S P I N E : 10 TH ANNI V ERSARY E D ITION
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SPINE
2019-2020
10th Anniversary Edition
S P I N E : 10 TH ANNI V ERSARY EDIT ION
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SPINE
2019-2020
10th Anniversary Edition
S P I N E : 10 TH ANNI V ERSARY EDIT ION
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SPINE
2019-2020
10th Anniversary Edition
SPINE 10th Anniversary Edition
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Published annually at Emerson College
SPINE: Student-Produced Interconnected Narratives at Emerson
A selection of original works by the students of EmersonWRITES
Designer Alayne Fiore Front Cover Art Design Collaboration by Students in EmersonPUBLISHES Cover Images by Winter Jones, Essence Smith, Martina Taylor Page Art Free License Vectors from Vecteezy.com Back Cover Art “Bones Vectors” from Vecteezy.com SPINE • 2019-2020 • Volume 10 • February 2020
EmersonWRITES is a collaboration between the Writing Studies Program in the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing and the Office of Enrollement Management at Emerson College. SPINE, previously titled, “The Anthology,” (2011-2014) is published annually by EmersonWRITES, Emerson College, 120 Boylston Street, Boston, MA 02116. Emerson College 120 Boylston Street Boston, MA 02116
What is EmersonWRITES? Our STUDENTS come from all over the Boston area and represent a diversity of communities. They speak and write in Amharic, Albanian, Arabic, Bangla, Cantonese, Criol, English, French, Korean, Mandarin, Oromic, Portuguese, Somali, and Spanish.. Some have only recently started calling the United States home. All share a passion for creative writing. Over the course of 14 Saturday sessions, they meet and collaborate with other writers they may not otherwise have known. This anthology showcases their hard work and their voices, their poems, their essays, and their stories. We invite you to enjoy their words and to experience each of their worlds. Our FACULTY are practicing writers and devoted teachers. Having come to Emerson College to pursue their Masters of Fine Arts degrees in creative writing, they understand the impact writing can make within communities large and small. They bring the expertise of their own craft into the classroom, and have been trained in Emerson’s Writing Studies Program to teach college writing. EmersonWRITES is a free creative writing program for students in Boston Public Schools, co-sponsored by the Writing Studies Program in the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing and the Office of Enrollment Management at Emerson College. These programs are guided by the principle that writing is essential to intellectual engagement, self-representation, and access to opportunity. In college-style courses held on Emerson’s campus, our students practice writing and critical thinking skills. They form a community of young writers whose individual voices respond to the world through the written word.
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Participating Schools Academy of the Pacific Rim Attleboro High School Boston Arts Academy Boston Latin Academy Boston Preperatory Charter Public School Cambridge Rindge and Latin School Central Catholic High School Codman Academy Cristo Rey Boston Everett High School Excel Academy Charter High School John D O’Bryant School of Mathematics and Science Madison Park Match Charter Middle School Milton High School Mystic Valley Regional Charter School Revere High School Snowden International High School Stoughton High School The Woodward School
Table of Contents Intergenerational Narratives Project
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Why “SPINE”? About the Name
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Non-Fiction: ARTifacts: Unlocking Stories Around Us Poetry: A Field Guide to Getting Lost
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Multi-Genre: Intro to Creative Writing
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Fiction: Perspectives of Influence
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EmersonPUBLISHES cxi Thank You Notes cxii
Intergenerational Narratives Project This year, many of our students embarked on a writing journey with chosen elders in their family or community. The Intergenerational Narratives Project, which is still ongoing, asks students to interview or write with a family or community member of a different generation about a theme that's been prominent in their writing this year at EmersonWRITES. Some of the results of this project can already be found in the pages of this issue of SPINE. We are going to continue to work on these projects after the program is over in a separate writing retreat, and plan to send these intergenerational texts into our communities in an additional illustrated publication. We are grateful to the Elma Lewis Center at Emerson College for supporting this work with a Community-Centered Grant.
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Why “SPINE”? About the Name Our EmersonWRITES anthology was first named SPINE (StudentProduced Interconnected Narratives at Emerson) in a brainstorm session with the 2014-2015 faculty. After much discussion and deliberation, we decided on this name not for its acronym alone, but for the symbolism and imagery evoked by the word “spine”: • A backbone • Standing up (for what our students believe in) • Strength • Confidence • Connecting the body (what moves us through the world) and the brain (how we make sense of this movement) • Made up of parts that complete a whole—this diverse community of teachers/students/writers, hailing from all over the city/country/world • The bones beneath our skin—more truly us, representing our identities, free of the way the world defines us by our outward appearances, our gender, sexuality, race, etc. The words you’ll find in these pages are what results when our students stand up and put their thoughts into the world—an action that requires strength and support. The subjects and genres are as diverse as our perspectives, yet these narratives are all interconnected. They were all born during our Saturday morning classes—the spaces our EmersonWRITES teachers take care to create and facilitate— where students can take risks, learn about new modes of expression, and discover the joy of being generous readers and supporters of each other’s writing. Just as the spine relies on the support of each vertebra, so our students rely on each other, their teachers, and this community to put their words out there. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate what they’ve accomplished than to call attention to how this work stands up, so tall, as it enters the world. Mary Kovaleski Byrnes, Senior Lecturer, WLP Co-Founder and Program Director, EmersonWRITES vii
Non-Fiction: ARTifacts: Unlocking Stories Around Us During our nonfiction workshop, we identified artifacts in texts and excavated their meaning to uncover their connection to our own lives. The artifacts themselves are unchanging constants—like song lyrics or movie scenes or quotes—but our relationship to the artifacts, and the artists that produced them, is always changing. We also identified artifacts in our own lives—remembered dialogue or experienced scenes—and recognized how inherently flawed and subjective our memories are. The artifact is the lived experience, and our job as writers in this class, much like archaeologists, was to dig up those stories and share them to the best of our abilities, recognizing the limitations of our memory and what constitutes Emotionally True writing. We read Wesley Morris and Amy Tan. We read Shea Serrano and Hanif Abdurrquib, pop-culture writers who expertly merge the personal with the critical. We listened to Naomi Shihab Nye reflect on language and memory and kindness. We even studied the dialogue in Moonlight and Good Will Hunting. Faculty Bios Will Gibbons is a third-year MFA student in Creative Non-Fiction. This is his first (and, sadly, only!) year teaching at EmersonWRITES before graduating from Emerson this spring. His non-fiction interests include personal essay, profiles, comedy writing, and movie reviews, and he’s recently had work published on WBUR’s Cognoscenti and on the sports website SB Nation. He hopes to keep teaching after a great year with truly smart, engaged students! Megan Fitzgerald is a second-year MFA Fiction student and this is her first year teaching with EmersonWRITES. Her writing interests include short story, novels, screenwriting, and playwriting. One of her short stories has recently been published with Trinity College’s New Square in Dublin. Megan hopes to continue her teaching experience, as she loves teaching and learning from the students of tomorrow. 9
Rejeila Firmin
Milton High School, 12th Grade This year, I took my first non-fiction class. It most definitely surprised me and made my love for writing even stronger. In this essay, I process my thoughts about a Kendrick Lamar song, connecting it to different artifacts. The whole idea comes about as I reflect on my uncle’s storytelling.
A Flower Bloomed in a Dark Room I remember getting forehead wrinkles that I thought would be permanent from the amount of stank looks I gave that day. The cool breeze relaxed the humid air like a shoulder massage as I popped my headphones in, eyes closed. The city felt more and more like home with each passing block. I gazed at the corner stores, barber shops, and beauty supply stores, finally acknowledging their cultural significance. I thought about all of the cookout stories that took place there, like the one my uncle told that made us laugh until our stomachs hurt. And that’s when it happened. Perfect timing, really. My playlist ended and Spotify automatically played “m.A.A.d city” by none other than Kendrick Lamar. Kendrick Lamar Duckworth, 32. Born and raised in Compton. To some, he’s an opportunity. To others, he’s a rapper. To me, he’s a reflection. What makes Kendrick so different from the rest? He is a lyricist. He puts words together like art. His delivery is a mixture of cultural metaphors, double entendres, history lessons, onomatopoeia, tongue-twisters, and modern-day allusions. He spits the kind of lyrics that make you stop and run the whole track back. Kendrick is on a different type of time. Every set of lyrics is a poem. Every poem becomes a song. Every song tells a story. Every story carries a message. Every message pertains to the Black community in some way. I listen to Kendrick because he indulges in Black culture. He is Black, just like me. A fact as simple as that amplifies to speak volumes. His albums became learning opportunities for me, a chance for me to relate to someone for once. 11
Last year, I read If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin, and underwent a plethora of emotions. In the midst of all the tears, laughter, pride, and enchantment, I discovered a connection between Baldwin’s novel and Kendrick Lamar’s “m.A.A.d city.” Baldwin’s romance novel is told from the perspective of a young Black woman throughout her journey of discovering the gutting reality of what it means to be a Black man in America. The father of her unborn child, lifelong companion, and first love acts as her catalyst for discovery. The characters truly construct and drive the story. The purpose of the novel comes in the fact that the most complex character was the setting. Throughout the novel, Baldwin gave the setting the ability to influence the characters, the ability to feel sorrow and inflict that sorrow upon others. Baldwin does this to pay homage to the communal bond between members of the minority. Baldwin’s critics saw the novel as utopian, rather than providing an alternate ending to a common story. There is power in being Black, which is something that Baldwin’s critics failed to realize, hence the subliminal comments on Baldwin’s optimism. And that’s where I drew the connection: optimism. In “m.A.A.d city,” Kendrick Lamar says, “Hope euphoria can slow dance with society.” In an interview, Kendrick revealed, “So I always wanted to put that type of vulnerability out there where I have always been this dreamer. I am a realist, but at the same time what separates me from the rest of my homeboys is the fact that I can dream of this hope....” Kendrick is aware of the dangers of being a dreamer, as is Baldwin who said, “Every poet is an optimist...but on the way to that optimism ‘you have to reach a certain level of despair to deal with your life at all.’” It takes courage to dream as a person of color with societal limits and expectations. But Baldwin wrote for the minority anyway, and Kendrick Lamar raps for the generations after him. Kendrick’s optimism and pride is seemingly contagious and I find it hard not to gain insight and inspiration from his words. So back to that story that my uncle told. Nothing special. Honestly, I don’t even remember it that well. He was a young Haitian immigrant, starting trouble outside of the laundromat. He tried to act tough with some older kids and they ran after him and my dad (who was carrying two big-ass laundry bags) until one of them ran 12
right into a pole. Now, yes, the story itself is funny...but that’s not what I’m getting at. It’s the way we all laughed (or some of us got up and ran) and shared our happiness with each other. At that moment, our connection felt multidimensional, bigger than us. That’s what optimism means to me. This is Rejeila’s second year at EmersonWRITES. She is a senior at Milton High School and often writes articles for the club she takes part in at school. She also teaches a newspaper class at Tucker Elementary School. Next year she plans on majoring in Creative Writing in college.
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Star Igbinosa
Academy of the Pacific Rim, 10th Grade When I joined EmersonWRITES this year I knew what non-fiction meant, but not how it felt or the many ways it translated. This piece was written on a Saturday around 11am while I rushed to make it to the program on time. It was something I had thought about creating that morning while getting ready, but never thought it was nonfiction worthy, until I realized that it was actually perfect. I merged definitions and a POV type writing style to achieve it.
Good Eats
/goōd, ēats/ Noun 1. The consumption of the most elite food/snacks in the moment. Ex:
It is a cool Friday night in the South Bay shopping mall center. The post-summer breeze runs into your nose, through your hair, and down your spine. Groups of families and rowdy teenagers looking to have fun fill the air with an inescapable euphoria. The fountain that had been recently constructed spurts multi-colored darts of water into the air like an Olympic synchronized swimming team. You and your friends have no choice but to embrace the vibes after you all had just been denied entry to watch “It: Chapter Two” at AMC because of your minor statuses. However, the party doesn’t stop. You drift about and wander through Nike, Ulta Beauty, and Forever 21 (who will later go bankrupt) reminiscing on old memories and embarrassing events that will be cherished forever. A diverse array of tasty looking restaurants come into view so you and your friends decide that you have other plans for the money that was to be spent on the movies. Olive Garden is the top pick and you all stumble into its dimly lit setting. It is quiet, small, and kind of cozy. You and your friends are seated at a table for four and the waiter with the nice smile leaves while you all nitpick at the menu, looking for something that will satisfy your taste buds. 15
The food makes its grand entrance. Smelling it makes your mouth water. Melted cheese drips down onto the pasta, devouring any white spaces left. The steam rises off of the mushrooms, leaving the lightly seasoned chicken to try and fill the noses of anyone within a close radar of you and your friends’ table. Unfortunately, it can’t. The eating comences. Star is a sophomore at Academy of the Pacific Rim who loves anything chocolate, going on bike rides, and focusing on her creativity outside of high school. She is also working on the definition of her 4b/4c curls.
