: unwavering support and love.
of my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s, my personality
Not even a full year passed before her Alzheimer’s
has been altered and molded to help make me the
progressed
so much that doctors ordered constant
person I am today.
supervision for her. Unfortunately, my family had
By the time her dreadful illness was discovered, I
trouble finding an appropriate place. Due to their
was 14 and had outgrown her fairy tales. However,
demanding jobs, no one was available to give her the
our relationship had changed little. She was still the
necessary supervision. Eventually, it was decided
wise woman I would look to for advice and consolathat she would stay with my family. In summer durtion. She was my frequent lifesaver in the sea of
ing the day, I watched her until my mother came
choppy, angry waves life often threw at me. Then,
home from work. And so we fell into a daily routine.
gradually, I began to notice her faltering memory. At
Granny would wake up between five and seven a.m. I
first, it was subtle: forgetting where she had put
would get up as soon as I heard the wheels of her
things, the day of the week, and other common miswalker going down the hall and make her breakfast:
steps often chalked up to old age. Eventually, it
coffee and cornflakes with two teaspoons of sugar. At
worsened and interfered with routine activities like
this point, I would also give her her medicine and
cooking: one day she asked me where she had put the
G
Do You Remember, Brother?
by Tommy Muehler, Grand Junction, CO
though I got in the way, you and your friends still
don’t really remember what it was like when I first
treated me like part of the group. Then, sadly, we both
moved into my new home. Or how it affected you,
grew up, and went our separate ways. No longer are we
my brother. But it must have been strange, going
the unstoppable duo. Now we only see each other on
from being an only child to having a little brother who
holidays and even those are seldom.
was five years younger. And later having the focus shift
When I look into my future I try to figure out where
from you to another person. Having to share your toys,
you’ll fit in. Where you will be when I get married, or
the TV, and the gaming console. Going from things
have children? What will happen when
being yours to being ours. I can’t even
Mom and Dad are gone? Will we get toimagine. But that’s why you’ve always been
like we used to and talk about anybetter than me. That’s why when I look life
I’ve lived my life gether
thing, and laugh at everything? Or will we
in the eye, you’re always there looking
have stale conversations that go nowhere,
back, guiding me down the right path, sayfollowing in
but we keep talking because we think the
ing, “Tommy, come this way.” You were alyour footsteps other one wants us to? Even though in realways the one who would go first to make
ity we both just want to sit together in sisure it was safe.
lence, because we know we don’t have
You always took responsibility when
anything
in
common
anymore?
things went wrong. I don’t think you know this, but
I
miss
the
old
days
when we’d just sit in a room toyou’re my role model, you always have been. I’ve lived
gether and know what the other was thinking without
my life following in your footsteps. Believing the same
ever moving our lips. Or when something made one of
things you believe, disliking what you dislike, and even
us angry, and we would just laugh at it. Those were the
liking the same girls you did. Which would seem futile;
days, but sadly life moves on.
I was so much younger than you, and you always have
Yet life is constantly changing, and so are we. So
more guts than me.
maybe the future has plans for the unstoppable duo to
As we grew you never blew me off. If you were going
reunite, and take the world by force like we once did. ✦
somewhere and I wanted to come, you’d let me. Even
I
8
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
Art by Megan Bean, Harpers Ferry, WV
take care of her other needs. Then we often would sit
outside and talk, or help each other with household
chores.
When she tired of this, I would take her into the
living room where she would watch TV until noon.
Then I would give her her afternoon medicine and fix
lunch, which we ate together at the kitchen table. For
the rest of the day, I would repeat these same activities: sit outside for a while and listen to her talk
about life when she was younger, watch TV, clean, or
perhaps do some simple crafts together.
However routine, no two days were quite the same.
I was never bored since I was always kept on my
toes. As her Alzheimer’s progressed, her symptoms
worsened and new ones appeared. Her moods would
change rapidly and I had to adapt and respond
quickly. Some days, she would be aggressive and hit.
She often imagined that her family, including me,
was trying to poison her or hold her hostage. At this
point, she would grow so irate I would need to give
her medicine to calm her, which often made her
drowsy. Other days, she would become frightened
and wander around looking for something important.
When asked what was wrong, she would reply that
she didn’t know who she was or where she was. I
would gently explain that she was sick and staying
with her family, and that she had memory loss. Other
days she would be very depressed and cry. Then I
would sit on the couch, hold her, and tell her what
she often needed to hear: that God loved her and
there was a reason for everything.
While I found this emotionally and physically
draining, it was also rewarding. A bad day could be
fixed if I received a look of complete trust and gratitude that said, “This is okay. You’re doing your job
just right today,” or, “This is exactly what I need
right now. Thank you.” With her, facial expressions
often said more than a thousand words ever could
and were the only reward I needed for a job well done.
As time passed, I discovered in an odd way that
she was not the only one being cared for. Through
her, I was learning and growing. I discovered the
importance of family and what unconditional love
feels like. I discovered that a bad day can follow a
good day, and that good deeds are often rewarded by
the feeling of a good conscience. I learned that I
could do far more than I thought I was capable of.
For this, I have to thank her. I thank her because
while she couldn’t take care of herself, she somehow
managed, in a quiet, unsuspecting way, to take care
of me. She was exactly what the doctor ordered. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Position Yourself for Success
At the
UNIVERSITY
OF VIRGINIA
Teen Ink’s
NYC Summer
Writing Program
Academic Enrichment Camps Featuring:
H Writing (essay & creative) HPsychology
HLanguages H Math HSAT Prep
HFashion Design HArchitecture
HAfternoon Sports or Fine Arts
AND MUCH MORE
Discover
Your Future ...
4 Star Camps!
800.334.7827
[email protected]
www.4StarCamps.com
Apply now for our unique writing
program in the heart of New York City!
June 26 - July 10, 2010
For more information, email us at
NYC @ TeenInk.com
Open to girls currently in grades 9-12
Make
Art
Ireland: Summer 2010
Painting, Drawing & Photography
1 800 677 0628
www.cowhousestudios.com
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
9
nonfiction
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
by Morgan Achterberg, Portage, WI
I grab the dusty halters from the hook and caueep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
tiously enter the pen, terrified one of the steer will
Wednesday, June 4, 2008, 5:30 a.m.: I’m
decide he’s had enough and charge me. I momentarnot sure if I’m awake. I can’t see light coming
ily forget that animals can sense fear, so it takes me
through my window, I can’t hear my mom talking on
an extra 15 minutes to get their halters on.
the phone, and the air feels heavy. I feel like there’s a
Then, I lead the steer out of the barn one at a time.
thick gray cloud around my mind. And that beeping
As always, there’s one stubborn animal that doesn’t
… how annoying. I am awake.
want to walk, and I must literally drag him. Another
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
10 minutes wasted. I’ll never get done with all my
Thursday, June 5, 2008, 5:30 a.m.: That beeping
chores!
again. I’m definitely awake.
After the steer are securely tied, I drag my feet to
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
the water pump and start spraying the
If I have to get up every morning at
Photo by Savanna Reid, Mercer Island, WA
animals. Steam rolls off their backs in
5:30 to do chores, that means it’s sumclouds that soften their true form
mer. In fact, it’s not just this summer,
thickest hair I had ever seen. This may sound trivial,
There’s nothing little
and turn them into large teddy bears,
but every summer since I was eight.
but in the business of show cattle, it’s all about the
for a second almost making this job
Lying in bed, I picture Mary riding a
like waking
hair. My dad told me later how impressed Doug was
enjoyable. Then one kicks at me, and
donkey all the way to Bethlehem, pregwith the work I put into growing that nice hair. My
up on a farm I drop the hose, spraying water all over
nant, through the desert under a hot sun
spirits took off like a red balloon that just escaped a
my face.
(a trick my fifth-grade teacher taught
child’s sweaty hand.
Despicable, ugly beasts.
me), and finally I get up. I wake my
Each comment from Doug or Garrett made me
After I’m done thoroughly bathing myself and the
dad, then trek down to the barn.
want to work harder. My favorite memories are
steer, I walk them back into the air-conditioned room
I step outside, and slip on my uncomfortable, mashaped around them. I used to sit on top of the show
and begin their beauty regimen. I spray leave-in connure-covered boots. Although I was loath to get out
box, waiting for one of them to come talk to me. I
ditioner that smells like amaretto, then carefully part
of bed, there truly is nothing like waking up on a
listened to the clank of metal chutes filling with stubthe hair down their bumpy spines, style the tail hair
farm. The ghostly mist hangs just above the hayborn cattle, the buzz of hair clippers, the sweet sound
upward, comb the body hair forward, and comb the
fields, the slight breeze, and the sounds of a bleating
of some unfamiliar curse word, and it was music to
leg hair up. After that I brush them furiously with a
calf make up the eighth wonder of the world. All that
my ears. I couldn’t get enough.
bristled brush, then again with an electric drill that’s
disappears when I get to the barn with toads and
I breathed in the sounds and tasted the scents –
powered by all the contempt and disgust I have for
mice lurking in every crevice. I jump over the step in
cherry amaretto, hot fresh manure, salty sweat, burnthese degrading chores. Finally I blow dry the hair.
case there’s a critter underneath and run into the steer
ing hair. It was a feast for my senses. No matter how
By now it’s at least 7 a.m. I finish by feeding them
pen, where these creatures dare not tread for fear of
much I drank it in, I was never full. And Doug was
grain and turning the fans on.
the 1,300-pound beasts.
always there when I needed him, always had the anFriday, June 6, 2008, 5:30 a.m.: Wash, rinse,
swers. I, his personal Patroclus, was always ready
repeat.
and waiting to do whatever he asked, to follow in his
Saturday, June 7, 2003, 5:30 a.m.: Back then I
big footsteps. I never imagined that one day he
couldn’t wait to get down to the barn to work with
wouldn’t be there.
the show steer! I ran all the way in my cool new
Sunday, June 8, 2008, 5:30 a.m.: I traipse down to
boots. I sprang over the threshold, greeting the toads
the barn lethargically, dreading my monotonous
that were sunbathing, swept the barn, got the grain,
chores. Suddenly I see a familiar maroon car. It looks
cleaned the pen, washed the steer, put them in the
shabbier than I remember, with traces of rust. I’ve
cooler, and got to work. I loved my chores and didn’t
only seen one car like that … it has to be – Doug!
even bother to wake up my dad because I wanted to
I run and give him a big hug. I can’t believe it! It’s
do it all myself. And prove to Doug that I am really
been five summers, but now it seems like no time at
into showing steer.
all. Suddenly I’m a little girl again, and all I want is
Doug was the guy we hired to trim the steer’s
to do my chores, to show him how much I still love
hooves for the fair, the guy who moved into the
showing cattle.
house at our other farm, who taught me everything
But I can’t. I’ve grown up. Showing cattle has lost
about showing cattle. Big, sturdy Doug
its appeal, and no matter how hard I try,
with slightly yellowing teeth you see
I can’t make myself love something I
on most coffee drinkers (even though
All I know I
never really cared about in the first
he wasn’t one). Doug, with the gelledplace.
learned from
back gray-white hair you see on
That’s it. That’s why I can’t stand the
handsome older movie stars. And the
smells anymore, why I dread coming
them, and
Wrangler jeans, of course. I never saw
here each day. I never did it for
everything I did down
him in anything else. A safe, constant,
me. I just enjoyed the people it brought
comfortable person. My beloved
into my life.
I did for them
Photo by Abigail Gilbert, Siloam Springs, AR
mentor.
So I look at Doug, the mentor I loved.
I couldn’t wait to get to the barn and
Do I still love him? Why did he come
start working on my steer in hopes that he would stop
back after all this time? I look for ancient runes in
by and find me hard at work. I wanted to be accepted
the craggy lines that have appeared on his face, desinto the circle of cattle-showers that included Doug
perately searching for the answer.
and his sons, Garrett and Brock. I loved them all with
What I see astonishes me. I realize that the slick,
the real love of a child – indestructible, pure, and
gelled-back hair I once thought so suave is really a
by Jorge Herrera, Culver, IN
naive. They probably laughed at my childishness, but
bit pathetic for an older man. I notice his teeth aren’t
still feel the sand scratching my body. A beautiful
they loved me back.
yellow, but almost brown. I see that his hands look
beach, the endless blue ocean, the first rays of sun
I don’t see them anymore, but they are still here.
old and have liver spots. Finally I look in his eyes,
escaping the horizon. The wheels still turning, my
They are the bristles that brush my steer, the grain I
and realize that my childhood innocence is gone.
body in pain, and my brother not breathing. If you think this
feed them, and the sweet-smelling conditioner I use
Doug represented love for me, and now all he symautobiography is short, think again. My whole life flashed
to soften the animals’ hair. They are the shadows that
bolizes is time. Time wasted, time lost.
in front of me in less than one second as my brother flew
follow me around the barn because they taught me
In less than 10 minutes, he is gone. The gray mass
out of the buggy while it was still rolling. My life can be
everything. All I know I learned from them, and
that clouded my mind and eyesight earlier returns
summarized in less than one hundred words, and my life can
everything I did I did for them.
and I sink to the ground with the realization that
be revised in one second; my brother showed me how. ✦
I remember the weekend we went to a show in
change is the only constant in the world.
Milwaukee, and I brought a steer with the nicest,
Wash. Rinse. Repeat. ✦
B
Autobiography
I
10
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Jordan Ealey, Stone Mountain, GA
I hate that I can’t decide which way to go. I hate
ace was never really a big issue for me. When
having to choose which race I am going to hang out
I was younger, I knew I was black and that
with. I hate that I have so much resentment toward
was that. Or so I thought. When I was in third
white people yet in some instances I aspire to be like
grade, my mother enrolled my brother and me in an
them. I hate that I’m light-skinned, the obvious interall-white suburban Christian academy. Of course I
mediary between African-American and Caucasian. I
was okay with it because then, race was the farthest
hate that I have good hair, and can’t connect to my
thing from my mind. On the first day of school, I
peers who relax their hair to keep it straight. I hate
walked into the classroom to see the students sitting
being me, the confused light-skinned black girl who
quietly at their desks. I noticed something about each
can’t make up her mind whether to act black or white.
of them was the same: all my classmates were white.
My parents are more in tune with their race than I
And even though I, a light-skinned African-American,
am. They are both just like me: lightcould probably pass for someone who was
skinned with good hair. Both of them work
mixed, I was still different. I could feel I
I want to be with white people: my mom is a corporate
was different.
and my dad is a professor at
From that moment on, I felt strange
the black girl manager
Gainesville State College. At home, my
around black people. I felt as if I were bewithout being mom is incessantly reminding me to be
traying them by attending a white school
cautious of white people and never to beand sometimes wishing that I was white. I
the
black
girl
tray my race. But the only problem with
hated that about myself. I hated me, the
that is that I don’t even know who I am.
intermediate between black and white.
On every document, it states that I am AfricanI’m the girl who wants to embrace her blackness
American, but when I look in the mirror I don’t feel
without compromising my status as an “Oreo,” to
black. I feel like a colorless person navigating my
break out of the stereotype that black means to live in
way through life, pretending I am African-American.
the projects, to be dark-skinned with nappy hair, to
I love black people but I don’t feel like one of them. I
speak with certain colloquialisms and Ebonics. I don’t
feel left out of their conversations about TV shows or
want to be that girl. I want to be the black girl without
about that new song they heard.
being the black girl.
Am I betraying everything I know? Every person I
I hate when people call me white. I hate when peohave ever loved has been black; every person who has
ple judge my personality based on what music I like
loved me has been black. So why do I feel like I am
or what TV shows I watch. I hate that white people
pretending to be black? Why do I feel like every time
think black people act like characters they’ve seen on
I listen to music by a black artist I am only listening
TV shows like “Good Times” and, God forbid,
because they are black? Why do I feel I have to be
“What’s Happening.” I hate that black people think
friends with black people because I identify as black?
that every black person has to do it for the hood, that
Why do I have so much rancor toward white people?
we have to live in the projects listening to Lil Wayne.
R
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
It’s not like I was alive during slavery. So what’s
wrong with me? Am I betraying everything I love?
I told Mr. Golden, my English teacher, I’m afraid to
write like a black person. I went to him to explain that
I can’t write like the stereotypical black person because I am a middle class, suburban, light-skinned
black girl. I’m not exactly LaTisha from the hood. He
explained that if I say that, it limits what it means to
be black. Isn’t my view of what black is just as important as LaTisha from the hood’s perspective? When he
said that, it got me thinking that I am a black girl.
I may not listen to Lil Wayne but I am black. I may
not be a dark-skinned girl but I am black. I may listen
to Mindless Self Indulgence and Britney Spears but I
am black. I may be light-skinned with good hair but I
am black. I may do everything in my power to rebut it
but I am black. I need to stop resenting it and embrace
my blackness, embrace the fact that I may not be anyone’s idea of African-American but that’s what I am:
African-American. Like Toi Derricotte said in her
memoir, The Black Notebooks, blackness is defined
by what’s in the heart. And in my heart, there is no
color. ✦
MARCH ’10
pride & prejudice
Winning the Race
• Teen Ink
11
art gallery
Photo by Haley Lorenson, Anchorage, AK
Photo by Taylor Mathews, Pelham, AL
Art by Tomas Castro, Lakewood, CA
Art by Devin Nelson, Sherrills Ford, NC
Photo by Dee Dorrance, Toronto, ON Canada
Art by Ebony Spencer, Reading, England
12
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
Art by Morel Doucet, Miami, FL
Art by Andrew Yeager, Wake Forest, NC
Photo by Ashley Spesard, Brownsburg, IN
Photo by Anna Payson, Yorktown, VA
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details
Apply now for our unique
writing program in the
heart of New York!
June 26 – July 10, 2010
Join the Teen Ink editors
and publishers for:
Writing classes
Individual instruction
Daily activities
Broadway theater
Museums and more
Limited availability so call or e-mail now
(Girls currently in grades 9-12 only)
Be part of a community of writers for two weeks of
intensive writing classes in the Big Apple.
You’ll live in a college residence hall, meet teens from
across the United States, and benefit from the expertise
of outstanding creative-writing teachers.
It’s not all work, though, since there’s so much to see
and do in New York City. Apply today!
For more info, e-mail [email protected] or call 800-363-1986
working
14
Zoo Guest Handbook
by Blaire Lurie, Palatine, IL
The School Group
olunteering at the Brookfield Zoo, I come in
Two adults at the front, two at the back, and one
contact with all kinds of people. On days
long,
long double line of children, each holding
when 20,000 come through the zoo (I’m not
hands with the person next to them. Each school
exaggerating), I’m bound to run into some pretty ingroup wears one color, so a huge parade of red shirts,
teresting visitors. There are seven types of guests I
or a sea of orange-shirted children disperse around an
encounter: the Family, the Grandparent and Grandexhibit. These guests are the hardest to talk to, bechild, the Young Couple, the School Group, the
cause they are constantly moving to keep up with the
Teenagers, the Lonely Adult, and the Problem Child.
group. I always look for a good-sized rock to stand
Needless to say, I wouldn’t volunteer my time at the
on, and project my voice to control and entertain
zoo if I weren’t entertained.
them. Dancing for them also grabs their attention.
The Family
The Teenagers
Equipped with a wagon and a cooler with enough
Barely noticeable. They don’t talk to zoo workers,
granola bars for a week, the Family is the most comthey don’t ask questions, they don’t ask for directions,
mon sight. Usually two parents, with a variety of
they don’t even carry a map, they barely talk to anyages for the children. They are easily spotted, one of
one except their friends. There isn’t much a zoo
the parents holding a map, turning it around and then
worker can do for these visitors. They
around again, while one child runs off to
can usually take care of themselves like
chase a squirrel. The parents usually ask
I
wouldn’t
adults, but like young children, couldn’t
the questions when approaching a volunteer, and then try to force their youngest volunteer at the care less about what a volunteer has to say.
The Lonely Adults
to “Pay attention to the nice lady holding
The Lonely Adults walk around the
the skull and maybe you can learn some- zoo if I weren’t
zoo, always asking questions, and make
thing for once.” Families are attracted to,
entertained
you wonder why they are alone. They are
well, the big attractions. The baby tiger
usually older, 50-plus, wearing a visor,
definitely draws a crowd, and when mulshorts, and a T-shirt, and carrying a water bottle, a
tiple groups of families congregate in one spot, they
fanny pack, and a map. They also like to tell stories.
make an impossible-to-pass roadblock. Since a visiIf I mention an animal, they will tell you about
ble green polo shirt marks workers at the zoo, they
watching “Animal Planet” when a lion took down an
must wait patiently for the families to move, rather
elephant. If I comment on the nice weather, they have
than hampering the zoo experience by asking them to
a story about that one really hot summer back in the
make room on the path.
’70s. On the outside, I am a zoo employee; I have to
The Grandparent and Grandchild
act very interested in what each one has to say. While
While similar to the family, this pair differs quite a
they might actually have an interesting story, on the
bit. For one thing, the Grandchild is much better beinside, I am still moaning about how much this guest
haved with their poppa than when Mom drags them
talks and wanting to go to lunch and be able to sit
around. The Grandparents usually have fewer childown after being on my feet for hours.
dren with them, two at the most. The Grandparent
The Lonely Adults are kind, don’t cause any trouoften is carrying the child and asks simple questions,
ble, and basically just want to talk. There are those
like “How much does the lion sleep?” “What’s the
days when you stumble upon one with a great story,
lion’s name?” These guests are probably the easiest
which becomes the highlight of the day.
to deal with.
The Problem Child
This is the most frustrating type of guest. They
pull feathers off the peacocks, they sit on and lean
over the fences, they try to grab whatever is in a zoo
worker’s hand and run off with it, and they get lost. If
I see a child walking around with a feather, there is a
protocol: approach the child, and explain that they
can’t have the feather because the zoo needs it for
something special. If they don’t hand it back, ask
again nicely. If that doesn’t work, tell them the
feather has mites, and watch them screech, drop the
feather, and be dragged by a parent to the bathroom
to wash their hands.
A lost child has a more critical protocol. If you
come in contact with a lost child, determine if they
actually are lost. Most likely Mom and Dad are
standing 10 feet away but the child thinks they are
Photo by Jessica Kishi, San Antonio, TX
lost forever. If they truly are lost, have them follow
you to security. Sometimes they want to hold your
The Young Couples
hand, sometimes they are crying; often they are talkWhen it’s the summer and there are no more
ing about the squirrel they just chased. That type of
places for dates, the zoo is the best spot to visit with
lost child is usually reunited with their family within
your loved one. Ranging from 16 (no one wants to be
five minutes.
driven by Mom to the zoo on a date), to about the
Then there’s the lost, lost child. An exasperated
30’s, the Young Couples usually keep to themselves,
adult will go running up to every zoo worker to
although they are sometimes accompanied by a third
report that their child is missing. Here the protocol is
wheel. They are generally only interested in each
to ask the adult what the child is wearing, how old
other, and the animals. Often I will be standing in
they are, what color hair they have, and what their
front of an exhibit with a specimen, a skull or animal
name is. Very often, a parent will describe their lost
fur, and the male will ask questions, actually interson, Colin, as four years old, in a red shirt with
ested in what I have to say, while the female stands a
blonde hair. Colin will end up being a very tall fourfew feet away, studying the map. The Young Couples
year-old, with a blue shirt and red hair. No one ever
never cause trouble, and are as annoyed with troubleunderstands why parents can’t remember what their
making children as zoo workers.
V
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
children look like. Maybe that’s the reason they run off.
The zoo is a very entertaining place, for the guests
and those who greet them, And with thousands of
visitors coming to the zoo each day, you’re likely to
run into some very, interesting people. ✦
Lamentations
of a Bus Girl
“Come on, baby, light my fire!”
says the guy at the booth
when I go to light the candle on his table.
What do you say to that?
His companions laugh,
he’s so clever.
Maybe,
if two other customers hadn’t just said the same thing.
I laugh obligingly,
wishing I could strangle the creep with his own
white napkin,
my smile all teeth, no eyes.
Just like I did earlier
when he asked me if the small gold key
I wear around my neck was to my front door,
or my heart.
What do you say to that?
Do I have a bloody keyhole gaping in my chest?
A padlock hanging off my skin?
That would be a heavy piercing.
Thank you for trying to make me feel
more comfortable with my job,
working with people every day.
I must be a xenophobe,
working in a successful restaurant.
It’s a great public service that I do:
refilling water glasses (“No ice, please. Thanks.”)
clearing heavy plates from tables too long for
my arms
navigating around Chianti glasses
full of red wine,
noting the white and beige apparel around the table;
tossing dish after dish of Grandma Jean’s,
Cioppino, Steak
(“I said rare, this is still bloody. Take it back, now.”)
and Caesar salads into the huge trash bucket
that I will later ask the dishwasher to help me take out
because it’s too heavy to do all by my lonesome;
setting tables, the white butcher paper on the white
tablecloths,
set just so, and the four white napkins.
folded the night before by the hostess and the waiters,
with the silverware: knife, blade facing in on
the right,
small salad fork on the left,
large main course fork in the middle;
and last, putting up with customers who think
they’re funny.
$8.50 an hour,
plus tips, and sore joints at the end of the night
are thrown in free of charge.
No, I won’t light your fire,
and no,
this is not the key to my heart.
It’s a key.
And this is my job:
lighting candles.
by Alwynn Gail, Milwaukie, OR
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
T
he human resources department at the ski
school at Maple Valley is run by a young
woman named Sarah. She is a graduate of Ohio
State University. It says so on her nametag. On the
spot where it says your hometown, Sarah had it specially made to say “Buckeye Country.” I have grand
illusions of mine saying “Local and Loving It” or
somewhere exotic like Barbados. It would be a great
conversation starter. But no, Barbados is out of the
question. Instead, mine will say “Marlboro, VT” in
plain black lettering.
Photo by Sarah MacDonell, Westport, CT
I’m sure many young men would find Sarah
attractive. She has long blonde hair and a nice smile
complete with straight white teeth. The thing is, she
doesn’t smile, at least not at me. The second day of
our employee training, I forget my two forms of photo
identification for a W-something tax form. I approach
Sarah’s office as you would the den of a sleeping bear.
I explain my situation and ask, could I come back
early tomorrow?
The sleeping bear has not been fully awakened –
she is really, really annoyed. Her eyes roll. She sighs,
exasperated. Her teeth grind in irritation. This is her
bureaucracy and I’m ruining the process – a monkeywrench in the gears of the machine. She locks eyes
with me. I’m going to wet myself and then cry. “Yeah,
I guess so,” she says. “It’s just that everyone else got
it right the first time.”
I decide to avoid Sarah as much as possible.
I shadow a full-time employee for three ski lessons.
Then I take out my first group: seven girls between
the ages of seven and nine. All of them are wearing
pink pastel snowsuits and all of them speak fluent
Russian. One acts as interpreter between her grandmother and me.
“Tell Grandma that we’ll have lunch at 11:30,” I
say to Natasha, who relays the message in perfect
Russian.
“Have lots funny times,” the ancient woman says to
Natasha before disappearing into the crowd. At the
end of the day, the grandmother approaches me. Her
frail body, wrapped in a huge fur coat, reaches only to
my shoulders. Tiny black fur boots poke out beneath.
From her pocket, Grandma retrieves a wad of $20
bills wrapped in a thick rubber band. She peels off
one and delicately places it in my hand. She holds my
hand and makes eye contact. “You teach my Natasha
good,” she says quietly and earnestly.
Next, I’m standing with my group waiting for the
go-ahead from a supervisor when a middle-aged man
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
by Evan Johnson, Marlboro, VT
their ascent comes to a halt. The rope starts to run
followed by his eight-year-old daughter strides toward
through their mittens and other kids crash into them,
me. His trendy yellow and black North Face jacket
leading to a pile-up. Skis poke out in every direction
makes him resemble a six-foot bumblebee with a
and instructors must untangle them. When they are
crewcut. As far as this guy is concerned, my sole purfinally standing, they must point their skis across the
pose is to show his daughter the wonderful sport of
hill and dig their edges into the side of the slope to
skiing. He extends a paw-like hand and flashes me a
keep from sliding down. However, when one considconfident grin. I’m astonished at the force of his
ers the age and ability of these kids, it becomes apparhandshake; when I take my hand away, it’s numb and
ent that this may be impossible.
there’s $40 in it. “I want my daughter to have a great
Someone starts to slip; this time it’s Rachel, age 12,
day. You got that?” I vigorously nod my head yes.
from Trenton, New Jersey. Rachel’s tips begin to wobTips are odd and unpredictable. I wonder if my parble and slide toward a downhill position. We are all
ents ever did this for me.
about to learn a very important lesson in physics. InWithin the ski school, there are different branches
stead of leaning into the hill with the edges of her
for all ages of skiers. My assigned department is with
skis, Rachel panics and does what comes so naturally
the seven to 14-year-olds. However, due to overto children learning to ski: she sits down on the back
staffing, I am often sent to work with the three-yearof her skis. This renders her totally out of control and
olds. The large, colorful room Cub Camp uses is
puts her in a helpless, even dangerous, position. Her
specially designed for these hobbit-like folks. The
eyes grow large with fear and excitechairs and tables are pint-sized, the
ment. Rachel starts to accelerate, gaindoor handles are in the upper corners
My sole
ing velocity down the hill until she is a
to prevent anyone under four feet from
projectile, screaming toward the bottom.
wandering away, the cupboards are
purpose is to
The call goes out: MAYDAY! MAYshut with rubber bands, and the comshow his daughter DAY! People scramble as Rachel hurponents in the bathrooms are about a
tles toward them. I want to look away,
foot and a half lower than normal.
the wonderful
bury my eyes in my hands and wait for
Three-year-olds are peculiar creasport of skiing
it to be over, but it’s like a train wreck;
tures. At times, they can be cherubic,
my eyes are fixated on the spectacle in
smiling sweetly with big eyes, wanting
twisted fascination. The only objects to stop poor
to hold your hand, falling asleep facedown on the rug
Rachel are the orange mesh fences that divide the
while watching “Dora the Explorer” and making you
groups. Rachel takes out one … two … three … four
guess how many Cheerios they stuffed down their
… five fences, going right through them and dragging
pants. Other times, they are tiny demons sent by Satan
them along with her. At the bottom, she finally comes
himself. They steal your lunch, slap you in the face,
to rest in a tangled mass of netting. People rush to
throw any object they can lift, and eat finger paints.
make sure she’s unharmed. Freed from her ensnareWhat’s most interesting about these little people is
ment, she hops to her feet and exclaims, “Ohmythe three-year-old dialect. To simulate it, hold your
goshthatwassoooooocool! Can I do that again?”
bottom lip between your thumb and forefinger, put on
I have to wear a uniform. It’s made by L.L. Bean
a high-pitched and worried voice, and do your best
and is wind and waterproof. There are lots of pockets
impression of Macaulay Culkin in “Home Alone.”
for stuff like trail maps, lunch order forms, golf penThe syllables should be slurred, disjointed, and utterly
cils, a walkie-talkie, and the other items I must carry
garbled. For an even greater challenge, throw a lisp or
with me. This year, when I received my jacket, it still
a stutter in and then you really have a problem trying
contained an empty cigarette box, a few napkins, and
to decide if they’re saying they have to catch a bus, or
two packets of long-expired sweet and sour sauce. I
have an itchy butt.
don’t mind smelling like Kung Pao chicken, but I find
Falling is part of learning to ski. I have witnessed
the color scheme poorly designed. Most of the jacket
some of the most spectacular falls and crashes imagiis white with blue and green edging. In a job where I
nable. For the newer skiers, we use the rope tow, a
work with many staining substances – ketchup, Koolcable that is pulled up the hill by a motorized pulley.
Aid, and hot cocoa – on a daily basis, does it really
All they have to do is point their skis up the hill and
make sense to have a pristine white jacket? I wouldn’t
hold onto the rope that jerks them up the slope. Inbe surprised if this uniform were Sarah’s idea. ✦
evitably, someone doesn’t hold on tight enough and
ACCOUNT TO
working
Must Love Children
I, Sandwich Chef
Sandwich synthesis, swiftly stacking savory slices of sustenance.
Burnt bread bodes badly, better bread beseeches benevolence.
Meat mastered mercilessly. Meticulous mannerisms make
marvelous meals.
Novices know not the carefully crafted crunch of crispy crust.
