Much More Than a Thought by 826nyc

Much More Than a Thought An Anthology from 826NYC Students at the High School of Fashion Industries

826NYC Books 372 Fifth Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11215 Much More Than a Thought © 2021 by 826NYC and the authors. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. First 826NYC Edition 2021 Manufactured in the United States of Brooklyn 978-1-948644-63-1 The writing in this book was produced in the 2020-2021 school year at 826NYC’s Young Writers Publish project at High School of Fashion Industries. The classes were run by Vanessa Friedman with the support of Kevin Kearns, as well as 826NYC writing mentor Holly Settoon. Designed by Gil Andrei Fontimayor Edited and proofread by C hristopher Ahearn, Chelsea Bonollo, Amber Hunter, Azka Anwar, Krys Giang, and Chad Hewitt Printed by Bookmobile This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council, The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation, The Kettering Foundation, The Minerva Foundation, The Pinkerton Foundation, The Resnick Family Foundation, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, and The Susan Stein Shiva Foundation. Additional support comes from the National Endowment for the Arts. To find out more about how National Endowment for the Arts grants impact individuals and communities, visit www.arts.gov. 826NYC is grateful to the many individuals who support our work. To make a donation and see our full list of supporters visit https://826nyc.org/donate-us/.

826NYC is a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting students ages six to eighteen with their creative and expository writing skills and to helping teachers inspire their students to write. Our services are structured around our belief that great leaps in learning can happen with one-on-one attention and that strong writing skills are fundamental to future success.

This book is intended for mature audiences, with some topics, themes, and language that may not be suitable for younger readers.

Table of Contents Penelope Arias, “A list of dreams I now bear” Maxine Babb, “Overcoming” Astra Baker, “Wee Hours” Tanjina Begum, “End of November” Sally Camara, “Ode to Perception” Charmaine Cera, “Responsibility” Tahiya Chowdhury, “He Said” Iana Clarke, “Who Am I” Isis De Farias Madeira, “Little Healthy Happy Secrets” Athaliah Elvis, “A Letter to Charlie K.” Ashley Fernandez, “Stars” Kiera Foster, “True Bonds” Maliha Hossain, “Embracing Her Phrases” Gracie Jeffers, “Teen age” Rocelin Jimenez, “A Bird In Bloom” Faye Krelic, “Breath of the Ocean” Lisbeth Martinez Figuer, “Marcela” Brooke Miller, “Then vs. Now” Nia Mills, “She Believed In Love” Anjali Misir, “Gyaff” Jasmina Nosirova, “Eye Contact” Bryanna Ohene-Karikari, “Black, White or Grey” Julianna O’Neill, “End of the Year Thoughts” Taje Palmer, “Living in America” Elma Radoncic, “things i wish i had known” Adonis Ramirez, “Exit Void” Ana Rendon, “Break the Silence” Liz Rodriguez, “Honesty” Paloma Sanchez Maria, “Sexism” Riti Shrestha, “a world of color // Who I’ll Always Be” Gomayra Suquilanda Fare, “One Sunday Evening” Brianna York, “June 8”

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Foreword When I set out to create the curriculum for the 826NYC Young Writers Publish collaboration with the High School of Fashion Industries in Fall 2020, I was equal parts excited and apprehensive. I had worked with students from HSFI before, and I knew they would be bright, enthusiastic, creative, and dedicated. But I had never taught a full semester class entirely over Zoom during a pandemic before, and I worried that the destabilizing reality of day to day life would hinder our time together. I neednâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have worried. These writers are extraordinary, and nothing was going to stop them from finding the exact right words. During our time together, the entire class amazed me with their willingness to be vulnerable both in digital classroom discussions and in the pages of their weekly journal entries, with their steadfast determination to be present from afar, and with their generosity to each other and to themselves. To my students: Thank you. You should all be so proud of yourselves. Congratulations on creating something truly spectacular. This is not an easy time to be a student, to be a writer, to be a person. And yetâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;look what these students, these writers, these people created. Imagine what they will continue to create. What a gift to witness.

â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Vanessa Friedman December 2020

A list of dreams I now bear Penelope Arias

“Penelope, I had a dream…” “A dream?” “I dreamt I was in a white place, before God. There were two angels, one at my right and one at my left. A boy and a girl. They were telling God to protect me…” “Penelope, I had a dream…” “A dream?” “Yes. I dreamt I was here, home. Someone was at the end of the hallway and it was dark. He came towards me and told me I was from another dimension. He told me they needed me and loved me. He was injured…” “Penelope, I had another dream…” “…” “I saw an army. An army of angels, but there were no demons… They were… waiting…” “Helena, I had a dream.” “You had a dream?” “God told me something I don’t wish to tell you. He told me I… He told me I am your soulmate. He told me He did this to me so I would never run from you again…”

Overcoming Maxine Babb

Stomach’s an earthquake Brain’s a grenade Anxiety at its finest Palms feel like waterfalls Body still like a rock Anxiety at its finest Heart’s a knife And my knuckles are tense from squeezing my hand Anxiety at its finest I take a deep breath My lungs are open I won’t let you beat me I refocus my mind and conquer my fears I won’t let you consume me I give myself positive affirmations And hope for the best I am myself again.