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Yolisbel Peña
Milton High School, 12th Grade
I’ve been trying to connect to my hispanic roots more by talking about and reminiscing more often on all my past memories in DR, and just remembering where I come from and showing more appreciation and representation for my culture through writing.
que significa ser dominicana? When I think of DR, I think of the bodega, the sound of motorcycles, and the echo of music blasting from every corner. I think of that upbeat feeling I get when I listen to reggaeton: it’s different from bachata and merengue in that it’s faster, newer, and it gets me lit. That same feeling that led me to make a spontaneous decision to go parasailing in Punta Cana. Between the height above the ocean, the view of the entire beach, and the speed of the boat, I couldn’t escape the exhilaration and slight fear I felt. But in contrast to that, I think of that time I walked on the beach in Samana. I sank my toes into the cool sand as I watched the sky paint pictures in purple and blue. All I could hear were the waves crashing by my side. My mind wanders to my mama, who taught me what it means to be Dominicana. She would show us her trip to and from school telling us how she never felt alone because there was family at every corner. Although I was only eight, her storytelling taught me more about my culture than I ever knew. Because of her, I think about how proud I am to be Dominicana. I think about El Llano, where I live, a small section of Baní. I think about growing up with a big family, lots of cousins. That communal type of living even if you don’t live in the same house, just always being together. Yolisbel is a senior at Milton High School and plans on going to Lesley University next year to study human services and children, youth, and family studies as a double major. One of Yolisbel’s favorite hobbies is photography. Later in life Yolisbel plans to do much more traveling, and to go to places such as Italy and Portugal. 17
Marvin Valenzuela
John D. O’Bryant School of Mathematics & Science, 11th Grade I enjoy writing a lot because I can express myself in many ways. One of the things that can help express myself is writing down my emotions and how I feel on certain topics. If I am having a bad day or an awesome day I can explain why, while I’m writing it. Another reason why I enjoy creative writing is the fact that I get to write whatever I want, and I get to expand my imagination and think outside the box. Creative writing also can be a way to help people, I believe that it can positively impact a person if it is a good piece, therefore the effort that I put in can have an effect on people in a positive way.
How Traveling Got Me Through Being More Open-Minded When I was in 7th grade, I began to travel. Traveling to the West, Midwest, East, and out of the country, I was able to explore new things. I was introduced to it more often once my brother graduated from college. Traveling was a way for our family to be closer with one another. I also began to feel more connected to the world as it has opened my eyes more. Therefore, traveling makes me feel more connected to the world. Once my brother graduated college, he began traveling more often. Later on, he became a full-time flight attendant. This job allowed him to see the beauty of the world. Thankfully, with his job he can take my family and I to places. Our first official trip together was to Las Vegas, Nevada. Before I went there, I thought of Vegas as a city where only adults are allowed to go, and never imagined kids going there. I was wrong. Vegas is a beautiful place where everyone is allowed to visit and explore. The beautiful desert and the beauty of lavish buildings is a view that needs to be explored. Its not only a city of sin but also of light. It started in Vegas, but later my travel expanded even further. From Southern California to the country and deserted side of Cali, I 19
began to see a variety of differences. I was so happy to see more of the world and what it had to offer. One major trip that I absolutely loved, would have to be going to Tokyo, Japan. I was mindblown by the Japanese culture, and how different it was from the American culture and many others. I definitely learned from that experience, it made me realize how many different cultures there are. Although, there was a bit of a language barrier, we got a warm welcome from the Japanese people. This, and many other trips, have definitely been really cool experiences. Therefore, I would definitely recommend someone to travel and explore new places, cultures,and people, as it will relieve your stress and make you become more open to the world. Marvin Valenzuela is a student at the John D. O’Bryant School of Mathematics and Science. Marvin chose to be in EmersonWRITES to learn more about writing and grow as a writer.
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Zeinab Yusuf
Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 11th Grade I enjoy creative writing because to me, writing is a way to express myself. Whenever I am feeling down or have nobody to talk to, I write. I continuously write my thoughts down on paper and it can go up to ten pages. Sometimes when I get the ability to free-write, I come up with creative stories based on previous books I’ve read in the past so I could get my own personalized happy ending. Other times, I write about the problems within society and how corrupt our way of living is, or even how humans are the reason for Earth dying.
In the Zone Other people may do things such as binge watch old shows or eat a certain kind of food to escape a reality or deal with a situation that is bothering them. Or they constantly repeat the same behavior whether or not it is healthy for them as a way to make themselves feel better. The most common way to cope or avoid problems would be eating, however mine would be sleeping. Every time I am going through a problem I tend to go to sleep and pretend it doesn’t exist. I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing, but I like it because afterwards I feel refreshed. I even feel like I could do things better. For example, I had a hard time catching up in school because I was away for awhile due to medical conditions. It was hard to catch up because I wasn’t only missing out on my education, but I was missing out on quality time with my friends and family. I thought I wasn’t ever going to catch up and that I would always fall behind. I felt scared. Then, one day, I was all like, “At this point, whatever,” and I just fell asleep. As I was asleep, I had a dream about me being financially stable. I was at peace and with my loved ones. When woke up, I realized four hours had passed and I was like, damn. But it wasn’t the bad “damn,” it was a good “damn.” That joy sensation you feel as if you had been reborn, replenished, and looking like the best version of yourself. Or you could call it the realization you get after taking a good nap. Anyway, to me, it felt inspiring. I was more motivated to catch up and enjoy the process of catching up. 21
Obviously, not every nap will randomly give you inspiration. I am not saying that you should take naps every once in awhile and expect that a dream of some sort will do the work for you. That’s impossible. I’m saying that y’all should take the stress off of yourselves, and relax once in awhile. I believe the only reason why that nap was so special to me is because I was stressing myself out and I didn’t even realize it. My point is that if you are ever going through hard things, remember that it is happening for a reason and there is a plan out there for you, and you will achieve it. Think of your health first, because you won’t get anywhere without your health intact. Sleeping is just one of the many options that can help your body regenerate itself into becoming a better you.
Culture Culture A seven letter word that has a variety of definitions From premonitions to traditions Culture A social behavior A way of life yet highly associated with many strifes Culture it’s meant to bring unity but america continuously degrades it From racism to sexism She makes sure there’s only one way one tradition one norm one expectation every person for themselves yet they have to conceal their identity their culture their preference all because it’s not “american” you can’t wear what you want 22
can’t dress the way you would back in your hometown all because it’s not “american” you have to act as your biological sex can’t be a woman but have men’s clothing otherwise you ain’t a person can’t have a different sexuality otherwise you’ll be targeted attacked degraded from your identity
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Poetry: A Field Guide to Getting Lost A liminal space is the transition between what we were and what we will become. It is a time of transformation where we may not know what will come next. In this class, we discussed poetry and short essays dealing with the state of being in limbo: where we come from, our current journey, and where we’re headed. Our readings included selections by Audre Lorde, Jenny Xie, Chen Chen, Morgan Parker, and Ada Limon. We discussed a variety of experimental forms, fragment and prose poems, and visual poems. We also read and learned from each other’s work with an emphasis on collaborative writing, workshops, and constructive peer review. For this year’s anthology, our students wrote pieces that play with traditional poetic forms and explore the various “in-between” spaces of our lives. “The question then is how to get lost. Never to get lost is not to live, not to know how to get lost brings you to destruction, and somewhere in the terra incognita in between lies a life of discovery.” — Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost Faculty Bios Dana Guth is an M.A. student in Emerson’s Writing, Literature and Publishing program and a first-year EmersonWRITES instructor. She is passionate about the intersection of literature, art, technology, and the environment. Born in Baltimore, MD, Dana earned a B.A. in International Relations from Tufts University and now splits her time between Boston and Portland, Maine, where she lives, works, and reads copious amounts of books. San Pham is an emerging artist from Ann Arbor, MI. She received her B.A. from the University of Michigan and has recently earned her M.F.A. from Emerson. She is interested in combining art and writing to decrease stigma and create dialogue on mental health. Her work centers around her identity as a second-generation Vietnamese American, being diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder, and as a woman going through Puberty 2. She loves the sun. 25
Keianna Grant
Codman Academy, 11th Grade In my writing, I talk about feelings and emotions I felt during a certain time period. Sometimes my writing contains colors or words associated with certain objects.
What Causes Loss? envy, green as an emerald. anger, deep as an underwater ravine. trust, shattered as a window pane. kindness, torn as a book. disappointment, deep as the ocean. sadness, blue as a darkened sapphire. everyone/everything has a point or a limit, until something bursts. and that’s how it happens, you lose sight of everything you’ve held held onto so tightly. everything just slips away.
I Am Keianna Grant I am not confused and I am not to be used in threesomes. My hair is real so, don’t touch. My hair is good because I take care of it, not because I’m mixed. It is my body I will cut my hair and do what I WANT, don’t get mad when I say no. I am not a bitch, a wife, a dyke, a toy, a slave, a daughter or a pretty girl. I am Keianna Grant, so say my name.
Rainbow of Feelings anger for feeling this way overwhelming anxiety for every interaction I have 27
happiness for every day I wake up getting better with self-love and self-confidence learning when my depression gets outta hand making my dreams a reality; pride knowing and being a part of the unknown Keianna Grant is a junior at Codman Academy. This is her second year being a part of EmersonWRITES.
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Winter Jones
Boston Latin Academy, 11th Grade This year we explored different poem formatting and dipped into visual poetry for a few sessions. What really stuck with me was the idea of contrapuntal poetry so I decided to take a shot at it! This is my (2nd/3rd) draft. My other 2 pieces explore the practice of extended metaphors in poems.
Butterfly Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on. They didn’t mean it. maybe they did It’s suffocating to understand that words with full trust, with (un)requited love, with seemingly tantalizing truths can dance through the air oh so violently that they immobilize. They lose their dance
But I can’t... I can’t understand why. You won’t do it, no balls But they did mean it. It’s gut wrenching to think deeply embedded with genuine speech, with deep respect, that words can be so fragile, and shatter at the slightest bit of doubt oh so crippling that they disenchant. They lose their purpose.
They drop the oils of sorrow, of self-doubt, of trust issues, of abhorrence, unintentionally. Stopping the butterfly from doing her own dance. Stopping the butterfly from knowing her purpose. 29
* HOW TO READ: • You can start with either one of the columns and read down (within that column) until the ending/last line (ending with “purpose”). • OR you can read both columns together, as a whole poem until the ending/last line. ** I grew up with the childhood myth that if you touch a butterfly’s wings, they’re wings are so delicate that the oils on your fingertips will immobilize it. Stopping it from flying and stopping it from living. It is a fact that a butterfly’s wings are covered in scales that can rub off at the touch of your fingertips. The scales strengthen the wing membrane and if a butterfly loses a great number of scales, the underlying membrane may become more prone to rips and tears, which in turn, could affect its ability to fly and leave colorless exposure of the membrane. *** Perhaps you should read it again?
HK Onyx Studio 3 I waited for the day. I waited for the day the surround sound could compete with the percussion of my mind so viciously that my cheeks wouldn’t streamline. I waited for the day my appetite wouldn’t skip a beat, just to settle on disgust, the day I’d be able to engulf in the melody of my peer’s trust without wondering when the tune would end. I waited for the day I’d be able to write the lyrics to my own damn song, sing the harmonies with my own damn friends and not secondguess a beat. I am still waiting. 30
Little Drummer Boy percussion. The sound of the drum Little Drummer Boy, following the sound of the switch so violently the tinnitus seems to dissipate. Little Drummer Boy, the vibrations one may palpate as they feel it travel through their skin and bones until it becomes one with them. percussion, the sound of the drum the waiting of the next beat. The start of a new bar. The emotion built up in an echoey void of despair Little Drummer Boy, are you tired of the percussion, are you tired of the sound of the drum?
Illustration by Winter Jones
Winter Jones is a junior at Boston Latin Academy and this is her second year at EmersonWRITES. She really enjoys writing, skateboarding, and playing squash, and currently has 5 piercings. 31
Abbie Langmead
Stoughton High School, 12th Grade
This year, my personal growth correlated with my poetic growth. I was able to start writing for myself, and surprise myself with what came out of it.
the one where i try to stand up for myself you aren’t real! spoiler alert: you’re not real. As you are a silly thought process, and you are a puppeteer with strings. i’ve seen you, with those complex marionettes which you are so good at making seem alive. but you aren’t going to do that. you won’t do it to me. you’re just the monster i was so scared of underneath my bed the monster you convinced me would appear anytime i would close my eyes, and you would see moving specks. i know better than to fall into the traps you’ve set for me. you’re a trickster, that’s what i hate about you. because i gave you a name, i gave you a power, and i said that your aid saved me. you’ve let my heart out of its cage, leaving me so tired all i can do is rest. rest and feed you. you’ve only let me feed you. you made me wake up earlier and earlier
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you’ve made me check my clock over and over again, as your ritual dictates. you’ve driven me to the middle of fucking nowhere. and then you kicked me out of the car. but i’m too good for you! who am i to waste all this space in my brain, and this paper real estate for someone like you? you aren’t real. you aren’t visible. i can’t touch you. so please, show me that you aren’t really there.
I Only Use Erasable Blue Pen When I write too much my hand turns blue from rushing it across the page, and the unrelenting blue ink. Thank God my passion can stain my skin, because I don’t know if my words prove it.