An elegant engineer, a cunning chef, my veins pump with mustard
and mayonnaise.
The knife in my hand is a blur. To say that I have mastered my craft
is an understatement of the grandest and highest proportions.
I do more than assemble parts into a whole. I create art of a higher
standard – my medium is found in your refrigerator. I openly
ostracize others, attempters of art who have no place in the kitchen.
I am the best of the best, the iron chef of sandwich stadium.
Whether wheat, rye, or sourdough, I prevail. I make people
experience the delicious. I make sandwiches.
by Brad Thompson, Keller, TX
FACEBOOK
Photo by Lauren Nicole, Denton, TX
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
15
health
To Drink or Not to Drink
by S.A. Fechtel, Lutz, FL
that moderate drinking is acceptable, and many are
Eventually, one glass turned into two, then three,
ne quiet evening two years ago, my family
unsure of their opinion, or have no beliefs about the
until she was consuming large amounts of alcohol.
and I were watching a movie when we re“morality”
of
drinking.
I
believe
complete
abstinence
She and her husband separated, and she began to
ceived an urgent phone call. My mother’s
is the highest and best way because of alcohol’s efabuse her children and consequently lost custody of
brother had been rushed to the hospital because of
fects on our nation, its influence on our families and
them.
liver failure. Our family was thrown into a panic as
social circles, and its impact on its users,
How can alcohol pull a person down so quickly?
we realized that the deadly effects of
both physically and emotionally.
The answer is found in its chemical composition. It
alcoholism were choking the life from
Alcohol’s negative impact on our naproduces certain chemical reactions in the brain that
Some may ask,
this precious member of our family.
release dopamine, a substance that causes feelings of
tion is overwhelming, Alcohol abuse
My uncle was in critical condition,
“What’s wrong costs the country $175.9 billion each
well being. These reactions also stimulate endorphin
and my parents hurried to the hospital,
production, which is a natural painkiller. This “feel
year.
Every
day
there
is
a
report
of
a
unsure of how long he would live.
with a little
good” effect drives people to drink increasing
robbery, murder, or case of abuse where
The impact of alcohol is apparent in
amounts. But here’s the catch: when a certain amount
almost every aspect of our society. We alcohol?” What’s alcohol was a factor. The range of the
of alcohol is consistently consumed, the body becomes
damage
that
alcohol
brings
is
not
limited
can see it in grocery stores, at restauright with it?
tolerant of that, and more is necessary to produce the
to drinkers. Family members and friends
rants, in professional sports, and on
same physical effect. This progressive process is simreceive the brunt of the impact. Perhaps
TV. Americans drink 432 million galilar to other addictive drugs. As one alcoholic deyou know someone close to you who is addicted.
lons of liquor, 711 million gallons of wine, and six
scribed it, “[After] you take that first drink, you want
Two of my uncles are alcoholics, and have been in
billion gallons of beer every year. The American
Sponsored by
to replicate that rush. I wanted to get to that point
and
out
of
detox
facilities
for
years.
My
aunt
is
a
reCouncil for Drug Education estimates that “nearly
[again].” (Chicago Tribune) This feeling is so powercovering alcoholic, my grandfather is too, and my
half of all Americans over the age of 12 are conful that it drives many beyond their resolutions to regreat-grandfather died an alcoholic. My two cousins
sumers of alcohol.” Alcohol truly holds a significant
main moderate drinkers leading to their ultimate ruin.
are living with us because of their parents’ condition.
place in our culture. However, the subject of alcohol
My uncle survived liver failure, and entered a
A startling fact about alcohol use, whether moderoften makes people a bit defensive. Some argue that
rehab program where he will hopefully succeed in
ate or excessive, is that parents have a great impact
it is wrong to drink at all, others hold the position
overcoming his alcoholism. Miraculously, the mother
on the drinking habits of their children. The U.S. DeI described recently quit drinking and has been sober
partment of Health and Human Services stated that
for three months. She attributes her success to the
“Parents’ drinking behavior and favorable attitudes
support of her religion. However, these stories are
about drinking have been positively associated with
rare compared to the many of pain and loss.
adolescents’ initiating and continuing drinking.” Two
Taking all of these factors into account, alcohol
out of three teens surveyed in an American Medical
runs the risk of ruining many lives in its deadly spiAssociation study admitted that it was easy to obtain
ral. Not only does it damage one’s health, but it hurts
alcohol from their homes without their parents’
many others too. Should we continue to support an
knowledge. When weighed against the possibility of
industry that has led to the ruin of millions? Consider
a teen becoming dependent on alcohol, is even the
the saying: “What parents use in moderation, chiloccasional pleasure of drinking worth the risk?
dren will use in excess.” Many are unconsciously
Not only does alcohol damage our nation, families,
paving the way for their child’s future alcohol
and friends, but it also harms our bodies. The human
dependency.
brain and body are very sensitive to the presence of
We should avoid alcohol, not only for our protecalcohol. Perhaps you have noticed that even a small
Photo by Jorie Stanton, Scio, NY
tion, but also to ensure that our casual
amount of alcohol can make a person
habit does not begin a dependency in
appear happy or more talkative. More
drastic effects include staggering or
Alcohol runs the another. Some may ask, “What’s wrong
with a little alcohol?” But I contend
slurred speech.
risk of ruining that’s the wrong question. Instead, I enAlcohol affects a person’s behavior
courage you to ask, “What’s right with
because it is a depressant, and a very
many lives in its it?”
As an anonymous writer once said:
poisonous substance to the body. The
deadly spiral
“We drank for joy and became miserliver can only metabolize small
able. We drank for sophistication and
amounts at a time, so the alcohol waitbecame obnoxious. We drank ‘mediciing to be processed is circulated to the
It was cheese, counting calories and carrots, pizza,
nally’ and acquired health problems. We drank for
brain where it begins to interfere with cell function
broccoli, bread, peanuts, omega-3 pills
confidence and became doubtful. We drank to make
and information transfer. One ounce of alcohol slows
like fat June beetles, tofu, yogurt, meat dreams;
conversation easier and slurred our speech. We drank
muscular reaction and decision-making. It also
to forget and were forever haunted. We drank to cope
lessens coordination and concentration, and causes
there was marrow Monday;
loss of inhibition. Even very small amounts of alcowith life and invited death.” ✦
It was eggplant, spinach, sprouts;
hol cause these side effects; when someone drinks
there was tongue Tuesday;
any amount of alcohol, the question is not if they are
pasta: angel hair, ravioli, lasagna, macaroni,
drunk, but how drunk are they?
tortellini, pasta roni;
Drinking and driving is one of the most serious
there was umbles Wednesday;
areas
of concern. There is a drunk-driving death
It was cannelini beans, cheese binge, black beans, brown
every 31 minutes in the United States, and alcohol is
beans, lima beans, kidney beans;
a factor in almost 40 percent of fatal accidents.
there was tripe Thursday;
Another important fact is that alcohol is highly
iron deficiency,
addictive. This makes it a challenge for one to remain
more spinach, more broccoli, cashews,
a “moderate” drinker, and extremely difficult for an
zucchini,
alcoholic to quit. Genetic studies show that some are
cheese addiction; there was fatback
predisposed to a weakness resisting alcohol addicFriday; It was lettuce, cucumber, tomato,
tion. If you have an alcoholic in your family, there is
onion, corn, granola;
an even stronger chance that, should you ever start
there was sweetbread Saturday;
drinking, you will become an alcoholic. This fact
endless research and attempts to
makes moderate drinking that much more dangerous.
exorcise the meat demons;
A friend was once close friends with a beautiful
there was success
family. The mother was a vibrant, devoted parent.
until suet Sunday.
Several years ago, she began to have a glass of wine
Art by Luke Stymest, Montclair, NJ
by Anna Victoria, Stonington, CT
with dinner when she and her husband went out.
O
First Month as
a Vegetarian
16
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
SUMMER INSTITUTES
WORLD H ORIZONS I NTERNATIONAL , LLC
C OMMUNITY S ERVICE &
P HOTOGRAPHY T RIPS
These exciting institutes provide an introduction to
four of the most important and powerful genres:
poetry, short fiction, creative non-fiction and
drama. High school students from all over the
country come to Alfred University each summer to
participate in these fascinating programs.
Since 1986
“The First Teen Program to Focus on Community Service”
Don’t just dream it…DO IT!!
Life, Service & Cultural Adventures to:
Costa Rica, China, Dominica, Ecuador, England,
Fiji, Israel, Italy and locations in the U.S.
Experience academic excellence and the joy of
discovery at Alfred University this summer!
Office of Summer Programs
Alfred University
Alfred, NY 14802
Phone: 607-871-2612 Email: [email protected]
www.alfred.edu/summer
Mention this ad for 10% off any trip.
email: [email protected] www.worldhorizons.com
Tel.: (800) 262-5874
Ocean
Studies
Acadia Institute of Oceanography
Seeks future biologists, geologists &
chemists. Spend 2 weeks on the coast of
Maine. Hands-on advanced programs for
students 15-18. All marine environments.
Co-ed. Professional staff. Since 1975.
5
Contact: Sheryl Gilmore, Director
7
10
summer programs
CREATIVE WRITING
See additional programs at TeenInk.com/Summer
AlfredUniversity
6
Seal Harbor, ME 04675
1-800-375-0058
email:[email protected]
www.acadiainstitute.com
Located
Located
onon
beautiful
beautiful
Mt.
Mt.
Desert
Deser
t Island,
Island,ME
ME
Experience college life...
before your
freshman year!
BARD COLLEGE
at SIMON’S ROCK
YOUNG WRITERS
WORKSHOP
Three Weeks of Writing, Thinking,
Imagining
"How can I know what I think till I see what I say?"
-- E.M. Forster
www.simons-rock.edu/young-writers
:JPLUJL
7LYMVYTPUN(Y[Z
High
g School Summer Scholars
cholars Program
Program
www.summerscholars.wustl.edu
ww
w..summerscholars.w
wustl.edu
CREATIVE WRITING
VISUAL ARTS THEATER MUSIC
DANCE FARM ESOL
putneyschoolsummer.org
PRECOLLEGEGWUEDU
Putney, Vermont 802-387-6297
A college-level summer program
for high school students
June 20 - July 3, 2010
“The mix of freedom with responsibility
and fun allowed for a realistic and
enriching college-like experience.”
– Allison from CT
Classes offered in Art, Humanities, Languages,
Natural Sciences, and Social Sciences.
Earlham College, Richmond, IN
www.earlham.edu/~eac
[email protected]
1-800-EARLHAM
• Teen Ink
9/5 2 0 % 2 3 0 % #4 )6%
#2 ) 4 ) #!,,9
*36136)-2*361%8-32
[[[PIEVRQSVIHYOIIHYˆ]SYXL$HYOIIHYˆ
SUMMER PROGRAMS
“If you are looking to find your
soul in your art, there is no more
perfect place to be.”
4() .+
5L^MVY
MARCH ’10
35--%2
15%34)/.
7!3().'4/.$#
THE PUTNEY SCHOOL
PROGRAM $)3#/6%2
*VTW\[LY7YVNYHTTPUN
*VSSLNL7SHUUPUN
3LHKLYZOPW
>YP[PUN
Two sessions available
June 13-July 17
July 18-August 20
July 25 – August 14, 2010
02% #/,,%'%
9LNPZ[LY5V^MVY:\TTLY
Choose from over
60 college classes
and earn full
college credit.
17
points of view
Sponsored by
Lobbying for Lobbyists
misfits in the system is ridiculous. The
ven though we may not underbenefit that the many honest lobbyists
stand the details, most people
provide outweighs the bad behavior of
are familiar with how a bill bethe less than one percent.
comes a law. From civics classes to
Second, once we get past the underpopular culture, we are made aware of
whelming minority of corrupt lobbyCongress’s role in the legislative
ists, we can see that lobbyists give a
process. Yet few people have a clear
voice to the voiceless. As the Journal
idea of exactly how a good idea beof Political Behavior (May 2005)
comes an effective law. At the forestates, interest groups such as the
front of the phenomenon is the lack of
American Association of Retired
understanding Americans have about
Persons and the National Education
lobbyists. Lobbyists are important in
Association need lobbyists in order to
ensuring that citizens’ interests are
be heard. With or without a lobbyist,
represented in the legislative process.
the only way to get access to a legislaPlain and simple, lobbyists provide intor is with money, but the way to balformation that may otherwise be forance this system is to form interest
gotten. They are helpful in the
groups that bring together resources of
legislative process for three reasons:
an underrepresented group and utilize
they rarely commit acts of improprilobbyists to ensure fairety, give a voice to the
ness in an inherently
voiceless, and ensure
unfair
system. Without
balance that is essential
Lobbyists act in
the representation a lobto democracy.
good faith to
byist provides, we are
While the media
out the voices of
exploits the few
foster a strong leaving
organizations
such as the
instances of conflict and
democracy
American Cancer Society,
misdeeds among lobbyas well as hundreds of
ists, they ignore the
other interest groups who
staggering majority of
would go unheard in the halls of
lobbyists who act in good faith to
power.
foster a strong democracy. According
Finally, lobbyists provide balance to
to the American Journal of Law (Fall
a legislative process by representing
2006), fewer than one percent of
all sides of an issue as laws are being
lobbyists have committed any sort of
written. The Journal of Public Affairs
crime or abused their power. Dishon(January 2003) argues that lobbyists
esty is just not often a problem. While
provide information and expertise on
the press fixates on flashy stories such
all sides of an argument.
as the Jack Abramoff scandal, an overThe question of gun control is one
whelming number of lobbyists are
example: the National Rifle Associaworking to protect the rights of
tion, or the NRA, is a famous and
average Americans. To say that the
well-known interest group, and one
thousands of people providing endless
might think they could overpower
benefit to the American people should
their opponents. The truth is that there
be stopped simply because of a few
E
Make your opinion count
and win $200
Announcing the new Teen Ink Points of View Contest*
Teen Ink has partnered with EBSCO Publishing to create the Teen Ink
Points of View Contest. Each month, $200 will be awarded to the
student with the winning essay, which will be published in our
magazine, on our website and on the EBSCO Points of View website.
Give us your point of view on any
issue that is important to you. For topic
ideas, check out TeenInk.com/pov.
To enter, submit your work online at TeenInk.com under the Points of
View category. Be sure to indicate “POV Contest Entry” at the
beginning of your article. It’s as easy as that.
If you have any questions, e-mail [email protected]
*This contest is sponsored by EBSCO Publishing and the
Points of View Reference Center (powered by EBSCOhost).
18
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
by Shardul Golwalkar, Phoenix, AZ
are hundreds of interest groups that
are strong supporters of gun control,
including the Coalition to Stop Gun
Violence, the Violence Policy Center,
and the Brady Campaign to Prevent
Gun Violence. Legislators take
all that information, and
decide what will best
represent the American
people, using the information from lobbyists.
Still, one might think
that a group like the NRA
has more money and thus
more influence. But it defies
common sense to think that legislators are not aware of the game lobbyists play. As Gene M. Grossman and
Elhanan Helpman note in their book,
Special Interest Politics, legislators
participate in politics like players in a
game. These players play to win, but
they’re still affected by the game and
need to play by the rules. When they
know that lobbyists are attempting to
use some sort of distortion, they alter
their strategy to take that into
account. Grossman and Helpman conclude that even
though lobbyists act in
good faith, when they do
attempt to skew the
playing field, Congress
takes steps to combat this,
ensuring fairness.
Lobbyists provide vital
information that would otherwise be
left out of the discussion when
legislators make laws that govern
America. How can we leave America
out of lawmakers’ minds? The answer
is, we can’t. ✦
Photo by Libby Reum, Sumner, WA
Laugh for Once
by Dylan Bittner,
Lawton, OK
destroyed his or her life and soul.
y creative writing class reads Teen
Some articles even go so far as to say that
Ink every time a new issue arrives.
no one understands them, or that their probWe each pick an article that we like
lems are different from the rest of the
and one we don’t like. The only problem is
world’s. Hello? I couldn’t find a larger library
that it’s hard to find an article I enjoy because
of emotional articles if I tried! If you look on
the majority of the magazine is filled with deany page in a Teen Ink magazine,
pressing poems or stories.
I’m sure you will find multiple arI understand that most teens
ticles that describe the hardships
today have a lot of stress and
Trust me,
that teens go through.
problems, and that writing is one
teenagers
Life is a wonderful gift. We
of the only ways to express themselves without fear of criticism or
have it easy need to enjoy every moment that
we have on this planet while we
rejection. Writing keeps one’s
still can. If you think life is hard as
thoughts and emotions private,
a teenager, then you are going to have a lot of
and provides a sense of security and undertrouble when you go into the real world.
standing. But if I log onto a creative website
Trust me, teenagers have it easy. And if you
or read a writing magazine, I do not want to
continue to focus on the past, how will you
find a plethora of articles depicting only sorever make it to the future? Keep your chin up
row. They bring down the cheerful moods of
and your eyes on the prize. Life can be so
others and, quite frankly, aren’t any fun to
much more enjoyable if we just stop crying
read. I, personally, do not want to read a story
and start smiling. Do you know it takes more
about how someone wants to die, or a poem
muscles to frown than it does to smile? ✦
about how one’s boyfriend or girlfriend
M
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
I know, I know. Just a bunch of hippie mumbo-jumbo
he anniversary of the legendary music festival
laced with LSD, right? I think not. True, there were
known as Woodstock seems to have passed
drugs at Woodstock, but illegal substances aside, the
without much more than a reminiscent remark
music festival provided an escape, an outlet for strugor sigh by many in our parents’ generation. But thanks
gling young adults to cope with their wacky world.
to famed director Ang Lee’s movie, “Taking WoodWoodstock was essentially a three-day adolescent
stock,” members of our generation are starting to take
convention that gave people a sense of belonging.
more interest. At least I am. As a music lover, the
So what do we have? As a member of the generation
thought of Woodstock makes me salivate. Imagining a
born around the 1990s, I cannot think of one unifying
“free” music fest where all my favorite bands play
experience. Yes, we’re still young, theremakes me want to abandon my cozy
fore we still have time to “bond,” but I’ll
lifestyle, strip down to my undies, and roll
Could
reiterate my question: could Woodstock
around in the mud for three days, which is
ever happen again? In short, no, for
essentially what happened. But I’m curiWoodstock
several reasons.
ous: could Woodstock ever happen again?
ever happen
Despite all our parents’ complaining,
First, a little history. In 1969 a couple of
they had something we don’t seem to have
dudes in New York got together and said,
again?
anymore: time. It seems like most teens
“Hey, let’s throw a party. We’ll invite Jimi
today are playing sports, studying for
Hendrix, the Grateful Dead, a bunch of
some
standardized
test, or doing homework nonstop.
other bands, and 50,000 of our closest friends and
During summer, there are camps, internships, college
family.” Or something like that. In actuality, 500,000
visits, travel. Spare time is for sleeping and eating, not
people showed up. And it rained. But did that stop
driving for hours and hours to some concert.
anything? No! In fact, it added to the magnificence
Next, funding. The expense of putting on a big
and (to use a cliché) “grooviness” of the event.
show like that today would be substantial. Corporate
Attendees (who were not much older than we are)
sponsors would be an unfortunate necessity. But could
gathered to “turn on, tune in, and drop out.” They
you envision Jimi Hendrix playing his famous renditurned on their sensitivity to the world, tuned in to
tion of “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the AT&T VIP
their environment and subconscious, and dropped out
stage “co-sponsored by Starbucks and Nike”? I don’t
of conventional, mainstream society.
think that would be too consistent with the image of
T
points of view
Our Generation’s Woodstock
by Maren Killackey, Medford, OR
Woodstock or the philosophy of dropping out of
mainstream society.
So say we had the money and the time. Who would
play? Woodstock featured 32 awesome, well-known
bands who had an intense impact on youth culture.
Who’ve we got? The Jonas Brothers? Beyoncé? Miley
Cyrus? Kanye West? I’m sorry, but if their music
reflects the mythos of our generation, it’s a pretty sad
story.
Well, so that’s that. We’re a hopeless, dispassionate
group doomed to forever seek a space that provides us
with a sense of belonging more meaningful than Facebook or MySpace. Music festivals will be for hipsters,
and by the time we’re 20 the most culturally significant event we attended will have been a stop on the
Jonas Brothers’ world tour.
Or we can chose to break out of the mold that is
slowly beginning to form us. We can exercise outdoors, read a book by somebody who died 200 years
ago, or volunteer for an organization whose work is
important to us. Maybe Woodstock is a silly example,
but the point is, how are we going to figure out who
we are? The world, according to scientific data, is
three billion years old. That’s a lot of zeros. The average human lifespan? About 80 or 90 years. That’s not
much time in comparison. Let’s make it worthwhile
and put our mark on this planet’s history. And a
blowout party certainly wouldn’t hurt either. ✦
Sponsored by
The Steroid Era
Musical Rhetoric
by Ryan Gallagher, Cincinnati, OH
ver the years, baseball has been played by everyone from the noblest athletes to downright dirt bags. The past 20 years, known as the Steroid Era,
are a time in baseball’s history I wish I had not witnessed. If I could, I
would erase these two decades from the records.
Players including Alex Rodriguez, Barry Bonds, and Manny Ramirez – all
linked to alleged steroid use – have tarnished the game’s reputation. They are undeservedly breaking records set by greats like Hank Aaron, Roger Maris, and
Babe Ruth. These legends are losing their place in history to cheaters. Bonds now
holds the record for the most career homeruns, and A-Rod is on pace to finish in
the top five on that list. Maris no longer holds the record for most single-season
homeruns, and the clean players of our time, like Jim Thome and Javy Lopez, are
being overlooked.
The big question baseball’s steroids scandal raises is whether a player suspected of cheating should be allowed in the Hall
of Fame. Some say yes, some no. Some say it
would be fine with an asterisk next to the name.
Should a player
Mark McGwire, who recently admitted to using
steroids, was rejected in the past, and José
suspected of
Canseco is out, but there could be future opencheating be in
ings. ESPN.com’s Rob Neyer, quoting the Hall of
the Hall of Fame? Fame rule book, put it this way: “Voting shall be
based upon the player’s record, playing ability,
integrity, sportsmanship, character, and contributions to the team(s) on which the player played.”
Character. Integrity. Sportsmanship.
Is pumping yourself full of illegal testosterone to hit a few bombers displaying
any of these qualities? Some players do this to boost their careers, not to help their
teams or promote the game. And through their actions they hurt not just their reputations, but their opponents’ reputations as well. One homerun earned as a result
of performance-enhancing drugs could spell the difference between the team that
takes a long bus ride home to watch the playoffs on TV and the one that plays in
the championship. Every homerun hit by a juiced-up batter hurts a pitcher’s
record. And every strike-out a jacked-up pitcher throws hurts a batter’s résumé.
We will never know if some of these players really deserved the Hall of Fame
or the bench. They annihilated their chance to prove their real talent when they
took illegal substances. Now we have no choice but to assume it was all due to the
drugs. The Steroid Era is a disgrace to the game of baseball. Players who chose to
cheat and lie have not only marred their own places in history, but also the records
of other athletes, and that is the biggest disgrace of all. ✦
by Evan Scallan, Heath, TX
The overall structures of songs are
ince the dawn of written words
also similar to those of books, with
and human culture, people have
the introduction of new themes, new
developed and refined ways of eftones, and opposing ideas all brilfectively communicating thoughts and
liantly displayed through the work
ideas. In verbal communication, this is
of both pen and violin bow. Rhetoric
known as rhetoric. Similarly, music has
is the icing on the musical cake that
broadened and developed into patterns
makes it lively, tasteful,
and flourishes that appeal to
and inspiring. Chopin comthe human mind and emoFew ponder posed it, Martin Luther King
tion. Can similarities be
drawn between Beethoven’s why they enjoy Jr. spoke it, Rachmaninoff
expressed it, and Emerson
timeless symphonies and
embraced it. All, knowingly
the
latest
hit
Lincoln’s famous speeches?
unconsciously, found the
When you listen to a song
on the radio or
key to unlocking and openor other musical composiing the minds of the people
tion, the hooks and gimmicks
through the effective use of rhetorical
display the same resonance as those of
elements in their works.
famous written works. Repetition of
Many recognize the power of rhetoric
musical phrases and melodies, for
in written works, yet few ponder why
instance, serves the same purpose as
they enjoy the latest hit on the radio. If
written or spoken rhetoric. Antithesis, the
society further cultivates study into this,
juxtaposition of opposing ideas, can also
a broader understanding of music in its
be found in music with contrasting
essence will be unlocked. ✦
themes and variations.
O
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
S
Photo by Lauren Nicole, Denton, TX
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
19
movie reviews
20
ANIMATED
Up
P
ixar is known for great
films that bring together
heart-warming stories and visually striking CGI animation
into a package enjoyable for
both children and adults. The
studio’s contribution to 2009,
“Up,” proves to be another
great addition to the Pixar
canon.
The film revolves around
Carl Fredricksen, an older man
who has become lonely and bit-
Another great
addition to the
Pixar canon
ter after the death of his wife,
Ellie. She had always dreamed
of being a great explorer like
their childhood hero, Charles
Muntz, however, the couple
could never quite get around to
traveling due to money problems. And just as Carl was
about to give Ellie surprise
tickets to Venezuela, she died.
Now, facing pressure to leave
his home, Carl decides to “fly”
his house with many balloons
to Paradise Falls, South America – the land lost in time they
dreamed of visiting. Along the
way, Carl is joined by Russell,
Dug, and Kevin.
First off, I’d like to note how
amazingly artistic and touching
the first 10 minutes are. We’re
introduced to a young Carl and
Ellie and watch through photos
as they grow from children to
adults to retirees, seemingly
without a care in the world except each other. It’s a visual
and emotional experience, with
no dialogue. If that segment
alone had been a short film, I’d
have been impressed.
The characters are all likable,
each having an interesting personality that evolves. Character
interaction is the high point of
this film. If you came for plot,
don’t expect much to happen –
until the end. The dialogue and
experiences with these characters make us sympathetic to
their courses of action – a rarity
in a kids’ movie.
The score is also exceptional,
thanks to the composer’s decision to make it revolve around
the characters. Each piece of
music resonates with one of the
characters, and that emotional
connection is one of the film’s
strong points.
The humor, to be expected in
a film like this, is pretty good.
The characters are cute and
goofy but not in a cartoonish
way. They’re captivating in a
very human way.
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
The action scenes in the jungle are enjoyable, and nicely
scored and choreographed.
These sequences aren’t like
other children’s films, where
the action is frantic and nonsensical. Instead they serve as
exposition in a tale of motivated, flawed, and cute characters – all looking for meaning
in their lives.
One problem I had with the
film, though, was how late the
antagonist was introduced. And
he wasn’t even a bad character,
since he was also interesting. It
was just that his motivations
and presence felt out of place in
Carl’s journey.
Beautifully crafted, visually
pleasing, and just plain fun,
“Up” is a character-driven film
that’s sure to please. ✦
by Zach Anderson,
Lakeland, FL
ACTION
Avatar
J
ames Cameron’s highly anticipated epic, “Avatar,”
raises the question: Are special
effects enough to launch a new
era in filmmaking?
In terms of storyline, the plot
offers nothing new: once again,
greedy Americans are exploiting new lands for valuable re-
Formulaic ingredients
of a feel-good
audience pleaser
sources, and disturbing the
natives. The protagonist, Jake
Sully (Sam Worthington),
works for a big corporation but
soon finds himself befriending
the natives, falling in love, and
growing distant from his people
because he identifies with the
natives’ way of life more than
his own.
Sound familiar? That’s because this story has been recycled time and time again. We
see it in our history in the settlers’ treatment of Native
Americans, and it is the plot of
the 1990 film “Dances with
Wolves.” Cameron has acknowledged Avatar’s similarities to “Dances with Wolves,”
which won seven Academy
Awards, including Best Picture.
Taking into account that
Cameron’s own “Titanic” won
11 Academy Awards, you can
see where this is heading.
In Cameron’s rendition, the
natives are a species of alien
called the Na’vi. Essentially,
the aliens are a gimmick; aside
from their sparkly blue skin,
extreme height, and tails they
are completely uninspired reincarnations of Native Americans.
The Na’vi even dress like
Native Americans, use bows
and arrows, live in close-knit
family tribes, are spiritually
connected to nature, and are
threatened by the imperialistic,
capitalistic white men because
they stand in the way of precious resources. With this story
set in the future in outer space,
Cameron had the opportunity to
formulate truly new and creative
creatures but instead opted for
imitation and unoriginality.
“Avatar” deviates from its
predecessors, though, in its
simplicity, character development (or lack thereof), and
tone. The distinction between
good and bad is riddled with
clichés and one-dimensional
characters that make for a predictable outcome. While the
film could have emphasized
Jake’s moral dilemma, he actually has no trouble deciding his
loyalties, showing how
“Avatar” sacrifices reality and
the truth about human nature
for the formulaic ingredients of
a feel-good audience pleaser.
At the same time, Cameron
spoonfeeds the audience environmental awareness and lessons on the dangers of war,
making “Avatar” preachy and,
at times, tedious.
Of course, the film is not
without its merits. Cameron
himself modestly told The New
Yorker that his special effects
work is “the most complicated
stuff anyone’s ever done.” And
he has succeeded in creating a
new world of sparkling colors,
fantastic creatures, and breathtaking landscapes.
Does a film this unoriginal
deserve the accolades it is receiving from audiences and
critics alike? Is it really a
breakthrough in filmmaking?
Filmmaking is an art with
many aspects, special effects
being just one. We will see
come Oscar time what the
Academy thinks, and only time
will tell whether “Avatar” becomes a true classic. ✦
by Karen Jin,
West Chester, PA
ACTION
Sherlock
Holmes
G
uy Ritchie, the director of
“RocknRolla” and “Revolver,” certainly knows how to
make appealing crime dramas.
His most recent movie, “Sherlock Holmes,” is no exception.
By reinventing this well-known
detective story, Ritchie has reengaged the public with a
beloved classic.
The film opens with Sherlock Holmes (Robert Downey
Jr.) and his trusted ally, Dr.
John Watson (Jude Law) involved in a new case. Holmes
and Watson discover that Lord
Blackwood (Mark Strong) and
his black magic are behind the
deaths of young London women.
Arrested and convicted for the
crimes, Blackwood is hanged.
Three days later, his grave is
broken from the inside and
Blackwood is nowhere to be
found. Holmes and Watson
investigate, hoping to uncover
the dark forces shrouding Lord
Blackwood and redeem
Watson’s reputation.
In re-creating this classic,
Ritchie crafted a highly enthralling plot that begins as the
film opens and continues at a
breakneck pace throughout the
entire 128 minutes. “Sherlock
Holmes” never gets boring.
Bare-knuckle fight sequences
and boxing matches defy the
audience’s expectations.
Though the film may seem
commercialized with some of
its modern additions, Ritchie
Re-engaged the
public with this
beloved classic
strives for authenticity and succeeds in accurately portraying
late nineteenth century London.
Cobblestone streets and horsedrawn carriages are plentiful.
The sense of a booming industrial revolution is evident, with
smoke billowing from the city’s
factories.
Downey’s performance is the
highlight of the film. Although
considerably different from
Holmes in age, Downey convincingly portrays one of the
most beloved characters of all
time. He brings new energy to a
character some see as only a
sleuth and transforms Holmes
into a likable person. Sure,
Holmes is smart, but Downey
adds humor too. Instead of interviewing suspects in 221-B,
Holmes does things that some
would never dream he might,
such as jumping out of a fifthstory window headfirst into the
Thames River. Downey transforms Holmes into a James
Bond-type character without
alienating his intellectual
persona.
One drawback I found was
that the plot is confusing and
hard to follow (even though it
develops quickly). The sequence of events lacks cohesion and often leaves the
audiences scratching their
heads. Although the plot is
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
complex, some details seemed
truly pointless. At one point,
Holmes licks broken tile and
immediately stands and walks
off. This may make sense to
Baker Street purists, but most
audiences will be confused.
Many scenes are a jumbled
mess. The film should have
been condensed with less emphasis on the minute details so
more people could understand
the premise.