Wee Hours Astra Baker

To those of us who are lucky enough to stay up To see the stars shine at their brightest The only place where you can escape the earth without an airship For once, in an earth full of people, you don’t feel lonely while you’re alone You want to be alone Even though you are never actually alone You are accompanied by the stars and the moon The only things that you trust enough to hear your deepest thoughts, to hear your horrible singing, to adore you like you adore it There’s just something about sitting at the edge of a rooftop with the air passing through you, darkness all around you, your troubles all behind you Just to be in a world of your best imagination There’s just something about the beauty of the darkness of the sky As she wears her glamorous stars all over her body Something about Night, the way she can bring out the most vulnerable in us night owls As she collects us lost souls from her dusk to her twilight and tells us, “I’ve got you, we’ve got this, you’re beautiful, beautiful enough for me” in a way that no human could ever convey

In a way that makes you say, “Okay I’ll do it. I’ll live another day, just to see my Night again, just for another Night again” Don’t get me wrong, Ms. Popular Sun will never go out of fashion With her photogenic golden hour The one that people run to, the one that people desire, the one that people work in She will always be loved for who she is But Ms. Moon The mysteries her night delivers Gladly capturing us with her enchanted blue hour The one that people sleep through, the one that people overlook, the one that people try to avoid We welcome She’s ours and we are hers Because when the day and the day walkers betray us And we have nowhere else to turn to We stay up to see what lays before us Our little secret And she comes And we stay up And we stay up And we look up

End of November Tanjina Begum

In memory of November My fragile bug I shared it all with you Time spent too fast A time without patience The memory of us, may it never go away I wish I could make it stay Wish you had stayed In the end, November shall last forever All these times I can not forget Hope you cherish our memories until we meet again Like you once cherished me Though Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never stop cherishing you and everything in between

Ode to Perception Sally Camara

With varying sizes to each individual, we all meet the golden mean; Yet despite the intricate designs from which our bodies have been constructed, despite the unparalleled structures and shades in which we were born, despite the worth in which we all possess, our bodies are mistaken for a tinman. A humanlike object striding about, bearing no soul, nor heart. Acts of complete disregard for the spirit within us are taken, leading to the nitpicking of our homage. Though it is hard, we mustnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t criticize our worth, for our value is based on no other perception but our own; their perceptions are not your responsibility. You are always your priority.

Responsibility Charmaine Cera

I have a responsibility—a responsibility to myself, to my family, to my friends, to this nation, and to the universe. The Universe. Grade 3. My parents were converted to Christianity. I remember not being able to dress up during Halloween anymore, and having to explain to my classmates that I wasn’t allowed to. But I also remember going to a family friend’s house every Sunday, the yard full of games, the echo of voices inside the house, the children’s ministry in the kitchen that consisted of me, my cousin, and a friend. One day we asked, “Who is God?” That day, I learned that He created the entire universe and everything in it—that our role in the universe was to know and to love God. My Nation. Grade 5. A few weeks into 5th grade, our teachers told us that we were going to vote for class president, secretary, etc. Everyone knew the positions they wanted and who they wanted to vote for. They knew the responsibilities of being elected for a certain position and it seemed as if I was the only one in the class who was confused. I ended up having to choose between the last two positions available: co-treasurer and muse. I remember my classmates asking me, “Do you want to be the muse? I think our other classmate should be co-treasurer.” I told them I wanted to be co-treasurer (even though I didn’t really care) to show and prove to them I was capable. I remember thinking that I wanted to learn how each position worked 11

and why we should vote so that I wouldn’t feel lost again. So throughout the years, I learned about the importance of the government and the voting process. I learned that each vote counts and that I was responsible for making a contribution. My Friends. Grade 8. On our last school trip, my friends comforted me when I felt sad. I had asked my teacher if she had picked the valedictorian or salutatorian, to which she replied, “Amara is valedictorian and Aidan is salutatorian; you’re doing the welcoming speech.” I was disappointed in myself and went back to my friends, trying to hold back the tears that started building up after she told me I had too many absences from a family trip to my parents’ country, which was why she could only give me a welcoming speech. I thought I had successfully stopped my tears, until my friends comforted me and told me that it wasn’t my fault. They kept uplifting me until we heard the sound that gave us the signal to go into the theater. I felt a single tear roll down my cheek as we walked in, not because I was still sad, but because I was thankful for friends that never failed to cheer me up. I hoped to become as uplifting and encouraging as them, and learned that I also had a responsibility to help my friends. My Family. Grade 8. “What do you want to be? You need to pick a science-focused high school,” my mom said. The next year, I got into the High School of Fashion Industries. I had spent the last three years thinking about that conversation, the fact that I had to pick something to do for the rest of my life and please my parents at the same time. I had to make the money to provide them a better life, a career that would meet their expectations, something that would make them proud. 12

Myself. Grade 11. I still cannot accept who I am and take control of my life. Every experience I have had has taught me so much about myself, but I still get discouraged about my image, my mind, and my actions. I know I will be able to fulfill my responsibilities to myself one day, maybe in twelfth grade or college, and live the way I want to live. But whenever that may be, I pray that the future me has taken full responsibility for her life.

He Said Tahiya Chowdhury

He said we’re leaving. She left her family and her precious home behind. He said don’t work. She obliged. He said no more kids. She dropped her desire to seek motherhood once more. He said your family is no good. She didn’t see them for months after. He said I make the decisions for our kids. She questioned “our.” He said you corrupted these kids. She took “these kids” as hers now. He said I have no money for this family. She knew he emptied it on another. He said I cheated to teach you a lesson. She learnt. He said change the way you dress. She uttered a line in defense. He said I’ll kick your child out of the house. She dismissed any thoughts of defiance. He said I’m superior. She doubted her confidence, the uncertainty in her abilities to properly support her child compelled her to oblige.

Who Am I Iana Clarke

I am caring And sometimes I care too much, New York attitude while walking the streets Ambition to become the best version of myself I want you to be successful Get rid of all that fear and anxiety that traps you Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let the guilt haunt you in the future I will be your biggest cheerleader No one will do all the work for you Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s up to you to achieve our dream I have started what you will finish And soon enough we will be on mountaintops Looking down on what we have accomplished Pushing ourselves to take opportunities To make your dream career of traveling everywhere, while doing what you love into a reality.

