If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It by 826nyc

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-it Poems & Essays on Legacy by Creative Writing Students at The New York City Lab School for Collaborative Studies

826NYC Books 372 Fifth Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11215 If I Left You My Poem on a Post-it © 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 978-1-948644-52-5 The writing in this book was produced in the 2019-20 school year at 826NYC’s In-schools Publishing Project at The New York City Lab School for Collaborative Studies. The classes were run by Maryann Aita with the support of Cara Zimmer.

Designed by Ciara Cordasco 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.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

7 Prologue — Cara Zimmer 9 ?you left I as Just — Emmersen Tormey 10 The Body We Shared — India Oldham 12 Just Maybe — Skye Stinnett 14 The Good Times — Mohamed Terra 15 JM 16 JCC 17 Spiraling — Ilana Isabel Guaraca 19 Loss — Oriana Gioia 20 The Small Things — Ben Sibulkin 22 Until It Isn’t — George Schatzberg 24 JH 25 DL 26 Sacrifices — Dylan Lee 28 My Brother’s Les Paul — Jean Carlos Cuenca 29 In the Light, Under the Waves — Ariel Park 30 A Truth Never Told — Taran Marley

31 JE 32 I Wanted to Write a Love Poem for My Acquaintances — Vivi O’keefe 34 Puzzled — Harry Carter 36 Fearing Indifference — Noa Libchaber 37 MT 38 Time Is Running Out — Annie Feinberg 39 My Last 10 Minutes — Emerson Fok 40 Insecurities — Mazee Simpson 42 GD 43 Weightlessness — Ava Harris 44 Going Live in 3. . . 2. . . — Giuliana Danon 45 I Wish — Jason Shearer 46 VO 47 A Bigger Picture — Juliette Moreland 48 Acceptance — Julian Alonzo 50 The Ones Who Said Yes — Jiawei Huang 53 HC 54 MS

55 You’ll probably never see this but I thought I’d say so anyway. — Alessia Hu 56 Is It Betrayal — Siya Sharma 57 ET 58 JS 59 Not Mine—Our Capsule — Saajin Magon 61 Is This How Kids Grow Up? — Erblin Hoxha 62 Overwrought — James Eigerman 63 Post-it — Sabrina Mizrahi 65 Acknowledgments

Prologue This is a book about legacy. About what these juniors and seniors in high school think they’re leaving behind, carrying on, or tucking away in a corner of a room or mind or heart. Playlists. Stoops. Their last skinny-dip of the summer. The feel of their friend’s mascara dripping onto their shoulder. The fear that they’re running out of time. When I think about this question of legacy, I think of myself as a daughter, sister, lover, friend. A poet. Maybe, someday, a mother. But when I think of myself as a teacher—when I imagine leaving this classroom, or this school—I think of their notebooks. Of the pieces of white paper they’ve stapled together and given to me, unaware that one night, when I lie on my bed and read them, they will feel to me like small pieces of a soul, and I will leave on them penciled-in notes, and I will give them back. So as I sit at this table in this apartment during this spring in New York City, and I imagine them at their own tables, in their own apartments, I think that what I’ll leave behind are their words. This is not to take credit for them. This is to say: I asked them to do this. And they did. And it’s beautiful.

Cara Zimmer

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

?you left I as Just He left already. Four years ago, making the drive up to drop him off, you knew what was coming, you watched his figure fa de into his new home, but you still cried the whole way back to ours. So when I go, there’s just you left. And what do you do with all that space ? The never-ending quiet that engulfs you, and when you walk by my room and peek in expecting me, what do you find instead? No clothes strewn on my bed from the morning. No sheets tangled in each other from the night. Just everything as I left it. Will you sit and wait just like that? Just as I left you?

Emmersen Tormey

The Body We Shared If I sit and close my eyes, I can hear the rustling of ivy on a brick wall I once loved But is now so far from what it used to mean. If I trip on a raised sidewalk and scrape my knee, What blood comes to surface will stain the ground, What doesn’t I will carry till another time, Like when we fell while climbing your tree And our hands were sticky with maple for weeks. When I saunter down the empty streets At four a.m., The purple sky is my only company. I feel the black painted gates strike the tips of my fingers At an almost perfect rhythm. When there’s no stick in sight, My index finger will dry and crack After I carve my name into the wet concrete. I carved my name into my dad’s guitar, The subway car, The diner’s wooden panels. All that I touched, and all that has touched me, Is what will be left When I finally leave. In my diary, you may find stories, Some vibrant with love, Others of pain, Causing tears to flow, And ripples in the page.