Catcher In My Feels Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you’ll start missing everybody. And so, 34
Is there anything more to say? I won’t tell you a word. It’s just, more complicated. I can hardly remember a time where it wasn’t Where things had a start and a stop Besides where I put them. I kind of wish they let my old high school rot forever. Leave it like the museum from Holden’s memory. I won’t bother to go in, but I want it there, A testament to my survival. Rather than the dirt it is now. I want to drive by and have Everything that happened to me burned into my skull Or rewinded with the cassettes Still kept in the English closet. Freshman year was quiet until the ground started breaking, And my middle school blue jeans were swapped for miniskirts. Tearing up the football field for construction, but I didn’t care. To be entirely honest, I didn’t expect anything to ever change. That’s what my town is like. Immemorial, and also immemorable. Sophomore year is filled with chatter, Drills and jackhammers, And if I looked outside my Algebra II class window, I could see the sparks and welding. But also gossip, and lies, and a leaked video Of a car being torn apart around a tree. Sophomore year was loud. Nobody puts that song on the radio. The administration kept telling us about the last moments, But I still had one more year left to go. Survival, tooth and nail because god damn it
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I was making it out of this building with a story about it. I have a lot of stories about it, actually. You can break into the band room if you have your ID on you, Slide it right in between the door and the frame. Don’t tell the band director. It’ll be our secret. Or how sitting in the back corner of the cafeteria is always the best, Because the circular tables don’t get as crowded as the square ones, And the sun will never get in your eyes. Nobody believes me. At least, I don’t think people usually took me up on the offer. Or how the bathroom across from the photography studio is filled with prom dresses donated for students who can’t afford them, But is mostly used by the theatre kids because the last dress anybody donated Is a leopard print dress from 2004. I could tell you about the best way to get from the basement of E building To the attic of A. I could show you my favorite and least favorite stairwells. I can give you a map in my mind of Every time I promised myself I just had to endure. Senior Year. I’ve traded my ancient building for a new one And my plaid miniskirts to floral dresses, jeans, and sweaters. It’s so much better they say. With the bright lights, and the better weight room, And the efficiency of the layout. A high school like ours is a labyrinth. Even if it has straight hallways that lead right to each other. 36
So you see, I wish they could leave my high school forever, Just rotting, falling apart, in the shadow of the new building made of Glass and the aspirations of our principal. Because I’ve got more stories about that place than you know. And I can’t point those places out to you, If they’re only in my memory. When I was a sophomore, I read Catcher In The Rye In a pastel blue room built in the year 1920. The floorboards creaked and it was always hot in there. And I hardly understood the book, although I liked the story. My senior year literature teacher told us to read it again. This time, with context. This time, we’ve grown. For us to talk about in a room with its tile walls that feel clinical. And I don’t know what changed in me, But I understand the last lines about missing everyone now. Abbie is a senior in her fifth and final year of EmersonWRITES. She attends Stoughton High School and is grateful for the past five years in this program.
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Jael Nunez
Cristo Rey Boston High School, 11th Grade I have enjoyed this year in the EmersonWRITES poetry program because it has given me a lot of opportunities these past few months. It has taught me the different structures of poems, and the breaking of rules when writing a piece. These poems were inspired by my desire to expect more of people than I should.
End of the Soul I who am endlessly turning my world into something new Cannot stop to try and get from people What they cannot give The true beauty of humans We learn from the times we break But there is still so much distrust In such a small world Am I a wishbone? To break to get what you want Beauty the new destruction of humanity That explains perfection’s subconsciousness But now I’m turning my world To my old self When beauty was more than just a phase And the souls persisted of devotion.
Nights Beauty Under the beauty of the night The sparkle of the light that reflects into your eyes The beating of the heart that craves your touches 39
My soul craves to be infused to become one with you Whispering your name like a song from the heart May your touches guide my moves find the areas under my skin where electricity lives crawling through my spine as your lips find the hidden places. Breathlessly living desiring the rest of you
Growing & Forgetting Hiding behind a door scared Thinking about the past to be more than just a memory But I looked outside the window I saw a different world A world I didn’t have to fear Where I came clean and true to myself No more hiding in the shadows of my past but Living over in the shadows of my future Because demons only hold on to the past And I am looking towards the future. This is Jael’s second year in EmersonWRITES. She is a Junior at Cristo Rey Boston high school. She started writing poetry at the age of 9. Poetry inspired her after the traumatic event of her uncle’s death. She wants to double major in criminal justice and theology.
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Ebony Smith
Excel Academy Charter High School, 12th Grade In these poems, I assume a completely different role outside of myself. In Side Effects I assume an omnipotent narrator’s voice to tell the story of the average, overlooked Black kid. In Millennial Voices Debate their Ancestors, I assume the voice of a millennial who is dissociated from politics altogether.
Side Effects The side effect of being Black in America is sitting through a lesson of slavery and knowing it by default. The side effect of knowing it by default is the silent Black kid in the classroom. The side effect of the silent Black kid in the classroom is loneliness. The side effect of loneliness is overcompensating. The side effect of overcompensating is people saying, “you’re better than everyone else.” The side effect of people thinking you’re better than everyone else is actually believing it. The side effect of actually believing it is cutting yourself short to make others feel comfortable.
Millennial Voices Debate their Ancestors Martin Luther King wasn’t even mainstream. With a 75% disapproval rating in his lifetime. This is useless. 41
Stop making me the spokesperson, to be meticulous, perfect, to say the right things to the wrong crowds. Why are you forcing me to be politically aware? Like I don’t see them walking on the other side of the street. Like I don’t hear the underlying tone in the white women’s voice, telling me that I need to buy something, because it’s illegal to loiter. How can I forget that I’m Black When they remind me everyday? I don’t have an opinion to share. I don’t have a vote to cast. I don’t follow any social activists to repost. Where’s my childhood? Did it get lost in my kinky hair? Is my skin too dark for you to find it? Ebony Smith is a senior at Excel Academy Charter High School. She is a five-year participant of EmersonWRITES. Her poems are commentaries on racism, police brutality, and the lifestyle of AfricanAmericans in America. Ebony is enrolling at Harvard College next fall to pursue her education in government and literature.
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Martina Taylor
Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 12th Grade This course has coaxed the poet out of me that I hardly knew how to reach. I have learned so much about myself and my writing through explorations with different poets and forms. I am forever grateful for this class and experience.
Flying Above the Sinking Sun We are dipping back into the foamy earth once again skimming a finger across the top to raise to our lips and suck the sugar sweet sugar sour top off the fog. Let me count: rings of light blue, orange, yellow, pink, purple indigo, lavender. Let me count: the rise and fall of breath, beat beat beat, there sus spend ded in the middle of two states hanging like a sentence cut halfway unsure of the direction, the meaning. There isn’t anything to do in this state but to count as the rings grow thicker, blue, pink, purple indigo, lavender, we are dipping deeper and slowly until we hit the bottom with a small bump transferred from one state to another light as a feather, air, gas, the intake of breath to ceramic glass, heavy but breakable 43
the sky melds to purple indigo, gives in, as it was always destined to do, to let the top fall in and forget the distinctions we had made earlier forget how each line connected, fuzzy, hazy, undefined and definite and now there is only darkness and porcelain and we forget that we were ever air, or water, or anything in between until a breeze picks up and we melt again.
The Closet Every morning, at half past eight, my skeleton rises from her bed. Bones cracking as her long arms adjust to the gravity of daylight, (after a sip of water— which splashes through her) she gathers her thoughts for a minute and walks over to the closet. Which me will she be today? It’s almost like a slot machine— rare the three cherries align and even rarer that they fit. Sometimes, she’ll slip into a skin that stretches tight over her shoulders with shoes too big and an ill-fitting jacket of blood and musk. No matter which way she tugs and touches the body it doesn’t seem to fit. The game is done, no dice. There are other days, though, 44
when a shiny new look hangs on the rack and my skeleton reaches her slim fingers to grab the newfound piece. It’s a bullseye or the thrilling ding! ding! ding! of the strength game at the carnival. and she feels good in herself, all throughout the day, a lightness in her step as if bones weren’t nestled underneath her exterior, but the cool flow of water, strong and powerful. And then there are days still, where she’s not sure which body fits and whether it matches her airy, invisible soul— a fickle thing that even a skeleton can’t always decipher. But she reaches in anyways because, as far as my skeleton knows, one can’t go outside with just bones.
About Two Flies on a Windowsill Their bodies, the husk of last summer’s sun Seated softly on the smooth windowsill. Whisper low Or breath might unseat these delicate beauties, Blacked bones softened by dust, death, dehydrated They decorate the forgotten nooks and crannies of this summer sweet and winter weathered home. Later, 45
I found a dust ridden wasp Lying prone on my bedroom floor. Each day, Floorboards squeak a path around the burial site For I cannot bear to dispose of this mighty creature Who first lay claim to this spot And paid the price. Now, People who visited once, the buzzing creatures who built their nests so sweetly, carefully in this spot must all fall down to Earth, to dirt once again. But not before shedding their skin into the layers that build up in these sacred, forgotten places. Martina is a senior and this is her second year with EmersonWRITES. Outside of school, she is a writer for Aspirants and Affinity magazines. In the words of Seamus Heaney, “I rhyme to see myself, to set the darkness echoing.�
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Kaylah Tshitenge
Boston Latin Academy, 11th Grade The first piece is a piece dedicated to those deceived by cultural appropriation and those afraid to speak outside lines of racism. The second poem is a personal piece of mine that portrays how my experience being a young Black woman has significantly impacted me throughout the years and the misconception that Black women are angry because they were born this way, not because of societal experiences that have developed our anger.
The Anthropology of AfroCentric Deception My intellectual resonance coincided with racial clarity when suddenly resistance was a ploy to My oppressed sentimentality And my beliefs a cultural tattoo for my impaired captivity My skin a consequence for societal achievement And my emotions a natural habitat; using my freedom as its target Racism a gateway to my ancestors tribal insanity Scars of a weapon my systematic mentality couldn’t repeat back to me My pleading hands a retaliation against an inevitable discrepancy But I guess I’m supposed to say sorry for your cultural pity against my challenged diversity My happiness a mistake that society wasn’t willing to forgive And my words another scheme for slavery as if this hidden treasure called trauma had forgotten me My identity a confused insecurity that the color of my skin couldn’t seem to fathom The discord of segregation confessing to the principles of my injustice As if I held a grudge against the conspiring idolatry of flawed historical context DNA a term of aggression instead of explaining the fact that my 47
biogenetics shouldn’t define my past transgressions And melanin censoring my resistance against white purity Working tirelessly in the cotton-picked fields to ignite the true African Queen in me Uncle Tom shaking my hand as if this was his land But I guess this poem was a negro spiritual handing over a testimony to unity’s emphasized contraband
The Angry Black Woman Fairytale: Two Blind Eyes Tick, Tock, her manipulated innocence outdated the clock The clock struck one, the weariness of her closed eyes were done Hickory Dickory Not. Once there was a young black girl unprecedented by her ability to exceed the expectations of systematic anonymity Once there was the purified sanctification of a white dress disguised by what was left over of masculinity's inability to clean up its mess Once there was a young bearing Black mother inspired by the affliction of the Virgin Mary to move past her Afrocentric addictions Once there was the manifestation of history using two Black women as misogyny’s transformation Once there was a neighborhood that failed to comply with society’s lie that a house is not a home without a white man destroying it Once there was an idol called cultural appropriation as a misrepresentation to the historical backlash her Black intelligence was facing Once racism was the priority to process the problematic Black success But the restricted bliss was the justice society wanted her to dismiss Once they needed other Black girls to be inventors instead of 48
unmasking the institutions using perverted diversity as its protector Once the forbidden fruit to beauty was perfection because you lost your sweetness if you were her complexion Once being colored was its own religion and Jesus being Black was a form of oppressive intolerance Once it was Black hysteria if a young Black woman developed new affirmations everyday As if it was emotionally illiterate to contemplate confidence And that being angry at institutionalized impatience was the paradox to the correspondence of a Black woman’s systematic response Once there was the silence of two breasts waiting for the power to voice its inconvenience Once her Black beauty became the cultural assimilation, submissive to societal contradiction Once she outlived the hymn of Psalm 91 asking God for protection against penetration instead of spiritual affliction Once she imagined the daze of handcuffs around her American Dream because once it was illegal to believe that a girl born into kinky puffs could succeed Once she mourned the loss of the degrading culture of just too dark brown skin dolls sold out by the consumers of cultural liability Once her crayons just made it outside the lines this time. Once her words were a powerful weapon defeated by the risk of a stop’n frisk. Once her thick legs were free of action but came with the consequence of the hinderance of abuse Once she familiarized herself with the catcalling blues not realizing there were more than two blind eyes singing them too... Once mama took too long to read the story to solidify innocence’s glory Once the story became too long and too tiresome to read because it was the same old story. The one where being Black did not make the cut because there weren’t enough Black princesses to begin with The one where the knight and shining armor never came because all 49
the white princesses took them away. The one where the musical number awakening the children is sirens and a familiar sound of police brutality they won’t know yet The one I wasn’t supposed to read because trauma said I didn’t have access yet. Now guess who’s the one who didn’t open her eyes yet. This is Kaylah Tshitenge’s second year at EmersonWRITES. She currently attends Boston Latin Academy and engages in many extracurricular activities involving the arts. She enjoys writing but specifically poetry because it is a genre that allows her to express what society doesn’t want her to profess and is a therapeutic release for a story that deserves to be voiced.