Little Healthy Happy Secrets Isis De Farias Madeira

If I told you everything they don’t know about me you’d be surprised. I’m an open book, but even those have hidden information between the lines. And should I ever share them? I don’t think so. They are healthy secrets. Most of them. And maybe I enjoy being mysterious. Maybe I enjoy the adrenaline running through my veins when someone asks me to tell them something I’ve never told anyone while I articulate a verbal, “I can’t think of anything.” And maybe I enjoy those delightful unnoticeable laughs shared between my consciousness and I when one of the little happy secrets comes to mind. One of my best friends once confessed to me that she felt the same way: the same adrenaline, the same mystery behind what’s obvious. And I did not expect that from her, always so open, sharing and honest. I started to wonder what secrets she had chosen not to tell me. And why. I, for one, wondered how I, myself, made this decision of how much or how little of a secret to tell each one. That goes into the deepest maze of the mind. Maybe it was not intentional. My memories would just try to run out of the maze and my mouth. But sometimes they would get stuck. For the very first time I understood that I am not mysterious to others, I am mysterious to myself. The unspoken truths we all hold onto ourselves that work best when unrevealed. It is good to be mysterious.

A Letter to Charlie K. Athaliah Elvis

“We accept the love we think we deserve.” Watching The Perks of Being a Wallflower during the summer of my sophomore year changed my life. That one hour and forty-five minutes made my life stop for a second, just to think. Like a snowman caught in the arctic tundra or a rat stuck on a pad of glue, I watched everyone pass me by and move, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t really want to. Often, in relationships, it doesn’t work out if you don’t love yourself. If you don’t love yourself, how could you ever love someone else. You become dependent on the other person and ultimately lose your individuality as a person and slowly, you kill your relationship. The small exchange of words between Mr. Bill & Charlie are the most powerful words I’ve heard. Love is a strong feeling and can make people act out in irrational ways, but the people we choose to share these feelings with also reflect how we love ourselves. If we lack love and value for ourselves then we lust after people who would do the same: not love us in the way we love them, nor value us as we don’t value ourselves. So, the question is: what do you deserve?

In my imaginary world I like to believe that I’m worthy; worthy of finding someone whose heart stops at the very mention of my name, the very glimpse of me, the mere thought of me. I like to imagine myself crusading the foreign lands of Europe, lost in my own bubble, time nonexistent, as Elio did with Oliver in Call Me by Your Name. So in love, we have our very own language: I’d call him by name as he’d call me by his because our love runs so deep that we’ve become each other. Our love would be much more than physical, but spiritual as well. It would be painful to think of a world where the other didn’t exist. I like to imagine that I’m in a movie. I’d meet my soulmate on the cobblestone streets of Manhattan, only to feel the world around us freeze as we share a passionate kiss under an umbrella, because the world is our oyster. If I can imagine that, watch it, and even read about it; why can’t that be my reality? What do you deserve, Athaliah? What is stopping you from living this fantasy? None the other than yourself. Somewhere out in the world, a Charlie Kelmeckis is desperately waiting for you to realize your self worth, and realize you deserve far better than what you’ve gotten; because you’re worthy.

Stars Ashley Fernandez

The stars above hold the secrets and the writing of the past. The stars above hold celestial bodies with hydrogen gas. The stars indeed shine so bright, but you can only see them sparkle in the night. Tiny particles left in space. Waiting to burn out, a contingency race. The first law of thermodynamics provides a purpose for these burned out stars. Succored into building a reservoir. The stars above guided her wisdom, Repulsing her mind to defeat the beauty system. The stars above protect her. Yesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;My dear you were a star, going on to say au revoir. Yesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;My dear your time has come, the Superstar within you has now begun.

True Bonds Kiera Foster

We all have different definitions of the word family. Like a wise person once stated, “Blood doesn’t make you family, it makes you related; bonds are what make a family.” Family to me is someone you can hang around with comfort and ease, someone who provides warmth and happiness without even trying. Our biological family doesn’t always bring us the joy and bliss we desire, but the bonds we create with strangers can fill us with love that overwhelms us. Bonds we make ourselves show us acceptance, loyalty, and commitment we may never have known we could feel if we grew up in a home with tough love. Blood-related family members can switch on you at any point, turning towards people they think have good intentions but truly don’t. I’ve heard stories of families betraying their own. Your family might choose strangers over you in an obstructive way because they feel as if that’s all they need compared to you, but you shouldn’t let their choice define you. Think about the bonds we make throughout school, work, or just during regular days. Those bonds are so special that we never want them to end—so we call them family. We have best friends that we call “sister from another mister” or “brother from another mother.” From my own experience, I consider my best friend of six years family. We met in the fourth grade on the first day of school when we were both new. Her family is basically my family, and we spend so much time together that we might as well be living together. We have embarked on so many adventures and trips and 24

created so many enjoyable memoriesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;more than I ever did with my immediate family. I know that if I ever need a place to stay, her family would welcome me with open arms. Life wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be the same without the familial bonds I have created with the people who love and care for me.

Embracing Her Phases Maliha Hossain

Different phases she waxes and wanes, and on some nights she hides away. Life is just a series of phases. Return to me, for I will cherish you til the earth splits us apart. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be waiting as long as it takes for the moon and you. Life is just a series of phases. Time has changed as our souls have parted ways to grow without each other and to fall in love with life all over again. Life is just a series of phases.