Guy Ritchie’s interpretation
of “Sherlock Holmes” has captured the intrigue of this classic. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
would approve. Holmes is back
on the case. Two thumbs up! ✦
by Elizabeth Gies,
Charlotte, NC
DRAMA
The Blind Side
“T
he Blind Side,” written
and directed by John
Lee Hancock and starring Sandra Bullock, is an inspirational
movie based on the true story
of the beginning of Michael
Oher’s football career.
Oher, who was born into
poverty, is admitted into a
highly competitive school and
adopted by the Tuohys. Bullock
infallibly plays Leigh Anne
Tuohy. She and Oher, played
by Quinton Aaron, form a kindred bond. She eventually helps
him pass his classes and become an essential member of
the football team and a soughtafter man by many universities.
Oher goes on to become a professional football player for the
Baltimore Ravens.
Shows the meaning of
family and true love
I thought this was going to
be a sappy movie that would
make me cry. But “The Blind
Side” is funny and inspirational. Not many movies teach
a lesson. This one showed me
what life could be like if I let
nothing stand in my way.
Movies today are usually about
sex, love, or animated creatures. This one shows the
meaning of family and true
love. Achieving your dreams is
the focus of the movie – not
just that Oher becomes a professional football player, but
how family gets him there.
Even if you’re not a football
fan, this movie will touch your
heart in some way. I recommend everyone see “The Blind
Side” because it targets every
audience. ✦
by Bettina Miele, Glendale, AZ
TEENINK.COM
Up in the Air
“U
p in the Air,” the latest
dark comedy/drama
from director Jason Reitman
(“Juno,” “Thank You For
Smoking”), displays his maturity while retaining the creative
and innovative style of his earlier work.
Adapted from Walter Kirn’s
novel, the film follows Ryan
Bingham (George Clooney),
who jets around the country attempting to alleviate the stress
and devastation of downsizing.
In other words, he fires people
whose bosses are too afraid to
do it themselves. He boasts
about how he spends most of
the year gallivanting through
the skies and leading a life of
solitude.
The tide in Ryan’s life begins
to turn when he meets fellow
frequent flyer Alex (Vera
Farmiga). Around that time, his
boss (Jason Bateman) decides
that Ryan should mentor an
ambitious newcomer, Natalie
(Anna Kendrick). Fresh out of
Every shot feels
perfectly placed
Cornell, she naively follows
Ryan around the country and
quickly discovers the secrets of
the trade. These two relationships gradually change Ryan’s
outlook on life and cause him
to question his transient
lifestyle.
Clooney, as he did in 2007’s
“Michael Clayton,” presents a
effortlessly suave and charming
man harboring a delusional
conscience. From the outset,
Ryan is Clooney at his best –
smooth but complex, sophisticated but capricious. Clooney’s
charm and wit always seem to
hearken back to a star of yore –
Cary Grant – and this performance is no exception.
Farmiga complements
Clooney, providing both a parallel and a contrast to his character. But the true scene-stealer
is the talented Kendrick, who
has the film’s most snarky and
sarcastic lines. She provides
much of the comic relief, and
yet she plays the film’s most
honest and fully fleshed character. Her genuine grace separates
Natalie from the typical protégé
archetype.
These magnificent actors
take turns carrying the film, but
the real star of the show is Reitman. His ingenious direction
guides “Up in the Air” through
many unexpected avenues and
puts a spin on the predictability
of most white-collar films. By
LINK
YOUR
using real Midwestern employees in the firing scenes, he enhances the emotional impact of
the film while sharpening its
accuracy and relevance. Reitman maintains a slick, momentous feel to the film. Every shot
feels perfectly placed, every
frame feels just right. At times,
the film’s meticulous visual
flair, especially Dana Glauberman’s superb editing, is almost
too comforting.
Although the film’s cynical
tone and pessimistic themes
represent a departure from the
lighter fare of Reitman’s past,
its acerbic wit, embedded in almost every scene, ensures that
this is not a complete antithesis
to his previous two movies.
Reitman, in collaboration with
Sheldon Turner, also penned
the screenplay, laced with smart
humor and memorable lines, all
while emphasizing dynamic
character interactions. These
days, it’s rare to find a movie
with three multidimensional
characters, especially given that
two are female. Reitman avoids
the hackneyed male-centric approach, opting to incorporate
Alex and Natalie into Ryan’s
narrative as much as possible.
“Up in the Air” is bound to
strike a chord with audiences
for its star power, delicate balance of comedy and drama, and
relevance in today’s economic
climate. It questions the definition of success and puts a face
to the nomadic existence with
which this generation increasingly identifies and consciously
adopts. “The slower we move,
the faster we die,” Ryan asserts.
We are a generation constantly
on the move, but how fast can
we go before we lose all semblance of ourselves? ✦
The ragtag group of both city
slickers and back-country rednecks is cast with unknown actors but headed by star Brad
Pitt as Lieutenant Aldo Raine.
Using guerrilla warfare, Raine
and his group wreak havoc on
Creates suspense
and gut-churning
emotion
Nazi troops throughout France.
Their goal is to end the war
before the Americans enter and
kill Hitler. On their path for
bloodthirsty revenge, the “basterds” brutally smash Nazi soldiers’ skulls and carve swastikas
in prisoners’ foreheads.
Although this may sound like
a non-stop senseless killing
movie, Tarantino shows a wit
that was lacking in previous
films. Not only does he create
humor in tense situations, but
he also uses twists in other
moments.
Tarantino provides strong, intense dialogue in tense situations, which creates suspense
and gut-churning emotion.
Where Tarantino once placed a
murder or shooting, he replaces
it here with wit or an unfamiliar
scene change to keep viewers
on their toes throughout the
two-and-a-half-hour movie.
Although this movie is long,
it is worth seeing. In other
WWII movies, the ending is the
same as depicted in history half
a century ago. However, Tarantino provides an unexpected
twist in the final suspenseful
moments. This once again separates “Inglourious Basterds”
from other war movies.
A brutal film that combines
fiction and fact, suspense and
emotion, this is a sure buy for
the teenage male. As a viewer
you can only imagine yourself
in some of the scenes with long
dialogue, making you and the
audience become part of the
situation. ✦
by Walker Smith, Victoria, MN
This movie is rated R.
movie reviews
DRAMA
Summer Theater
Ages 13 – 17
The five-week Summer Theater intensive
develops knowledge in all aspects of theatrical studies in preparation for further
study in school and college. Coursework
includes acting, musical theater, and dance
styles. Classes are small and the teachers
also serve as mentors. Students will also
have the opportunity to work with guest
faculty from some of the country’s leading colleges and universities. The summer
season consists of six productions in five
weeks: four plays and two musicals.
by Marina Fang,
Allison Park, PA
June 26 –August 1, 2010
Walnut Hill is an independent, coeducational, boarding and day school for the arts,
for grades 9–12, with a postgraduate year offered. In conjunction with intensive
arts training the School offers a comprehensive and rigorous academic curriculum
in all college-preparatory subjects to young people from all over the world.
ACTION
Inglourious
Basterds
Summer Writing
“I
nglourious Basterds” has
been hailed by many critics as Quentin Tarantino’s
greatest achievement. This is
quite an honor since Tarantino
has given the movie world
films such as “Kill Bill,”
“Grindhouse,” “Reservoir
Dogs,” and “Pulp Fiction,” all
ahead of his time when his
genre was not popular. Unlike
his previous blood-fueled
movies, “Inglourious Basterds”
is in a category by itself.
“Inglourious Basterds” is
about eight Jewish-American
Special Forces soldiers who invaded Nazi-occupied France
before the American liberation.
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
Ages 13 – 17
Join other young writers from around
the country for a two-week program
studying Fiction, Poetry, and Playwriting. The program is an exciting
laboratory of ideas where students
experiment with language and discover new possibilities for their
writing through workshops, master
classes, and trips to local sites in and
around Boston.
July 11 – 24, 2010
www.walnuthillarts.org
508.650.5020
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
21
Teen Ink • March ’10 • Page 22
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
5!HASARICHTRADITIONOFEXCELLENCEIN
ACADEMICSSPORTSANDSTUDENTLIFE
#ONSISTENTLYNAMEDATOPPUBLIC
UNIVERSITYBY53.EWS7ORLD2EPORT
DEGREEGRANTINGSCHOOLSANDCOLLEGES
STUDENTTEACHERRATIOALLLOCATEDON
AACREHISTORICCAMPUS
4OLEARNMOREVISITGOBAMAUAEDUTEENINK
"OXs4USCALOOSA!,s"!-!
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs
„ 3D Modeling and Animation
„ Multimedia/Web Design
„ Design
„ Illustration
„ Life Drawing
„ Painting
„ Watercolor Painting
American Academy of Art
332 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
Since 1904
An independent, accredited,
four-year college of art and design
located in Cincinnati.
BFA degrees for fine artists and designers.
Our nurturing environment embraces
your uniqueness.
www.artacademy.edu • 800-323-5692
1212 Jackson Street • Cincinnati, OH 45202
• Academicexcellence
Excellencewith
in thearich,
• Academic
rich
Catholic
intellectualtradition
tradition
Catholic
intellectual
World Class
Faculty
in Small
• Highly
regarded
faculty
andClasses
averaging 20 students
small classes
Qualityvery
of Life
in a residential
90%
• Close-knit,
active
Residential
community
(90%Community
of students live
on campus allÎÎÎ
4 years)
• Small New England College founded in 1784
• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends
• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job
• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon
graduation
500 Salisbury Street
ÎÎÎ
Worcester,
MA 01609
500 Salisbury
St., Worcester,
MA 01609
1-866-477-7776
1-866-477-7776
Office of Admissions
61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
1-508-373-9400 • www.beckercollege.edu
www.assumption.edu
BURLINGTON
COLLEGE
A private, co-ed institution
offering certificates, associate’s and
bachelor’s degree programs in the
engineering and technology fields.
41 Berkeley Street, Boston, MA 02116
877-400-BFIT • [email protected]
A religiously-affiliated liberal arts college
located just outside of Philadelphia
offering an outstanding and truly
personalized academic experience
grounded in an environment of faith.
2945 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA 19009
267-502-6000
www.brynathyn.edu
Columbia College
Chicago
$81,48(,17(//(&78$/$'9(1785(
6(7 ,1 7+( 52&.< 02817$,16 ZH
FKDOOHQJH RXU VWXGHQWV RQH FRXUVH DW
D WLPH ZLWK RXU XQLTXH %ORFN 3ODQ
3URYLGLQJDEURDGOLEHUDODUWVFXUULFXOXP
HYHU\ VXPPHU ZH ZHOFRPH SUHFROOHJH
VWXGHQWVDQGRWKHUXQGHUJUDGXDWHV
SUHFROOHJH#&RORUDGR&ROOHJHHGX
ZZZ&RORUDGR&ROOHJHHGX
Learn to Write: Fiction Writing Department
Learn skills to help you
publish fiction, creative nonfiction
and scripts and to succeed in a
wide range of jobs – at one of
America’s premier writing programs
600 S. Michigan Chicago, IL 60605
[email protected]
www.colum.edu
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE
$%,!7!2% 6!,,%9 #/,,%'%
• 1,600 Undergraduate Students
s 5NDERGRADUATE3TUDENTS
• Nationally Ranked Athletics Teams
s .ATIONALLY2ANKED!THLETICS4EAMS
s -ORETHANPROGRAMSOFSTUDY
INCLUDING#RIMINAL*USTICE"USINESS
!DMINISTRATION3MALL!NIMAL
3CIENCE%QUINE3TUDIESAND
#OUNSELING0SYCHOLOGY
$ELAWARE6ALLEY#OLLEGE
$OYLESTOWN 0!
777$%,6!,%$5s$%,6!,
Hamilton College is a national
leader for teaching students
to write effectively,
learn from each other
and think for themselves.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
arn a B.A. on or
off-campus, develop
y o u r o w n m a j o r,
attend classes at The
Film School, become
a civically engaged
citizen, and much more.
b u r l i n g t o n . e d u
800/862-9616
CORNELL
U N I V E R S I T Y
Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a
land-grant college, combines two great
traditions. A truly American institution,
Cornell was founded in 1895 and remains a place where “any person can
find instruction in any study.”
410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
www.cornell.edu
Liberal arts college with an emphasis
on preparing leaders in business,
government and the professions.
Best of both worlds as a member of
The Claremont Colleges. Suburban
location near Los Angeles.
College of
Visual Arts
344 Summit Avenue
Saint Paul, Minnesota
55102
651.224.3416
CVA
890 Columbia Ave.
Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
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
w w w.cva.edu
Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
99 Main Street
Franklin, MA 02038
www.dean.edu
877-TRY DEAN
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
Built on Catholic education
values of academic excellence,
DeSales University is driven
by educators and advisors that
inspire performance.
2755 Station Avenue
CenterValley, PA 18034
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu/teenink
Fostering creativity and academic excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
Writing resources from a writing college:
www.hamilton.edu/teenink
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences, and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
E
CVA is a private, accredited, four-year college
of art and design offering Bachelor of Fine Arts
degrees in graphic design/interactive, illustration,
photography, drawing/painting, sculpture, and
interdisciplinary art and design studies.
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
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
An experience of a
lifetime, with experience
for a lifetime.
Excellent Programs.
Programs.
Excellent
Outstanding Facility.
Outstanding
Faculty.
Affordable Cost.
Cost.
Affordable
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
BUSINESS
CULINARY ARTS
HOSPITALITY
TECHNOLOGY
Providence, Rhode Island
1-800-342-5598
www.jwu.edu
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
inquiry and care of the whole
student, in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where YOU
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
Earn a BA in Global Studies while
studying at our centers in Costa
Rica, India, China, NYC or with
our programs in Australia, Taiwan,
Turkey and Thailand!
9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 • [email protected]
Hofstra University can help you
get where you want to go, with
small classes, dedicated faculty
and an energized campus.
hofstra.edu • 1-800-HOFSTRA
[email protected]
Add your college
to this monthly
directory.
Call Tyler Ford
Teen Ink
617-964-6800
Teen Ink • March ’10 • Page 23
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
MyMarywood.com
A visual arts college north of Boston
where creativity and independence
thrive through choice, connection
and community. BFA and Diploma
programs. Founded by artists to
educate artists.
www.montserrat.edu • 800.836.0487
[email protected]
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
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
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.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.
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
7f_Yjkh[igk[D[m;d]bWdZYWcfki"
e\\[h_d]fhe]hWci_d8ki_d[ii"
9ecckd_YWj_edi">[Wbj^"7hjiWdZ
IY_[dY[i";ZkYWj_edWdZBWm$BeYWj[Z
c_ZmWoX[jm[[dD[mOeha9_joWdZ
8eijedm_j^:_l_i_ed?Wj^b[j_Yi$
9edi_ij[djbohWj[ZWced]j^[jef
CWij[hÀib[l[b9ebb[][i_dj^[Dehj^
_dU.S. News and World Report$
• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
(-+Cj$9Whc[b7l[dk[
>WcZ[d"9J&,+'.
'$.&&$*,($'/**
ddd^bV[[V]VNPRQb
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: [email protected]
www.pratt.edu
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email [email protected]
www.pace.edu
offered with Dual Admissions into
graduate and professional schools
· Located in Fort Lauderdale, FL
· New state-of-the-art Performing
and Visual Arts facilities
www.nova.edu/admissions
(800) 338-4723
Princeton
degrees that work.
BACHELOR X ASSOCIATE X CERTIFICATE
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
· Over 40 undergraduate programs
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
SlipperyRock
University
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh, the University is ranked number five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic quality at an affordable price.
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
75 years of keeping Hands-on in Higher Education
Training Pilots and Technicians for
aviation and related industries since
1928. Call or log on today and begin
your flight to a successful career!
Licensed by:
OBPVS
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
8820 East Pine St.
Tulsa, OK, 74115
800-331-1204
www.spartan.edu
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
SWARTHMORE
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
TM
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
you can go
beyond
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
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
Teen Ink’s
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.
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
/RFDWHGLQEHDXWLIXO1RUWKHDVWHUQ
3HQQV\OYDQLD:LONHVLVDQLQGHSHQGHQW
LQVWLWXWLRQRIKLJKHUHGXFDWLRQGHGLFDWHGWR
DFDGHPLFH[FHOOHQFHDQGPHQWRULQJ:LONHV
RIIHUVPRUHWKDQSURJUDPVLQSKDUPDF\
WKHVFLHQFHVOLEHUDODUWVDQGEXVLQHVV
&KHFNRXWZZZEHFRORQHOFRP
ZZZZLONHVHGX
:HVW6RXWK6WUHHW
:LONHV%DUUH3$,:,/.(68
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
Attention Students!
TeenInk.com/StudentBoard
Apply now for our unique writing
program in the heart of New York City!
June 26 - July 10, 2010
Join the Teen Ink
Student
Advisory Board
NYC Summer
Writing Program
wants your
FEEDBACK!
For more information, email us at
NYC @ TeenInk.com
Open to girls currently in grades 9-12
sports
A Different Kind of Family
I
walk through the vast double
doors, my hand sticking to the
frosty handle. I scold myself for
wearing flip-flops as my toes poke out
into the cold air. The wet cuffs of my
jeans stick to my ankles. I look
around, glancing at the empty scoreboard and the flat ice. The Zamboni
crawls across the rink, the ice still
etched with the history of previous
games, and leaves a trail of glassy ice
in its wake. I walk over to the bleachers. The floor is slightly bouncy because it’s rubber, specially treated so
that you can walk on it in ice skates
and not dull the blades. I climb the
concrete steps, my breath coming out
in clouds, and seat myself next to my
mom on the stiff bleacher bench.
The stands are basically empty; only
family members are here to watch
their kids or siblings. My dad is standing a few yards away, since his yelling
bothers us when he’s too close. He
will remain standing throughout the
three fifteen-minute periods. The rink,
surrounded by boards, plastic walls
and netting, seems like a bubble or a
cage to me. I can only imagine what it
feels like to play a vicious game here,
with everyone watching my every
move. Although I am usually not one
by Marlee Fox, Annapolis, MD
the two sticks. He holds the puck in his
for the sidelines, I don’t mind being a
hand directly over the center point of
spectator for this particular game.
the rink, almost teasingly. The rink is
I sit on my hands to keep them
silent. Anticipation thickens the air. The
warm. My knees bounce up and down
ref’s hand opens and the puck falls.
to heat my legs. You wouldn’t think
Hockey is energy. The stamina
that someplace as cold and empty as
required to play the game mixed with
an ice rink would be the most comfortthe fervor of the crowd creates an
able place for me, but it is.
explosion of passion that is almost
I don’t have to wait long. The teams
indescribable. Show me something
file out, our team in blue and gold, the
more thrilling than a
Navy colors. I see my
breakaway, the offensive
brother, Jake, number fifThe sound of player ripping free of the
teen. The opposing team
and flying down
is in red and white. Both
blades on the defense
the ice so it is just him and
teams immediately begin
a seemingly simple pass- ice is somehow the opposing goalie. The
crowd rises to their feet, he
shoot drill, but anyone who
melodic
shoots, and everyone is
knows hockey recognizes
silent as the puck swirls
that moves like these can
through the air. Show me something
win games. The sound of the blades
more beautiful than the pride in a
grinding on the ice is somehow
father’s face as he watches his son do
melodic. Within a few moments, the
a victory lap after scoring the gamescoreboard buzzer goes off, a sound
winning goal.
loud enough to fill a huge room.
The togetherness is key. When
Jake heads for the center of the rink
someone makes an amazing move,
to face off. One of the opposing players skates over and faces him squarely,
whether it’s a great pass or a perfectly
their sticks almost touching. A referee
executed slapshot, we cheer and stand
in awe as one. When someone gets
skates to the center circle, puck in
hand. The time on the scoreboard
hurt, we hold our breath as one. Perhaps our harmony is a result of time
shows 15 minutes, no goals and no
spent together – after all, the kids on
penalties. I know all that will change
the team have played together for most
quickly. The ref stoops over the toes of
of their lives. Maybe it’s the distances
traveled that keep us together, as we
often journey from Annapolis to
Philadelphia or farther as a team. But I
think the reason we stay together is
because we can.
Something as demanding as hockey
is not something to face alone. Everyone chips in to make this team a thriving reality. Our team includes not just
the players, but also the parents, siblings, grandparents, and friends who
support us. Although my brother is the
player who connects our family most
to the team, I never feel left out of this
huge congregation. I have no desire to
play hockey; it’s too rough-and-tumble
for me. But I can’t imagine not having
it as a part of my life.
The hockey rink is not my most
comfortable place because the scoreboard shows what I want it to, or because it has soft seats or heaters. What
makes a hockey rink my most comfortable place is the fact that I’m surrounded by people who I know will
stand by each other, because they have
been brought together by this sport.
And the pride that I feel at watching
my brother skate his heart out and
“leave it all on the ice” is enough for
me to feel blissfully at home. ✦
Smallest Inspiration
by Jay Tatum, Surprise, AZ
think about the game. It was almost as
he game was over and once again we
though scenes were replaying in my head.
had lost. No one said a word. No one
Out of nowhere I felt a soft tug on my shorts.
had to. The long faces told it all.
I slowly turned and looked down at a young
Everyone wanted to improve, and playing
girl holding out a pad of paper and a pen. I
against harder teams would make us more
was shocked. All I could think was how horexperienced, but why did Coach choose this
ribly we’d just played, and she wanted an autournament?
tograph? Why? How come she came to me
The atmosphere was different, nothing
and not one of the superstars on the other
like what we were used to. Empty seats lined
team? I mean, they were obviously better.
the arena, making the basketball court look
“Jay, this would mean a lot to me,” the girl
larger than regulation size. The vaulted ceilsaid in a high-pitched voice that interrupted
ings made the whole place seem bigger;
my thoughts.
plus, it was freezing. The air
“No problem, what’s your
and elevation affected every“You have a
name?” I asked after taking the
thing: we breathed differently,
pen and the pad.
and our shots were off. This was
really good
“Melanie,” she said quietly. I
officially the most difficult tourattitude
and
signed
and was about to walk
nament we’d ever played in, and
away
when
she said, “I know it
it wasn’t because of the compethe skill to go
must not be easy to lose, but you
tition. Why had Coach regiswith it”
played really hard and never
tered us to play? The question
once gave up. You hustled to the
lingered in every one of our
end and that’s what made you stand out. You
minds. Only one answer was logical: if we
have a really good attitude and the skill to go
planned on playing at a collegiate level, this
with it, but you can’t win them all.”
would become our sanctuary, so why not get
Standing there listening, my jaw dropped.
used to it now?
All I could get out was a simple, “Thanks.”
Almost every game was a blow-out. My
“You’re welcome. Thanks for the autoteam couldn’t seem to get it together. Nothgraph. You really made my day.”
ing felt right. We’d been playing together for
“No, you made mine,” I said with a small
two years and it felt as if the chemistry was
smile.
fading. In between quarters we’d talk and try
As I entered the locker room, I couldn’t
to critique the situation, but as soon as the
help
but think about what she had said to me.
whistle blew, it started all over again. After
'”Hey
guys, guess what just happened?”
the last drastic loss, I was walking behind
They all listened in awe and smiled smiles
my team on our way to the Sun Devils locker
of inspiration. Her words motivated us all. ✦
room. I was still in the zone, continuing to
T
Photo by Ashley Reid, Charlotte, NC
Marathon
F
by Julia Mauer, Hartland, WI
ive, four, three, two, one: it’s on. The race against the clock, myself, and
others.
As one of Arrowhead’s 2,400 kids, what makes Julia stand out?
Strong, driven, and opinionated are the words that could describe me.
Energetic: how could 26.2 be accomplished without it? As I wait, my heart
begins to race. I move. It has begun. But it is only the beginning. Twenty-six
point two miles to go.
Just keeping one foot on the ground and the other moving forward, on and
on. I feel the sweat run down my face. Tired and worn out, people start to fall
back. Twenty miles to go.
The race drags on. It feels like it will never end. The legs begin to burn. I
think to myself, Don’t walk, don’t walk, don’t walk! Ten miles to go.
Mile 20. Nothing can stop me now. Running becomes easier than walking.
The pain runs down my body – it aches. The thought runs through my mind –
Please get this over with! But then, I think, Wait, youthful and energetic. It’s
you. Think how you’ll feel in an hour. Keep on fighting! Five miles to go.
I’ve made it: the end is only one lap away. I can do it. People are cheering
and the adrenaline builds up. “You’ve made it!” I hear my family say. “Keep
it up, Julia!” Zero miles to go. ✦
24
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Ty Kipling, Seattle, WA
my senses to currents of time and
remember a winter afternoon in
knowledge.
Southern California. The kind of
The power of the trees fell silent and
day when sunlight settles on
implacable over the yard. It was their
wooden floorboards like a hard yellow
dominion, a place of careful greatness,
frost. The happy, constant drone of
unyielding to actuality. I clung to the
drills and saws filled the air with slivcertainty of their being as an untouchers of other days, older construction
able magic. But I also had a sense of
built and dissembled to a similar
the fragility of this power. I was
rhythm.
fiercely protective of their growth, even
Sunny winter afternoons like that
as they protected me from the turbuone demanded a foray into our backlence of life. My soul took form in
yard, rich with trees. Those who
their green hollows and contours, but
walked the adjacent block could see
another soul could find satisfaction in
the stark branches of our pines and the
chipping that green into a human cresweet-smelling limbs of our eucalypti
ation. My father often said that our
towering over a landscape of mansions
long backyard was a developer’s
and bungalows.
dream; for years I believed it was my
Wandering among these trees was
family’s duty to stay in our home forakin to partaking in an ancient meeting
ever to protect the trees from harm. I
of wise ones. I felt the magnificence of
saw that other humans could usurp my
their spirits in the width of their trunks.
love for the trees with desires of their
Pine needles littered the ground like saown, desires to destroy. I knew that my
cred materials, to be woven into
trees were in danger because others
bracelets and tiny crowns. I wore them
valued mansions more. I often dreamed
as amulets, otherworldly protections
of ripping down For Sale signs on our
from reality. The acorns of the oak and
front lawn, of writhing and shrieking
the yellow-fringed seed pods of the euon the grass as the realtors parked their
calyptus were gifts; I would pound and
cars.
press them into the inedible fare of the
As time passed, I learned to let go of
many lives I imagined in the yard’s farthe trees in my soul. Or so I told mythest reaches.
self, realizing that there is no room for
As a child building forts and collectabsolutes in adulthood. I
ing gifts, I had the sensalearned that things would
tion of being watched by a
run their course, with or
quorum of powerful bewithout my consent, in
ings. I felt an affinity with
These trees
spite of my love.
the trees of all places that I
were mine;
That one winter aftervisited, but these trees
noon,
I found axe wounds
were mine; they knew me.
they knew me
in the trunk of the Chinese
And not as humans know
elm that grew close to our
one another, when to love
back window. The elm posis to claim a piece. The
sessed
a
singular
talent for producing
trees asked for nothing, laid no claims,
small pieces of bark in odd shapes –
gave me a peace that I would neither
circles, curlicues, half-moons. I used to
expect nor ask for in another human.
furtively pluck my favorite pieces from
They lent a certain majesty to my acits trunk, engaging in a small act of
tivities, a taste of the ritualistic. Enterloving destruction. To see it hacked
ing the backyard was like stepping into
into by the head of an axe was to watch
another realm, where the trees guided
I
Photo by Taylor Mathews, Pelham, AL
LINK
YOUR
environment
The Trees
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
the great and the beautiful fall into the
pull on our imaginations. And so we
hands of the morally bankrupt. I
wonder: what is it that we asked for,
learned that my stepfather was the
and why? As Italo Calvino wrote, “Dewielder of the axe. This knowledge fit
sires are already memories.” I notice
with the vision I had of my universe,
the weight of the axe growing in our
one in which my stepfather’s role was
hands, the metal blade drifting toward
that of the ignorant, the callous, the
our feet as we lose our grip. I wish for
disdained. I was almost relieved to find
the elm to grow strong and steady.
a worthy scapegoat, an
Waiting, and watching, in
easy target to blame and
a continuum, hoping my
upbraid.
trees will not fall. I try to
One winter
But I was truly dislearn this hope steadily, to
mayed to find out that
bloom in recalcitrance, to
afternoon, I
my mother was comonce again rage and rant
found axe
plicit in the decision to
and cry and expect a
cut down the tree – that
change for the better.
wounds
she, in fact, had authorNow for mercy, for
ized the cutting in the
compassion toward ourfirst place. She was justified in making
selves. Because wandering through a
this decision, for the roots of the tree
backyard devoid of green is not vicapparently posed a danger to the fountory. There is nothing for us to find
dation of our house. To me, such rathere, nothing for us to say in that
tionalizations did not matter. Our
place. I will always have more to say to
house was nothing without the trees. I
my trees. We will always have more to
felt as though she had ordered the exesay to the land. ✦
cution of one of my beloveds.
I ranted, raged, and cried at the injustice of the situation. Who was she to
decide that the beautiful being growing
in our backyard should die? How could
she ask my stepfather to dispatch the
elm without first consulting me? And
man is arrogant enough
how could they cut down one of my
to group everything into
precious trees so casually, when so
“natural” or “man-made”
many people have none; when so many
people have, in fact, no land, no sacred
as if humans weren’t an
place? I couldn’t understand how the
active part of nature and
death of a tree, of my tree, was an
therefore rather “natural”
event of any less gravity than the death
as if we don’t have the same
of a human.
responsibility to humanity as
Miraculously, my stepfather never
to what’s completely “natural”
finished cutting down the elm, that day
or any other. He found that the task
we’re so different
was too hard. Today the tree still bears
(so superior?)
the scars of the axe, which have slowly
we need a new
healed. A ring the color of old blood
adjective
circles its trunk, a reminder of battles
all to ourselves
won. But the elm won no battles. It
and if the frogs took over
was through human whim that this tree
our dear planet tomorrow
lives; its fate was determined by the
would everything then
follies of man. In its life, and the lives
suddenly become either
of other trees, we are all-powerful
“natural” or “frog-made?”
deities of arbitrary, highly imperfect
natures.
where would we be?
I think of the trees today, of my
by Xinwen Zhu, Brossard, QC, Canada
newly developed reticence toward their
future. I do love them still, and I seek
them out, feel their loss at a great distance. But, as is the nature of learning,
I have become hopeless. I feel I know
too much – too much of humans, of
our staying power, our ability to endure
without understanding. This is how I
know humans today; drunk with the
power of Mount Olympus, unappreciative of true mountains, of the great tree
giants that imperil our sense of invincibility. Frightened, as ever, of being outshone by the wonders of the world.
But then, I watch as we begin to
doubt our prior wants, the need to destroy. The land, possessed of sudden
weakness in our hands, exerts no less a
frog-made
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
25
heroes
Sister
Elected Official
Lauren Gainor
by Kelsey Gainor, Cumberland, RI
doesn’t brag or gloat; her knowing eyes
he cold water hit my fiery skin like a
silently say, I’ve been given gifts, I am
bunch of needles as I jumped into
going to use them well, and one day, I
the deep end of the pool. I looked tomight just run the world! Her leadership is
ward the blurry surface of the water, padtremendous and whenever there is a group
dling my arms to reach the air above. Every
project at school, she is always chosen to
kick I took seemed to drag me down closer
lead it. If I were to write down all of her atto the bottom. My one-way ticket to heaven
tributes, the list would stretch to Maine.
might as well have already been checked
Lauren is the most complex person I know.
by the conductor. As my air supply was
As a senior in college, Lauren was the
down to its final ten seconds, I felt familiar
director of her school’s Special Olympics. I
hands around me. I broke the peaceful
looked at the confident face of my hero as
lulling waves of the surface and gulped in a
she stepped up to the podium that day, her
load of air. Oh, that wonderful air!
five foot one and a half inch body not shakI looked at my rescuer as I tried to kick
ing the slightest. She tucked a piece of her
my panic-stricken legs toward the ladder.
hair behind her ear and began her speech.
There was a look of distress and relief on
In front of 650 people, Lauher face as my screaming famren’s
melodic voice rang out,
ily rushed toward me. I don’t
She is so easy flowing
as perfectly as a
remember anything after that
since I was very little, but I do to like, a quality Beethoven symphony. Tears
bloomed on the faces of many
recall the look on her face as
I admire –
supporters and athletes as she
she watched my family fuss
explained what a hero really is.
and envy
over me. A million words
She was the perfect woman for
couldn’t describe her expresthe job. In Lauren’s words, “A hero doesn’t
sion that day. Distress, relief, and love were
necessarily wear a cape, and isn’t on the
all plastered on her face like crayon on a
cover of a magazine, but is an individual
blank canvas. That was the first time I realwho takes each opportunity to succeed.”
ized that Lauren was my hero.
