We Both Know the Way Home

We Both Know the Way Home Creative Writing Students at The New York City Lab School

826NYC Books 372 Fifth Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11215 We Both Know the Way Home © 2021 by 826NYC and the authors. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First 826NYC edition June 2021 Manufactured in the United States of Brooklyn 978-1-948644-73-0 The writing in this book was produced in the 2020-2021 school year at 826NYC’s Young Writer’s 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 Foundation, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Kettering Foundation, The Minerva Foundation, The Pinkerton Foundation, and The Resnick Family Foundation. The program is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature. Additional support comes from the National Endowment for the Arts. To find out more about how National Endowment for the Arts grants impact individuals and communities, visit www.arts. gov. 826NYC is grateful to the many individuals who support our work. To see our full list of supporters or make a donation, please visit https://826nyc.org/donate-us/.

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

Table of Contents 7 Prologue · Cara Zimmer I. And You Listened to the Stories That No One Knew

11 If I Were a Painter (for Isabella) · Cole Gushee-Nelson 12 To Those People I Miss Because We’re Not in School Murphy Leung

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 24 25

SC · 21 AR · 21 I’m Puerto Rican · Anthony Ramos Inside the Black Paper Box · Fiona Wong MK · 22 JP · 21 The Lakes · Hailey Cutler Summer Nights · Austin Saji FW · 22 CL · 22 II. Would You Even Remember It Was Mine?

29 31 33 34 35 37 38 39 40 42 44

Faded Carvings · Claire Giannosa Is the Past Really in the Past? · Maddie Schneider AH · 22 KN · 22 Melody · Mazee Simpson My Necklace · Tess Shapiro EJ · 22 MS · 21 Butter · Luke Flannery Is It Really a Fool’s Game? · Kelvin Marcano MK · 22

45 CG · 22 III. Eventually, When I Know Who I Am

49 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 59

Writing This Is Hard · Mel Freifeld

60 61 62 63 64 65

MM · 22

From Dirty Streets · Christopher Wacker HC · 22 LF · 22 Echo · Jackson Popper CGN · 22 CW · 22 My Greatness · Lola Mihok A Few Years After the Class of 2021 Graduated Sami Bershadscky AF · 22 Wandering · Chloe Lipton KM · 22 SB · 21 “He’s a 65-year-old man trapped in a

’s body.”

Aidan Hatzimemos IV. The Right to Be Forgotten

69 72 75 76 77 78 79 80

Hole in the Robber’s Bag · Michael Mikkelsen Kilby Girl · Kaz Newman TS · 22 AS · 22 Normie · Aidan Forsythe Good Name · Ella Joyce MS · 22 MF · 22

81 memoirs of the prisoner who could fly higher than the clouds · Simone Cercy

83 85 86 87

Ocean-Deep Pool · Malak Kassem ML · 22 LM · 22 Academic Dissonance · Mila Katz

88 Acknowledgments

We Both Know the Way Home

Prologue When I was 23 years old, I took the bus from Sevilla, where I was then living, to Lisbon. Along the way, I met two girls who were also traveling, and since none of us had lined up a place to stay, we found a room together. I remember it as the most decadent room I stayed in during those lean years, though even the cheap Spanish hostels charmed me with their tiles and overgrown courtyards and kind receptionists with whom we’d drop off our keys at midnight and from whom we’d pick them back up once we wandered home, sleepily giddy, at six o’clock in the morning.

Laurel was an opera singer. She had long, straight, sandy hair and

wore round glasses. I think she was a few years older than I was. We shared a four-poster bed.

When we said goodbye on the sidewalk three days later, she gave

me a book someone had once given to her.

I remember something red.

I remember the wind.

It was A Room with a View, whose English heroine, a traveler herself,

falls in love and begins to grow into her own skin while staying at an Italian pensione. Its cover is a deep purple, and through an orange-shuttered window framed by orange curtains flies an orange-tufted bird out into the countryside. On the inside cover is one name, scratched out, and another one beneath it.

I think of Laurel when the girls in 5A sing their falsettos and vibratos

at all hours of the day and night. I think of her so often out of nowhere. I wonder if she’s still singing. I wonder if one day, when I’m wiser and have stopped resisting the passage of time, I’ll leave the book to someone as she left it to me, as it was once left to her. I feel as if I should—as if I owe it to Laurel, and I’m somehow betraying her, betraying everyone who once held the book, by keeping it on this shelf. But I worry I will lose those days. I will lose that entire history.

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We Both Know the Way Home

This is a book about what we leave behind, of ourselves, to others.

To leave is a melancholy verb, but here it takes on the shape of an earpod, the golden glow of packets of butter, the feel of a loose anklet on summer skin.

We began our days together, these writers and I, just as summer ended, and we’ll say goodbye just as it’s about to begin. I will always wish we’d had more time. When they disappeared from my screen each Tuesday and Thursday, face by face, my living room felt suddenly emptier, but I was, still, somehow lighter, somehow more full.

Cara Zimmer

8

I.

And You Listened to the Stories That No One Knew

We Both Know the Way Home

If I Were a Painter (for Isabella) If I were a painter I’d paint your figure in radiant tones Like a Rubens portrait of a queen Since you are foremost among my queens Or maybe more like a Brussels Van Gogh or Vache Magritte I know you’re definitely too good to paint Picasso-style You’d be standing in a swimsuit Wearing one of those soporific caps Shrugging as if I’d just asked your opinion on something While flashing that beautiful smile you have You’d call it surreal I’d call it you You’d be holding a photo of your sister And a teddy bear in the other hand like a talisman Guiding you safely toward the green grass on the other side I’d paint the bunk bed in your room behind you It was always your safe space And when the paint dried I’d take a palette knife And scrape off some part of it Some part of you to keep all to myself forever

Cole Gushee-Nelson 11

We Both Know the Way Home

To Those People I Miss Because We’re Not in School For you, I see a black box with white letters that make out your name.

The way your eyes roll to the back of your head, the way your eyebrows scrunch together when you are confused, and the way the color leaves your face when you are asked to share are lost behind a screen.

You’re on mute always, so I can’t even hear your contagious laugh.

And you, sometimes you throw your two cents in the chat.

I can still read it in your voice, but I miss your curt remarks with just the right amount of sass.

Your sarcastic and witty humor never fails to deliver.

And you, my former chemistry partner, I miss your weekly all-green outfit that I can only now see from the shoulders up.

I miss hearing you recite all of our birthdays, even though no one remembers telling you theirs.

And you, the person who was best to have in class 5th period, asking question after question,

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We Both Know the Way Home

maybe out of curiosity, or maybe because you wanted to wind down the time and lead us all into lunch.

And you, whom I never exchanged more than a nod with, but I knew when I turned the corner at 1:27 your face would be there to greet me.