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

In the things you’ve forgotten, you will find me there, Whether a new hole in your belt, Or the scent of my hair. Under all that I said, may you think there was more— Words to a song You swear you’ve heard before. If you feel uneasy, If you miss me dearly, Know that I am out there Beyond the greatest sea. If you wish to be close, Bike down to the lake And skip some stones for you and me. But after all, What more can I promise? I am long gone, Maybe a hole already filled. But after all, What more can I give? For what you miss is what’s left of me, What was once yours Is my legacy—

India Oldham

Just Maybe My hands can’t grasp the things you will remember, the moments you will smile reminiscing about us, the way you will feel when you look back at our pictures. Though it’s not my duty to make that experience for you different, I try. Hoping you’ll remember me by the times I would text you to say I love you. The days after days I would invite you to my house because you had nowhere else to go. The early mornings I would spend cleaning, folding your clothes while you lay deeply asleep in my bed. The meals and clothing of yours I would always pay for even though you were richer than I was. The late nights I’d edit your essay despite mine being nowhere near done. The evening after he broke your heart, and though I had felt no empathy, I held you close and hard as you cried in my arms, your thick mascara dripping onto my shoulder. I don’t know if you remember, But I know why I want you to. My seemingly selfless acts now seem to have an ulterior motive peeking through. I wanted you to tell me you loved it when I did it; Wanted you to tell everyone else too. Maybe, I just wanted you to do it back, I wanted to teach you, scream to you that I needed it, I needed me from you.

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

If I did it enough, you’d learn, I’d reap the benefits, just maybe. I wanted guiltless texts, someone to pay for me, a house that could be mine, your arms around me feeling right, texts just because you missed me. I would remember. I still don’t know if you will.

Skye Stinnett

The Good Times The word friends rings in my ear the most when thinking about what I will miss when I leave. People I have been with since I was a kid. Even if I don’t leave, that won’t change the fact that they’re leaving. I plan on staying in New York, close enough to my family so I can visit them whenever I want. But most, if not all, of my friends plan on leaving the state, going to college far away, getting a job, and living their life there, making it close to impossible to visit each other. Everyone will be way too busy. I tend to wonder when I’ll see my friends for the last time. I’ve known them for most of my life, since elementary and middle school. What are we going to do that last day we see each other before moving on to college? I will miss the times we went to go play basketball at the park or the 92nd Street Y, or all the times we chilled at Carl Schurz Park after dark with the fresh smell of trees and the wind pushing against our faces. I will miss the times we talked for hours on the PlayStation chat. I will miss the times we yelled and cursed each other out, the times when we wanted to stop talking to each other but ended up being best friends again. We stuck with each other all these years and now it’s really over. It’s going to be time to go and put things in the past. It’s going to be time to go.

Mohamed Terra

It seems like Frost Valley was last month. Citibikes to stoops, Andy’s to Big Famous, brawls to playoffs. Yeah, we changed. SM

I have found my limit over a million times And still I press further So that even shame can’t keep up JCC

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Spiraling I’m running on ice, to a place with no true form. Asleep on the highest shelf, next to my parents’ wedding china, the remembrances reside. The imprint of a young girl’s body on wet grass. Laughter no one could hear. Screams bleeding though the shower wall, voices amplified, echoed through every eye shut and breath held, not my family this time. Red cracks running under ice, covering a soft face of simple wood, covering a grandmother’s soft dream of her late love. The trees too quiet in their whispers of warnings, unsure of what three hours may have done. Turning a year old in the season we met, you smelling like winter again. Waking up to an eyelash stuck on my finger, only to be lost among the folds in the sheets of my bed. A year of soul in negatives, frames of life in sets of fives. Your words like seasons, ever-changing yet consistent in their warmth. Strolling down the sun-stained sidewalk in mid-May, wondering how it feels to walk alongside me. Light waking up with the strike of a match. Home in a game of hopscotch— home in a few weeks each summer— home in another man’s dog— home in the slam of a door— home on the branch of a weak tree just waiting for her to fall. Life in the arms of a railing, spiraling thirty years of time into a house of his own.

Blue light brushing the highlights of her falling cheekbones, looking out for her, as she lives out life on the living room couch. Leaving my childhood in the roots of the plants, covering the soon to be paved ground, a ground that will be as unfamiliar to me as reality to an 11-year-old. The sounds slip away from my ears, sights peeled away from each eye, and my mouth is taut, as time is broken, as time gets lost.

Ilana Isabel Guaraca

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Loss I don’t know if people will remember me. I don’t even remember me. The real me. I feel like I’ve lost a little bit of myself. There’s been too much floating around me, My sadness, my stress, my anger, my confusion, my fear and my joy. I’m having trouble remembering me, the simple me. The me who could smile easily. The me who could trust people. Everything feels so complicated now. Maybe that’s just a part of growing up. I don’t know what changed. It feels like something turned off. I feel so distant—from everything and everyone. I feel like I’m watching my life from inside a glass box. I want to shake myself out of this haze. I want to be here. If I can’t remember myself, How are other people going to remember me? If I can’t pull myself out of this hole, Find myself again, define who I am, Then how will I be remembered?

Oriana Gioia

The Small Things Remember the small things Remember my scent or smile Don’t assume false ideas of me Don’t fight the same demons I did Don’t attempt to fill a void that I once left in you With something or someone else I want you to remember the way I laughed at your jokes I want you to remember the way I looked at you When you said something weird I want you to think about when we laughed together Smiled together Ate together Dreamt together But these are my own selfish ways My own selfish needs And when I’m gone, far away from here and out of reach You can remember the way I mistreated you The way I ignored you Or laughed at you, or pitied you Or made a face at you That’s what’s realistic That’s what happened But all I can ask is for you to interpret me how you want Not how your friend wants Not how your mom or teachers want Let’s all stop pretending Saying that we all care about each other When the reality is You don’t think about me when I’m here But you think about me when I’m gone Or maybe you don’t Maybe I’m just a distant memory now A distant thought, a distant experience It’s crazy to me how we act as though We’re going to live a thousand years

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

But when it comes to our legacy we only think about it When we are near the end Near the end of an experience End of a relationship or place The end of anything So view me how YOU want Hate me, like me, love me Or just remember the small things.

