SPINE 2014 2015 by EmersonWRITES

SPINE S P I N E

VOL. 5

•

2014-2015

SPINE VOLUME 5, 2014-2015

Published annually at Emerson College

SPINE: Student-Produced Interconnected Narratives at Emerson

A selection of original works by the students of emersonWRITES & emersonPATHWAYS

Editor Designers

Assistant Designers

Mary Nolan Mary Nolan Bryana Scalley Jacarrea Garraway Andy Rondon

Front Cover Art Jacarrea Garraway, “Alphabet Head,” 2015 11th Grade, Boston Latin Academy Back Cover Art “Bones Vectors” from freevector/Vecteezy.com

SPINE • 2014-2015 • Volume 5 • March 2015

emersonWRITES and emersonPATHWAYS are a collaborations between the First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing and the Office of Enrollement Management at Emerson College. SPINE, previously titled, The Anthology, is published annually by emersonWRITES and emersonPATHWAYS. Emerson College 120 Boylston Street Boston, MA 02116

What Are emersonWRITES & emersonPATHWAYS? our STUDENTS come from all over the Boston area and

represent a diverse range of high schools and communities. They speak and write in English, Spanish, Haitian, Portuguese, Chinese, Albanian, Vietnamese, and Italian. Some have only recently started calling the United States home. All share a passion for creative writing. Over the course of 16 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 stoires. 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 Emersonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s First-Year Writing Program to teach college writing.

emersonWRITES

and emersonPATHWAYS are free creative writing programs for students in Boston Public Schools, co-sponsored by the First-Year Writing 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 Emersonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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. vi

Participating Schools

Academy of the Pacific Rim Another Course to College Boston Arts Academy Boston Community Leadership Academy Boston Latin Academy Boston Preparatory Charter Public School Cambridge Rindge and Latin School Cathedral High School Charlestown High school Chelsea High School Concord Carlisle Regional High school Cristo Rey Boston High School Dighton-Rehoboth Regional School District East Boston High English High School Everett High School Fenway High School Hopkinton High School Josiah Quincy Upper School Lowell High School Margarita Muniz Academy Match Charter High School Mystic Valley Regional Charter School Pope John XXIII Central High School Revere High School Somerville High school Stoughton High School Tech Boston Academy Urban Science Academy Wakefield Memorial High School West Roxbury Academy vii

Table of Contents

Introduction v Flash Fiction 10 Genre Fiction 18 Nonfiction

Poetry 78 Pathways 116 Thank You Notes cxl SPINE Staff Biographies cxlii

viii

Welcome from the Curriculum Coordinator We’re marking the launch of our fifth anthology, and the completion of the fifth year of our program, by (finally) giving a name to this book—we’re calling it SPINE (Student-Produced Interconnected Narratives at Emerson). Yes, we’ve joined the many other educational programs and embraced acronyms. However, we think the word “spine” represents our program and the writing published in this anthology in more ways than what the acronym signifies. In a brainstorm session with all teachers a few weeks ago, we decided on this name not for its acronym, but for the symbolism and imagery evoked by the word “spine”: • A backbone • Standing up (for what we 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, 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, both characteristics of the spine. 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 and emersonPATHWAYS teachers take care to create and facilitate—where students can take risks, learn about ix

new modes of expression, and discover the joy of being generous readers and supporters of each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s writing. Many of the drafts written in these workshops were tried out in our lunchtime pizza party open mic sessions, where students stood up and read their work, and felt and heard the encouraging snaps of recognition from each other when they hit that one line that really spoke truth, or beauty, or anger, or action, or all of the above. 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 canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think of a better way to celebrate what theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve accomplished than to call attention to how this work stands up, so tall, as it enters the world.

Flash Fiction Course Introduction This year, our class focused on the genre of Flash Fiction. We wanted to teach our students to communicate emotion and theme with just a page, or even a sentence. This allowed our students to write, share and edit several pieces in just one class. We began by discussing the basic elements, such as plot, character, and setting. Almost every class involved reading examples of published flash fiction. By reading the work of published writers and discussing what worked and what they did well, we were able to replicate and build our own stories. We used different exercises each week to give our students inspiration as well as guidelines to work with. We encouraged our students to share with the class and to discuss each other’s work. In the following pieces, readers will notice a lot of humor and vivid imagery. The students’ creativity is reflected in varying formats that alternately made them feel both constricted and free to experiment with their writing. We used formats such as list stories, missed connections, and six word sentences. We are incredibly proud of the hard work that our students exhibited every week. We hope you will enjoy reading as much as we enjoyed writing.

Faculty Bios

Marcy Braidman: This is Marcy’s first year with emersonWRITES. She just received her MFA in Creative Writing at Emerson. She enjoys writing short fiction and blog posts often, writes e-mails only when she has to and never writes tweets. One day, she plans to have a cabin in the woods, a whole book of her short fiction published and a huge dog. Sarah Sassone: This is Sarah’s second year as a teacher at emersonWRITES. She is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing Fiction at Emerson College. Like other proud New Yorkers, she loves bagels, the New York Rangers, good pizza, and yoga. Sarah writes both short and long works of fiction and believes that the art of writing is in revision. When she is not writing, Sarah likes to read quirky novels, watch How I Met Your Mother, go to the movies, and sing with the Backstreet Boys at karaoke clubs around Boston. 11

Lorenzo Beaton 9th Grade, Urban Science Academy Lorenzo’s time here at Emerson was really fun. He likes to write a lot of fun short stories, such as the six word sentences and action scene stories.

Nano-Fiction: Violin The way I played. The way she listened. The violin’s song stretched my soul to hers. The song ended, I got a kiss on the cheek and a midnight visit to my house. “The song was beautiful,” she said. “So are you, my moonlit flower,” I replied.

One-Sentence Action Scene Desperately watching, waiting to anticipate where he would strike next, where his sword and my sword would cross paths trying not to step on death’s door on defense for the longest while; finally I go for a counter swing and I come back, but I get no time to rest because if I do I’ll rest permanently—so I switch to offense and end it.

Unfair Punishment When she saw his eyebrow frown she knew that he was displeased that she stayed out this late. Her father never liked it when she stayed out till three o’clock in the morning with her friends. She especially did not tell him she went to a party that night and met a guy. She did not want to make things even worse for herself. Being out at 3:00 in the morning was already enough to get her two weeks worth of punishment. Lorenzo Beaton is a very daring kid. He likes parkour, dancing, dubstep, anime, manga, and—most of all—honeybuns with a side of sparkling juice or Arizona cream soda. Even though he can be a little energetic, he writes a lot of funny, action-packed stories that will make you want to read more. 12

Karen Cheng 8th Grade, Josiah Quincy Upper School Karen Cheng enjoys writing in this program. Her interest in writing grew to surpass all limits this year. She wrote this short piece as a revision to an original writing activity based on a horse—she decided llamas made better fiction.

Ten Story Beginnings About Llamas 1. There was a long neck like a giraffe, which has the body and head of a sheep. It’s called a llama. 2. I first saw this mystical creature with long flowing hairs, with the wind picking up at the cliff. Man, it was a freaking majestic llama. 3. I planned to name it Larry! 4. I gave Larry the Llama a hat and we were viral at tea parties. Not that I knew it was seen by the nations. 5. I found another one. It was one random llama, so I named him Carl. I brought him home and showed him to Larry. His new rainbow friend. 6. When I returned home, the lights were off. In the middle of the entry room was a chair and a llama. 7. The chair showed “The Boss,” with his hooves on the trigger and he threatened to shoot. He moved one of his two hooves then ‘Bang’ and it shot the floor. He’s a llama! 8. No matter how many times he tries to shoot me, it always goes straight to the floor in front of him. Man how did he get his way threatening with that, to his gang? 9. The walls and floor were bloody. When the cops came to the scene, all they saw alive and unharmed in the massacre was a llama. 10. No one believed me that he did this. I was the one who saw this; they called me crazy. Even when I pointed out that the weapon was in front of the Llama. They wouldn’t believe you, even if you were the Tom Cruise. 14

Four Six-Word Sentences 1. Fell in love with chocolate, great... 2. The doctor, who surpassed time itself. 3. The strongest person in Canada: procrastination. 4. I like sweet, red, fresh cupcakes!

A Lost Letter I know you Arthur. Your natural appearance is nothing to be ashamed of or insulted about. My dear cousin, your luminescent emerald-gem eyes, dirty blond hair, bushy eyebrows, and your attractive British accent. I missed our time together, before that happened. I remember our childhood together, our little brother, Alfred. But he’s like a son to me, while others see us, as a family. I liked that feeling—I never thought I could have. Before auntie died and left us in tears from her departure from the world. Remember? But I’m glad to have Alfred alive. Until you had a fight with him, you two wanted me to take sides, but it was overwhelming me. I couldn’t take the pressure anymore. I left you to return to my hometown, but my people betrayed me. Here I stay in a sleep like a coma, without a will in the world. All I want is my little Alfred and you know I love you. Goodbye my child and my dearest cousin. Love Rose M. Gottschalk. Karen Cheng is an otaku. She likes reading fan fiction online, writing, and creating art. She spends most of her free time at home.

Mykell Puritt 12th Grade, Josiah Quincy Upper School

This year in Flash Fiction, Mykell learned how to write really cool stories in less than a thousand words. She also learned how to write a story through a list. In this piece, she made a list of questions she had as a child and still has now as a young adult.

Questions As a child you’re told when you don’t understand something you’re supposed to ask questions... Right? • Mommy, why is my hair so short and curly? • Why do I have to wear sweatpants on gym days? • Why can’t I run like the other kids? • Why does my chest hurt when I play tag with my friends? • Why do I get so short of breath? • Why does this medicine make me so anxious? • How come I can’t touch the stove, but you and Daddy can? • Why are Mommy and Daddy fighting? • Why is my sister so sad? • Mommy, why is Daddy leaving? • Is he coming back? • Does he still love us? • Do you promise? • Can I go with you, Daddy? • Why can’t Mommy and Daddy live together? • Where’s Dad? • Is he coming home? • Why not? • Why hasn’t he called? • Does he still love me? 16

• Do I embarrass him? • How did he forget my birthday? • What do you mean he had another baby? • Am I still his little girl? • Why did everything have to change? • Why does everyone I care about screw me over? • Why am I so sad all the time? • Why do I put on this front that I’m happy? • Why can’t I be three again? • Why does growing up involve so much stress? • Why can’t I be a “normal teenager”? • What does normal even mean? • Why does everyone ask me for something, but never return the favor? • Why am I so nice to people who don’t deserve my kindness? • Why do I push people away that I care about? • Why am I so damn stubborn? • Why can’t I ever have a good day? • Why does my nephew love me so much? • Why am I afraid to get attached to people? • Why do I feel like something is missing? • Why am I so full of resentment?

This is Mykell’s second year in emersonWRITES. She is a senior at Josiah Quincy Upper School where she enjoys English and Psychology. She loves dancing and writing stories on Wattpad and is really sad this is her last year at emersonWRITES.

Genre Fiction:

Elves, Detectives, and Ghosts, Oh My! The writing world makes much of the divide between “literary” and “genre” fiction, but often the lines are blurrier than they seem. In fact, unleashing our imaginations can lead to innovation and great stories. In this class we looked at four different fiction genres that have shaped the modern literary world, and classic writers within those genres: from Agatha Christie to Edgar Allen Poe, and from Ray Bradbury to Ursula K. Le Guin. We studied hard-boiled detectives to learn how to create compelling characters and traveled to space to learn how to build our own worlds. We looked at horror stories to study building tension and suspense, and vanquished assumptions in the realms of fantasy. Through exploring other worlds and other times, solving mysteries and confronting ghosts, we discovered how build and tell our own genre-bending stories.

Faculty Bios Jamie Burke is a third-year instructor with emersonWRITES, and she graduated from Emerson College in 2014 with an MFA in Fiction. Her writing has been published in Toasted Cheese, Pachinko!, Postcard Shorts, and BURN Magazine, and her story “7-11” was a finalist in the 2013 Lascaux Flash Contest. By day, Jamie works as a copywriter, and by night she can usually be found wherever there is ice cream. She has a cat and hopes she will soon fulfill her lifelong dream to appear as a contestant on The Price Is Right. Mimi Cook migrated to Boston from the Pacific Northwest to pursue an MFA in Fiction at Emerson College. This is her second year teaching creative writing with emersonWRITES. Mimi also works as a Marketing Assistant for Ploughshares at Emerson College, engaging with the literary community through social media, and coordinates the Breakwater Reading Series, Boston's inter-MFA program showcase. In her free time, Mimi practices shotokan karate, throws dinner parties, and writes an epistolary food blog with her father.

Tyra Bairos 9th Grade, Everett High School The poem I submitted is called “Suppress.” I was inspired to write this poem because it is symbolic of many people’s everyday lives – many men, women, and children judged by people all around them. My poem is about being who you are and not letting anyone put you down for being different. I hope to inspire people to stick up for themselves, for a friend, and for anyone who “Doesn’t fit in.”

Suppress I won’t let fate be my guide I am who I am and I refuse to hide. They tell me what to do, and tell me what to say I fight back every single day I want to be free I want to be me. They want me to be the perfect child but in reality I am actually pretty wild. I hide my fun side, to maintain my good nature but when I hide, I feel dead inside. I want to be accepted for who I am even if others don’t accept me Is it sad that I see flaws in our humanity? judgmental, rude insanity I tell them over and over again, I plead and beg, but in my mind I can’t really win. They are dominant, they are rulers, they are bossy They form an image, and force me to fill it I refuse to forfeit myself to their liking I won’t let fate be my guide I will suck it up and stand by your side Let’s avoid their disapproving eyes Together we can surpass their lies. Be who you are, not what they tell you. 20

So let me ask you Will you let fate be your guide? Will you let them control you? Will you let them live life for you? Don’t hide your fun side. How many times have you cried? How many times have you had negative thoughts? All because you can’t be you. Be true to yourself, no matter what you do. There is nothing wrong with you, it is the world that is wrong. Don’t let fate be your guide.