I don’t think you missed one day of sophomore year.

To all of you, I am so sorry I never asked for your phone number or spent a lunch period with you or smiled a little wider when I walked past you or congratulated you for winning the handball unit in gym.

As I’m stuck in my room, I’m flooded with our past encounters.

And you see now why I’m filled with the deepest regret.

Murphy Leung 13

We Both Know the Way Home

Is it cruel to be ready?

Wishing to be rid

Of facades

For faces?

No. Cruel is pretending it was worthless.

SC · 21 14

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18 years on the planet All these changes A lot still the same I’m tall now But still Lebron and Brady

AR · 21 15

We Both Know the Way Home

I’m Puerto Rican Hi I’m Puerto Rican.

That’s how I introduce myself.

I’m the guy with a Snapback on.

Wearing a pullover hoodie and blue jeans.

I’m wearing Jordans too.

Yeah, I’m that guy.

You don’t really know who I am.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Or maybe I’m more than that.

I’m a storyteller.

I love stories of people overcoming life’s biggest challenges.

I love stories of athletes.

I love stories of redemption.

I love writing all of these stories.

I love it because it gives me joy.

I love being me and I’m Puerto Rican.

I love my friends and would do anything to make them happy.

So when I introduce myself it’s, I’m Puerto Rican.

I want to show pride in where my family is from And show pride in myself.

That’s the reason why I say so little.

Anthony Ramos 16

We Both Know the Way Home

Inside the Black Paper Box

Miscommunication made so much room For so much lost But no matter how childish I was You forgave me When my voice dies out here It will be heard somewhere else

But my words will never be tolerated there So as thanks To you I leave my anklet Cross the living room Run up the stairs Reach for the second shelf Open the black paper box You will find it there It’s the one with the white rope And lavender beads The one I wore as I walked on sand and shells The one you got for me in that shop by the lake Although I am tempted to keep it I have decided to give it back to you And although you don’t have any use for it I hope you can remember me Every time you open the wooden door Into the midsummer And fade away

Fiona Wong 17

We Both Know the Way Home

It’s the little things— swiping my ID in the morning, bathroom gatherings at lunch, climbing up the crowded staircase at 12:28 PM.

MK · 22 18

We Both Know the Way Home

When I would wake up I would dread going to school Now when I wake up I miss going to school

JP · 21 19

We Both Know the Way Home

The Lakes I’ll always miss that annoying giddy look in your eyes when I tell you that I wouldn’t mind getting French fries for dinner. And the way you subtly correct me while I order so I don’t sound like a bitch, as you say, although I don’t need help ordering my own food, thank you very much. I actually just sound like my mother, but I haven’t broken that to you yet. We walk into Washington Square Park and you always insist that we sit on the benches when the grass is far more comfortable. I get sick of the monotony, going to the same general area of the city every week. I suggest that we do something more exotic, but that’s not what you want, so we continue our tradition of French fries in the cold.

I’ll miss the feel of your elbow linked in mine, our jackets smushed together as we walk down the streets of Lower Manhattan, not quite feeling the cold on my skin but somehow feeling it in my bones. All the while trudging through the night, wishing I was in my bed without ink around my eyes.

I convince you to let us go home, but it’s a struggle. You like cold nights like this, even though you’re wearing less than me. We sit on the train, and my head is on your shoulder, but by now I must be at least 4 inches taller than you. There was a time where you used to tower over me, and I’d wish I had that privilege; now that I do, I’m not sure I like it as much as I thought I would. I close my eyes and listen to the rumbling of the train car, intermittently opening them to make sure that I’m still on the train, and that your shoulder is still beneath my cheek.

Eventually, we have to get off.

Twins stumbling into the cold night, arms linked. We both know the way home.

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We Both Know the Way Home

Little comments are blown by the wind and sniffles are the only things we hear on the way back.

On nights like these, I’ll miss looking up at the sky, that navy blue color, like a canvas, a handful of stars scattered randomly about it.

Peppermint-scented oils, cucumber face wash, and cups of freezing water.

Purple light dancing around my window frame.

Thick white blankets and propped up computers.

Above all, this is what I’ll miss most. Spending every minute that I can with my platonic soulmate, always bored but never getting sick of it.

Hailey Cutler 21

We Both Know the Way Home

Summer Nights When all is said and done I’ll miss you I wish we had forever I wish we had more time to just—talk The words “I love you” rarely come out of my mouth But if you couldn’t tell by my body language I do The humid summer nights I’d be at your house Sun just coming down through the silky pink sky Your favorite part of the day Almost as vibrant as you And you listened to me At 9 in the early morning, and at 11 late at night You listened To my raggedy voice when I cried And to my carefree voice when I laughed And sometimes you wouldn’t even respond You’d just let me talk, and talk and talk And then sometimes you’d talk back And I’d just listen Because the world stopped when you were talking to me And I learned from you And when you go Or if I go first I hope I’ll leave a piece of me in you As you’ve left one in me

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We Both Know the Way Home

And as the ball game played in the background And the ice cream lay on the table, melting away The neighbor’s lights flickered across the street We sit on the couch And as Lebron hits a buzzer-beater to send the Lakers to the finals The neighbor’s light flickers off And we fall asleep

Austin Saji 23

We Both Know the Way Home

Printed map in one hand Screenshot of my schedule in the other Lap One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Finally found the right door

FW · 22 24

We Both Know the Way Home

Writing, typing, getting lost in the hallways, Drinking Starbucks, checking grades, Sitting and listening, Making friends, These past years have flown by.

CL · 22 25

II.

Would You Even Remember It Was Mine?

We Both Know the Way Home

Faded Carvings I never left.

There were so many opportunities, so many open doors that just never

looked appealing;

While everyone walked away, arm in arm, My feet stayed rooted to the ground.

There was no point in leaving to experience the glory days when mine

were right here,

Rooted in this space, This village, This building, This song. . .

The Number 8 sandwich, no tomatoes, a cookie split down the middle.

I couldn’t see the point in leaving when the little kids with braids and

buzzcuts and teeth made for candy were so much nicer,

Wiser, than even myself.

They clung onto my jacket with their tiny hands and I fulfilled my promise

to never let them go.

I would never let them down.

Even in the back corner of the subway car my eyes looked out for little

pom poms and Oreo cookies, glaring at the adults who dared to

give them a hard time.

On the cusp of the water, nestled like dolls in cabins, or weaving through

metal playgrounds,

The little giggling fish twirled and leaped and fell, The innocence of trust And I always took my position on the outside of their circle, My fingers intertwined in spirit.

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We Both Know the Way Home

I don’t know how I can say goodbye, and know that I can never come back.

That I can never jump right in and say— “I love you” —and actually mean it.