Ben Sibulkin

Until It Isn’t Life is just a basketball game. The season started with a four-game suspension. I watched a twelvepoint lead turn into a three-point deficit. This is where I’m supposed to hit a three pointer at the buzzer. I glanced down with sweat dripping from my forehead, but found myself looking at a perfectly tied tie with a sweater on top instead of seeing Jumpman. The buzzer sounded, my legacy had begun. I wasn’t the heroic point guard, I’m still not. I score twelve points on a good day and two on a bad day. I’m not what I thought I was, but I can choose to keep working, and improve. No matter how confusing it can seem through adversity, basketball usually makes perfect sense. It’s a bunch of either-or’s. Either you win or you lose. Either you fought hard or you didn’t. Either you cry tears of joy or tears of heartbreak. Sometimes you disappoint, sometimes you bounce back, and it’s all pretty simple. Life is just a basketball game, until it isn’t. Sometimes, I wish life were just a series of actions that lead to a win or a loss. And that was my legacy. Either I did it right, or I didn’t. But the wins and losses are very subjective here. The biggest wins are disguised as losses sometimes, and vice versa, and it makes no sense. Sometimes I get so caught up in making my life worth it that I forget to actually live a life as myself. I spend so much time trying to perfect my life and trying to make it meet the expectations I’ve created for myself in my head that I lose sight of who I am and what I’m doing. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that legacy doesn’t matter. The only thing thinking about your legacy does is make you live a life false to who you are. I’m tired of overthinking. I’m tired of wanting to be something. I’m tired of not understanding what this is all for. When my dad drops hours of wisdom on me, trying to teach

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

me how to be, or when I’m up at 3 a.m. reflecting on the biggest mistakes I’ve made in life, just trying to be better, what’s it all for? I don’t know what I’m becoming, and I don’t know why I care. Sometimes I wish it were as simple as staying an hour after basketball practice to make a hundred threes. And then when I hit a couple in the next game, it makes sense. I wish life were just a basketball game. But it isn’t.

George Schatzberg

It’s like a horror movie everyday being a wondrous mystery itching to untangle the puzzle except it wasn’t all that scary JH

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

On the first day, I felt That I didn’t belong here. Now, I treat it as if It’s my second home. DL

Sacrifices As a kid, my grandfather spent most of his life In the sweatshops of Hong Kong. He went everyday for twelve hours, Earning minimal pay, Just to put food on the table for him And his family. He worked there for most of his adulthood. The smell of cigarettes lingered on his body As he walked home everyday In his dirty t-shirt, jeans, and brown sandals. On a good day, He would be able to get off work and meet up with his friends And play mahjong on a Friday night. He would teach my mom and all his other children How to play. He wanted his five children to have a better life, So he immigrated to America in 1970 To seek new opportunity, So that his children would not go down the same path That he did. He helped them finish high school, Earn a bachelor’s degree, And have stable jobs Through the sacrifices he made for them. And now the torch is being passed down To me and my generation. I want to graduate from college, Get a job I enjoy, Be successful,

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Something my grandfather couldn’t experience. I want future generations To have more success than I have ever had. To get jobs that’ll last them until they retire. To build their own legacies And to remember mine, Just like I did with my parents. I need something that symbolizes my grandfather, Something that will last forever, To hand down to future generations. When I grow old, I will tell my kids, “Take this picture of my grandfather As a reminder of how your life shaped up like this”— A black and white picture of him In front of the kitchen stove with his brown sandals on, The pots and pans he cooked with Hanging up in the background. Most importantly, A big smile on his face. A smile I wish I had. This picture would symbolize The roots. We are in the positions we are in Because of the sacrifices he made for us. He made it all possible To live the lives we have now, And I thank him for that.

Dylan Lee

My Brother’s Les Paul You couldn’t understand how much I loved you How much I cared But how could I blame you We seemed to be worlds apart and I rarely showed my affection We had little in common But we shared blood and that was enough From afar, I witnessed you grow The way you learned to feel alive You quickly became a thorn in my side But your flower was truly something to behold Beneath the radiant sky you came to life But our tainted world remains unpredictable And tomorrow I may be gone For you I leave my guitar A tangible happiness I leave with you The one you were always fascinated by and asked to touch The one you knocked over and almost broke The one you could see your reflection in With its glossy ebony finish and silver humbuckers You listened from the doorway On the cool somber nights when you would close your eyes As my guitar gently wept It told stories of weary vagabonds and lost souls As the chorus and flanger brought the room to life, The walls would begin to dance And you would fall asleep Embedded in this gift are the memories and the stories Let them reach out to you So that you may feel them once again

Jean Carlos Cuenca

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

In the Light, Under the Waves Sparkling gems on a gold bracelet, A gentle blush of pink, A forgotten drawer, Crushed under the weight of time, Dulled under the waves. And when golden rays of light Shine on the glinting jewels again, You’ll remember me, In the soothing flow of time, Beating gently against the will Of those who want to be remembered. Slowly, Making the jagged edges smooth. But for now, You’ll remember me.