She continued, “I feel that sometimes all a
Lauren is the kind of person who is
person needs is an opportunity to be great
always laughing or making others laugh.
to reach his or her potential.” Though the
Like our hour-and-a-half family dinner
menacing clouds threatening to ruin the
conversations: it starts with the usual,
hard-planned day, the Special Olympics
“How was school?” then the normal,
still carried on. Lauren wasn’t just a hero to
“Good.” That’s when Lauren comes in,
me that day, but to others as well.
rambling on about something totally ranA hero is a person who looks at the small
dom, and in two minutes we are all laughthings, the things that may not cure all the
ing and joking, her milk-chocolate eyes
problems in the world but might help just
crying with laughter. She is so easy to like,
one person. My hero doesn’t shy away
a quality I admire – and envy.
from a chance to help someone. My hero is
She is the life of the party, the one who
a hero to many others. My hero guides me.
will start dancing to get everyone else
My hero saved my life. My hero is my best
going. Although sometimes silly, she has a
friend. My hero is my sister. ✦
curious presence about her that may seem
cocky but in reality is quite humble. She
T
Harvey Milk
by Caitlyn Strack, Cannon Falls, MN
T
he words, “You gotta give them hope,” were spoken by Harvey
Milk, a San Francisco city supervisor, the first openly gay
political figure, and my hero. Like many, I had never heard of
him until the film “Milk.” And I think everyone can learn something
from him. He had a vibrant personality, and was unapologetic about
it. He always struggled for what he believed in and most importantly
he always gave people hope.
Harvey Milk grew up in a heterosexual community. His parents
were heterosexual. His teachers were heterosexual. But Harvey never
tried to hide his homosexuality; it was a part of who he was. And he
was never sorry for who he was. Everyone should take what he believed to heart: everyone is unique and absolutely no one should be
ashamed of who they are.
Harvey Milk was extremely persistent. Between 1973 and 1976 he
ran for city supervisor three times, losing every time. But as he established himself in the community, he got more
votes with each campaign. He ran a fourth
He was never time and finally won. But as a city supervisor,
Harvey would face many challenges, the first
sorry for who being Proposition 6. Introduced by Senator
John Briggs, Proposition 6 made it illegal for
he was
any homosexual to have a career in education. Harvey felt very strongly against it and
did everything in his power to stop it. He knew it could push gays
further into the closet. He campaigned day and night. And it worked.
In his will Harvey Milk wrote, “If a bullet should enter my brain,
let that bullet destroy every closet door in the country.” On November
27, 1978, two bullets did enter Harvey’s brain. The gunman was fellow supervisor Daniel White, who had also killed Mayor George
Moscone. White had had a breakdown when he learned the mayor
would not reappoint him as supervisor after his unexpected and
abrupt resignation. After Milk’s tragic death dozens of homosexuals
had attributed their coming out to his courage.
Harvey Milk still continues to inspire people today. In his moving
acceptance speech for 2008’s best original screenplay, Oscar-winner
Dustin Black said, “When I was thirteen years old … I heard the
story of Harvey Milk and it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live
my life openly as who I am.”
Harvey Milk stood for so much, not just for equality for homosexuals, but for everyone. In office just a short time, he accomplished
great things. He now represents something much bigger than he
could have imagined. His words and ideas will continue to bring
people inspiration, courage, and hope. ✦
Musician
Andrew McMahon
O
n September 3rd, 1982, a hero of
mine was born. He is Andrew
McMahon, the lead vocalist of
both Something Corporate and Jack’s
Mannequin. His story began when he
was just eight years old, and he first
started playing the piano. Before he
could even read music, he was a local
legend, and was known as a piano
prodigy. During high school, he made
many friends and formed the band Something Corporate. They released three albums, including “North,” and “Leaving
Through the Window.” After touring for a
while, the band decided to take a break.
Andrew began to work on a side project,
“Jack’s Mannequin,” whose name has
two different points of origin. The first
part came from a song Andrew had written
for a friend’s brother called “Dear Jack.”
The second half came from possible names
the band members had suggested, including The Mannequins. They decided to
combine the two, and Jack’s Mannequin
was born.
In 2005, everything was going well for
26
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
by Mike Wolfson, Merrick, NY
cancer, and are extremely inspirational.
McMahon and Jack’s Mannequin, and
For example, “Caves” is about his strugthey were set to release their debut
gle for survival. The lyrics range from his
album, “Everything in Transit.” For
time in the hospital and how he was losweeks, McMahon had been extremely
ing hope, to him finding an opening in
tired and not himself. Much to his disthe death trap he imagined himself in.
may, he was diagnosed with acute lymMany songs on this album have highly
phoblastic leukemia. Luckily it was
motivational lyrics, and they are demoncaught early, and there was great hope for
strations of this true fighter.
a full recovery. McMahon received lots
Andrew McMahon writes
of treatments, and kept a
all the lyrics for the band, and
video diary of everything.
Many of the therefore they can be related
He plans to make it into a
to him in most instances.
movie entitled “Dear Jack.”
lyrics were
After recovering from his
While being treated, it was
about his battle own battle, McMahon did a
discovered that he would
lot to further cancer research.
need a bone marrow transwith cancer
He sold wristbands printed
plant that his sister, Katie,
with a lyric from one of his
was able to give him. He
songs called “Watch the Sky” which
wrote her a song as a sign of his gratitude.
McMahon considers his favorite ever.
After the transplant, McMahon recovThe wristband reads, “I will fight.” Apered, and was back on his feet within
proximately $20,000 was raised from the
months. He began to write music for his
sales of the bracelets, which was donated
second studio album, “The Glass Passento the Pediatric Cancer Research Foundager.” This is when Andrew McMahon
tion. McMahon is always looking to give
became my hero. Many of the lyrics for
back to the people who helped him in his
this album were about his battle with
COMMENT
rise to fame and in his recovery.
To me, McMahon’s music is what
makes him my hero. That’s saying a lot,
considering he is a man of great charity. I
find the lyrics in his songs about cancer
very inspirational, and they encourage
me to follow my musical dreams. In the
song “Swim,” the message is to always
keep going. It’s very touching; he uses
“swim” as a metaphor to keep pushing,
with lines like “I swim for brighter days
despite the absence of sun” and “Just
keep your head above.” These lines are
both synonymous with the saying,
“When the going gets tough, the tough
get going.” McMahon’s battle may be
over with a positive ending, but his goal
is to encourage others in their battles, and
whatever they do.
I am one of the many hit hard by the
compassion of McMahon, and listening
to his music makes me want to pursue
my dreams. Andrew McMahon is a true
hero to me, and can always inspire me to
keep going through the words of his
touching music. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Michael Miller
by Samantha Schipani, Sterling, VA
“M
r. Miller?” I said as I walked into
Room 207, nervously clutching my
paper with both hands as I pushed the
door open with my foot.
Mr. Miller turned around slowly, with the composure of a well-trained fighter. It didn’t matter that he
was two inches shorter than I was or that he had been
my tenth-grade English teacher for only a few
months; I was still intimidated by him.
“Good afternoon, Samantha,” he said, finally
acknowledging my presence even though I had been
standing there for well over a minute. He leisurely
walked toward me, his stern, black eyes glancing at
the paper I held in my hands. “Is that your thesis
paper?”
“Ye-yes,” I stammered. “You said that you wanted
to meet with anyone who had finished their paper in
order to make edits.” He wordlessly took the wrinkled
paper and looked at it.
“Please, take a seat,” he said, motioning toward a
circular table with two chairs. I sat, gripping both
sides with my sweaty palms, and watched him get his
red pen from his desk.
Up until the moment Mr. Miller began reading my
paper, I was confident of my writing ability. Ever
since kindergarten, I had been one of the top writers
in my class; my punctuation, grammar, and spelling
were always correct, and I wrote with a sophisticated
vocabulary. But there was something about the way
Mr. Miller looked at my paper, his face completely
expressionless, that made me feel like I had just
handed him my second-grade report on my favorite
Judy Blume book.
The reality was I had written a fine paper on the
significance of the word “nothing” in a novel we
were reading in class: a standard essay, with a thesis
working; I was ready to turn in my original piece and
question, support, and a conclusion all clearly stated
take the failing grade.
in just under five pages. But even a flawlessly written
Finally at midnight, after three cups of coffee, it
essay could not escape that stony glare.
dawned on me: maybe, in the end, I wasn’t supposed
He uncapped his pen and started writing nearly ilto fully understand my thesis. Perhaps my typical
legible notes in the margins of my paper. The red ink
five-page paper was just my way of getting the job
looked incredibly menacing against the black and
done with the least amount of effort. I hadn’t really
white print, as if he were slashing my paper and leavlooked into the text for the subliminal messages, I’d
ing it to bleed to death. He didn’t write much, but
just used the obvious quotes. Even worse, I hadn’t rewhen he was done, he wrote two words very clearly at
ally looked into myself. What did my thesis mean to
the bottom of my last page: “So what?”
me? What did I learn? So what?
“Well, Samantha,” Mr. Miller said, “it’s an ‘A’
I couldn’t help but smile as I looked at those last
paper technically.” I sighed with relief, but I could tell
two words scrawled in red ink at the bottom of my
he wasn’t finished. “But why did you write this paper?”
first draft, the elation of my epiphany filling
“Because you told me to write a paper,” I
me to the fingertips. I deleted my entire
answered as honestly as I could. “To get an Real writers
paper and started again, more eager to write
‘A’ in your class, I suppose,” I added jokwrite because than I had been the entire night.
ingly.
“Mr. Miller?” I said as I walked through
Mr. Miller furrowed his brow and pursed
they’re
the door to his room. Once again, Mr.
his lips; he really didn’t like that. “Samanpassionate Miller turned to me with slow deliberatetha,” he said with a new gravity in his voice,
ness, still looking more like a judo instruc“real writers don’t write to get good grades.
tor than a tenth-grade English teacher.
Real writers write because they’re passionate about
“Mr. Miller, I’m here for another writing meeting,”
something. They write because they want to learn, and
I stated with twice as much confidence as the day bethen teach others what they learned.” He placed my
fore. He nodded toward the same chair, and I placed
paper on the table and slid it toward me with disdain.
the new paper in front of him. He took the red pen
“Only real writers pass my class,” he finished.
from his drawer and sat down.
I sat there, humiliated and unsure of what to do. He
This time, though, he didn’t immediately uncap his
had figuratively ripped my paper to shreds, and on top
pen. Instead, he put it next to him as he read. He read
of that, insulted my abilities as a writer. When I
without showing any expression, as I expected. But
looked back up, he had already busied himself with
this time when he finished, he looked at me with a
other things, more important than this pathetic excuse
newfound respect.
for a student. Finally, I gathered my things, including
“Samantha,” he asked, “why did you write this
my inadequate paper, and left.
paper?”
I spent that entire night at my computer, desperately
“I write to learn, Mr. Miller,” I said with pride in
trying to find some way to become a “real writer.” I
my accomplishment. “That’s what real writers do,
reread the book, scrapped entire sections of my essay,
after all.” ✦
and edited draft after draft. Nothing seemed to be
educator of the year
English • Thomas Jefferson H.S. of Science & Technology
Band • Cleburne High
Keith Davis
by Ty Greenslade, Cleburne, TX
there to learn by myself, he sat next to me and showed
ne thing I learned in high school was the art of
me every move and fingering with precision. We stayed
jazz. This laid-back music will take control of
in that room for a couple of hours. He never got angry
you and mesmerize you with trumpet and saxowhen I didn’t get it right away. He was at home teaching
phones blaring while trombones and bass lay down a
these instruments. He taught me everything from a simsmooth, groovy rhythm that rappers wish they had. This
ple E to a complex octave G to bottom octave B on the A
is an art – not something drawn or written, but rather
string in a single sweep. He taught me how to strum,
something that forces its way into your ears and makes
slap, pop, and pluck the strings like a pro. By the end of
you want to put on a zoot suit and find a dance floor.
the week, I had gone from reading only treble clef on a
I’ve been in band since seventh grade, and when I got
saxophone to reading bass clef like it was child’s play,
to high school there was only one class I knew I’d take:
and plucking a bass guitar like I’d learned it years ago.
jazz band. It was all I thought it would be: amazing. At
What has this man brought to the community and the
first, I wanted to play tenor sax in order to have some
school? He gave us a band that brings a sacred
solos, but I got over that fast, and I started playart to life. He sends us racing to elementary
ing the baritone saxophone simply because
A
teacher
schools in the cold and the rain to play jazz and
that’s what was needed.
Christmas songs to brighten the kids’ days. He
Our teacher, Keith Davis, is one of the most
like no
helps us make the annual pageant almost bearamazing saxophonists and bass players ever.
other
able with our epic renditions of simple songs.
Every day we would get to class and find our
He inspires us to return to our middle school to
laid-back leader with his saxophone out ready
show the kids that band isn’t boring, and we have more
to show off. Though many might complain about playing
fun than a fraternity member who just turned 21. He
a single music chart a day, in the end we played it like
shows us the value of giving free community concerts in
no other. We’ve gone from a band that could barely play
the park, simply to entertain those who walk by or love
a simple rock song to being able to play a swing tune
jazz as much as we do.
that older audience members would probably dance to.
Cleburne High School is blessed to have a teacher like
When I was a junior we faced a predicament: our bass
no other in Mr. Davis. He walks among us and graces us
player was moving onto college and we needed to a rewith his skills. He can play a saxophone solo and slap a
placement fast. I volunteered – I’d always wanted to
bass like he was born with an instrument in his hand. He
learn to play bass guitar. Most teachers would have given
helped a band that was in need and taught us things that
me a fingering chart and a list of scales and told me to
no one else could have. He took a fairly terrible little
learn them. Mr. Davis did something odd: he took me to
band that wished to play jazz and made us an orchestra
our practice area, hooked me up to an amp, and put a
that brings music to life. ✦
piece of music in front of me. Instead of bringing a fingering chart, he brought his bass. Instead of leaving me
O
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
The 17th Annual
Educator
Year Contest
of the
Do you know an outstanding teacher, coach,
guidance counselor, librarian, or principal?
1) Tell us why your nominee is special: style of
teaching, involvement in school and the community.
What has your educator done for your class, you, or
another student? Be specific.
2) Make your essay 150 to 500 words. Please type or
print neatly.
3) Only junior and senior high school educators.
4) Include your nominee’s first and last name, position
or subject taught, and the school where he/she teaches.
E-mail to: [email protected]
Mail to: Educator of the Year Contest
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
Online: http://TeenInk.com/Submissions
Deadline May 1
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
27
travel & culutre
A New Kind of Chef
while I hung back. We then walked down the windn South Africa everyone avoids strangers. A
ing trail toward the guest house, the evening sounds
stranger could easily kidnap, rob, shoot, or even
of hippos and snorting hyenas filling the dark. We
brutally murder you. Unfortunately, my dad
showed him where he could stay, and then headed to
didn’t seem to understand this. Despite the risks, my
our room. However, it wasn’t long before we heard a
dad continued to pick up hitchhikers and hand out
light rap on the door. It was Arthur Boyt.
cash to anyone who looked in need. I was okay with
“I thought you might want to see some of the phothis at first – until he took it too far.
tographs I took today,” he stammered. “I have some
It had been a long day in Africa. It was our fourth
lovely pictures of a lion and hyena fighting. They
day and our luggage was still lost. We’d spent the
followed my jeep down the road, I guess because
day driving to look at hyenas, crocodiles, rhinos, zethey smelled some of the roadkill I had
bras, lions, baboons, ostriches, monkeys,
in my car.”
buffalo, and almost every other African
He was known
I eyed him suspiciously, wondering
animal you can think of. That evening,
why
he had roadkill in his car. My dad, a
my dad, a tall, gruff person, ran into an
for cooking
much less cautious person, invited him in
older, eccentric-looking British man who
roadkill – cat, as he scrolled through the fuzzy images
could not find a room for the night. My
birds and beasts.
dad, of course feeling sorry for him, offox, and pigeon of “I’m
an avid birder,” Arthur explained
fered our spare room at the guest house.
after
the
millionth picture of the Southern
I could not believe it.
Ground-Hornbill. “I’m from Cornwall, England, and
The man was quite grateful and offered that his
we don’t have many birds there. That’s why I travel
name was Arthur Boyt. He wore a scruffy blue
out here. I’ve been to America and Australia, too, besweater and his thinning gray hair stuck out at odd
cause I enjoy biking and participating in orienteering
angles from his cap. He looked slightly frazzled, with
competitions.”
glasses on the bridge of his nose. He was probably in
He was a retired entomologist and seemed harmhis late sixties. He was one of the last people you’d
less, but I don’t know what type of normal person enfind out in the African Bush, and I did not trust him. I
joys working with bugs.
pledged to keep an eye on him at all times while he
When Arthur returned to his room, I locked our
was in our spare guest room.
door. I slept restlessly, and the next morning was reWe walked to his car, I somewhat reluctantly, and
lieved to find that he had gone, leaving a small thankwatched as he pulled out a suitcase from a pile of
you note. Days passed and I had nearly forgotten
highly odorous plastic bags. He and my dad talked
I
Moving to India
“I
t’s just a big, dirty city.” The “it”
here refers to New Delhi, India.
The words were spoken by a fellow traveler in the New Delhi airport in
2008. He was one of many who come from
the Western world to India. A typical businessman, he was speaking loudly on his
cell phone. I shook my head because a
mere two years before I would have agreed
wholeheartedly. But now everything was
different. I can’t deny that New Delhi is big
and dirty. What I disagree with is the
“just.”
In seventh grade my parents sat me down
and told me that my dad had applied to a
job in New Delhi, India. I was shocked, but
I did not want to be the only person to raise
a fuss and make the rest of the family
Art by Elisabeth Cleveland, Great Falls, MT
28
by Christine Caitlin, Arden Hills, MN
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
about him, when, on a whim, I found a Wi-Fi and
Googled his name. Immediately I was blown away
by thousands of results. There were articles from the
BBC, CNN, YouTube, and all major news sources.
Slightly disbelieving, I clicked on one. I came face to
face with his picture. Obviously, our British friend
was famous!
I was incredulous as I read article after article. The
man certainly was famous – he even had his own TV
show! But I never would have guessed why. His
show was called “The Man Who Eats Badgers: Tales
From Bodmin Moor.” Apparently, he was known for
cooking roadkill. In fact, he’d eaten no meat but
roadkill for 50 years. He’d eaten dead weasel,
badger, hedgehog, skunk, squirrel, rabbit, rat, cat,
fox, mice, deer, and pigeon. His wife, needless to
say, was a vegetarian. On YouTube, I watched a documentary recounting all the threatening phone calls
he got, and how he was writing a soon-to-be-bestseller cookbook. I couldn’t help laughing as it quoted
him saying he found the food “safe, healthy, legal,
and cheap,” and that “even the green stuff was good –
if not a bit bland.”
I couldn’t believe I’d met such a person. He’d
made hedgehog sandwich, badger casserole, and
skunk spaghetti! I erupted in a fit of laughter and
couldn’t wait to tell my dad. Although I never
planned on trying roadkill myself, it was the most
memorable experience of my vacation. After all, it’s
not every day you meet a celebrity chef – especially
one who eats roadkill! ✦
by Katja Fiertz, Bethesda, MD
We were told to give them a wide berth.
miserable. So I said that although I was not
Many were starving. For me it was almost
thrilled, I was fine with it. Several months
as hard to walk by a starving dog going
later I learned that my “fine” had landed us
through the dumpster as it was a starving
on a 14-hour plane ride, leaving all my
human who was begging. Cows wandered
friends and moving to a country I had
through the street and tried to find even a
never even visited.
bit of grass. They often caused traffic jams.
Going to New Delhi was almost like
I would get stuck in traffic only to find that
going to a different planet. There were still
a cow was lying in the middle of the road,
humans and cars, but somewhere around
forcing everyone to go around it.
there the similarities ended. When we arThe school was also an adjustment. For
rived my mom, my brother, and I set out to
sixth and seventh grade I had gone to a
explore the city. We took taxis to different
small, all-girls Catholic school. The new
places, and while there were markets, monschool was larger, with about 90 kids in my
uments, and neighborhoods, they all had
grade, and it was co-ed and
common traits. They all
very international. The school
reeked, they all had street anGoing to New had a large turnover rate, but
imals, and they were all filled
were still students who
with poverty.
Delhi was almost there
had been friends for years. I
The smell never went
like going to a made some friends the first
away, but after six months I
but we were tentative,
barely noticed it. The poverty
different planet day,
and not all that close.
I never stopped noticing.
I was so unhappy at the
When we travelled in taxis,
school that my parents decided to explore
beggars came up to us at stoplights. We had
other options. We visited a boarding school
been told to ignore them, so we tried. Some
in the Himalayas and they also considered
walked away and some tried to get our atsending me to live with a relative in the
tention. I will always remember the time a
U.S. Going to another strange school did
boy flung his arm so that it slapped against
not appeal to me, and none of my relatives
our window; he had to fling it because it
had dogs, or lived where I could return to
had no bones. I probably looked upset bemy old school. Miserable as I was, I decause I was told to ignore him, and the taxi
cided to stick it out.
driver yelled at him to go away. Once it
Slowly, everything got better. The street
was clear that we were not going to give
dogs wiggled their way into our hearts. It
him anything, he hit his palm against the
started out with Shaniou. She was short,
window as hard as he could before he
chubby and white. We saw neighbors feed
walked off. I must have jumped a foot.
her, so we gave her a treat. When we
Then there were the street animals, instarted feeding her dog food, the other dogs
cluding street dogs. The embassy had told
decided that we could be trusted, so we
us that they were all vicious and had rabies.
COMMENT
started feeding them too. One male discovered he could get over our gate. Slowly
they were allowed in our house. When we
walked to the market, they walked with us.
We went for a run and they would run with
us. Shaniou would even get on her back
feet and dance for food. They each had
their own personalities.
One day my mom and my brother were
driving home. They had the window open
because the car’s air conditioning was not
working. One poor boy suddenly popped
his head in the window and gasped out a
single word: “pani.” My mom and brother
desperately searched the car for water without success. From that day we always carried disposable water bottles with us. We
would give them water and in return they
talked to us. They spoke Hindi so only my
mom could understand them, but their happiness was clear. They were not “just”
poor, they were also kids who liked to play
and be happy.
So, two years later, at the end of ninth
grade, I was sitting in an airport waiting for
the flight that would take me home. I was
reading when those words cut through the
din: “It’s just a big dirty city.” I chuckled to
myself and thought how he could not be
more wrong. It wasn’t “just” anything. It
was the city of kids who can be happy in
spite of their poverty, the city where dogs
will wiggle into your heart, the city where
you can be culture shocked and find that
you love the culture. It is the city of everything and anything. It is the city that I
moved to miserably in eighth grade and
was fully in love with by ninth. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Meghan O’Connor, Chattanooga, TN
travel & culture
Glimpse of a Dream World
make me crawl down the rope.
*
*
*
efore the summer of 2006, abseiling in No“Hey, mate! Get a move on!” Jason barks.
Domineering ferns, still wet with condensation from
wheresville, New Zealand was never something
“O-oh, sorry!” I manage to choke out and take one
the
morning’s
rain,
reach
out
to
trip
my
fellow
travelers
I envisioned myself doing. Not until I’m danlast look around. If I’ve ever felt corny in my whole
and me. Like an infectious disease, the undergrowth
gling off a 200-foot cliff do I comprehend the seriouslife, it’s this exact moment. Dangling there a fourth of
suffocates everything in its path, stretching across
ness of the situation. Guilty of peer pressure, I’ve
the way down the cliff, my brain takes a snapshot,
creeks and fallen trees in attempts at complete domisomehow let my friend, Blake, talk me into hiking up
careful to file away every detail. The clouds are clearnation. The muddy, worn path is lightly frosted with a
the side of a mountain to experience an extreme sport
ing but each tiny, perfect snowflake heedlessly floats
thin layer of snow. As I heave my backpack higher on
the equivalent of rappelling, known as abseiling. Just a
to the ground. A wintry veil of snow carefully laces
my tired shoulders, I take a look around to get my bearfew moments earlier I was happily trekking across miles
the earth below as the temperature inevitably plumings. It started out easy but we’ve been stumbling up
of mud and snow only to find myself now voluntarily
mets. The silky sheen of the iridescent snow reflects
this
mountain
for
three
hours
now.
I’m
guessing
it’s
backing off a cliff I again, voluntarily, climbed. Madthe sun’s beaming rays, creating a prismatic effect of
around two in the afternoon. Blake is
ness appears to be the only word capainfinite enchantment. A murmuring breeze wisps its
moving at an easy pace ahead of me but
ble of summing up my circumstances.
way down the majestic slopes of the mountain, unAs I slowly shift my body to look
“Lord of the Rings” Edric seems to be falling behind, so I
knowing that its demise waits at the icy landscape
stop for a breather. All I can think
up at the death grip I have on my rope,
is no measure of about is how seeing the “Lord of the
below. Before it can break away, a sharp gust of arctic
it almost feels like the harness isn’t
wind pierces the breeze, generating an amorphous
there. If it wasn’t below zero I would
how breathtaking Rings” on the big screen is no measure
creature of endless twists and turns.
of how utterly breathtaking New
be able to feel the pain in my nearlyNew
Zealand
is
I softly inhale. The breeze smells of evergreens and
Zealand
really
is.
I’ve
experienced
so
frostbitten knuckles. Fortunately,
ice. The trees sway delicately, careful not to disturb
many unique things since I set foot in
shock’s taken over all of my senses,
the picture before me. Each icy crystalline structure
this otherworldly place: snow-capped
not letting something as mundane as
desperately grabs hold, cautious not to drift away
mountains parallel to sandy beaches, the famed
frostbite worry me. A slight breeze disrupts my confrom the branch that has become its home. Verdant
Southern Alps, eerie cone volcanoes, and emerald
centration and I subconsciously drag my gaze toward
mountains that literally roll into the sea.
mountains flow into each other, creating one sea of
the ground. I let my mind wander as I attempt to peer
luscious green carpet. In this new world, nature’s ex“Pretty, isn’t it?” Edric mumbles.
through the overbearing mist, flashes of my journey
oticism is nearly hypnotizing. The tranquility of the
“You could say that,” I reply. The damp log, unflickering across my eyes as I fade into a daydream:
land forms a permanent imprint on my psyche. The
knowingly
flaking
bark
and
moss
on
my
jeans,
gives
a
*
*
*
only slight disturbance is the rhythmic drizzle of a
bit with the introduction of my weight. We sit in siAwakening from a dead sleep as the main attraction
nearby stream. Alienated from the horrors of the modlence for a while, just taking it in.
for six laughing faces isn’t ordinarily very pleasant.
ern world, one could get lost forever. Nevertheless,
*
*
*
Nevertheless, my newfound best friends can never
the concrete world that is my life cannot be shoved
Numb from the lack of movement, I can barely
make me too mad.
aside forever. So as I cast one last glimpse at a dream
sense that same voice and light slowly come back into
“The best part,” Edric says, laughing, “is when her
world, I begin my descent back to reality. ✦
focus and I remember Jason, desperately trying to
mouth and her eyes are open.”
“I feel bad for that trucker at the red light,” Blake
starts. “That definitely wasn’t a pretty face to see
smashed against the window!”
“That’s not fair,” I protest. “I told you I slept with
my eyes open!”
by India Powell, Newport, OR
So maybe they do get a bit irritating. Nonetheless,
local conservationists and radical hipwhen a travel bus has become your home and 36
ie-dye, peace signs, patchouli
pies have transformed it into a salmon
strangers your family, you cope. Leaving America two
oil, the Grateful Dead and tofu:
sanctuary.
weeks before has been by far the most terrifying and
that’s how I was raised. In the
Each year, as I arrive at the festival
electrifying experience of my life. Australia and New
midst of my eccentric upbringing, one
and
sit in our car for an indefinite
Zealand are two major milestones to check off my list
spectacle every summer remained
amount of time waiting to be directed
of “100 Places to See before I Die.” Most importantly,
constant – the Oregon Country Fair
to a parking lot, I can’t help but feel as
New Zealand is where they filmed “The Lord of the
(OCF). On their website, OCF defines
if I’m home. All the familiar ingrediRings” trilogy, the most phenomenal movie of my time!
itself as an annual festival that “creents in that OCF elixir seem to beckon
When I left home that was all I really cared about,
ates events and experiences that nourto me: the friendly painted faces, the
seeing where they filmed the Shire and Mount Doom.
ish the spirit, explore living artfully
hay bales, the international cuisine,
I naively assumed the rest was just seeing another
and authentically on earth, and transthe solar ovens and everything in excountry. Incidentally, Blake shared my same enthusiasm
form culture in magical, joyous and
treme. Every year brings a
for experiencing the legend of our generation firsthand.
healthy ways.” In layman’s
new adventure, but it is alTo walk in the same fields as unrivaled actors, to find
terms, it’s a wonderfully
I can’t help ways characterized by the
their footsteps, was a dream we both shared. Without
large bohemian love fest,
same elements.
it, we never would have experienced the greatness of
swarming with vegans, art- but feel as if
Walking in through the
such a magnificent new world.
work and dreadlocks.
Photo by Rebecca Giffen,
I’m home
front gate, I am inevitably
In the meantime, I drift down a dark tunnel; a faint
Started in 1969, it is the
Aylesbury, England
greeted by the usual scene:
whisper and muted light caress my senses from the
longest running counterfamilies, draped in hemp clothing,
bare feet or, on occasion, a pair of
back of my mind. I know I’m not sleeping, but it feels
culture event of its kind in America.
running amok while setting up their
cowboy boots. I spend my days gamthe same nevertheless.
My father has had a booth there
booths, the lady at the ticket desk
boling down dirt paths, ingesting lav*
*
*
selling jewelry since before I was
wildly waving her purple feather boa
ish amounts of Greek and Indian food,
“Yoo-hoo? Hey, mate, are you done with your tiki
born, and consequently I have spent
as she yells like a carnival barker to
engaging in pleasant conversation
tour? Don’t be a picker, get to the bottom already. The
one exhilarating week of every sumthe next person in line, and the man
with strangers and participating in
next one’s got to use the dunny!” shouts a familiar voice
mer in that vast Oregon forest. Lowho casually walks down the dirt path
free-verse poetry showcases. In my
from the top of the cliff. I snap out of my thoughts and
cated just outside Veneta, the fair is
wearing nothing but a lanyard.
many years of winding through those
realize Jason, the man who strapped on my useless
cushioned by the lush woodland landFor one glorious weekend, anything
beguiling trails, the Oregon Country
blue harness, is urging me to continue my descent. As
scape of the Willamette Valley at the
goes. I am free to behave, dress, articFair has woven itself into my natural
I decide whether or not to heed his instructions, I
foothills of the Coast Range. If the
ulate and believe as I please. My usual
disposition, creating a certain temremember his abrasiveness while hooking me up. If
dense woods and the too-green-to-befair attire consists primarily of
perament that I carry with me wherthis ancient harness weren’t bad enough, Jason nearly
true meadows aren’t enough, the Long
brightly colored dresses or skirts careever I go – an open mind, a big heart,
cut off my circulation trying to secure me. I’ve come
Tom River runs alongside the festival
fully accessorized with a scarf or varieagerness to learn and no inhibitions.
to realize Kiwis are a very particular kind of people. I
site. In the past the river was known
ous pieces of jewelry, accompanied by
That’s how I live. ✦
meet Jason’s gaze and can barely see him narrow his
for its low levels of cleanliness, but
eyes as I float back into another memory.
B
My Northwest Roots
T
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
29
music reviews
ROCK
The Beatles
T
he world of music has
taken a wonderful upturn.
On September 9, 2009, The
Beatles, one of the most highly
acclaimed rock and roll groups
of all time, released their newly
digitally remastered catalog.