Teen age Gracie Jeffers

The silence echoes in the loudest rooms bouncing off of walls as delicately as a dying rose so intoxicating and violent bursting into sharp shards of trauma piercing the surface of instability awakening insomnia anxiety

A Bird In Bloom Rocelin Jimenez

An eagle in the sky soaring to heights too ambitious for her learned to fly as a late bloomer, but worked to catch up She has a hunger for improvement She’s a beast ready to devour her prey and ready to combat challenges in her way She won’t let anyone take what’s hers She has goals and a passion worth fighting for never fazed by the put-downs of others, she works twice as hard She will fly to the sun and then to the moon until she makes it into the stars

Breath of the Ocean Faye Krelic

As I lay on my bed staring out the window, I see snow sticking to the streets. I look directly into the sun and see the days when the bright hot sun seeped into my skin. The smell and taste of salt as I walk along the beach gathering seashells, the water gently kissing my toes. The waves trying to pull me in with them. Finally, I give in and walk out until the water is just above my belly button. I gently place my hands on top of the water, feeling the breath of the ocean. There is seaweed under my toes, with tiny groups of fish swarming around, tickling my legs. Reliving those unforgettable memories make the coldness in my room feel warm.

Marcela Lisbeth Martinez Figuer

He gets up from his bed, navigating through the Barbie dolls and makeup sets that he left on the floor. He was Barbie’s makeup artist yesterday, and today he’ll be her hairdresser; at least that’s what he’s planning. There’s not one day where he neglects his dolls after school. Right after he finishes his homework, it’s off to play pretend, to remove himself from reality and be what he wants to be. He goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, looks at himself in the mirror, and thinks: I wish my hair were longer. I wish my eyelashes were longer, too. He pouts and continues to get ready for another day of school, another day where the world revolves around him. He truly is the definition of being the center of attention. His place in middle school is the celebrity that nobody likes; however, he’s still successful. He’s unforgettable, everyone is talking about him, and he’s extremely rich. Rich in confidence, in pride. That is him. He may be one of the youngest in his grade, but he has already turned more heads in the last few months than the eighth grade’s basketball team captain turned in three years. And today, he will do it again. He doesn’t plan to, but he will. “Marcus? Are you ready for school?” His mom calls him down. He’s already dressed, and as his accessory, he is wearing the biggest smile you’ll ever see. Marcus makes his way down the stairs, wishing his mom could see the outfit he has put together today. She has 34

no idea what her son is wearing or what he looks like, but she knows who he is. She hears what her son says quietly under his breath. She hears the way he talks. She hears him crying when he can’t get a hairstyle right. The sound of the styling gel container popping open and the combs falling into the sink. She notices all these things about her son, and she still loves him. The son she gave birth to eleven years ago, the one she held in her hands with so much love and happiness. There’s nothing her son could ever do that would make her lose that feeling. “Mama, I’m more than ready,” Marcus says, tippy-toeing with excitement. His mother’s eyes are directed straight ahead. She’s not sure if she’s looking at her son or a wall. Her hands guide her down from his shoulders to his shirt and then to a piece of fabric, something from her childhood that she recognizes. She recognizes the three buttons on the front, the two deep pockets on the side, and the cutoff at the bottom with the soft lining. “My skirt, Marcus,” she whispers in a breathy voice. “My pink skirt… you’re wearing it.” He nods proudly. “My pink skirt?” He asks, hoping that his mother will agree to his proposal. “Yes, my love. It’s yours,” she laughs emotionally, sniffling her nose and caressing what she knows is her son’s cheek. “Anything that’s mine is yours.” Marcus’s arms wrap themselves around his mother’s waist, gripping her with gratitude and affection. Her hands meet his head, and she kisses him on his forehead. “My pink skirt,” Marcus repeats happily to himself. After that moment with his mom, he says goodbye, 35

getting ready to board the school bus outside the house. His head is held up high. Nothing you could say to him would affect him. He’s the protagonist, and we’re the extras. The bus driver, Mr. Campbell, is quick to shoot Marcus a look of pity, but Marcus beams at him, says “good morning,” and walks to his seat. He already knows that everyone on that bus is looking at him, but he feels the same—positive and optimistic, completely unfazed. The girls laugh at his outfit, even though they’d most likely wear it themselves. The boys call him gay and weird, even though they have no idea about Marcus’ sexual orientation. Still, Marcus feels like a shooting star, speeding through the aisle and stealing the attention of everyone around him whether they are mesmerized or not. He sits alone in the back of the bus, peeking at the girl sitting across from him. She’s not alone, but she sits on the aisle side of the seat, one leg folded on top of the other. Marcus copies her and does the same. The girl doesn’t notice him staring at her; she might be one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen. He loves her long hair, her eyelashes, and her toned face. He feels guilty for noticing how physically mature the girl is at a young age, but he only admires her beauty for a long enough time until (for the first time in a long time) he starts to feel just a little pessimistic about himself. Marcus stops looking at the girl and stares at his lap, sighing deeply. He comes to the realization that he doesn’t look like this girl, he doesn’t sound like this girl, and— looking at the tag on her bookbag—he would never have the same name as this girl. But he remembers: Nothing is impossible. Never say never. The bus starts to move, and he lays his head against the 36

window, watching a flock of birds in the sky fly by. His lips curl on the side, and he almost lets out a chuckle; even though the birds fly together, they are individually free to fly anywhere. One day, he thinks to himself. One day, they’ll be calling me something else. One day, Mama will help me change my name. And when he finally thinks of one, he grins. When the bus finally stops at school, Marcus is the last to get up from his seat and depart. Mr. Campbell twitches his eyebrow, somewhat bothered that he can’t get to the kid. “What is it, Marcus? Am I going to have to deal with this little whim of yours each time I drive you to school?” Mr. Campbell knows what he says is a risk and that he can lose his job for harassing his students. It’s not a problem with Marcus, however. He holds an invisible shield that Mr. Campbell always bounces off of. “Marcela,” Marcus corrects him, eyeing him with the same charming grin from before. “Call me Marcela.”