Ariel Park

A Truth Never Told I want people to remember me for the person I was, not the person they believe I am. If I was a good person, I want to be remembered as a good person. If I was bad, I want people to remember me as bad. The last thing I want is to be misunderstood. If I left a false impression on people, then it would make my entire life a lie, because no one would know the truth. The thought of leaving and people thinking I’m someone I’m not terrifies me. I am who I am, and people thinking I’m anything else sounds awful. Though I must admit the last person I want to judge is myself, because I don’t think I would see myself accurately. Like we would all like to think we understand ourselves, but that’s probably not true. There are always things that people from the outside notice about you. And if you try to hide things about yourself, no one will ever truly know who you are. Imagine the remaining memory of your existence was inaccurate. Think of all the people we didn’t understand until long after they were dead. Van Gogh, Nikola Tesla, and Copernicus were ridiculed when they were alive and became beloved after their death. Even people we thought were good like Columbus, Picasso, Dr. Seuss, turned out to be not completely wonderful. There could be lots of dead people who were actually the opposite of who people think they were, and how would we know? That’s why I want people to remember me accurately, because anything less would be insulting, or unjust.

Taran Marley

Well, if I’m being frank, and to be completely honest, if no bars are held and all that, well. . . forget it. JE

I Wanted to Write a Love Poem to My Acquaintances I wanted them to know how much fun I had at the Great Lawn. Or how happy I was to meet the friends of my friends. I wanted them to know that their personalities didn’t annoy me, That the music they played on the Beats Pill In the center of the circle we created Matched the music on my “hype” playlist. I wanted to see them again. I imagined myself establishing that new friendship. But I guess they didn’t get the message. It’s these questions that forever linger: Did they like me? Did they fuck with my vibe? Am I the reason I never really saw them again? Or could it be the thought that I always forget— Maybe they just didn’t know I would want to see them again. Maybe I could have expressed my appreciation for their presence Clearer that summer night. I wanted to see them again. They didn’t know or experience the love I could have given them. That’s why I wish my superpower was mind-reading. Then I wouldn’t spend nights regretting the comment I made about her outfit That might’ve been the reason I never saw them again. Sometimes I will be reassured though. The girl who took a bathroom trip with me

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

I saw on the 6 train last week. She gave me a smile and said hey. She didn’t seem annoyed or like she didn’t want to be noticed. Maybe I’m not that bad.

Vivi O’keefe

Puzzled She had dark brown, almost black silky hair. Always had clear skin. Different from the rest, she could actually make me laugh. Although born into a rich family she never came off as the type. She loved fashion and I still see her wearing outfits That make her stand out, But in the best possible way. To prevent tears I cannot do things we used to do, Can’t make cookies, watch How I Met Your Mother, Enjoy fruity popsicles on hot summer days. I wish things had ended better. I still love her and she still loves me But it ended on a sour note. Although I see her daily I have no clue what is going on in her life. Or what she is thinking. I can only hope she’s home, Watching Gossip Girl, Breaking Bad, Or one of the shows she was always watching And I could never keep up with. I wonder what it would be like if one of us approached the other. What would be said? Would she say anything That could just give me the slightest insight Into how she feels about me? If she cherishes the same memories I do? Hates me? Loves me? Forgot about me? Moved on? To know the answer to those questions would be nice. However, it is not my place to start that conversation. Whenever I think of our past, I smile at an inside joke, or remember the time We took a walk on the beach at 3 in the morning, Just so we could look at the stars from the lifeguard chairs.

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

I hope I leave the same legacy with her that she left with me. And wish that the same joyful memories she left with me For her aren’t covered with bitterness and enmity. I hope the time we had together can make her smile, Like it does for me.

Harry Carter

Fearing Indifference My father once told me that one of the saddest things in life is to be someone people feel indifferent about. To hate and to love someone are similar—two strong emotions powered by passion. But to feel indifferent about someone means that they never left you thinking, never left you feeling, never made a difference. I’ve carried this with me through high school and as I’m getting ready to say my goodbyes, this fear of being viewed as nothing special leaves me spiraling with anxiety in the deep hours of the night. I need the people and the places that are dearest to me to remember the ways I made them feel. To remember how I made them laugh so hard, how I made them feel loved, how I made them cry, how I made them feel undeniably special. In case my fears become a reality, and people begin to forget all I’ve made them feel, let this be a remembrance. Remember when I held your palm in my hands and wiped the tears off your face with the inside of my sweater because you were having a bad day. Remember when we danced in the rain in the Washington Square Park fountain at 1 in the morning with a handful of strangers, all trying to give each other the best night of our lives. Remember when I listened to you, over and over again, and gave you a space to talk that no one else provided you with. Remember when we laughed harder than we have ever laughed and peed ourselves on top of that high mountain in Israel. Remember when I woke you up with my infectious laugh and dragged you out of bed to have one last midnight skinny-dip of the summer. Remember the cards I wrote you, the hugs I gave you, the trains we rode; remember that I will never not love you more than I love myself.