That I will never again: Mess up and be rewarded anyway Be the bigger person Be on the outside without any pressure of needing to join in Feel the comfort of knowing— I am in the exact position I am supposed to be in.

I will tell you I am coming back.

I will look you right in the eye and declare that I will never leave.

But we all know that was the one promise I could never keep.

Time ages the structure of what we have come to know like a wet piece

of wood.

Warping around the middle before it finally cracks.

Claire Giannosa 30

We Both Know the Way Home

Is the Past Really in the Past?

August 8th, 2010.

A date I can’t forget.

I question my instincts, Trust no one, And sometimes cry at night.

All because of that day.

When my legacy is written, I wouldn’t want it to be about this date.

I would want you to write about my strengths, My smile, And my happiest moments.

But I ponder in my head at night How crucial this date is to my life.

So when you write my legacy, I guess I’ll let it slide.

Tell them about my father, Who was the first man in my life.

I was daddy’s girl as a child, Until he became the first man to make me cry.

Tell them about my mother, And all her beauty.

The person who raised me And the person I someday hope to be.

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We Both Know the Way Home

I wish I could forget About all the dark moments, Remove them from my legacy And no longer fear those memories.

Years later, I have been able to find Some hope in this story, And the light at a dark time.

But something I have learned From time moving on Is that a date like August 8th, A day like my parents’ divorce, The day my father didn’t fight for my custody, The day my parents were no longer the Schneiders, The day that I have thought about for the last eleven years, And the day that formed The first bump in my legacy Is one that doesn’t stay in the past, But one that you work to have peace with.

So when you write about this in my legacy, Remember to say I couldn’t forget about this date Because it truly paved my way.

Maddie Schneider 32

We Both Know the Way Home

One full year One fractured year One non-existent one— And Hopefully a full one Our all too real— History book— Reality

AH · 22 33

We Both Know the Way Home

never got over that time someone ransacked my gym locker and decided to leave me five bucks ’cause nothing was worth taking

KN · 22 34

We Both Know the Way Home

Melody If I left you my songs, would you sing or share them with the world?

Would you listen to the beat just ’cause or ’cause you relate?

Could you help fight the demons, ghouls, and monsters in my head?

Or stay in the shadows with me as if we’re running away, knowing no one would notice?

Could you hear me harmonizing while walking through the silent, crowded halls after I’m gone?

Could you feel how I felt being isolated in my skin, hiding from everything and everyone?

Think—thinking it’ll go away. . . .

If you read about my thoughts, learned about my doubts, visions, and desires, would you leave me like everyone else or would you stay?

Could you see how I loved you even though you never believed me anymore?

Could you tell I only lied to protect myself

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We Both Know the Way Home

from all the yelling and screaming up ahead?

Hope—hoping you can’t. . . .

If I left you my songs, would you understand that I’m not a freak; that we’re all mysterious, only everyone strays from me?

Mazee Simpson 36

We Both Know the Way Home

My Necklace For you I would leave my necklace.

The one I wear every day.

My silver pendant, engraved with “Return to Tiffany.”

Something I reach for when I’m nervous.

And even though I haven’t gone a day without it, I’d leave it for you as a reminder, that it’s okay.

You can reach for it too.

And have mini moments of panic because you don’t feel it there for a minute or because, like me, you got it caught in the back of your chair in history class in seventh grade.

I’d leave it for you so that you’d have a piece of me to wear, to keep close to your heart like I wear you, through borrowed jackets, warm, soft hands, and copied mannerisms.

Stolen phrases and style.

Would you wear it like me?

Carry it around in your pocket?

So that you and only you know it’s there, careful to not let the delicate chain tangle?

Or would you toss it in a junk drawer and let it tarnish, leaving behind your memory of me, finding it someday, and thinking, “Oh yeah”?

Would you remember what it meant to me?

Would you even remember it was mine?

Tess Shapiro 37

We Both Know the Way Home

A speck on the map barely showing up on the radar questioning whether I blinked missing it all longing for it back

EJ · 22 38

We Both Know the Way Home

Coffee after coffee, song after song, nothing will change even when I’m gone.

Far yet close—graduation, leaving stories and memories.

MS · 21 39

We Both Know the Way Home

Butter This is the story of how Luke Dominic Martin Flannery ate twenty mini packets of butter at the Coopertown Diner.

From age 10 to 13 I attended the Salk School of Science. Just outside

school, there was a diner frequented by the kids who were allowed to leave the building for lunch. I went there occasionally when I could convince my friends not to eat pizza (which we inexplicably ate almost every day for three years). On one of these occasions, we sat down in the diner at a table with a large basket of butter packets that the diner served for bread, pancakes, and other things normal humans put butter on. A friend of mine (I would say I’m keeping them anonymous for the sake of privacy but honestly I forget who it was) decided to take one of these butter packets, open it, and eat it in one bite. I suppose they were trying to be funny in a “random” or “quirky” way.

I was not particularly amused but immediately following this impromptu butter consumption the table erupted in laughter. And that was all my little pea-brain needed. I immediately started shoveling butter packets into my mouth at an ungodly pace. I unwrapped multiple packets at a time just to force slab upon slab of butter down my throat. I was on the verge of sickness as the butter became responsible for an integer percentage of my body weight. The entire time my friends are absolutely losing it. With each additional packet the laughter got louder and louder, and I didn’t want to stop this feeling of instant gratification. Once I got to packet twenty I gave in. I stopped eating and my friends laughed for maybe a minute longer and then went back to their meals.

But not me. I was in so much physical pain that I couldn’t eat a

single mouthful of food. I walked back into school with indigestion and later walked home still feeling the butter sitting in my stomach.

Now, after hearing this story I assume you are thinking, “Wow,

what the hell is wrong with this guy?” And believe me, I ask myself that very same question everyday. No part of me wanted to eat that butter. I didn’t even think it was funny. But the way I saw it there were two options.

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We Both Know the Way Home

Option one: I don’t eat the butter. I finish my meal as planned. I

don’t do anything over the top. Once we leave no one remembers the meal.

When we go home no one remembers the day. And when I leave middle school no one remembers me.

Option two: I eat the butter. I get indigestion. I feel absolutely awful.

Once we leave my friends are still talking about it. When we go home my friends text me about the crazy day we had. And when I leave middle school I’m remembered as the kid who ate all that butter that one time.

Maybe to someone just a touch more stable than me option one

sounds better. But I could not find the strength in me to fight my greatest fear: mediocrity. Graduating middle school with an 85 average. Getting into a medium-rated college. Attending it while working to pay for tuition.