Then vs. Now Brooke Miller

The city that never sleeps finally went to sleep. The lights are still bright, but the streets are emptier than ever. The famous red stairs aren’t filled with inspiration and joy. Instead, they’re filled with discouragement. Walking down the streets, I feel like I’m in my own world. I can see the ground clearly, which I’ve never seen before. Going to the city isn’t what it used to be. Stores are closing down due to the lack of money generated. All the memories in those stores are gone. Small businesses may never be able to bounce back, which is so sad. A few months later. Slowly the city is coming back together. The red stairs are starting to fill again. The street dancers are coming back. Everyone is coming together, giving the feeling people love about the city: hope, energy, and motivation. All the reasons people want to come here, to get the full NYC experience. Masks and social distancing are required; it is still better than what it was before. A sense of relief is felt all throughout the boroughs. Things may never be the same, but at least our city isn’t dead forever.

She Believed In Love Nia Mills

She believed that people could change. I don’t think she was wrong. I do think people can change for the best and definitely for the worst. She believed in kindness and generosity. She believed in being nice to others regardless of how they may treat her. She believed in love. I believe in love. I believe in generosity and selflessness. I’m just not sure if I believe in hurting my own heart to heal someone else’s. She believes in that. I think she believes in it, in breaking her own back for you, but I don’t know if I do. I don’t know if she’s weak or strong. The act of changing is not in the hands of others but in the hands of oneself. If someone is in a person’s life with the intent of changing them, they should leave. Don’t fix it if it ain’t broken or, at least, if it doesn’t want fixing.

Gyaff Anjali Misir

The internet’s definition of Gyaff: Gyaff: To have a conversation; to talk. Dec. 3, 2020 (8:07 p.m.: Basement / mama gyaffing with cousins) My grandmother loved to gyaff with people. She could hold a conversation with a total stranger for more than an hour. Whether she was on Liberty Ave., on the bus, in the fish market, or waiting to pick me up from school. I even remember her asking people on her hospital bed: “Where ya from?” “You okaay, ya need a buzz?” She still managed to help people from her hospital bed—to gyaff with them. Never in a million years will I be able to capture my grandmother’s gentle, childlike tone in my writing. Although my ears ring when I remember her voice, my pen is unable to translate. I’m unable to replicate her voice in mine. If I had to come up with a synonym for the word gyaff, it would be my grandmother’s name. Her love and energy for conversation did not pass on to my mother or me. (We like fa talk, but na fa such long hours.)

Dec. 3, 2020 (8:21 p.m.: Basement / mama still on de phone) Fin

Eye Contact Jasmina Nosirova

We look at one another’s eyes while we talk about our days. But I don’t take my eyes off, not wanting to break the contact that keeps me mesmerized in your pool of honey burnt eyes as I sink deeper into them. The only reason I can’t look away is your eyes grow larger every time you get the chance to look at me. Your pupils dilate bigger as you stare down my eyes. I remember I was told when pupils dilate it means they love you; knowing this 44

I tease you every chance I get. As we come closer I realize that we still are long, lost lovers. However, I know your chapter in my book is over, now that we are no longer together.

Black, White or Grey Bryanna Ohene-Karikari

Note: This was written on October 26, 2020, before the 2020 presidential election. As the Presidential election approaches, I find myself feeling ambiguous. I feel that the truth is obscured in lies, encased in a thick sweet syrup that drips from the candidates’ mouths. They use the sweetness of the syrup and the thick sugar coating to fool all of America’s sweet tooths, putting them at an advantage. Since the campaigns are just propaganda used to boost some candidates and defame others, how can you know if you are making the right decision? It’s like flipping a coin of chance, never knowing if you get heads or tails until the coin drops—but by then, it’s already too late. Clearly, last election America picked the equivalent of dog poop when there could have been someone who grew into a more jeweled and refined option. How can we know if we’re making the same mistake with Biden or other candidates? Are we being fooled by a wolf in sheep’s clothing? It worries me that the country is so divided right now, and if the wrong choice is made once again, then the shoes will drop off of the foundation, and the balance will fade. We can’t really call ourselves the “Unites States” of America when everything is so split. Hopefully, America makes the right choice this time, and the country can improve on itself.

End of the Year Thoughts Julianna O’Neill

I just feel relieved. I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. With now knowing the presidential election results, and them not being that crusty orange cheeto man, it makes me feel as though this country will not crash and burn like I predicted. Of course, that doesn’t mean everything’s rainbows and sunshine, America has a lot to recover from thanks to the president. It makes me wonder how government officials will deal with such issues, especially since the supreme court is majorly conserverative, but many of America’s youth are solid liberals. However, right now, I just want to relax. I want to finally feel some sort of peace. The next four years won’t be spent on whether or not my rights will be taken away, but rather seeing what the new presidency will bring while criticizing it. The fight doesn’t stop and won’t stop unless issues like police brutality, fighting for marriage equality for the disabled, making healthcare universal, getting a new green deal, and seeing how the federal executions will last under this new climate. With that being said, I just hope nothing screws up and our new president knows what he’s doing now. Right now, I’m just focusing on January 20th, the president kicking and screaming out of the White House. Think of something out of the Maury Show. Meanwhile, our new president gets inaugurated, which may be the start of this country recovering. An extra bonus is that it’s the day before my birthday, making it the best birthday present I could ever ask for. 49