Multi-Genre: Intro to Creative Writing Our introduction to creative writing curriculum was styled after our own experience with writing classes. With that said, we took special care to create and cultivate a writing community for our students that encouraged open and honest exploration of voice and style. Revolving primarily around creative non-fiction, fiction, and poetry we looked at a number of pieces in each genre and isolated elements of style and voice that could be used within our writing. Through lectures, prompted writing exercises, and interactive games the goal of our class was to encourage experimentation within the genres. Each class began with a writing prompt, followed by an introduction to the elements of study we were discussing that day. Students were encouraged to share their work each class. By the end of the program we had amassed a diverse collection of work in multiple genres which we are now happy to share with you. Faculty Bios Rebecca Rubin is a second year MFA student in poetry at Emerson. It is her first year teaching with EmersonWRITES. Other than poetry, she is also interested in non-fiction and the exploration of self through writing. Her work has appeared in Freshwater Literary Journal and Here Poetry. Gabriela Montelongo is an MFA student in Emerson’s WLP program studying poetry. This is her first time working with EmersonWRITES but she is especially excited to be working with young and emerging voices. She has recently become interested in the connection between micro-fiction and prose poetry.
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Keyah Adamson
Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, 10th Grade My favorite topic I learned this year was poetry. I got to express myself in ways I never thought I would. Poetry was an opportunity for me to break all the rules and I didn’t have to explain to someone why. I was able to be free and to know that was ok.
To you from… Don’t forget the memories we made, from taking a late night trip to tarja to going on vacation with each other Don’t forgt you left me first and the only thing I could of said is BYE Don’t try to put yourself out there to get notice because one day the right person will come to you Don’t just get a boyfriend just to have one There is a difference between a boy best friend and a boyfriend Just because you got a boyfriend doesn’t mean I am always going to be a third wheel and (be fine with that) Just because you think everything is fine doesn’t mean it is There is a fine line between OK and Fine Don’t be acting all different just because your boyfriend is here because you weren’t acting like that 10 minutes ago Don’t let anyone make you feel like you are not worthy because you are Don’t let anyone tell you who you are, if you already who you are Don’t let anyone step all over you and stand mute when you really had something to say Share your emotions and stop letting people guess Guesses are not always accurate, so stop getting mad when someone doesn’t guess the right emotion (Why don’t you understand?) (Why aren’t you more cautious) If you really wanted people to know how you feel you would of said something to them and not let your mind get to you (Listen to your heart and you wouldn’t be confused) If people would know how you feel you would not feel like you are 53
more than one person But since you decide to make yourself always available you have to play the roles you were signed up for I can do it yeah I am positive No it’s fine You are a flower in many different fields Your seeds are spreading all over Spreading Love joy and happiness to anyone who picks them I want you to know that you are magical Don’t let anyone tear you down and steal your joy I want you to remember that you are here for a reason and it’s not to be someone’s puppet on a string (No I don’t want to do it) (I am tired) Let people know who you are The real you and don’t let no one take that for granted Love the new you….. -Keyah Adamson
Who Are You… Am I you?
Or are you me? Do you think I am like you just because we have a couple things in common? Who am I I am a woman of color…. Who are you I am someone who always makes mistakes Who am I I am someone who thinks they are brave and all-mighty but really waiting to fall Who are you I am somebody’s daughter, aunty and big sister 54
Who am I I am someone who stresses over little things even though I know everything is going to be OK Who are you I see the light in someone…. I was fed all their darkness Who am I I believe all the lies Who are you feed in on all the lies Who am I I am someone who tells someone else they got It when I know deep down inside they don’t Who are you I am someone who thinks staying positive is the way to go Who am I I am nothing Who are you You are beautiful Who am I I am worthless Who are you You are powerful and can overcome all things Who am I I am selfish Who are you You are taking what someone has given you Who am I
I am your mind WHO ARE YOU I am you…. Keyah Adamson is a sophomore at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School. In her free time she likes to write and sing. She also loves going to Jamaica every year to visit her family and spend time with her friends. In her free time she steps with the step team at her school and goes to acapella once a week. 55
Angela Cene
Revere High School, 11th Grade
I came into EmersonWRITES open and eager to learn more about what I was capable of. I always enjoyed writing, but this year poetry became something special to me. I use my paper and pen to express who I am and to encourage others with every word.
Her she’s going to ask you the same question i once asked you: “have you been in love before?” and you will hesitate i will come to mind you will deny it convince yourself that you don’t love me and that you’re over me but i’m fire to your soul the love i gave you you’ll never forget it you will always love me and i’m sure of that.
Love I didn’t know what love was. I imagined it to be late nights at the beach, naked in the salty water. I thought love was like the movies, waking up to the rays of sun, the sounds of the birds chirping. Instead, you showed me what love was not, the only love I had was pain. I shattered my own heart by letting you come back whenever you needed me. I shattered my own heart just to fill yours. I clipped my wings in order for you to fly. I let you back in after you told me I would be nothing in life. 57
After you had gone to other females trying to forget me. Our love was not like the movies, it was filled with Tears Screams Heavy chests And late nights alone. I dreamed of a love where I could be able to look into one’s eyes and be certain of that person beside me. I wanted the love that brings butterflies to your stomach and up to your chest every time you see them smile. But our love was not like the movies. Now I look at him and I know what love is supposed to feel like. When I look into his eyes I see happiness I see the person who has so much to offer me in this world. There are not enough pages or poems in this world to describe how he makes me feel. I had lost myself in previous lovers, but he showed me what love actually is. He unclipped my wings and taught me how to fly again.
Orange Skies Before I met you I had lost the desire in the little things I loved. I use to love long walks on the beach, watching the sunset. My heart glowed when the sun shined through my curtains. I had lost the feelings of happiness. But then I met you and got that sensation again. I realized I love you when I saw the sunset last night and thought of you. I hope to spend the rest of my sunsets with you. Angela is a junior at Revere High School. She enjoys reading and writing poetry in both English and Albanian. She recently cut her hair very short, which boosted her confidence. She dreams of having her own book when she is older to have her work read by the world, but has other dreams she wants to accomplish first. 58
Saoirse Cook
Boston Latin Academy, 9th Grade This short story is part of a full story that I’ve been working on for the past year, though this is the first solid piece of writing I’ve made for it. Fantasy has always been one of my favorite genres, so a fantasy story felt right for my first work.
Dungeons Are A [Redacted] Nobody leaned her head on Wren’s shoulder, ignoring his griping that her horns would poke his eye out. Her ribs still ached, and her head felt stuffed with cotton, but at least her legs weren’t broken anymore. Tarinn had fixed up the worst of her before moving on to Wren, who had a dislocated arm and one hell of a gash in his gut. Tarinn himself still had a cut on his forehead, but he had told her not to worry. According to him, head wounds bleed a lot, but as long as he wasn’t seeing double, he should be alright. They’d known, of course, that this dungeon would be bad. The Priestess knew they were after her, and she would put as many deadly obstacles in their way as she could, but they’d somehow still been blindsided by the behir she had sent. In all honesty, they should have known better. The closer they came to the Priestess’ keep, the meaner the monsters would become. But the fight had still wrecked them. Eli had been half-dead when they all dragged her out from under the rubble. Tarinn had needed to heal her, and soon, but that meant he would be open to attack. So Nobody had been the punching bag to keep him safe. The behir had slammed its tail right into her ribs when she wasn’t looking. She’d felt them crack like twigs. She felt herself wheeze when she fell. Shit. Shit. She was dying. Nobody tilted her head back to the others. Eli was breathing, thank the gods. She’d be okay. Nobody had done her job. She’d felt a hand on her head. Tarinn had come to save her sorry ass. Sure that Eli would be okay, he’d gone to keep Nobody from biting it. Shockingly, the feeling of one’s ribs and legs stitching together, 59
a process meant to take months, happening in only a matter of minutes is not a pleasant sensation. Tarinn had to catch her head on his thigh to keep it from slamming on the ground. He hummed his hymns as she yelled curses. Eventually the pain dulled, but when she tried to stand, Tarinn pulled her back down. He insisted that she was still in no shape to fight, and that she was to hide and watch over Eli until she woke up. So Nobody dragged Eli behind the remains of a wall and watched as Wren and Tarinn kept the fight going. Eventually Eli came to, though she missed a spectacular finishing move when Wren slingshotted a rock into the behir’s eye and Tarinn sent a fireball down its gullet. The Priestess will not like that. Fucking good. And now Nobody was leaning her head against Wren as he bemoaned his sorry fate, running a hand idly through Eli’s hair from where she lay in her lap. Eventually, she spoke. “Dungeons are a bitch.” This is Saoirse’s first year at EmersonWRITES. She is a freshman at Boston Latin Academy. In addition to writing, she also enjoys drawing, singing, and acting. She hopes to be a voice actor in the future, to avoid confronting her crippling stage fright. She plans to come back to EmersonWRITES next year.
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Juliana DelGreco
Revere High School, 10th Grade This year I most enjoyed learning how to better my fiction and poetry writing. In this poem, I tried to focus on rhythm through repetition and tone shifting while telling an important story from my point of view.
I cry for her I often find myself reminiscing I am unable to shake the weight of my past A sudden memory then a tightening in my chest I feel the salty tears roll down my face, my eyes growing puffier and the air in my lungs quickly fleeting But I don’t cry for me I cry for the girl in the photos, with chubby cheeks and hair so light it’s nearly white I cry for her gentleness, and the too much love in her heart I cry for her naivete I cry for the little things; the books she would memorize and read to her mom, and the Disney princess heels she galloped around the house in I cry for the way she was loved, so passionately but approached with such gentility. I cry for the way she was hurt, taken advantage of in disguise. I cry that she didn’t always know which was which I cry for the mistakes she made, the people she hurt without trying. I cry for what she could’ve been. She was a flower, growing steadily and blooming into something beautiful Her blush petals drew everyone in, listened to what she had to say, encouraged her to grow But someone stepped on her The flower weakened and was darkened by the dirt of the big black bootprint 61
But she always thought that boot was just part of her life Every flower is stepped on, that’s just how it goes Only in a field of other flowers does she notice that not all flowers are broken like she is The tears sting my eyes The shame stings my insides, making my heart feel weak, making the pit in my stomach fall deeper and deeper each day I wish things were different, I wish I could change the past But alas I cannot So each day I cry For her Juliana is currently a sophomore at Revere High School and is attending her second year of EmersonWRITES. Her interests include writing, photography, theater, and music. Her dream colleges are Emerson and NYU.
Victoria Heitzmann
Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, 11th Grade I have been writing a long creative writing piece for close to a year, but one of my favorite things to do is to step out of the boundaries of my book and write short stories, poems, and reflection pieces. I play around with different styles and messages, but fundamentally, what keeps me going is the need to express myself, and the facility with which I find I can do that through writing.
My Best Friend’s Home After climbing up stairs and stairs and getting to the top of a seemingly small building, she sees the roof. And it seems improbable that anyone could live here, because it’s so small and there are so many people and the mahogany of the wood seems so final…but there’s a door. And, through that door, there’s a family who have so much, and yet so little. They have more family members than rooms —and yet they have many rooms. Each room has its own warm, homey feeling, as if it were the center of someone’s world. She envies the fact that perhaps it is. The floor is clean, but the cleaning supplies are hidden. In the middle of the front room stands a short, wooden table, that doesn’t fit much—and yet it’s enough for the meal of a dozen. Instead of chairs, a low mattress clusters around the table, together with beanbags of balmy hues. Beneath them are oriental rugs. It shouldn’t, but this feels like home, to her—as if she could just step into someone’s world, trade her life for theirs. It feels as if she were in Lebanon, standing in the open air, cushions set next to each other for people to smoke and talk for hours. Except that all around her is orange-brown cedar wood; a maroon warm enough to keep everyone’s heat inside the room, despite the cracks in the wall.
My First Goodbye I cried three tears. I’m not sure why I counted, but the memories are vivid as day. By the time we reached the old bridge where the trains sometimes pass, my cheeks were dry. I had moved on. 63
Or had I? You’d think three tears is not a lot. Right? Three tears, like the three virtues of childhood: safety, joy and love. After that night, I never really cried again. I was done with shedding tears and giving up pieces of myself to people. I was done with love before I even knew I had it. So the next month, when my best friend told me she was leaving, too, I just nodded. The entire school wept, and I stood firm on my two feet, mourning the love I never gave, thinking of what could’ve been. She was leaving, but I wouldn’t let her leave me. Still, my heart itched with unfelt things.