This can only be described as a
gift for the ears. All of the timeless classics have been edited,
almost remade, by the industry’s best audio engineers, and
it shows in the crystal-clear instrumentals and perfectly balanced vocals.
So what is actually new
about these CDs? First, the
sound has been greatly improved with nearly three
decades of technological advances. Every album comes
with a booklet featuring pictures of The Beatles, either
from the recording sessions, or
in landscapes related to the
songs. Also, if you purchase the
digital version, the CD includes
a small video describing the
recording process. This catalog
is something fans have been
craving since 1987, when The
Beatles albums were haphazardly transferred from their
original vinyl format to CD.
Crystal-clear instrumentals and perfectly
balanced vocals
I’d like to highlight the better
tracks from various albums.
From “Abbey Road” (1969),
“Come Together” seems to
have an overall increase in
power, and the 16-minute medley is clearer and reveals a deep
and intricate map of sounds
unavailable until now. On “The
White Album” (1968), “Back
in the USSR” and “Helter Skelter” are intensified, giving the
songs a fuller, more complete
sound.
I recommend purchasing the
remastered catalog. In fact, get
the entire box set and treat
yourself to the musical sensation that only this century’s
technology could offer. All the
albums are sure to please anyone from the most acclaimed
critic to the casual listener. ✦
by Brendan Neal,
Wyckoff, NJ
POP
Selena Gomez
Kiss & Tell
M
iley who? Since the release of Selena Gomez’s
first CD, “Kiss & Tell,” the
30
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
hearts of many fans have transferred from the kid-candy pop
of Hannah Montana/Miley
Cyrus to the sweet sound of
Gomez’s soothing voice. The
Disney actress tries to reach out
to her audience as she reveals
her full potential in her new
pop-rock songs. Can the native
Texan prove to the world that
she can do more than act and
put on a pretty face? Will her
audience accept the sudden
change in Gomez’s career?
We’ll see.
Known more as an actress on
the hit show, “Wizards of
Waverly Place,” Gomez’s
singing talent was hidden
behind hilarious facial expressions and comedic lines. When
I first heard the familiar sound
of her voice flow with the
catchy tune of “Cruella De Vil”
identifies it as a live recording
are the thousands of screaming
fans in the background. It is
truly one of the best live albums recently released.
“Where the Light Is” consists
of a mix of popular hits from
Mayer’s albums “Room for
Squares,” “Heavier Things,”
and “Continuum,” as well as
new versions of classic hits
such as Tom Petty’s “Freefallin’.” The songs show a variety of moods.
Mayer is known for his mel-
One of the best
live albums
from Disney’s “101 Dalmatians,” I leaped in excitement.
She blew me away with her optimistic voice, and amazing
control. Selena Gomez will
dominate the charts with her
bubbly personality, rock-hard
beats, and soul-touching lyrics.
As a new singer, Gomez
brought her best to her debut
album with heartfelt songs like
“The Way I Loved You” and
fast, dance beats of “More” and
“Naturally.” The beats control
the listener’s mind, giving anyone the urge to get up and
dance. The lyrics scream fun
and excitement and the catchy
melody makes the song difficult not to sing constantly the
next day.
I highly recommend buying
this talented Disney star’s first
CD. I have no doubt that Selena
Gomez will find her way to the
top of the charts and leave a
permanent impression. ✦
low songwriting, but after every
technical, fast-paced song, he
follows with a calm and relaxing ballad. The two-disc album
starts off with the 2001 hit
“Neon.” A brief introduction
gives the track a unique flavor
and a personal connection with
the listener. Since this is a live
recording, there are unique
solos and times when Mayer
speaks to the audience; these
make this CD special and different from a studio album.
Mayer possesses huge talent
in his ability to write down-toearth lyrics, create intense
melodies on guitar, and sing
with a voice that has enough
soul to last a lifetime. His 10minute rendition of “Out of My
Mind” clearly shows his talents. Listeners can feel the
emotion and power in the performance.
There are so many feelings
produced by Mayer’s music that
it cannot be pigeonholed into
one genre. Usually artists get
their inspiration for an album
from an event in their life. Since
this is a combination of albums,
Mayer sings about different
themes and creates a timeline
of how he has grown from his
first album to his third. ✦
by Tu-Khanh Lam,
Grapevine, TX
by Layla Banaie,
Canfield, OH
LIVE
DANCE
John Mayer
Ke$ha
Where the Light Is
Animal
L
W
Lyrics scream fun
and excitement
ive albums normally do not
appeal to the public because the quality of the artist’s
voice is often weak and unfamiliar. The voice that everyone
is used to disappears and places
doubts as to the singer’s talent.
“Where the Light Is: John
Mayer Live in Los Angeles” is
an exception. This album contains the soulful voice listeners
know. Mayer’s singing is flawless and the only thing that
ith her upbeat pop sound,
Ke$ha was bound to be a
hit. Her single “TiK ToK” was
released last summer and
instantly became number one.
The song broke records all over
the world, so the standards for
her new album “Animal” were
very high. The 22-year-old got
her start working with wellknown rapper Flo Rida on the
popular “Right Round.” Flo
Rida now has a song on
“Animal,” backed by Colorado
natives Nat and Sean of the
electric rap group 3OH!3.
This CD appeals mostly to
young listeners with its electronic beat and raucously
Take a walk on
the wild side
with “Animal”
inappropriate lyrics. The intoxicating sound of “Take It Off” is
mesmerizing with its techno
background, much like the
flirty track “Your Love Is My
Drug.” Ke$ha shows her girly
side with “Kiss ’n Tell,” a boisterous song poking fun at an
unfaithful boyfriend.
The most intriguing tune,
“Blah Blah Blah,” featuring
3OH!3, is a humorous look into
the methods of male attraction.
Slower tracks make their appearance toward the end of the
album. “Blind” is a song you
could sulk to after a break-up,
saying, “You’ll miss me ’til the
day you die,” and the revengeseeking singer name-drops
shamelessly in “Backstabber.”
Ending with the title track,
“Animal,” the album goes out
with a bang. The CD will keep
you dancing. I highly recommend you take a walk on the
wild side with “Animal.” ✦
by Maryna Mendez,
Lakewood, CO
For Your
Entertainment
decided to check out Adam
Lambert’s debut album, “For
Your Entertainment.” It premiered a few months ago, and I
was one of the millions anxiously awaiting its arrival. And
when the album finally debuted, it did not disappoint. It
was a mixture of insane electro-pop, disco, rock, and powerful, emotional ballads,
welcoming the arrival of a new
rock god.
One of my favorites is
“Whataya Want From Me?”
written by Pink, even though
you wouldn’t think so by looking at the lyrics. The song is
about someone who had a
really bad past and is trying to
recover from it. Even though
the person doesn’t have very
high self-esteem, they will
never let their significant other
down. Adam nails the vocals
and gives it so much emotion,
the audience might feel like
this song was written for them.
Another crowd favorite is
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
every song has a different point
and tune, so it kept me on my
toes. Everyone should go out
and buy the album – it’s sure to
have something for everyone.
Lambert has made a huge
splash in the music business,
and I don’t think anyone will
be able to wait for his next
album. ✦
by Bobby McKinley,
Thornton, CO
METAL
Genghis Tron
Board Up the
House
hiladelphia’s Genghis Tron
has exploded onto the underground metal scene with
their volatile sophomore album,
“Board Up The House.” From
the frantic allegro in “City on a
Hill” to the seemingly neverending drone of “Relief,” it is
Adam Lambert
COMMENT
Makes you want to
get up and dance
P
POP
I
“For Your Entertainment.” It’s
an upbeat electro-pop tune that
makes you want to get up and
dance. Some people think the
lyrics are suggestive, but there
is a bigger picture. It’s about
the relationship between the
artist and the audience, a statement by Lambert as a performer, and how his fans feel
about him. This is a very
strong, emotional song, and it’s
no wonder it’s a hit.
All 14 songs are amazing.
The album is flawless, and
These young men
have mastered
their craft
apparent that these young men
have mastered their craft. They
possess more than enough talent and vision to write crunchy
grooves and pummeling drum
parts as well as spacey arrangements that drill their way into
the listener’s brain (in a good
way).
The lyrics of this album fit
the music very well, focusing
on frontman Mookie Singerman’s fears about the world.
This is one of my favorite albums, and I would recommend
it to anyone interested in new,
fresh, thought-provoking heavy
music that is always worth another listen. ✦
by Henry Dischinger,
Charlotte, NC
TEENINK.COM
Professor
Layton and the
Curious Village
Y
ou turn the corner, eager to
continue your adventure,
but the first thing that catches
your attention is a loud, pudgy
man raging with anger. Hesitant but ready to help, you approach this villager. Angrily, he
tells you about three guys he
can’t stand and requests your
help. Eager to get away from
him, you quickly solve his puzzle. He thanks you and smiles,
his wrath suddenly gone. But
don’t relax yet – Pauly is almost
always mad about something.
A breakthrough for
puzzle lovers
Welcome to St. Mystere,
where puzzles are the heart and
soul of the inhabitants. Your
journey in “Professor Layton
and the Curious Village” starts
with a brief video clip starring
the noted Professor Hershel
Layton, famous in London, and
his adorable, loyal apprentice,
Luke.
The game revolves around
the will of Lady Dahlia’s late
husband, Baron Augustus
Reinhold, who has willed his
fortune to whoever finds the
Golden Apple, a family treasure. Besides scouring your
brain for answers, playing this
game is simple: You tap, drag,
and write on your DS through
the many puzzles. The people
of St. Mystere are serious about
their brain teasers. Just about
any situation or random object
can influence a hard-core
problem.
With puzzles about water
pouring, moving objects
around, and trick questions that
require common sense and
math, Professor Layton, Luke,
and you will be intrigued. Once
you solve a puzzle, you’re
rewarded with currency that
unlocks bonuses.
Gliding through the town of
St. Mystere, you’ll find that
each point on the map is crystal
clear with detailed art. There’s
no doubt the designers paid
extra attention to shaping characters and spoiling them with a
beautiful environment. When
you reach certain points, video
clips pop up. With these come
assorted theme songs to fit the
characters and locations.
This game has been a breakthrough for puzzle lovers
everywhere since its release in
2008. Paired with Nintendo
LINK
YOUR
WiFi, bonus puzzles are available, creating a gameplay that
will continue even after you’ve
finished the main plot.
If you’re looking for brainteasers that will stump even the
smartest kid in school, you’ll
definitely enjoy it. ✦
by Carol Deng, Brooklyn, NY
by Tony Hammons,
Phoenix, AZ
WII, PC, MAC
World of Goo
PS 3, XBOX 360, PC
“W
orld of Goo” is one of
the most unique and
innovative video games I have
played in a long time. In an industry that focuses on high-definition graphics and “mature”
storylines, this game keeps it
simple and offers an experience
like few others.
“World of Goo” was created
by two former Electronic Arts
employees who funded the
project themselves. It’s a
physics-based puzzle game that
has a simple premise but can be
very challenging.
“Goo balls” are circular creatures with eyes. There are many
kinds – some are one-use, some
can be used multiple times,
some can be destroyed, and
some can fly. The goal of the
game is simple: create a structure that can overcome the obstacles in the level and get to
the exit, which is a pipe. The
first few levels are relatively
easy, but soon the game will
start making you think outside
the box. The different species
of goo balls bring a lot of variety and change the game quite
a bit.
The game’s graphics are
basic yet effective, and present
a colorful world filled with
A simple premise,
but challenging
nooks and crannies. Many will
be happy to hear that the PC
version will run on any computer. The soundtrack is amazing; each level has its own
theme that fits perfectly. There
is no serious storyline, but
since this is a puzzle game,
that’s fine.
One neat feature is the OCD
mode where the player must
complete each level using as
few goo balls as possible. The
game’s length depends on
player’s puzzle-solving and
creative-thinking abilities, but
the 48 levels will probably take
an average player four to five
hours to beat.
Once you beat the game
you can go for the OCD mode
or play the “World of Goo
Corporation.” Here, players use
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
their leftover balls to build the
tallest tower. This mode is
online-enabled, so players can
see how high others have built
through clouds marked with
players’ names. “World of
Goo” is a must-buy for anyone
looking for something new and
innovative. ✦
Batman:
Arkham Asylum
A
sk any comic book fan
who their favorite superhero is, and they will probably
reply Batman. Champion of the
innocent, Batman is well
known and loved. With its dark,
psychological themes, serious,
mature tones, and the most
awesome villains ever, there’s a
reason this comic is so popular.
Sadly, Batman fans have never
been blessed with a game that
accurately portrays the characters and captures the feeling of
being Batman – until now.
Relatively unknown game
developer Rocksteady Studios
Filled with twists
and surprises
has finally delivered the game
Batman fans have been praying
for. “Batman: Arkham Asylum”
takes place in the asylum where
all of Batman’s insane foes reside. For the umpteenth time,
our hero has captured the Joker
and is returning him to the
madhouse. However, Batman is
filled with unease as the Joker
heckles the guards, seemingly
overjoyed to return. Adding to
Batman’s apprehension, hundreds of the Joker’s brutal
henchmen are at the asylum
after a fire destroyed their
prison.
Batman’s suspicions prove
correct, and the Joker escapes
in a flash and takes control of
the asylum, with Batman
forced to take part in his
enemy’s game.
Rocksteady invented a fabulous new combat mechanism
that completely captures Batman’s fighting prowess. Called
Freeflow, it consists of four
moves: strike, counter, stun,
and dodge. These chain together, forming combinations
that allow the player to take
down the Joker’s thugs. As the
game progresses, combat gets
tougher and the player must
skillfully keep the combo flowing by countering attacks and
showing variety. In addition,
FACEBOOK
Batman’s skill of stealthily dispatching goons and utilizing
fear is accurately portrayed. In
the “invisible predator” sections, players utilize Batman’s
high-tech gadgets and strategy
to take out armed henchmen.
The story is expertly written
by Paul Dini, who also created
the animated Batman series.
Filled with plot twists and surprises, this game will keep you
on the edge of your seat, and
you may fall completely off on
occasion. The game includes
many fan-favorite heroes and
villains, like Commissioner
Gordon and Harley Quinn.
Each is excellently portrayed
and many are voiced by the
same actors from the TV series.
Mark Hamill does a brilliant
job as the Joker, creepy and hilarious at the same time, and
the authoritative voice of Batman is once again perfected by
Kevin Conroy.
The game runs on the Unreal
Engine 3.5, which gives the environments and characters exquisite detail. You’ll often stop
in wonder as you explore every
inch of the asylum and the island. Plus, Rocksteady has included hundreds of Easter eggs
for players to discover in the
form of challenges left behind
by the Riddler.
Batman fans will not be disappointed. This game is what
they have been clamoring for,
and it is safe to say that this is
the best comic book video
game to date.
Side note: the Playstation 3
version includes an awesome
downloadable bonus where you
actually get to be the Joker in
his own Freeflow and Invisible
Predator challenges! Yet another reason to buy this amazing game! ✦
by Nate Geiger, Yuba City, CA
NINTENDO DS
The World Ends
With You
“Y
ou have seven days.”
Though this one-liner is
clichéd, “The World Ends With
You” definitely isn’t. This oneof-a-kind action role-playing
game features fashion, fast
food, and giant invisible monsters. Released by Jupiter and
Square Enix (publishers of the
classic Final Fantasy series),
this game boasts vivid graphics,
fascinating characters, and an
amazing soundtrack.
Tetsuya Nomura, designer of
the Kingdom Hearts characters,
has created another melodramatic, spiky-haired teenager.
Neku Sakuraba is an antisocial
15-year-old living on the streets
of Shibuya, Tokyo. The game
begins with a bewildered Neku
awakening in Shibuya’s Scramble Crossing, devoid of memories. He learns that he has to
play the Reapers’ Game where
he must survive for seven days
in order to win. But as the plot
progresses, Neku senses foul
play.
One unique feature is the
game’s Stride Cross Battle System. Combat takes place on
both of the DS screens, with
Neku on the bottom screen and
his partner on the top. Players
must control the pair simultane-
You live, breathe,
and feel it
ously to defeat an enemy. This
is difficult to master, but focusing on Neku and mashing buttons for his partner usually
works well.
The parameter system is
quite unusual as well. The only
way to increase attacks or other
stats is to eat Japanese foods,
and following the trends is also
a major part of the game.
Trends change throughout the
game and affect the attack of
the player, depending on the
brand of clothing they are
wearing. Yes, the reason Neku
is dying all the time may be because his shoes aren’t fashionable! Bravery is also crucial
and can be gained through food
and fashion, too: after all, it
takes a lot of courage to stroll
through Shibuya in bondage
pants and a purple bikini top!
All of the characters in “The
World Ends Wth You” have
their own personalities, ranging
from trigonometry-obsessed
Minamimoto to fashion junkie
Shiki. The soundtrack is one of
the best, ranging from J-Pop to
electronica. Also, the locations
are real. The graphics may be
two-dimensional, but they are
bright and vivid.
Winner of the IGN Editors
Choice Award for April and
Game Informers Handheld
Game of the Month in May
2008, “The World Ends With
You” is probably the best RPG
available for the Nintendo DS.
This is one of the only games
where you can live, breathe,
and feel the location. You can
hear the voice of the city and
learn about common worries in
Japan, like rent money. I recommend you try this distinctive, inimitable game. ✦
video game reviews
NINTENDO DS
by Michelle Chan,
Brooklyn, NY
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
31
book reviews
32
FICTION
My Sister’s
Keeper
by Jodi Picoult
I
’m sure that I am not the only
person who reads the news
about a boy being killed in
Massachusetts or a toddler
being taken from his home in
the middle of the night and
thinks, Wow, how terrible for
that family! or, How tragic! I
don’t doubt that if I came
Affects the way you
act and think
across a news story explaining
how a 12-year-old girl sued her
parents for the rights to her
body (even though this may kill
her cancer-ridden sister), I
would think, How could she do
that to her parents? When I
began reading this book, that
was my immediate reaction to
Anna Fitzgerald’s story. How
could I possibly empathize with
a girl who is willing to let her
sister die just for the right to
make her own decisions about
her body? But Jodi Picoult really does make us empathize
with Anna.
I never saw myself as someone who could enjoy a serious
book. The point of this book is
not just to paint a picture of the
pain the entire Fitzgerald family has gone through since their
older daughter Kate was diagnosed with cancer at four. It
also focuses on the trial that
Anna pursues to get the rights
to decide how she will use her
own organs.
Many authors write novels
trying to get the reader to relate
and to inspire. My Sister’s
Keeper does both. I can’t help
sounding cheesy but this book
truly makes you appreciate the
power of unconditional love
and the amount of effort it
takes to keep a family together.
After reading this I decided
to read Jodi Picoult’s other
novels and one theme she often
uses is viewing situations from
the “bad” guy’s perspective. It
is difficult to read and hear
Anna’s side of the story and not
feel for her. She is a young
adult begging for the responsibility for and rights to her body.
This isn’t an insane request, except that by requesting this, she
is risking her sister’s life.
This is the kind of book that
really affects the way you act
and think. I know I am always
fighting with parents or others
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
for the right to be responsible
for myself, so in many ways I
can relate to Anna’s story.
I would definitely recommend this novel for its outstanding ability to portray
human emotions and unconditional love in the toughest of
situations. Jodi Picoult did an
amazing job at inspiring the
reader in My Sister’s Keeper. ✦
by Erica Liverman,
Miami Beach, FL
SCI-FI
Double Helix
by Nancy Werlin
R
ight and wrong are hardly
black and white. Especially these days, when the miracles of modern science have
taken leaps and bounds in what
we can do, understand, and perhaps most importantly, create.
And what ethical dilemmas result from such innovations? As
the main character of Nancy
Werlin’s Double Helix explains, one of the Ten Com-
Who has a
right to life?
mandments is thou shalt not
kill, but where is the line drawn
on thou shalt not create?
Eli Samuels is a promising
senior who has a lot going for
him: a loving and devoted girlfriend, athletic skill, an intelligent mind, and the ability to
excel at anything he does. He’s
salutatorian of his senior class
and is surely bound for great
things. That may be why when
Eli announces that he’s not
going to college for a year, his
father doesn’t take it so well.
In a type of domino effect,
Eli finds himself drunkenly
writing famous scientist, Dr.
Quincy Wyatt, a Nobel Prize
winner and leader in the field
of transgenetics. Suddenly Eli
is hired as a lab technician in a
world where it normally takes a
master’s degree to scrub animal
cages. And what’s more, Dr.
Wyatt takes an interest in him
… a very personal interest. In
fact it seems that Dr. Wyatt is
more tied to Eli’s past than he
knows. Something involving
his mother, who has been hospitalized for years with Huntington’s disease. Despite his
father’s wishes and his own
qualms, Eli begins to unwrap
the genetic mysteries that hold
the secrets to who he is … and
his purpose.
Double Helix isn’t the kind
of book you read and then forget. It makes you think. It
makes you question. After all,
who are we to play God with
the rest of the human race?
Who are we to decide who does
or does not have a right to life?
In a world where biogenetics is
at the forefront of fields like
human cloning and genetic manipulation, we would do well to
familiarize ourselves with
bioethics. What better place to
start than an intriguing and
thought-provoking science notso-fiction novel like Double
Helix? ✦
by Madeline Jacobson,
Owasso, OK
element a good book should; it
can even make you laugh and
cry at the same time.
Ollestad takes his memoir to
the extremes as he tells the
story of his life-changing experience. I recommend this to
anyone with a taste for adventure. However, I must warn
you: once you start reading you
won’t be able to put it down. ✦
by Grace Porter,
Chapel Hill, NC
FICTION
Twenties Girl
by Sophie Kinsella
S
MEMOIR
Crazy for the
Storm
by Norman Ollestad
“S
urvival of the fittest” is
given a new meaning in
Crazy for the Storm, a memoir
by Norman Ollestad. Heartwarming and intense, this book
tells the story of the young author as he fights for his life on a
rugged mountain in California.
The plot is the cold, hard
truth, the real story of how
Ollestad’s airplane crashed into
the side of the San Gabriel
Mountains in the winter of
1979. Ollestad had to abandon
the wreckage and his dead
father and begin the grueling
descent down the mountain.
This eleven-year-old boy had
often been pushed by his father
to compete in severe ski competitions, and travel thousands
of miles to catch tremendous
waves on his surfboard. Only
The young author
fought for his life
by using these skills is he able
to survive. One slip would have
been fatal.
This affectionate but brutal
story is intriguing and touching. Every important moment is
described in great detail. Using
flashbacks, each chapter revisits a time before the crash, and
explains the loving connection
between Ollestad and his dad.
Another strength of this book
is the connection the reader
feels to Ollestad, an everyday
kid. He had to deal with his divorced parents fighting for his
love, his mother’s violent
boyfriend, and peers forcing
him to do dangerous stunts.
Crazy for the Storm has every
ophie Kinsella’s new novel,
Twenties Girl, explores the
issues of death and family relations while still including the
signature quirky humor that
makes her Shopaholic series
such a great read. Although the
fact this was a ghost story made
me hesitant, the novel turned
out to be completely worth it.
The main character, Lara
Lington, sees the ghost of her
great-aunt, Sadie, at her funeral. Even though Lara thinks
that she has gone crazy and
tries to ignore Sadie, she has no
choice but to help Sadie fulfill
her last wish. As the two search
for Sadie’s necklace and try to
Combines fantasy
and reality
solve the problems in Lara’s
life, they gradually become
friends. The plot is unrealistic
but it entertains and combines
fantasy and reality in a manner
that keeps the reader interested.
At first glance Twenties Girl
may seem like a book about a
ditzy girl who sees a ghost that
helps her sort out her life, but it
explores deep issues too. Kinsella juxtaposes the lives of two
girls, one living and one dead.
Lara lives her life in denial because she is afraid to move forward. She is convinced that
what she had in the past was
perfect and tries to repair a relationship that was not meant to
be, instead of moving on.
Sadie, on the other hand, is extremely sure of who she is and
was. It is ironic that Sadie, the
one who is dead, is the one who
teaches Lara how to live.
Because of Sadie, Lara
learns to be strong enough to
let the people she cares about
go, in life and death, and to
start anew despite the risks. ✦
by Celine Li, New City, NY
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
NONFICTION
Bringing Down
the House
by Ben Mezrich
Y
ou walk down the brightly
lit casino floor; the stench
of secondhand smoke mixed
with cheap perfume attacks
your nostrils. You scan the floor
and finally see a table that
looks good. You stumble over
just like any rich, drunken college kid. But you’re not. In fact,
you are as alert as possible,
tracking the cards as they are
dealt, betting big every time.
You’re winning more than a
normal blackjack player
Students became
card counters
should, but the dealer isn’t suspicious yet. You leave with an
enormous amount of winnings.
Why did you win? You won because you are a professional
card counter.
Bringing Down the House is
the true story of six students
from M.I.T. who became the
ideal card counters. Card
counting is a form of tracking
the cards dealt out of a blackjack shoe and calculating the
odds that a high card, such as a
queen or an ace, will emerge.
These students spent their
weekdays as average college
kids and their weekends as bigtime blackjack players in Las
Vegas.
Ben Mezrich chronicles the
story of Kevin Lewis, a M.I.T.
student who is chosen for the
team. At first, things seem to be
going great. Kevin is getting
rich and doesn’t even have to
work at it. Then, the casinos
start to wise up, and the students realize the lies they were
living. How will they resolve
the problem? Will they find a
solution?
This book is a gripping read.
The story is intricately woven
between present-day interviews
with those involved and the
past story of the card counters.
However, Bringing Down the
House is not just about blackjack; it is also about developing
security systems for casinos
and the lengths they go to eradicate cheating. The movie “21”
was based on this book. This is
a five-star read that I recommend to anyone looking for a
good true story. ✦
by Jeremy Levenson,
Stamford, CT
TEENINK.COM
by Rita Feinstein, Glorieta, NM
What’s-His-Face on your eighteenth
er name is Roma, like the
birthday, hear? Dang it, what is his
tomato. Part of the nightshade
face? It was such a nice face, too …”
family. Pale as salt, too thin,
Roma goes to the kitchen for water.
with a cavity below her ribs the perfect
Sand always gushes from the spout and
size for a baby’s head. She stands like
the glasses are soapy. She leans against
a question mark, hips thrust forward,
the counter, views her reflection in the
spine slung back. Those hips, her most
toaster, pushes the muscle. She doesn’t
prominent feature, are awkward and jut
want trenches, but she doesn’t want
like a roast chicken in tight plastic. She
Botox either. She doesn’t know what
has a potato nose that is only noticeshe wants, except maybe to eat a lot of
able in profile. That may be why she
tomatoes and therefore gain some idendoesn’t have a boy. Everything goes
tity. And some weight.
swimmingly until he catches her at the
*
*
*
wrong angle, excuses himself, and
Her name is Roma and she has the
finds someone he can kiss without her
Midas touch. Whatever she touches
beak jabbing his eye.
dies. She once had a plastic barn.
Tomato belongs to the nightshade
When unlatched, it split in
family. Woody nighthalf to reveal rows of
shade has flat white
If they had
stalls with stick-on namepetals and lustrous
berries the color of
touched, though, plates, molded hay bales
glued to the floor, and a
dragon breath. Like little
they would
cat painted an accidental
Roma tomatoes, they
form noxious constellahave been hurt purple. Roma stuffed her
horse collection in the
tions. Roma looks in her
much worse
barn and latched it. Then
mirror, pulls beneath her
she shook it with all her
eyes to make herself a
might. And opened the barn. A toothspecter. Poisonous. Lethal.
pick jumble of legs, shattered at the
Roma is pretty and polite, the kind
thigh, poured into her lap, followed by
of girl whose mouth you want to stitch
15 legless horses, smooth as hot dogs.
into a smile so she can join your doll
“Mom!” Roma howled.
collection. You look at her and know
Her mother looked away from the
she donated all her Christmas money to
chicken skin she was picking from the
the Save the Red Pandas campaign.
dish drain. “Christ, honey, what did
She’s a global thinker, someone who
you expect to happen?” she said, which
replants her peach pits and has a pen
to Roma’s ears meant, “Don’t you realpal in Mumbai. She has legs from here
ize you destroy everything you touch?”
to heaven. She looks foxy in short
*
*
*
shorts.
Her name is Roma and she had a
Grandmothers try to stroke her hair.
mule. His name was Samson. He had
Boys try to pinch her rear. Children try
eyes like Russian jewel boxes or fudgy
to tag her so she’s it. She jerks away
mirrors thick with lacquer. He bore the
every time, has grown accustomed to
humiliation of Roma’s dress-up box:
their hurt expressions. If they had
conical princess hats, polyester eye
touched, though, they would have been
patches, hot pink lipstick, clip-on earhurt much worse.
rings.
*
*
*
She mummified him in toilet paper
Her name is Roma and she has seen
for Halloween. They got lost on a spia pickled heart. It was on that new hosdery, forested driveway and arrived at
pital show, “411 on 911,” that’s on
an outhouse instead of a chocolateevery Thursday at three. A jar of
filled cauldron, though Roma’s mother
formaldehyde seems like a safe place
would later ask what the difference
for a heart, Roma thinks. She knows
was. Red berries sprang from the
they bloat into plaque-yellow sea creaspongy earth, gripping serrated leaves
tures with lacy tentacles, but she can’t
like blood grips a network of veins.
stop believing that a preserved heart is
Maybe they were jelly beans. Maybe
tense as a Roma tomato, encasing a
this was the new fad. After all, there is
trove of seeds.
nothing spookier than a portable toilet.
Roma watches the program with her
Roma began loading her pockets
neighbor, whose hair curlers seem
with berries, relishing the dark energy
about to uproot her face. The neighbor
seeping through her fingers. Dry leaves
says “Botox” so often it becomes subbit her ankles. The cheddar moon butconscious, the way Roma says “like”
tered the sky to a higher gloss.
and “wow.” Her face is a plastic mask.
Roma’s imp costume stopped
She says Botox changed her life, says
scratching her armpits and became like
with a face like this, you can’t lose at
a second skin. And hungry. She felt ritpoker.
ualistic, and because a witch must
The neighbor pokes the place benourish her familiar, she fed Samson a
tween Roma’s eyebrows where the
handful of berries. Just then, her name
muscle bunches. She pushes and
was called. She grabbed Samson’s
pushes, trying to lock it into smoothreins and rushed back to her mother.
ness, but it pops up again. She tuts and
The next morning, flies paraded in
says, “That muscle is always the first
Samson’s eyes.
to go. I’m taking you to Doctor
H
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
fiction
Tomato Touch
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
Roma emptied her pockets of what
was apparently woody nightshade,
swallowed wrong, started coughing,
and ran behind a tree to puke up a
pound of Snickers bars and Twizzlers.
*
*
*
Her name is Roma and she is helping her neighbor. The neighbor recently received Botox injections in her
hands and cannot cook until the bandages are removed. She watches “411
on 911” and drinks raspberry iced tea.
Her buns, steely from workout videos
and liposuction, sit like perfectly
packed snowballs on the couch. “Can
you believe that?” she cried, banging a
mummy hand on the armrest. “People
wouldn’t smoke if they had X-ray vision. Look at that Godforsaken lung!
Looks like a rice cake covered in tar!”
Roma is making lasagna. The
kitchen is hot and the air quivers like
bacon fat. Roma wipes her hairline,
dries her hands on a duckling-patterned
dishtowel. She slices tomatoes and
rubs in the salt. Groans, drizzles cold
water on her neck.
She gave up watching the hospital
program several weeks ago when it
featured her old biology teacher. He
was in for a severe head injury. While
driving his British car down a dark
road, looking for the right address, he
stuck his head out the window. The
steering wheel was on the right side of
Photo by Silvia Foster-Frau, Galesburg, IL
the vehicle. So was his head. It
smashed into a mailbox. His nose was
crushed, his frontal lobe mangled, and
his neck snapped.
By the end of the program, the male
nurse was reapplying cologne so that,
when he told the man’s wife the sad
news, she’d let him take her out to
dinner.
Roma’s knife cut deep.
She remembers handing in her
homework, her cold fingers brushing
his calloused ones. A curse bloomed
between them, invisible but fatal, and
entered his bloodstream like millions
of ravenous centipedes. Roma’s touch.
Roma’s fault.
She reaches a hand to block the sun.
