All I Have to Say: Memoirs from 826NYC Students at the High School of Fashion Industries

ALL I HAVE TO SAY

An ode to every memory of happiness. Multiple love letters to people and places. Intimate connections with musicians and music. Dealing with depression. Learning how to love one’s hair, one’s family, one’s language, one’s self. Figuring out the true meaning of home. These are just some of the themes and stories in All I Have To Say, a collection of original memoirs written by juniors at the High School of Fashion Industries in partnership with 826NYC. The students learned that they are the experts of their own stories – and we are lucky that they are willing to share that expertise with us.

Proceeds from the sale of this book benefit 826NYC, 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.

Memoirs from 826NYC Students at the High School of Fashion Industries

All I Have to Say Memoirs from 826NYC Students at the High School of Fashion Industries

826NYC Books 372 Fifth Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11215 All I Have to Say Š 2020 by 826NYC and the authors. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First 826NYC edition 2020 Manufactured in the United States of Brooklyn 978-1-948644-53-2 The writing in this book was produced in 2019-20 school year at 826NYC’s In-schools Publishing 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 mentors: Nancy Binns, Kara Pernicano, Andy Irving.

Designed by Adi Kwiatek Edited and proofread by Allie Singer, Lauren Stefaniak, Hannah Slater, Lala Jackson 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 Hawkins Project, The Minerva Foundation, The Resnick Family Foundation, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, and The Susan Stein Shiva Foundation. The following individuals have provided donations to support our programs: Aziz Ansari, Ray and Ami Carpenter, Sarah Connolly, Amir Mokari, Tammy Oler and Ehren Gresehover, David and Lori Schnadig, Jason Sinay, Alyson Stone, Maura Tierney, and Ted Wolff and Anne Clarke-Wolff. 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 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.

contents 17 Letters, 6 Hour Drive, and a Boat Ride A Beautiful Mess A Little Love Abyss An Ode to…

Dream the Foster El Resentimiento In and Out of the Real World I Wrote You A Love Letter “It’s Not Your Fault” Jewel Ave. Living A Dream Look At Me And You Are Blind Lurking Shadows Mindful Watching More Than A Residence Mujhe hindi aati hai.

Neighborhood Overthinking With Your Heart Pleasantly Silent ‘Sad boi hour’ Suppressing Tears The Light That Never Goes Out TO THE FOOLS WHO DREAM Tumbles of Hunger When She Called You and i You’re Not Alone

1 4 8 10 14 16 20 22 25 28 30 33 37 40 42 44 46 49 53 55 58 60 63 65 68 70 72 74

Foreword You are the expert of your own story.

From the very first day of class, that was the one thing I told the students over and over – this concept was our guiding principle.

I could write a long introduction to this book, but I do not think these stories need my words to give them context or explanation. I asked each student to take on the role of expert – of their writing, of the stories they wish to tell, of their own life – and every piece published in this collection is a successful answer to that request.

The stories in this collection will astound you with their honesty and certainty. These writers are the experts of their own stories.

They tell them so well. I am in awe.

To my students – congratulations on this work. You are all brilliant and I can’t wait to read more from you in the future.

To everyone else – we are so lucky to learn from these experts. Get comfortable, because once you start reading this book you will not be able to stop.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

– Vanessa Friedman May 2020

17 Letters, 6 Hour Drive, and a Boat Ride Ariella Liberman This place is hard to spell, hard to get to, hard when you fall, hard when you get up, but most of all, hard to leave. It’s my then and it’s my now, my past and my present, my childhood and my memories.

Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. #1 Rock Island, its official name, it’s got a lot of rocks. Blueberry Island, its other name: it also has a lot of blueberries. Nana’s Island, or Papa’s Island, depending on which grandparent you are speaking to. Or Nana and Papa’s Island, if you just want to cover everyone. Along with its many names are many seasons, and many wonders, and many adventures awaiting.

The sun burns hot some days, then leaves shift colors and an icy layer covers the entire lake. Lady Slippers step through the soil and show their shy, rare flowers; a light pink cup, sitting on top of a strong green stem. Strong because it’s persistent, coming back each year in the same spot, reminding me to never give up.

Blueberries appear high and low. Everywhere you turn trees glisten with ripe, shiny berries hanging suspended, waiting to be picked. Your bucket fills up slowly, a mountain of berries layering up one by one.

The sky begins to darken and you head inside. You walk the creaky, wooden stairs up to our little rooms. Two twin beds pushed up against each wall in each room. A dresser, a mirror, a bathroom in the middle. Mismatched sheets and blankets surround you as you hear the soft humming sound of nature and distant water splashing against the dock.

Morning arrives when a bright light shoots through your window, illuminating the entire room. Unable to block out the intense brightness, you’re forced to wake up and head downstairs where a delicious-smelling breakfast awaits. |1

2 | All I Have To Say These next few days will be filled with lots of adventures, and falls, and excitement, and fun times together, and new things, and old things and countless long talks with papa, either informative, instructive, or explanatory. They might last minutes, or hours, or even days, it all depends.

Probably some more blueberry picking, maybe some fishing, multiple swims, hikes exploring around, baking, kayaking, speeding boat rides, trying to piece together a 3,000-piece puzzle, cleaning boats, frog catching, walks to the flagpole, trips to get ice cream sandwiches, re-painting the dock, tubing behind the boat, bee stings, grilling outside, continuing the puzzle from earlier, picking up sticks, and a sunset boat ride to end the day.

This Island also catches all my falls. Whether it’s racing my cousins across the rocks, or playing the floor is lava on the rocks, or accidentally stepping on a bee’s nest at the age of four and ending up with an uncountable amount of bee stings covering my skin, or getting a splinter in your foot from forgetting to wear shoes on the rickety old docks, the scratches and bruises and bee stings and splinters build me up to be stronger each time.

It may seem like just a small, ordinary, little Island. But it’s my safe, comfortable, quiet, happy, little place, and it will always hold memories for me. It will always be there for me to cry to, to confide in, and to keep my secrets, won’t it? The answer should be yes, and for the longest time, I always thought the answer was yes. But it’s possible that now the answer could change.

My grandparents might sell this land. And if they do, it will be as if a part of me is missing. Lost in the middle of this huge lake.

Lost on an Island. Lost in the 17 Letters, a lonely scrabble game left unfinished. Lost in the 3,000-piece puzzle, one missing piece, and I’m that piece. Lost Lost LostLostLostLostandLOST. Still Lost.

Searching for it everywhere, but unable to stand on any land.

Ariella Liberman is a 16-year-old student living in New York City.

She is an art major attending the High School of Fashion Industries.

She enjoys reading, writing, and creating artwork. She also loves adventures and trying new things. When she is not in school, she can often be found at stunts or gymnastics practice.

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4 | All I Have To Say A Beautiful Mess Dana Morales Debreco My hair is MY beautiful mess. Being a mixed child, you deal with a lot. When people look at you, they can never truly identify where you are from or your ethnicity. Often, they tend to assume your cultural background based on their “knowledge of the race,” but a majority of the time no one can guess where I am from or my ethnicity. People often ask me, “Are you Mexican?” “Are you Chinese?” “Are you Philipino?” And I get frustrated, not because of the races they associate me with, but because no one asked them in the first place.

My mother is a Black Woman and when my mother and I are next to each other NO ONE BELIEVES THAT SHE IS MY MOTHER. Many people assume that I’m adopted, even though I’M NOT. Just because my mother and I don’t have the same skin color does not mean that I’m adopted. We still share many of the same facial features… at certain moments. Depending on the faces she makes or when we smile. Many people say I look more like my Father who is Chilean, and when I tell people that I’m mixed (Black/Chilean) they have such a confused look on their faces, often asking me, “What’s Chile?” “You’re Black? I thought you were Puerto Rican.” Even cracking jokes about a bowl of chili, which gets annoying.

But from a young age, I could never tell you the true texture of my hair and my hair was always my identity. I was born with straight hair. Some waves here and there, but my hair was never actually thick. I could get in the shower, brush my hair and it would dry so silky and smooth. Without the heat. But in middle school, everything changed. My hair texture started changing. It started to get thick and fluffy, almost like an afro and I didn’t mind it, but my classmates did. I would often get teased and called a “lion” or “Dora the Explorer.” HAHAHA, it’s ok to laugh. Some people even

thought it looked like a mess, when in reality, I was just letting my hair be itself. I mean if you ask me, at 12 years old, I can’t come up with such an extravagant hairstyle to put my hair up into. I didn’t even know how to put my hair in a bun. Funny, right? ‘Cause that’s all I do now. The comments didn’t bother me at first. Eventually, it did. It got frustrating to find the right hairstyles to put my hair into and my mom would even help me tame it and that’s when I discovered the FLAT IRON. You know, the dangerous tool that can potentially damage your hair.

I guess you get the idea of what happened next. I’d straighten my hair once and I would feel so much different. My hair was so straight, so smooth, and so silky just like it was as a child and I felt such a relief from the obnoxious comments from classmates that were no longer made. The flat iron became an addiction. I would iron my hair every day without realizing the true consequences it would have until the summer, and I know you curly girls are probably cringing right now because you know what’s about to happen.

MY HAIR WAS FRIED and I didn’t realize it until I finally left my hair alone, until I LET IT BE! When it was wet, it would look wavy, curly, straight, stringy. It was just damaged and eventually with tons of research, I realized WOW, I HAVE CURLS NOW… GREAT. Time after time my hair texture kept changing and it was so frustrating because that’s not how it was as a child. It was one texture, not multiple textures, and to this day it keeps changing. Frustrated as you may assume I must have been, I went on YouTube every day for help and every YouTuber said the same thing. “Stop using heat.

Throw out that iron and blowdryer. Cut all your damage off.” UM… HELL NO. DO YOU WANT ME TO BE BALD? “Keep trimming your hair.” (I can’t cut my hair.) “Do protein treatments.” DO YOU HAVE PROTEIN TREATMENT MONEY? “Deep condition twice a week. Don’t use products with parabens, sulfates, and silicones.”

I mean, it seemed like a lot of time, effort, and money. But I had to |5

6 | All I Have To Say do it — this wasn’t my true hair texture, and it wasn’t me. I felt like my hair looked horrible and looked a mess.

From 6th-11th grade and still today, I tried everything in my power to get my curls back. I did everything the YouTubers said.

Everything family and friends suggested. I went to a beautician and she helped me find ways to get the hairstyles I wanted without damaging my hair. She would deep condition my hair and put me under the steamer to increase blood circulation and encourage growth. She would put leave-in conditioner in my hair when I would go to her before straightening my hair and give me occasional trims when I decided to get my hair done. She knew how to straighten my hair without damaging it and I love her for all of her time and patience.

At home, I would use products like SheaMoisture, Maui Moisture, Mixed Chicks, Cantu. Just brands that I knew I could trust and that didn’t have those bad things for your hair like silicones, parabens, or sulfates. Plastics that are put into shampoos that potentially damage your hair through breakage. I would condition twice a week with a heating cap to get a deeper condition. I would do protective hairstyles, putting my hair in braids, buns (which I’m sure everyone in my school knows). I would do twist outs, finger coiling until my curl pattern was coming back and until I finally felt confident enough to cut my hair without worrying about the length.

My hair doesn’t look the best, but it has come a long way since I started my transition process. There may be some weird looking curls here and there, but I am still more confident with my hair than I was before. Before I wear my hair out to school, I want my curls to be the way I want and dry the same way they look on Snapchat. Not every curl day is the same, and I DO NOT HAVE TIME TO BE WAKING UP AT 3 AM JUST TO DO MY HAIR only for it to dry and get puffy and frizzy. I have to get to school on time. I just don’t have enough time to do my hair for school, that’s why it’s always in a bun.

From this experience, my hair has become one of many of my cultural identities. As frustrating as it may be to tame, it’s my story.

As thick and curly and frizzy as it may be, it shows my diversity, my roots, my mom and dad’s ethnic sides. It shows me!!! Maybe you’ll see my beautiful curls in the Spring. Maybe you’ll see me!!!! :)

I’m Dana :). I live in the Bronx and commute to school taking three trains every day which is such a pain in the butt. I am an Art Major at the High School of Fashion Industries. I am also on the track team.