Living in America Taje Palmer

As a young woman in a huge world, it can be very strenuous to navigate through life. As a young woman in a huge world, the unexpected and unknown, too afraid to be alone, the destruction of daylight, it is corrupt and atrocious, many people tend to act like a fool, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fall into the trap, unfortunately it is hard to come back. As a young woman in a huge world, the pressure of the world as it fills up inside of me, it is as if lightning danced across the dark gloomy sky, I want to go deep beneath the ground, your family and friendsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; love and support will help you, find the light in the dark.

things i wish i had known Elma Radoncic

you won’t always receive the closure or the explanation you think you deserve. sometimes you have to accept something for what it is, and move on even though you never truly move on from something… you just become numb to it. surround yourself with good people. if someone makes you feel negative and it feels exhausting to be around them, slowly distance yourself and put yourself first… don’t hang around longer with that person because you feel bad. at some point you will realize you have done too much and you will want to walk away… this is not giving up, this is claiming what’s yours and what’s not. you really can’t trust anyone but yourself. do things for yourself… make the best version of you. in the end you only have yourself and no one else. unconditional acts are large gestures of love.

Exit Void Adonis Ramirez

In the end, I stepped out the same person, with a little less on my mind. I am numb now. Internally, the clockwork chugs away, the brain working through a sea of anxieties past the hours in which I descended into dreamland. Murky bodies, formless shadows, omnipotent beings, personified howls of anguish and suppressed screaming thoughts, ideas of a series of unfortunate events, the subliminal lingering of a collapsed soul, and the traces of a void that took the heart whole. I woke up, sleepless, restless, starting the same day over for the hundredth time. Where’s the coffee? Caffeine won’t hide the tire in my eyes, but it sure as hell tastes good, heh. The hollow man walking, the dude’s heart aching; a microcosm of malicious assaults on the mind, in the core of the being. The void is gray and it’ll convince you that it’ll stay until the bright brash light of the morning day decides to pierce through. But until we get to that point, they said: “Welcome to the void, come enjoy your stay. Here in solitude, we’ll take the hope away; Your vicissitude, I am here to play with you. Why are you still screaming, there’s nothing you can do?” The void had him, despite not having a voice, but the beings inside his head had told him so. 54

With new eyes, I emerged again from my bed, the void which closed up. Time to go about my day, come back in faith that I shall return to the void again. But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a few restful nights, and the void no longer claims me. In the end, I stepped out the same person, with a little less on my mind. I just feel a little better now.

Break the Silence Ana Rendon

Being the children of immigrant parents has been something they’ve been afraid of sharing with others. In fear of having their parents deported or just being discriminated against for their parents trying to make a living, they’ve stayed silent. Not wanting to disappoint them any further, they’ve been expected to know more than the average kid. They’ve had to deal with subtle discrimination from teachers, friends, strangers, and sometimes even their own relatives from such a young age. They’ve been told that their feelings are normal. This has forced them to hide their own problems because surely their problems can’t be greater than that of their immigrant parents. They’ve finally decided that this isn’t something to be ashamed of, although they should still be cautious about the situations they place themselves in, because the fear of their families getting separated still exists.

Honesty Liz Rodriguez

As much as I tear it apart, I cut pieces of the mind, Say words that no one should say, To such a delicate mind. Be the cause of pain, I feel satisfaction in Demise. Isn’t that lovely? Isn’t that sweet? If I break it first, Shatter a mirror, Drop a glass, Crack a phone. No one else Can ever hurt me The way I do. To devour and destroy Is bittersweet and delightful.

Sexism Paloma Sanchez Maria

I have another rant for y’all. Sexism. Oh, how much I hate sexism. It’s such a dumb thing. So unjust. Why is certain clothing for one gender? Why are certain jobs for only one gender? Why does it matter what your gender is? Equality is equality. Why are women responsible for taking care of children and cleaning the house? Why are men in charge of getting the money and being tough? That’s so dumb. Why can men have many girlfriends and be a boss but when a woman does it, she’s disgusting? Why do women win custody battles, even though they are less stable than the father? Why don’t people believe men when they are sexually/physically/emotionally assaulted? Why don’t women get justice when they get raped? Why does society make it okay for males not to be able to control themselves? Why do women have to suffer for their immaturity? Why do women have to worry about somebody attacking her in the middle of the night, while she’s on a run? Why do men have to be tough and “manly”? Why do women have to be small, gentle, and feminine? Global society lets us grow up. We no longer live in the 17th century, when they didn’t know better. Let’s progress. To be honest, we should have been “progessive” since the beginning of time. Let’s stop being toxic! Men can absolutely clean the bathroom, and definitely after themselves, and still be masculine. Women can fix the cars and be on a football team, and still be feminine. Matter of fact, men don’t have 60

to be masculine and women don’t have to be feminine. Let’s stop putting people into boxes. Let’s teach our boys to be respectful towards women and not to be “Mr. Macho Man” (crime rates will go down). Let’s teach women to strive towards more than having kids and a husband. Let them strive to be CEOs and mathematicians. Let’s stop marketing kitchen sets towards little girls. Let’s stop marketing trucks and hammers only towards little boys. Let’s stop it ALL. I see all these problems and inferences, but it seems that not many other people do, but why? Why are people this way? Why don’t people see what’s wrong? Why do people just go on living, doing nothing? I’ll tell you why. The oppressors like the way things are. The oppressed are doing a few things: some are fighting for change, some are educating those who were taught wrong, but most are doing nothing for change. Those that are doing nothing either don’t see what’s going on, don’t see what is bad about the situation, or they just don’t care enough to fight for change. I am not saying it’s the oppressed people’s fault, I’m saying we all have to change for the better. Let’s start caring about our fellow human beings. Let’s stop judging each other. Let’s be better. Let us be who and what we want to be.