Foggy Dystopia In a historical world, we have theatrical ways—every individual seems to have a role, dictated by past stereotypes. One is cast quite randomly—you don’t get to choose between poor and wealthy—all you can do is try to stomach what cards you’ve been dealt, at least in public. So I wonder, when people comfort me, how much of it is insincerity, and how much of it is an honest, genuine friendship promise…it’s hard to tell. It’s like the whole world is a big poker game, where so many people cheat that you begin to doubt your neighbors. The worst is everyone has the same questions that go unanswered, the same misguided trust for the few hiding their chips, and if we could all agree to show our cards, we would be blessed with unwelcome knowledge—for who wants to open their blind eyes to truly see the unmasked faces of our supposed allies? It’s almost as if people prefer to see colorful masquerades, instead of seeing the bare, scarce truth of the world. They would rather live in a peaceful moquerie, with their doubt of the honesty of others, busy holding up their own disguise, than unravel a world founded on the ashes of their dreams. For when there’s smoke, there’s fire—or so the story goes—yet we refuse to become our own firemen, and extinguish the flames of a relentless, brazen lie, even when it consumes our childrens’ innocence…. Our fear of the scattered ashes of who we are is somehow greater than our fear of the very flames destroying that being, and so it spreads like wildfire, and we clutch onto the beautiful lies 64
woven onto our hearts, while the reflection of dancing, festive flames come alive within our souls. The fire engulfs our shadows, one’s most faithful follower, then proceeds to consume our soul, its most formidable rebel. Once this is done, it feasts on our conscience, until eventually, there isn’t much left behind the shell of our projections. I look around and wonder who among my allies have been ravaged by lazy fumes…but all I can see are the ravenous smiles of murderously pampered facades. I decide that if I cannot find other victims, I can at least try and save myself, and so I cough my way down the sewage of what should be my conscience, and search; search for a person I wouldn’t know how to recognize. And that’s when I wake up from a lugubrious nightmare, and by instinct look around, hunting for the glimpse of a shadow. In the lingering darkness of the night, I am unable to find the hint of the shadow I used to play with as a child. I would almost turn the light on—just to make sure…but it is late, and I must sleep. Besides, I can always look tomorrow…. “I am just an impulsive person who thinks too much,” I tell myself, and with that, I lay on my warm, sweaty mattress and sleepily close my eyes.
Self-Portrait They pull at my arms And tug at my feet, They press at my cheeks And stretch out my heart; I’m a tree in the way that I burn And stay still and strong— And when I lose my ashen leaves I’m a gust of wind in the way that I blow Over the dunes of salt. And when you lay in my path— 65
I’m a torrent of rain in the way that I soak And wither at the pain. And even until it cools me inside out— I am NOT the fire I am not burning your hopes Or your pains Or your stupid immaturities— I am not Red and angry Grappling for someone else— I am not you.
Parallel Lines It’s funny how I thought you didn’t care, so I walked away, Only for you to follow without a word. Victoria Heitzmann loves to sing, skate, and write. She was born in France, and moved to the United States at the age of 13, so English is her second of four languages. She loves to explore different areas of study, from literature and culture to mathematics and science.
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Janice Jonah
Boston Latin Academy, 9th Grade Within my time in EmersonWRITES, I’ve grown a better understanding of what writing is and how powerful it can be and enjoyed the environment as well. My goal is to express my emotions and thoughts through my stories and poems. With that being said, I hope my writing brings out the feelings it should and be relatable.
Dear Grandma Can you see me? Are you proud of me? It’s been 3 years. 3 years of reminiscing about the memories we created 3 years of feeling guilty and frustrated Because I never said goodbye Because you never saw the Homeland of opportunities I remember seeing your fragile frame, even at 78 you were full of energy, dancing as you welcomed me into your home. I remember how even the little things brought you Joy such as new clothes, new hair wrappers and even bowls The way you still loved me even though you were a stranger to my existence before I remember finally experiencing what it meant to have a grandma, already planning my next visit with you, telling you all about America—how it snows during the winter, listing must-eat foods, describing Boston But everything stopped You were gone before I was given the chance You departed from this world without a single farewell of which I regret Lying on the hospital bed Stroke blocking your ability to walk and speak as your bones become 67
fragile and weak, more than ever Day after day, you weren’t getting any better The hospital bill becoming larger The only amount of life left was held on by the oxygen tube In my eyes, you were already gone by then My mom, losing all hope instructs for the oxygen tube to be removed She mentally prepares for her mother’s departure You’re now in heaven, I convince myself What is losing someone? Should it hurt so much? After 3 years I still miss you, and after another 3 years, I’ll still miss you Love ~ JJ
I.N.S.E.C.U.R.I.T.I.E.S There’s always that one kid who sits in the back of the class, that no one pays attention to. “The quiet kid,” they name them. They sit alone in the lunchroom, observing the rest of the kids; the cool kids to the jocks to the cheerleaders to the dancers. They think to themselves, what use are they to the world? They’ve always been the outcast, always different from this. I hate this feeling! How can I make it go away? they think to themselves constantly. They change themselves. “Dress pretty,” they say, and you’ll be popular. “Talk a little more,” and he’ll notice you. Day after day, she covered herself a little more, not knowing she was burying herself alive. She’s now known as “the new kid.” It’s a step up from her original name. She makes a few new “friends” who she sits with at lunch. She doesn’t talk, she just observes and listens. Is she happy? She finally has “friends” or so they are called. She isn’t as lonely as before, except thinking about it, isn’t she still alone? Maybe if she opened up more, become more social, she wouldn’t be 68
uncomfortable…or so she thought. The more she talked, the more she would be bombarded with questions. At lunch, the number of people at her table would increase. From three to five to ten, all of which wanted to know more about her. She felt recognized although she wasn’t used to it. “What’s your name, new girl?” they asked. “It’s… It’s...” she stuttered. Why was it so hard to answer? It’s just your name, you would think, as simple as that. But it wasn’t that simple. She was scared of being made fun of. She was scared of people knowing her, she was insecure. It was at that moment, she realized that she missed being ignored and antisocial. She loved to be closed off, no one could judge her or look at her differently because of how she was. She became herself after that day, wearing the same black sweatpants and black sweater she would occasionally wear. She sat alone at the same cafeteria table but she wasn’t sad, she was happy. She was different and was okay with it, as if it had become her natural habitat to always be alone. But she always wondered, when will someone like me appear? Little did she know, that person was observing her all the while. Janice is a freshman at Boston Latin Academy. She’s full of curiosity as she observes the world around her and wonders how she can make an impact in the world. This is Janice’s first time in EmersonWRITES and she plans on growing her skill in writing. She also enjoys dancing and singing and her favorite subject would be between History and Biology.
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Arianna Rivera
Cristo Rey Boston High School, 10th Grade While at EmersonWRITES, I have learned that creativity can take on many forms and in these pieces, I’m not sure what form it has taken. These pieces are about experience.
golden boy Pure perfection lies in your blood. Craving and dying to show it off. Your genes, not the ones you wear but the ones you own, Fusillade and blossom Every Waking Minute. Waking up with the lustrous sunset beaming on your face to— Your continuous silence throughout the moonlight, dreaming syrupy dreams. Blonde hair, blue eyes, fit body. You’re so damn hot You’re a Golden boy
Burning Not the sensation. But the heat that’s buried in your chest every time your heart breaks. What’s touching the stove like compared to the steam flowing in your veins? What’s touching a candle like compared to the fire burning your organs? It’s not the good sensation. But the dangerous one. 71
Deadly. Light a match, Drop it, And you’re burning.
Darkness How does one survive the darkness? To survive the dark depths of your soul and still manage to Breathe? To outrun every problem in your head? To survive your mental illness because deep down, You’re not stable? You’re broken. To the core. And you can’t be fixed. Damn your heart because your heart has Betrayed you. Disowned you. And you hate yourself for loving your sadness. For accepting it. For giving it a home in your mind and deep within the crevices of your shattered soul. How does one survive the great depression in your body? How does someone survive the darkness when there’s no light left?
I. Abandonment
Sincerely, Yourself
You left me. All alone. Lost. Without hope that you’d ever come back. You saw me— Walked away. You spoke to me with your swollen tongue and your deep berry eyes. And through all of that heartbreak, you still managed 72
To break mine. Like a sword pierced my chest. Trying to undo it made it All Just Worse, The world is a dark place But you’re darker. Ask me what my issue is, Well It’s abandonment. II. Abandonment Isolated from the world. For so long Until I decided to explore. To find something longed for not even knowing what it was that I wanted. What was it that I desired? I found people. I found happiness. I found love. I found everything that it is that people tend to lust. But long last, I no longer desired it. Already turned my back on others, fulfilled my heart, Alone. Shunned. No longer wanted. I had found abandonment. III. Welcome Home I hope you’re doing okay. Still thinking about you everyday. Morning to night I just might— You’re the one 73
But It’s too bad that Now I’m glad As long as you’re okay I’ll continue to think about you Everyday. This is Arianna’s second year at EmersonWRITES as a sophomore who has concluded that writer’s block sucks. She also doubts herself and her writing, but will never give up.
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Yaritza Santana
Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 11th Grade This is my second year with EmersonWRITES and I have continued to grow and become more confident and proud in my writing. My first piece is about a girl who is facing death and my second piece is about being in any kind of relationship where there is no sense of communication.
Somnum Exterreri My breathing started to become shaky as the smoke found its way inside of me and filled my lungs. When I tried to look up all I could see was the flame surrounding me in a ring of fire. Cackle. Cackle. That’s the only sound I heard as the fire moved in closer. I fell to the ground not finding the strength to stand and when I tried to scream it was like trying to yell under a pool of water, nothing came out. I looked around but there were no windows and the only door was blocked by the climbing flames hoping to reach the roof and bring the whole house down. I finally gave in and laid down on my back. I was miles into the woods while my family was out to dinner. I, on the other hand, hadn’t wanted to go out on another family dinner where we would all sit together and share our feelings, bluh. So I told them that I was sick and I knew they knew I was lying but I guess they gave up on caring, probably tired them out too much. I don’t blame them, I can be moody and too much too handle, I can own that. Then, as I sat on the couch, I began to write a bunch of nothings in my notebook, there was no WiFi so there wasn’t much to do, which is why I always dreaded this trip. As I twiddled my thumbs I heard something downstairs in the basement. It was like the sound of a baby crying for help, which didn’t make any sense because my older brother Max went out to eat with the rest of the family and he was the closest thing to a baby we had. I shifted my position on the couch as I faced the window hoping to see my family rising up amongst the trees. Not that I could see or 75
whatever because it was as if the darkness had swallowed the sun whole and it was pitch black. I rolled my eyes and managed to lift my body up from the couch. My bare feet touched the floor and sent a chill up my spine. When I grabbed the door knob to the basement it shocked me, but it wasn’t like electricity. It was like death took hold of me and wasn’t letting go. When I opened the door the cries of the baby stopped, but when I closed it the cries started again. I’m not crazy, I told myself, so I opened the door one last time and started to descend down the stairs to ease my mind. But on the last step, like an idiot, I tripped and dropped the candle. It fell on an old blanket and fire spread up the wooden stairs. Now here I am about to be burned alive with nothing but my tears and roasted rats to keep me company…or so I thought. In the far corner of the room I saw him. I had only heard about him as a child when I was about to do something bad. My parents would say: “Don’t do it or the man with no face will get you.” I heard about him on the first hiking trip I went on with my family just like this one. My parents caught me throwing pebbles at a baby bird with a broken wing on the ground and they said that because I did something so cruel the man with no face would get me. But now there he was standing a few steps away from me probably debating what to do with me. Maybe he’d throw rocks at me like I did to the little bird. I wondered if it would be quick or slow and painful. I had always thought about dying but could never come up with an answer to satisfy myself. What do you think death is like?
Silence Kills How deep does the river flow? Does it let me see inside your soul? If I take a sip will it show me the way? Or does it hold my tears in a safer place? If I throw a rock will your image of me break? Or will it only cause a ripple and return to its ways? And if I scream will I turn the tide? 76
Or will you calm the seas and see what’s going on inside my mind? I wonder how deep does the river go? Are you really shallow and indistinct? Or are you deep and clear to see? I must be careful and not dive too deep Because you don’t know what lies under a river that doesn’t speak. Yaritza Santana is currently a junior at Boston Prep and loves to write short stories and hopes that one day she will write a book!
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Caroline Sullivan
Central Catholic, 11th Grade
I absolutely love writing all types of genres and styles, but I think that my favorite style of writing is poetry, since you can make poetry so personal and emotional. These are a couple of poems I’ve been working on. Hope you enjoy!!
Letting Go rewinding back to a time a time where i can see my dreams bright and vivid as a movie screen playing out in front of me I could see the old cobblestone hallways that were dark and mysterious those hallways I would explore in my emerald green ball gown and glittery crown looking for my next adventure since it seemed I discovered a new part of the castle everyday but I walked with quiet footsteps out of fear of being caught and ridiculed for exploring instead of being prim and proper but I soon learn that was impossible…. so, hesitantly… I let go of that dream so those dreams of crowns, adventure and cobblestone were traded in for that dream of acceptance the dream of fitting in the dream of being loved, popular, and envied that felt almost as impossible as waking up one day and becoming a princess so I let go of that dream too… with no hesitation or regrets cause I realized I had bigger goals to chase after
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now i dream of that day where open that next chapter in my life the day where i move out and i find this bittersweet feeling of freedom, and doubt that day where i drive to an unknown place that i’ve yet to explore in order to further my education but still have fun and make memories around the way a dream that’s tough to reach yet one I won’t let go of...