I am fascinated by human anatomy and would like to become a pathologist when I get older (even though I hate biology). My favorite color is pink. I love to laugh, and joke around with my closest friends.

Laughter is the cure to anything. I love music, it helps me focus and helps me to relax. Depending on what I’m writing, I love to write. It makes me feel free and allows me to express myself in a way that may seem deliberate/creative when in reality my writing pieces that really sound good just happen on their own. Although the city may drive me crazy, with all its delays and crowded places, the city is my home and the people in it are my family. I know this may seem all over the place, but it’s just a few things I would like you to know about me and I hope that you will enjoy reading my writing piece. |7

8 | All I Have To Say A Little Love Lesley Bustamante Some would call her susceptible.

Easily hurt and loved from a distance.

Where affection is elusive, at least in her eyes.

Like any other human, she is never seen past the skin she wears.

Judged by her face. Her arms. Her legs.

To them she is just this existence.

Who stays unknown & unacknowledged.

She’s there to nurture their trembling souls and comfort their worried minds.

Shielding them the best she can and yet, still not recognized.

But when noticed, the appreciation she deserves is nowhere to be found.

Feeling lost, an aquamarine stone in the ocean.

In the midst of it all, love is what she seeks for.

Feeling like one matters isn’t a want.

It is a necessity.

Like the very air you inhale.

Longs for consistency.

Some human decency.

Feelings. Thoughts. Anything.

Things she’d like to get off her mind, but she can’t.

Let the sound of her voice overshadow the rest of your thoughts.

Just for a second, try to be the only one still in her life.

Just please, don’t move.

Her name is Lesley. A 17-year-old girl who’s engulfed by music and really can’t resist the urge to dance. She hopes those who read this poem enjoy it and can take away that sometimes the simplest and most effective thing you can do is just be there for someone. Spread a little love :) |9

10 | All I Have To Say Abyss Viangelly Peña You know, I’ve always found it difficult to recall specific memories from my life growing up. I just somehow always remember feeling lost. Weird isn’t it? It seems like for many people, recalling things comes so easily. Unfortunately, this never seems to be the case for me. Hell, I’ve even forgotten what I did three days ago. I’m almost convinced that I have short-term memory loss. I can’t recall many memories, but I’m able to somehow recall the roaming feeling of being lost. Decision making is absolutely terrible for me because I just simply never know what to do. I’m always so lost. I’m always afraid of the following events and consequences that will come from my decision making. I always question if I’m choosing or doing the right thing when it comes to simple decision making. Like the time I couldn’t decide what book bag to get for school. Should I get the Fjällräven Kånken? Or the Dagne Dover? A Fjällräven Kånken is a trendy book bag and extremely durable, while the Dagne Dover is way more spacious. I just couldn’t decide; I mean seriously, Viangelly, just choose already! Sometimes I think I make my life too complicated. Damn. Why can’t I choose?!

Why? I just don’t know sometimes. I keep all these feelings hidden. All these questions hidden. Are you doing the right thing?

That’s always on my conscience, creeping its way into my life. Am I doing the right thing? That’s up to the universe to decide because frankly, I can’t decide it for myself. It’s difficult, you know. It’s difficult to find yourself in a world so big and so vast.

I somehow constantly manage to feel like I’m in a rush. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what career path I want to take.

What college I want to go to. Do I want to stay in New York or go out of state? There are too many decisions rushing toward me all at once. Too many. I always hear the “oh you know it’s okay to not have it all figured out yet, right?” Right? Okay. Well, I’ll be going

out into the real world soon, so no, it’s not okay. Soon enough I’ll be stepping into uncharted territory. In high school, not knowing where you’re going is no big deal, but out there, nope. It’s a scary world out there. Out there you’re on your own. It’s every man for themselves. I might as well go join The Hunger Games.

As if I don’t feel lost enough as it is already, out there I’ll be lost in an abyss. An unfathomably deep and bottomless hole with nowhere to go. I’ll become one of those deep divers who swim too deep then get nitrogen narcosis, become confused, and make highly poor decisions like thinking that going down is up and going up is down. Did I lose you yet? I may even take out my oxygen regulator thinking that I can breathe underwater when in reality that’s far from the truth. To make my matters worse, I am incapable of swimming. Swimming is a basic survival skill. A skill which I don’t possess. How am I expected to survive if I can’t swim? I’ll continue to sink deeper into the abyss. The real world is big, it’s vast, and it’s scary. A scary place where it’s difficult to find yourself.

To find your way out.

Wouldn’t life be easier if everything was set in stone for you; if you just knew. You see, everyone seems to have a thing. The thing that makes you, you. The thing you want to take on for the rest of your life. Last weekend, I had an interview for this amazing program that provides young women of color with help in the college process such as getting scholarships, building your resume, learning how to be financially stable, and more. To my discontent, we were required to do group interviews before a solo interview. There was this one girl in my group, she is a sophomore in high school, she spoke fondly about how she wanted to work in biotechnology and all these other scientific fields that my brain couldn’t retain. Did I mention she attends Brooklyn Tech? She was using all these big sciency words and I felt awfully uneducated sitting across from this girl. I sat there thinking please get me the hell out of this room because I am no match for this girl right here. Frankly, I’m not too surprised that I didn’t make it into the program. It makes sense. I’m embarrassed to say that this girl, | 11

12 | All I Have To Say who’s a grade below me, may sure as hell be three times smarter than me. Everyone was giving our interviewers such great answers.

Everyone was so sure of what they wanted to do with their lives and then there was me. The first thing that came out of my mouth when asked what I’m interested in doing in the future was, “I’m not sure yet.” Today, I received my rejection letter. I was very excited to have received an email from them until I saw the “unfortunately.”

How lovely. You know I actually thought this would help guide me towards the right path. Maybe even help me find the right career path. Deep down I knew though. I knew that I’d soon be receiving a rejection letter or not hearing back from them at all. I mean come on, who’d pick the girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing?

Obviously everyone else made better candidates. I was the ugly rotted fruit that no one picks at the supermarket. I still had hope though. I wanted to get into this program badly, but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. Life continuously rejects me and I continuously accept it. I may continue to be a deep diver. Lost in the abyss. Who knows. Nothing is set in stone.

Despite all of this, I know I wasn’t put on this earth for no reason. There has to be a reason. I know that, hopefully, one day I will find my thing. I hope to one day find my way out of this abyss.

It may be tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, or maybe it’ll take years. But I know I will. I can and I will. The one thing that’s certain for me; the one thing I’ve never doubted in my life is that I will succeed. My thing, it’s out there somewhere waiting for me to find it. I’ll find it. I’ll find it once I make my way out. Out of the abyss.

Viangelly Peña is a 16-year-old business and marketing major at the High School of Fashion Industries living in New York. She’s had past experience writing theatrical plays, for two years, to be performed at the fundraiser “Mi Historia, Mi Corazon” (My Story, My Heart). In her downtime she loves to read and depict her world through paper and pencil. She hopes to impact those who are experiencing life as she is.

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14 | All I Have To Say An Ode to…

Ella McCorey Hot, long family road trips to grandma and grandpa’s house, You always complain about how long the ride is, how uncomfortable the seat is, But you know you’ll miss these trips.

The type of happiness, excitement, only felt as the car pulls into the concrete driveway, Your grandparents are waiting on the porch with big, bright smiles and open arms.

Grilling with your dad on the weekend, or a hot summer’s day, Freddie Mercury in the background, His voice floating through the air, Carried by the cooling summer breeze.

Going to the mall with your best friend, Giggling and gossiping over sushi and philly cheesesteaks, Walking in and out of stores, admiring all the clothes, Trying some of them on, even though you probably won’t buy them, Doing this all the time, almost like a monthly event you can’t wait for.

Riding the ferry to and from school every day, Recognizing the faces you see, The line of seats on the top floor you’ve always sat on, Like you’ve done it since the day you were born.

Going to St Patrick’s Cathedral every year, Walking around the big, quiet building, Admiring the nativity scene with an empty manger,

Awaiting the baby to be placed inside on Christmas Day. Every memory of happiness, Every memory that you truly cherish, And hope to never forget.

Ella McCorey is a 16-year-old fashion design student at the High School of Fashion Industries. She usually writes and sketches in her free time, and is always listening to music. | 15

16 | All I Have To Say Dream the Foster Min Zu The night seized tired folks to gather under an open night sky; smoke hisses into the dark abyss above from the exhale of a puff with tea-stained teeth inhaling back their knowledge of flavor into their next order. Husky voices carried a full day’s errands, their mouths held tobacco leaves, lighting into several cigarettes, and a generous declaration of “Dinner’s on me tonight!” Their scent lingers of cigarette smoke and beer cans, lidding over their worries and weariness of life. My parents brought me to a spacious chain restaurant named “Wa Kin” by our kind, often after my return from school when their work came to a close. As random as he was in the crowd of men old and new, his emergence to chit chat stayed later than small talk like most. A guy like any other Burmese men abroad, eyes a little tainted yellow, deep sullen faces but still holding their valor seeking some advice. In rotation, he soon came around my parents with some introductions and his whereabouts.

Reddish tanned in melanin, skinny and tall in the figure, I later found out he really liked Polo Shirts. He was carefully soft spoken despite his looks. Together they talked about politics, current life plans, and the future. I wouldn’t have known of their struggle then, I just know it wasn’t picture-perfect. The solitude my parents seemed to find in him slowly became mine as well. He wasn’t blood but he seemed like a distant big brother. Questioning strangers that came into my life, they wanted a reaction in how good of a girl I was or if I was snappy and sassy giving them a good laugh.

Just remembering the desire to play, often I circled around empty tables and chairs under the cool air with bustling lights below. I am uncertain of when I lowered my guard around him but it was probably little by little.

There were times my parents had to run some errands without tiring me along the journey. It was probably five minutes, then half an hour and a half a day. My hands were transferred from

acquaintances to another; though my mother was hesitant at times, he was one person she could trust enough. Across from our cooped apartment window, a 7/11 was nearby and I’d be offered incentives to make me happy from caretakers. The people who stayed by frequently enough would know if I wanted to get just one thing it’d be my favorite ice cream of vanilla & chocolate sundae. Out of all the places, he lived above my favorite snack store as I called it.

The stairs to his complex had chipped cement blocks without rails that was quite a mini adventure itself. Soon enough, his room filled with new toys and old. His Pokémon DVD collection increased to fill our time and I’d fallen asleep several times just waiting to be picked up again. Picking up on my habits, he was ready to buy me my sundae and if I still wasn’t picked up in the evening, I could try his dinner of insanely spicy instant cup noodles. My stays felt welcoming along with my sisters as well that I never wanted to leave the comfort of his peaceful vicinity, unlike my home. He didn’t have a lot to spare but he spared much of his time when he wasn’t working himself. He was trusted by then that photos were taken of us on trips to malls and he remained in my photographs as good memories. Passing by a game store, he went and came back out to me with a bootleg game boy with his best effort. That whole evening, feelings of sorriness admit when I mistakenly depicted a dissatisfied pout making him sad that one time. Although, I wasn’t that good of a kid. Every time I held his hand he could have looked like a young dad in public with me. We could care less, however, because at this point he could be my dad. In a way, he was becoming my family, something I never expected to happen. Being wary and warned of older men, they often wanted affection from me in hugs and kisses and I never felt obligated to give them what they wanted after they bought me items, a red flag I never saw in him. The days I spent in his room were genuine and it carried on through for as long as I was a kid wanting to catch Pokémons, bothering stray cats, stealing money and getting in trouble.

Storytelling was his work of art as well, often telling me about his sweetheart back home. He seemed in love with her and he | 17

18 | All I Have To Say would always tell me that I was their first child. The thought made me happy to belong to someone other than my own blood. I’d often mess around his room as well, climbing over his hunky boxed tv, often looking at his pretty flamingo piggy bank. In a box with only a few quarters, the flamingos would stand in front of a thin paper bench, the beaks tipped to each other with paper hearts floating inside. I knew even within the dim present that he had dreams inside him and they slowly fostered through and through. Wanting me to tire out, he says “listen, listen, listen!” I’d stop peering at the glisten in his dull eyes, the same kind of glitter that flows when he tells me ways of how he would meet his girl back home when he’s stable enough and she would become my mom and I would have another family. His family of mundaneness and small shenanigans in his room but much bigger in size that I could get used to this.