Noa Libchaber

Three years is all it took To find out I don’t want to go And leave what I have created behind. MT

Time Is Running Out Three years of the same routine. Wake up. Go to school. See the same people and take the same classes. It was the same thing over and over again. Homework distracted me from growing my own personal interests. Soccer became more of a competition rather than fun. How could people notice me if I was doing the same thing everybody else was? School isolated me from exploring my potential. Four years wasn’t enough time for me to figure out what I wanted or who I wanted to be. Maybe it was my fault. Did I not try hard enough to achieve success? But I still don’t know what success is to me. Right now success is getting higher than an 80 on a test. My grades shouldn’t define who I am but they were the only thing I cared about after spending three years of my life in high school. I didn’t have time to work on myself or work on who I could become. I’m confused as to what should be more important to me— grades or how I can stand out and be remembered? I’m running out of time.

Annie Feinberg

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

My Last 10 Minutes If I had 10 minutes left to live my life would not flash before my eyes. I wouldn’t think of all the good stuff in life like my first kiss or the first time I drove a car. I would think about all the regrets I have. The things that hurt the most because I didn’t act on them. I would regret not being a better son and constantly being away from family not being a better student and failing multiple tests not talking to that girl and hiding out of embarrassment not realizing my dad wasn’t just sleeping. I would regret not training harder for boxing or basketball and making sorry excuses not taking time out of my day to tell someone I loved them. Then I would panic as time runs out. I would fall into the darkness full of regrets.

Emerson Fok

Insecurities I can never say how I feel or share my problems. Like, if one of my friends says something to piss me off, I bottle it up. I don’t tell them and I try not to show it. Or if something is going on with me, I’ve never been able to find the words to say what or why. Honestly, I never knew and I still didn’t know. I feel weird inside but there’s nothing wrong with me. Am I just someone wrapped in a ball, afraid? Afraid to be me? Afraid no one would accept me? Afraid to make mistakes? Afraid to hurt myself? Or worse, to hurt others like those who love and care about me? I used to never care about what I wore and was never afraid to express myself. I used to be happy and smile all the time. I became more insecure and lost my self-confidence after comparing myself endlessly to the stereotypical whites or popular people. I shifted to someone else as an attempt to fit in and tried to take care of all my issues alone. I wear hoodies to hide my body. Hoodies are a protective shell. I only smile if it’s natural. For countless days I’d feel like I didn’t belong and my life was a wreck, everything crashing even from the smallest waves. I would break down in classes but try to hide it so no one could see. I was afraid of judgment if others saw me cry. I would struggle but rarely ask for help, especially from teachers. I never wanted to be home even though my family is loving. My motivation for everything was decaying fast, and it felt like all my friends were distancing themselves. It was after snowboarding nationals that a friend had to help me ask my mom for a therapist because of how scared I was to ask. I don’t remember what happened after that but she did get me a therapist around the end of sophomore year. I didn’t want her to think something was wrong with me, or to ask me so many questions, or think that I simply couldn’t talk to her. I can talk to her, but the number of topics I could share about was decreasing. Or I just never wanted to talk about anything. It took time before I could actually open up to my therapists due to my complex levels of trust. I could click with one person fast and tell them so much about myself, whereas with others it could

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take months or years for them to know where I’m from. When I did share some things, like if I was happy, I couldn’t share others, like if one of my best friends and I were fighting over and over again or if I was having problems with other students in school. Before going to bed, I sometimes wonder if anyone has gazed within my eyes and noticed I’m hurting. How I don’t want to be me because I’m not good enough. There’s no one I can share my biggest fears with but I’m opening up slowly so I don’t continue to live under my insecurity. So I can start being me again. Other people have said this and more will, but know that it is okay to talk about your problems. Bottling up emotions makes it harder to trust and talk to friends and family. Start with one person who you can talk to. Build a relationship and put in the effort, because in the end, it will be worth it. Another thing is, before you go to bed, look up and think about how awesome you are even if you don’t feel it. If you feel no one is there to listen to you, talk to a professional. Whatever you say is confidential and it’s a great way to cope with anything you are going through. If you have a hard time talking to your family, then try talking to one family member slowly. Be the person you want to be. Wear whatever makes you comfortable. Don’t change or hide because a group might not accept you. So many people will love you for who you are. I probably don’t know you, but I will be there for you in spirit. I will support you even if we disagree at times.

Mazee Simpson

Freshman year feels like last week, Sophomore year didn’t happen, Junior year is in the moment, Senior year is too soon. GD

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Weightlessness I’ll miss the feelings I get when I belong. Times when I don’t feel I have to put in effort with someone, when the words I want to say slip right out with no regret or self-conscious thoughts. It’s not like that all the time, and when it is, it’s hard to describe the feeling. It’s a feeling of being weightless, like everything is just going your way and things can only get better, even if it’s just in that moment, for a few minutes, or a couple days. Trying to have that feeling in high school is harder for me than trying to have it anywhere else. I endlessly have that feeling at camp and with family, but camp’s done, and next is high school. I’m going to miss the people who come along with that feeling, the people who make me feel like I can live effortlessly. Leaving a place like our high school, where that feeling is rare, is going to be really tough and empty, and only because I’ll be leaving behind all the effort I put into trying to be effortless there.