The Aftermath of the Spilled Champagne and there she was that champagne I held delicately in my hand shattered into dozens of pieces and the champagne spilling in every direction becoming more problematic every second, every minute I didn’t try to clean the mess I stood there dumbfounded legs shaking short of breath tears in my eyes I didn’t know what the hell i was doing just staring at a broken champagne glass wasn’t going to do me any good I had to try to clean the mess up but it was pointless to me the damage had already been done I already messed up so why bother to clean it up I walk away 80
and just hope that the mess disappears... and there she was smiling at me talking to me pretending that nothing happened and there I was smiling back acting like I hadn’t been affected by anything that she did because I thought she had given me a hint that she wanted nothing to do with me I respected her choice, and backed away from the broken glass, and left it there but the glass stayed there as dangerous and sharp as the first night and the smell of the champagne never went away it still lingered in my brain
Temporary High I don’t know why I always find the need to wear them I walk into the parties all confident soon it becomes the same. I’m stumbling I’m completely sober, but I’m falling I’m resting my hand on my best friend’s arm cause I can’t walk without the risk of falling flat on my face but I don’t want to throw my heels to the side I wanna look all grown up I wanna look my age for once I look in the mirror 81
I see a baby face, and a height of only 4”11 and a 10 year old girl that’s silly, immature and inexperienced I don’t want to be portrayed as this innocent little girl anymore I wanna be looked at as this charming, sexy and sophisticated 17 year old girl that can step on the world and anything that gets in the way I wonder if heels are a temporary high for me perhaps heels are a way for me to think of myself as my actual age Instead of a little girl just finding out about the world because all heels do to me is make me foolishly stumble and crash I still look like a child but im 5”3 instead of 4”11 doesn’t that count for something? This is Caroline’s first year at EmersonWRITES. She is a junior at Central Catholic High School in Lawrence, MA. Besides writing, Caroline loves music, her favorite instrument to play is the drums, but she also plays the clarinet and sings. Caroline is excited and thankful to be able to have this opportunity, and is looking forward to continue improving her writing skills.
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Bereket Temesgen
Boston Latin Academy, 10th Grade This year, I most enjoyed learning more about poetry and experiencing different styles. Through this, I learned how to use repetition and parallelism to create a more impactful piece of writing.
An Open Letter to my Parents To my (loving) parents, My anxiety is sitting in front of the fridge at 3 a.m. eating marshmallow fluff straight from the container because I forgot a part to a project. My anxiety is fighting for my breath during an exam which I was breezing through earlier. My anxiety is sitting alone in my room, knowing damn well I’d be happy right now if I was out with my friends. Even the idea of messing up a joke makes my breath quick and shallow. My anxiety is replaying mistakes in my head at night until my body forces sleep on me. My anxiety is taking any small inconvenience and turning it into a mountain that I have to climb. Be patient with me. I need you to hug me closer when I tell you to go away. I need a shoulder to cry on over spilled milk. I need you to tell me it’s OK. Please don’t tell me to get over it. Please don’t tell me to man up. I’m already at war with myself and all I need is somebody to believe in me. That’s just my anxiety. I don’t know how or why, but I live with it. Bereket is a sophomore at Boston Latin Academy and is thrilled to be published. Bereket enjoys prolonged introspection and sleeping, and most commonly can be found hibernating in his room. Besides writing, Bereket enjoys listening to and playing music.
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Fiction: Perspectives of Influence This year, our goal was to talk about fiction and the art of storytelling, especially what it means to produce works of fiction as writers of color. We discussed literary elements such as beginnings and endings, character/ voice, dialogue, structure/plot and setting/scene. We read short stories, novel excerpts, and flash fiction that we felt demonstrated these elements well and in diverse ways. Students were introduced to the traditional writer’s workshop and encouraged to share their work so they could receive feedback on individual pieces. We also talked about the importance of revision as part of the writing process and asked our students to maintain an ongoing relationship with the stories they write, to return to them often and consider them at different stages of their lives. As writers, we have an instinct to write the stories that feel important to us, so no story should ever be abandoned or completely forgotten. Faculty Bios José Martinez, Jr. is a third-year MFA candidate whose first published work of fiction is forthcoming in Blackbird. A son of Mexican immigrant parents, his stories primarily explore issues of Mexican and Mexican-American identity, loneliness, and family. His literary heroes include Alice Munro and Valeria Luiselli. It is thanks to EmersonWRITES that José has had the privilege of working with a diverse group of creative, and talented individuals who have bright futures in the literary world. He prioritizes the artistic intention of the author as part of his teaching methods while giving them the tools they need to carry out their vision. Other writing instruction experience includes a Writers’ Room Fellowship at 826 Boston. Nehal Mubarak is a third-year MFA candidate whose flash fiction and poetry have been published online and in print. She writes to make sense of her Sudani-American identity and enjoys work by writers such as Jhumpa Lahiri and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Through EmersonWRITES, Nehal had the opportunity to read a diverse range of stories that will define the future of literature. Her teaching philosophy and approach centered on allowing students to find their own voices and comfort zones when it comes to choosing the stories they want to write. She hopes to continue working with young writers after she graduates. 85
Kayla Bernard
Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, 11th Grade In class, I learned about language choice, which was one of my focuses in writing. My story is titled ‘Cause I feel like I’m Losin’ after the song Losing by H.E.R. The story features a girl who is abducted and searches to find out how and why.
‘Cause I feel like I’m Losin’ I lie on a cold metal floor. There is a light in the far corner of the room, but with that, I still cannot see. A sudden shadow is floating towards me and grabs me and drags me across the floor. I shut my eyes so tight. I didn’t realize they put me in the back of a trunk till the engine started revving. I can’t remember what happened the day before. The longer I’m in the car, I miss the sweet sounds of samba. I’m all tied up and duct-taped down and suffocating in the blood-stained shirt they tied so tight on my figure. I have so many cuts all over my body. I cannot move, no matter how hard I try. I don’t recall being severely beaten, but I can feel my warm, ionized blood spilling down my legs. My eyes are glued shut. What once was a white shirt became a sangria Negra shirt of danger. I am scared. We come to a sudden stop, the trunk pumps open, and I’m lifted. The stench of masculinity strong as they carry me away. We step inside a damp and sticky place. The masculinity stench sets me down on what I make out to be a couch that smells like sour B-O. The stench rips off my duct tape, and it burns like hell. They leave the room and slam the door, and immediately I open my eyes. I am surrounded by people trapped in cages. I look around, and I am not in a cage, I’m sitting on a musty ripped up couch. The room has no windows and three warm lights. We sit for what feels like days have gone by, and no one knows what is bound to happen. All of a sudden, the door flies open, and a group of black jumpsuits, strapped, and hard hats start pouring in the door with an agenda. They pick up the cages one by one, carrying them to God knows where. Then they handcuff and drag me across the room, to 87
a government official car and put me behind the window bars and drive off. As the officials drive me, I look out the window. All the trees and cars on the highway are moving so fast. The sun is coming in through the window, touching my caramel skin, making it sparkle and warming me up. The windows are locked up, I yearn for the breeze to hit my face and brush my curly brown hair. As I look out the window, I try to remember how I got here. I was with my mother and father, and we were at a restaurant when my mother fell ill. I can’t quite remember, but somehow all of us wound up in a trailer park. My mom was lying on someone’s bed, all pale and coughing mad, my dad sitting in the corner lighting a cigarette. There was this woman, and she was praying over my mom. The room was covered with palm tree leaves, oils, and smoke. The woman rubbed Vicks vapor rub all over my mother’s chest. I remember going outside to get some air. While I was outside I met this boy, my age, I believe. He told me that there was a party going on a few trailers down. I decided to go. I needed to forget the thoughts of my mom dying. So I followed him. He was utterly handsome, he had curly blonde hair that bounced when he walked. He had these brown sapphire eyes. We got to the party, and he had to bend his body to get through the door. The music was blasting so loud and this song, this song…“I feel static, wanna get closer like magnets...” was playing. I remember losing myself to that song. I was dancing and drinking in space. My memory is a bit foggy. I remember opening my eyes in my dad’s arms, my dad’s tears falling into my eyes. I turned my head, and my mom was covered head to toe with a white sheet. I ran out of the trailer, letting my dad fall to the floor. I ran into the boy from the party, and he asked if I wanted to go on a drive, so I hopped in his cherry-red 1974 Chevy nova. And we drove for a long time and I woke up on the floor. It was cold, metal-like, and I was surrounded by white padded walls and cold light in the far corner. I found myself in an oversized white and red t-shirt. I don’t think I was wearing that before. I remember my purple crop top and black jean shorts with my classic white Reebok high tops. Then a man emerged from the shadows, and I was grabbed. I look around the government official’s car. All the men wearing 88
armor and looking straight ahead. Still on a highway that looks familiar to me. As we keep driving, we pass a trailer park. The same trailer park I was in that day. My dad’s dark green truck pulls out. I want to yell and bang on the windows to let my dad know that I am in this car. But it seems as though I am too paralyzed in my thoughts to do so. My dad and I make eye contact. The official car keeps driving. Kayla Bernard is a Haitian-American who currently lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She writes stories the way she sees them in her head, along with how she speaks. Most of her stories contain a lot of details in the setting. They have a rhythm that runs the readers off the page.
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Sophia DaSilva
Boston Latin Academy, 9th Grade I’ve always struggled knowing when to give up. My story is about realizing when it’s finally time to let someone go. Whether it’s a friend, family, or romantic relationship, it’s always hard to break bonds you hoped would last. It’s tough to do and even tougher to explain but class has taught me many things that have made this hard task so much easier to express.
Untitled As I sit here and watch her talk and interact with them, I know now. I unapologetically stare with open disgust as she laughs and giggles and talks to everyone who I know means nothing to her and I know now that I don’t either. The smile on her face widens as she turns to me and asks what I’m staring so hard at. I think I’m going to be sick. I shrug and leave. As I walk out of the crowded hallway full of people who I don’t know and never will, I jog to an empty staircase and sit on the floor by the large open window. The light feels more alive than I do. I think about all the times I spent wondering if she’s thinking about me, and now I’ve got my answer. I’ve never even crossed her mind. I readjusted myself, realizing if anyone saw me in the staircase right now sitting on the floor with my head between my knees, I’d look pathetic. I refuse to look weak, especially in front of her...Elena. Her name feels like poison to my brain. I can’t stop thinking that all the late nights—sharing my secrets with her—were for nothing. Showing her all the worst parts of myself, thinking I knew her better than most, thinking I could trust her and that she trusted me. Now I know it was all a lie. Thank God I kept some things hidden I wouldn’t know what to do if she truly knew all of me and still didn’t want me. My head drops back between my knees, my thoughts too heavy to hold up any longer. I stop caring what I look like, the humiliation I feel far worse than any a stranger could give me. I know she won’t come looking for me. Watching her treat people I know she doesn’t care for the same way she treated me hurts more than I could have imagined. I watched her act as comfortable with 91
them as she had with me, just as lively and vibrant and I know I’m replaceable to her, but I also know that no one will ever make me feel how she did with a simple smile. I feel my eyes start to well up and I jump straight up. I wipe my forming tears and start heading towards my locker, she may have me feeling miserable but I will not give her the satisfaction of making me cry. She doesn’t deserve to know the pain she put me through. I take deep breaths and try to remind myself I’m only sixteen, only in the tenth grade, I can’t even drive alone yet, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. The walk home felt like it lasted forever, the farther away I got from her made it feel that much more real, the pain of rejection growing with every step I took, but I had to get home, I couldn’t break down in public. My feet felt like concrete bricks growing heavier as I walked. My body screaming to run back to her and ask her if it was all real, ask her if she really cared. My heart filled in her response for me with “of course” and “I love you baby, why would you ever think that?” But my brain already knew the real answer. My music plays like an elevator soundtrack taking backseat to my jumble of thoughts. I’m not even sure how I feel about her but I know that I never get tired of her. I wanna be with her all the time, hear all her little rants and thoughts, talk for hours. I wanna know her better than myself and be the one person who makes the world a little quieter for her. It’s late now but I can’t fall asleep, all I can seem to do is think about her, the way she made me feel and the way I wish things were. I create a little world in my head for us. We don’t have a label, we just enjoy each other’s company through the highs and lows, the midnight terribly-sang concerts, and the 4am facetime calls crying. Our bond unbreakable, trust unspoken but strong, and love unconditional. It takes me awhile to remember that world doesn’t exist. My alarm to wake up goes off. Its 5am and not one wink of sleep. I know there’s going to be many more sleepless nights, thanks to her. Sophia DaSilva is fifteen and lives in the city of Boston. The youngest of three and a first-generation American, her mother is from the Dominican Republic and her father is from Cape Verde, a country made up of tiny islands off the coast of Africa. She’s a girl who loves to read almost anything, whose hair is often bigger than her. 92
Sergio Gonzalo
Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, 10th Grade Inspired by the film American Psycho, this is a story of a man who suffers from a very violent form of an impulse control issue. As the story progresses, his impulsive desires grow stronger. What I learned about writing in class is the importance of fully understanding the characters you have come up with and how important it is to keep them consistent.