This is it.

Nothing was much of an importance in his keep but time was well spent that it passed by fast. He built his dreams pretty fast as I did. It was written in my destiny that breaking my arm would present my family as an opportunity and that my birth would take them far and wide. After long years of that incident, our sodden small lives were in motion again. My evening took up English lessons, my sisters and I were no longer busy with activities, they could start to take care of me. After hearing the news, he’ll follow soon he said and he did. The departure came and he wished a goodbye that I’ll forever be his baby. Growing up felt fleeting but when I observed him, it’s at a much faster pace, maybe even well earned. Meeting him again in my knowledge, he’s now married to my second mom and I have a mini-me, a girl that could waddle, soon to be babbling silliness into his life again. In a way, he was a pretend dad, in the absence of my parents and I am forever grateful for that.

The author Min Zu is a 16-year-old queer non-binary woman who is a first-generation American immigrant of Burmese descent. Now living in Queens, New York, she aspires to be a film director in the animation industry to inspire people with storytelling positively.

Currently, as a freelance artist, she continuously explores her own self-identity in her own works of art.

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20 | All I Have To Say El Resentimiento Kimberly Rios Bravo Whenever my aunts come over, they work on my and my sister’s Spanish.

My mother tells my sister that her best friend has called. As soon as my sister replies, “La voy a llamar pa’ tras,” Tia Maria puckers her lips. She lectures that in Spanish you can’t say ‘I am going to call you back.’ Eso es del inglés. She declares the accurate verb is devolver. “Voy a devolver la llamada.”

If my Tio Santiago is there, he’ll come to her defense. “Leave the girl alone.” But as soon as we think the war is over, he’ll go on to say, “stop bothering the girls, they are Americanas,” and won’t leave without patting the top of our heads hard, as if we were mentally disabled.

My mom and dad are different from the rest of their family.

They believe in neutral zones. We stick a Spanish el or la before the English noun, pronouncing phrases like “Ya firmo el permission slip?” and “La teacher nos informed about college hoy.”

After a while I begin resenting Spanish.

I realize that I can’t read my mom my essay about her immigration story simply because it won’t sound as interesting or lyrical in Spanish as it does in English. Sharing something in English means that I have to either translate or give a short definition for each word that does not already have a place in our lives. I try most times, but I end up angry and mutter “Olvidate.”

Forget it, nevermind. I want Spanish to stop making me feel so alone. I just want her to go away.

That’s when blame arrives.

I blame her for the long hours that dad has to work in the factory. I blame her for the reason my mom has to spend more time with that dumb gringa instead of me.

“If only I knew English…” Dad would always start.

It’s my job to find that out. To be one of the first in the family to leave Spanish hurts. That’s why I have to hate it; so my departure from it becomes bearable. I do my best to not learn any more of it.

Learn only certain words and topics in Spanish to talk about at the dinner table like immigration laws and school grades.

But as I immerse myself even more in the world of English, I find myself distancing from my family and committing what a hispanic family would call gestos groseros, rude gestures. I don’t make eye contact when someone speaks to me, I’ll walk around the house with headphones in my ears, and watch TV sitcoms as I eat at the dinner table. And as I try my best to act as if I have no history or culture, my father still worries that I might turn out like him.

“Tienes que hecharle ganas.” You have to work hard, he would say every night before bed. “No quieres terminar como yo en esas factorías. Eso mata a uno. You don’t want this life.” But I do—I want that life. Of course not the racist remarks and the long work hours, just the conchas and the chocolate caliente. I want the Cumbias.

I want the dramatic soap operas and the scary Llorona stories. I want Spanish. I want it all.

But loving what I already have, is a betrayal to my family’s wishes. And not being like my family, is a betrayal to them as well.

Kimberly Rios Bravo is a chicana writer and artist whose pieces often reflect on the struggles that many children of hispanic immigrants face in their everyday lives. As a child of Mexican-Immigrant parents she hopes to let others with similar stories know that they do not stand alone. She was inspired to write after having read the works of authors like Sandra Cisneros and Daisy Hernandez. | 21

22 | All I Have To Say In and Out of the Real World Habiba Omar Secluded in the dark under the only source of sunlight in the oppressive environment that is my room; which represented the amount of light I had in me. Dirty and clean clothes all over the floor with empty spots for me to step over to get into my bed.

Mindlessly staring into my bright screen, charger bent because otherwise it wouldn’t work, hunched over my desk, my phone on my right with a voice chat with multiple strangers open at all times, scared of being lonely but content with being alone. And when I’m not on a call you could hear “Mindless Self Indulgence,” the cool “punk” band I just discovered blaring profanities through my headphones, making me feel cool and edgy about myself. Music and anime, the only things I believe gave me genuine joy at the time. I couldn’t bother with anything else; the state I allowed my mind and body to get to, not taking care of myself because of my despair. Nothing matters, I’ll still feel like crap, I can’t get up from this desk, I can’t go greet my parents in the morning; it’s all too draining. school. relationships. interactions. I’m drained. Very rarely looking at the time because time is an irrelevant concept to me. Is it 6 pm? 10 pm? 3 am? All feels the same to me.

I hear a knock on my door, it’s time to clock out of my own world. That’s my signal to start getting ready for school. I pick up the first outfit I see on the ground, making sure it passes my standard of what’s clean, and head out of my room. My sister’s waiting for me. We ride the bus and repeat the same routine as every other day. I get to school and end up sleeping through most of my classes to catch up on all the sleep I missed that night, but somehow still know what’s going on. If I’m caught sleeping, I clock back into my online world, hiding my phone under the desk and texting away, or doing anything to escape the environment around me that doesn’t interest me. Texting, texting… waiting for a text back… waiting… waiting… it’s 7 am there’s no one to text back! I

look around making sure the teacher’s back is turned to me… and resort to playing games on my phone until the day’s over.

Somehow getting through the day barely saying three words was the norm; I never chose to participate, but when I had to I was always struck with a “speak up!” or “can you repeat that,” over and over again. I didn’t have the ability to socialize, and frankly chose not to bother myself with friends. All my attempts at socialization would end up failing miserably because I had no idea how to make friends, and everyone has already established their own friend groups; trying to squeeze myself in wouldn’t work. I wondered how I had so many friends and was the loudest person in class just less than a year ago. Texting all my old friends and people online would make up for my lack of social interaction with others in person. It was easier to open up, laugh, and have conversations with people through the screen rather than face to face where you’re more vulnerable, scared of facing what they’re possibly thinking about you, so sitting at lunch next to these kids I barely knew was good enough for me, or my parents at least.

When I finally get home, I get hit with a wave of exhaustion.

School is too mentally draining. I follow my daily routine and fall asleep until midnight, which causes me to miss seeing my parents. In the past few months I’ve only seen them a few times in passing during the morning and sometimes on weekends when I leave my room for once. They’re concerned but not sure what to do. They’d ask me how’s school, how are my friends, how I am. I would tell them how I sit with these two girls during lunch, putting my parents under the impression that these girls were my friends, but in reality, we barely had anything in common, only a simple hello and then sitting in silence as they mingle with each other not necessarily excluding me, but not worrying about including me. So to them everything seemed fine. It really wasn’t what they thought it was like. But what would telling them do? They were too busy working all day and night just for us to survive, and giving them even more things to worry about was the least of my problems. | 23

24 | All I Have To Say I knew that someday I’d be able to come out of this depression in my life and lead a social one, with friends and hangouts. Until then, I decided to wait. The same comfortability and openness I have with strangers online would slowly transfer into my personal life. And it did. As I got out of my comfort zone more and more, participating in school, making actual friends, speaking out for myself, my parents now had different things to worry about as every regular teenagers’ parents do. Staying out too late, the kind of friends I have, and such. But even after I got out of that phase in my life, I still had periods where I let my room get too messy to bother cleaning, get too drained to talk to anyone, or be able to leave my room for a long while. The internet was always there as my backup.

When I’m not feeling too social I’d be staying up watching anime and visiting random websites, or talking to my online friends that have somehow lasted years with me, and playing video games and laughing with them until way after midnight. However, I don’t depend on it as much as I used to; it’s not my only source of happiness, I don’t think it really was, just something I used to occupy myself with because I had nothing else or no one else. The farther away I get from that period in my life, I use it as a point of reference seeing how much I’ve developed and actually doing stuff for myself rather than waiting for things to happen. It shows me that it’s not impossible to change your outlook on life or yourself.

Habiba Omar is a visual artist living in Brooklyn, New York. She spends most of her free time either making art or out skateboarding with her friends. As a current art major in high school, she hopes to pursue and expand her passion in the future, making impactful and recognizable pieces of work.

I Wrote You A Love Letter Annette Palacios The way I love you.

I never would’ve imagined that you could give me immense peace and offer me happiness by way of your land, food, and people. Especially because I didn’t know much about you or had visited you until 5 years ago. Summer mornings I awake to sounds of dishes crashing as they are being washed by my abuelita, and my 4 and 5-year-old cousins laughing, running round, conversing like grownups.

The pleasure of waking up has been robbed from me by my alarm, apartment doors being slammed, my next door neighbor, who incessantly practices his saxophone in the morning, and my family members, but not when I’m here. Here I awake naturally, with the sounds of 20 talking birds right outside my window and by the soft touch of the warm sun. The water, fuel, and pan dulce man have each passed by now at least twice with their iconic jingles blasting from the speakers of their moving trucks. I put on my chanclas and step outside to walk over to my abuelita’s home.

She greets me, “Buenos días hija, vas a desayunar?”

She knows that I never quite have an appetite in the morning and will tell her I’ll wait for my mom, but she still offers me everything.

“Aquí está tu pan favorito, y hay leche, si quieres te la caliento.

Hay gelatina en la nevera o podría comprarte un huarache…”

I grab my pan and sit across from her while ensuring her I’m fine for now. She eats her breakfast and I eat my pan, and we talk about everything there is to talk about at 9 am.

It’s very likely that the night before I had been kept up by my cousins watching scary movies and talking gossip, or about this one YouTube channel where this woman goes around interviewing | 25

26 | All I Have To Say couples and exposing the cheating partner. I’d spent too many hours with my cousins laying on the couch consuming these videos back to back and enjoying them; despite how obvious it was that they were all fake, they were over-the-top funny. It’s also even more likely that I had been kept up by fireworks being set off at one in the morning for one of the town’s many festivities.

And every night, except Sundays, I would be forced to close the windows of our bedroom to prevent the smoke of the huge heated brick oven from coming in. My uncles smoke and listen to music all throughout the very late hours of the night, making the bread that would go into the oven, so it could be warm when it was sold and delivered during early morning.

Midday, I would run errands for my grandma accompanied by my 10-year-old and 4-year-old cousins. This one day she asked us to pick up tortillas from the lady at the end of the street, buy a quarter pound of cheese, buy a chicken breast, and a bottle of Coca Cola. We turned our street corner only to be greeted and chased by the infamous possessed dogs who guard this one yellow house.

The chase started off with the two dogs and then others started to join in just for fun, so having never been chased by dogs I for sure thought I would be mauled by them and quite possibly die. While I ran and panicked, it hit me that I had my littles with me and that I was leaving them behind. In the end we were fine and I bought them a popsicle so they wouldn’t tell their parents because we were all visibly a little shaken. Now every time I’ve gone back since this occurred the 4-year-old tells me, “¿Recuerdas cuando fuimos perseguidos por el perro?” and immediately smiles right after as if to let me know he has dirt on me and can use it anytime he pleases.

They’ve never told their parents but will also never let me live this moment down and for that I love them.

Oh, how you’ve made me so happy to see you and so sad to leave you. I’ve never experienced such immense sadness and physical pain leaving something or someone, but with you it’s different because I’ve made a home out of you. Every summer I leave behind love in the shape of my grandma, cousins, aunts, and uncles. I say

bye to my month of freedom and serenity. I’m driven away from our bright red orange home by this driver whom I have no connection to and seems to be talking over my feelings. I had just spent 10 minutes trying to joke around avoiding the tears that would soon flood my eyes as I said goodbye. I hug and kiss everyone and ask for blessings from my grandma who’s also getting emotional. It’s different when my family is there. Everyone has their own home to care for, but while we are there everyone gathers at my grandma’s and there is never a moment alone, for someone is there to have a laugh within every room you enter. There is this clear sense of bliss that we all feel.