Ava Harris

Going Live in 3. . . 2. . . You walk the hallways and see people who secretly cannot tolerate each other share a smile. Whispers about you being spread among groups of people you don’t even know exist. All of your personal life being spilled publicly like a modern day Gossip Girl episode. Truths, rumors, it doesn’t matter. Anything that will take attention off of themselves. Every month is like a new season of The Bachelor. Everyone competes to impress the one they like. Every season is based on a different guy with new contestants who aren’t afraid to put each other down to win. Breaking friendships, leaking secrets, it’s all part of the show. In the moment you hate it and say everyone should mind their own business, but then you look back on it and wish you wouldn’t have taken it so seriously because you don’t even remember what the whispers were about. The only vivid memories you still keep are the encounters you had when you left class to walk the iconic loop the hallways created, holding a decorated block of wood, finding the little bit of peace you craved. Giuliana Danon

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

I Wish I’ve never been a quiet kid during my time at Lab. Often I find myself wishing I was more quiet, I wish people knew less about me. But that’s not who I am. Being a loud person has defined who I am at Lab. I’ve never held back my opinion, especially during the times when I should have held it back. I want to be remembered for being myself. I’ve never tried to change who I am and I’ve always stuck to my own beliefs and I’ve never let people’s perceptions of me define who I am. I’ve witnessed changes in people’s behavior, their actions, and the discomfort they put themselves through to fit in. But I have felt comfortable being myself, I’ve never felt the pressure to change who I am. I’m going to miss the laps with friends and the conversations with Mo while walking to the bathroom. I am going to miss dragging my heels across the linoleum floor in between each class, but mostly I am going to miss the connections I have made with people. I am going to miss the inside jokes built upon years of friendship. I don’t want them to vanish as we leave, but unfortunately that is the reality. At Lab, I was given the chance to be myself and was accepted for my best and worst qualities and unfortunately the outside world is not like that. I am going to miss the small moments I took for granted, conversations with teachers, laps with friends. Lab let me be myself, and I’m afraid I have taken it for granted.

Jason Shearer

School is the watering hole You come to meet different types of people But it will dry up And you shall migrate VO

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

A Bigger Picture I’m thinking of accomplishments I’ve left behind— My grades? The clubs I attend? I realize I view high school as a chain of temporary tasks I do To benefit my future— I guess I lost sight of the bigger picture, The big way I used to view my actions has been swept away By the overpowering idea that after I leave Lab My name will stay— Should I reach for a legacy? Maybe it would take more time than I have left To make my small actions Accumulate. Will I make the deadline. . . .

Juliette Moreland

Acceptance Is legacy something to strive for? Something to accept, embrace, fear, or enjoy? The idea of having a legacy of my own is daunting, it chills me down to the spine. To me, in order to have a legacy, I have to be memorable or remarkable, some way or another. And so I constantly ask myself, Am I either of those? When I was younger, I craved some sort of legacy. I was in a world where I wasn’t completely sure what my identity truly was, I wasn’t truly sure how to act around other people, friends and family alike. I wanted to be remembered, because that was what everybody else around me wanted. Throughout my ventures in grade school, my self-confidence and desire to be remembered have decayed considerably. I found myself to be average, not understanding that which my smarter peers understood. It’s always embarrassed me, and it still does embarrass me. If I can’t even fathom that which remarkable people can,

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

why should I have a legacy? If I don’t have the abilities that are equal to the best, what’s the point? The only answers that I could see are how unmemorable and unremarkable I truly am. I’m not special or unique, and thus I shouldn’t have a legacy. If you don’t know me well, you will see me as an antisocial individual; someone who is disconnected from all the social chains that we are tied to. I’m nowhere to be found in the chain. Though I will never devour anybody else, I will in turn never be devoured. This lack of participation in the social chain is my sense of self-preservation, one in which I’m satisfied with the friends and peers who I already share relationships with. While I may not communicate with anybody outside of that small circle, I will always be able to joke, laugh, and sarcastically speak to those in the circle. That is enough for me. That in itself is gratifying to me, much more so than participating in the social chain. If I never introduce myself to the world, how can I ever be imprisoned in it?

Although legacy is something to ideally seek, I find it to be my biggest fear. To have a legacy means that I have in fact participated in the social chain that I’ve worked so long and hard to stay away from. Though I could not put myself in the social chain if I even wanted to, I prefer this entirely. Having a legacy is something to stray away from because doing so allows me to accept and understand myself the most. I don’t just accept my lack of legacy, I embrace it. These thoughts that I have laid down on this document are the closest things to a legacy that I will ever have because it is the first time in such a long time that I have expressed myself to people who are outside of my small social circle.