Her fingers extinguish its light. ✦
Announcing Teen Ink’s
Twitter Challenge
Novella Contest Winners
My breathing hitched as the room
seemed to spin. My heart pounded to
the point it petrified me. And all he
had to say were words.
by Nicole Glazebrook,
Port Richey, FL
They pat your back and call you a
Hero, but all you feel is the agonizing pain of loss, and all you can hear
are their echoing screams.
by Nora Ortega, Chicago, IL
Even the life fading from her eyes,
the blood on my hands, and the guilt
of knowing it was my fault didn’t
hinder my love.
by Kody Keckler, Solon, OH
The stars above me twinkled sadly,
winking, a reminder of what I’d lost.
The stars; the stars. I used to look at
them with him.
by Megan Molloy, Otley, IA
The stars are not just in the sky for
our entertainment. It is a gateway
into the heart & soul. Why do you
think we wish on them?
by Alissa Hill, Orlando, FL
All these winners received a free one-year subscription to Teen Ink
Think you can get YOUR point across in 140 characters?
Take the March Twitter Challenge
Finish this sentence and tweet your ideas to: @TeenInk:
“If I could change the world, I would …”
Follow us on Twitter @TeenInk (www.twitter.com/teenink).
For more info about the Twitter Challenge, please visit our
homepage www.TeenInk.com and check us out on Facebook.
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
33
fiction
Homecoming
by Christopher Pang, Warren, NJ
people in Boston, and they say they’re gonna teach
small kick to each step. Even when I’m running on
athan –
me everything it takes to become a real doctor. And,
caffeine alone, I stand tall with an air of confidence.
When we were boys, my brother and I
well,
I’m
gonna
be
going
to
school
there
for
the
next
I’ve actually been complimented on my posture.
didn’t have much of anything, but we loved
few years.
Maybe it’s just the pride of scribbling out “M.D.” at
to make believe. Our favorite game was playing doc“Now, it’s not as bad as you think. I’m not leaving.
the end of every signature. Or maybe (for me, at
tor. As the older one, I was always the doctor, and no
I’ll be back whenever I can. They give us plenty of
least) it’s the satisfaction of seeing men and women
matter what, Dwayne was the patient. A couple days
breaks.”
react differently to a black man than they normally
before my thirteenth birthday, we had found a pair of
Maybe they did give plenty of breaks those first
would. Growing up, I hated those people who looked
giant metal headphones buried deep in the dumpster
few years in Boston, but when Nate got bogged down
at my brother and me and turned up their noses. It
around the corner of Frederick Douglass Blvd. They
in med school out in Chicago, the visits
wasn’t just the snobby rich people, it was the poor
were the heaviest set of headphones
became
few
and
far
apart.
Pretty
soon,
I
white trash – just as poor as Dwayne and me – who
imaginable, enough to give your neck a
started to understand what being an only
victimized blacks for the hell of it. I tried to imagine
crick if you wore them too long. Worse,
When I was
child was like. Mom was running around
what they must have been thinking: I’m trash and I
they smelled like the breath of the old
Harlem
so
much
to
pay
his
tuition
that
I
know
it, but at least I’m better than one of them.
bum who hung around that particular
nine my brother
barely saw her. I was on my own.
I strolled down 115th Street, head held high and
dumpster. But they served as a stetholeft for college
As for school, well, we sort of had a
briefcase in hand. My overcoat fought off haphazard
scope in our make-believe world.
love-hate relationship. The teachers loved
tendrils of wind that collided with me. Flurries
My mom had my brother nine years
me because they all remembered Nate
fogged up my glasses, and every now and then I
after I was born, so I was always taking
and
how
good
a
student
he
was,
but
I
couldn’t
stand
would wipe them on my sleeve. There was a hushed
care of him. When we were young, I could say anytheir monotone voices and condescending ways.
quiet in the air. Hardly any cars were on the street,
thing and he’d believe it. I could make the stupidest
When Nate would come home, he would convince
even though it was only an hour until midnight. A
jokes, and he’d laugh as long as he heard me laughme to try harder, so I could be a doctor too. In the befoot of snow already, and more coming soon.
ing. When we played doctor, I would say silly things
ginning, I wanted to be just like him, so there would
I walked toward my mother’s home, just a few
like, “I’m sorry, Mr. Dwayne, but it looks like your
be periodic bursts of energy with my homework and
more blocks. I would have taken a taxi from the airbrain is on fire. We’re going to have to amputate.”
tests. But these little spurts never lasted long, even
port, but there were no drivers willing to navigate
He would giggle and squirm around in his chair,
when Nate started offering me five bucks for every B
this blizzard. My head stretched up toward the night
and I would fight to hold back my own laughter.
on
my
report
card,
and
ten
for
every
A.
I
dropped
out
sky. Through the heavy storm clouds and lifeless
Then he would flash a grin from ear to ear, but I
of high school junior year, with plenty of other things
smog of the New York skyline, I could see the faint
would pretend to get all serious. I would run some
on my mind.
glimmer of celestial shapes. They were hidden betests: “Jump up and down while rubbing your belly.”
I met Angel Vasquez when I was fifteen. Every kid
hind a hazy mantle of darkness, but to me, they were
And he would say, “Give it to me straight, doc. How
in the neighborhood knew Angel. He was my
like pearls in the sand. I saw the crescent moon – its
much longer do I got?” I would put down the heavy
brother’s age, and everyone called him Mad Dog. His
breadth torn asunder, incomplete, devoid of someheadphones and pick up our surgical saw – a thin
hair was full of grease, and his sleeves were cut off, I
thing. I walked on toward home, following the stars.
piece of cardboard we had colored gray with magic
suppose to bring attention to his large collection of
*
*
*
marker.
tattoos.
He
walked
up
to
my
friends
and
me
in
the
Dwayne
–
“I’d say you’re not done yet. You might still live a
middle of a pick-up game, wanting to know if we had
“Perfect weather, boys,” screamed Mad Dog. “Perlong, long life.” It was always “happily ever after”
seen Joey Black.
fect, perfect, perfect. You wanna know why it’s so
according to the doctors on TV. These were the docEveryone knew that Mad Dog was out for Joey,
perfect? Dwayne. Tell ’em why it’s perfect weather?”
tors with short blond hair parted carefully to the side,
and everyone knew where Joey was hiding. Joey
“I dunno, man. Why?” Mad Dog was getting all
uniforms pressed meticulously, smiles winsome and
owed him money or something. I probably shouldn’t
bloodthirsty. I could tell from his voice. Whenever
charming. They didn’t want to scare their patients
have said anything, but I ratted Joey out. I wanted
you heard a trace of happiness in his voice, you knew
with bad news. But everybody watching those shows
Mad Dog’s respect. A couple of cops found Joey
something was about to go down.
knew the patient was doomed. The handsome young
dead
two
days
later.
“Why! This fool doesn’t know why it’s perfect
doctor knew it, I knew it, even little Dwayne knew it.
*
*
*
Goddamn weather. I’ll tell ya why! Now it’s snowin’
The only one in blissful ignorance was the beautiful
Christmas Eve – 11 p.m.
like hell, right. That means not one cop is gonna be
lady in the hospital gown facing the camera.
Nathan –
out on the streets, boys. We could raise all sorts of
“Bam! You’re good as new, Mr. Dwayne! Just reWith each step I took, the clean white snow underhell, and those lazy fatasses won’t do nothing. Know
member, no smoking or drinking or late-night partyfoot was crushed and tainted by my grimy black
what else? No doubt there’s gonna be some poor
ing for at least a week, okay?” He would giggle some
soles. My shoes traced webs of criss-crossing designs
sucker wandering all helpless in the snow? I’ll tell
more in that sweet, naïve voice of his. Then we
in the unblemished powder. I hadn’t seen fresh-fallen
ya, he ain’t gonna be making no quick getaway in
would put away our musty-smelling doctor things,
snow
blanketing
New
York
like
this
since
I
was
this perfect weather. And you know our motto, boys.
grab a ball, and run down to Rucker Park to breathe
twelve. It struck me that this soft powWhat we gonna do to that fool?”
in the warm summer air.
der was perfect for snowball fights – a
“We gonna fight, kill, pillage and
*
*
*
I started to
memory that hadn’t crossed my mind
burn! Fight, kill, pillage, and burn!” we
Dwayne –
since the beginning of college.
in unison.
I was nine when my brother Nathan left for colunderstand what replied
A bitter gust of freezing air hit me
“Hell, yeah. Now shut off that damn
lege, but I still remember his explanation.
being an only
in the face as I turned the corner. I had
TV. Let’s go.”
“Hey, do you remember when we used to play
stepped
into
the
worst
wind
tunnel
in
Together, we followed Mad Dog outdoctor? Well … guess what? I got a letter from some
child was like
New York. I pulled down my cap and
side. There were about ten of us. I was
buried my face in the delicate cashalways the last one. Mad Dog had a sort
mere scarf around my neck. Today was a sort of
of pecking order with everything, even when it came
homecoming for me. I hadn’t seen my family since
to simple things like walking. Naturally, he led the
last Christmas, hadn’t set foot in New York in two
way. His closest friends were right behind him. The
years.
young guns like me were last in line. I figured it was
because Mad Dog was afraid of getting stabbed in
The hustle and bustle of being a medical intern
the back.
working 24-hour shifts for the last two years had
We walked around for about an hour, looking to
worn me down. Like my favorite author, J.R.R
mug some poor fool. We started to wander near the
Tolkien once wrote, I was “thin, like butter spread
house where Nathan and I grew up. But except for
over too much bread.” Semesters of late-night studyus, the streets were empty. I had never seen New
ing had garnered me a pair of thick glasses. I was
York impersonate a ghost town so convincingly. Apperpetually tired, but life was looking up. It was my
parently, neither had Mad Dog. He kicked the tire of
first year running a small private practice in
a parked sedan, and I watched mounds of snow casChicago’s Southside.
cade onto the sidewalk.
There’s something about being a doctor that adds a
➤➤
N
Photo by Andrew Marcus, Brooklyn, NY
34
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
down as if he were making some sort of invocation to
God. The blood was running freely, hot and sticky
over my stiff, frozen fingers. I had to slow it. I ran
through the steps: rest, elevation, direct pressure.
There was too much. I couldn’t stop it.
The ghosts took off, scared away by the gunshot,
like the cowards they were.
“Give it to me straight, doc. How much longer do I
got?” he whispered as I pressed my ear to his lips.
I wasn’t sure what to say, but we both knew the answer. When I finally spoke, my voice was small yet
reassuring, deathly quiet yet more fervent than ever
before.
“You ain’t finished. Not yet. Still a long, long ways
ahead of you. I know it.” ✦
fiction
cocked his head and grinned.
“Why don’t you guys leave Sarge alone and go
home?” I declared. “It’s cold, and there’s no point in
beating up an old man.”
*
*
*
Dwayne –
When he finally spoke, I knew it was Nate. My
eyes widened in shock, and my lower lip fell open. He
was going to die, I knew it. Mad Dog was too far in to
let him go.
“My, my,” taunted Mad Dog. “We got ourselves
something real special, boys. An educated black man.
Y’all can tell by those nice leather shoes and that faggoty-looking scarf; this boy thinks he’s real uppity.
What’s Uncle Tom gonna do, hmm?” Mad Dog
kicked Sarge in the gut, and the old man let out a
whimper.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” retorted Nate. “Look,
you see this right here?” He waved his wallet in his
left hand. “I’ll give you all the money I have if you
Art by Morel Doucet, Miami, FL
just leave this man alone, okay?” Nate bent over
Sarge to check his vitals, to see if he was brain-dead.
“Agh, what the hell!” he spat. “Damn, let’s go.”
“Hmm. That does sound nice, boy. How much you
We saw Mad Dog’s eyes drift over to the other side
got?”
of the street. An old homeless man trudged through
I knew what Mad Dog was planning. I’d seen it all
the knee-high snow. He struggled to push the shopbefore. He would toy with the man; first take his
ping cart filled with his belongings, the wheels getting
money, then his possessions, then his clothes. Then he
trapped in the icy sludge.
would beat him, mercilessly – personally torture the
*
*
*
man. In the end, he would turn him around and make
Nathan –
him close his eyes, before ending it all with one slip
The lenses of my glasses continued to fog up, but I
of the trigger finger. But I knew I could stop it.
didn’t bother wiping them. I just couldn’t keep up
I spoke up. “Mad Dog, lemme at him. I’ll rip this
with the blizzard. My vision was distorted; everything
fool’s heart out.” I tried to imitate Mad Dog’s tone –
was black and white, light and shadows. It was almost
his half-crazy, adrenaline-fueled laughter.
like a photo negative, or a fuzzy X-ray image.
Mad Dog snapped his head over to me. I expected
Up ahead, I made out a shadowy figure.
his glare to cut into me, but his face
He was walking slowly, tenderly, bent
seemed almost proud. “Now normally,
over on top of something. Behind him, I
you’d have to wait your turn, Dwayne. But
I wanted
made out some other shadows: tall, wide,
can tell from your voice that it’s just
brothers who Ikillin’
ghostly figures, approaching the man
ya not to tear this boy apart. So you
pretty quickly. I stood transfixed, watchwouldn’t leave know what … it’s all yours. Let’s see what
ing this silent movie play itself out.
you got.”
*
*
*
I charged forward and hit my brother
Dwayne –
with all the strength in me. This had to look real if
I wasn’t particularly proud of what I did daily with
Mad Dog was to buy it. I was vicious, letting loose a
Mad Dog. In fact, I hated what we did. Fight, kill, pilseries of body blows and kicks to the face. For every
lage, and burn. It was our creed, but I despised it.
hit I made on Nate, I knew Mad Dog would hit twice
When I told Mad Dog where Joey Black was hiding
as hard, and three times as deadly.
out, I didn’t do it because I wanted to join his frater*
*
*
nity of murderers. I just wanted some respect, someNathan –
where I could belong. I just wanted some friends who
I once saw little robins push each other out of the
wouldn’t ever sell out. I wanted brothers who
nest as hatchlings, all in competition for a few wrigwouldn’t ever get up and leave.
gling worms. But as I took blow after blow from the
And if I had to kill, pillage, and burn to keep those
hands of my brother (I knew it was Dwayne as soon
friends, so be it.
as he spoke), my mind was flooded by a surge of
*
*
*
emotions and memories that far transcended the level
Nathan –
of primal instincts.
The group of ghosts descended upon the man. I heard
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
a savage cry, a piercing howl of licentious ecstasy –
death, I fear no evil. I cannot fight you. What have
like a wolf’s final cry after the hunt. They talked in
you become? What animal has consumed the mind of
low, guttural voices; their tone was mocking, laughing.
my brother? Duck. Too late. Why? Your smile. Ten
One knocked the man over. Another kicked his cart
bucks for every A. Use your height to gain leverage.
over, strewing black garbage bags onto the icy street. I
Fight back. Where was Mom? Did she know? Duck.
ducked behind a parked truck and held my breath.
Punch. What have you become? No. Run. What have I
My sensibility pulled me back, but my conscience
done? What have you become? Why is Sarge getting
urged me forward. I leapt toward the ghostly figures
up? Gun. Duck.
and tried to yell “Stop!” with all the conviction I
*
*
*
could muster, but my voice sounded feeble amid the
Dwayne –
deafening winds of the storm.
I heard Sarge cry out sadly, “Why you kids do this
It was enough, though. Every head turned in my dito me? I’m a veteran.”
rection, except the old man’s. He was shaking feverMy ears registered a gunshot echo through the
ishly on the pavement. Close up, I recognized the hard
streets. I looked over to see Sarge standing still, pointcreases of his forehead and the tufts of wiry white hair
ing a 1973 Colt M15 at my body, hand quivering.
poking through his skullcap. Sarge was the proudest
All I could feel was the fire in my chest and the
bum in Harlem, a Vietnam War veteran Dwayne and I
blood in my ears.
had known since childhood. He was coughing and
*
*
*
convulsing, muttering curses in a high-pitched, uninNathan –
telligible drawl. The man who had been kicking Sarge
Dwayne had sagged to his knees, his head bobbed
A Prayer
for Mama
i’m reading this book
about this guy named jesus
who lets starving men eat
and blind men see.
but he couldn’t give back
Mama’s sight.
that’s how i know
his story’s fiction.
it was always nine o’ clock
when the church bell rang
the pastor would open the door, urge,
come in.
we’d sit.
Mama would say,
bow your head and pray
she sat there so regal, brown hair
pinned up and determined mouth
she’s the one who gave me that book
about jesus and all those blind, hungry people
i wondered if i should tell her it ain’t true
but i never did.
Mama went blind
in ’44 she said
took a blow to the head
i wondered, if jesus were real,
could he give her sight?
but Mama died last year
there were no hospital bracelets, no good-byes.
she prayed to jesus to love her,
and he loved her enough to lead her away.
or maybe her heart was just broken.
papa still take me to church sometimes,
but not like Mama did.
his faith blurred too.
sometimes I think our faith is a bible
with running ink, its pages dripping with water.
i can’t figure just what it says
or if it even true
when papa says,
bow your head and pray
sometimes i pray to saints,
but they never listen.
mostly i pray to Mama
sometimes to say i love you,
mostly to wonder whether or not
she looking at jesus.
by Casey Vittimberga, Folsom, CA
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
Caffeine and Eavesdropping
enough to believe that her opinions about right and
looked forward to spending my five dollars as efwrong superseded those of God’s – not a specific
ficiently as possible in order to get the coffee-fudeity’s, she added, but those made clear in the recureled high I craved after three hours of sleep.
ring moral guidelines put forth by every religion.
I reached Borders five minutes before happy hour
Kat, on the other hand, believed it egotistical of Dana
ended and got myself a large hazelnut cafe latte
to believe that she knew the inner machinations of
(soon saturated with Splenda) at a discount price, and
God’s mind. Jeffrey, a heavyset, upper-middle-aged
then later, a large iced coffee (also saturated with
man with graying hair and a formidable mustache,
Splenda). I was not and am not truly awake, but any
was an atheist and thought they were both utterly
attempt to close my eyes and fall asleep ends with
wrong and presumptuous, but eventually became
me doing some sort of exotic jig with an eye twitch
silent and shot scathing glares.
here, a head jerk there, and some tingling sensation
Funny, I remember this same argument on bus
in my right leg.
rides freshman year. It’s a bit discomHowever, if not for my caffeine-heightforting to know that there are questions
ened sense of awareness, I perhaps would
There are
that will remain unanswered as I age,
not have noticed some of the many things
that made these last couple hours the
questions that and will remain debatable forty-something years from now. I don’t like dismost interesting of the day.
will remain
comforting things, so I stopped
Somewhere between poring over books
of successful essays and casting forebodunanswered listening.
It was 8:11 when I had to use the resting glances toward the giant book of SAT
room. I guess I was happy that nature
II practice tests that I will eventually
told me I needed a break from the college application
bring myself to open, I found time to eavesdrop on a
shenanigans. The creaky stall doors were made by a
book club discussing, in hushed assertions, their varicompany that went by the name of Columbia. Dang.
ous views of the world, and each member’s belief
(No joke – go see for yourself when you have to
that one surely trumped the rest.
pee at Borders.)
The members were older but cosmopolitan-looking
I walked out only to find another reminder of my
folk. One was dressed in an outfit that I would steal;
impending unknown fate. Some apathetic teenager
her name was Kat. Another was wearing proper
had left a misplaced book standing on the foremost
grandmother attire (not to stereotype grandmothers);
shelf. The subject was college majors. I looked away.
her name was Dana. I didn’t catch the name of the
By the time I returned to my couch, the book club
book, but apparently it had some controversial point
had departed. This left me nothing to creep upon, so I
about who has the ultimate control in life – or someplugged in my dilapidated earphones and continued
thing too deep to handle.
eye-gulping information that would be useful to me
Why is it so easy to figure out where people stand
in the fall, while ignoring things that were more imjust by taking one look at them? I am no exception,
portant at that moment, all with an Andrew Bird
I’m sure, but it’s still surprising how simple it is to
soundtrack to tie things together nicely.
predict exactly how most people react to given situa“Carrying on with your conspiracies …”
tions based on appearance.
I was in the middle of one of my favorites, “EfDana was infuriated that Kat was egotistical
figy,” when my mother came to get me. Peeved that I
I
Dahlia & Other Boundaries
I
told him my name was Dahlia. He let
it roll off his tongue. Dahlia, he said,
that’s beautiful. I thought, that’s why
I chose it, but I held my tongue.
We were in the back of the library,
somewhere between the psychology section and science, in the long row of fiction. Nobody was around.
I kissed his collarbone and he kissed
my mouth, and we held each other.
His name was Eddie. He had just
started college that fall, and he’d been
watching me for weeks. He checked out
Photo by Calvin Chhour, Salt Lake City, UT
36
by Andrew Ellis, Mason, OH
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
had to pause it to gather my things and wrap up my
iPod, I reluctantly got my stuff together.
“ … filling the room with a sense of unease.”
Borders was playing Bird’s album “Noble Beast.”
It was playing “Effigy.” It was within three seconds
of being completely in sync with my iPod.
My heart literally fluttered.
I reveled in how low the chances of this happening
were, only to be interrupted by my mother’s obnoxious honking.
I suppose it wasn’t that obnoxious since I had wandered outside and was dazedly staring at the car without realizing that it was in fact my car, the one that I
was supposed to get into. Clearly, I had several more
important things to muse over.
Of course, this fleeting bubble of harmony was
poked sharply by my mother’s shrill excitement that I
had received an application from an unnamed prestigious university, which turned into a bitter argument
about why I had no right to decide not to apply there.
Whatever, of course I have the right. Hrrmph. (Seriously, do people even make that noise in real life? I
totally would if I knew the proper way to execute
such a sound.)
It turned into a squabble over my lack of responsibility and my misplacing of several coffee mugs (has
anyone seen a navy-blue coffee mug lying around
school?), but we eventually mutually surrendered. I
became extremely conscious of the creeping silence,
and my mind immediately set to filling it with lyrics
of obscure songs.
“The decider says that I’m a fighter, but I can’t feel
my ---- legs …”
With time, the coffee began to wear off, and two
hours later, I was back in the same computer chair
that had taken on such a huge role this year.
And as my eyes slowly stopped jitterbugging, the
coincidences were becoming less apparent.
It’s amazing how comfortable this uncomfortably
familiar chair is at a time like this. ✦
by Kelsie Qua, Hudson, NY
passionate and shaky, and his fingers
books on chemistry, poetry by Robert
were nervous against my skin.
Frost, short stories by Edgar Allan Poe,
Eddie was majoring in forensic scisonnets by Shakespeare.
ence and he liked old movies. Film noir,
And each time he waited and watched
he said, like “The Big Sleep,” and had I
and timed it just right to make sure I was
seen it?
the one who checked them out. He asked
I had.
who my favorite writer was and had I enA gangly kid with dark glasses and
joyed my weekend? No one he’d ever
Converse sneakers was in the psycholheard of and no, I had broken up with
ogy section and we stopped making out.
my boyfriend. He liked that but was
Can I call you? he asked
sympathetic and hid his
but I said no, no, I was really
smile well.
busy right now with work and
I’d never had a boyfriend
He’d been
everything. It was a lie. I was
in the first place.
He had big chocolate eyes
watching me never busy.
He came back around the
and a beautiful smile. There
for weeks
library and left notes for
was a teddy-bear cuteness
Dahlia.
about him, except he was
They asked why students
thin and taller than any teddy
kept asking for people who didn’t work
bear I’d ever seen.
He asked for my help finding a book
in the building. I didn’t know, I said, but
in the fiction section one Friday aftersmiled.
noon, all the way at the far end of the liOne day Eddie came back looking for
brary.
Dahlia and found me entering informaI knew he wasn’t looking for a book.
tion in the computer.
He asked if I got back together with
I haven’t seen you around lately, I
said, how are you?
my boyfriend and I said no, no, he was
He was going to graduate soon and he
gone for good and I couldn’t have been
wanted to know if I wanted to go to the
happier about it.
movies.
When he kissed me it was electric and
COMMENT
I said yes but nothing good was playing.
We went to the old movie theater on
main street and watched black and
whites until late.
He walked me home to my apartment,
though it was only a few blocks away.
He kissed me under the street lamp but I
didn’t say, do you want to come inside?
You have the most beautiful eyes, he
said. They were blue, perhaps the exact
opposite of his.
Well, bye, Dahlia, he said after a long
time.
My name isn’t Dahlia, I said.
Oh? He asked.
It’s Kate.
He nodded. That’s still pretty, he said,
but I didn’t think so. He didn’t ask me
why I’d lied. Perhaps, if he had, I would
have told him. And maybe I would have
even told him why I told him my real
name, now. But he didn’t, so I was quiet.
I unlocked the door.
It was the first time I’d told a guy my
real name in a while.
Good-bye, I said, and went inside.
Out in the hall before he left he whispered, good-bye Kate, but I didn’t think
he’d meant for me to hear it. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Bailey Carlisle, Wellesley, MA
the second blends into the third, until suddenly it is
some ungodly time in the morning and Seymour’s
Lake is next.
You both get off, because hell, a few hours ago you
were considering killing yourself; might as well get
killed by this interesting stranger. You end up back at
the station, waiting for the seven a.m. train, soaking
wet and laughing at Kit’s impersonation of that guy
on television, and you can’t believe how much you
love life.
*
*
*
Kit is in one of his moods again. With a cigarette
propped between his middle finger and his ring finger,
dark circles under dark eyes clashing with pale skin,
he’s a vision. “You see, your train analogy is all
wrong, darling.”
“Really?”
“It’s not the trains that make life; it’s the train stops.
People come and people go; memories come and
memories go.”
“What about death?”
“What about it? Life doesn’t revolve around death.
It’s just another train stop.”
“Then what about after death?”
“Just more train stops. I mean, when you’re a
teenager, you never know what you’re going to be as
an adult. Same as when you’re ready to die: you just
don’t know what it’s going to be like.”
With his wild analogies probably pulled out of his
butt and his arms flying everywhere to get you to see
the beauty in them, you realize you love this strange,
babbling creature.
You are 18 and two years ago you were going to
kill yourself.
Photo by Olivia Ezinga, Alto, MI
*
*
*
You wonder why people can be so blind to themselves. Beautiful people often call themselves ugly.
loved them when you were little. It’s not like you
Intelligent people often call themselves dumb, and
have to go anywhere anytime soon; that’s the good
good people often need to prove their goodness by
thing about deciding your own death, taking your life
running off to war. Or that just could be Kit. He
into your own hands.
announces it over some shabby dinner you made that
You get on the train and know you have to decide
he says he loves even if he really hates it. He says it’s
how you’re going to kill yourself. You don’t want to
because he feels he doesn’t do enough for the childie painfully; you have the choice, right? By chance,
dren, for his country, for everything. It’s basically lost
or luck, or fate or something equally dumb, your eyes
on you because suddenly your horrible cooking has
catch the list of train stops. Seymour’s Lake is the
become so much more interesting and your throat is
third on the list. You figure it has to be somewhere
dry, but it’s not from the wine. You want to laugh,
near a lake, right?
because this is coming from the man who recycles,
Seymour’s Lake will be the stop where you walk
who watches political conventions and donates to any
off and it will be the last time people see you alive.
kind of drive. If he’s not a good person, then you
Seymour’s Lake is a ways away, you realize. You
don’t even deserve hell.
are somewhere in the middle of the list,
It’s probably your fault. He wants chiland the list has to repeat itself before
dren;
if you could give him children, he
getting back to Seymour’s. You begin to
“It’s not the
wouldn’t have this need to prove anyget nervous somewhere in transition
trains that
thing to his country or to himself.
between Cedar and Somethingtown. Your
But this is Kit, and he never blames you,
hands fiddle with your favorite cardigan
make life; it’s
and you shouldn’t be blaming him but you
(after all, you don’t want to die in clothbreak a dish after dinner just for the hell
ing you hate) and your toe starts tapping the train stops.”
of it and start crying. You feel even more
inside your shoe to what you guess is the
pathetic than a 16-year-old who wants a
beat of your heart. Finally you decide
window
out
of
the world, picking up broken china and
that if someone talks to you before the stop at Seyleaving tears on the linoleum. Until Kit picks up you
mour’s, you won’t. You won’t do it, you won’t go. All
off the floor and just holds you against his chest.
this nervousness will either make you kill yourself, or
This is heaven, wishing you could stay like this
dissolve into a little bundle of hope directly under
forever.
your stomach. That is, if someone talks to you.
This is hell, when you remember that you might as
And miraculously – because let’s face it, people
well have wished for a unicorn.
don’t just come out of nowhere and start chattering –
You are 20 and you haven’t thought about Seysomeone does. His name is Kit Thomas, his real name
mour’s
Lake in a long time – until tonight.
is Christopher, and he’s quick to tell you that all he
*
*
*
needs in life are cigarettes, instant ramen, and paperThe ringing of the phone might sound innocent
back classics. An hour later you know that he really
enough, but not in your too-large apartment with its
loves children, he’s going to name his firstborn Leo
too-big personality; you’ve never felt so small in your
Fyodor, and that if he doesn’t die in Russia, it’s not
life as when the ringing echoes off the walls. You
really death to him. You lose track of the hours when
T
rains always go where they’re supposed to and
they never go backwards. Trains always stay on
their tracks and trains only need operators in
case something goes wrong. The only reason trains
and people are alike is that they can derail and crash
in a plethora of lights, but even that is reserved for
special people. Train people.
You are 16 and you are boarding a train for the last
time.
You hoped to have been a train person when you
were younger, but this was before school became the
school that adults still cringe over and kids think is a
living hell. Well, you’re buying your ticket out of this
living hell. You think about trains and how much you
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
answer the phone and hope it’s not that call, dear God,
dear Buddha, dear whoever is listening, please let it
not be that call.
It’s a telemarketer selling something or another and
just for the hell of it you buy two. You need to give
Kit something when he comes home, after all.
When it comes in its rather average brown box, you
restrain yourself from opening it, and instead shove it
onto the top shelf behind old sweaters. Then you wait
and eventually your days just become sleeping, working, and waiting. And finally, when that other call
comes and your whole world shatters into mirror-like
pieces, you hang up the phone and you can’t keep
from laughing.
Now your days consist of sleeping, working, and
not remembering. If you do remember, you try to
think of train stops and trains only. You think of what
Kit said about people coming and going from train
stops and now you can prove that he’s wrong, because
he never leaves your train, no matter how many stops
there are. ✦
fiction
Trains
Once a Soldier
He watched his rigid, old hands, once stained with blood
as he traced his fingers up the stock, butt, and nose of the rifle
that had once dealt fate with undeniable pain –
undeniable and true. I used to be able to fly,
he thought as his hands began to shake. I used to be a real
man. Now only with his rifle did he feel at home.
It all started back when he left his home
for a world that could make the blood
of the strongest man curdle. It was the real
world out there, he was told, and was given a rifle
to become friends with. “This is mine,” he recited, as the enemies
would fly
overhead. He could hear their planes’ engines, and feel the pain
in his raw stomach. This was the only kind of pain
that was unwelcome, the only pain that made him homesick. Night fell, and so he could only hear the mosquitoes fly
around his eyes. He’d wondered about them, why blood
tasted so good. It was the heartbeat of his rifle,
the pulse line of the Earth. This was what became real
to him. A well-oiled machine, built to dish out real
punishment, severe casualties, pain.
This was why he enlisted. His rifle
told his story now. Home
was an anomaly, the Earth stained with the blood
of infidels, comrades, and those in between. Now the bullets fly
as easily as the rain once fell. “Time to fly,
boys,” said his staff sergeant. “It’s about to get real
so, now’s not the time to lose your cool.” Blood
rushed to his head and delivered a sensation of pain
and adrenaline, one that he now lusted for. What is home?
He had lost all sense as his rifle
took control. He was pink-slipped, and the thunderous roar
of the rifle
assumed his position. Feeling as if he could fly,
he felt his once-raw stomach turn to velvet. “This is home,”
he thought out loud, screamed out loud. As it happened in real
time, it felt as though the experience sped by too quickly. The pain
was still there, though different now. He looked to his hands
stained with blood.
It was the crusted blood on his rifle,
the new, old pain, and how he wished to fly,
that made him feel real. He would never get home.
by Alanna Doherty, Bayside, NY
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
37
bottled spring
Her mom bought a can of air freshener
called “spring.”