Tyra is an aspiring young writer who is dedicated to writing short stories, and occasionally poems. Tyra has goals to try and change the world with her literature; she even plans to write a book one day. Her favorite type of writing is, of course, sci-fi and fantasy. She plans to use the knowledge she has learned from her emersonWRITES class to form a more perfect writing piece.

Alyssa Caraher 10th Grade, Everett High School The following poem is titled, “Buried Secrets.” It is about how and why a writer writes, and looks back on experiences that fueled their work. In my time at emersonWRITES, I learned a lot about specific genres, however, the most important thing I took away was the significance of words and how good it can make you feel to let out your emotions through them.

Buried Secrets “Why do you write so much?” (I don’t know how otherwise to prevail over his everlasting gaze– I don’t know how to change the fate in my mind, and twist the fairytale to be true– I don’t know how to frequently stop my thoughts from blazing, to prevent the torched housings of memories and to rescue what little childlike innocence and naivety I will still possess– The war will never cease, If I continue to ignore its pretext– so I scribble the thoughts to preserve 22

the warriors.) “It’s just imagination.”

Alyssa is what her English teacher refers to as: A blooming flower and a brilliant mind. She is sixteen-years-old, and currently attends Everett High School with the same four friends she’s had since a 6th grade ‘Do you need a pen?’ incident. Though Alyssa’s poetry tends to get more attention and recognition through awards, she is dedicated to her short stories, and hopes to one day become a great novelist.

Antonio Conte 12th Grade, Boston Latin Academy This isn’t your stereotypical redemption story. It is a short dark comedy that follows a burned spy by the name of James Steen. Written by future professional screenwriter/actor/director Antonio Federico Conte.

Redemption My name is James Steen, and I used to be a spy until I was fired. I botched an 18 day long undercover operation that ultimately led to the deaths of twenty-six innocent Russian political figures. It wasn’t my fault, ok. Maybe it was slightly my fault, but you can’t blame me. That goshdarn file was too long for me to read. I barely read people’s statuses on Facebook. Why would I read a hundred page file on the street names in Russia? I don’t read anything. What did I know about a string of murders? Nothing really, other than that was my ticket to getting back in. If I solved that case it would be my ticket to Redemption. It would get me back in as a spy. After I was fired, I became a lowly police officer making great wages never having to lift a finger, but I missed the excitement of fleeing foreign embassies under heavy fire and having amazing one night stands with girls I would never see again. One day the police chief drops an unsolvable case onto my breakfast plate. “What’s this?” I asked. “It’s your last case. You have three days to solve it or you’re fired,” he replied. “Goshdarnit,” I proclaimed. I opened the file and was enraged to see that girls were being kidnapped, used for ransom and then dumped in the Charles River. All I knew was that the person responsible for these murders was a pro, he didn’t leave a single piece of evidence behind. I figured my best bet was to go figure out where exactly the girls were being kidnapped from to see whether there was a pattern. Guess what? There was a 24

pattern, the girls would all get kidnapped in the early morning every Thursday. Which coincidentally is trash day for that neighborhood. I then bought myself a disguise that made me look like a pretty girl. After I was humiliated at work I drove over to the street where the kidnappings happened. Someone put chloroform on my mouth and I blacked out. I later woke up with my pants off tied to train tracks. “You thought you could fool me so you could catch me!!!” she said. “Yes, obviously you idiot. Why would I dress up otherwise?” I replied. The rails started to vibrate, I could feel the train approaching. I told the ugly girl monster that I thought she was pretty and that I wanted to be with her forever, but it was a no go. She knew she was butt ugly and that I was a liar. She then left and I struggled helplessly to get free from the ropes. The train then crushed every bone in my body as my blood went splat on the walls of that underground tunnel. No Redemption for me. “Wow that sucks. Thanks for telling me that,” said the angel representative at heaven’s gate. “Yeah, no problem. Can I go in now or what?” I replied. “Unfortunately you disrespected another of God’s beautiful creatures right in front of me. So you’re going to hell. Sorry,” he said. I then fell to the earth’s core and here I am in the fiery pits of hell with you. “Wow, you’re just like me. We both disrespected God’s creatures,” said Hitler. The End. Antonio Conte is a seventeen-year-old handsome Italian male who is also a senior at Boston Latin Academy. This was his first year at emersonWRITES, he took the Genre Fiction class to learn more about character development. He is happy to say that he learned much more than he thought he would. The class was instructed by Jamie and Mimi, who are both better than amazing.

Ralph Corbelle 10th Grade, Revere High School,

Through emersonWRITES I have learned the importance of character development and point-of-view. To mold a story and plotline, there must be a distinguished personality to work around. In this excerpt, I tried to make the internal anguish of the character easily noticeable while also showing the glimmer of resilience within him.

Untitled My first dog was put down when I was ten. Out of the blue my family became weary of her, and just like that she was gone. Since then I’ve had my share of loss and confusion about such things. Aunts, grandparents, fish, they all go and often it is unexpected. I am a pro at losing things that I knew I had. So why am I on the ground bleeding out as if I’ve just been stabbed in the back? Why is it that this loss feels more personal, more like my fault? I’ve wondered about this for a while now, checking off the days that we have been apart, and I understand. I lost him, yes, but it was neither sudden nor did I ever have him to begin with. The pull of the current had gotten a hold of him long before I could interlock our fingers. He was out at sea–never stranded though, that was me. Lonely, waiting impatiently for a gesture of outreach, a sign that I was on his mind a fraction of the time that he was polluting mine. I’m sure he had a working radio, that the signal could always reach me, but he never sent out a message. If he did, it wasn’t meant for my ears. Never did he swim towards me. I, on the other hand, was never taught how to swim. Mother told me swimming was like having too much hope, there is always a chance you can drown. She told me that he could not be my life jacket, but I refused to listen. At the time, I never thought I was looking for someone to keep me afloat. I was looking for someone to sail with, to explore 26

the borders of the earth alongside. Perhaps I did know how to swim after all. As for never having him, it is as simple as it sounds. We were together, two, but we were never together, one. Honestly, the bond wasn’t strong enough for us to weather a tsunami, and if we couldn’t swim for each other then how could we ever stand? Standing has an illusion of simplicity, there is solid ground under your feet, a safety net. I learned that cement is not soft when you fall face first for someone. I learned that when knees buckle from pressure, he won’t be there to steady me. Maybe it was too much to desire, someone who would prevent me from cracking my skull on the asphalt, but at the time his eyes soothed and his mouth said, “I love you.” I love you. Three words that can cause a tsunami. He didn’t know that he would conjure up the storm he did, but he should’ve. Isn’t it obvious that those words carry water, that they are clouds and that as soon as you speak them aloud they become the sea? As soon as he told me his feelings, the tide began to wash over us, one. We were one, inseparable. I imagined that a boulder smashed us apart, a piece of shrapnel, or maybe a shark. Then I realized that I had been the boulder, I hurtled in too quickly and we became two once again. Truly, what is more lethal than unconditional care, unwavering desire, eyes that omit the notions of love? Obviously I should have sewed my eyelids and shut my mouth, maybe then our hands would still be familiar with each other. I was foolish to believe that showering him in my affections would tighten our bond. His approach was much clearer, less communication meant more love. Of course! I tried to tell him that that weighed me down, that I began to sink under the additional pounds of insecurity, but he was not keen on opening his ears. Waterlogged, I am finally above sea level. I forgot what air feels like, what the sensation of breathing does for my blue skin. I discover that I have teeth, and a voice, for my mouth could never open underwater. My clothes are still dripping salt, I’m dragging along a river as I approach the field. The land is fertile, flowers are in bloom, and I smile. The sun beats down on my back and I feel subtle heat. The river is beginning to slow, I open 27

my eyes wider and take in the simplicity of nature. I feel a pressure in my chest, and I wonder if this is what love is meant to feel like. I love this field, the smell, the sky, the green, the way that the trees don’t flinch away from my touch in public as he did. What is in my chest is not love, it is pain. As if a hand is wrapping itself around my heart, my knees go weak. He would’ve looked beautiful in the setting rays, his laugh would’ve made my grin widen unimaginably, his fingertips surely would’ve taken my mind away from the doubt that intertwines itself with the syllables of my name. I’m envious of the flowers being able to grow in harmony with one another while simultaneously creating beauty. That is how I thought he and I would be, but obviously nature took its course. I rip at the buds, my hands are scratched by thorns, dirt layers my ankles. Love is dirty, I think to myself. I don’t know why I can’t get him off of my mind. Maybe it is because when he told me he loved me, he pulled at my roots, coiled them around himself, and left them there. I grew off of him, he was my water, my sun, my air. I am going through a drought. I am shriveled, cracking, disintegrating into dust. I have to hold hope that another storm will pass by someday. I have to pray that if that day comes, I won’t be the only one swimming. One day, we will be each other’s tides, smashing against one another’s waves. Beautiful, simple, one. Being a sophomore at Revere High School, Ralph Corbelle had never been a part of the emersonWRITES program. He turns to writing for therapeutic purposes, though the delete button is a familiar and fiendish friend. He is pleased to have gotten the opportunity to be coached by two colorfully insightful personalities such as Miriam Cook and Jamie Burke.

Jacarrea Garraway 11th Grade, Boston Latin Academy The following story is a science fiction piece I wrote called “The Experiment.” It tells the brief story of a teenage boy who has a scientist for a Dad. Our unit on sci-fi really challenged me to explore a genre I was not used to reading nor writing about. However, my fascination with the Marvel Universe helped inspire me in creating what seemed like an origin story for Reid Boyle who will turn into a superhuman under a different alias when he becomes one of his father’s latest experiments.

THE EXPERIMENT I am Reid Oliver Boyle, son of Walter Boyle who is said to be one of the best scientists in our history. I have no idea who my father was before he became a genius. He never talked about his childhood. There were no old photos of him, no yearbooks, no proof that he once actually lived a normal life. My father has always been trying to fix the modern world. His goal is to make it a perfect place to live, as in a “utopia.” For years he has been trying to help find a cure for multiple diseases using this famous quote of his, “If it is made on earth, it can be destroyed on earth.” He has also been trying to increase survival for when global warming starts, as well as other things that I’ve failed to have an interest in. His main problem has been that nothing he’s taking part in has really improved to his standards. My father doesn’t give up. He finds a solution one way or another. High school is hard enough without being the son of a crazy scientist. I’m starting to feel really pressured to be normal. Everyone assumes that I am like this ultimate geek or something but I’m not smart like my dad. If he paid any type of attention to me, maybe he might have helped me pick up my grades here and there, but no, the lab was more important than home. I admit, it’s kind of pathetic that I blame my father for all my problems, but that’s just how it is. Like father, like son...not even close. 30

Recently my father had announced on television that he was working on a brand new experiment. Although he will not release what it is to the public, he said, and I quote: “The human race is going to be revolutionized in ways that would be almost impossible to imagine. The theory of what life is will be extinct to what new discoveries lay ahead. I am the man that will create the gateway into the best generation the world will ever see, blah, blah, blah.” After that, all you could hear was applause, but no one really knew what he was talking about. I am an assistant in my father’s lab, and have sworn to the secrecy of his ideas so many times, but on this occasion, I felt like I wouldn’t be able to hold this secret in. “Son it is time that we advance in our next evolutionary stage. I know that you understand humans can’t live forever, they die everyday. Even if they populate more, we are too fragile to withstand the power that will fall on this earth. If strong bodied dinosaurs weren’t able to handle a falling meteorite, then we will easily perish in what will come ahead.” “So what’s your point Dad?” He looked up at me with his squinty brown eyes and pointed his slightly wrinkled finger in my face. “The point is everything Reid, I know you’re not exactly fit to handle such complicated material, but as my son you will know these things anyway, and one day be thankful that your father was the man that I am.” This was like my father. To call me stupid, then tell me how lucky I was to have him in my life. This was his idea of father-son bonding and the only affection he could give me. Love was more complicated than any formula for my father. It didn’t fit any laws of science, therefore, he didn’t mess with it. My father continued on by saying, “The idea is to preserve life on this earth. To ensure that will be some form of life still existing, even after we’re all gone. It’s very important that all the achievements we have made don’t go to waste in the event of a disaster, so we have to find a way to outlast everything else.” He led me over to a table with a sheet over it. “What have you done this time?” I ask him. He slowly unraveled the sheet that covered the mystery. I 31

see a series of small syringes. “I am not quite sure yet,” He began. I saw him pick up a syringe. “Why does it look like that?” I ask. “What’s inside these–” I then feel a sharp jab in my neck. Suddenly I am completely paralyzed and stiff. The temperature in my body begins to rise. “Relax, it’s just an experiment Reid.” My father whispers. I start struggling to breathe. “Just trust me Reid, I would never do anything to hurt you–I’m only making you stronger.” At that moment, I collapse to the ground. The last thing I hear before I go completely blank is: “The worst part will be over soon…” Ever since then, I haven’t been quite the same. Jacarrea is a witty yet adorkable teen who is currently a junior at Boston Latin Academy. Her passions revolve around creative writing and the dramatic arts. She has gained a lot of attention as a public speaker and poet, especially after presenting her poem From Today Until Tomorrow for the Dalai Lama. At the moment, she is obsessed with screenwriting and in her spare time, she may make a mini film or two.