This was home to my parents 20-something years ago, and I never imagined I would be able to call it home for myself. My parents always hoped to be able to call it home again after they left, but I think there was always that feeling that they wouldn’t be able to. It’s not only hard for me to leave, but it’s also hard for my parents. Every time the plane takes off, my mom, dad, brother, and I hold hands. We look at each other and smile all teary-eyed, reflecting on the good times we just made and praying that we arrive home safely.

I love you, Mexico.

Annette Palacios, a 16-year-old high school student, is a Chicana raised in Brooklyn. Her favorite novel has been Flipped, by Wendelin Van Draanen, since the 5th grade. Her favorite artists are Omar Apollo and Dominic Fike, and the most recent show she’s binged is Gentefied on Netflix. She hopes that you smiled at least once while reading and thought of the place you call home. | 27

28 | All I Have To Say “It’s Not Your Fault” Leilah A. Fortuna I’d like to think it’s not true That it’s not actually their fault They tried their best I mean in a way it isn’t I did this.

He was sick couldn’t help it Still is so, they try to shelter him School, home, life Check check they got it for him Never taking a second to ask if I’m distorted “don’t worry baby, mama gon’ make sure everything’s in order” But I’m straight imma carry myself past this torment Pushing through school borderline dropout Only worried about what new sneakers boutta drop now Never tryna hear about no stories bout our life– Wow– Mommy still takes him to school every morning They get breakfast together Chat together Eat together I’m feeling unimportant.

Disregarded Like I’ve been outsmarted Some cruel game That’s why I’m cold-hearted.

Turned to stone Left alone I’m living in this house but sometimes but it don’t feel like a home Vacant.

I know they love me but they can’t see past the broken pavement I know they don’t mean to be ignant, I’ll never trade this They tryna tread carefully around the raging flame, what patience, That is him.

It’s not his fault I know it’s not his fault But I can’t help but think if he tried a little harder maybe been a little smarter I wouldn’t have to be so indifferent I’m trying.

To be better maybe something better than better What’s left of me is broken I just wanna forget her Mommy listen It’s okay I get it I know you did your best People pulling you in different directions You never show the stress The weight you carry on your shoulders Travels up to your neck Fill your lungs wit smoke and bury it in your chest It’s suffocating Your medicating tryna ease the pain that aches inside your heart Inside your mind Oh I remember this part It’s not your fault.

Leilah A. Fortuna, 16. Read this and you won’t know me, but feel me, hear me, see me, and that is enough. | 29

30 | All I Have To Say Jewel Ave. Natalie Rodas Two Barbie bikes. One with training wheels, and a low tricycle.

I lived in The Bronx for most of my life, although I was born in Flushing, Queens. I moved to The Bronx when I turned 2 following the birth of my sister. I still went to the projects in Queens to visit my grandma. 2011, I was 8 and my sister was 7.

I still couldn’t ride a bike on my own. My bike stayed in my grandma’s house, so I didn’t have the chance to just ride around my neighborhood, I looked forward to the summer, I looked forward to going to my grandma’s, I looked forward to riding my bike. The butterflies that rained in my thoughts when I got on my bike.

Watching and pushing my sister on her little tricycle, the happiness and innocence that rang from her smile with her little gap tooth.

One day we went out of my grandma’s building just in front of it, not even a block away. Right in front. On the concrete sidewalk.

It was a nice day all sunny, everyone was out enjoying the sun, the people sat on the benches that surrounded the concrete sidewalk that I rode on with my bike, that led to the park I played in just a few years earlier. I did a few laps up and down the sidewalk. The sidewalk was shaped like a side T. The top part of the T (horizontal line) was the one closest to the street. We Weren’t Allowed To Ride On That Part Of The Sidewalk. Me and my sister would ride up the intersection and ride back down to the bench my grandma sat at.

I was just up half way on the sidewalk with my sister just a few steps behind me– BANG! BANG! BANG!

Were they…

Fireworks?

But it was in the middle of a sunny day.

Did a car have a malfunction?

Probably.

Gunshots?

I hoped not.

I look at my sister, she heard it too. Now look at my grandma, she’s unbothered. I saw the flashes that came with the bang, the bang that came with a running man, the man that probably was pranking us with fireworks or the man that held a gun.

I told my grandma what I saw. To frighten and rearrange my words into Spanish so she could understand my feelings.

I told her about what I heard, saw, felt.

Just fireworks, she said.

Tell that to her The nurse The nurse who was shot three times Bang Bang Bang She lost her life.

He ran away.

I still can’t ride a bike–

| 31

32 | All I Have To Say Natalie is a student in the High School of Fashion Industries, but hopes to go into a profession connected to psychology. She loves writing creative pieces that could be based on things as simple as cheese to real-world issues and how she views the world. Natalie is 16 years old and still goes to Flushing, Queens, to visit her grandmother. Her Barbie bike is no longer with her grandmother.

She still can’t ride her bike.

Living A Dream Daniella Cama The nerves and adrenaline kicked in. I knew it was coming but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want the experience I had been dreaming of to come to an end. No. It couldn’t. I knew it had to, though. It’s life. I hopped into bed, shut my eyes, and dreamt of my reality that would happen the next day.

The morning came at last. It was November 12th, 2019. An ordinary school day for many but a special one for me. I rolled out of my bed, got ready, left my house, skedaddled towards the train, and picked up some breakfast before entering school. On that walk to school from Dunkin’ I felt like my upper body was chasing my legs. It was a feeling that made me go. It was a feeling that took me by surprise. It was pure and genuine excitement. I got into the building that I didn’t want to be in. EVERYONE knew where I was going that day and they knew it meant the world to me. The day went by faster than I expected and before I knew it, 7th period came along. As I anxiously twiddled my thumbs, I heard the inclass phone ring. I was told I was going home and a wave of this indescribable sensation hit me. I knew the big event was coming closer.

I ran downstairs to the car and headed home with my Mom. We stopped for some pizza in the city and it was so good that it made me even more eager for my long-awaited experience. We finally got home and I changed into an outfit that was both comfy and appropriate for where I was headed. I passed time by checking Twitter for any updates about the night and just like that it was time to leave. I piled into the car with my Mom and Dad and headed over to the Barclays Center. The traffic in Brooklyn made me all tingly while a small section of my stomach filled up with dancing butterflies. I sat in the car thinking about what was going to happen but my mind began to get cluttered with happiness. | 33

34 | All I Have To Say All I could think about was being happy. I couldn’t believe I was going to live a dream of mine. We finally got to the arena and it hit me. I was going to see my favorite artist, Ariana Grande, at the Sweetener World Tour in the VIP pit. I got out of the car and waited in the VIP line while listening to all of Ariana’s songs, all of the songs that got me through one of the toughest years of my life.

My health had been declining in a way that was not only affecting myself but others around me, but being able to have that one little distraction in Ariana’s music gave me some sort of reassurance that everything was going to Be Alright. Her voice was just different compared to other artists. Something about her resilience to get through difficult situations encouraged me to do the same.

This was a very cold night. My toes and fingers were completely numb but I didn’t let a little bit of harsh weather kill my spirit.

Nothing could have ruined what I was going to experience.

Absolutely nothing.

An hour passed and security finally started letting everyone in. I checked in at the table and got all of the items that came with my package but I was too excited to actually check out what I was handed. Time passed by and we were all escorted over to the entrance where we were told by event staff not to run but nobody listened including myself. I walked down the stairs and zoomed to the pit where I spotted one space left by circle stage. I knew that spot was meant for me so I headed over and claimed it as mine.

Although I wasn’t first in line, I still managed to get the spot I had been manifesting, ever since I purchased the tickets. Insane.

I was so used to seeing the view of the stage from fan accounts on Instagram but it was different this time. I started to text my friends while I was waiting for the opening act to come on stage but I was in so much shock that my fingers couldn’t maneuver properly. I took a second to decipher where I was. I saw parents with their excited children. I saw die-hard fans crying because they couldn’t believe where they were. I then saw me. I was in my happy place. I was in an arena that contained people who appreciated the

same person I did. The person whose music lifted my spirits and made me forget about any darkness that was going on at the time.

The opening act came on and I loved it. Social House was amazing and they made me even more excited to be there. After their set, I waited a bit more and looked for one of my Instagram friends in the crowd. We communicated through flashlights, waving our phones around like maniacs. A few moments after that interaction, Ariana came on stage. She opened the show with her song “raindrops” and her voice gave me chills. She then went through her throwback songs and her most recent songs as I and all of the other fans in the arena screamed each and every lyric. I was having the absolute best time of my life in a sea of hardcore fans. Everyone who I was with by circle stage danced, screamed, and waited in anticipation for Ari to come by us.

Once she performed a majority of her setlist, she came to circle stage. I saw her in all her ponytail glory. Her small silhouette was very intimidating as she stood right in front of me. She began singing her song “everytime” while interacting with the crowd. As the song was approaching the end she got on her knees, extended her arm, looked directly at me, and tried to grab my hand. The girl who was next to me forcefully pushed me which didn’t allow me to grab her hand but as she was leaving the stage she still managed to touch me. I was in absolute shock. I couldn’t process what had just happened. She had a few more songs to perform before the concert was over so I cherished every single last moment. She ended the show with “thank u, next” and sadly the concert came to an end. I stood there and took it all in. I then ran out of the venue to my parents car. I rewatched the video I took to confirm that she actually touched me. I couldn’t help but cry once I saw it. The woman I love so dearly, the woman I idolize, the woman who has helped me get through adversity, touched me. Me! Daniella Cama!

Crazy, isn’t it? My parents were laughing at me while I sobbed extreme tears of joy. At that very moment, I had been hit with a new found discovery. A concert. Ariana Grande. My happy place.

My Sweetener. | 35

36 | All I Have To Say Daniella Cama, a 16-year-old high school junior, enjoys writing about anything that comes to her mind. She is a Brooklyn native who LOVES listening to music. She takes pride in uplifting and encouraging others to be the absolute best they can be.

Look At Me And You Are Blind Tonya Leander What do you see in me? Or better yet, do you have the binocular vision best in value to possibly see through me? I want to know if I sang to you in a crowd of chirps my voice would be familiar yet distinct. The interpretations of the outside chirpers are distracting you from the meaning of my song. My voice. My nature. Me. I am a woman who came from a woman among other women who came from the same river of womanhood. If you fish me out with big breasts and a butt along with another woman the same, would you be able to distinguish the two species of fish?

The picture perfect fisherman in you might be satisfied with both fully blossomed fish, not knowing the one that is good. Or evil.

Poisonous.

I am a black woman born to a black family whose black family and ancestor’s struggles revolve around an axis of black struggles.

I present to you both the chains of my family and my very own.

Merged into one image called struggle. You might think we all overcame them with the same old endurance and trusting in God, but there’s no way you’ll be able to see my bloodshed. Sleepless nights. My story.

I am a young black woman raised among several other young black females and taught under the same roof. Years of disciplining young and outrageous black females may have persuaded you that all of us are chicken heads. That all of us pick fights. Cuss people out. Roll our eyes. Am I a chicken head?

I am a young black woman who’s endured far more than the usual “been there, done that” circumstances. I have gained. I have lost. Learned to trust and ended up dry. I have been disappointed.

Disappointed others. Tough.

| 37

38 | All I Have To Say I walked with depression holding hands, hoping that others will see us as just a regular couple residing in the same dark place.

Smiling. Combined broken.

I have fallen into the hands of my enemies, some I have slain. I still have the torn ligaments from landing on their trap. I have been told I might break and watch as my enemies scavenged around me with anticipation. Among them my own family. But through it all I’ve remained durable. I allow my enemies to starve for the greatness of my flesh. In turn, I’m on my own. Miss independent.

Abandoned.

I fought to prove I’m more than just a regular black woman desperate for a man. Watched my stomach flatten as I stayed up after midnight studying to the point where the moon had to smack me to keep me awake. I struggled with myself. At constant war with myself. But I know my worth is more than what a house, a husband, and two kids could show. I am young. A badass. Black woman.