The little blue bottle sat on the windowsill
in the bathroom,
framed by a small window.
Outside the window,
it was still winter.
Not nice snowy winter.
Hard winter.
Numb winter.
Dull winter.
The grass was dead, the trees bare.
Brown winter.
The little girl tied her hair into pigtails
with green rubber bands.
She dug a small pink dress out of a box
labeled “spring/summer”
with thick black marker.
She had grown since the leaves had fallen.
The dress hardly fell past her scabbed knees.
She didn’t wear shoes.
Grabbing the air freshener,
she ran outside,
her pale thin finger pumping thick clouds
of mist from the can
as she twirled frantically.
Her feet burned
against the frosted grass.
Crunch.
The mist surrounded her,
and she sucked it in greedily.
She coughed.
It smelled wrong.
Too sweet,
like her mom’s perfume.
She wanted flowers.
She wanted butterflies.
She wanted sun.
She was too old to cry,
so she bit her lip
’til it bled a little.
She stood on the brown earth
tugging at her pink dress.
It was too tight.
Her feet were numb.
She ran inside again,
still clutching the little blue bottle.
Sharp needles in her toes.
She missed the daffodils.
Photo by Tomas Castro, Lakewood, CA
Leaving
My room seems empty
Without me
Inside it
Objects lie haphazardly
Across the floor
This and there
The walls are white
The windows clear
No memory of mine
Has passed here
It feels
As if I never was
Even when I am
Somehow I wonder
How it would feel
To leave – will the walls
Remember me?
Will my books recall
The hours I spent?
Will my desk reminisce
The words I meant?
Will my mirror
Remember
My awkward gaze?
What did it reflect?
Somehow I’m scared
That my room will remember
But I will
Forget
by Harneet Kaur, Bridgewater, NJ
by Taylor Granger, Wernersville, PA
Dinner Talk
There are languages beneath the words,
currents of meaning carrying the thin white
foam along.
I sit silently at the dinner table,
unmoving yet never still,
following the step-by-steps:
not only of the words,
but also of the flick of eyes,
the strategic clink of forks on plates,
the just-in-time covering
of faces by napkins.
It’s enough to make me wonder
if dinner really is only a time
for families to talk,
or if it’s a time for separate
universes to come together,
a time for fragile shadow bridges
to be built
and for messages to be signed across,
unspoken but still received,
under the ceaseless gaze
of the watchers.
38
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
your breathing keeps me awake
with worry weaving up my throat
Usually I’m content
To sit here on my own
A quiet coffee shop
In bland, relaxing tones
each of your sighs seems like the last
so I lie still as you sleep,
trying not to break the life that
pulls back, quivers, releases, and is retrieved
every time you inhale exhale
my hands are balled and tight
with the dreams I want to share
my nail touches my wrist
and my throat is clenched
with a murmur I need to make
Today something has changed
I feel that there should be
A friend in the red chair
Behind my cup of tea
(and the plate that held my bread)
but can’t seem
to push out of my lips
by Adriana Van Manen, Princeton, NJ
(cold tears the sky has shed)
Bug War
The bugs argue back and forth
As the wind-blown grass dances
Around them, amidst the mocking trees
Water canters to the battlefield,
Meeting the insects’ war cry
Driftwood distracts the current’s path
Embracing it in a pool of algae
Obnoxious students drown the bugs
Heckling and cackling
The bugs retreat for another day
When the students stay inside,
Paint the pages of their notebooks
And argue back and forth
As the air conditioning blows the papers
Across the room
by Katie Vondette, Clarkston, MI
Buckle Up, There’s a
Storm Blowing In
Car rides are especially terrible in the backseat.
Whenever I’m there, it always seems to storm
inside
and
Outside
of the car.
A step, a skip, a jump too far,
Over the edge and into the dark,
I feel my fate came closer still.
My soul’s departed; it’s had its fill
Of all the stress of the trip I’ve had,
The demons hiding, creating the bad.
Rain streaks the windshield as tears fly down
my cheeks.
The wipers lie dormant; they don’t work
anyway.
Broken, just like my eyelids,
unable to keep the floodgates closed.
Amongst the shadows, the rocks do weep
About the deadly secrets that they keep,
Providing the world with a place of rest
For all the things that are left best
Unsaid and kept in dark, as a veil
Hidden like a chimera’s tail.
I sit quietly, but only for a moment,
listening to the thunder from your mouth.
And the lightning pierces the sky just as
my words
race atop the ceiling of my Chevrolet and out
the
closed
sunroof.
POETRY
(with a dash of red)
I gaze out the window
Search for a face I know
But all I see are strangers
Tramping the dirty snow
Thunder rumbles with fury and somehow,
your words are louder,
covering up the trembling low voice of the sky.
by Robert James, Wilmington, NC
•
My Coffee Shop
Revelation
Hidden in the
Shadows
The stench of the scene leads all away,
To keep the ancients from seeing the day.
It stalls troubadours who sailed in, brave,
To run away with the secrets unscathed.
The secrets brew and the depth increases,
As does the quest for the answers’ releases.
by Amber Nadeau, Cave Creek, AZ
i am always the last
one asleep
The backseat is a place with stormy weather.
Maybe I should call shotgun more often.
by Taylor Easum, Perry, KS
And suddenly … I get the lonely feeling that
I’m the only person in the world who
knows my name.
It would explain why I talked to my hair
this morning.
by Annie Canfield, Council, ID
wrinkles
i repaid you in every way i could,
monetarily and physically, and i
said that i was sorry over and over again
(so many times i lost count), and even
then i didn’t feel like it was enough,
but when i meet you face to face, you
tell me that it’s all right and you forgive me
with your old friendly smile and when
i ask if i can do anything, anything
at all, you only tilt your lips and
shake your head. “it’s not necessary,”
you tell me as you walk away, while i
watch your disappearing back and
grimace with the knowledge that i will
never fully iron out the creases of guilt
in my soul.
by Rui Miao, Jonesboro, AR
Hearts and Heads
She stared at the ceiling. You
watched her do it and you
remembered the way her face had looked
when you
flew halfway across the country. You
had watched her stare out the pillbox
windows; you
had noticed how the neighborhoods looked
like spinal cords; you
had fallen asleep with her head on your
shoulder. You
copied poems into red notebooks. (You
hate college-ruled.) And when you
awoke to the outside world you
found unremembered ink stains blotting your
fingers black. You
always wanted to be a New Yorker. You
(in someone else’s words) were a
homegrown coward. You
pretended Boston’s city lights were New
York’s. You
wrote yourself in third person. You.
by Michelle Feda, Sudbury, MA
Someone’s Not
Here
something is missing
someone’s not here
not here with me
I don’t know where He is
or what She’s doing
I never quite have
but I hope I do
someday.
I pick up the phone
to call someone
but I hang it up because
someone’s not here.
not wherever I am
someplace
out of place
in space
nut case
split in two
I see you, me.
there’s a glass door on the porch
and I’m on both sides of it.
on the outside, looking out.
on the inside, looking in.
far away from
whatever I need to see.
sealed in by
definitions needing definitions
try to read this text but
it’s backwards and boring
pretend to be riveted
but pack your bags
while you’re at it.
(you’ll thank me later.)
(disenfranchised, disillusioned,
disparate, desperate,
distant.)
re: what am i
by Ian Grahame, McHenry, IL
Ruby Red
The afternoon is immersed in yellow waves
Speckled gold leaves waver to the wind’s rustle
Ruby red, ruby red
Sapphires hang in splendid orbs
From leaves with heart-shaped faces
Flirtatious wings beat, nestled above in
branches to sing
Half written phrases of heart songs
Plump children with red-splattered fingers
Squealing, taunting, laughing, running
Bouncing high to fall among twigs, the sound
like splintering bones
Red ruby, red ruby
The wind blows past leaves
The summer heat challenges the bashful wind
to a duel
Perspiration remains in the air, coaxed only
by the rare rushing wave of air
Children play and hide,
Plucking sapphires from emeralds
Trees watch like patient adults, protecting
those who take cover in their woods
Ruby red, ruby red
by Kristine Hui, Delta, BC, Canada
ink on rainwater
words
are magnetic i let
them hold me intact
watching inspiration kick
its heels, dirt crumbling on
the page
rain abruptly
makes her entrance
she pours vigor in a way that arranges
my eyes inside out my limbs
twisted i sink into the puddles my heart
dispersed i am
earth i am the loose soil sliding
like ink
staining the white paper a wilting
russet rose
my hands mud cake the words ’til i soak
the book full of
rainwater, dirty swollen poetry
bursting at the seams
i breathe in broken
syllables (it’s
eligible).
by Alyx Chandler, Madison, AL
Miscalculation
Formulas, binary and chemical reactions
make more sense
Than the science of human interaction to this
Academic, who can write a dissertation but
finds difficult
Expression of affection
Never keen on the idea of fatherhood
Pacifiers and baby bottles never felt a natural
fit like
The attraction of hydrogen to oxygen
Yet somehow
Carnation-colored socks, knit from hands
Mapped with age spots and lines
Revealed an attic unknown before
A seven-pound baby no longer, she is
A young girl with
Cascading locks the hue of autumn leaves
But his fatherly love has not disappeared in
the breeze
With the lullabies and pumpkin costumes
Now folded in a dusty dresser
Whose drawers do not align
Even still
He erred
An honest six-second careless error
One door open
Four wheels rolling
Only three seats filled
He can do the math
He was a chemist and a physicist
But the value of the coefficient of friction
does not explain
The damage of two fair-skinned, freckled knees
Scraped across asphalt like fingernails on an
emery board
While the derivative does not disclose the
force of a silver Acura
On the hand of a ten-year-old dancer in a
crimson cotton dress
Nor does his Ph.D. give him the prescience
to predict
How pavement carves caverns
Into size 12 girls’ sandals
In a white that only stays bright for one day
of wear
And fills them with souvenirs of gravel and tar
Permit Me to Tell
You About Sorrow
He looks at the girl whose porcelain skin is
now sinewy flesh
He knows computations of the centripetal force
Or the force of friction will not measure
The pain his daughter is feeling, and
As if his stomach isn’t a stress ball
Squeezed and contorted
Yells come from his son and wife
For this girl’s uncovered flesh, and
This man,
Never a quiet one,
Is silent
Permit me to tell you about sorrow,
For I have coped with the final good-byes
of a beloved friend,
The tears streaming down blood-flushed
cheeks as the U-Haul truck put distance
between us,
As we realized that our promises of keeping
in touch
Would not be kept.
Permit me to warn you of sorrow’s
destruction,
For I have wept through the loss of an
adored pet,
And I have witnessed cold-blooded betrayals
by a trusted friend,
an irrevocable, permanent end to a once
faithful sorority.
But the sorrow I remember most
was the day when dogs barked, birds chirped,
and squirrels scurried in preparation for
winter’s onset.
It was the distant siren of a police chase,
It was the rustle of dead leaves in the wind,
It was shrieks of laughter reverberating in
the neighborhood
As children played merrily on a midautumn’s evening;
It was when lovers strolled through the park,
Caressing and cradling each other’s hands,
When I realized that I sat shivering on a
whitewashed bench,
cold.
Thoughtful.
Alone.
How can he quantify his daughter’s pain?
Blood escaped from youthful veins
Tears that went sledding down her snowy
pale cheeks
Or the exact angle of her tilted head, held
down in shame
He knows
Some things can’t be calculated
by Rhaina Cohen, East Brunswick, NJ
November
She’s sitting in the cracked brace of an
earthen tree,
curls undulating like falling crescents
and smoke,
a riven Polaroid in her sepia hands.
And she looks like she has the voice of
an ocean
and the scent of reborn lilacs, but she
only wishes
she had that much courage – to put herself
(back)
together and yell until she has galaxies
and stars
pinned up against her lips.
by Holly Dinkel, St. Joseph, MO
Candidate Brew
Her grandfather used to hold out his withered
palms
and hand her words that said wearing
half-hearts
was a sin, that her soul could break her
mother’s
diamonds and still be whole.
womyn
white, tight
business suits
men
black, slacked
brooks brothers
clumsily
crumpled –
sprawled across my living room
in a candidate brew’s induced
slumber
And she wore his poetry on her skin
like little jewels that made her beautiful,
until he chose the heavens and undid her
stitches,
leaving her with lungs that burned like
autumn leaves,
(November pale in comparison).
opened bottle caps
clunk, clunk, cranked
into odd shapes
scattered in the living room
juxtapose
conservative
values
of my parents’
book club
party
by Roopa Shankar, San Jose, CA
I hope the
rough edges
of metal –
rusted, cracked, once
alcohol hedges –
leave a mark
on the cherry oak floorboards
dear lord –
my family is a bunch
of Republicans!
by Emily Harris, Westfield, NJ
Photo by Alex Duvall, Russellville, AK
POETRY
•
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
39
Guilty as a Grim
Reaper
At daybreak, the messenger was killed by
my hand;
I grasped and cleaved the life where it
once grew,
Claiming it selfishly for my own eyes to view.
Violet allured and the desire began to expand.
Each morning the secret scent of future days
Secretes whirlwinds of intoxicating haze.
A lustful hunger overtook what was planned.
Before snapping root to stem, a final call
before the knell:
The delicate crocuses whispered, “Spring,”
then softly fell.
Yo-Yo Heart
Unconscionable
If I say
You string your yo-yo heart around me
Smiling in the dark
Puddles of color, bursting through
The pitch-black envelope you mailed me in.
Stick the postage of your love
Right below my throat.
Longingly looking at my neck,
Feeling the graceful curve.
Stamp me well, for I may return
Without the chance to flee.
Daylight breaks, your light dims so
As I can see your face.
You are not as I thought you were.
How should I take it when a young brother
calls out my name?
Talkin’ ’bout I want because of the length of
his chain.
How should I feel when you boss me around?
Talkin’ ’bout you a pimp, but you’re so lost,
you can’t be found.
What should I do when all you want from me
is my set of measurements?
Talkin’ ’bout you want a red bone, a 38/24/31.
How should I react when you hand me
your gun?
Talkin’ ’bout you just want to have some
harmless fun.
How do I pick up where I left off?
When I’m doing time for your decisions and
another family is mourning over their loss.
This is the story of a gangsta’s chick, whose
Clyde so soon forgets just who got his back.
The one he smacks around, controls her life,
causes the utmost amount of confusion and
strife.
The one who gave up her intelligence to feed
his fifth-grade reading-level male ego.
The one who was finally let out of his
dangerous clutch.
The one who was remembered by the size of
her butt.
The one who finally has a clue what to do
with her life.
The one whose love has no price.
The one who found her own source of
appreciation of her inner beauty.
The one who holds the key to her own
destiny, finally.
feet blistered by city sidewalk
in July’s heat
by Colette Bersie, Montrose, MN
by Megan Cahill, Cranford, NJ
Weather Man
He wanted to be a meteorologist.
He turned the TV to Channel Two every
morning
And watched as some cute local hero spoke
what would happen today.
He wanted it to rain when he said, like on
those perfect summer days
That could only be properly concluded with a
thunderstorm.
He wanted the snow to fall in blizzards when
he had a math test the next morning,
To block the roads and the numbers and keep
him warm in bed for those extra hours.
He wanted to call back tsunamis with elegant
computer hands,
Retracting them gently like his yo-yo to the
dark stormy seas they came from,
And smile as small Thai children clamor for
his autograph
And mothers thank him with tears in their eyes
For saving their babies.
He wanted the backdrops to be his life
Where he could set the sun, and therefore his
mood,
And it would never rain, he would never
be sad
On the Fourth of July.
Fireworks would explode behind him
While his name scrolled endlessly across the
bottom of the screen
And the world would see him in the sort
of light
That’s normally reserved for movie stars.
Photo by Christopher Green, Phoenix, AZ
Infomercial
Oh infomercial,
You hypnotizing,
Mesmerizing,
Wonderful way to waste the hours
In the middle of the night.
Vacuum cleaners,
Cuisinarts,
Power tools,
Useless, over-priced crap
That not even a
Lobotomized squirrel would
Possibly want to buy.
Yet I sit there and I watch
As the seconds,
The minutes,
The hours fly.
Over-enthusiastic salesmen
Remind me over and over how great
Their chicken cooker,
Or whatever else,
Is.
Then, for one moment,
I fall under their spell
And I’m tempted to call that
1-800 number.
Luckily, I always snap back
Into reality before it’s too late.
“Call within the next
Ten minutes and I’ll make
One payment for you!”
Yeah?
Well, $39.99 is still way
Too much for a food processor,
Genius.
by Linda Dunklee, Garden City, MI
Welcome Home
I dream of a family
With a beautiful red-headed man.
A gorgeous daughter,
Bright wandering blue eyes,
Curly locks of orange-red
Draping her shoulders.
Soft, smooth pale skin,
Freckles that create new constellations.
Barefoot in a sunflower dress,
Wading through a sea of bright-green grass,
Observing the world,
Chasing butterflies.
He emerges from the front door,
Wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Welcome home.”
But my fantasy shatters
When someone calls my name.
Click.
…
Ooooh. This weed eater can also make
hamburgers!
And it’s only 20 bucks!
by Kristine Avant, Dassel, MN
40
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
by Coy Truman, Orrville, OH
•
POETRY
by Cherranda Smith, Athens, GA
St. Joan
They warned me of this.
But I prayed
That they might be
Wrong.
They promised
To lead me to glory
If I made you a king,
And I did.
After fighting for you,
And sacrificing everything I live for
Only to have you turn your cheek,
I expected more.
And now I have been chained down,
Deprived of the glorious sun
And the warm winds
That once caressed my skin.
I long for the feel of the tall grasses,
And the feel of smooth leather,
My horse’s worn saddle
Beneath me as I ride through the hills.
These people call me
A witch.
Much like you once did.
But they have no proof.
So they have condemned me
For wearing men’s clothing.
And tomorrow
I will burn.
by Meghan Smith, Bethlehem, PA
you will picture bare feet
beside worn shoes
or dirt collected in sidewalk cracks
like fingernails.
But if I say
bracelets clanking against Spanish skin
and dress the color of love
you will not think of her.
Your mind will drift like seaweed
to when he opened the car door for you
or when she smiled over drinks at you
or when you both collapsed onto the couch
and traced the outlines of your bodies.
We all breathed ocean air
when the man named routine
took the day off
and we all sighed like seagulls
when he returned to take her away.
We all remember that day.
by Jim Sullivan, Owings Mills, MD
Something Vital
I sit with my friends on the gray concrete,
Backs to the chain-link fence,
And a green, grassy field
Spreads out beyond like a mini-forest.
There are jokes told,
Good humor floats in the air
Like spring pollen,
But I must be allergic.
I open my mouth
And I want to laugh,
But I barely manage a cough;
I feel I cannot breathe.
As if I inhale the fun
And it sticks in my throat;
Like I have nothing
To interpret it
And fill the hollow inside.
Something vital is missing.
Two of our number
Go to the field, merry and carefree.
Two of our number,
A girl and I, stand, looking on;
Hands against the chilly fence like prisoners.
A thought occurs to me
And I voice it to her:
“You know what I miss most
About elementary school?”
Like a seer,
She answers my question
As if it were her own:
“Recess.”
I look at her
In a new light:
Somehow, stumbling in the jungle,
I’ve found a kindred spirit.
Someone who’s lost that vital …
Something –
A full and complete
And beautiful freedom.
by Matthew Malone, Elk Grove, CA
Define
Nutshell
Just Being a Teenager gossip
Listed down in a summer notebook,
The ones they collect and make into heartfelt
movies,
I could probably tell you how it feels
To grow up, and feel more empty, and
more full
Than you could ever feel.
Or I could just tell you moments that
Continue to
Once a child of clichés, I ate my words.
Was an overweight proud-to-be American.
Force-fed daily talk-radio sessions were
Choked down with half-baked poems.
Awoke to morning breath.
I’ve heard it so often,
I’ve seen it so much –
and all I think
is, How Dare You?
How dare you put the blame on us!
Is it our fault we’re growing up?
Isn’t that what you want us to do?
You take away the fun
and leave behind the serious.
You say we’re too young
to worry about certain things,
But at the same time
you say we’re too old
to act like children.
As soon as something goes wrong
and you don’t understand,
The first thing
to hit your lips is,
they’re just being Teenagers.
How Dare You?!
We try to hold on
to the kid inside,
but now we’re too immature.
We try to let go of the kid inside (and it’s
a crazy ride) –
now we worry too much!
What do you want?!
Don’t you see
that who you want us to be
is driving us all crazy?
Don’t you remember
what it was like?
The tears, stress, and worry?
The reason we say
you don’t know what it’s like
to be a teen today
Is because you never stop to listen
without contradicting.
You always say to grow up,
but don’t grow up too fast.
Just choose between the two!
That’s why we all come out
in such a mess.
Being a teen
is all about being in between.
The mess that’s never us.
That’s why most of us
choose to leave,
’cause we’re tired and sick –
of being in between.
We’re tired of being teens.
We just want to be ourselves,
without you contradicting.
Define.
Me.
First, one memory earnestly raises its hand
My grandma, and she sits at her chair, staring
at a computer screen
Tells me of my grandpa, and the younger
brother who died before him
In her words, she hands me a picture of him
sitting in his living room
Listening to records with tears clinging to his
red cheeks.
The first instance that I saw my grandpa cry.
Now I travel into a movie,
And sitting with my head tucked into my
shoulder and
Blankets hugging me in blue, I see the story
Of a boy and his mentor
His mentor and the government
The government and his mother
The mother and her harsh words
The harsh words and her son
The harsh words, the son who spoke them,
and the mentor who didn’t deserve him.
And that story made me wonder of humans
Honor,
Cowardice, and brutality.
Last, I travel into my soul
And I view the collection of feelings,
memories, and their faces
They hang on strings and are stuffed
in bottles
Catalogued on shelves and most often
forgotten.
I see the darkness I’ve inhaled, my sinful
addictions that continue to blacken
And I see my redemption: the light I’ve
collected, and the beauty I’ve witnessed.
by Katie Wyatt, Hamilton, OH
Space
When the stars beneath
my lids I can’t see, because
like a nebula
my thoughts haze the way,
I look afar to other
galaxies that might
have so clear a place
where I, another planet, can
just be ’round a sun
revolving without
blinking from my eyes the dust
that makes orbit aimless in this space I
spin no feet I sight no thing
for I’ve marooned just
craters for eyes and
nonsense for gravity specks
that fling me from orb
I’m left guessless as
to what world I’ll have to cling.
by Brian Sparks, Philadelphia, PA
Born to teenage parents,
Put up for adoption.
Taken in affection, unrequited;
Childhood scribbles on the wall
Foretold my life story.
Made love for the first time and knew
What it was to write poetry.
Bored of the forwardness in prose,
Became a fan of haiku and freeform.
Lost interest in high school academics.
Read John Galt’s speech
For several fleeting hours.
Wandered into class late;
Pondered objectivism in detention.
Cursed Ayn Rand.
Snuck out at night; lost my shoes.
Went skinny dipping; lost my clothes.
Gave in to desire; lost humility.
Thought independently; lost God.
Found passion; discovered heartache.
Household turned war zone.
Fought for gay marriage
And a higher allowance.
Score one for homosexuality.
Zero for my bank account.
Began having deviant opinions;
Parents’ hair faded toward gray.
Stopped caring if lies were white.
Became fashionably fond of black –
Bought tight pants.
Applied to college
For a brighter tomorrow.
Crawled to bed tired and
Dreamed myself to sleep –
Awoke to a brilliant sunrise.
by Sean Quigley, Gray, ME
Egypt from the Air
Serene hopelessness blown over miles
and miles,
The sand giving rise to both
The desire to escape,
The peaceful acceptance of eternal nothingness.
And suddenly –
Cities,
Oases,
Civilizations sprout up,
Fed by isolation and compressed by it;
Barriers of nature
Struggling to conquer
Unyielding passion and imagination
Of the human heart.
the parasitic growth
that sweeps insidiously beneath our skin
and pokes us with a sharp needle at any
given time
to remind us of its presence.
it betrays our integrity
and questions our potency,
for it is seemingly inevitable.
as we endeavor to avoid it,
it is simply inescapable;
it thrives on our vulnerability.
it is the perpetual spider of gossip
that has caught the world in its web.
by Jackie Bierman, New Rochelle, NY
Al cat raz
Puss ’n’ Boots
Declawed fingers wrap kennel bars,
Poker faces hide a pacing mind.
Scratching at old dreams.
Favored fantasies of sun-soaked naps
and candied
caviar,
Face a harsh reality, full of frazzled fur and
tuna-flavored gruel.
Cataclysmic.
Catechize.
Catenae.
When soulless boots were stripped away,
All that remained was a stray Tom.
by Marlea Keidong, Schoharie, NY
Beware of What
You Know Not
The world’s troubles you have yet to know.
And yet to learn ’til you go.
Sheltered you’ve lived all your life.
No needed struggle, pain or strife.
Understand my deepest fears.
My thoughts of seeing you in tears.
For you know not of thirst or hunger.
Awake you are, but still in slumber.
Evil deeds you’ll see them clear.
The wrongs of man are surely here.
As you get to know the world,
The suffering of many will be unfurled.
Soon you’ll know of death’s deep abyss.
And you’ll agree ignorance is bliss.
by Jennifer Knisley,
Washington Court, OH
by Marvin Woods, Princeville, HI
Near Antonyms
Rough fingers almost like
a sigh against my face.
Are these my own?
What do I covet,
If not these two masterpieces?
I abhor the smooth polish
and rounded edges.
I crave labor,
to toil away with some
unknown gadget
hidden
deep in the recesses of my mind.
by Samuel Reichman, Fairway, KS
Unheard Voice
The voice would seek
Translucent
With only one desire
To speak
To be heard
And to linger
by Kourtney Maison, El Dorado, KS
Photo by Elena Nicolaou, Fair Lawn, NJ
by Cecilia Ruiz, Brea, CA
POETRY
•
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
41
Paper Mother
clay houses
In Front of You
Secrets
born into a world
filled with blank pages and paper cuts
a world without trees
where every family
had a paper mother
a paper dog, a paper house
maybe then I’d see understanding
and I’d find a carefree me
and could stop being so human
and so lonely
then I’d be a paper doll
shop for paper dresses at the mall
and I wouldn’t feel unloved
at all
my heart would beat
to the beep of a human shredder
while all of us paper ran free
and I’d laugh merrily
flash my white paper smile
for it’s so blissfully painless
in the school supplies aisle
because it doesn’t matter
if you’re college-ruled
two-hole punched or three
paper lives together
with no judgments whatsoever
and every last sheet seems happy
and I believe
that’s what I’ve sorely
been missing
We fell through star-studded galaxies
ate chicken drumsticks to the bone
we drank Diet Coke like it was liquid luck
and made use of a late-night phone.
We were called back inside for dinner
but we did not want to go
so we climbed a tree and hid
until it got cold;
We did not care about the past
or politics or fiscal blame
but we ran inside screaming
when we mistook passing airplanes
for UFOs,
satellites for
cosmic ghosts;
our knees were dirty
but we were pure.
The doctors say you’re okay
But I know you’re not
They think they know more because
They went to med school
But I know the way you like your cereal
How you like to eat it watching Nick at Nite
The way the milk used to dribble down
your chin
And I’d call you a slob
But really, I thought it was cute
Let’s take a spin
Because you don’t look right in that
hospital bed
We were meant to laugh ’til we cry
And I never cry ’til I laugh
When I’m looking at you like that
I just cry
If you know the secrets to life when you’re
a baby
I wonder if you knew you’d been *** over
That I’d sob in traffic
Bite my pillow at night
So I didn’t in front of you
Roots lie underneath
gilded in grime
Above the bitter sight
stands a flower
When we did not want to stop the play
our house seemed small and made of clay
i almost wish it was
so we could not have ever fit inside the door
so we would gobble down the dinner,
run outside and play some more.
I miss youth;
now I have moved on to parties
and high school and girls
and SATs and DMVs
and drama and rumors and exams
and love and heartbreak and curfews and cars
and sex and guns and drugs.
by Erica Beebe, Rochester, MN
I miss the clay houses.
Nervous Speaker
by Jonathan Bolduc, Windham, ME
He paces like a lion caged
Bares his teeth or growls
He waves his arms to frighten off
The unseen terror that in his mind prowls
Jawbreaker
The wrapper crinkles as I
Twist the ends.
Pink, yellow, orange, green –
The transparent remains of devoured
sweetness,
Scattered about my desk.
They tasted honeyed, unlike the nervous
First brush on your cheek. I tasted the salt,
The sweat, the distance that would drive you
To the polar ice caps, away from my flaming
indifference.
I stayed rooted, wondering about a person
that wasn’t you.
Eating candied sweets to hide the blatant
callousness
Of my affections.
I filled myself with sugar and exhaled my
bitter detachment.
Always looking for a place to run
Grips the wood with claws gone white
Or shuffles through papers of plans gone
wrong
Hemming and hawing to get it right
by Victoria Noble, New Caney, TX
I Tried to Save
Myself Today
I tried to save myself before I started breaking
today.
I put in the disc that’s rescued me a few
times before
And as the CD skipped, my heart began to slip.
Soon enough the beats were dropping
And my mind was taken back
To bittersweet memories that
I’m not sure I want to remember.
It pulls back the words you used to speak
That I’ll never hear again.
The tracks changed as quickly
As my thoughts jumped.
My mind ached with visions
Of seeing your face – maybe just one
more time.
And that just made my heart sore,
Because I know that won’t be happening.
I just listened to your songs tonight
And the lyrics screamed your name.
by Thao Ho, Sacramento, CA
MARCH ’10
When you say it will be all right,
do you mean it?
Or are you just trying to calm my fears?
When I cry on your shoulder with you
holding me tight …
is it to console me,
or simply to stop the tears?
When you tell me how much you care …
what are you hiding behind your eyes?
All the memories we share …
are they real or are they lies?
You help me through the little things, broken
hearts and tears, but some intentions seem
unclear.
Sure, you say you’ll always be there –
you say that now.
But if I were to stand on a cliff,
or a bridge,
poised, ready to jump,
what would you do?
Run for someone else to help?
Or hold my hand and help me through
without harm?
No more cause for alarm?
Every ill-intention gone,
because someone to save me
is what I needed all along?
by Kassy Grant, Argyle, NY
alone behind a door
bones so sore
mind so bored
what more to ask for
alone behind a door
bones sore
cold to the core
he left you alone
he promised forever
who knew forever was so short
alone behind a door
a girl weeps
why did you go
Photo by Sandy Honig, Woodbridge, CT
Teen Ink •
Someone to Save Me
what more
by Bonnie Sullivan, Pompton Plains, NJ
42
by Tessa Toburen, Jacksonville, FL
•
POETRY
by Athena Marsh, Biloxi, MS
A perk of nature
A sweet taste to the eyes
compared to rot
Beneath every flower
is a secret root,
it doesn’t introduce itself,
it is too shy.
It hides, only to
be dug up by the
curious
by Kyle Stark, McHenry, IL
Morning
When does night disperse,
And fall away
Into the dewy
Dawn of day.
The gold horizon
Shines glinting mist
As waking flowers
Bloom their tryst.
The lively wind throws
The day’s first breeze.
And brushes itself
Through the sleeping trees.
A melody chimes
From a bird’s first song.
Others join in
’Til they’re a hundred strong.
The bright sun
Makes his presence known
And bathes his breath,
On each frozen stone.
The blades of grass,
Stalk freshly crisp
And dandelions lose
Each fragile wisp.
A final shadow
Is chased away
By the innocence
Of the new day.
This time is the reign
To whom all bow.
This time is morning,
This time is now.
by Dakota Runnels, Gainesville, FL
Burning Fire
The flames crackle and hiss
As the wood is piled on
Their existence almost extinguished
By one thoughtless act
They snake up the chimney
As quiet as a mouse
Yet they roar like a lion
To eat up the kindling
Spit out ash
This is what they live for
A short life
But every second is worth it
by Lydia Carr, Staffordshire, England
Evil Fly
I Walk
I HATE that fly,
Buzzing around,
Dancing through the air that surrounds the
Cantaloupe dish,
Heedless completely of
My first swat,
My second,
My third.