Ledio Jaho 12th Grade, West Roxbury Academy Artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Statement: emersonWRITES, throughout the past four years has introduced two very significant things to me: Proper Script Format and Proper Worldbuilding. They will prove to be very beneficial when completing future projects. The work featured in this anthology is my own take on the successful video game franchise Fallout (first in a trilogy). I intend to refine this script and the others in the trilogy until one day when they are perfect enough to present to the owners of the franchise Bethesda Softworks. Background: Ledio Jaho (Pen/Screen name: Jessie L. Richardson) is an aspiring Director, Screenwriter, Concept Artist/Illustrator/Graphic Designer and Composer. For the last four years, Ledio has attended West Roxbury Academy and is expected to graduate this coming June.

The War Between Patriots Chapter I: The Delaware Compromise Showcasing My Abilities As a screenwriter one must be able to establish characters easily, providing a lot of information about those characters in an entertaining manner. One should also be able to establish the environment that theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in. Example(s): The leader of a group known as the Brotherhood of Steel, Elder Lyons, announces the claiming of Delaware by an opposing group known as the Enclave. He also announces that troops will be deployed to reclaim Delaware. The following examples occur after the announcement. The protagonists are Desmond Shaw and William Patterson. (The crowd, comprising troopers, scribes, and citizens, 34

disperse. As Desmond and William walk back to their noticeably worn and used military transport truck, they discuss the recent address.) Desmond: (Shocked and exhilarated) Wow. Do ya’ think we’re gonna get deployed? I mean, I know I shouldn’t be glad of the invasion, but still, think of what we can do! We can finally do our nation some good! William: (In a dubious tone) Nah, I don’t think higher-ups would send a couple of Initiates, fresh ones mind you, to reclaim an entire state. Think about it, no raider group has taken over more than one of those small independent villages– (Is interrupted by Desmond) Desmond: Even after Raven Rock? William: (Dismissing) No, of course not. I mean sure it was impressive; we killed the most dangerous raider group in that region. But still, it was only enough to get us the Initiate Rank. If it was truly anything to write home about we would have had a ceremony. Desmond: I suppose. (Desmond practices at the firing range. Attempting to land exact shots with his R91 Assault Rifle, shooting at a stuffed dummy. He unfortunately misses a majority of the time.) Desmond: (Mumbles) Dang it. (A Fellow, Vanguard Olivis P. Mata, donning T-51b Power 35

armor approaches Desmond) Desmond: (Mumbles) Dang it. Olivis: (Frustrated tone) Have you improved your aim? Desmond: (Initially remains silent, then responds) No, I still need practiOlivis: (Interrupts Desmond) Show me. (Desmond sighs and then proceeds to demonstrate his shooting ability, or lack thereof, to Olivis. Olivis, infuriated by Desmondâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incompetence, snatches the rifle from his hand and begins to scold him.) Olivis: You pathetic, milk-drinking, kite-running, deathclaw-hugging, excuse for a trooper! Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re barely competent enough to kill radroaches from a few feet away! Who in blazes promoted you? And did Messmer honestly believe you were good enough to receive his recommendation?! Messmer! Of all people!... End of Examples

Kirsten Mauriello 12th Grade, Stoughton High School This is a piece that I could never find the words to write. The symbols of light and dark have always been prominent in my life and writing, but this is the first time I feel that I might have the experiences and some of the skills that are necessary to turn those symbols into a full story. This course has given me the experience with character development and plot that are crucial to complete any piece of writing, but especially one as important to me as this one. And, without a doubt, this story could not even have been started—never mind completed—without the girl who inspired it; my very own light.

Bringing Back the Sun I was in love with her before I knew she existed. Before the thought of her was the first and last in my head each day, I was forcing my eyes open every morning so I could look for her. Before her voice became the only music I needed to fill my ears, I kept my lungs full of air in hopes of laughing with her. Before the feeling of her hand in mine was the one anchor that could keep me in reality, I tried my best to keep my blood in my veins so that maybe my heart would be strong enough for her. I just had no idea that she was what I was waiting for. And then she came into my life in the same way a wave comes to the shore; with a soft crash, steady progression, and the sureness that this was a union that was always meant to be. I saw the world change in the most drastic ways—the most beautiful, terrifying, lovely ways—and all through her eyes. And with every breath there was new happiness, with every laugh there were new reasons, and with every moment that passed in her presence there was a new light. It emanated from her in the most natural way possible, as if the sun resided behind her eyes and within the deepest part of her soul. Everywhere she went it followed her and shone in a seemingly effortless way. And everyone she encountered, no matter her path, was touched by this light. That must have been 38

the reason everyone loved and needed her the way they did. I became so enthralled with every detail of her self that it didn’t take long to notice when that light would fade. I could watch her eyes, the same ones that shone ethereally when she was surrounded in her passion for the world, fade in the moments when that world started to crumble around her. And no matter how many times I gathered up the pieces of her broken universe and strung them back together, the light lost more of its magnificence with each fall. There were moments, the most heart shattering and terrifying moments, when I couldn’t see even a spark coming from her. She was becoming the person I hoped and prayed for her never to become: me. The creature who hid in the shadows afraid of their own reflection, retreated within their mind to an inescapable torture, and fought anyone and anything with the simple hope of having an excuse to lose. I had been that, I had lived and suffered through it, and it was because of her that I was beginning to think I could start to find my way out of it. I couldn’t watch her get trapped too; stuck in that nighttime that never ended. I could already feel it surrounding the both of us. I needed to bring back the sun. So I searched desperately and ceaselessly, terrified that the longer it was gone, the less brilliantly it would shine when it returned, never allowing her to be the same again—if I could even manage to return it at all. That was a thought that kept a constant presence in the back of my mind: what if I couldn’t even find it? What if this was the new reality for both of us, and there was no hope of repairing the largest piece of the girl I wasn’t willing to give up on? But despite this fear that quickly grew into terror, I gave every moment and thought to the effort of locating her sun and returning it to its rightful place. I started with the sky, scouring every inch, sure that the sun would have retreated to the place where most people assumed it resided. But the clouds offered no solutions, the air simply filled space where nothing substantial existed, and the wind only pushed me off course when it decided it no longer wanted me around. 39

I checked the deepest, darkest enclaves and caverns of hell, thinking that perhaps the ones who resided there had stolen it for themselves. After all, they would think they were the ones who needed it most. But there was no illumination to break up the blackness thick enough to suffocate any living creature that dared to enter, and the complete despair that surrounded me the moment I arrived only further proved that there was no chance that the sun could have been brought there. By the time I searched the land, the little hope I had left began to fade. I had spent my whole life there. It is where her light disappeared in the first place. Every piece of me doubted that this is where the sun had been brought to. But still I knew I had to try; the land was my last chance. But all I found was what I had seen my entire life: untrustworthy, angry people, unending roads leading to nowhere you wanted to be, and tired landscapes with no horizon. That was it. I was completely and utterly out of options. It was gone. And what was the point of existence if there was no light? There was nowhere left to search, and nothing left to do but go back to her. And when I returned, it felt as if everything had only gotten darker, only this time it was my fault. All I could do was hold her, and stay with her until the blackness completely overcame the both of us. But, that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t happen. I waited and waited, never once letting her go, but we were never lost in the dark. In fact, it slowly started to get brighter. Slowly enough that I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice at first, but it was happening. The light was coming back. Nothing had changed, only that we were once again together. And with time, I realized that she was the only one who could bring it back. My job was, and always had been, simply to stay. Kirsten is a nerd. A theatre-y, bookish, rather strange nerd. (She is also a senior at Stoughton High School, but that is significantly less important). She is an obnoxiously obsessive theatre kid and writer, and has a very limited identity outside of those things. She is a co-president and assistant music director for her schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s theatre department, and basically lives in the auditorium. She plans on continuing writing professionally (and hopefully some kind of theatre too) because she has resigned herself to the fact that it has consumed her entire life. 40

Caroline Tobin 10th Grade, Stoughton High School Looking after a writer is a huge responsibility, but the results of a healthy and happy writer are rewarding. This is your step-by-step guide to raising, training, and caring for everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite creative brain.

How to Care for Your Writer: An Ownerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Guide Chapter 1: Writer Maintenance By far the most taxing part of the caring process is day-to-day maintenance. Your writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s basic needs can be broken down into three simple categories: food and drink, physical care, and entertainment. The majority of a normal diet consists of foods like Ramen, SpaghettiOs, cereal, and other types of easily prepared pasta. To keep your companion healthy and strong, it will either need one small serving every day or roughly one large serving every hour. Its appetite is inconsistent and and it is at times difficult to gauge how much food it needs at any given time. The best way to determine how much to feed it is to give it a serving when it becomes irritable or difficult to manage. As well as food, it needs constant access to a hot beverage of its preference (either coffee or tea). Be sure to keep a mug of this beverage filled at all times. Your writer will naturally want to dress in combat boots, flannels, sweaters, and comfortable pants so keep a plentiful supply within its reach. It will usually begin to prepare for sleep in the early, pre-dawn hours of the morning. (Please note: it will be in a perpetual state of tiredness. This does not mean it needs rest and it will most likely be resistant to rest.) Prepare your writer a 42

comfortable sleeping area. This should be in a warm environment and include blankets and pillows. Candles or incense should be burned in the home during the day or the writer may become distressed. It will rarely express a desire for affection, but its social behavior focuses mainly on winning the attention of its caretaker. Your writer will busy itself easily with pens, notebooks, crossword puzzles, show tunes, and classic novels. Chapter 2: Training Your Writer In order to live in harmony with its caretaker, your writer must be trained. The key is to find the perfect balance of discipline and praise. When it does something good, reward it with a high five and a small snack. When it misbehaves, firmly tell it “no” or “stop”. If the behavior persists, consider limiting reading time or confiscating a notebook. Inappropriate behaviors include: cursing at or physically abusing inanimate objects out of frustration, spending extensive time reading/writing erotic fanfiction, disruptively high levels of attitude, and neglecting to shower for multiple days in a row. The first necessary skill a writer must learn is how to appropriately interact with other people. Teach your writer proper conversation etiquette such as; eye contact, conversation topics outside of the fictional realm, and which words are considered too complex or pretentious for casual use. A more alarming habit that many writers develop is the practice of running away from home without any supplies, direction, or apparent goal. This is a dangerous behavior so the writer must be trained to heel to its caretaker upon command, considering their underdeveloped sense of danger and self-preservation. Your writer is unable to sustain itself without supervision and must stay in a protected environment with an attentive caretaker at all times. They may use excuses pertaining to “research,”, “character study,” or “adventure.” When instructing it to heel, at first prompt it with a reward (i.e., its favorite book, warmth, sweets). With time, the writer will stay in place without influence. 43

Chapter 3: FAQs • Why does my writer talk to itself? The explanation for this phenomenon is unknown, while it is observed by many owners of writers. All that is known is that it is not detrimental to the writer’s health and may aid in organizing its thoughts and keeping it sane, and should not be cause for concern. • Why hasn’t my writer slept or left its desk in days? This practice is referred to as a “creative spurt” and the writer should be left alone and uninterrupted until it ceases. It has encountered a breakthrough in its work and any distraction could cause it to lose its train of thought and prevent it from finishing the piece. • My writer stormed out of the room and declared it is “done w ith writing.”. What do I do? Writer’s block invokes frustration in the creature and the inability to start, continue, or finish a piece or a general lack of inspiration gives it the impression that its future in writing is barren and it has no abilities in the art. Its response is to give up the practice entirely. Reassure your writer that its work is excellent and that this feeling will pass. • Why does my writer speak in metaphors? As a collective species, writers often respond to their environments and other external stimuli by comparing it to something they understand by means of a metaphor. This keeps them from becoming overwhelmed. • What does it mean when I ask my writer something and it responds with silence and a death glare? This kind of response signals extreme agitation and the writer should be left alone for a number of hours before it is safe to approach. • I can’t understand the big words my writer uses. This is normal. Writers have an excess knowledge of vocabulary and take immense pride in being able to speak intelligently. 44

They use these words in everyday conversation to assert their superiority. Caroline Tobin is a professional band and theatre geek, and resides in the Stoughton High School band room for most of her waking hours. She has also christened herself a Beatles enthusiast. She enjoys Netflix and dogs. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pretty much it. From this class she has gained a new confidence in her writing.

Nonfiction In our class we looked at a wide range nonfiction writing styles including journalism, memoir, graphic memoir, map-making, recipe-memoir, poetry, and flash. Some of our lessons were nonfiction specific (like the creation of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Iâ&#x20AC;?), but in many we worked on skills like sensory description, characterization and editing that could be applied to any genre. As we moved into workshopping, the pieces students chose to share inspired conversations about how a workshop for a piece in poem form might differ from a workshop for an essay, and how thinking about what the author wants to accomplish with a piece should guide the discussion. Our students this semester were creative, ambitious and smart. We were impressed with their willingness to put personal experiences on paper and open up to each other. In workshops we saw them be helpful and generous with each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work, noticing the best of what was already on the page, as well as the potential for improvement. In response to our prompts and readings, most of our students produced work that reflects the history of their families or themselves, both historically and recently. There were many memories shared in the classroom during writing and brainstorming activities, and many of these memories or details appear in the final pieces of writing they submitted to this anthology. We also encouraged our students to allow their experience with writing nonfiction to take any form they desired.