So what do you see through me? Do I speak the same as the other young black woman? Do I look the same or struggle the same, or think the same? I think the binocular view given to you from creation goes as far down my body than it does into my soul.

If you’re still looking at me you’re blind.

Tonya Leander, age 17, is currently a junior at the High School of Fashion Industries. She resides in New York with her mother, stepfather, and older but same-minded brother, Emmanuel. Although she’s majoring in art, which is one of her most favorite talents, she’s planning on studying at a four-year college to become a nurse practitioner and a Health Services Manager. Tonya also likes music and is in love with theater. For years writing has been her outlet and her therapy, from writing poetry to writing plays which she’ll be so embarrassed to bring to Broadway. Literature always finds a room in her mind to amaze.

| 39

40 | All I Have To Say Lurking Shadows Avani Bodden There in the corner they stood: the tall dark figures that roam your home. The ones that can only be seen through your peripherals or in the dark of night. You stare at them as they stare back, but how do they do so? For the shadows you see have no eyes. You slowly back away into the light as they begin to hover closer. They meet you at the border where dark meets light and whisper “Have a safe flight… We’ll be here when you get home…” then fade back into the shadows. Opening the door, you lock up then head into the taxi never once looking back, hoping to temporarily escape your demons.

40,000 feet.

The altitude at which silence speaks the most. The air grows quiet as we glide over the clouds. The puffy white matter seems as though it were easy to peacefully land on; however, you’ll fall straight through.

Up here they can’t reach you. Up here you hear their whispers “Come back, we need you… You need us… Don’t abandon us like they did you… ” but you choose to ignore them for now. When you land you grab your luggage and head to the resort with your mom. After changing into proper beach attire, you head to the beach where you hope that you can escape your worries using the peaceful sound of the waves calling. Thinking of the shadows, gloom begins to wrap its arms around you, reminding you of he who left you in this state. He who took your trust and ran over it, ran over YOU like you meant nothing. Used your love, affection, mothering, effort, and anything else you could’ve given him and chose to hold it against you. Broken, bruised, and battered. Fake smiles, fake laughs, real tears. Your face tells one story but your eyes will forever show the sadness you drown in underneath it all.

“But if you cared about me you would stay with me… Don’t you

love me?” Unsure whether it was him or the voices in your head, you get up and run into the waves allowing them to push you and your thoughts back.

Four days later you walk into the dark apartment. You’re staring into the dark looking at the shadows that stare back. Wait, how are they staring back if when you left they had no eyes? You walk closer to the demons before realizing you are standing in front of the dark hallway mirror. You realize they no longer lurk in the shadows… they now lurk in you.

“Told you you couldn’t abandon us too… You need us and we need you…”

When in need of an escape, Avani enjoys grabbing headphones and diving into a good book to get lost in whichever fictional world she chooses. When she isn’t reading or listening to music, she is likely talking about Ariana Grande, watching Grey’s Anatomy or watching/ reading anything that has to do with the cardiovascular system, whether it be surgical or educational. | 41

42 | All I Have To Say Mindful Watching Adrianna Foladare There is nothing in this world I know more pointless information about than Law & Order: SVU. I’ve watched (more than once) 21 seasons of hostage situations, witness testimony, stakeouts, jokes that did not age well, and storylines that get abandoned by the rotating writing teams. I can instantly identify the season an episode takes place in simply from Olivia’s hairstyle. It is my favorite form of entertainment escapism.

I hyper-fixate when watching a television series. For example, watching 13 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy over one summer break, and while I’ve been captivated by many different shows (Anne with an “E”, Friends, The Good Place, You), I find I keep coming back to SVU. I love the relationship Elliot and Olivia develop over the many seasons they worked together and there is a very unique tension between the characters beyond the standard “will they, won’t they” romance cliche. With those two characters, at the core they built a world so strong that after the 12th season when Elliot left, I had strong enough feelings for those left behind that I continued to watch.

What is it about my life, though, that leads me to immerse myself in these fictional universes so deeply? Honestly, I just think my life is boring. I don’t feel like even my happiest days are truly great days, and so I live vicariously through the adventures of these TV characters who never have to worry about day-to-day drudgery. We only check in on them when something worthwhile is imminent. After I complete my education and hopefully obtain my dream job, I’ll create my own adventures and lose myself in my own storylines, but for now, I know that I can follow along with my favorite fictional cops.

I want to clarify about the never-ending boredom that is my life. All I do is go to school, watch videos on social media, go to

SAT tutoring with my Godfather (Uncle Mike) and sleep at home. I don’t have free time because my mom schedules my days to the hilt with doctor’s appointments, free tutoring, college credit courses, and just general school-related stuff. Even if I get free time, we’re not rolling in dough, so I can’t really afford to do much. Uncle Mike is a softie though, so I can get him to take me to the movies or treat me to good food or take me shopping. I just don’t like to seem greedy, so I don’t ask for much. Well, I try not to.

Adrianna Foladare is a 16-year-old high school junior from New York City. Born into a big, multi-cultural family, she often finds herself fading into the background, even writing herself as a supporting character in her own story. Crime TV is one of her defining character traits. | 43

44 | All I Have To Say More Than A Residence Neoma Rosa Kathriner Astoria, never moved, never changing. I love you. I love the fact that you’re on the last stop of the train. So easily accessible to walk to from home. Always holding a spot for me on the train during restless mornings. I love your endless amount of food choices, always developing, always expanding. Ready to engulf my postpractice hunger with whatever my stomach craves. I love your location, close to Manhattan, far away enough from The Bronx.

Perfectly in Queens to jack Astoria, not full Queens. I love your holiday spirit, constantly dressed up for any special day. Cheering me when my excitement is on low power mode. I love your annual street fair, the ultimate marking of spring and summer. Right on my block, waiting for me to come down and watch my uncle throw money at you. I love your infamous pool, not for me, but the notorious comments that come with it. It’s definitely nasty, but I won’t let anyone else disrespect it. I love your mini sled hill in the park, prepared for when we get any snow. An inch is enough to draw in all the kids and their trash can lid sleds. This is why you’re always prepared to contain me, I love you.

Wherever I end up in the world, wherever I land, Astoria will always be in my heart. As one tells about their nurturing hometown, I will tell about mine. I feel Astoria carries the same softness and care as I do.

New York is my city, New York City. Astoria holds my cozy, sweet side. The city caters to my fierce, passionate side. The city, as opposed to Astoria, has built my quick, keen senses, prepared for anything, amused by nothing. I’ve seen it all in this wild city.

The city I’ve breathed my whole life. A city aspired to by outsiders, a city cramped for insiders. A city whose experience is different for anyone. It’s my city, I love it. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be with it forever. I’ll disrespect it, but don’t you dare. I’ll say “deadass,”

but don’t you try. I’ll praise the baconeggandcheese, but if you undermine it in the slightest form, it’s deadass clipped for you.

Come and enjoy it here, but not for too long. Enjoy the skyline, but don’t stand in my way while taking pictures of it. Be mindful of your walking pace, people gotta get places. It’s not a fast-paced city for nothing. Your metro card is backwards, it shows the direction that you have to swipe it literally on the card. Please step aside while my middle school self swipes through with ease, always accustomed to the MTA. School bus? Haven’t been in one since I was 10. The subway hated by us all, but a necessity either way. The subway escalator is probably broken. The subway elevator has some kind of bodily fluid in it. Some train probably has a track signal delay.

One cart most likely has a… strong… smelling person in it. The CDs that are sold to you at Times Square have no music on them.

The superhero costumed people at 42nd Street will chase you down until you tip them for the picture you just took. The rat will not come out of the tracks, don’t be scared. Although I can’t speak for The Bronx. The McDonald’s bathroom essentially serves as a free, public bathroom, so don’t question the smell. The crackheads will come close, but don’t worry, they’re harmless, just funny. The city has shaped my public awareness, my common decency, my protectiveness, my quick-thinking, my ability to create “Plan B” before Plan A even fails me. Everyone has a destination in this city, a location to arrive to, an emotion to succumb to. I’ve experienced mine, my experience complete, my loyalty to the city forever.

Astoria: a small cocoon of my city, New York City.

Neoma Kathriner is a 16-year-old Colombian and Swiss student athlete. She attends the High School of Fashion Industries in Manhattan. She loves rowing, fashion, eating, and hanging out with her friends. | 45

46 | All I Have To Say Mujhe hindi aati hai.

Aakriti Bagchi Mujhe hindi aati hai.

Pero no me gusta hablar en Hindi (or anything besides English) En America.

Mujhe hindi aati hai.

Sé bastante español, Debido a la escuela.

Naneun Korean jogum ara, Korean-drama eseo.

To onaji Japanese, Kara Japanese Dramas.

Mujhe nahi pata kyon Main aisa hoon, Lekin this is just the way I am.

Gwaenchanh-ayo, Hajiman I wish we lived in a society Where it was “cool” to speak in non-European languages.

Daijobu I guess, Daga it would be cool to be proud And not be insecure about it, Or what my accent used to be.

Mujhe hindi aati hai.

Sé bastante español, Debido a la escuela.

Naneun Korean jogum ara, Korean-drama eseo.

To onaji Japanese, Kara Japanese Dramas.

And yet, All I speak is English.

I can speak Hindi, Spanish I learned from school, Korean and Japanese phrases From dramas, And can understand a bit of various Indian languages from my time Spent living there.

But, All I speak is English.

All I’m confident in is my slowly, But surely, Growing Italian vocabulary.

I am sure the New York City bubble Thinks that this mental-block of Not being able to use Hindi in America Is stupid and irrational, But it’s there.

I am the melting-pot version Of myself here.

I am “uh-kree-tee” here.

Not “ah-kri-thee”.

Not the Indian Aakriti.

Not the one that lived in India For eight years.

I got rid of her one year after Moving back to America. | 47

48 | All I Have To Say Non capisco perché Sono cosí.

Amo me stesso E la mia cultura, Ma non posso fight My insecurities.

Mi sono arreso.

I gave up and forgot.

Mujhe hindi aati thee.

Solia saber espanol.

Naneun Korean-eoleul algo.

Watashi wa shitteita.

But now, All I know is English.

Aakriti Bagchi identifies as, “Stressed, well-dressed, and coffeeobsessed.” An ambitious fashion-major, making the most of every New York minute.

Neighborhood Cresseide Jacques I grew up far away. My neighborhood was different from those who lived in America, let alone the city. My childhood resided in a well-known but also forgotten country in South America. Residing to the right of Venezuela and to the left of Suriname and French Guiana, Guyana is where I grew up. I lived in a house. One that stood on stilts. With four stone pillars that dug into soil with an old, broken grey fence that surrounded the long house. To get to my house from the main street, you took an alleyway that led to a wooden gate. One with chains and locks to keep us from running away when we were younger.

Adjacent to my house held my primary school, as we say. One with yellow uniforms and yellow ribbon bows that sat in our hair as we waited for our parents to pick us up. We were across the street, so the day I walked home by myself without permission was the day I became more alert and rational about certain things. I did get in trouble, but I would hardly call a scolding a serious punishment.

As a child I loved to play downstairs, beneath the house on stilts in the mud and grass. I would sneak down there during what I considered nap time. I was almost always certain that at this time during the day, almost half of town was asleep. That was the type of aura of this time. So being the hyper children we were, my sister and I snuck downstairs and played in the mud while my mum slept with the new addition to our family.

With a flat piece of blue soap and an old broken kitchen knife, my older sister and I began making what we called 5-star gourmet mud pies. We sprinkled a few plants here and there and we were done, for nothing could beat our garnishes. Our grins on display as our teeth never shied away from a smile.

| 49

50 | All I Have To Say During this time it was quiet, with only a few cars passing by and select people hollering down the street. The main sounds, however, came from the market behind my house. It’s as long as 3-and-a-half Manhattan blocks with vendors lined up in every nook and cranny. They sold everything there, from food to fruits to cleaning supplies to clothing. If you consider that everyone is able to grow their own food and sell it without much of a permit, then you can imagine a bunch of vendors calling out to buyers with these fast-calling sales. Their words jumbled together as they hollered about bread and fresh mangoes.