They are washed away
As I walk down the sightless beach
The prints left by my wingless feet
And destroyed by the endless surf
Filled with numb pain
Drowned by screams
Why does it have to exist
In this world?
That fly
Is
More
Aggravating
Than
My sister.
by Sophia Nissler, Hillsborough, NC
On and on and on I walk
Watching triumph and failure
Joy and sadness
Peace and rage
I can only watch
Yet my heart lives within
The moments I have no part in
Constantly my feet leave marks
In the sand holding a billion faces
From the sea of a trillion colors
Comes the sound
Of their failing voices
As I walk
Mother
by Rachael Lipscomb, Danville, VA
You were in the dirt when I found you.
Scrambling and crying and
Vulnerable.
Afraid.
So many adjectives to describe a newborn
And I can never even think of a word
To describe
How I’m doing.
I Can Already Hear
the Slamming Metal
I picked you up and carried you home.
Your mother didn’t want you anymore.
But I wondered
If cats were capable
Of feeling sad.
Since you are still her baby.
I’m still my mother’s baby.
I stayed up with you all night.
I fed you
And kept you warm
And when you meowed
It sounded like
“Mom mom mom”
I said, “Hush baby, I’m here”
Even though your ears were closed.
I watched you as you slept
And I wondered what you dreamed about.
I believe you dreamed
Of being in your mother’s womb
Before the world got to you.
I have nightmares
About losing my teeth, most nights.
But that night I willed myself
Not to let you die.
The next morning came without me noticing
And your eyes were shut tight.
Maggots ate the flesh
You only wore for the night.
I tried to put you out of your misery
Because I wish some people would do the same
For me.
But I couldn’t.
I wasn’t strong enough.
I cried for you because
I felt like your mother.
Like my mom.
I left you in the dirt where I found you.
And fought the truth
For you.
Because you were only a baby.
by Sammy Malave, Interlachen, FL
I can already hear the slamming metal.
The sounds of squeals and laughs as we all
hug each other again.
I can already hear the teacher’s sighs.
Thinking,
Another year here is just beginning.
I can already see my classmates’ assorted
facial expressions.
The looks of the teenage years just going by.
We are powerless to stop them.
We are defenseless against them.
Them merciless against us.
The drama already oozing through the cracks.
The hearts already beginning to shatter.
The eyes already beginning to tear.
The wars already about to start.
But not me.
But not now.
Not this year.
Oh, no.
I’m not sinking again.
I’m standing my ground,
Remaining rooted in place,
Letting the rest flood on without me.
Go ahead.
I can already hear the slamming metal.
I can already hear the whispers.
I’m not going to let myself fall.
I will fly
Because that’s what I’m meant for.
I am meant for better things.
It’s already been proven.
I’m holding in a secret
That will set me free.
Let me touch the stars,
Grabbing one and blowing away the dust,
Leaving my eyes clear.
I’m not going to let anyone know.
Not going to let anyone see
What this has done to my soul.
I’m stronger, better.
Somebody I’ve always longed to be.
Nothing is in my way.
Let the wars be started.
Let the tears be shed.
Let the words be spat.
Let the beggars rot.
Let the drama evolve.
Let the rumors travel.
Let the fists fly.
Let the memories be made.
Let the friendships deteriorate.
Let the whispers echo.
Let
The
Sky
Fall
Down.
Let
The
World
Turn.
Let
The
Hallways
Close
In.
Let
The
Drama
Go
On
Without
Me.
Let the metal slam.
I can already hear it.
Anonymous
I am anonymous;
Names have no meaning to me.
I wish to see what’s really inside,
For that’s the real identity.
When I truly look at myself,
Maybe I’m not a nobody.
I see a child high on the swings,
So young and light and free.
And yet she is still swinging higher –
To be above her troubles, maybe?
I see a girl ready to fly.
But something makes her see
That she isn’t all she thought,
She was supposed to be.
I see an adult making choices,
Confident, ready to believe
That she embraces her freedom.
But with it comes responsibility.
I am anonymous, but who am I really?
When I look inside, I find I am all three.
by Hillary Liu, Fairfax, VA
by Megan Salavantis, Niskayuna, NY
The Fall
To fall is not an awful fate,
Gravity is a friend.
It teaches you how to fly,
To hold on until the end.
When you feel that gray is your new life,
Remember to stand tall.
Keep in mind that the rainbow’s just beyond
your reach –
There will be no doubts in your mind at all.
by Mary Mastrangelo, Kula, HI
Photo by Nicole Nosic,
Mississauga, ON, Canada
Footsteps
Requiem of a Book
there are footsteps in the hallway outside your
classroom, in the room with a row of four
windows sealed shut. there are 20-something
desks and 30-something students, and
when you
escape into the hallway four minutes past noon,
there are footsteps leading you to halfway open
locker doors, textbooks piled up and
crammed inside; footsteps leading to secrets
passed
between the cracks of bathroom stalls, where
dried
mascara is smudged on the sink mirror;
footsteps
leading to where all rumors are born, naked and
helpless on the lips of some mistaken mind
with
a mouth too small for all the words she wants
to say;
footsteps leading to sums and dividends,
metaphors
and hyperboles and Romeo’s precious Juliet; to
potato chips passed under desks in the
classrooms; to
homework written in crumbling chalk that
shrieks against the blackboard; footsteps
leading
to the exit the moment the Liberty Bell strikes
her first
note; footsteps leading upward and racing
outward, but turning back once their trail starts
to lead them out the door
Dying you are, coughing,
Coughing out your last readers,
Your last readers who have lost,
Lost the spark of curiosity,
Of curiosity and life itself
What are they,
But living corpses?
They eat,
They sleep,
They sit, sit, sit in their offices
They watch soaps,
They make love,
They buy, buy, buy in consumerica
But their minds are dead
Far from those busy, empty, lives,
You rot on a crumbling shelf
Who will adopt you, O child, abandoned
by ignorance?
Who will pillage your treasure chest,
treasure chest filled with adventures of the
alive and the dead?
Who will open your heart,
heart imbued with history and wisdom,
of the alive and the dead?
Alas, no one,
You admit to yourself,
As you lay uncared for,
Rotting on a crumbling shelf
by Ameerah Arjanee, Rose-Hill, Mauritius
by Shoshana Gertler, Teaneck, NJ
POETRY
•
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
43
Can I Tell You
Anyway?
how are you?
i’m fine
no, really, how are you?
discontent.
just discontent?
feel my hand, it’s shaking
i woke up this morning
the smell of PTA smothering
me by the shape of my mother’s hands
tapping on the bedroom doorway.
wake up, she says.
in the shower i think of
the hole i’m burning into the
bed out of my body, or the lack thereof
round and long and lean
each limb another continent.
i scrub out my hair with
that shampoo from the drugstore,
the kind that smells like
synthetic ocean breeze
and i rinse off the layer on my scalp,
the sweat i lost over you yesterday
and i find my skin dripping completely to
the swirling drain beneath my toes
which curl when
the water singes my
hunched shoulders.
i pat myself dry with a
dirty towel, because i haven’t
done laundry in a week.
i’m too consumed.
with what?
with what, you ask?
but you didn’t ask.
can i tell you anyway?
Unsafe Edge
Tomorrow
i.
He writes apologies
His sleeve is stained with ink
Or blood
It doesn’t matter, both are sin
Ink that spells out sorries
Blood that reeks of –
Heave and surrender your will.
With a swift movement,
yank down velvet curtains:
observe as the corpse crumples.
Bend soup spoons:
watch the metal curl backwards.
Pluck flowers before they bloom:
see them wrinkle.
ii.
– sweat.
It is the scent of war
The breeze that forces itself through winter
weather
Freezing, numbing
Even the earth has not forgiven him
He snuggles himself into the blanket
Watching the snow clear off his window
It takes an –
iii.
– eternity, she whispers, her voice seductive
It is with promise, with temptation
Rarely have the two ever gone in hand
She will whisper forever,
And he who wants immortality
Fame, glory, will hesitate
Don’t be afraid, she tells him, it will be yours –
iv.
– some day, he tells a sullen boy, I’m going to
tell you about my dream
A gleam of shined metal by his side
A sword, gun, it doesn’t matter
He wears the scars on his thumbs with pride
A badge of honor none will give him
He has named his weapon after a god
He will wield his weapon with the grace of a –
v.
– boy, she muses. Boy or man?
She laughs when he answers,
He is no boy
The queen is ruthless, absolutely ruthless
But in her brilliance, he will see beauty
A beauty that cannot be imagined, she is –
by Lauren Polson, San Rafael, CA
Lovely Melody
I’ve composed a melody within my mind
A masterpiece, one of a kind
plays once, twice, thrice in my head
and follows my every movement
even as I lie upon my bed
I listen as it plays a soothing mezzo-piano
a sound so free as the wind blows
A piece of art that Mozart, Bach
or Pachelbel could have created
she brightens my day, makes one elated
eighth notes tumble across one’s fingers
this mystical musical love lingers
my heart beats to an increasing crescendo
and descends gradually by calando
It’s difficult to think about things
when your thoughts are intertwined
with the piano that sings
She paints my world of black and white
makes life simple as daylight, good night
Places all the sharps and flats where need be
Along a measure of notes that exist in harmony
I know not if she knows I feel like this,
That I become a prodigious artist
That I’ve composed a melody within my mind
A masterpiece, one of a kind
that plays not once, not twice, but thrice in
my head
and shows just what she means to me
a part of my memory, a lovely melody
vi.
– a flower, the scent of a flower.
He was never good at identifying plants
My knight, she whispers
Do not be frightened
Do not be frightened
viii.
His letters go flying
The pen he had used, broken
There is ink everywhere,
It is still his sorries, everywhere
“Come,” his queen demands
“Come, my love.”
by Kimberly Huynh, San Diego, CA
Put them in a velvet vase,
constructed of curtains.
Stir.
Eat with your soup spoons,
as your skin creases.
by Emma Stein, Short Hills, NJ
Glass
The policeman asked me
What happened last night?
I took a breath, and responded.
Glass everywhere.
Dirt in the air.
Dirt in the car.
Dirt on her face.
Glass everywhere.
Blood on her face.
Tree in the car.
Confusion.
Panic.
Door stuck.
Crawl.
Over her body.
Over the dirt.
Over the blood.
Glass everywhere.
Out of the window.
Which way?
Running.
Panting.
Afraid.
Lost.
House.
Answer the door.
Please answer.
No answer.
Next house.
They answer.
They help.
They try to save.
Phone.
Explaining.
Too much explaining.
Remembering.
Not enough remembering.
No more questions.
Please just help.
Please.
Time is running out.
It’s getting late.
Too late.
Is she gone?
Officer
She is gone.
by Celestia Heady, Clarkston, MI
by Denny Pham, San Jose, CA
Photo by Olivia Ezinga, Alto, MI
Beautiful Spring and
Snow Maiden
I sit on a griever’s throne
lulled by a broken world
crying itself to sleep.
Singing verses of melancholia
when those sepia dreams
hanging behind my eyelids
are sliding into the
yesterdays when you were
a portrait of pulchritude.
Barefooted on the shoreline,
you were dancing to the
music of waves pushed by
the seaborne breeze.
Your smile was an invitation
to the unknown. I was lost
in the wake of your nature.
Love, I can recall those days
when opalescent stars pulsed
deep in your eyes
and the sun tinted you
into a soft gleam of ivory.
You were my Vesna Krasna.
I hung a light outside
my window, but I never heard
you singing another
lullaby again or driving by
to anchor the moon above
my roof. Was the sun
too much for you, Snegurochka?
There are no words
in my chest tonight.
I cannot paint you anymore.
There aren’t any colors left.
by Lenore Amaya,
Georgetown, Malaysia
Dear Reader
Dear reader,
I ache to feel the smooth release
Of my pen as it reaches out
Toward paper, toward you
A perfect union as it rests
Between my fingers like jewelry
Like a ring or loose bracelet
It makes my image worthy
Of eyes that long to gaze for
New ideas for a first impression
As you read my words with new eyes
I wonder if you’ll feel my breath
Run down your skin like icy rain
Or tousle your perfect hair like
The wind as it gasps for you
When you leave the comfort of home
Dear reader,
I wonder if my words embrace
Your thoughts as I hug my pen
Or rather strangle it in order
To catch it off guard
To make it speak, I need to know
I need to see what it thinks
Please don’t shut me out
I feel like a bookmark
I am smashed between words
Tossed around between voices
A conflicting battle in the dark
My words won’t make it out alive
Without you – dear reader
by Erica Jenkins, Chicago, IL
44
Teen Ink •
MARCH ’10
•
POETRY
The Ballet
Faulty Relationship
Self-Imprisonment
While dancing upon my toes
is when my happiness shows.
I twirl and I bound
to the classical sound
as I imagine my audience in rows.
your lips
feeding me promises by the spoonful
breathing out pretty little lies
your eyes
hide the skeletons in your closet
keeping them restrained until you blink
your hands
getting greedier by the touch
begging for more every time
your words
meaning less and less each syllable spoken
used as a prop to your pathetic performance
your body
sending me an s.o.s
warning me of the danger ahead
I’ll put blond dye in my hair
Blue dye in my eyes
I’ll use the tattered ripped-up seams
Of thoughts I have sheared
To sew together my once-rosy lips
I’ll sever from my gypsy roots
Change my name so they’ll never know
I’ll hide amongst the heterosexuals
Never diving into the sea of my own desires
I’ll bury my yellow star deep within the ground
Along with my memories, deep within my heart
I’ll cover my ears so I cannot hear
The screams echoing from outside
That make my insides cower and char
I’ll stiffen the muscles in my face
In case I cringe at the horrors of the
Führer’s world
I’ll stand up straight, salute, and submit
I’ll sink into shadows in case I’m next
I’ll cover my past before they find out
Before I join my neighbors
In the barbed-wire fences
And perhaps beyond into the pearly white gates
I’ll shrivel up inside myself
Wondering all the while,
If self-imprisonment is more dignified
More purposeful
More rebellious
Than withering, tortured, but true
Behind those ghetto walls.
by Lacie Baldwin, Lawrenceburg, IN
It is with the
Collapsing
It is with the collapsing
of my father’s lung that
the world collapses around me.
I could feel the breaking of his
very hold on reality
the last time I visited his
long-forgotten home. I
knew he had not long to live
but never dreamed of him dying.
I had prepared myself, spoken
to a funeral home,
chosen a casket,
for he had refused to give it thought.
I had let my children know
that we might not be spending Christmas
with Grampy
next year. God,
to think of next year today
is to think of something lost,
something trashed on the ground,
which the people of the city tread over
as every day they do my life.
But for my father to die: that
is something I could never have
prepared for. And I sit in pain,
in anguish, hard on a park bench,
the very contact seeming to knock my eyes
from their sockets,
to jar my own lungs. I hold
my breath for a moment,
trying to glimpse his end,
trying to imagine not being
able to pull that last breath
through my lungs. It is at this time
that I see
a young girl staring me
down, watching my face
turn blue. She steps from her mother’s
side and stands in front of me, her
breath misting in front of her,
freezing and disappearing,
the oxygen which mixes with my
own oxygen. She places a single
finger on my cheek, and I am shocked
that caught beneath it is a tear,
one of many leaking from my
collapsing body. She places a second
finger upon my other cheek. Then she
whispers, “It’s okay to cry. My dog
died last week, and I cried and cried.
But I remember that he lived, and
what a gift that was for him. So
cry for your dog, or your cat,
your mom or dad, but remember
those times when they were very alive
and thank them for the moments
which they so kindly gave to you.”
This is the testament of my grief,
the sniffles of loss, the timelessness
of sorrow. And this is my thank-you
note, and my remembrance, of those
days when my father saw fit to grace
me with a breath, misting in the air,
freezing and disappearing.
by Martin Conte, Orland, ME
by Megan Pierce, Rochester, MA
Clipped Wings
You murder me
Another butterfly
kept pinned to a corkboard
Label me
Classified to a stereotype
Ignore my screams
Ignore my pleading
Leave me to dreaming
Of soaring free
You’re murdering me
Keeping me caged like a canary
Ignore my screams
Mistake it for singing
Forced to
Silently fume
About small things
like wingspans and elbow room
You’re killing me
like how you kill time
Slowly
Hours of cursing your kind
Find me wide-eyed
and foaming
At the mouth
At the beak
Or whatever insects use
To speak
by Christina Thai, Westchester, CA
Blackened Hearts
when i was young
i believed my heart was shaped
just the way they portrayed it
on the television
and it was painted red
like a brick house
but lately i’ve learned
it’s been sprayed black
from the bruises it’s taken
it’s shaken
i was mistaken
you make it pulse at times
but without you it’s dead
without the beat it used to have
the chains have held it down
from falling out of my chest
it can’t hold on any longer
it’s dead and blackened
from your disgusting way
of loving me
Photo by Emily Fenichel, Columbia, MD
i’m going down
i was shot with an arrow
the engine has failed
i’m burning! burning …
someone explain
the pain
it’s a shame
to have to ask you
to tell me the truth
do you love me?
was it fate?
is this a joke?
am i a fool?
for loving you?
am i doomed?
why can’t you answer me?
i haven’t even sewed your lips shut
to stop the lies
not yet
so answer me!
by Ilana Gelb, Bedford, NY
Grain of Sand
She’s a grain of sand in a sea of many
But she can’t complain of looks because she
has plenty.
It just so happens she isn’t much noticed,
Sea glass and conch shells always steal away
the focus.
lately i’ve learned
it’s been sprayed black
from the bruises it’s taken
it’s shaken
i was mistaken
you make it pulse at times
but without you it’s dead
without the beat it used to have
the chains have held it down
from falling out of my chest
it can’t hold on any longer
it’s dead and blackened
from your disgusting way
of loving me
by Stephanie Pasternak, Cranford, NJ
Bitch (II)
Today the sky is your ceiling, my love
There are walls around you but
They are only dull, thin copies
Of the real mountains that now
Shut you into isolation.
Do not fear that
You do not understand this.
Your eyes are never turned upwards,
Making this impossible.
love me
kill me
just shoot me
i’m burning in your eyes
throw me the gasoline!
watch me burn!
I can relate to how you fail
To understand the skin you are in
Believe me, for all of us it is true.
Know that we must pack everything
Tight into our core to stay coherent.
lately i’ve learned
it’s been sprayed black
from the bruises it’s taken
it’s shaken
i was mistaken
you make it pulse at times
but without you it’s dead
without the beat it used to have
the chains have held it down
from falling out of my chest
it can’t hold on any longer
it’s dead and blackened
from your disgusting way
of loving me
The darkness you paint around your eyes
Does not smooth your edges but
Accentuates them with frailty.
The artificial sparkle betrays
The sickliness of how you must twist
To fit into your place in this world.
And I do worry. Occasionally.
You strike into me that new, nauseous fear
With your harsh, brazen peals of laughter
That stab me like deep violet blades.
by Ruth Maclean, Dorridge, England
by Steven Hall, Sequim, WA
mayday mayday
POETRY
•
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
45
Highs and Lows
Running
Home at the Lake
I want to hold you,
but you are too far to grasp
like the stars I have reached for,
waiting for them to fall into my
open palms and make my
wishes come true.
I desire you like
the months of
waiting, waiting
for a way out.
And I thought I found it
with you, but you are elusive.
You move too fast, like smoke
through the open window
out of which I tried to discard
the broken pieces of the past.
And you stretch, stretch
upward away from me
to greater heights I can never
hope to achieve.
Up among those stars
that would never fall for me.
I am stuck here on this
plain old Earth
spinning and moving
as it always has,
too fast for me to keep up with,
as you look down from below
with pity in your eyes
and give me just enough
of a boost for a one-night high.
When you’ve been that high,
it’s much too easy to feel low.
This pain is not for me,
I say.
This pain envelops me in nothingness.
The heat traps me in fumes,
Burning like fire,
Killing like a knife
That cuts into the patches of my lungs.
As I turn off the dingy dirt road, I park my car
in the driveway.
When I walk through the door dogs begin to
bark and
two wagging tails are at my feet to greet me.
“Hello, Miss Katie,” comes from the kitchen
where Barb
is cooking something organic,
ingredients scattered amongst the countertops.
My name is then echoed by four roaring boys
beckoning me to the basement.
I quickly say hello and flee the noise.
Upstairs, Kaleigh and Jen are ready to go out
on the lake.
On our way out we grab three turquoise towels
and walk across the soft, freshly cut lawn to
the dock;
the sound of bugs humming in the weeds and
the warm sun engulfing our bodies.
Once the boat is unhooked, Kaleigh and I get
comfortable as Jen maneuvers us into the
depths of the clear blue water glistening in
the shining sun.
My mind goes blank and is soothed by the
sun beating down on my skin
and tickling my eyelids.
We all fall asleep to each others’ stories and
laughter.
The only sound comes from the water
beneath us
and the occasional boat passing by.
The sudden repetition of Dave Matthews
Band awakens us when Jen’s phone rings.
Dinner is ready.
We slip back on our T-shirts as the sun begins
to turn red and lowers.
Back at the dock, we re-fasten the pontoon to
its hooks
and begin our stories where we all left off.
The aroma from the house is guiding us back
inside to
the hollering boys, the barking dogs, the
banging of dishes on the table.
But our sun-kissed skin, the tranquility we
brought back from the lake,
and the bond that the lake creates awaits
calmly inside of us
until we walk back down to the dock again.
This pain is ready for me,
But I am not ready for it.
This pain is sprinting.
I am wobbling.
It is living
As I am dying –
Falling, then landing
Into what feels like relapse,
But really isn’t.
This pain is a painkiller,
Yet I am unaware of this fact,
For I am only thinking of
What life is like without this pain.
But this pain
Is the pathway to bravery,
Strength, focus.
This pain is my enemy
when spoken of,
But my friend within,
Living deep in my heart
Where the truth is not always clear.
This pain will lead me to the end.
And will bring me back to the beginning again.
Where the cycle repeats itself.
by Sarah Surprenant, Attleboro, MA
This pain never disappears,
But sometimes releases its grip on me
For just a moment,
When all the cells of my heart
Are focused,
Breathing,
Living
At last.
… Poetry Maybe
I caught Leo fading fast as tired eyelids slide
Reliving an immortalized January under a
warmer sky
to flourish beneath my favorite willow tree.
Near the Pleiades
we pointed, discussing relevance of dams. of
family. of travel.
Closing an eight month gap which changed
only the number of miles between.
I missed that meteor; my eyes were closed.
Silence was muffled by warmth.
to let down your guard and laugh.
to take off your glasses and cry.
attack and defense. nobility and desire.
by Kelley Drechsler, Santa Barbara, CA
by Katie Viazanko, Clarkston, MI
Old;Young
I’d rather sink into this sloping ground with a
heavy chest sighing,
becoming one with the moist grass. Your
wool sweater collects every branch and leaf.
My throat collects every choke of disbelief.
“You know what I mean,” then
browsing for benches, laughing now that the
city sleeps and cars question our midnight
motives.
“unique.”
MARCH ’10
by Jillian Bush, Prentiss, MS
Eight is Enough
by Sophia Bedford, Flint, MI
Teen Ink •
by Vicki Robert, Middleburgh, NY
Photo by Jennifer Meinhardt, Aliquippa, PA
The clock relentlessly ticks of quiet reminders,
not only of a night anticipating day,
but of a week rapidly disintegrating from
present to past tenses. changing now to then
and do to did. Contemplating future,
“tomorrow we will meet again.” (hoping
you’ll still be able to squeeze me in.) “A
week is not enough, you know.
Your time is too stretched too thin.”
Constellations inevitably fade, bringing
brilliant dreams to end.
46
Free frazzled mind,
Present passion,
Show sensitivity,
Exhibit exhilaration.
Bleeding ink, sinking heart.
Mourning memories long gone.
Storing stress on
Eight inadequate lines.
There are nights we hide away,
Too alone, in the dark.
We smile so broadly and I lie so smoothly.
Those are the nights I feel free, unbridled –
But it’s the same as a child running without
shoes.
Your words could lull me into anything, but I
always whisper my returns.
If only you knew the way every part of me
agrees with every part of you.
We think like we are old, but our bodies and
our souls are young
And we fight them from the morning until
those last few moments when
we sometimes let them run, wildly
enriched by our hot breaths on our cold necks.
Your hands and my lips,
Your worries and my carelessness,
All these things come together when you
touch my hair and I cup your cheek and we
are gone.
•
POETRY
Introductions and
Good-byes
The summer introduces itself as
A not-too-hot,
Not-too-humid,
Late afternoon in May.
It’s nice to meet you,
With the hot black dogs
And wilting weeds
Expiring in the sun.
I’ll talk to you
While you sit in the shade,
Humoring me just for one month.
Yes, I know you need
To mingle with the other things
And make storms and dust
And mosquito-fresh puddles.
And as you move on,
I’ll fan the sweating bugs
And bide my thirsty plants.
But don’t worry,
I’ll keep track of the sun
And when the vine’s shadow is ripe,
I’ll jump the fence, waving,
Into the next one.
by Kelsey Timmer, South Bend, IN
Going Home
The sky silenced its roar
The downpour came to an end
Stranded in this land of trees
on this dark, humid night
The clouds faded away,
welcoming this nightly glow
My worries scurried off my shoulders;
Thoughts of going home
warmed my pruned fingertips
My sneakers sunk through the mud,
twigs snapped under my feet
Tree branches drooped,
dripped tiny raindrops
on my cold, drenched hair
I leaped from rock to rock,
dodging the leftovers
of tonight’s weather
My eyes drawn to the light
This, my destination
I made it out of the forest
I gazed at the dark night
as the clouds returned
to hide the moon’s angelic light
The sky began its racket
as the rain started all over again,
just in time for my departure
by Monica Melendez, Congers, NY
Blank
So starts a new chapter of my life,
less laughter,
more strife.
My shoulder’s still wet from my mom’s tears
as she slowly realizes
her worst fears.
My dad has stormed off to God knows where,
off to think,
judgment hardly fair.
And I’m just sitting here with pen in hand,
staring blankly.
Oh God, this can’t be your promised land.
by Devan Bierbrauer, Stillwater, MN
Otherwise or The
Reality of Reality
In math class, across the room she sits in
the chair
Of his existence on this planet, she seems
supremely unaware.
He wishes she’d notice him, or at least look
his way;
He wishes there is something he could do,
something he could say.
See how she seems content, without a care?
Because her fleeting mind is Otherwhere.
Otherwhere is the place where daydreams
are alive.
It’s the only way most students can survive.
It is the place where all fantasies come to be
It is sacred, which only some may see.
In Otherwhere, her mind drifts near and far
On pirate ships, and riding shooting stars,
Wielding a great sword in the midst of battle,
A maiden locked up in the tower of a castle.
A knight in rusty armor calls,
Bruised and sore from climbing palaces’ walls.
She is safe from the terrible dragon, he
earnestly swore
She returns: he could’ve just used the
unlocked door.
He removes his helmet, and on bended knee
He begs her come, the world to see
When first their eyes do make contact
Their minds then make a sudden journey back.
They wonder if they finally have gone mad
But glancing across the classroom makes
them think:
Reality’s not all that bad.
by Lauren Russo, Malverne, NY
A Second
Scrambled by the toxins
destroyed by the fumes
he understands that all it takes
is a second
His liver slows down
and his lungs are accumulating carcinogens
but all he thinks about
is her
He knows what would happen
if at any given moment
he were to jerk a bit too fast
or look away in guilt
And he tells me everything
like I once wished he would
and even now
my mind splits in vertigo
He’s foul-mouthed
and charming
His sense of humor is alarming
and he knows he has everything
he ever wanted
But he understands that all it takes
is that jerk
that puff
that drink
that broken heart
to lose everything he ever worked for.
And that
Makes him wise.
by Ariana Taveras, Newark, NJ
Gills
Poet’s Lament
The Witness
Say you’re caught in between,
Arrested.
Entangled.
Hooked on the dangling bait of uncertainty
and security.
Cliché is your hand,
your words o’erused.
They mean nothing.
Behind the page you hide
your face.
Step away, it won’t matter.
The lines written lie
and the pen keeps going,
taking your purpose,
A steady stream of live video feed:
Helicopters, police cars, SWAT teams,
An ambulance that drives away, lights
flashing, siren
You say to yourself,
Idiot,
Remember the last time –
When you couldn’t tell the difference
between
A worm and a flimsy plastic feather?
Well, as the veins bulge out of your feet
As you stand in frustration straining to
discern what you can,
Are you noticing the world sliding by?
Because the last time you bit, you lost:
You were thrown in a pail without regard
And left to asphyxiate slowly, gasping
For the air that you couldn’t breathe.
Because you still cannot decide –
Was that learning, and what did it teach?
To swim toward a potential hook
Or starve?
Quiet like the boys & girls locked in the
classrooms, wondering
Who was it? Who was it?
& in the sky, a bird flies too close to the sun
Watching the city stand still.
your point,
your life,
The children will always wonder.
The witness will always fly.
away.
by Isabel Lane, Chagrin Falls, OH
No one can hear you scream
in the fibers of the trees
locked behind adjectives and pretty pictures.
Foolish fates,
Lavender Moon and
a Silver Photograph
you have chosen this.
Say nothing more as
the faces on the walls fade
when your metaphors decay.
piles of soft, clean laundry
ghost of a child perched
on a whirring white washing machine
flower petals on the walls
tossed away, falling
pink silk
by Alexis Reed, Clarkdale, AZ
So say you’re caught in between,
Snared.
Captured.
Dreaming of other fish in the sea.
scent of lavender
as I trace the moon
against the windowpane
outside
wind strokes my hair
red leaf flutters to the ground
by Stephanie Sang, Solon, OH
Statistics
You predicted that I’d be a failure,
someone who would get nowhere in life.
You said I’d be a juvenile delinquent,
an infamous thief during the night.
You told me that my mother would give up
on me,
but only after she gave up on herself first.
You told me that my voice would be
insignificant,
way too ignorant to be heard.
You said I’d be living in poverty
because my mother wouldn’t come close
to being strong,
but in the year of 2009, statistics,
I’m afraid you are clearly wrong.
Yes, my mother may have been hit by the
recession,
and, yes, my mother may have been hit with
the depression,
but you should also know that the things that
disrupt her goals
also awaken her raging aggression.
She pledged a long time ago that she
wouldn’t become another statistic;
she knew she would always be strong enough
to withstand one,
even if by the criteria she barely missed it.
My mother worked hard and never fell short
of success
and that’s one reason I know I was raised by
one of the best!
I am a well-taken-care-of young lady of a
single-parent home
and I refuse to be raked through with your
scrutinizing comb.
I was born to win;
I am in control,
not your statistics.
I am proud to be a child of a single-parent
home.
by Jalandra Bridges, Hampton, VA
I stare at a dusty photograph, wondering
when I was ever this innocent?
silver mornings come and go
by Maddie Vogelsang, Dunwoody, GA
Heartbeat
When we all sat under the sky
darkening with spilled
tar
Photo by Hannah Beckwith, Coronado, CA
When we were laughing like
drunks and really, on that
blanket on the grass that night,
really we were drunk, on
Pepsi and Ring Pops and cheese
curls
Town Square
The sun rose
Dripping eternal sunshine
Pale in the bright blue morning light.
Flickering eyelids.
Torn up broken dreams.
Nightmares cast away by the cry of the day.
When you kept looking over and
our eyes collided like satellites and
I was cold, it was getting
cold
In the town square
The people scroll by with knives in their purses
Guns in their mouths
And smiles like old ’50s photographs.
When I stood and my feet,
they slapped against my flip-flops and
kicked up parking lot gravel, I was
jangling my car keys, I needed a
hoodie
Living in a hostile world.
Breathing in
Really feeling it
Tasting the tired stench of America.
When I could hear them all in the
distance, quiet and then bursts like
fireworks of laughter, and I turned and you
were right there next to me
unsure
And the bags beneath our eyes grow bigger
and bigger
Till one day they burst
And out come the flowers and the lovers’
smiles
Salty and wet.
When you so gently like cotton
pulled me in and kissed me, that’s
When my heart
beat.
But the people keep walking, and I keep
waiting
yearning for the hour when we’re all dirty,
beautiful and free.
by Elisha Laubacher, Canton, OH
by Will Young, Corte Madera, CA
POETRY
•
MARCH ’10
• Teen Ink
47