Faculty Bios

Jenn Keogh is a second-year MFA candidate in Emerson College’s Creative Writing program in Poetry. This is her first year with emersonWRITES and, despite living 50 miles away, she is elated to spend her Saturday mornings with the young writers and instructors who make this program possible. As a poet, Jenn finds nonfiction to be a more frightening and exploratory way of finding one’s voice on the page and has learned quite a bit of bravery from her students this year. Aside from emersonWRITES and the MFA, she spends most of her time collecting books and following the instructions of her spirit animal: Taylor Swift’s cat. This is Kayleigh Shoen’s first year teaching in emersonWRITES. She is an instructor in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College and an MFA candidate in the school’s Creative Writing program in Fiction. Kayleigh enjoys teaching nonfiction because she’s inspired by the bravery and honesty her students bring to the page. She’s very thankful to all the emersonWRITES students who gave up their Saturdays to write with us.

Dajuan Frasier 12th Grade, East Boston High School The nonfiction class has really shown me different ways to approach writing. I had only been writing for a few months when classes began, but emersonWRITES has given me a strong foundation to start writing and has been vital in helping me explore my passions. I learned to have fun writing nonfiction and because I’m a poet three out of the seven days of the week I decided to write this piece about my parents and what their characters and circumstances mean to me.

Irresponsible Adults There are times when my mother’s eyes seem drifty Drifty in the sense that her mind seems to float off somewhere Like a carcass of whale washed ashore She seems hollow I sense there is something wrong As though there is some dispute in her heart That the Bible or even God couldn’t settle When she watches TV her gaze says I’m tired of seeing this I know because I’ve seen it before After the second incident where blood and oxygen decided to take a vacation from my mother’s brain She began to prioritize her health Over her happiness making joy less familiar Now my father is a different story Last time I saw him he was Wearing this all white suit: a refrigerator with limbs Running on an enigmatic source of confidence I expected an apology but if I’m anything like my father Our mouths were probably far too restrained by pride to say how we really felt 50

That’s just how we are Pride holds our tongues hostage but still hasn’t offered a ransom note Locking closure in a dark basement and throwing away the key But there is comfort in the past When Charles Frasier was still MC Throwdown He had generic yet unique sound Like Eazy-E and Run DMC Yet so much like the father I’ve always wanted that Forgotten names and owed apologies Meant alot less than what it means to Give Him Respect. I’d Like to imagine that my parents had this romantic meeting where they looked into each others eyes to see an arrangement of sunsets and shooting stars with adoration present in the absence of their voices Imagine how happy a child born out of that type of love would be Not that I would know My parents have made so many mistakes That I’m not sure if they were even supposed to meet If traits are passed Like water from the roots to the soil Then wouldn’t that make me just as Susceptible to those mistakes as well? Or would it mean I’d have my father’s presence, and my mother’s strength?

Dajaun lost the lottery and so he attends East Boston High School. Dajuan Frasier only has 14 followers on Tumblr and can always use some more. His tumblr url is http://ithefrasier.tumblr.com. Dajuan wants to go to Warped Tour this summer but is too poor. Dajuan will work for money. Dajuan also plans on going to college to study English and maybe become a teacher because why not?

Cheyanne Fullen 11th Grade, Revere High School Before being a part of emersonWRITES, I always found it particularly difficult to write about myself. You don’t want to come off as cocky or conceited, yet you also don’t want to be too hard on yourself (which I tend to be). After participating in the nonfiction class, I learned a lot about my own writing; especially that establishing your voice in your work doesn’t have to be challenging or awkward because embracing the character of “I” can be just as exciting as making up a fictional story. In life, we are always waiting for what will come next. We’re excited for the weekend, summer vacation, Christmas, our birthdays, graduation, but in waiting, too many of us forget to enjoy the present. High school students today are constantly forced to think about our futures, our ideas of our somedays, but someday may never come unless we stop and focus on every day before that. Don’t Miss Your Someday Have you ever looked at something and thought, “that’s where I want to be someday,” whether it be a destination such as a place on a map, a photograph in a magazine or maybe even a mood like happy, content, or loved? I think we’ve all imagined this beautiful idea of someday. I know I have. But what really is someday? When is this magical day when all of our dreams come true and we’ll be perfectly satisfied? When in our lives is everything going to fall into place? Will it be someday or will it be today? Can one decision you make today change or alter your someday? Of course it can. There are people out there that do not take advantage of the life they have right now, I definitely know plenty of teenagers that would rather be out partying every weekend and spending their money on weed than simply enjoying the company of those around them or say, visiting a few 52

colleges if that’s the path you want to take. I’ve actually seen my friends fall under the pressure, join the wrong crowd, and ultimately ruin whatever somedays they had in mind. Then there are also those who die young, what about them? In a world where almost everything is uncertain, shouldn’t we be making the most out of this very moment, you know, living life to the fullest as they say? Nothing is worse than a wasted opportunity, so why waste your time waiting for someday when you can make that day today? Being a junior in high school, I’ve had to do a lot of thinking about where I want to be someday, but the idea of this day has always seemed so far away to me. The common phrase, “So Cheyanne, are you thinking about college?” is not only something I’ve heard at almost every family event since I started high school, from almost every family member, but also from my parents, guidance counselors, teachers, and coaches. I remember one time my aunt asked me what field I was planning on pursuing. I was tempted to go with the usual, “Umm I’m not really sure yet” to avoid the conversation all together and she probably would’ve replied with “Oh that’s okay sweetie, you have plenty of time to decide” like most polite adults, but people are always much more interested and impressed when you have a plan. “I think I’d like to go into journalism or possibly book editing,” I answered proudly. She was shocked that I had everything figured out, but I really didn’t. She started calling over a bunch of other aunts and uncles to discuss the subject and I immediately wished I’d gone with the generic answer. Then, I caught a glimpse of my dad during the conversation and he seemed to be glowing with pride. This is the exact moment I knew it was all worth it, and that it wouldn’t be fair to me or to anyone else who helped me get where I am today to not take every opportunity that comes my way. Everything I have ever worked for is to get into a “good” college and then of course a “good” job–the long hours of homework, the cramming for midterms and finals, the stressing out about grades, and of course, the constant fear of failure, I’ve been through it all. I want to be big and successful, just like most other seventeen year old kids trying to plan their somedays, but that doesn’t mean I have everything entirely figured out and to 53

be honest, I’m not sure that I ever will. I just know that I want to move away and live on my own. Buying a one way ticket has always seemed like such an exhilarating, yet terrifying thing to do, somewhat like writing. I can’t wait to find a small apartment overlooking a new city, major in something I’m passionate about, decide which furniture I want and what I want for dinner, create art, run a cool blog about my life, travel and meet new people, and maybe even fall in love. I just can’t wait to have my own adventures, to make it on my own and find myself along the way, even if I don’t end up exactly where I headed for. Sometimes the idea of the future, someday, is the only thing getting us through the present. Despite that, I believe we should make today our somedays because before we know it someday will actually be today and then someday will be tomorrow and one day, waiting for someday will be too late. Cheyanne Fullen is a junior at Revere High School. She plays two sports, softball and volleyball and is a part of several clubs such as speech and debate, student council, and French honors society. Like every teenage girl, she’s dealing with the roller coaster of stress that is high school while binge watching Netflix and eating way too much Chipotle. She also loves to write, duh!

Toni Harris 12th Grade, Another Course to College

My experience attending the emersonWRITES Program was very interesting. Though I already knew most of the criteria that was being taught, I still was able to learn from others. I enjoyed being able to write from different perspectives concerning my own self.

Her First Time Becoming accustomed to following the rules of others was the first time she allowed herself, beautiful brown almond-shaped eye to be the puppeteer of their entertainments. Not presenting herself as master of her actions, bruised from all the bracketed labels given to her caused her to be fragile, broken and ashamed It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t her first time feeling that way, it was her twenty-something-th time going through love and hatred, smile and frowns the same obstacles of herself fighting her decisions that only painted her future, deemed small and round with the possibility of not standing up to those surrounding her. She hopes that one day she can come to accept who she is: love herself, be strong, remember her upbringings, 56

remember her downfalls and her success. Then maybe, just maybe, she will And It will become her last first time.

Toni is an eighteen-year-old senior in high school. She has a passion for writing poems, stories and opinion pieces. A goal she has is to become a successful journalist at ESSENCE Magazine dealing with the struggles of being an African-American woman in this world that likes to sweep discrimination under the rug.

Larryssa Jean-Jules 11th Grade, Boston Preparatory Charter Public School

This poem focuses on the emotions and reactions of my family from when my brother went off to the military to when he returned home.

Welcome Home Soldier He’s the oldest of five Three brothers and one sister You’d think if one brother left the ‘safe house’ It wouldn’t be that big of a deal I mean, there’s still three left It can’t be that bad...right? August twenty-fourth First to come home, and first to leave home How long will he be gone? Will he be back in time for my birthday tomorrow? When will he come back? Days? Weeks? Months? YEARS? No one had the answers that day. February eighteenth Is that him? 58

No it can’t be. Wait, it is! Wow, it’s been four years. He looks so much more mature. Does he remember me? That’s a silly question, of course he does. What if he’s completely different? What should I ask him? (Careless laughs are shared between my younger siblings As looks of satisfaction plaster the faces of my parents) A six foot tall man in a Red Sox baseball cap walks up to the side of the SUV. “Here he comes…” Welcome Home Soldier.

Larryssa Jean-Jules is a junior in high school at Boston Preparatory Charter Public School (BPCPS) located in Hyde Park. When not in school, she can be found performing somewhere in the greater Boston area with her other fellow musicians. Larryssa has dreams of attending a college in New York City and to work as journalist. However, on a lazy day, she can be found devouring Skittles from the comfort of her bed while informing herself of the latest events from around the world.

Samatha Langmead 12th Grade, Stoughton High School Last year for the emersonWRITES showcase, I wrote my anthology piece on my two years in my school’s drama department, going from my first year onstage to spending my junior year as the Assistant Stage Manager. This is a continuation of where last year’s piece left off in my drama department life–now a senior, a co-president of the department, but still just as involved with theatre as before.

A Year Behind the Scenes It was a common question that I was used being asked: when was I going to go back onstage? I had been involved in theatre and performing for as long as I could remember, but during my junior year of high school, I decided to take a production role as Assistant Stage Manager instead of appearing on stage. I loved the work and organization that came with the job, all of the writing of each actor’s placement on the stage and knowing every single thing about the show was a dream for me. Every night, I got to watch all of my friends sing their solos, perform the choreography, and run through the scenes. From my spot at the edge of the stage I saw the show come together from pages of a script to a production. So when my director met with me about our fall play and asked if I wanted to go back onstage, a big part of me was hesitant. I loved stage managing, I loved being on the production team, why would I want to leave that? As the actors became their characters each night, I would think to myself how perfect the casting for each role was, and I was so happy that each person was in their respective roles. If I was onstage, would that mean someone else would not have been cast? In those moments when I found myself thinking that, I saw my role as offstage, encouraging the rest of the department to audition for everything possible and to reach for those metaphorical stars, words that ironically I said so often to everyone else but never to 60

myself. As much as I loved performing onstage, and as much as my friends and family wanted me to audition, I knew that I wanted to do one last show on the production team before returning to the stage for my senior spring musical. When the idea of student-directing the fall play was brought up, my decision was finalized: that was what I wanted to do. I had never thought about directing in the past, but after spending a year stage managing, and now as one of the copresidents of the department, my director thought that I would do a great job in that position. I was incredibly nervous at first, I started with stuttering out stage directions, using hand motions to represent what character emotions I was trying to get the actors to portray because, even with my past experience, I suddenly seemed to forget how to communicate with actors. But within a few weeks, I felt as if I had been directing for even longer, and the cast and crew told me that they saw the switch in me, and I could feel it too. I loved directing more than I ever could have imagined. I had the opportunity to work with so many new people that I would not have known otherwise, I watched first time performers grow from quietly reading their monologues off of papers to performing them proudly in front of the audience. During the shows, I got to watch from the audience, which made the “watch it all come together” part of it all even greater, and there were many points where I almost started to cry because I was just so proud of how far every person in the show had come from day one, whether their “day one” was two months earlier or two years. When it was time for the musical, I finally had to choose if I wanted to go back onstage. We already had a student director and two stage managers, so I felt as if I did not exactly have a choice, but my director encouraged me to go back onstage, since it was my last show. It was announced that we would be performing “The Wedding Singer,” which was my dream show for the drama department. I spent the entire fall semester asking if we could do it because I believed that it was the perfect show for our talented cast. Because of how much I love the show and how much I would not stop talking about how exciting and perfect the show was solidified everyone’s urging to for me to audition. 61

At auditions, I suddenly had a boost of confidence. I wanted to do everything that I had not done for over a year. I kept practicing the dance audition and even auditioned for a featured dancer role, just to see if I could do it. I’m not a dancer and I had not been on stage for a year, but I told myself that if I made a fool of myself, these people had seen me do worse. Weeks later, I may still not be a great dancer, but I am back to singing, acting, and dancing onstage, something that most people would not have imagined for me last year. When I’m with the drama department, I completely forget about everything else in the world, and I just focus on the show we are working on and all of the memories we are making. Anyone who has spoken to me knows that I would do anything for the drama department– whether it is staying at the school until 11:30 PM to help out just to come back seven hours later for classes or making sure that everyone has a place to stay in between school and rehearsals. My three years with drama have gone by incredibly fast. I could just as easily have written about how much I have changed from my sophomore year to now. But the most important thing about being in the drama department, I’ve learned, is that you learn so much more than just working as a group. The drama department becomes a family to you, and that is what makes it so hard to leave. Sam Langmead is a senior at Stoughton High School. She loves to write, which one could expect since this is her second year in emersonWRITES. She is one of the co-presidents of her school’s drama department, and is known for her love of Broadway musicals. Often found talking to herself and turning sentences into six-second songs, which she attributes to being a creative theatre kid, she “just really loves the drama department a lot” and thanks them for being the subject of her anthology submission, and many other pieces of writing, for both years.