Marrying the year I leave. Getting a boring office job with a middle-class salary. Having two kids. Living in a medium-sized house with a white picket fence that we support with our two incomes. Retiring at 65. Getting my kids into all the same schools I went to. Writing my will. Dying at 74 from heart complications. Being buried in a cemetery with a headstone the exact same size and color as all the others, my grave the only indication that I ever even lived.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I know that life is a dream to plenty

of people who have it much harder than I do. But the idea that I would exist in this world just to be forgotten is horrifying. If the only way for me to be remembered is to eat twenty packets of butter at a small diner outside the Salk School for Science, so be it.

Maybe I’m being irresponsible. Maybe I’m a reckless person. Maybe

the butter indigestion is God punishing me for my hubris. But the truth is I really don’t care if I hurt myself. Pain is temporary, the butter memories are forever. And I refuse to die without them.

Luke Flannery 41

We Both Know the Way Home

Is It Really a Fool’s Game?

I have always been interested but have struggled to find a straightforward reason why people open up to this idea of legacy. From what I’ve gathered so far it’s about wanting to leave a huge impact on people so that way we are remembered when we are gone. During my middle school years I was intrigued by this idea and would attempt to be the center of attention whenever possible. I would crack a joke out loud here and there, using backsass in conversations, you get the picture. I felt like a celebrity with all the attention and love. However, I failed to see the consequences that come with this kind of behavior. While I was praised by the cool kids for stooping to that level, the teachers saw this as immature and silly. It ultimately would be my undoing strictly in middle school because it became an addiction that was hard for me to quit.You can imagine how pissed my parents were when they got the news of my antics from the teachers. I just can’t believe that I would allow my own stupidity to completely obliterate my dignity, all because I let my greed for being popular get in the way of what was actually important.

I didn’t know how I could bounce back from such a colossal failure. It just seemed so impossible at that point, all I wanted now was for middle school to end and the torture to stop.

Thankfully things did change. I got into high school and luckily the

entire landscape was different, so I thought maybe I could redeem myself, knowing what I did was wrong. While I did keep my promise of fixing my problems I noticed that the same problem I tried to get away from showed up again in this school. As expected, there were a bunch of kids doing the exact same thing that I used to do. However, they’re a lot more arrogant and egotistical. What’s funny is that it’s not about if you’re actually good, it’s more about how loud you can be. Besides, that only gets you so far and sorry to break it to you but your fame does not carry into college. Who cares if people think that you’re “lame” and “uncool,” you don’t need their so-called approval. Even if you did gain the fame that you desire you’re more likely to

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be manipulated then loved. Deep down you don’t need to worry about the thoughts and opinions of others because they just want to make you miserable. As long as you worry about yourself and focus on improving yourself then nothing can stop you from achieving success.

Kelvin Marcano 43

We Both Know the Way Home

I smiled through tears in my squatted seat on the bathroom floor, plotting my escape, wondering if they’d leave before me.

MK · 22 44

We Both Know the Way Home

Relief shudders through me— flowers

blooming

in my stomach.

Would my feelings change, if I knew

it was

my last walk home

?

CG · 22 45

III.

Eventually, When I Know Who I Am

We Both Know the Way Home

Writing This Is Hard Talking and pondering over the mark I will leave leaves a pit in my stomach.

It feels unfulfilling, saddening, disappointing, and I can’t exactly figure out why. It’s as if it’s out of my control, since everyone perceives me differently.

Some of my friends have told me that when they first met me, they thought I was rude. I ask why and they say it’s because I gave off the attitude that I think I’m better than everyone else. This always surprises me since it could not be further from the truth; I really don’t think I’m better than anyone. So, if people think something about me that’s not true, what will my footprint be?

A lie, too? It’s this thought that scares me, that my mark can be something that it’s not, or something that I don’t want it to be. I don’t want people to be left with the thought that I think I’m better, since that’s the worst type of person. I wish I could assign myself a footprint, so as to be perceived as I please. I don’t even know how I’d choose to be perceived if it were up to me, but I know I wouldn’t be perceived as bitchy or quiet. I guess I would choose to have the best of both worlds: approachable but intimidating in a certain way; kind but not too kind to have people walk over me. That would be the dream. Unfortunately, we don’t live in my dream, we live in reality. And in reality, I guess that is my mark and it is out of my control.

This piece is supposed to be something only I could write. But how

can only I write it if I’m not even fully sure of who I am? This is meant to be the time of finding ourselves, which is hard to do during a pandemic.

It would be nice to have a guardian angel to tell me who I am and tell me how to write this piece. Tell me that everything will be okay and eventually, when I know who I am, I will be perceived as exactly that.

This feels like the worst piece I’ve ever written. I’ve written a lot of

pieces, especially since I went through a phase in 5th grade when all I would do is write. The manicurists at the nail salon would always ask me what I was writing about, but I never told the truth because I didn’t want them to get a glimpse of my imaginative mind. But this. This piece is so hard to get right, no matter how long I sit and think about the past, present, and future.

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This piece had the potential to be great—perhaps even be the best piece I’ve written—but it came out ugly. All of my thoughts and ideas for it came to me in a dream, and I forgot them when I woke up. Maybe this piece is good in a way, since it feels like me—coming across as “boring” or “bitchy” even though there is a lot more behind it. There’s just no way of making it come out. I don’t like thinking that this piece is a good representation of me as a writer, since I happen to think I’m a good one. That’s why this is perfect. I don’t represent myself the way I’d like to, and this piece matches that better than anything I could ever do.

Mel Freifeld 50

We Both Know the Way Home

From Dirty Streets

I was born at the wrong time in the wrong place, over in uptown Manhattan—a neighborhood once loved by my great grandparents for its sense of community before it turned into some of the dirtiest and loudest of streets, even peppered with drug dealers. Hell, those dealers would ask when I could hang out with them. And the neighbors just blasted music whenever they wanted to, not caring about my family. All the police could even do was tell them to turn the music down, only for them to turn it back up straight after. Luckily, I did move out pretty early, but that wouldn’t be the end of my time in that kind of environment.

I spent a lot of my pre-high school days in such neighborhoods

while going to school in the central Bronx, although I was not living in that part of the Bronx. About eight years. About two-thirds of my years in the school system. And it would take me a bit of time to see that I didn’t really like it anymore. I would hear more and more about incidents right around the area where I’d been in school for the last three years—none other than the Grand Concourse. And because I took a school bus, I would never really have time to see anything there. But they were definitely dirty streets. Like I had been used to.

But then, straight from dirty streets do I start going to school in

downtown Manhattan, a place of class that towers over me. It was a drastic change in my life. This was a new standard and to this very day it feels like I’m trying to catch up to that standard. And now, I truly don’t know where to go from here. I never had clear prospects for my future. Never figured out my talents. But I like talking politics. Maybe I can stay there. Whenever I can’t explore the outside world like I love to, I explore politics and all its fields. But I can just say I don’t know for sure where I will go from here. Will it be from dirty streets to somewhere great or from dirty streets to living as another tall figure who passes people by? Well, one thing is for sure. I had my start in the dirty streets.