Excerpt from Disconnected Stereotype The sound of all the phones ringing and the insignificant chatter overwhelms me. Employees pass by, talking about how they take care of themselves, or how much of an idiot that guy on the other side of the room is. The sound of the phones ringing grows nearer until the sound of mine jolts me alive and forces me to pick up. I immediately begin reciting the script given to me. “Hello, you’ve reached Experience Mobile, my name is Walter, how may I help you today?” I ask, like every other time I pick up. “Yeah, I would like to cancel my data plan with you guys,” she says. “I don’t blame you,” I suddenly mutter. “Excuse me?” she shoots back. “Uh-sorry, but if you stick with the data plan you’ve chosen for a couple more years, you can upgrade to a better one if you’d like,” I reply. “No, I want to cancel my plan.” “Ok, ok. You’ll have to schedule an appointment,” I add. “What?” The woman exclaims, “I have to schedule an appointment to cancel a data plan?!” “That’s how we operate at Experience Mobile, ma’am, now could you tell me your name so I can schedule your appointment?” I say calmly. “Piss off,” she retorts as she hangs up. I gaze at the clock and it reads 11:45am. I get up from my chair and leave my cubicle. I have a meeting scheduled for 11:50. I make my way into the meeting room, but I can’t help hearing Barbara and 93
Ann spewing nonsense about their morning routine. Barbara starts by saying, “I start my morning off by getting in the shower and using a deep pore cleansing lotion to take care of my skin.” “Wait, you start by taking a shower?” Ann questions in an infuriatingly obnoxious voice. “That’s so gross, brush your teeth, stupid.” I find it unfathomable that Ann could be calling Barbara stupid even though Ann is about as empty-headed as they come. This thought sends a wave through my body that enters my hands. My hands clench strongly. This wave makes a terrible thought travel through my mind. The wave and thought subside, and I make my way into the meeting room, where three assholes and the company yuppie blabber about how much of an idiot the company idiot is. The company yuppie is clicking his pen erratically. Please stop. His fat finger pushes downwards, then downwards again. The clicking overpowers the conversation. “Remember the time he click and we found him click on the side of the click?” The clicking will not stop. The wave returns. I clench my hands and grit my teeth. The insult, “Stop clicking that pen you unbearable yuppie,” makes its way through my brain and into my mouth, but my mouth holds it and doesn’t let it go. The yuppie turns his attention towards me and says, “Oh, Walter, you’re here! You seem pissed? Did you forget to take your medication?” The three assholes laugh wildly. I ignore him. “Ok, let’s begin,” the yuppie commences the meeting. The yuppie starts flapping his mouth immediately, and he remains flapping his mouth the entire way through the meeting. I didn’t receive a single thing he said, the impulse to jump across the table at him distracted me from what he was talking about. It doesn’t matter, Mr. Big Time CEO never says anything of importance, he’ll usually just talk about numbers and harass the women in the office. That’s probably why our company is as awful as it is. As I sit in the meeting room with the yuppie still speaking, my clenched hand tightens, and I grit my teeth harder. I want to pull my hair out. The meeting ends, and I can’t wait to punch something—or someone. As I exit, Barbara and Ann are still prattling about their morning routine. My urges to harm someone intensify, but I resist them. I don’t want to hurt anyone. These urges just arise, and they get harder 94
to contain every time. As the yuppie passes by them, along with the three assholes, he catcalls Barbara, saying something regarding her figure. I don’t care about what he said, I just care about how insufferable that man is. My shift ends, and I leave the building. How can I stop my urges? What is causing these violent thoughts? Cars cruise by on the street, their horns honk loudly. The fumes wafting from the sewer penetrate my nose, and my anxiousness grows. I can see people shopping in stores, smiling and selecting clothes. It’s quite funny actually, how people find genuine value in seeing someone and connecting through small talk. It’s even funnier how people think that forming a connection can be done by talking about how hard it is to wake up every morning. Sergio Gonzalo is always trying to create art or improve his craft. Sergio loves learning about character the most, and what makes a well-written character so special. He enjoys watching films, and a lot of his inspiration comes from the films he most enjoys.
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Asiah Saunders
Boston Latin Academy, 11th Grade My piece is titled Untold. Its name comes from the ways of human nature to leave certain things unsaid. In class, we worked on developing characters and creating a story from their perspective as if looking through their own eyes.
Untold I never expected that I’d be arrested for “breaking in” to my own house at seventeen. The police were reluctant to believe two teenage boys with a crowbar and their hoods up that the very wealthy-looking house was their own address. The officer that took us in, Mr. Petty, sat back and glared at my younger brother, Michael and I, smacking his gum condescendingly like we were criminals. He’d asked us the same questions over and over: “Where do you two live?” “Where are your parents?” “Why were you breaking into that house?” I was getting sick and tired of answering the redundant man and just sat back in the chair in front of his desk, while to the right of me my brother looked so scared I was afraid he’d piss his pants. He’d never believe us if we told the truth. Why would he believe a couple of high school kids caught breaking and entering on Halloween of all nights? His disbelief was valid, seeing as we didn’t tell the whole truth. We told him that we came back to see our mom and her husband for the weekend because we go to a boarding school upstate. But we never got around to the real reason we broke in, telling him we were locked out instead. If only he’d seen what we saw; what my brother and I witnessed through the locked doors and windows of our own house, someone else would be sitting in this police station with an exasperatingly interrogative police officer in these extremely uncomfortable chairs. About thirty minutes later, Mr. Petty separated us. He had me sit down in one room, and put Michael in another with another officer. 97
Michael looked at me, scared out of his wits, almost in tears when he heard that I had to leave him. It made me feel guilty about dragging him into this mess, but also a bit annoyed. The kid was a crybaby, but he couldn’t help it, he was only fourteen. Our mother had babied him growing up, making him into a real softie. Meanwhile, I had to grow up at the age of eight to be an emotional support for him and my mother as the man of the house after our father died. I gave Michael a meaningful look, saying nothing as I prayed that he understood. Don’t talk. He nodded his head as some tears slipped out of his eyes, before I wiped them away. It was another signal. Stop crying. The last thing we needed was to look guilty. We weren’t the guilty ones. Pretty soon Mr. Petty realized that he was going to get the same story as time passed on, seeing as I refused to talk and so did Michael. I held him as he slept in my lap peacefully when we were reunited. A small surge of pride filled my heart for Michael’s loyalty, since he was always a bit of a snitch. However, there were tear streaks on his face from crying so much. I knew he couldn’t help it, he was scared. I was honestly surprised that he didn’t break down from the pressure and spill everything prematurely. It made me realize how fast he was growing up and how I couldn’t be his support forever and that scared the living hell out of me. But I couldn’t show that it did. I had to protect him for as long as I could. I heard a familiarly soothing but frantic voice coming from down the hall as I sat there waiting. The voice got closer, only then to be accompanied by a deep grumbled tone. My stomach filled with dread as I knew exactly to whom the two voices belonged. My hands began to grow shaky and sweaty so I kept caressing Michael’s head to keep my hands occupied. My head started to pound, my breathing got heavier as thoughts of him walking through the door clouded my mind. I was terrified. He would kill us if he found out the real reason why we were breaking into the house. My heart beat in my chest at an alarming rate as I imagined all of the ways we’d be severely punished, none of them exaggerated. “Alright boys, your mother is here.” Mr. Petty said as he opened the door to the room they had kept us in for four hours. I woke Michael up from my lap and sent him to hug our mom first. I wanted to have some words with the officer. “You still don’t believe us, do you?” I asked, very well aware of the 98
answer. Mr. Petty shook his head, looking at my mother down the hall desperately hugging Michael, who started crying again. She looked completely fine, healthy, and well-managed. “There are just some things that don’t add up,” he muttered under his breath, looking conflicted. I looked over at my mother as well, but the image I had of her was different from Mr. Petty’s. I saw a woman who loves her children and would go as far to hide her bruises and wounds underneath long sleeves in order to give her children a better future. She looked tired, yet relieved to see us. I could see the worry and the fondness in her eyes as she kissed my brother all over his face, squeezing him to death. What Mr. Petty didn’t see was when my mother flinched as my stepfather put his hand on her shoulder before beckoning me over, a cold and angry look on his face. That was my cue to leave; not a request, but an order. I visibly gulped, my hands becoming cold as I was blasted with so many emotions looking into the eyes of this man. This man that had married my mother. This man that made ice cold fear flow through my veins, shaking me to the core. This man that I held so much resentment, anger, and contempt for to the point where I felt I could’ve exploded. This man that abuses my mother. This man that I refuse to call my father. I looked back at Mr. Petty and put on a false smile. “If everything added up so easily, then your job wouldn’t be so hard right?” I asked, walking over to my mess of a family, leaving the officer in his thoughts over my rhetorical question. Asiah Saunders is a junior at Boston Latin Academy who loves to dance and hates AP Physics (the class, not the teacher). Her writing focuses mainly on characters, their interpersonal relationships, and how they react to situations when put under unique or mundane circumstances.
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Bob Sherwood
Stoughton High School, 12th Grade Set in a world based on South America before colonization, the main character Yolcatl (Yolk-Cat) is one of seven heroes destined to save the world from a great evil.
In Love with an Animal from Tonatiuh Tlali RRRRIIIIINNNNGGGG! I jolt awake, only partially aware of the bookcase on top of me. I look around my cave trying to remember how my workshop became a disaster zone and I became a survivor. My gaze falls upon my automated bola. It all comes rushing back to me. I was sitting at my desk working on the springs and inner mechanisms of the weapon’s main disk. I don’t recall exactly what I did, but I might have messed with the timer and set it off. I threw it away from me a second before the rope with rocks attached shot out of the disk and ricocheted off the wall back at me. I flung my chair back and dove to the ground, one of the rocks nicking me on the neck. It skittered across the floor, and my only thought to get away from it was to leap to my bookshelf. It wasn’t a terrible idea, but I jumped too high and wound up on top of it. It tipped over, and I hit my head hard on the cave floor. Yeah…not my finest moment. Fortunately, the benefit of living in complete solitude is that no one is around to make fun of or judge me. If people saw my inventions in their early stages, I’d be ostracised even worse than I already am. I crawl out from under the bookshelf and rise, rubbing my sore back and head. I look at the clock on my desk in the fading candlelight. The public baths will open soon. I grab my school bag and pull the lever next to the boulder I use as my door. The mechanisms whir, and the boulder is pulled aside. I leave, listening to the boulder get shoved back into place. Walking through the mines, I try to come up with a good excuse to get into the baths. I sniff myself and cringe. I could probably 101
convince the attendant that my classmates are too distracted by my stench to learn well. That should work. If other people are being affected, the attendants usually let me in. When I see the entrance of the cave I slow my pace. The owner is there; I can hear his obnoxious laugh. A few people trickle in with picks or auto hammers and give me dirty looks, if they acknowledge me at all. I exhale and walk through the entrance. The owner stops whatever dull story he’s telling his buddies and looks at me. “Yolcatl? I didn’t see you go in. What were you doing down there?” “I hit my head last night before I could get anything. I don’t really remember how. I’ll try to be more careful.” The owner grunts. “I keep telling you to wear a helmet. I hope you learned your lesson. Get on.” I trudge away. “Isn’t that the daughter of those ‘revolutionaries?’” one of the owner’s friends asks. “Yeah, why?” the owner replies. “Why’re you letting her in here? She doesn’t deserve to get paid.” “Hey, as long as she brings me resources and I make money, I’m good.” He and his pals laugh. I roll my eyes and pick up the pace. The mine is in the middle of a large forest, which I would’ve lived in if people hadn’t sought me out and raided my tiny shack. I suspect my classmates were behind it, but it’s not like I can do anything about it. Still, I really like walking through the forest. It’s the only place where I’m with other living things that don’t hate every fiber of my being. I step out of the forest and into the park that marks the city’s limits. Children that aren’t in school yet are running around while their parents gossip on picnic blankets and benches. I’d never heard of picnics in the morning, but I wasn’t judging. I can’t say it doesn’t hurt when people call their children away from me and explain to them that I’m a degenerate and a stain on society, but I can say it’s slightly amusing to know I’m a sort of boogeyman (Boogeywoman?) to young children. Maybe their parents tell them, “Eat your greens or Yolcatl’s going to take you away and make you join her parent’s revolution!” The sound of car gears whirring and people road raging fills the air the closer I get to the main part of the city. I walk down the 102