Hailey Norton 10th Grade, Revere High School These classes have taught me how to successfully write nonfiction, which was not my strongest area of writing. I have learned how to tell my own stories and successfully demonstrate a purpose and an audience. I feel much more comfortable writing this genre now and will use it to my full advantage.

Hypotheticals Questions, questions, questions. No answers. You riddle your mind and search your fingertips. You must have it. You must. “Keep writing, Keep writing” You tell yourself. Because then you’ll understand. Then you’ll find the answers. But they never come. So you write and write and search and search. But what if you’ve been searching in all the wrong places. And what if you don’t have access to the right places? Where is he? Another bed, another life. You begin to question everything. You’re losing sight of the person you used to be. But is that bad? You’re always scared you’ll lose him, Because now you have something to lose. You’re always scared that you’re saying the wrong thing, 64

Because sometimes you don’t know what to say. But is there ever a right thing to say? And are you worrying for nothing? Do you have anything to lose this much sleep over? Does he think about you as much as you think about him? And that may sound like you’re not hopeful, But who could be? When the one person who can answer your questions, Is a world away from you? What if you hold the question and not the answer? What if you hold the question and he has the answer? What if you are the question and the answer? If you do everything right, Will he reward you with the answers? But once your questions are answered and the mystery is solved, You fear it would have all been for nothing. Are you naive and stupid for asking all of these questions? Should you should know all the answers? But how can you if you never ask him? And how do you know if he will help you answer them once you do? And as you defile your mind with all of these hypotheticals, You will keep expecting things from him. You will keep asking questions and expecting answers. You will keep on wanting more mystery. But that’s all we are; We are questions upon questions trying to struggle through. We are trying to find our pair, our match, our answer. These thoughts are what make us take risks and try new things.

So you will write and question. Days turn into evenings And evenings turn into nights. Wasting hours on one question. But never will you find answers. And you will think and hypothesize, But in reality, you live for the rush.

Hailey Norton is a sophomore at Revere High School. She loves to pretend that she can dance and is at Chipotle more than she is at home. She also considers Shakespeare to be her second Dad.

Samantha Rosa 10th Grade, Revere High School

Throughout this course at emersonWRITES, I have been introduced to ways of writing and drawing nonfiction I never knew possible. This piece includes experiences from my freshman year in reverse chronology.

Freshman Year I love early June, not yet officially summer, but just getting there. There are still cool breezes in the backyard that carry away your worry and golden sunshine streaming in through the window igniting the words on your page. The teachers weren’t being any easier, but it didn’t really matter, it was almost over. It was the last day of school, but what consumed my thoughts was the memory of the white-washed building that kept my friend enclosed inside it. Walking down the hallway, footsteps echoing on the linoleum floors, the pale yellow walls were a sad attempt to create some cheer. Gliding past the patient’s rooms, I peered in through the small square windows into bare rooms with beds bolted to the ground and barricaded windows. Sitting down in green foam chairs with mysterious stains, I fixed my visitor’s badge and waited. She could keep running away from her problems as long as she liked, but I would keep waiting. When I look at people who have lived through decades, a year is nothing. But really, time is all perception. A year can be as quick or as long as you make it to be and the distinct kind of scenarios can make the time feel a certain length. If a year is broken down, looked closely at with a magnifying glass, we can see the cracks that broke up a relationship or the lines that drew us to another person. When I look back at my freshman year, I think, “Wow, how it flew by.” But like flipping through the 68

captured moments on a camera and scrolling through all the memories silently in my head, I think about how long it felt to me while living it. Books were always preferable to people and making new friends never came easily to me. Since the beginning of middle school, I was kept in the same honors class and being broken up was an unsettling prospect. As a tiny middle school student, reading quietly in the corner, my best friends helped to bring me out of my shell, but also contributed to my lack of social behavior. I was so used to one group of friends I quickly realized how hard it was to acclimate to different jokes, different questions and different interests. I saw some familiar faces, but none that I necessarily enjoyed in my classes. With a freshman class close to five hundred, I knew the odds of having classes with my closest friends were slim to none, and unfortunately I was correct. However, in order to have company at a lunch table or the occasional companion in the hallway, you actually have to talk. Slowly but surely I started joining in on conversations or sharing a laugh with my peers. I had never been exposed to so many people on a daily basis before and suddenly, I was bombarded with so many personalities, backgrounds and cultures that it was almost dizzying. But eventually I started to realize that I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the only one experiencing this new environment, everyone was unnerved. Some just knew how to hide their fear better than others. Going to an urban public school, it was easy to fall into the wrong crowd. I searched through the piles of failed report cards and crossed through the valley of sweet-smelling smoke to find people that wanted to thrive. The people you surround yourself with do really rub off on you, and I prefer to be around people that not only listen to me, but motivate me as well. I recently read somewhere that energies are contagious, and I completely agree. It might have just been my teenage superiority complex, but I had always felt slightly disconnected from death as if I was untouchable from it. Halfway through my freshman year, I quickly learned how untrue that was. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until I found out one of my closest friends had committed multiple suicide attempts that I realized how easily the black swirling storm clouds can smother beams of light. With the kind of radiance she gave off it was 69

hard to believe it was all fabricated; she wrote brilliant poetry, laughed all day long, and seemed fully present. Her light surrounded me and mesmerized me until I learned it wasn’t sunshine, it was a UV light that could easily be turned off. I wonder if she felt how close she was to death; if she knew it had arrived on her doorstep. Every time the blood dripped from her wrists to the ground, did she feel the darkness coming closer? One day we went down into the basement of her house and she expressed how her sadness never stopped flowing out of her. The walls closed in around us as the secrets she had guarded for so long finally floated into the air, filling up the space we were in. I read the notes she intended to leave behind and the tears flowed out of me the same way the sadness flowed out of her. I wondered what lead her to this point, how can you look at the world and only see emptiness? How easy it is to perceive people the wrong way. I saw her five days a week and never would have had a clue had she not confided in me. I fully believe that it is better to have sporadic spurts of happiness than to not have the chance to ever experience it again. Happiness is not a sustainable state because then finding it in those special moments wouldn’t be as significant. It is because it is so rare to have that “truly alive” feeling that we can recognize it so grandly when it is happening, or maybe just after. I do not know if she will ever be happy but I hope she continues to strive for it. Having the strength to come back from the edge of a cliff just shows how the mind can recover. We are reparable as long as we are alive. The great thing about looking back at a period of time is the ability to reflect upon it. My first year of high school was not something I enjoyed–weakness, insecurity, doubt, need I say more?–and yet, it could have been so much worse. I joined a sports team for the first time in my life, met a teacher who encouraged my writing, and even made new friends with minimal casualties. Freshman year was a challenge, but after each new experience, knowledge was gained. Even if some of it hurts, we decide how badly we get torn, eventually the cells will reproduce and mend the ripped flesh. Walking into the first day of my freshman year, I was a pasty, sweaty mess (alright, that might still be true), but emotions were running higher than usual. I had been lulled into a false sense of 70

security and the blanket that shielded me in middle school was ripped off and shredded my first day of high school. Not knowing where I was going and feeling the heat of bodies pushing against me, swelling around me, rising above me, I wanted the day to end. The fluorescent lights burned my eyes and the plastic chairs dug into my back. I felt the weight of the gazes of the upperclassmen, assessing me, “Is she worth it?” The awkward, “Should I wave to them?” The confused, “Um, where do I find this classroom?” But by the end of the day, I saw my friends waiting for me outside, ready for the walk home. One hundred and seventy-nine days left to go. I smiled and left the aging stone that would eventually contain four years of memories within, behind me. Samantha Rosa is a sophomore at Revere High School and an avid book enthusiast. She dreams of someday attending a top university with her cat and joining the team of a major publishing house.

Karmen Situ 12th Grade, Charlestown High School

Who We Are My great-grandma was a Chinese woman. She lived her 98year life in the same country, the same village, even the same place. The furthest place she had traveled to was the province next to her hometown. She was used to being quiet. She had small feet that could not walk quickly. She was diligent, but had never worked outside of her field or her house. She gave birth of many children, but only two of them survived. She devoted her whole life for her family. This is how almost all of the Chinese women lived their life in the very beginning of the twentieth century. Once upon a time, I asked my grandma how she knew my grandpa and became married to him. My grandma gave me an answer very quickly, she did not take a second to think about it. “My family told me he is such a good guy that I should be married to.” I was shocked. I asked “Did you say no?” Grandma shook her head slowly with a look of disappointment. “I didn’t have a chance to say no. I had no choice, too. I was told to obey when I grow up. Every single girl in my family was told to do so. We were raised not to talk aloud. We were told that we should be a great wife and mother. We had to be good at cooking and give up our life to our family. All of my sisters married the men that pleased my parents.” This is how most Chinese women lived their lives in the mid-twentieth century. I can’t imagine how I would feel with a tough life like my great-grandma and my grandma had. My great-grandma passed away in 2011. There were a lot of women who had the same experience and story as my grandma in Asia. The first impression 72

of the Asian woman always is quiet, diligent, and obedient. They were not themselves because they lived in the boxes that people had set for them. They lived in rules and rules, blocks and blocks. Nowadays, I live in the U.S. with my family. My parents considered the better education and living conditions in the U.S. But being raised in a traditional Chinese family created conflicts growing inside of me. My mother would never want to see me in a mini-skirt during the summer time and she would never allow me to stay overnight at someone’s home in China. She thinks mini-skirts are too short, too improper and too much for girls my age. In my calculus class, my classmates and even some of my teachers sometimes give credit to my being an Asian girl because of my good grades, “That’s what a Chinese girl does well, right? You always work harder than the boys.” “You come from China? You must be good in math.” For the first time I sat down with my mom on a couch and talked about the mini-skirt and tried to convince her that a miniskirt is just casual apparel for girls. For the first time I cleared my voice and told my teachers and classmates that I did well in calculus is because I work hard every day instead of having a gift in math from my Chinese ancestors. Instead of doing calculus, I am more interested in reading and writing. As an Asian-American girl today in the twenty-first century, l can choose to be with the person who I love. I have the right to speak my voice out loud. And I have the chance to choose my own life and tell my own stories. I would never have the same life as my grandma’s. But I also know clearly: it won’t be easy. That is why I am here today. That is why I am speaking up for Asian-American women. We are trying to support each other and every Asian-American girl just like us to overcome the difficulties and the differences between Asian and American cultures. We are going to break the rules and the first impression that people always have about Asian-American girls. We do not have to keep quiet. We don’t have to be good in mathematics. We are not going to spend our whole lives dedicated to our families and kept away from society. We want to be independent and strong. We are proud of who we are. Of course we do know there are always obstacles and 73

challenges on our way, but we have to keep going. That is why we are here. We wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop. We never stop.

Karmen is a Chinese-American student enrolled in Charlestown High School. She is an ESL student who came to emersonWRITES as a suggestion from one of her teachers.

Michaela Williams 12th grade, Stoughton High School I have always loved creative nonfiction whether it be a film or a novel or poetry, but especially writing it. This year, I have been given the privilege to strengthen my skills as a writer not only creatively, but analytically as well through emersonWRITES. Both of my parents are mixed, and I grew up with a wide variety of cultures to identify with. Prior to the 1900’s, only my dad’s father’s family was in America, outside of Savannah, Georgia working as sharecroppers. They descended from the Mandinka tribe in Gambia, which is located in West Africa. His mother’s family was in a southern part of Germany, called Bavaria, where Munich is located. My mom’s parents’ families were in Cape Verde and Lisbon, Portugal.

Tangled Roots I am hidden stars of piercing blue eyes in Bavarian poorhouses Where grim reapers storm in uniform, “what is your name?” I am thickened hands of lion manes on Georgian sharecrop fields Where crescents were crossed and prisoners were made I am dreams of luminescent hearts on the Iberian Peninsula Where our last name was what it should have been I am the melting pot of an exotic archipelago residing off West Africa Where cultures were compiled and compressed into one Ambiguous title: Cape Verdean Catholic disguise as morning sky falls Curled ginger hair Kronthaler swears “no Jews in here” Whilst her daughter’s father freezes for a cause They don’t know he believes in Because no one can light the menorah 76

Early sunrise on the plantation Kunta Kinte’s Kin flees north of New York City Jim Crow made a brand new destination So they’re part of The Great Migration But it’s really because Mr. Williams Didn’t want to see Emmett Till as his grandson Você fala Inglês? “Sorry, we are Portuguese” Blonde and blue eyed Tanned and dark haired “Same mother, same father” Vasconcelos de Falcan is far too long So they change it to Filkins like we’re British Sephardic last name Ambiguous face We say we’re from Brava and Fogo But no one really knows when your home Served as a trading port for decades But it’s not like we’d know it’s our home anymore Because the Europeans found the beaches After we thought our island was free Let the rain fall down on my family’s blood For the man who froze at Stalingrad For the man who claimed “Negro love” Let the rain fall down to cleanse every son Let it fall down on Catholicism Let it fall down on Anglicized names Let it fall down on lost culture Let it fall down on the things I may never know Let the rain fall down on my family’s blood. Michaela Williams is a senior at Stoughton High School and performs in the drama department there. She mostly identifies as a beatnik, even though most of her friends and acquaintances mistake her as a hipster, and James Dean is her spirit animal. 77

Poetry Workshop: Being a Linebreaker Linebreaker was an idea we had when conceptualizing what kind of poetry course we wanted to teach. Though formalist ideas of structure, rhyme schemes, meter, etc. are all important pieces to pick up when exploring the art of poetry, we wanted to instead emphasize the liveliness and energy that forms the core of creative expression. Being a Linebreaker is about breaking rules, going against the grain. It is about seeing the empowerment in the rhythm of word choice and the music behind line construction. Over the course of the year, we explored new ways of seeing what poetry can be capable of in the 21st century. We used exercises to collaborate on poetry projects, pulling one line from each student’s individual poems to create a mosaic of associative meaning. We brought ourselves into blocked off private spaces and performing a “poetry bombing” where students wrote lines of on ripped pieces of paper and stuck them all over the 12th floor of the Ansin Building, addressing the faculty, staff, and students who frequent there. We had guest speakers, showed alternative cultural representations, and explored ideas such as identity, race, class, death, and beauty. We wanted to make poetry real, but the ones who made it real were the poets themselves. We will let their work speak for itself.