Christopher Wacker 51

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Here’s a map of our petite school; try not to get lost in the maze of hallways, they all look the same.

HC · 22 52

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I’m not gonna lie, I still don’t know what number my locker is.

And at this point I’m too afraid to ask.

LF · 22 53

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Echo I have always questioned what makes people remember certain things

about others

And what affects these memories Throughout my life I imagined the memories of other people Through the conversations I had with them and the stories they shared In camp my counselors told me stories that they were told by their counselors I can recall specific moments from color wars that had happened long

before I arrived at camp

My parents used to tell me stories that their parents told them I still remember stories about my mom first going to my great

grandfather’s farm when she was younger

Which makes me think of the importance of stories being passed down And throughout my life I have asked myself What will people remember about me How will my story get passed down When I think about this it scares me I think about my regrets and my dreams What could have happened to me and what can happen As I am in deep in thought I realize your story isn’t what people think

of you

It is what you do with your life.

Jackson Popper 54

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I have climbed mountains,

Rebuilt my psyche anew,

Torn up whole pages of falsehoods,

Discovered myself

Only to find

Many limitless mysteries

CGN · 22 55

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Started in the fallen dream And just when life got good Everything fell apart again.

So I must make it good myself.

CW · 22 56

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My Greatness

I am so great it is not even to be acknowledged,

For everyday it is acknowledged.

For it to go unacknowledged would simply not be

possible.

For me to enter a room and for it to not be immediately

clear I am worthy of celebration,

That’s an impossibility.

I am great,

I am grand,

I am worthy of celebration.

No doubts are felt about it.

I am not even to be asked which of my qualities accounts for this.

For you to ask me such a question is egregiously offensive,

For I am perfect and worthy of celebration in every way that

I could not even list them.

But to start maybe I would speak of my physical appearance,

My dark luscious hair that falls perfectly around my face,

Or my hypnotizing eyes that can’t help but reel you in, steal your

focus till you cannot take their magnificence any longer. Till your eyes burn with their perfection,

Or maybe the eyelashes and eyebrows that so perfectly frame

such precious features are meant to be spoken of.

However, I can’t forget the rest of my face. The cheekbones and

structure accompanying it are so magnificent they make the saints cry.

Oh, but if I were to speak of my physical appearance my face

might be too magnificent to begin with.

Perhaps my figure, with its perfect curves and shapes, might be

a better place to start. That figure that so nicely becomes enveloped in 57

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clothes, bearing them in such a way that all heads turn.

This figure might be what I speak of in terms of my physical

appearance, but my physicality is almost too great for eyes to look upon. It may not be appropriate for me to choose this when describing my celebratory features either,

For the second I speak, celebration triples!

Hoorays and hoorahs abrupt from my very presence, from simply

being in the proximity of others.

And when I speak the knowledge I spew is too great to even be

summarized because each time it is something new and refreshing and equally magnificent.

Now if I speak of myself much longer, those listening might begin

to take offense.

My greatness is a tacit understanding, so deeply understood one

might think it ignored. But no greatness such as mine can be ignored, it simply becomes too much to be acknowledged at times.

It’s an overwhelming secret we all must bear.

Lola Mihok 58

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A Few Years After the Class of 2021 Graduated It was April 1, a few years after graduation. At the end of the day the teachers gathered for a meeting. It was April Fools’ Day, and the students had gone all in this year. This ended up being the main topic of conversation as the teachers discussed who the funniest student was.

Eventually they started talking about class clowns from past years,

and one name came up more than the rest. Sami Bershadscky, class of 2021. Several staff members agreed he was the funniest student they’d ever taught. He had established himself as the class clown by telling jokes, making great puns, and doing so constantly. When it came time to name the class of 2021’s class clown, there was no debate. But what was he doing now?

Sami had left Lab wanting to be a comedy writer, and after finishing

college he got his dream job at Saturday Night Live. They agreed it was a fitting career for someone who had natural comedic skills and used them often. When he graduated, Sami had said he wanted to be known for his comedic skills more than anything else. He once said, “Some people have a sense of humor, I am a sense of humor.”

Sami Bershadscky 59

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My identity was vomited into the world in poetic form, my reputation shaped by my scholastic inadequacy.

Does anyone wanna trade lives?

MM · 22 60

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First I was born Then I started school Suddenly got older Currently in a pandemic Wonder what the next chapter will bring

AF · 22 61

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Wandering When my time on earth has run out, I’ll leave behind my diary. My diary has everything: all the words that make up my existence, all the moments that have shaped me, and all the reasons for my tears. In it are descriptions of all the mazes I’m forced to navigate—the ones that have been forced upon me and the ones that are self-inflicted. The pages are covered with tons and tons of stories that would have little significance to anyone besides myself.

After my first day of high school my freshman year, I wrote about

getting lost in the square that was my new school. I walked through the halls trying to find the right room. Seeing unfamiliar faces give me familiar blank stares. Finally, entering the right room, late. Full of people looking at me, some with sympathy, others with judgment. I walked to an empty seat, put my bag down, and felt absolutely dejected. I never like being the center of attention, even for only a second. I would always rather be ignored.

I only write in my diary occasionally now, but I wrote about this

moment. It wasn’t unusual or life-changing, but I felt as if this moment was an accurate representation of my life: I don’t know where I’m going, but I want to get somewhere. If I were ever given the opportunity to find out my future, I would say yes faster than my eyes can blink. I want to know what I’ll grow up to become. I want to know just like I wanted to find the right classroom that day. It’s frustrating walking around aimlessly in the halls and in life. I feel lost in the world, unsure of my place. So I just wander around, letting gravity keep me from floating away.

I keep roaming through the world day after day, making memories

if for no other reason than to fill my diary. Letter after letter, stringing words together to form sentences. Pouring the thoughts I would never dare say aloud out through my pen. In those moments, my pen is an extension of my mind. It’s aware of my deepest fears, struggles, and flaws. My pen knows who I am, the words it writes define me and thus define my legacy.

Chloe Lipton 62

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His team is not full of Traitors Defectors And Turncoats Just him and no one else, that’s all he needs anyway

KM · 22 63

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He prides himself on being the funniest in the whole school If he’s not the Class Clown then who is he?

SB · 21 64

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“He’s a 65-year-old man trapped in a ’s body.”

Ever since I was little I’ve been obsessed with cars and technology, but I cannot sit here and write and tell you I have a legacy. If I had to guess, my friends and family know me as the kid who has always acted a little too old for his age. My whole life I have heard the same phrase: “He’s a 65-year-old man trapped in a

’s body.” I think this comes from being the youngest

of three kids. I was overexposed to things at an early age. In second grade I wrote that The Sixth Sense was my favorite movie and I watched all the adults gasp and giggle when I read the piece out loud. I was always researching and listening, and I think that’s why I knew the answer to most things. In third grade I got a typewriter for Christmas and wrote a screenplay for me and my cousins till my fingertips were bloody from the old, sharp keys.