Standing tall and proud in the center of this market was the fish market. To a child it was a maze, one that took you to the other side of the market if one wrong turn was made. It was most definitely not a playground. The smell of fish was prominent and mothers everywhere made sure to hold their children's hands, their rules: stay close, keep quiet, and “Don't bother me unless yuh dying or getting kidnapped. Make sure you scream and kick so I know it's you.” It may seem harsh, but it's true. Getting lost in the fish market is like never seeing your parents again. You could either end up in a ditch or in the hands of a stranger yelling, “Ah who pickney this!” who probably doesn't intend to return you, and would either: A) Leave you there B) Take you home C) Take you to the police station Or D) Sell your organs It's a common thing and is sometimes taken lightly by the police. Despite this, children still run around without their parents and the only way that’s possible is if you or your family have a reputation. One that’s upheld through your family's last name.

Whall was ours, along with Jacques. It was common sense to others to leave certain families alone. Especially when you were part of two known families. One had a more legal and governmental status

despite it’s illegal past. The other was straight dangerous, filled with crooks whose only job was to protect the family and their values.

I grew up between neighborhoods, one in town, a more urban area, and in my village, Victoria, where my parents grew up. In the village, our house stood on a few stilts but sat atop a downstairs where my aunt lived with a small patio in the front. It was all green. You could spot it from a mile away as soon as you entered our narrow street, lined with trenches for rainwater, wild grass, and dirt. The second house on the side opposite ours was a bright pink. They were our rivals. My parents’ childhood rivals.

Whatever renovations we did to the house, they did to theirs. My grandmother placed tiles in our yard. It was too dull for her even though we had tons of plants decorating the front and back already.

It hadn’t been a few months before they did the same.

We found it funny that they took half of their life and dedicated it to doing everything better than us. It made us feel as though we were doing something right. Next to our house on the right was an abandoned school. Where adults would hang out, kids would play, and boys would make business washing cars to the side of the school. It was abandoned but useful. Then there was the field with a giant copper metal. It always reminded me of a football except it was cut open in the middle. I never really asked what it was because it is what it is. Across from this plain field was an actual ball field where the boys would play futbol. Futbol as in soccer, of course. My uncle played there all the time. Futbol is an important sport in my family. My father played, my uncles, my sister, brother, and so on and so forth.

To the end of the road past the fields and high grass is the sea wall. A wall that borders the sea. Its occupation is to control the tide and ease in the waves. It’s also the best spot to fly kites and go for a walk. Play a game and even fish. The sea wall stretches from both ends of the border of Guyana along the Carribean sea. It’s quite a sight. It's been there since my mother’s childhood and hasn’t really changed since then. Hence the stories of when they were | 51

52 | All I Have To Say kids when they would run into the salty water and bathe or try to fish. I remember the story of the mermaid. Where my mother and uncle went out one morning. They were both shoving and pushing each other as they dragged sticks against the dirt ground. Looking out into the sea they both spotted rainbow scales a couple feet out with a hand and long tail diving back into the waters. Of course I wouldn’t believe this if it wasn’t for the other stories.

Stories were always the best part of my childhood. It included the tales of beings and spirits that reside in certain locations around the village. Stories that told about spirits dragging you to the bottom of the river and ones that suck the soul out of you.

They also included how to identify certain spirits and what to keep in your house to prevent them from entering. My childhood was filled with family morals, stories, and discipline that would put yelling to shame. Never that beatings were enjoyed on both sides.

They were a warning, a threat to troublemakers. If you didn’t get good licks then you ended up spoiled and like the kids that didn’t understand what no meant.

I was glad to dodge that bullet. I am more than happy about my childhood. Many memories still burn as though they were still occurring. Both bad and good. My neighborhood was my childhood, one that morphed a hard-headed, stubborn fool that can’t help but try and please more than she can handle.

Born outside the USA, Cresseide Jacques, a 17-year-old high school student, enjoys reading, music and tends to her imagination when bored. She’s simply another face in the crowd.

Overthinking With Your Heart Nathaly Rodriguez Love is so dramatic and annoying. You assume that’s why it’s so disastrous when you accept that you’re in love. When love isn’t reciprocated in the way you want it to be. You run home and yell, “cion Mami,” in a croak and run to your room crashing against the locked door. And you convince yourself that this is what it means to love. That you do it regardless of how much he ignored you today to be with that other girl. You convince yourself you’re just imagining things because girls are crazy when they love. Till you realize, “you know what, I deserve more.” Blast “Irreplaceable” by Beyoncé in your headphones because if Mami finds out you fell in love and got your heart broken then good luck because she’ll call you a pendeja for even showing a boy affection. You don’t want to tell her you failed at love. At the very thing she told you to stay away from until you were old enough. She warned you, didn’t she, confirming all the things you thought about him and subsequently all the thoughts you thought about yourself. Wait, I mean, that’s not possible, right? You can’t possibly think you’re not worthy enough for him. “Love in the Dark” by Adele starts playing and suddenly you’re in your room pitch black, door locked, tears flowing down your face in a way you can’t even control anymore. While attempting to croak out the lyrics you realize you’re not alone.

Even Adele knows what this feels like. This is a sad realization that somehow puts you at ease. You eagerly text your friends, “that’s it I’m done I’m finally done I don’t need this, I don’t need him.” They praise you, even though that was the fifth text about this topic you sent to them today. Finally you sigh, you can see your worth, you can see that beyond love you are human. And it’s impossible to ask a human to be a god, to grant wishes that aren’t healthy to you.

That’s what he asked for because he knew eventually he would get his way back into your heart. Like a worm digging its way through consuming the nutrition of your soul, removing that love you once | 53

54 | All I Have To Say had for yourself. But no, you are something else, you deserve to remain with that love he attempted to steal from you. Finally, you raise your head after that two-hour nap: 7:56 pm. Time passed so quickly, did it not? You sigh again, realizing you haven’t eaten yet.

Neglecting your body to cater to the needs of others. You aren’t a charity even though that’s how you’ve been feeling lately. Like somehow everyone feels bad that you were treated by him in a way you wish on no one. All your friends and classmates warned you about who he was but you managed to tell yourself, “it’s okay, he’s different now, he’s changed.” Just so you know, he didn’t, no matter how hard he tries to convince you he has, you know he can’t change his ways. It was bound to happen this way, you being played like a toy. Now here you are at home realizing how he only made you feel less than. It sucks, doesn’t it? To realize his love was only temporary. Real love isn’t like that. Sure it’s absolutely annoying but it doesn’t make you feel like the way his faux love did. Now you’re in your room under your pretty pink sheets wearing a pale blue shirt writing all the things you wished you had told yourself four months ago knowing you wouldn’t have listened anyways. Love is a messy and ugly thing, and you deserve it, no doubt about it. Now play “Irreplaceable” again.

Nathaly Rodriguez is a 17-year-old high-school student who lives in the Lower East Side with her immigrant parents who are “puro Dominicano.” Nathaly is known to make impulsive decisions that she later regrets which is okay because she’s learning. She hopes you can read this story and be left with a bittersweet feeling over her closing a chapter in her life.

Pleasantly Silent Dana Dudziuk Play.

Talk.

Fight.

Silence.

This was always the extent of our relationship. You are older, so you always thought you were right. But if I’m being honest I don’t even remember what we fought about in the first place. What I do remember is that we would be doing something together and all of a sudden I would, unknowingly, say or do something “wrong” and you would get mad. Then I would get mad. And that is what I remember. The deeply intense, raging, scalding hot fury that ran so far into my soul I thought I would explode.

Hate.

I hated you. I loathed your presence, when you walked into our room that seemed to be shrinking as the years flew by. I detested the sound of your voice, even if you were just talking to your friends on the phone or on the Xbox about drama at school or which game to play. I despised the sight of your face, in passing and in pictures. I resented your entire being. I hated you.

Swears. | 55

56 | All I Have To Say You and I swore to never, ever talk to each other ever again.

This was obviously an empty promise because these fights would happen again, and many times after that. Whether it was over a remote or a homework question we both couldn’t figure out, an argument would start. It was childish, but at the time never talking to each other was the only thing we COULD agree on. We swore.

2 and a half years.

Almost exactly 2 and a half years apart. To you, that is the equivalent of nothing less than a decade. You are the older one and you never let me forget it. When our parents were out for work, or grocery shopping, or errands, you were always “in charge.” And it wasn’t the fact that you were “in charge” that bothered me, it was the entitlement, the abuse of power. Because you were “in charge” you got to watch your favorite TV show. Because you were “in charge” I had to do the chores. You were better than me. Your friends were too cool for me. Your clothes were too big for me.

Your homework was too hard for me to even try and comprehend.

You are 2 and a half years older than me.

Now. Now we are better. Now, for the first time, we can sit in the same room and avoid arguments for an extended amount of time. Now we share our clothes willingly without complaints. Now we hang out with each other even if our friends are around. Now our age doesn’t make a difference. Now we are grown and with that growth has come separation. And with this seperation you have become the person, the sister, I wish you would have been my whole life.

Now I am finally able to understand why I had to wait 16 years for the sister you have become. Now the silence is not out of hate or

swears or age difference, but out of love because we understand that through that silence we have found peace.

Silence.

Dana Dudziuk is a 16-year-old junior living in Queens, New York.

She enjoys listening to music, watching movies, and talking about TV shows. Dana also regularly quotes Vines as part of her daily vernacular. In all she do be vibin’. | 57

58 | All I Have To Say ‘Sad boi hour’ Melanie Vasquez I’m filling out the bubble sheet for one of the most important exams I will ever take in my life. My hands are sweaty, I’m shaking, my pencil is trembling, and I feel sick. I guide my eyes through the extensive questions and there it is. The question. The big question.

The question I’m not ready to answer. Why must I answer it now?

I’m about to take one of the biggest exams ever and you throw me this curveball? I take a deep breath in and I read section 15. It asks me to bubble in four colleges I will send my scores to. What? No one told me I would have to make this decision right now. I start panicking because I’m not ready. I know this exam will not be easy, so I fear the possibility of having to send my mediocre scores to my dream university. As a result, I don’t bubble in the University of Pennsylvania.

The test was about to start in five minutes and all I could think about was, why? It was a broad question because I didn’t know what exactly I was asking, but deep down I think I knew. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for any of this. I’m not ready to get my score. I’m not ready to fill out my college applications. I’m not ready for the rejections.

I completed my exam and left. Wow that was something. I head home and I think of everything one thinks when they want to give up. I lean on the train door even though they tell us not to. What a rebel, I think. It may have been one of the few rules I’ve ever broken in my life. This is because I’ve always lived by the rules. How sad is it that I’ve never been able to experience the thrill of life. Of course breaking a rule isn’t the only way to “live life,” but it’s sad to think that I haven’t lived my appropriate teenage years.

By that I mean, being able to do the craziest things without feeling the pressure of the world on my shoulders. Everytime I tell my dad I’m stressed he responds with the classic answer, “You’re

young, you shouldn’t feel stressed. You’re supposed to live your life while you’re young.” But it’s not like that. It’s during these years when you must make life-changing decisions. Huge decisions such as college. How are you supposed to multitask living your best life and deciding where your life is headed? If you ask me this is all very unnecessary. I’m young, I shouldn’t be stressed out about some exam, and I shouldn’t panic when I’m asked about college.

I get home and as expected my mom asks me how my exam went. I said it went great, to not disappoint, but I make sure to tell her that I will take it again no matter what. She accepts my short answer and I’m thankful. I go to my room and I ask Alexa to play my “sad boi hour” playlist. 5 Seconds of Summer starts playing and as the tune starts I change into my pjs and lay down.

I drown myself in my music and I imagine a world where none of this matters. I dream of me opening my acceptance letter to UPenn and me thriving at life. I smile at the thought. I think of how nice it would be to live in such a carefree world, but this is not the case.

I suddenly opened my eyes and came back to reality. I stare up at my white ceiling, and as I hum to my song I find myself falling into a deep sleep.

Melanie Vasquez is a young 17-year-old who was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Although she is still figuring her life out, Melanie enjoys writing about the complexities of life and her current hardships. She draws her inspiration from real-life experiences and questionable lyrics from her favorite artists. She hopes to capture the raw feeling of failure and loss, while at the same time showcasing the bright side. In her downtime she enjoys reading and listening to her “sad boi hour” playlist on Spotify. | 59

60 | All I Have To Say Suppressing Tears Nathaly Guallpa I don’t want to forget today because if I did, what consequence will it bring?