Faculty Bios Johnette Marie Ellis calls Boston home. She worked in the non-profit sector for 10 years, serving primarily as a community builder and advocate for the redistribution of power and access through programs and policy. Now Johnette has her sights set on harnessing the power and influence of creativity as an educator and poet. She’s an MFA candidate at Emerson College in Poetry, looking for new strategies and questions to nurture a mission-driven path. Currently she works with emersonWRITES as a poetry teacher and as an instructor in Emerson’s First-Year Writing Program. Ultimately she wants to support others as they seek to discover their superpowers yet she hasn’t quite found her own. Jordan Pailthorpe is a second- year emersonWRITES instructor, adjunct faculty member in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College and producer at the Emerson Engagement Lab. His poetic work explores the intersection between game worlds and reality, as well as work, class, and nostalgia. He tries to incorporate the poetic elements into his game projects and create game frameworks within his poetry. He will receive his MFA in May of 2015 and you can explore some of his work in the journal CartridgeLit or on his own personal website.

Masai Ahmad 12th Grade, Tech Boston Academy

I wrote this poem in light of Mike Brown’s murder. It was my attempt to put what happened into perspective and to get people to realize we are all KINGS and QUEENS.

THE ROYALS I am constantly accused of being extreme But how extreme is my television screen? Cop kills a black teenager, They set him free Meanwhile youngs selling nickel bags of weed claiming that, “I’m never sleepin’!,” cause I’m out here chasin’ dreams! He’s a King but they whipped him of his name and the person they replaced, that’s who he became. and illuminati got half of you people froze while this Evil that’s around me is attaching to my soul. GOD must be hearing me though Cause if not, then it would have filled me until I had to explode!

I don’t trust Nor am I attracted to hoes why is it you lack ambition? You just after his goals You was after his cream, He was after his own some females plot and they scheme I swear half of them pros That’s why I need me a Queen who has established her role. The missin’ piece to the puzzle, she just crackin’ the code Masai Ahmad is a senior at Tech Boston Academy and a first year emersonWRITES student.

Danielle Betano 11th Grade, Mystic Valley Regional Charter School Within the emersonWRITES program I’ve learned to be a more visual writer and to use space on a page to my own advantage. I’ve also learned that poems tend to write themselves, rather than vice versa.

tell me I’m pretty so I can sleep at night The gleam of a TV screen glows onto the white walls in glorious technicolor, illuminating constellations buried deep underneath my skin I stare blankly at the blue-lit story playing for me, seeing so much, perceiving so little Nothing is quite right but is anything ever quite right for anyone? dumb thoughts. Baby clock tells me it is past my bedtime. I’m on the edge of reality about to topple into a new fantasy where I’m not here, not right now at least Maybe instead I can be one of those starlets on the Silver Screen Maybe instead you could call me Maybe instead I should skip town, hitch a ride to wherever the stars in my eyes came from Instead I’ll just put on lipstick and kiss the mirror

anatomy of my bitter love lips. dripping with disdain, scowling at something you said eyes. heavily lashed, gripping your being making you feel like she has hands wrapped around your throat and she’s not letting go yet. breath forming words, beautiful words that turn to howls at the moon, in the rain you say, “i might love you” she says, “don’t” and you can see a glimpse into that soul that you can never catch slipping through your fingers like water she’s not coming back any time soon she doesn’t give a shit about you so sure, leave that cage door to your heart open but don’t expect the bait you left to be there when you return and don’t expect the contents to be in one piece you can’t touch her but she left the acid she spits on your lungs and now you’re burnt and bleeding

Danielle Bettano is a junior at Mystic Valley Regional Charter School. This is her first year at emersonWRITES. She does not like to speak about herself, but hopes her work will speak for her.

Marie-Helen Carr 11th Grade, Boston Latin Academy

This class has helped me grow as a writer, building my confidence in what I am capable of. My submitted poem was something I was inspired to write in class on the topic of goodbyes and how they are not always meant to be melancholy.

Remembering The grass, once green and lush, now shaded and torn apart. An open field, now home to hundreds upon thousands. No one is alone, but it feels awfully lonely. Although no words are uttered, the air holds no silence. Whispered apologies float through the trees, and the emotional rain helps the flowers grow. We are gathered here today, not to let it pour, and not to say goodbye, but to welcome our brothers and sisters to their new life. This is not goodbye. This is not an ending. This is simply a new beginning. Marie-Helen Carr is seventeen.-years-old. Born under an Aquarius sun and Aries moon, she would rather pick flowers than fights and doesn’t exist without the help of her morning coffee. She began her love affair with words at the age of eight and after much consideration is now generally trying to write in shorter sentences. 88

Nia Dorsey 10th Grade, Concord Carlisle Regional High School This poem was written late at night and connected 3 different poems into one on the ideas of love, acceptance, and self-care.

it collapsed Standing at the crown the cement queen a crumbling kingdom watching every fracture come into existence crevices created so they could view the dilapidated construction within She had hit Soft with a crash crimson asbestos surrounding her body When falling before It was prepared pillows laid in the lobby Â of these 2 story buildings instead of skyscrapers But it had caught her off guard forgetting all of previous precautions allowing each rupture to spread every aspect of the descent was harsh and contemporary 90

spreading throughout the city of building who had been Â indistinguishable from hers

Nia Dorsey is a sophomore at Concord Carlisle Regional High School. This is her second year in the emersonWRITES program and first in poetry. She loves writing poetry and singing.

Abi Fisk 12th Grade, Mystic Valley Regional Charter School,

In my second year at emersonWRITES, I learned the power of the workshop. While poetry is, in essence, your own thoughts and feelings verbalized, those of others can help greatly in polishing off a perfectly pretentious piece of poetry. I also deepened my love of alliteration.

(personal) a person is a poem composed of muscle and bone; a low-maintenance love affair living between the sheets Do not forget me whose inky, wet tears stain with a purposeto brand me not always on the mind like that tattoo I had forgotten about always there I will not forget you

(of paper)

(with words)

Another Poem about the Moon The moon speaks to poets in a contrived eloquence only paralleled by the subsequent succession of waves crashing against one-another during a storm at sea She speaks to the artist with an unutterable profundity that renders the pen useless, while the skyline canvas yearns for the soft bristles of a brush to caress them once more To the bard, she calls in rhythmically hypnotic hums that so enchant the harps and lyres to spew inspired melodies alike She speaks to the philosophers, the wanderers, the ponderers, the meaning-seekers, and those meaker along with the common manAll of whom find their eyes pulled nightly to her sirenesque countenance an innumerable, omnipresent audienceThe moon speaks to all

#Tags4Likes only a heart and a thumb only capable of believing the message: youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re only as good as your best selfie #nomakeup #nofilter #nopurpose Valencia renders us worthless in a society that succeeds on social media surplus remove the filter and resurface repurposeevolve into more than a heart and a thumb

Abi-Jean Fisk is a senior at Mystic Valley Regional Charter School. Her passions include writing, photographing her hamster, criticizing cinema, and listening to Scottish rap. Someday, she hopes to be the next great pioneer in genetic therapy and write scientific journals. Or she just hopes to be happy.

Justin Garcia 11th Grade, Urban Science Academy My first year of emersonWRITES was great. I joined believing I’d be the best because I am an emcee, but I met people far beyond my skills. It pushed me to improve and the environment I took in was refreshing. I am thankful to my teachers for pushing me to join this program. Without it I believe I would not be where I am today. I now believe myself to be a better poet, but I know I have more space to improve.

Gold Teeth Metal fangs create an e’erlastin’ taste, by patronizing thy high flyin’ face. But biting into an apple’s your death, racin’ to innocence, my sense is left. I started as a playing child, wielding yellow plastic teeth and swinging innocence. But as I grew younger, Godly grown men wanted my youth. So they tried to take it by force but failed turning me into a mere image of ‘em. A monster. There was only one was to escape. I had bitten into their skins and laughed while I held my happiness. I thought I would be fine until one man told me the dangers of being a child. Biting into an apple's your death, racing to innocence, my senses left. I wanted to grasp youth, but held on to the bars of my Prison cage. 96

No Children As business boys, we -cherish the throne. Rearranging, and placing formulaic ideas here and there. It makes little sense, but the change, is good. As business men, we -take advantage and abuse, our stepping stool. Already thinking, steps two, As business monsters,

ahead of the rest.

we -have nothing left, to love. Since weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve separated ourselves and created a barrier. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing left to give There is no -thing left to take. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve already, earned it all. As monsters we are still, boys at play.

Tracks I just want to run I want to get away from the tracks and records of death. I want to be free and not be crushed to death by the moving of music. I want to run -but the silence sounds so gold. Another nature and God, razor blades couldn’t get me this far. I hear the microphone yelling telling me to jump out of the way, I agree but, I need peace. So I lay on my tracks praying to enter the holy chamber of haven And that’s when it hit me, Suicide, wasn’t the Answer.

Justin Omil Garcia is an eighteen-year-old emcee. Passionate about writing, he works his hardest every day to avoid trouble by keeping himself locked in his words. This is his first year in emersonWRITES, but he has grown so much as a writer and looks to motivate those around him.

Iesha Guerrier 12th Grade, Somerville High School The poem characterizes a female who struggles with self-identity as she lets her society determine who she is, through her appearance. She would rather act a certain way than be judged negatively, such as being called ugly. This poem describes the way our minds are so powerful yet simple. Simple words to describe each other as ugly, or beautiful, can ultimately abolish or shape an individual. “I am accused of being an American” highlights the fact that individuals are often restricted and do not always have the opportunity to express themselves.

Untitled UGLY Beautiful that four letter word can make a child’s heart stop that’s a word she doesn’t mind to hear stop the beat to their drum and the rhythm of their life Beauty plays the rhythm of her drums words people use freely and blindly She blushes a form of judgment But she loves the attention Is fierce ugly? She can’t bear to be different Is ugly a sense of uniqueness and difference? Can’t stand to be distinctive, rolls of off one’s tongue, so she acts: into another’s ears and settled in their mind short skirts masking one’s true beauty Long weave hiding a magnificent personality Spaghetti strap, belly showing shirts Naïveté That’s a way she gasps the compliment That simple word She’ll do anything, to not be called UGLY 100

I am accused of being an American. America. My country. The home of the free home, of the brave I am accused of being free, but how free are we? How free am I as a young black female trying to become a successful women? How free am I when society is forcing the shackles of my ancestors to be replaced by my own, free, limbs? How free is my soul, if I feel so dirty? Can God truly cleanse me? I feel trapped in this body Feeling like everything I do is sin I am accused of freedom when America has freedom of religion but my religion I follow God, yes I believe and worship him, so why is it that I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t praise him differently? OH FREEDOM! How my accusations taste so filthy. How are Americaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s children free? How am I really free, If I was taught to hate rather than love? How are men and women free, If males do not mature into men, But stay into boys? 101

And if females do not mature women, But stay as girls? Back in the day, women use to hold their own… what happened? How are men and women of America free if they risk their lives for their country? How free are America’s people, if they cannot be who or what they want to be? What happens if an individual is not made of who or what they want to be? How free are America’s people now? Freedom of speech, but what I say can get me arrested. Freedom of speech, but what I say can get me killed. America accused as: Home of the brave Afraid. Afraid of society afraid of God Afraid of high power afraid of thyself afraid of bravery America’s bravery. I cannot be ‘Brave’ if I am afraid high powers accuse me of amounting to nothing and so this, destroys my bravery. Living where I’m frowned upon Brave. Go against your will. Brave. I can’t be kind to an immigrant or a foreigner, because my America 102

won’t let me be brave enough to accept difference. How can one call this brave? how does this relate to bravery if I am not brave enough to be myself? If I can’t do or say something or even act a certain way because my America, won’t let me? I am accused of being an American. Iesha Guerrier is eighteen-years-old and a Somerville High School senior. She will be a graduate of the class of 2015. Her name means “blooming warrior.” She believes her name describes her as a whole because she possesses many characteristics such as strength, intelligence, and creativity. As of 2015, she has participated in emersonWRITES for three consecutive years and has been writing since she was eight-years-old.