a world of color Riti Shrestha

I am the white crayon in a box of Crayola crayons. I am not the pretty cerulean blue that is used to fill the waves of the sea or the depth of the sky. I am brown, a color you stay away from unless you’re coloring the bark of a tree or the soil that nourishes the flower. I am not the golden yellow used to make the sun shine. I am; however, green because when I think of green, I think of plants. I am not a flower because my petals don’t wither away during times of hardship and my stem doesn’t stop blooming and blossoming even when springtime passes and becomes summer which then becomes fall. I am; rather, bamboo because I am always rising and getting stronger. I am not soft like carnation or iris or seafoam or coral. I am green. I am the leaves on the trees because even after the storm passes and I descend, I always come back, greener than the last time.

Who Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll Always Be Riti Shrestha

I am sunshine that pops out of nowhere after a rainy day I am a great big jar of honey that you can just dig into I am a diary, someone you can confide in and tell all your deepest secrets to I am a thousand smiles and a million more hugs I am the little speck of color on a plain white page I am the flower dancing on a breezy day I am the flying sparks from a sparkler I am yellow I am the Sun and the Sun is who Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll always be.

One Sunday Evening Gomayra Suquilanda Fare

My mom, sister and I had the desire to go shopping, just walk around the mall to see what would catch our eye. As time passed by, it was time for us to head home after long hours at the mall in Connecticut. Time to drive on a cold evening to New York, our home. Currently, one hour away. As we drove on the expressway, we felt wind hitting us. Pushing us to the side slowly but harshly, as we drove through a bridge and we pushed back into the center between two lines. A few minutes later, I checked my phone, it said “tornado warning.” Rain hit us, lots of it running down, making all cars slow down and some stay behind. We were unable to see, therefore, unable to move. We felt this intense feeling of fear building up. Will we make it? We were unsure, but prayed to get home safe. We were slowly moving through the wind-driven rain. One tree had fallen. Fortunately, it only lasted a few minutes but felt like eternity. We felt such a relief after it was over because that’s all we thought of, for it to terminate.

June 8 Brianna York

We’re running as fast as our feet can carry us. Leaves crunching beneath our feet as branches scrape our forearms. We hear their heavy footsteps get louder and faster, they’re after us. I halt to look back, soon regretting my decision. There are numerous of them, dressed in wool clothing with pitchforks, and stakes at hand. “Split up,” someone yells. My feet gravitate towards a different direction as another’s hands collide with mine. In my peripheral view, I can see it’s one of our own. I don’t take my time looking, we just keep running. We run for hours on end until finally, we make a halt as we approach a castle. It has cream colored brick cascading around the entire establishment and vines detailed with a variety of flowers hanging over them. White and yellow flags decorate the very top of the castle, signifying something special was happening. My eyes are drawn away from the castle to see the sun peeking through the trees, suddenly alarming me. I look to my hand and sigh with relief seeing that my ring is still there. It then comes to my attention that the person attached to my other hand is a little girl. She has long auburn red hair 66

cascading down her back, ivory skin and emerald green eyes that caught the sunlight every once in a while. “Rosemary,” she says in a small yet clear voice. I assume it’s her name. “Splendora,” I reply. “Do you know what—” my question is cut short by a woman’s voice coming from the near distance. “Odette darling, we’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come on we have to get you ready for your big day.” I looked around to see who she could have been talking to, until I realized that her gaze was set on me. “Who’s Odette?” I question. “It’s you silly, have you got a fever I don’t know about?” she jokes. “And who’s the girl?” she continues. “No one. Well, I found her alone and decided to take her in,” I say as I gently push Rosemary behind me. “Oh, always taking strays in aren’t you,” she laughed. “Ha yeah, you know me,” I replied by playing along. I take the moment of silence to analyze the young woman. She has blonde hair, accompanied by freckles spreading cheek to cheek on her face, and she is dressed in what seems to be the apparel of a handmaiden. “Well come on, we’ve got no time to waste now do we.” She approaches Rose and me as she urges us into the castle gates. We enter into what seems to be chaos. Florists running about decorating the arches and pillars of the 67

castle with cherry blossoms. Servants lighting the enormous crystalized chandeliers that hang above us, as those on ground level set the tables and clean the floors. The atmosphere becomes overwhelming as I suddenly begin to hear everyone’s heart beating the blood through their veins. I try to control myself as I reach out for Rosemary’s hand, only to be met with air. The thought of hunger leaves my mind as I desperately begin to look around for her ‘til my eyes lie upon her at the dessert table. She’s probably hungry, as I remind myself that we were running for sometime without any human food or drink. I was hoping she was able to control her thirst. I weave through the endless amount of people to make my way to her, only to find her about to grab some kind of chocolate dessert from the table. I abruptly caught her hand in the act to stop her, as I didn’t know of our fate if she were to take one. “Oh, it’s alright Princess, the little one can have one.” I am met with blue eyes belonging to a much older man who is setting the dessert table up. “Um, thank you,” I reply quickly before the blonde woman finds me again. What is happening, who do they think I am? I begin to ask myself, soon being

pulled out of thought as they bust through the once closed gates. “Search everywhere for them, I don’t want one left alive.” Immediately Rosemary and I locked eyes knowing who was here. “Gosh those hunters, so obsessed, who’s going to tell them that they don’t exist,” the blonde girl says, making conversation with the old man at the table as they rest their disapproving gaze upon the hysterical men by the gates. My eyes reach the sight they were discussing as they meet the eyes of a hunter. He raises his hand and points towards my direction, making the other men set their eyes upon me. A slight chill runs down my spine as my survival instincts heighten. “Shouldn’t we be going,” I direct my attention towards the blonde and old man interrupting their conversation. She starts to apologize for getting distracted, saying something to the old man about how I need to get ready. She leads Rose and I into a bedroom. “What exactly is happening today?” I question trying to get some kind of answer out of the still unnamed blonde beauty without trying to seem too suspicious. She closes the door and sighs before setting her soft gaze upon me. “Well it’s your wedding day of course.”