A week ago, February 11th of 2020, I was lying in bed, tired, and either watching iZombie on Netflix or trying to do some of the homework and school work I needed done. Three days before, I had woken up from surgery. Two days before that, I had gotten my period. So one day later when the pain started and wouldn’t end, I had thought they were stomach cramps, that my hormones had caused a pain I never had. However that was not the case. My appendix, now a useless organ from the cavemen times, was about to explode.

Back then the deathly pains would probably have meant I’d only have a few days, that would be followed by prayers, rituals, and hope. Today even if it did burst, it only means surgery and self care.

But it was so sudden, and still felt close enough to death, thinking about how I might not have gone to the hospital thinking they were cramps. I now ask how and why am I still alive? Although I know the answer is that I was “saved” by the surgeons, why did I deserve to be saved? Aren’t I, like everyone who’s been in my position, just polluting the Earth with my breathing?

However funny it is, I in fact wish I was asked if I wanted to be saved so that I could have actually chosen to be. Know what I wanted to say—I wish to live. And you can’t ever know that till your body reacts with a cold vulnerable situation you get when you’re drowning, I did indeed feel the fear, yet the speed of time consumed whatever taste those words could have given me.

I know and can recall every single moment in the hospital:

How I playfully said I could no longer say “I’ve never had surgery,” how during the entire time I coated my fear with laughter and jokes even though I felt violated, how as I was punctured by needles and connected to the serum I would think how much does this all cost? Or how I was only disconnected to undress to put on a robe where I was naked underneath.

I can’t forget how the walls I had set around me couldn’t protect me from overwhelming sensations my mind, my heart, and my skin felt. I felt cold, as if I had just gotten out of the beach just when the breeze kicked in.

I remember how I layed in the surgery bed surrounded by strangers who would save me, the same strangers who would open my robe and trade my control with a deep sleep in which I would awaken alone. I can recall every single moment, how when the medication would wear off I’d get anxiety attacks as the side effect, in which pain spread on my shoulder to my back and I could barely breathe.

While I was worried on Sunday on how Monday would be, on Monday when I got to school, my head was in conflict. Despite liking how the teachers would say welcome back with a warm smile, I could not look any student in the eye, was it because I hated pity both from others and myself and feared if I looked into anyone’s eyes I’d find it? Or was it because I was both ashamed and proud that I had cheated death? And then there was my ego, causing me as much problem as everything else, playing questions over and over in my head—was I exaggerating my weakness, how far can I talk about it, does it sound like I’m complaining or asking for attention, and if it is, that I’m asking for attention why am I? Do I sound weak, something I know everyone is disgusted by and avoid, despite what they say, they avoid as they fear blood and sickness. Cuz now, I know I do.

This surgery brought out monsters, fears, I never knew I had, fears created from a traumatic experience as I could easily imagine how during my sleep my skin was cut and blood was spilling. | 61

62 | All I Have To Say Afterall surgery, whether expected or not, can be traumatic, especially when you realize not everyone’s reactions are the ones you want; they can be dishonest and fueled by curiosity.

Although it helps to write, to process everything that’s happened, I don’t know when I’ll be able to thank God; all I know to feel are the raw emotions of my controlling heart.

Nathaly Guallpa is a 16-year-old junior who is very creative in her art like her writing and picks up new activities all the time, like swimming, playing the violin, and singing. She’s got two younger sisters who she reads stories to, either from her phone or ones she makes on the spot. She is very imaginative so even though she’s never published anything she’s got a whole bunch of short stories saved that she hopes to turn to larger books. She currently lives in Queens, NYC, and will study psychology in the future. Now she is also considering being a neurologist and maybe writing more memoirs along the way.

The Light That Never Goes Out Aurora Joseph Sadasy “I never never want to go home Because I haven’t got one Anymore Take me out tonight Because I want to see people and I Want to see life Driving in your car Oh, please don’t drop me home Because it’s not my home, it’s their Home, and I’m welcome no more” - “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out,” The Smiths I’ve lived in New York my entire life (except for that one year in Georgia). Yet somehow I’ve always felt like an outsider in my own home. The slang, the people. Maybe I’m stuck in naivety thinking that seventeen is the extent of my knowledge, but I’ve been in every friend group you can think of and never truly felt grounded. Each is an experiment to see whether this will feel like home. But you can’t build homes in people. Home isn’t a place but a feeling, or so I’ve learned when passing through halls or in casual conversation you hear people rave about “pop smoke” and how proud they are to be from Brooklyn. Yet it wasn’t ‘til last week I learned what a “chopped cheese” was and despite having it explained to me five times over, I still do not completely grasp the concept nor have I seen it in person. Even telling people I’m from New York feels like a lie. Who am I to claim a place that has never claimed me?

The only time I ever feel close to being a true New Yorker is when I put on a song by someone who definitely isn’t pop smoke and get drawn into the Far Rockaway waters as the smell of the sea salt and algae creep into the train car. Or maybe when I’m walking | 63

64 | All I Have To Say alone through the busy street as the humid sun shines onto confused and dehydrated tourists that flip through Google Maps.

I’ve only ever felt connected to New York through my disconnect with others. Drowning the sounds of the headache-inducing traffic and natives sizing each other up trying to see who’s truly worthy of walking these streets. Surrounding myself with essentials of genre-bending artists like Tame Impala, Arctic Monkeys, Willow, and Cage the Elephant and legends like Joy Division, The Smiths, and Pink Floyd. Songs that take you out of your surroundings yet breath meaning to seemingly meaningless moments.

Forever always has an expiration date, a date that people usually create. Whether it’s family, friends, or that random stranger that you spilled your entire life to, they always fade away. Only leaving fading moments that will get caught in the cobwebs of your mind, sucked into an abyss of your own making. Through the revolving door, there is one thing that always stays true: the connection with you. Though you may have forgotten the exact moments, the songs you played on your couch as you ranted about how suffocating the system can be to a person you didn’t know you needed, or the song you played as you came home and watched him pack his things never to be seen again. That connection because those forgotten memories are often the most important, you’ll never know how they shaped your relationships or ambitions, but they still linger inside boxes waiting for the key. The only ones that will never be forgotten are the strings that hold it together with the bass that broke your heart and the cries of the forgotten lyrics that are on the tip of your tongue.

Aurora is a 17-year-old high school student and New York native who is struggling to find a foothold on what she calls home. She hopes to one day have a job possibly in political journalism, modeling, or acting so she is able to travel to rid herself of the modern constraints of what a home is.

TO THE FOOLS WHO DREAM Deborah Kwong Magic bullets.

The ones that pierce the heart, and turn it upside down.

Lodging themselves deep into the veins, blocking channels — a blockade has been created.

Pent up.

Time passes.

Forgotten dreams.

Dragons in the sky.

Broken yellow roads, a sun shining high above.

With the clouds kept at bay.

“Ignorance is a bliss.”

Feet on the ground.

Heads in the clouds.

Day dreamer.

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

“Can’t you see!? It’s destroying you!”

Feet shuffling away, as she enters her state of mind again.

Fairy dust…

Bottled wine.

Living in France, Spoken words of Italian.

Away in Japan, Asleep in Greece.

Lost in translation | 65

66 | All I Have To Say Tears fall, Why? Choked up sobs, Hung with her thoughts.

Red marks all around.

Can I? Do I dare?

To dream once more?

Again?

Repeat.

Magic bullets.

The ones that pierce the heart, and turn it upside down.

Lodging themselves deep into the veins, blocking channels — a blockade has been created.

Pent up.

Time passes.

Forgotten dreams.

Dragons in the sky.

Broken yellow roads, a sun shining high above.

With the clouds kept at bay.

“Ignorance is a bliss.”

Feet on the ground.

Heads in the clouds.

Day dreamer.

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

“Can’t you see!? It’s destroying you!”

Feet shuffling away, as she enters her state of mind again.

Fairy dust‌ Bottled wine.

Living in France, Spoken words of Italian.

Away in Japan, Asleep in Greece.

Lost in translation.

Tears fall, Why? Choked up sobs, Hung with her thoughts.

Red marks all around.

Can I? Do I dare?

To dream once more?

Again?

Repeat.

Deborah Kwong is an INFP and a deadly pessimistic ray of sunshine. | 67

68 | All I Have To Say Tumbles of Hunger Chelsea Zuniga Hear me out! Tiramisu. It’s such a delicious cake and it even has coffee in it. It’s a superior flavor. I enjoy food to the max, it’s the only thing really I can look forward to. Even so, it’s very difficult for me to enjoy it in peace. Coming home tired just trying to celebrate something because you need motivation in your life is quite difficult when you get yelled at by your mom for being selfish.

I then have to wash a sink full of dishes three times in one day while trying to study and do my homework. I later need to shower and remember to socialize because that’s what normal people do.

See, that’s the thing. I don’t see myself as a normal person.

Years I spent comparing myself to others. Even today, I’ll never meet the standards. I’m constantly finding myself in a box choosing to ignore the good memories. One stumble was enough to make me fall with my face flat to the ground. I won’t lie, I am being dramatic. Even more, the fact that I found the need for authenticity from others and not from myself. Three attempts and the one thing I tried to look forward to was changing my looks so it matches my personality. I’m constantly looking at my dreams, the idea of finding my soulmate, traveling to quiet towns, and eating amazing food. I won’t blame society for the fact that I am a pessimist. I don’t know who to blame. Since the idea is to change, I’ll blame anyone but myself.

After finally finishing my homework, I go to bed at 11:30pm only to hear my sister talk with her boyfriend. It hurts me to listen to it. It makes me feel like trash because I bring myself down and tell myself I’ll never be enough until I fall asleep. I wake up with my eyes dry and my heart still beating. I always look forward to that small cup of coffee I drink. It reminds me that even though it’s sour one day and sweet the next, it still keeps me going. I then choose my outfit for the day. I waste 20 minutes of my life every

day because in the end I always choose jeans and a baggy sweater.

I’m insecure about my body and, to be honest, I have no idea what my body looks like. One day it looks dark and the next it’s as pale as snow so I can’t exactly change my look to match my personality.

The rest of the day I go to school it’s quite the usual. Talk to some friends and socialize. I enjoy school, it is tiring but I enjoy learning.

My father sacrificed a lot to get me here so why would I waste such an opportunity?

In the end I always go back home. To the kitchen without complaining I wash the dishes and do my best to keep going.

Maybe today I’ll bake brownies or make a delicious sandwich. On the train ride to school I often get weird cravings and for some reason food tastes 10 times better when you’re craving it. One thing I always try to experiment with is my drinks. I usually have coffee but sometimes I see these lemonades and apple juices that look extremely refreshing.

The one thing I always remember is the world is way too big, too beautiful, there are always things we haven’t experienced so we should stop thinking. We should worry about tomorrow when it comes. If our bottles have too many mementos, remove the bad ones. Make space for the new ones. There’s one thing I want to do before leaving this world. I want to grab a piece of the sky as I jump off a plane. I want to paraglide while watching the snowy mountains and colorful hills filled with flowers.

Chelsea Zuniga is a 16-year-old female living life as a hopeless romantic and looking forward to the next meal. She is relaxed anywhere but home and is always trying to motivate herself.

She is attracted to unique things and can be characterized as a minimalist. | 69

70 | All I Have To Say When She Called Jeanette Luna He kissed me goodnight as he sent me off to bed in my newly renovated hot pink bedroom. He closed the door gently to make sure that his little girl would be safe and protected for the night, as he always did. I fell sound asleep in my metal-framed bed as the zebra print quilt swallowed up my 8-year-old body. I was in the midst of my millionth dream of being saved by my knight in shining armor when all of a sudden I heard someone shrieking my name. Who could that be? I dashed across our miniature 10-foot kitchen toward my parents’ bedroom. I lay on the floor in front of their door trying to get a sneak peek of what was going on inside the inferno. As I was trying to get a peep, I saw his muscular hands drag her across the floor by her hair as she stretched her arms to the little wandering eyes beneath the door. She saw me. I closed my eyes shut, but I could still hear my mom’s body thump and shatter across the floor. She called my name as if she was one punch away from death. I begged and banged for him to open the door, but it was too late. His job was momentarily done. He walked out of the room without glancing my way not even once. Suddenly I saw her on the floor crying blood out her eyes, running to hug me. I hugged her and consoled her like he promised he always would.