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Luthien Jabar 10th Grade, Lowell High School

This poem is one of many that serve as a written map of the stars and constellations that make up my mind. The way things move from blip to blip is often how I move from subject to subject all within relation to that same moment, idea, or emotion.

adhd and temper tantrums // god, i love you how lucky is the universe it spins and spins and spins stars and black holes time stops for nobody i wonder what you think about space and aliens do they exist? hell yeah green skin? maybe maybe us in another lifetime all tiny and small water-resistant and flammable living on the sun singeing our skin god it burns we’re too busy searching to care like toddlers scraped knees only hurt when someone doesn’t kiss it better kiss me baby, kiss me one last time before you go 104

ashes lay in your place by the way dinosaurs totally still exist the government is lying to you i mean have you heard of sharks? those bitches are waaaay old we don’t know the ocean at all i think like 86% or something is left undiscovered i’m not quite sure i’m not good with numbers or memorizing things i never know how many inhales before an exhale or how i love you is supposed feel rolling off your tongue hey did you see this? harvard researchers come up with a way to turn solar energy into fuel using bacteria THANK GOD our universe is gonna collapse in on itself hey do you think we would all move to space if something went wrong if the world was ending would you extend your life or deepen the meaning? sometimes i wish i was a big stupid baby and then i slam a door because i failed my chemistry test and remember i am one a big stupid baby somebody get me a bottle of milk “clear liquor is for rich women on diets” -rob swanson—i think i’ve never been good at memorizing things sometimes i wish i was a swan, son all feathery and graceful like that one girl you dated rachel i think her name was rachel 105

i don’t remember i’ve never been good at memorizing things except you’ve said i love 8 times already and your contact name is an octopus emoji on my iphone i had grilled octopus on my birthday sweet sixteen hurry up with my damn croissant i’m growing gray hairs over here sweet sixteen? it’s been pretty damn bitter if you ask me valentine’s day 21 i loveyous one octopus emoji i’m breaking up with you teardrop emoji i’ve never been good at memorizing things but repetition is easy so when you ask me if i care and i say no remember i’m just a big stupid baby

Luthien Jabar is a sophomore at Lowell High School who hopes to one day use creativity to spark social change. She spends her days and nights doing schoolwork, but uses the sacred early morning hours to read, write, paint, research, and watch various documentaries about the world of food.

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Stephania Mejia 9th Grade, Cristo Rey Boston High School

This year I learned about line breaks and how to format my writing. Poetry and music are ways in which I express my thoughts and feeling towards the endless situations in my life. This poem generally states the heartache of a young heart.

The Imperfect Mannequin He was the typical “perfect guy” There was my mistake waiting To blow up in my eyes Beautiful moments and dreamy Times? But he just happened to be In the right place At the right time It was just childish and lame To think he was the one at such a young age. My soul is heavy with The darkness and pain Can I just erase? Everyday Living in a game forcing people To believe me when I say “I’m okay” By seeing you with her And the posts written daily 108

About “she’s perfect and she’s the one” It’s like a sword slowly being removed from my chest. I’m fine though Just let me finish wiping the tears Maybe get some rest. All the meaningless I love you’s and I miss you Although unnecessary Extremely cultivating. It’s pleasing to know Someone is possible of making You feel only. He was the typical “perfect guy” Capturing greenish blue eyes Endless swagger with your army Print coat. Out of this world sense of humor Keeping that smile on my face Just to open yet another wound Bleeding and bleeding I leave traces. Happiness is temporary. But pain has the power To hover over your life With lies and people who try To take over your temple I’m holding in all the Weight Considering if you came back But that day seems distant So far away… Thought you’d be here By my side 109

Clearly I was mistaken Right before my eyes Â This is Stephaniaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first year in emersonWRITES. She is a freshman at Cristo Rey Boston High School. Poetry and music is a part of her daily life. She enjoys writing down her emotions and putting them into pieces of art.

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Andy Rondon 12th Grade, Cristo Rey Boston High School During the emersonWRITES program I tried to confront myself as a person, to use the poems as meditation and connect to a bigger audience who fears themselves. Through the course, and the people I met here, I reinforced the idea of loving myself and not being afraid of struggling.

Wander for a bit with no water Run Run Run Sonic Boom, your strut into life Trample, your way through meditation Shout, the misconception of your “anatomy” into your “bestfriends” esophagus Lynch, your throat with the silence that too many people practice Yes. This, is who you are. This, seems fit. Walk, Walk, A marathon, in this labyrinth within. Sin, Sin, again, and again, Watch carefully, as you mimic mistakes of past men As friends, morph into bottles of gin Preachers, now skillful in mixology, offer no bread. Yes. This, is what i said. i fit in once again. Crawl… Feeling. too many times was I not right. Trying… but only able to take left turns, never right. 112

Crawl… Crestfallen, left brain dead, in front of the question of who am I? too many doors. so little time. But it’s okay… it’s okay to learn the braille of the ground, as long as it reads, “keep moving.”

Wander for a bit with no water The retinas target the illusions, Focus their eyes on the grandeur image. Imagine, joy and laughter - Conclusions assumed from a smoke and mirror visage. Welcome, to the spectacle of my smile, the fanfare of my voice, these are the shows. The bright light firework glint in my eyes, I’ll repeat time after time - until they go. Who wants to see what happens behind the curtains when they close? Construed illusions made to uplift those who are grandeur Because, beauty and success can never root From hardship. From sweat. From pain. From regret. The audience comes for the show, but rarely stays for the credits. I’ve sold my soul, and all I could afford was this image, the skills of an actor, the strength to pull the harnesses, and the guts to put on a show. Yet, I cannot blame the customer, for this is the reality I chose to dress as a spectacle. Pay close attention to detail. The stage is 3 feet away from the first line of battalion retinas attacking the show. The fogged words, spew out of the pulmonary smoke machine and we stand just far enough. Far enough, 113

for the wind of your laughter not to blow the dress of our confessions away. The mirrors, distort the images making the actor look so original, a monument of a person, an idol to strive to become a hero who has no room for cowardice in his eyes Disregard, the slim thread shimmer above his wrists and the voice of society reciting his lines from behind the curtains. Bright lights shone down on this actor, for they are the star of the show. So much attention drawn to them, the beauty of misdirection, as you search for their problems in their speech, yet their sleight of hand has shoved it into their sleeve. Oz, Why were you so careless with your act? Did the life behind the curtains not suit you? Was opening your curtains relieving Or disappointing, dissecting the reality of who you are? I am not you Oz, for the act is not beautiful if The hardship. The sweat. The pain. The regret. Do not stay behind the smoke and mirrors… Come again and drink the grandeur shows potion. Because as curtains close - curtains open Andy Rondon is an eighteen-year-old senior at Cristo Rey Boston High School, a poet in the making and a music fanatic who doesn’t know where his writing is going to take him, but is still dedicated to his craft. This is his second year in the emersonWRITES program. If you’re looking for him he’s probably thinking what’s the next line of his life.

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Antonio Terrell Weathers 11th Grade, Boston Community Leadership Academy I am a realist, but also creative. I like talking about a bunch of subjects I come across in life and form them into a poem. I listen to a lot of poetic rappers like Common, Kendrick Lamar, and Nas. This poem represents “the real” America, since we usually think it’s the “land of opportunity.”

Land Of Opportunity A land of desires; you’re quenched and unfulfilled. Trying to make a living day by day, but due to lack of energy, and strenuous activity. YOU are only left to dream. Imagine. Being the one whose received, but being held at gun pointbeing robbed so unforgivingly. Thinking. “Man is this world cruel to me?” Nah man, it’s the land of opportunity. Furious and confused, shaking in your boots your heart is pumping with a melody. Wondering. Is this man going to leave you alone? Or be convicted with a felony? All things happen like they’re supposed to be; police are hated for their brutality. When the perspective is biased; We’re all ignorantto add concentration to the clarity. “Please. Give me my time back.” 116

Spending 5 or 6 minutes trying to keep yourself chill, STILL - no one knew how hard you worked; while you keep your mouth congested, and follow what’s requested, so you live for the next day. Even if there was a godyou would not pray, having seen a apocalypse in the streets, a baby sleeping in consolidated sheets, you can receive your consolation. But. You’re still bad knowing that youth, grow up educating themselves, through miscommunication. Thinking about the money, and we all try to make it out like robinhood, stealing from others and taking it for ourselves, we all learned it from the government and the system, cause ideally we all believe they’re robbing hoods, hidden behind messages on “they” believe what’s good. Still, we stay un-knowledgeable to the subject, but find it necessary to pay rent. I am the tobacco smoke that screams Liberty, but lungs dying slowly due to poisonous residue, the lethal dose of aspirin that for one moment lets you relax, but then starts playing sad blues and shoeshine, the maniacal mother cradling her mother her baby with love and adore, to not realize that the baby passed away during birth. I am the landwhere only in your sleep, your dreams can come true. Antonio Terrell Weathers is a sixteen-year-old teenager born and raised in Boston and is a junior at Boston Community Leadership Academy. He is currently in his first year at emersonWRITES and is fully okay with being positively different from his generation. 117

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Storytelling Beyond Boundaries: Introduction to Creative Writing

As the foundation course in a sequence of progressive courses in Creative Writing for emersonPATHWAYS, we’ve had the opportunity to explore multiple genres and cultivate our voices amongst a group of driven, talented sophomores. In addition to widely recognized genres such as nonfiction, fiction, and poetry, we’ve investigated subgenres such as flash fiction, spoken word, scriptwriting, and even writing for social media. We’ve discussed a variety of successful, published writers from Walt Whitman to Jamaica Kincaid to Mayda Del Valle, experimenting with new forms and even creating new genres. We’ve also engaged in workshop and revision, and have gained an invaluable set of writing tools. And, of course, we jammed out every now and then. Who doesn’t need a little Bruno Mars or Paul McCartney on a wintry Saturday morning? No matter which genre our students chose to include, their work is united by our critical belief in the power of storytelling. From scripts that break rules to poems that let readers inside a writer’s compelling mind, our class has created a vibrant collection that is a direct reflection of these gifted writers’ abilities. Enjoy their words. Relish their tales. And remember these names–there’s certainly more to come.

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Faculty Bios Joshua Jackson is a film artist, interdisciplinary theater artist, educator, and journalist who is currently writing, directing, and producing a performance piece entitled The Wilds set to premiere this spring on Emerson Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s campus. His work combines poetic language, movement, music, and ritual to tell truths about black lives. He is also a scholar of black diasporic expressive culture who is currently exploring the work of black diasporic filmmakers and how gender and sexuality are represented in their work. He will complete his MFA degree in Creative Writing in Spring 2016. This is his first year teaching with emersonWRITES. Caitlin McGill is thrilled to be teaching with emersonWRITES for a second year. She is also a writing instructor in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College, where she will complete her Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing this May. She is the 2014 winner of the Rafael Torch Nonfiction Literary Award, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, Digital Americana, Solstice, The Southeast Review, and several other magazines. Currently, she is completing a collection of essays that explores identity, religion, addiction, war, empathy, and the destruction that results from ignoring those issues.

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Na’ima Ball 10th Grade, Boston Arts Academy This writing you see is a script I am developing for my television show, and I use it as a part of my writing. I have mixed in what I have learned from Emerson to mix in with my Scandal-type script.

Senseless Power: Part 2 of Episode 4 INT. CAFE-AFTERNOON Setting: GRACE, is sitting at one of the café seats, listening to music and typing, and JAKE is walking past the cafe when he stops suddenly as he sees Grace. He fixes his hair, and walks into the café. He walks past Grace, but trips as he tries to go to the counter. She takes her headset off of her ears and looks at Jake. GRACE: Oh my gosh. Are you okay? JAKE gets up and faces Grace. JAKE: Uh, yeah. GRACE smiles. GRACE: Hi, Jake. Wow. I haven’t seen you in a while. JAKE: Yeah, I’ve been busy partying and stuff. GRACE: Wow, that’s amazing. Glad you’re having fun. JAKE: What about you? What...what have you been up to? GRACE: Nothing really. Just typing a stupid essay. JAKE: You transferred out of pre-calculus? 122

GRACE: Yeah. I enjoy writing a lot, so I’m taking AP Writing. JAKE: Really? I’m transferring to that. GRACE: You? I thought you hated writing. JAKE: When we wrote that story together, I started liking it. It’s weird. I guess I’m actually good at writing. GRACE: I guess you are. I’m glad you got something out of the whole writing thing we did. I was starting to think I was crazy for trying. JAKE: You’re not... JAKE Coughs. JAKE: Crazy. Just smart. GRACE: Thanks. It means a lot. An awkward silence falls between them. JAKE: So...um...do you come to this café a lot? GRACE looks around. GRACE: No, not really. Sometimes on Wednesday, as you can see. JAKE: Nobody to hang out with, so you’re just doing your homework? GRACE: Uh...I guess. If that’s how you describe it. JAKE: No, I...I didn’t mean it that way. GRACE: Don’t worry, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I don’t know how to describe it either. 123

JAKE: By the way, you look great. GRACE: I still feel like a whale...you know...teenage hormones. JAKE: Well, I think you look like a goddess. GRACE: You look great yourself. JAKE: Thank you. GRACE: Would you like to sit? I wouldn’t want you to keep standing. JAKE: No, no. I like the view...you get to see more. GRACE: Well, that’s a funny way to put it. JAKE: I’ve lost so much already, I wouldn’t want to miss out on a minute of release from the world. Just something good for once in awhile. GRACE: Partying too much? JAKE: I barely get to just relax, you know. The ladies love me. GRACE: They loved you when we were together so I figured they be all over you when we… JAKE: I guess. GRACE: I saw Diana. JAKE: You did? GRACE: Yeah, she’s getting better and better each day. GRACE takes out a photo of Diana from her pocket, and gives it to JAKE. 124

GRACE: It’s very impressive how she managed to just...you know...break from the world, and actually take some time off. JAKE: Very mature of her. I just wish she didn’t go without saying goodbye. GRACE: I don’t think she meant to hurt your feelings. JAKE: I wanted to talk to you about something. GRACE: Can it wait? I really want to finish this essay, and then I’m going to see Diana for our weekly visit. JAKE: Yeah...it can wait. Do you mind if I come with you to see Diana? GRACE: I don’t think I should invite you unless she said it was okay...not to be rude or anything. JAKE: No, no, no, it’s fine. I...I shouldn’t have tried to ask, you know? GRACE: I guess, I guess. JAKE: How was the funeral? GRACE: Sad…Jake, I think I’m going to go. I’ll finish my essay later. I wouldn’t want to be late for Diana. JAKE: Yeah...yeah. It’s totally fine. Will I see you later? GRACE: Yeah. AP Writing. Bye. GRACE walks away, and JAKE falls into a seat and covers his face. Na’ima Ball is a sophomore at Boston Arts Academy who enjoys singing, filmmaking, and acting along with writing. She has learned to develop her writing into more than what she expected it to be and is hoping that it will be enough to expand her work as a writer. She has a huge dream to work at Warner Brothers Studio as a permanent employee. 125

Angel Cruz 10th Grade, Cristo Rey Boston High School This year, what I enjoyed most was learning and creating different styles of poetry. My creativity doesn’t stop at any moment; it always continues as I feel emotion and rhythm. In these poems I begin with my imagination and move into more serious issues.