main road with my head bowed low. I don’t need to look up to know where I’m going. After several years of taking the same route, I know every crack in the sidewalk and the amount of paces from one store to another. I only lift my head once I reach the bathhouse. “It’s you,” the attendant sneers. “You know it. May I go in?” “What do you think?” “Listen, my classmates can’t focus when I smell like a sewer. I don’t want their marks to suffer because of something I can control.” “That’s noble of you.” “Please? I swear I’d take showers in the rain if I could, but it hasn’t rained in a month. This is my only option.” The attendant grimaces. “Fine. You know where to go. You have ten minutes.” She waves me along. I know better than to argue about the time limit—it would only be lowered. I go inside and to the locker rooms, where towels and soap are provided. I freeze when I see one of my classmates inside. She’s minding her own business and doesn’t notice me. I grab my towel and soap and hurry away. There’s a secluded area with one or two people in it—the cold baths. People only come here during the hotter season or if they’re injured and want to cool off. I’m forced to go here because it’d be unfair to the other patrons if I’m using a hot bath and they want it. The only benefit is there aren’t many people around to give me dirty looks. After I finished, I rush to the locker room to drop my stuff off. There’s laughter coming from it, and it’s generally louder than usual. The moment I step in, I regret it. A pack of my classmates are getting ready to go to the hot tubs or something. One of them spots me and points. I don’t know if I feel proud or terrible for being the reason a moderately loud room went quiet in under a second. Everyone stares at me, even the other patrons. I take a deep breath and continue with my business. I put my towel down when someone finally speaks up. “Why’re you here?” She doesn’t even need to use my name. I glance at her. “Just trying to get clean. I’m leaving now-” “I bet she was trying to recruit people,” someone else says. “That’s the reason her parents sent her to Huac Altepetl, isn’t it? They don’t know when to give up on their plans.” 103
“I’m here because I don’t want to associate with them. See you in school.” I try to leave, but a few girls block my way. I know exactly what they’re trying to do. I’m not going to get angry and try to force my way through. That’ll only give them more ammunition to sling at me. “I just want to leave. Could you let me through?” “Aren’t you going to try and recruit us? What if we want to restart the revolution?” I don’t know what I have to do to get it through peoples’ heads I didn’t support my parents’ revolution. They were idiots that didn’t have anything to revolt against, yet they did it anyway. “I’m not going to recruit you. Look, I have to leave so I’m not late for school. Please just let me by.” One of the girls shoves me. The people around laugh. My classmates are stooping low to get a rise out of me. So I get down on my knees and bow lower. “Do whatever you want.” I imagine they looked disgusted or disturbed by my reaction. I brace myself for whatever kicks and stomps they’ll do, but the main girl only says, “Let’s hurry up before we’re late for school. She’s not worth our time.” The group of girls leaves. I hear angry footsteps enter the room. I look up at the attendant’s enraged face. “I would understand if you were still in the bath because you’re trying to make sure you’re clean, but you’re lying on the ground. Get out of my bath house.” “Yes, ma’am,” I mutter. I take my school bag and leave. Outside I see several horses tied to a pole. I roll my eyes. They belong to some of my classmates. The pretentious jerks think they’re so cool because they have mounts. I’m sure they have vehicles of their own like most everyone, but because their parents are rich, they have mounts as well. I look around to make sure no one’s watching, untie a horse, and get on. “You know where the school is, right?” I say. It grunts and sets off. I know it’s stupid to take one of my classmates’ mounts, but I’m not really worried. They won’t have any proof that I did it. I have an entire conversation with the horse, who I name Ilhuicatl. She seems to understand what I’m saying, or at the very least that I’m talking to her. She grunts and whinnies, which I take as legit responses. By the time we reach the school I’m already attached. I slide off of Ilhuicatl’s back and stroke her mane. 104
“Thanks for the ride, Ilhuicatl. Maybe I’ll see you later?” She nuzzles me and whinnies. I smile and head inside. I’m the only girl in history class at the moment. The others are still at the baths, or making their way here. I sit in my seat in the middle of the class and take out my book. The boys generally ignore me, which, in a way, I appreciate. The main girl that bullies me, Ocelotl, pretty much has the girls under her control. I suspect her cronies want to be as popular as her and follow her orders as a result. The boys, on the other hand, don’t seem to care that I exist. At least, those that aren’t attracted to Ocelotl. Most people ignore me, but the few people that verbally assault me know how to hit me where it hurts. I honestly don’t know if I prefer being non-existent or a punching bag. Our teacher walks in just as class begins. We’re learning about the War of Nohoch Bacabs Aggression, where the nation that borders us to the north and east annexed our land a few hundred years ago. There wasn’t much we could do seeing as how we can’t do magic and they control the earth, so they rolled us over and forced us to settle in a much smaller territory. “Nohoch Bacabs took advantage of the fact that we couldn’t properly defend ourselves,” my teacher says. “If we’d had the technology we have today, we could’ve forced them off their own land. But we didn’t have the technology. That’s why it’s important for you all to be so bright. That’s why you’re pushed so hard by the school. The person that created Antimanium came from this school and changed our world. We need more people like her that’ll find ways to protect us from the other nations. We need people that can bolster our military and intimidate them. We need people that’ll remain loyal to our country and defend it to the last if needed.” Everyone looks at me with that last line. They had already been stealing glances throughout the speech, but now it’s unbearable. I shrink in my seat. “Yolcatl,” my teacher says. “What’s the problem? You don’t look very attentive right now.” “Oh, you know. The gaze of all of my peers is a little unnerving, so…” “Sit up right and give us a little insight on you and your parents’ ideals.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t share their ideals. I don’t associate with 105
them at all.” “That doesn’t mean you can’t tell us why they thought it was a good idea to end our isolationist policy. Come on, now.” I sigh. “They thought we could learn new things and get inspiration from outside cultures.” A few people snicker. My teacher only nods. “Right. Closeminded thinking like that is a stain on our society. People like your parents don’t believe we, the most advanced nation in the world, can get new ideas. Young minds like yours are constantly coming up with new, ingenious concepts. We don’t need outside influence to advance. We are perfection as we are.” It’s hard to feel national pride when the nation hates your guts, but still, I can’t help but feel a little good after listening to her speech. My classmates applaud her, and she takes a bow. That afternoon I go to Ilhuicatl just to see her again, and she nuzzles me the moment I get near her. I stroke her mane. “Nice to see you again, Ilhuicatl.” I take out an apple I snuck from the cafeteria and give it to her. She devours it. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, walking away. She whines, and I stop. I hate that I’m so attached to her. I know I won’t be able to see her whenever I want; I stole her, and whoever owns her is going to suspect I did it if they see me near her. Yet I turn around and put my face on hers. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget you. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Do you want another apple?” She grunts. “You got it.” “What’re you doing with my mount?” a girl says behind me. I turn and see a girl marching over. The other pretentious students are behind her. “She caught my attention. I was just saying hi.” “You stole her this morning, didn’t you? You degenerate. First you try to force people to join your cult, and now you steal from people to use as leverage?” “What?! I’m not in a cult! And look, she likes me.” I stroke Ilhuicatl’s neck, and she nudges me, whinnying. “She wouldn’t like me if I stole her.” The girl stamps her foot. “You probably fed her. Just get away from us.” She pushes me away. Ilhuicatl starts after me, but she’s yanked back by her rope. I smile one last time at her and walk away. I drift back to the mines, trying to conserve my energy. I still 106
have to work in order to get money, and collapsing on the job is unproductive and embarrassing. I’m going to be honest, I get anxious whenever I walk around at night. Crimes rarely happen in the city no matter what time of day it is, yet I still feel as though someone follows me from my spot on the sidewalk. Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’m correct. Either way, I hate walking at night. I reach the mines and breathe a sigh of relief. People are still coming and going, though the owner’s already gone for the night. I pick up a pickaxe and go down into the mines. At the moment, there’s nothing to actually take from the mine; we’ve exhausted the resources already. Now we’re digging for new areas with untapped materials. The rock itself is pretty useful, so I can still get money for my work, even if it’s just enough to buy bread crust. Still, some money is better than no money. I work for an hour, then turn in my rock and pickaxe to the overseer. He hands me a copper coin and tells me to shove off. I hesitate, unsure if I want to tell him I usually get two coins. I think he’s new, but I’m not positive. “What’s the problem, girl? You want more?” He sounds pissed at the idea. I shake my head. “Sorry, no. Just doing some quick math. Have a good one.” I leave. After making sure no one’s following me, I turn down a small corridor that’s been abandoned and come across my front door. On the ground is a string that’s invisible unless you know where to look for it. It’s connected to the lever that moves the boulder through a tiny crack between the boulder and the wall. I pull it, and the boulder is shoved aside. Inside is still a mess. I sigh and sit at my desk, take out my homework, and pass out. Bob Sherwood has attended the EmersonWRITES program for four years and has learned a lot in that time. Without EmersonWRITES, he wouldn’t have grown as much and as quickly as he has.
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Essence Smith
Excel Academy Charter High School, 12th Grade
This is a poem that was inspired by my connection to my family, and was created in honor of the forgotten ones. This poem was influenced by the works of Tracy K. Smith.
Letter to the Forgotten Ones The blood that runs through your veins Is the same that ran through those before you Names and faces have all been lost The forgotten ones Stolen land and war-ravaged countries Homes left behind and turned to dust Dreams that were passed down Have now dried up like raisins When asked: Where are you from? How should I answer? Who do I turn to for the answers? Grandma, who came before you? What were their names? Do you know where we truly come from? A long age Gone. We have mended Reconstructed what has been broken Even dreamed of the impossible Now if you were to ask me: Where are you from? I would tell you I’m from the lineage that has been dispersed A family that has traveled around the world, and survived the odds
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Essence Smith is a senior at Excel Academy Charter High School and has been attending EmersonWRITES for five years (this is her final year!) In her free time, Essence is involved the Mayor’s Youth Council, and is working to host financial literacy classes for youth throughout Boston.
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EmersonPUBLISHES SPINE EmersonPUBLISHES builds on the work done in EmersonWRITES by exploring the next step of the publishing process. We examine the timeline of publishing an anthology from the publisher’s perspective, including submissions, content editing, and graphic and text design. We discuss what it means to be a writer trying get published, what magazines and small presses look for, and how to give our writing the best chance at success. Lastly, we synthesize the themes the students explored in their classes, and translate those themes into images to develop the cover aesthetic for SPINE. This year, students explored the concept of liminal space, the art of getting lost, and the places inbetween where one's identity can meander. In celebration of the 10th Anniversary of EmersonWRITES, the EmersonPUBLISHES students wanted to offer more than one way of looking at these themes, and thus, more than one cover to capture all they encompass. We hope you enjoy. EmersonPUBLISHES Students: Rejeila Firmin Abbie Langmead Keianna Grant Yolisbel Peùa Winter Jones Bob Sherwood
Ebony Smith Essence Smith Martina Taylor Faculty Bio
Alayne Fiore has an earned Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Emerson. She is Director of Operations and Special Assistant to the Vice President in the Social Justice Center and an affiliated faculty member in the Writing Studies Program at Emerson College. She is the owner and operator of Rozlyn Press, a small press for womxn writers. Her work has appeared in Gravel Magazine, Haunted Waters Press, and ROAR. This is her fifth year designing SPINE for EmersonWRITES.
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Thank You Notes We would like to give special thanks to all the people who work so hard to make EmersonWRITES happen and to those in the Emerson College Community who continuously support us. Program Coordinators Mary Kovaleski Byrnes, Senior Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing; Director & Co-Founder, EmersonWRITES Brandon Melendez, Emerson MFA '19, Lunch Program Coordinator, EmersonWRITES Noah Wood, Executive Assistant to the Vice President for Enrollment Management; Program Coordinator, EmersonWRITES EmersonWRITES Faculty Megan Fitzgerald Will Gibbons Dana Guth JosĂŠ Manuel Martinez Jr Gabriela Montelongo Nehal Mubarak Rebecca Rubin San Pham
EmersonPUBLISHES Faculty Alayne Fiore
Members of the Emerson College Community Cori Bodley, Assistant Director, Undergraduate Admission Chris Daly, Assistant Dean of Campus Life, Student Affairs Angela Grant, Director of Financial Aid Cindy Govender, Former EmersonWRITES Faculty; Recruiter Christopher Grant, Associate Director of Student Success; Co-Founder, EmersonWRITES Seth Grue, Associate Director, Student Success cxii
Eric Glaskin, Senior Associate Director, Student Financial Services Shana Healy-Kern, Director, Enrollment Technology Steve Himmer, Senior Lecturer and Director of the Writing Studies Program, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Roy Kamada, Professor and Chair, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing MJ Knoll-Finn, Former Vice President for Enrollment Management Kellie Fuller, Learning and Engagement Specialist, Human Resources Ruthanne M. Madsen, Vice President for Enrollment Management Tamera Marko, Executive Director, Elma Lewis Center M. Lee Pelton, President, Emerson College Robert Sabal, Professor and Dean, School of the Arts Stephen Shane, Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Justin Sharifipour, Associate Vice President, Enrollment Data and Technology Carol Smolinsky, Director of Retention & Student Success John Trimbur, Professor & Assistant Director of the Writing Studies Program, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Michaele Whelan, Provost and Vice President of Academic Affairs EmersonWRITES Alumni Currently Attending Emerson Antonio Weathers, Writing, Literature and Publishing, Class of 2020 Hailey Norton, Writing, Literature and Publishing, Class of 2021 Madison Wilson, Media Arts Production, Class of 2021 Annalise Ella Englert, Performing Arts, Class of 2022
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IN THIS ISSUE
Kayla Bernard Angela Cene Saoirse Cook Sophia DaSilva Julianna DelGreco Rejeila Firmin Sergio Gonzalo Keianna Grant Victoria Heitzmann Star Igbinosa
Yolisbel Peña Arianna Rivera Yaritza Santana Asiah Saunders Bob Sherwood Ebony Smith Essence Smith Caroline Sullivan Martina Taylor
Marvin Valenzuela Zeinab Yusuf
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Winter Jones
Jael Nunez
VO L . 1 0
Janice Jonah
Abbie Langmead
S P I N E : 10 TH ANNI V ERSARY EDIT ION
Keyah Adamson
10
Bereket Temesgen Kaylah Tshitenge
2019-2020