She spent the night in my room because she was afraid he would come back to finish the job he started. The next day he came home with all the toys and books I only dreamt of having. I was daddy’s little princess, right? Looking back now, I realize he was only trying to buy the love and time he knew he was starting to lose from me, but I was too young, too innocent to feel the hurt and betrayal my mother did at the time. I swallowed the money, toys, books, and clothes he shoved down my throat, but he knew that no matter how much he gave me it would never amount to the price of beating my mother.

Engulfed in my ocean of confusion and suffering, I resented the man who let his “little girl” be exposed to such scarring moments, sounds, with feelings of physical and internal agony. I resented the man who hurt us, the man who couldn’t protect us, the man who called himself my father. Where did all those forceful spoons of money and love go when he left and forced us to sleep our nights away on the cold streets of New York? Was that the best definition of a dad he could come up with? My heart morphed from something innocent and pure to the smallest charcoal black heart he could’ve ever imagined. He never looked, called, or bothered to visit me.

He didn’t even try on my birthday, but now he wants to waltz into my life like my knight in shining armor to save the day. Now that I don’t need him, he wants to hold my hand every step of the way.

Guess what? I’m not daddy’s little girl anymore.

Jeanette Luna is a 17-year-old student at the High School of Fashion Industries, where she majors in Fashion Marketing and Management.

She’s Mexican, Colombian, and Puerto Rican, but she’s originally from Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Jeanette will be a first-generation student and hopes to become a pediatric dentist. | 71

72 | All I Have To Say You and i Katelyn Alvarez BODY You broke me until the shattered pieces turned to dust. Just enough that i could be blown away and wither into nothingness with the slightest movement of your lungs and lips. It would be an exaggeration for me to say that i starved myself for you, never that. But you made me think of myself as nothing and made me imagine my life as someone else.

SOUL You call, but don’t speak You mutter, and i don’t listen You yell, and i decline. i can’t see your face, and it pains me to hear your voice.

Your words have this movement to them where they ice my veins and make me think enough to put me in penitentiary. And i try, try so hard to hurt you back but fail miserably every time.

Do you ever feel as guilty as i do? i want to tell you so bad to go away forever, i’ve gotten on my knees and asked for the willpower to cut you off more times than i can count, but your voice is always there, your strings strategically grasping my heart.

MIND You told me you loved me and my lips were sewed shut. i was taught lying is always the wrong answer. They say a girl never forgets her first love and the thought makes my gut wrench and windpipe close. i hate that i remember every minute of us, i want to forget you more than anything, but the deeper the thought the larger you cut, and the thicker the scar grows So i have to force myself to remember the good and the bad.

The times when i couldn’t stand to be around you and the times when i didn’t want to leave your arms. The times when you made me feel like just a pebble waiting to be kicked and the times when i felt like the only girl in the world you had eyes for. i can’t escape you it isn’t possible You’re in my hair, in my scent, your touch is tattooed to my skin and your voice will always linger in my ear.

Katelyn Alvarez is a 16-year-old junior in high school, who lives in New York City. She hopes you’re able to connect her writing to multiple relationships in your life, not just a romantic one. It could be platonic, familial, or just a love-hate relationship. In this piece she covers how one person affected her body, mind, and soul so deeply that she could no longer cut them out of her life. | 73

74 | All I Have To Say You’re Not Alone Lorraine Andrickson

Acting, an adjective, temporarily doing the duties of another person. The media has always been fixated on Timothee Chalamet’s new love interest or what new role Scarlett Johansson is going to steal from more deserving actors. It’s rarely ever about the craft anymore. Movies depicting the same worn out plots continue to fill minds without ever really highlighting current events and issues in society. Acting as anyone in the world makes me hate myself a little less, gladly escaping my reality for a couple hours a day. In those hours, I can feel what it’s like to be someone else. I can be admired in my body, yet praised as someone outside of myself.

Being a Bisexual Latina in a Dominican traditional household is extremely difficult. Not receiving any support from my “parental figures” adds to the self-deprecation and hate. The day I came out is the day I will never forget, as it’s forever etched in my brain as the day I officially became independent. I was forced out of the closet, unprepared and mortified, I was numb. There were so many emotions coursing through my veins yet absolutely nothing came out of my mouth. My grandmother, the only mother I’ve ever really had, the one person I never wanted to disappoint or lose, ended up being the big person I lost. At the time, I was in a loving, or so I thought, relationship with someone who I believed cared for me exactly how I cared about them. I offered myself up to this person and gave them every piece of fight I had in me. Similar to how Leonardo DiCaprio had never won an Oscar, I had never truly felt valued and cared for. This past relationship provided me the strength I needed to get through the harsh realities of my home life, yet began eating me alive every chance it got. I had gotten home with my partner after a long day of school and decided to watch a movie with them, but things turned sour too quickly. Acting as a couple does, we were very close to each other. Simple intimacy

was something that was somewhat foreign to us, seeing as we had to keep everything between us under wraps. Evidently, none of us had heard my grandma’s footsteps and she walked. Silence, only breathing could be heard. Getting up slowly, my partner and I felt so shameful over what had previously happened. I walked my partner to the train station, trying to brace myself for impact with every single step I took.

When I arrived back home, I was treated to nothing but a dirty look and an even dirtier tone of voice (a tone that still haunts me to this day). This voice rang throughout my body like the gong in Mulan when Mushu was waking up all of the Fa ancestors. I couldn’t properly articulate words. I began explaining to my grandma my sexuality and how I felt about my partner, only to be met with stubborness and deceit. I had been sold the promise that my “parental figure” would always be there to pick me up whenever I fell down, but she let me fall. My room was empty that night, I physically couldn’t stay in that toxic household. I was drowning in my own emotions so I decided, “Why not become a completely different person?”

Acting has influenced my life in many different ways, but not like how it did when I came out. I became a whole different human being. This new entity never let her emotions get to her nor did she let others see her downfall. The new girl had the fakest smile, the most glossy eyes, and the seemingly perfect coping mechanisms that anyone had ever seen. I put on a mask and hid behind it for so long. That mask became my only relief, seeing as though my relationship had gone south. I ended up being all alone, seeking to pick up all of the shattered pieces left behind by all of them. When acting like someone new, I get to hide behind empty facades and false identities in order to find some sort of relief to the cold reality of coming out to a strict grandmother. I’ve had to act like not having a mom doesn’t hurt, seeing as though mental illness plays a huge role in her absence. Or how not having contact with any of my father’s side of the family doesn’t sting a little, while everyone else seems to have both parents. My estranged mother has been | 75

76 | All I Have To Say an absent figure in my life, not to mention my father has recently started making his way back into my life. I’ve lost my siblings over the years, constantly being faced with watching them leave one at a time. My youngest sister is in the foster care system, making it impossible to see her. I’ve been pulled in so many different directions throughout my years on this Earth. Every single pull is nothing I haven’t felt before. The escalation of pain is the only thing increasing. I guess you could say, I lost everything in order to gain more.

Overall, I’ve lost a lot. Similar to how Jordan Belfort lost everything in the movie The Wolf of Wall Street, everything I ever held dear to me left my grasp at the slight of a hand. My life is full of tragedies, yet I chose to continue hiding behind a mask. The same mask I wore when my biological mother left my life, when my grandmother shunned me out, when my older siblings practically abandoned me, and when my own inner demons decided to dance around in glee whenever I felt like exiting this world. The new character that infiltrates my body has all the chances to feel such a range of emotions, something that I myself have limited myself to feeling. Perhaps if I stopped allowing myself to fall into these pits of despair and weakness, I’ll truly be able to remove this mask.

Lorraine Andrickson is a Latina-American writer from Manhattan, New York. She enjoys sharing her experiences and giving advice in hopes of helping and supporting others. In her spare time, she enjoys theatre arts, discussing social justice, and analyzing films.

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78 | All I Have To Say

Acknowledgments In the winter of 2020, 826NYC partnered with The High School of Fashion Industries to teach a unit on writing memoir to a group of talented and hardworking students. The juniors in Mr. Kearns’ English class read a variety of texts, ranging from personal essays to poems to graphic novels, from a diverse selection of writers, participated in class conversations about the readings and the craft of writing, and then set to work telling their own stories. All I Have To Say is a compilation of original work by these students.

A huge thank you to Mr. Kearns for inviting 826NYC into your classroom and supporting the teaching artists, classroom writing mentors, and students in their work together. We are also grateful to principal Daryl Blank and assistant principal of English and ESL Nancy Moore, for their support of this project.

At 826NYC we depend on the dedicated volunteer editing and design cohort that make our publications a reality. Thank you to Adi Kwiatek for designing such a beautiful book for our students, and to copy editors and proofreaders Allie Singer, Lauren Stefaniak, Hannah Slater, and Lala Jackson for their careful attention to each of the student’s pieces.

Many thanks to our teaching artist, Vanessa Friedman, and to our classroom writing mentors Nancy Binns, Kara Pernicano, and Andy Irving for their enthusiasm and dedication to the young writers at The High School of Fashion Industries. Your creation of a creative and safe space shows in the pieces in this collection. Thank you also to the 826NYC staff for their work behind the scenes in making this program happen.

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, emotional, and hopefully fun process, and your dedication to your craft and your stories shines through in these pieces. You are the experts of your own stories. Thank you. | 79

826NYC Location and Leadership

826NYC and The Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. 372 Fifth Ave Brooklyn, NY 11215 718.499.9884 www.826nyc.org Staff Joshua Mandelbaum, Executive Director Aarti Monteiro, Director of Education Nico Garbaccio, Volunteer and 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 Board of Directors Tammy Oler, President Ted Wolff, Vice President Ray Carpenter, Treasurer Michelle McGovern, Secretary Michael Colagiovanni Laurie Malkin Amir Mokari Arjun Nagappan Katie Schwab Danielle Sinay Andrew Sparkler Liza Steinberg Alyson Stone Maura Tierney

Thom Unterburger Kathryn Yontef 826NYC Programs After-School Tutoring We offer free tutoring four days per week for students ages six to eighteen.

Students work with volunteer tutors in small groups to finish homework assignments, complete independent writing projects, and to read independently, in pairs or in groups. We serve students of all skill levels and interests and work with parents and teachers to create independent learning objectives and support plans for struggling students.

Evening and Weekend Workshops We offer writing-based workshops that provide in-depth instruction in a variety of subjects that schools often cannot include in their curricula. These workshops cover topics such as college entrance essays, comic book–making, creative writing, journalism, poetry, and filmmaking. All workshops are taught by teaching artists and are limited in size to ensure that students receive plenty of individual attention.

In-School Support for Teachers The strength of our volunteer base allows us to provide in-school support to work with students in New York City classrooms. We recognize that large class sizes make it increasingly difficult for teachers to provide individualized feedback and guidance on research and writing. We send volunteers to the classroom to assist teachers with providing this essential one-on-one support.

Hosted Field Trips 826NYC welcomes classes from public schools for mornings of high-energy storytelling activities. Our most popular field trip is our Storytelling and Bookmaking project, in which elementary school students write, illustrate, publish, and bind their own books in a two-hour session. At the conclusion of this trip, each student leaves with his or her own copy of the book and a newfound excitement for writing. Our other field trips cover topics such as memoir writing, screenwriting, and more.

Student Publications Through our writing workshops and after-school tutoring program, 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.

ALL I HAVE TO SAY

An ode to every memory of happiness. Multiple love letters to people and places. Intimate connections with musicians and music. Dealing with depression. Learning how to love one’s hair, one’s family, one’s language, one’s self. Figuring out the true meaning of home. These are just some of the themes and stories in All I Have To Say, a collection of original memoirs written by juniors at the High School of Fashion Industries in partnership with 826NYC. The students learned that they are the experts of their own stories – and we are lucky that they are willing to share that expertise with us.

Proceeds from the sale of this book benefit 826NYC, 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.

Memoirs from 826NYC Students at the High School of Fashion Industries