Acknowledgments In our Young Writers Publish program, 826NYC works with classes of students and teachers on creative writing projects around and beyond New York City. Students from the High School of Fashion Industries explored personal narrative and compared private versus public writing through the power of journaling this fall. Much More Than a Thought is a compilation of the original work of these students. A huge thank you to the 826NYC teaching artist, Vanessa Friedman, and 826NYC volunteer, Holly Settoon, for creating a virtual classroom where students were able to explore different texts and experiment with different styles of writing. Your support, encouragement, and consistency helped our young writers tap into their imaginations and memories to produce such moving work, and your care in helping them brainstorm, write, and revise each week was invaluable. We are particularly grateful to Kevin Kearns for his support of this project. Thank you for inviting us into your classroom and facilitating such a smooth collaboration. Your hard work, warmth, and steadfast dedication to your students allows them to flourish as young writers and thinkers. At 826NYC we depend on the dedicated volunteer editing and design cohort that make our publications a reality. Thank you to Gil Andrei Fontimayor for designing such a beautiful book for our students. To copy editors and proofreaders Christopher Ahearn, Chelsea Bonollo, Amber Hunter, Azka Anwar, Krys Giang, and Chad Hewitt for their careful attention to each of the student’s pieces, thank you.

A big thank you to The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation, The Kettering Foundation, The Minerva Foundation, The Pinkerton Foundation, The Resnick Family Foundation, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Susan Stein Shiva Foundation, New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council, and the National Endowment for the Arts for their generous support, which allows us to publish our studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; work. Thank you especially to the 826NYC staff for their behind-thescenes support of this project, from curriculum development and the book-making process to volunteer recruitment. Finally, thank you to the students at the High School of Fashion Industries for taking risks with your writing and sharing your words with us. Writing can be a challenging and hopefully fun process, and your dedication to your craft and your stories shines through in these pieces. We are all excited to see what books youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll produce in the future!

About 826NYC

826NYC and the brooklyn superhero supply co. 372 fifth ave brooklyn, ny 11215â&#x20AC;&#x192; 718.499.9884â&#x20AC;&#x192; 826nyc.org

staff

board of directors

Joshua Mandelbaum

Michelle McGovern

executive director

Naomi Solomon

president

Ted Wolff

director of education

vice president

Nico Garbaccio

Ray Carpenter

volunteer & programs manager

Thais Vitorelli

programs coordinator

Corey Ruzicano

programs coordinator

Summer Medina

community engagement strategist

Jesusdaniel Barba

programs coordinator

Lauren Everett

communication & fundraising coordinator

Chris Eckert

store manager

Sonya Moore

retail associate

treasurer

Kathryn Yontef secretary

Michael Colagiovanni Liza Demby Amir Mokari Arjun Nagappan Tammy Oler Katie Schwab Danielle Sinay Andrew Sparkler Alyson Stone Maura Tierney Thom Unterburger

826NYC Programs WRITE AFTER SCHOOL Reading and writing go together like peanut butter and jelly. Write After School students work alongside 826NYC staff and volunteers to build their reading, writing, social-emotional skills and unleash their imagination as they play and learn about the power of language. Three times a year, students revise their creative writing for publications that are printed in English and Spanish and shared with families, volunteers, and community members at celebratory readings.

WRITE AWAY WORKSHOPS Young writers come together in Write Away Workshops to explore a multitude of genres and subjects and to develop their voices. Groups write freely and participate in imaginative writing activities and lessons. Whether itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a song, a piece of climate justice sci-fi, or a nature guide, young writers leave the workshop with a piece to be proud of, as well as a newfound understanding of the topic, and new friends.

YOUNG WRITERS PUBLISH Turn your classroom into a creative writing lab. During Young Writers Publish residencies, 826NYC teaching artists collaborate with educators on creative, impactful, curriculum-aligned projects that transform students into published authors. Residencies run from six weeks to a full year, depending on the project. Each Young Writers Publish culminates in a book, newspaper, zine, podcast, film, or performance featuring your students.

WRITE TOGETHER 826NYC hosts classes across New York City for Write Together: an interactive writing experience that encourages creative expression, explores the elements of storytelling, and strengthens writing skills. Elementary-aged classes collaborate on illustrated children’s books, middle schoolers choose their own adventure, and high schoolers learn the art of memoir writing during a fast- paced and whimsical 90 minute narrative program.

TEEN WRITERS COLLECTIVE Teens are the next generation of literary leaders. That’s why we’re launching the Teen Writers’ Collective in fall 2020. The collective brings together young writers from around the city to explore the art of writing and literary citizenship. They’ll create a community of passionate and creative peers, serve as 826NYC youth leaders, and inspire younger students and peers across the network.

STUDENT PUBLICATIONS Through our programs, our volunteers work with students to help them create stories, poems, and ‘zines. Because we believe that the quality of students’ work is greatly enhanced when they are given the chance to share it with an authentic audience, we are committed to publishing student works. By encouraging their work and by guiding them through the process of publication, we make abundantly clear that their ideas are valued.