When I was 10 I had a business. I carried a business card holder to most elementary school birthday parties.

I have left this impression on almost everyone who I have encoun-

tered: my teachers, parents, cousins, friends, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even grocery store workers. I cannot help but think that this is what people know me for and what they will remember me for, and most of the time I think that’s okay. The more I grow up the less weird I seem. I feel as if my body and age have always just been trying to catch up to my mind.

But sometimes, I still don’t know if this is the memory that I want to leave behind, and sadly, after having Covid at the age of 17, the memory I leave behind has actually crossed my mind.

Some people love this about me and think it’s cute, like my grand-

ma when she squeezes my cheeks and tells me to be president. I remember when I was 9 I showed her my first website and she sat there and smiled for about an hour. She tried to navigate that site for the whole night even though she didn’t know how to work computers, but she did it for me . . . She was proud. Others are tired of it, like my brothers when they tell me to shut

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up and just listen.

I don’t know how my friends feel. I feel that I have been a good

friend to many people, but I have learned that the memory you imprint on people is a natural thing. If you are conscious of every decision you make with the hopes of leaving a good memory behind, then I guarantee you will fail, and people will see right through you. This was the mistake that I made early in high school. I was simply too conscious of my actions, even the smallest things I would sometimes calculate in the hopes of being liked and remembered well. But that isn’t who I am.

The memory you leave needs to be you. I learned to stop calculat-

ing and be me; now I couldn’t wish for better friends. I am myself around them and they like me for that. I have been myself to my teachers and have always had good relationships with them. I ask them how they are, stay after class to talk. Maybe they don’t like how much I talk while they’re teaching, but hey . . . no one’s perfect. The daunting task of making new friends in high school made me act differently; it made me think about what I say and how I come off. Now I have learned that memories and friends are made unconsciously and in the moment, and so is my legacy.

Aidan Hatzimemos 66

IV.

The Right to Be Forgotten

We Both Know the Way Home

Hole in the Robber’s Bag Leaving behind something feels weird when we consider it to be the identity we donate to the world’s Goodwill of past lives and their successes.

The good things that you want people to remember about you— they’re way past the way you walked, the way your love handles curved, and the distinct smell of the leave-in conditioner that lingered in your curls.

It’s far beyond the wooden coffin that leaves moldy chips behind when your bones dry and your flesh fertilizes the ground.

Because what will be written on your tombstone will eventually erode in the elements along with its sentiment.

A picture can speak however many words, as a pitcher can hold and pour however many liters.

But will your lisp or your excessive gestures be captured in that photo?

Will your growth be seen by the pencil marks that your parents etched into the drywall?

Or will your maturity be defined by your better understanding of the words “love” and “trust”?

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Your memories are like lumps on a wall made from drops of paint that were on gravity’s leash until they dried frozen in time.

They may look and feel weird in essence, but you can’t stop running your fingertips over them to re-experience the sensation.

Why give someone that pleasure to do the same?

To inspect the life you once lived, the space where your spirit once lingered, and then have it disrespected and defiled when they slather on another layer of paint to their heart’s content?

Why would you give your new suburban neighbor the peach cobbler you baked in the new electric oven you bought if you don’t know how they will react?

What if they’re allergic, or they only take one bite and leave the rest till it grows mold, and then wait to touch it again only to dispose of it?

It’s like robbing a bank and then leaving a priceless jewel on the floor in plain sight, in a dangerous place where it can be easily obtained by any average Joe and then be sentenced to an unknown doom.

If that burglar really wanted to rob the bank,

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he would’ve made sure the bag was sealed in every way.

Because your success isn’t automatically treasured when you’re gone.

You can’t tell people how to interpret your life or your immature words of encouragement; you’re allowing those priceless black pearls to be kicked and rolled into the dusty New York flood control grate.

And I don’t think you want your thoughts to share the same bed with someone’s chunky tobacco spit or soiled decaying gum wrapper now, do you?

Michael Mikkelsen 71

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Kilby Girl It’s getting to the point where my friends know me as the guy who only tells stories that begin with, “So there was this girl. . .”

So. . .

There was this girl.

She’d wear backpacks around her house and she’d paint my nails

colors she was too scared to try on herself. She made me do laundry for her a few times, and she made me open her oven when it was cold.

I remember hanging out with her in her building’s basement, right

down the hall from the laundry room and right across from the garbage chute. The walls were moldy red brick nightmare fuel, dimly lit by a single, dangling light bulb and the occasional flick of a lighter. We’d sit across from each other in the middle of the room, looking like the last two members at an AA meeting. Those two cheap metal folding chairs were where everything happened.

Us: separated by a tray, talking about whatever.

I leaned back in my seat and exhaled at the stale ceiling. Speaking

to whomever was looking down at me from the heavens, I shook my head and laughed out loud since I promised myself I wouldn’t bring up my exes but here I am doing it again like an idiot.

She said she liked that it filled the silence.

So there were these girls. . .

I blame each one for something yet I’m grateful to know what to

blame them for. Sometimes you have to get used for character development to develop your own character. Like Mama always said, forced introspection is the easiest introspection.

No, not really.

And I’m so sick of the How are you handling quarantine? question.

I’m sick of explaining I love it.

And I hated that she didn’t get it.

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She told me she missed seeing her friends, missed going to parties

and missed going to school. As hard as I tried, which truthfully wasn’t that hard, I couldn’t push away my immediate judgments:

Hilarious how her life revolves around social interaction.

And I bet that’s all I am to her.

It would occasionally reveal itself that maybe there’s something

wrong with me, often followed by a quick mental dismissal and a laugh to myself; but rarely did I respect both of us enough to admit that we’re just different.

She’d tell me about her friends and what they used to do together.

I’d tell her stories about shit that my friends and I used to do, shit

that my sister and I used to do before she left for college.

I don’t have a sister and I don’t do shit with my friends.

I told her about my house in New Jersey and how I’d take her there

one day, and how I worked for that ice cream shop down the block from her house over the summer, and how it’s crazy we’re only now just meeting.

What a power trip. I don’t think I’ve ever even been to New Jersey.

I guess she liked that I wanted to get to know her.

So there was this girl. . .

My friends always poke fun at me for never having seen The Office.

Moreover, they make fun of me for the reason I’ve never seen The

Office.

When you’re over at someone’s house and you need something

to watch, or maybe just play in the background while you—you know—it’s going to be The Office.