Julian Alonzo

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

The Ones Who Said Yes Distrust and betrayal—everyone experiences them. People you call “friends” who in the blink of an eye can ruin your life. The person you trust with all your secrets who promises to keep them safe. The people you worry about more than yourself, but when you need help they don’t even think about helping you. I have been through a lot—talking to her through tough times, buying lunch when she doesn’t have the money, doing things blindly just because she needs it, thinking I would be treated the same. People can be disgusting. When you discover that you’ve been used by someone else, it is soul-destroying and heartbreaking. Feeling as if you’re a punching bag is the worst feeling ever. When you’re manipulated into who they want you to be, it feels like being yourself is a crime. I have finally learned my lesson. I don’t want anyone to go through what I went through. These types of “friends” are similar in their awful ways. They always eat at you slowly, going for what hurts the most. Here are ways to spot these people. 1. One of the most obvious signs of these “friends” is the way they treat you around groups. In groups, I find that they often go out of their way to make a joke out of you. If it doesn’t happen often, then it’s fine, but if you notice they do it all the time, stand up for yourself! Do not let them feel better by making fun of you. Don’t let them punch you around. Friends are there to help you have a good time, not to be consistently embarrassed by. Learn to give up, to leave. Sometimes it’s hard to leave, especially if you don’t have many friends, but it’s worth it. You might think that these comments won’t hurt, but trust me, they add up and get back to you. I used to think the same, think that I was ignoring it, but it slowly got to me and I was doubting myself, my judgment, my confidence. It was all going down. I felt terrible everyday, thinking that there was something wrong with me. 2. I see generosity as a very important trait in a friend. Helping when people need it, like a meal when they don’t have money. A place to sleep over for the night when they have nowhere to go. Even small things, like walking a friend home, giving up your own time so they don’t feel alone. It’s these things that I value in a friendship.

Maybe you have a friend who is only concerned about themselves. Someone who you help all the time, but when it comes your turn to ask for help, they always make excuses about why they can’t. You ask for a meal and they say, “I’m broke,” all the time. Excuses like these are their way of manipulating you, of keeping you with them. They need you for your possessions, not for the person you are. Save yourself and cut them off. It’s important to keep in mind that no one has become poor by giving.

Jiawei Huang

I’ve been surrounded but have felt alone. Feels like I’m a world away But we are in the same room. HC

I smiled to hide. I learned it’s okay to show. Redefining myself continuously, I end up the same, Stuck, or something. MS

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

You’ll probably never see this but I thought I’d say so anyway. I always thought I wanted to leave this place until I saw you sitting at that desk across the room and the music got louder. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how many times I packed my bags and slipped out. How my knees froze as I sat on the pavement waiting for you to pick me up and wrap your sweater around me once more. All I ask is for you to take the train with me and listen to Tabby all night long. I want to take back my words and swallow them. I want you to remember that day we got lost in yellow hallways, how that man in the wheelchair told us we’d be a cute couple and the way you held me like a puzzle piece.

Alessia Hu

Is It Betrayal Is it betrayal To think of a time When my heart won’t do a cartwheel Every time I hear your name Is it betrayal To think we won’t be taking Our nightly walks to Union Square Won’t be cuddling on a bench as strangers envy our love Is it betrayal To think who will hold you When you cry in the hallways As I held you Is it betrayal To know that one day your brothers Will learn the names of other people Who you kiss under the fairy lights in your bedroom Maybe it is betrayal Because yesterday we were kissing on the stairwell And now I’m writing about leaving This city, this school, my life, you

Siya Sharma

Oatmeal and blueberries Seven blocks and two avenues 39 15 twist Take the yellow Heel toe heel toe Do it again ET

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Chopped cheese on a roll Salt pepper Lettuce tomato and ketchup The condensation dripped slowly from the edge of the bottle JS

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Not Mine—Our Capsule We sit on the stoops in the bitter cold air while cars and people stroll down the block. Some even stop to look and take pictures because maybe we look like true New Yorkers or iconic kids, eating chicken cutlets and chopped cheeses on the rough beige steps. Feeling the breeze from the AC and acknowledging the hum of the motor in my lounge. The hours spent watching Friends on the old stiff blue couch, eating Domino’s, playing ping pong, and taking walks down the esplanade with the hexagonal stone panels and tall willow trees to see the beautiful Battery Park City sunsets. Taking the bus back late at night with the smell of Purell and the warmth of the air when it hits your face and melts the cold off your skin. The hours spent running, hearing the crunch of your cleats on the sand-filled turf. The days spent in hotels, throwing soccer balls at each other in those small hotel pools with too much chlorine. Running to the corner flag celebrating on a sunny, misty morning in Florida. The years spent in the sunlight that flows through the dusty windows into the living room with the plush gray sofa and shiny white cabinets. Lying on the oak bunk beds, talking as our words float through the darkness. Manchester United games in the quiet of weekend mornings. Hours of black leather and potato chips. Mile after mile of

deep forest green. Just the five of us flying through the mountains of Virginia under the grainy baby blue sky, following the cracked yellow dashes.