So why would I watch all of it on my own time when I can

conveniently bring up the fact that I’ve never seen it?

Genius, I know.

It’s always a

“How have you never seen The Office?”

Then a

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“I guess I just never got around to it.”

And shenanigans ensue.

I can recognize all the characters now, having almost exclusively

watched it at other people’s houses.

So there was this guy. . .

He walked out of her room just as I was coming in.

He was taller and lankier than me with brown hair and a wide,

punchable face. He smiled at me while he waltzed out. But my eyes were too busy scanning, trying to locate a semblance of guilt on her face.

I feel like I’d remember if I saw anything.

She sat, leaned on her hip in her bed looking like she just cracked

the funniest joke and was trying hard not to laugh.

This may come as a shock, but I did not find it that funny.

This is no way to treat the guy who wants to take you to New Jersey.

I don’t want her cigarettes on my breath anymore.

I let the door slam on my way out. Chipped paint from her hallway

snowflaked onto my head.

I hope that lighter I gave you explodes.

But I have no right.

It’s just character development.

I hope dearly that she remembers me as the guy she messed

up with.

And I’d like to think I did us both a favor.

So there was this girl. . .

Kaz Newman 74

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Who would have thought I would miss caffeine-fueled early mornings, crowded hallways, and running to gym class?

Routine turned distant memory.

TS · 22 75

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Sleep, School, Sleep, School,

An endless cycle,

An Endless cycle of nothing.

What’s expected from us?

What do we expect from ourselves?

AS · 22 76

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Normie I’ve never had any interest in being remembered as a hero or a legend when I’m gone. Nor have I cared if I’m a symbol who inspires future generations.

However, entertaining the idea of legacy has shown me so many possibilities that my answer is not simply black or white anymore. Maybe, for instance, I’ll be remembered for rescuing someone from a burning building, or inspiring others by taking a stand against injustice. Maybe I’ll even start something completely new that will open up countless possibilities for the people who come after me. Big accomplishments would be awesome! But by my standards, only if they’re the truth.

On the other hand, perhaps I’ll live a simple, humble life, in a house

with my own family, working daily in the same place, maintaining longlasting friendships made over many years. I don’t want to be remembered for something that I never achieved. I want to be remembered for who I truly am and what I accomplished in life. As long as it’s true, that’s what I want.

I don’t want to be remembered as a legend or a myth. Myths are

lies. I’d rather be forgotten like a single grain of sand in the desert than be remembered as a hero for something I didn’t do. I want my personality to be remembered. What vibe did my presence evoke for loved ones? Was I a good person or not? What did my friends and family think of me? Was I authentic or not? I want to be remembered for all the unique things that made me stand out from those around me. Most importantly, I want to be remembered as a flawed man with good morals.

Aidan Forsythe 77

We Both Know the Way Home

Good Name My grandfather, like most grandfathers, was a practical and pensive man.

He believed that all you have in this world is your good name because when you are stripped of all that’s tangible, it’s the one thing that will live on. To me this meant names embroidered on the back of basketball jerseys, or inscribed inside of stars on the grimy sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard— the people worthy of nationwide recognition for their efforts to better humankind, and those whose shelves are lined with glossy, porcelainfinished trophies serving as tokens of triumph. These are the people who can be ransacked and robbed of their possessions because their names are guaranteed to last. I was left to believe that no everyday good Samaritan could possibly live up to the ascendancy left behind by these individuals. A lifetime spent coloring inside the lines is not a lifetime worth remembering.

Except I was wrong. My misinterpretation was colored by what we as a society deem notable: fame and fortune. However, there is no concrete way to measure how much impact a person has made, and undoubtedly we have all made an impact. Being named after my grandfather, I am able to carry out and pass on his history without obtaining any of his belongings.

A name is more than the letters used to pronounce it phonetically. It tells the story of a person for generations to come, something that all our names are capable of.

Ella Joyce 78

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4 years, 1,460 days, 208 weeks, The most important thing I learned In all 4 years of Lab— The value of time.

MS · 22 79

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Time running low.

The finish line growing near.

Don’t even remember the start Or the blurry middle.

Can hardly picture the end.

MF · 22 80

We Both Know the Way Home

memoirs of the prisoner who could fly higher than the clouds Most of the glimpses I get of the sky are rectangular, Negative space around living buildings, Brick and sun melting into swirling dragons to block out The complementary hue.

But when I position myself at my windowsill just right, Sometimes I see clouds.

Clouds are nature’s Rorschach test, Fooling retinas for millennia, Evermoving tendrils mistaken for cigarette smoke, The horns of a particularly rambunctious goat, Remnants of a hero’s trail, cape and all escaping into the sunset.

At a party someone once asked me how I was feeling.

I realized I wasn’t particularly aware of what the question really meant, so

I responded,

“Like an amorphous blob.”

Now I understand what my subconscious was trying to get at. . .

In a past or future life I am a cloud.

Not just any old cloud, though, A lady of my stature deserves only the best: That one cowboy boot-shaped cloud that was actually hundreds of animals

who sprang to life like an alternate reality when Joan of Arc and

the Garden of Eden was one big shebang.

But the boat was a cowboy boot.

No clouds are immortal of course so I’d coexist with the birds and the storms,

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pitch in once or twice and eventually begin to dissolve, layers of perimeters fizzling from white to blue until my cloud resembled a boot of some kind.

Can’t quite put my finger on it.

But when it snows, And the whole world becomes a mirror, And you can’t tell the difference between up and down or sky and cloud, I am alive again in the whispers of smoke which always seem to disappear

as you approach.

The texture of cotton candy, the fake spiderwebs you decorate

your front lawns with as Halloween looms steadily ahead, neurons

enthusiastic to transmit a final Goodbye,

And my cloud, a feeble ghost of its once massive beauty, seeps from yes

to no.

Simone Cercy 82

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Ocean-Deep Pool It feels like I’ve entered an ocean-deep pool of mysteries, like I’ll never hit rock bottom.

A pool is one thing— but the ocean is another.

Remember, address, forget.

People, places, things— nouns, I guess.

Treading water.

Kicking and floating, keeping up with the pace of the current, losing yourself in the endless strangle of water.

Remember, address, forget.

People, places, things— nouns, I guess.

Jumping off a diving board, water going up your nose after hitting the torturous surface, chlorine going up your nose and burning your brain— frying it like sand in the desert.

Standing over the frozen pond as a child, not realizing it was as thin as the leaf on the ground right next to you.

If you knew, you wouldn’t have dared.

Falling through the paper-thin sheet of ice— walking home in a drenched winter coat.

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Remember, address, forget— People, places, things— nouns, I guess.

Malak Kassem 84

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One real year of high school.

Another year and a half spent in my room.

One final shot.

Suddenly, we grew up.

ML · 22 85

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Stressful bliss of being Among others.

Of the happiness, Of chaos.

I’ll miss it, but I never had it.

And won’t ever.

LM · 22 86

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Academic Dissonance

Her headphones were her badge of honor—the genres were forever changing, each song different and the same as the last, all within her ear canals where no one else would know. She wouldn’t always hear when spoken to.

Fidgeting uncomfortably on the stools of the chemistry lab, or in the back of the global classroom, or in the corner of the bleachers during gym, where she claimed she had lady problems every two weeks. She was there, but everyone knew she wasn’t. She was somewhere off in Strawberry Fields or Penny Lane or the winding maze of Thundercat’s land.

The first pair of headphones were the classic white tangled Apple earbuds.

Her freshman year, they were stepped on by a senior. The second pair was a set of AirPods handed down to her by a friend. They were stolen out of her unlocked gym locker, never to be seen again. A new pair of wired Apple earbuds came with her iPhone 7, which fell in the toilet in the big stall of the girls’ bathroom. Her father’s handed-down Bluetooth earbuds were left in her locker as the school fled from the pandemic.

No one knew the stories. No one saw the different sets of ears that she went through. No one felt the losses but her.

When they see her, they see quiet. tired. distant. or, engaged. focused. driven. purposeful.

Her headphones gave her the right to be forgotten.

Mila Katz 87

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, Aqua (the alpine snowboard), Cristian Arroyo, Beary/Charlie/Rojo, Emilio Christopher Bejasa IV, Jennifer Belson, Ellana Bershadscky, Algiers Brown, Michaela Browne-Gallagher, Chaity Boi, Isabella Chesley, Ciara Cordasco, Anderson Cornwell, Scotty Crowe, Donek Snowboards, Hannah Ehrlich, Yousra Elaktaa, Rebecca Fabricant, Cheryl Family, Andrew & Ally & Vanessa Freifeld, Simone & Peter Giannosa, Woldine Guerrier (mwen remen’w manman <3), Charlie Gushee, Cole Gushee-Nelson (Playwright King), Charlotte Hart, Mara & Eric Hatzimemos, Hospital for Special Surgery, Anna Humphrey, Nicole Israel, Brooke Jackson, Omar Kassem, Sherif Kassem, William Knoesel (the K Gangsta Himself), Jackii Lam, Wendy Lam, Langa (the electric guitar), The LGBTQweens, Josh Lipton, Ms. Lovely (rightful owner of my heart, January 14 to infinity), Lover (the alpine snowboard), Liam Mikkelsen (My blood - TØp song reference), Michael (Finagle) Mikkelsen (Lab’s semi-official poet laureate & after hours performer), Michael B. Mikkelsen (cooking mentor & Haitian at Heart), Jennie Miller, Sheryl Nelson, Kaz Newman (el muchacho lindíssimo & Sublime Shakespeare of the Streets), John Ngai, Oakley the Longboard, Ricardo Portillo, Susan Price, Neil Purohit, Angelica Ramos, Jillian Reed (my roommate), Reki (the red guitar), Rianna Rosen, Ken Saji, Magdalena Samborska-Murgio, Fran & Sam Shapiro, Barbara Simpson, Julia Smolensky, Naomi Solomon, Debbie Todres, Rebecca Volpe, Melanie & Jim Wacker, Leslie Walhimer, Xiaotian Wang, Diann Witt, Nate Zim, Cara Zimmer (the Queen of the Pen), and Norma & Harry Zimmer.

With Thanks from 826NYC In our Young Writers Publish program, 826NYC works with classes of students and teachers on creative writing projects around and beyond New York City. Students from the Lab School for Collaborative Studies explored the idea of legacy this winter and spring. We Both Know the Way Home is a compilation of the original work of these students.

A huge thank you to our 826NYC Teaching Artist Maryann Aita, and

designer Ciara Cordasco. Your close collaboration with the student writers to define and create a book that reflects their aesthetic and authorial vision was fueled by true thoughtfulness and the kind of great care that helps young creators grow and thrive. We are also grateful to teacher Cara Zimmer for her work with these authors throughout the school year: it is so clear how your hard work, warmth, and steadfast dedication to your students allows them to flourish as young writers and thinkers.

At 826NYC we depend on a dedicated volunteer editing cohort to

make our publications a reality. Thank you to proofreaders Christine Corbin and Lauren Stefaniak for their careful attention to each student’s work.

A big thank you to The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation,

The Hawkins Foundation, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Kettering Foundation, The Minerva Foundation, The Pinkerton Foundation, and The Resnick Family Foundation, the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council, and the National Endowment for the Arts, for their generous support, which allows us to publish our students’ work. The program is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

Thank you especially to the 826NYC staff for their behind-the-

scenes support of this project, from the planning stages to the book-making process to volunteer recruitment.

Finally, thank you to the students at the New York City Lab School

for Collaborative Studies for taking risks with your writing and sharing your words with us. Writing can be a challenging and hopefully fun process, and your dedication to your craft and your stories shines through in these pieces. We are all excited to see what books you’ll produce in the future!

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 Naomi Solomon, Director of Education Corey Ruzicano, Programs Coordinator Julianna Lee Marino, Programs Coordinator Summer Medina, Community Engagement Strategist Jesusdaniel Barba, Programs Coordinator Lauren Everett, Communication & Fundraising Coordinator Chris Eckert, Store Manager Board of Directors

Amir Mokari

Michelle McGovern, President

Arjun Nagappan

Ted Wolff, Vice President

Tammy Oler

Ray Carpenter, Treasurer

Katie Schwab

Kathryn Yontef, Secretary

Danielle Sinay

Michael Colagiovanni

Andrew Sparkler

Jen D’Ambroise

Alyson Stone

Liza Demby

Maura Tierney

Jamal Edwards

Thom Unterburger

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

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

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

Write Together 826NYC hosts classes across New York City for Write Together: an interactive writing experience that encourages creative expression, explores the elements of storytelling, and strengthens writing skills. Elementary-aged

classes collaborate on illustrated children’s books, middle schoolers choose their own adventure, and high schoolers learn the art of memoir writing during a fast- paced and whimsical 90 minute narrative program.

Teen Writers Collective Teens are the next generation of literary leaders. That’s why we launched the Teen Writers’ Collective. The collective brings together young writers from around the city to explore the art of writing and literary citizenship.

They are a community of passionate and creative peers, serve as 826NYC youth leaders, and inspire younger students and peers across the network.

Student Publications Through our programs, our volunteers work with students to help them create stories, poems, and ’zines. Because we believe that the quality of students’ work is greatly enhanced when they are given the chance to share it with an authentic audience, we are committed to publishing student works.

By encouraging their work and by guiding them through the process of publication, we make abundantly clear that their ideas are valued.