Saajin Magon

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Is This How Kids Grow Up? When I leave my house my mother always tells me to pay attention and get good grades in school so I can be prepared to attend a good college. My mom always had very high expectations for my academics so I could earn scholarships; my family can’t afford to pay for expensive universities, so getting into them is all on me. However, this has felt like a never-ending cycle. My mom has stressed good grades with me since middle school so I could get into a good high school, which would later on lead to a good college. When I go to college though, I don’t know how it will be when I leave the house. I will still be commuting everyday like I have my whole life, but I won’t have the thought of doing well in school to advance to another school. Instead, I will be thinking about how my future will be affected by my work. It’s not like I have any higher schooling to attend after college. After college I am going to have to work for the rest of my life. Going into adulthood is approaching very quickly and I don’t know how to feel about it.

Erblin Hoxha

Overwrought From mirrors it is wrought. A reflection of a memory, distortion twice folded Over into an heirloom. An anchor moored to the past. From whence the river flows forever forward. From the infinite current of occurence into the maw of a waterfall. To remain longer than one should, An impression where none should exist. I know its promises are of parody. To be seen forever as an echo of a recording: Someone not quite, yet not quite not, who I am; Beyond the transfiguration of memory, A colorful shadow cast by the freeness of the mind. There is life as a performance, And none beyond fiction. My theater is obligatory, the audience unwilling. It is a vain farce that can never be equal to the sum of its parts. Never can my mask perfectly encapsulate the face, Raw and wet, beneath it. I will not let it. It cannot. I can only dance, only cast shadows from the lattices of my fingers, Flattened into portraits of myself. I may only hope that they can be better than myself, Than the unknowable abyss that floats beneath my world, The dark matter that contorts itself into my perceptions; Strange actors performing my unwritten script. I will only dream that my shadow, Painted upon your ocular caves of allegory, Translated into your language, sculpted, made touchable, From the flesh of your heart Can be deemed worthy of remembering.

James Eigerman

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

Post-it If I left you a drawing on a Post-it, Would you crumple it up, Let it fall to the bottom of your bag To get lost in the garbage, Crumbling like pencil shavings? If I left you your portrait on a Post-it, Would you tape it to your locker, Secure its place As a badge of honor And protect it from the rush Of selfish bodies Smushing through? If I left you my poem on a Post-it, Would you put it in your pocket, Put your jeans in the wash Without checking them, Leave it drowned and soaked alongside Your receipt from lunch? If I wrote our inside jokes on a Post-it, Would you hide it safely in your notebook Among necklaces of words you would Never read again, My words peaking out like water in oil? Or Would you let your mom find it stuck To the bottom of your shoe As you walk out The door? Sabrina Mizrahi

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The authors would like to offer their heartfelt thanks and gratitude to: 826NYC, The New York City Lab School for Collaborative Studies, Maryann Aita, Lisa Cocchi, Ciara Cordasco, Scotty Crowe, Joshua Cuenca, the dark wizard who cursed James with this power, Edward Eigerman & Anna Fader, Gus & Mick, Lily Haus, Nicole Israel, Brooke Jackson, Mo Jones, Kelly Lam & Douglas Lee, Karen, Sandy, Sobha, Seyvik, & Bawi Magon, everyone in Mohamed’s Creative Writing class because for him it was a fun and great learning experience listening to other people’s writing that means a lot to them, Aarti Monteiro, Autumn Peters, Susan Price, Saajin’s Battery Park City friends and stoops boys, Heidi Slatkin, Nely Valentin, Cara Zimmer, and Norma & Harry Zimmer.

8 2 6 N Y C L O C AT I O N A N D L E A D E R S H I P

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

If I Left You My Poem on a Post-It

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 twohour 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.

I’m running on ice. And when I’m gone, far away from here and out of reach, Will you sit and wait just like that? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how many times I packed my bags And slipped out. As the chorus and flanger brought the room to life, The walls would begin to dance. No one has become poor by giving. It’s a feeling of being weightless. The purple sky is my only company. I don’t know how to feel about it. Would you hide it safely in your notebook among necklaces of words You would never read again So we could look at the stars from the lifeguard chairs? Some even stop to look and take pictures Because maybe we look like true New Yorkers or iconic kids. Although legacy is something to ideally seek, I find it to be my biggest fear. All of your personal life being spilled publicly. The thought of leaving and people thinking I’m someone I’m not terrifies me. My hands can’t grasp the things you will remember. I can only dance, only cast shadows from the lattices of my fingers, Flattened into portraits of myself. If I had 10 minutes left to live my life would not flash before my eyes. Maybe I could have expressed my appreciation for their presence Clearer that summer night. I guess I lost sight of the bigger picture. I’m afraid I have taken it for granted. It’s going to be time to go and put things in the past. Remember the cards I wrote you, the hugs I gave you, the trains we rode. So many people will love you for who you are. I wish life were just a basketball game, A forgotten drawer, crushed under the weight of time, dulled under the waves, A smile I wish I had. Because yesterday we were kissing on the stairwell And now I’m writing about leaving. I don’t even remember me. I’m running out of time. Original works on legacy by Creative Writing students in the graduating class of 2020 & 2021 at the NYC Lab School in Manhattan. The lines from this poem are taken from selections you’ll find inside.