Little Einstein 5...4...3...2...1 We’re going on a trip In our favorite rocket ship, Zooming through the skies Little Einsteins! The emotion swells the heart remembers, the brain starts to recognize, Little Einsteins, The birth of my childhood dream, Watching and Memorizing, The sweet catchy song, partying every time it entered my ears and made tears; Now the song is but a song, nothing special, as I grow older, It starts to fade, its glory disappearing turning into the mist, The time has come where all things good come to an end, Repeating this treacherous state as you grow older, Never able to look back, Once again the song reappears but only for the briefest moment, Only to remind me, The glorious times that I once had, I’ll always remember my favorite rocket ship. .

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My Mind Blue Sky, Orange Dye, Internal affair, catastrophic despair, Time flies, The Mind Dies, Unsaturated hate, turned into Killer Kate, Not ready, Keep Steady, Friends denied, Relationships died, Fury, Despair, Anger, and Hate, all in one mate, Love is a dangerous game, play the right cards and it turns out your way, end your turn and it becomes too late, Head spins, eyes blend, blood, pours, Killer galor, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m at my limit, Fury, Despair, Anger, and Hate all in one mate, Ready to be let out, in a rush only to be let down, Love is a bomb, Get it right and there is no hate, let it go off and there will be a trail of Despair, Depression, and Fear, Happy to Sad, Loud to Silent, Annoying to Boring, Distance increases, Communication cuts off, The emotion in the eyes fully turned off.

Angel Cruz is a sophomore at Cristo Rey Boston High School, and is currently working on expressing deep and emotional poetry. He loves to read in his spare time. He walks to school every day always hoping not to be late. Angel loves to create creative stories, objects, and moments.

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Bruel Desroches 10th Grade, West Roxbury Academy I’ve really enjoyed what I’ve been doing here at emersonPATHWAYS. It’s helped me understand how to freewrite and use my mind to create great writing. While at Emerson, I’ve learned how to evaluate stories to find the setting, conflict, and character development.

O.T.F. Love and meaning is all we look for. Everyone wants to belong or to feel wanted. We even die for love some would never agree to that but it’s all truth and it has always been. Love is the reason we war the reason we kill the reason we die. War is about fighting for what you care about. Love is suffering. Love is only the family.

2015+ Why is it different every time every year? Do you or we ever learn? Why can’t you change your flaws? It’s a new year can you tell? Oh wait maybe it’s too late You’re too lost.

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AGE I’m only growing when I’m staying home. It’s too cold to go outside there’s too much snow. We’re only getting older baby. We should go play outside baby. We’re not too old. Bruel Desroches is a sophomore at West Roxbury Academy. He enjoys writing poems and short stories. He also loves sports and played basketball for WREC’s boys’ basketball team.

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Alia Ortiz 10th Grade, West Roxbury Academy This year I really enjoyed covering the topic of poetry and playing around with nonfiction. In my poem, I derived inspiration from the author Ellen Hopkins, but then I broke the rules and incorporated my own real life thoughts.

I’m Okay I’m okay. Only I am not, I’m a victim to my thoughts. My mind is playing tricks on me, seeing things that aren’t there. “You just need therapy.” (Nope, I’m good.) I tell myself. Lie, Lie, Lie I feel crazy. “Dude, don’t say that!” (I wont.) “So how are you?” (I’m okay.) I lie again. Only I’m not. I don’t think I’ll ever be. I’m a victim to my thoughts, I try to keep them locked away, they’re eating away at me. Maybe one day I’ll finally say, I’m not okay... 130

It’s All Politics We’re all pawns, in a game of chess. They can play us, even sacrifice us. They don’t care about you, or how you feel. “It’s not my concern.” (What is your concern?) (When will you care about us and not the money?) “We are doing this for the people.” (You’re doing this for yourself!) “I can’t fix everything.” (You can, but you won’t.) It’s all about money and never about the people. They never see our faces or the people they affect. We’re all pawns in this political game of chess. Alia is a sophomore at West Roxbury Academy and she’s fifteen-years-old. She is writing a story about a dystopian society called “The Rebel Diaries” and she also enjoys reading and drawing. Alia really likes Nirvana and Pink Floyd. She plans to be a cardiothoracic surgeon when she’s older.

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Nadeja Richardson 10th Grade, Cristo Rey Boston High School This year, I’ve used the problems that occur in my life and the lives of others as inspiration for my poetry.

A Letter To My Father You were the first to break my heart and the last to wipe my tears when I’d cry My first love, you let me down so many times I’ve forgotten how it feels when you lift me up You put women before your children, quick to defend them, slow to show us that same loyalty I always thought maybe if I acted out it’d make you come around… I think that only made you stay away longer You have many kids, but you only claim eleven of us as yours Often times I’d find myself wondering, am I good enough for Papa? When I was younger I would imagine that you were a doctor, lawyer, maybe even a celebrity because when you only see someone a few times it’s hard to remember who they are especially when you don’t know much about them So I’d paint this grand picture of you in the back of my mind exactly how I WANTED you to be As a kid I would constantly ask myself, what’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t he love me? As a kid I would blame my mother, quick to disrespect her because YOU were never around I remember being so excited to come spend the night at your house, it was our date 132

You left me standing in front of Stop & Shop for what felt like five hours and when Ma would ask me if I’m ready to leave, I’d say with so much anticipation and hope in my voice, “No, Daddy’s coming, he must’ve gotten lost, I’m not leaving him” After nights and nights of the events and stunts like those you pulled, I just stopped caring And when I did get the chance to see you even speak to you with there being so much anger and confusion in me, I could only cry and hate my mother even more. For some reason, I hated her when I should have been hating you I’d find myself back to square one asking, What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t Dedrick love me? I find it extremely hard to obey my mother and speak to you with respect because she’s been there since day one I’ve watched her run, jump and struggle, fight both my battles and her own, and have a stroke and take YOUR place Help from you? None whatsoever I remember one Christmas there were presents that said “Love, Papa, from superman, to my princess” That lifted me up so high, only to find out that my mom wrote it and the gifts were from her… There she goes filling in your shoes again, they must not be that big anymore

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See Somehow I’m starless, when I look up at the sky I expect to see stars I’m always gonna be alone I’m always gonna have a huge ass crush on you But…I don’t deserve you, at least I don’t think I do Baby, I don’t dance But if that will get you to consider me your type I’ll do it if that means you’re giving me a chance See… I don’t know what it is about you that drives me crazy Is it your height? Your bright yellow skin? Or that smile I get from you when I walk in I’m not one to sin intentionally, but I’ll sin again and again to get to you in the end You’ll be giving me love that could never end You see I’m a little shy, so I can’t say this to you in person I’d rather recite it in spoken word poetry So that the words can come out just right with little to no mistakes When I hear you recite off memory it gives me the shakes And I want oh so badly to come up and compliment you when you’re done But I can’t Even though I am pretty sure our poetry could come together as one You see I dream that you and me could write together, recite together, maybe even live a life together but you see maybe that’s why dreams are better off left in MY head when I’m in a deep sleep in my bed Fetal position holding my head Because when I wake I’m seeking you instead of peace of mind, strength, tranquility, and respect Well maybe you’ll say I’m wrong but… 134

In my heart that’s where you belong but It’s been a couple months since I’ve seen you last but I ain’t really even known you that long but well forget the buts see I’ve got the blood of a fighter, grandmother got the strength of any man and I swear that’s how I got mine I promise you I’m not crazy I long for the day you and I can have a real conversation, instead of me trying to converse with you through poetry because I know you probably won’t reply, but if you do, think about the atmosphere in this room and the confidence I have as I recite this poem…this poem See that’s where you and I connect…if I’m wrong please don’t be afraid to correct me Let me tell you about myself, I’m seventeen years young but I have a real big heart, my favorite color is green sometimes purple Your confidence boosts mine and gave me the strength to stand up and sing I’m pretty sure you know this entire poem is about you now, well at least I hope you do You’re an inspiration to my mind, heart and my soul Thanks for showing me how to use talent the correct way I don’t know what else I could say to you so I’ll end this poem with HELLO Nadeja Richardson is a sophomore at Cristo Rey Boston High School. She is also an aspiring singer. She is going to be a star. Her favorite color is purple and her confidence grows day by day, but falls by night. She’s strong.

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Jana Walker 10th Grade, Cristo Rey Boston High School This year, I’ve most enjoyed working on poetry and learning how to become a better writer. All of these poems started as freewrites. Each poem was written when I was going through something difficult and overcoming it.

Too Strong for Too Long Head in the clouds, but not cause I’m stress free. Head in the clouds I can’t see. Head in the clouds, I’m scared to peek down. Everyone’s crap comes from left and right. I try to breathe and keep quiet… It’s hard to refrain from saying certain things so that I don’t get in trouble. Do you know how hard it is to keep your mouth shut when you’re constantly getting yelled at or put down, especially when you’re TRYING? I’m TRYING. You guys just don’t see it because it’s not good enough for you guys. “Try harder,” they say. That doesn’t make me want to try harder, ya know? Zipped my mouth shut so that everyone else is okay, so that nobody gets hurt, but it’s getting to be too much. The weight of the house is on my shoulders. I’m a ticking time bomb. One of these days I’m going to explode. I don’t want to but with everything going on & everyone in my head, it’s hard. Life is beginning to become really hard… I have all this stuff to say. But I don’t want to… No...I CAN’T just for the mere fact that too many people will get hurt... Too strong for too long, day by day I slowly deteriorate inside… 136

Upset, angry, pissed, annoyed, all of that and some more. Headphones in, volume up, so the bullshit stays out but sometimes, that just isn’t enough. As soon as everything seems to be getting better, and my world begins to build back up, things take a turn for the worse, and I begin to feel defeated. Like I am no longer able to fight this battle. My world is no longer whole. One thing after the next, it never seems to end. I punch the wall. I scream. I write. I talk. I think. I distance myself. And then I...cry...And cry…And cry…And cry... Not because I’m weak, and not because I’m a crybaby… But because I’ve been too strong for too long And I don’t know if or when things will get any better.

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Refreshed “You look really happy! What’s going on?” Someone asks me. “I don’t know to be honest! I’m just really happy,” I reply, grinning ear to ear. Cheeks all the way up, my eyes are barely open. Why do my cheeks hurt? Oh, because I’ve been smiling for a long time. sighs in relief I haven’t felt this way in a LONG time. I’m a whole new Jana, that weight is no longer on my shoulders. I feel lighter now. Why am I so happy? You know what... I don’t care what the reason is, I feel too good. Crap gets thrown at me from every direction, but GUESS WHAT? I’M STILL HAPPY! I take all that crap and toss it behind me. Ahhh, this feeling...It feels so good. My laugh. My smile. I feel so...so…REFRESHED! Yeah, refreshed. I can’t stop smiling, I’m just so refreshed. sighs in relief I can’t even put it in words. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why I feel like this but, I know I like it, I know this makes me feel good inside, and I know that nothing and I mean ABSOLUTELY NOTHING will ruin this for ME! Jana Walker is a sophomore at Cristo Rey High School. She loves writing and playing sports, especially poetry and soccer. She uses poetry and soccer as an escape from reality.

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Thank You Notes â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

We are grateful to all the people who work so hard to make emersonWRITES & emersonPATHWAYS happen. Program Coordinators Mary Kovaleski Byrnes

Senior Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing & Curriculum Coordinator, emersonWRITES.

Christopher Milot

Associate Director, Enrollment Pipeline Initiatives

Adena Smith

Associate Director of Student Success

Guest Workshop Leader Mary Nolan

emersonPUBLISHES Pilot Program Introduction to Publishing & Design

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Faculty Marcy Braidman Sarah Sassone Flash Fiction

Jaime Burke Mimi Cook

Genre Fiction

Jenn Keogh Kayleigh Shoen Nonfiction

Johnette Marie Ellis Jordan Pailthorpe Poetry

Joshua Jackson Caitlin McGill

emersonPATHWAYS

Thank You Notes (conâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t.) â&#x20AC;&#x201D;

We would like to give our special thanks to others in the Emerson College Community who have helped with our programs. Christina Daly

Director of Retention and Student Success

Christopher Grant

Senior Assistant Director of Undergraduate Admission

MJ Knoll-Finn

Vice President for Enrollment Management

Maria Koundoura

Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing

Ruthanne M. Madsen

Interim Vice President for Enrollment/Associate VP, Student Financial Services

Beth Parfitt

Senior Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing

M. Lee Pelton

President, Emerson College

Robert Sabal

Associate Professor and Interim Dean of the School of Arts

John Trimbur

Professor & Director of the First-Year Witing Program, Spring 2015

Michaele Whalen

Vice President of Academic Affairs

Tamera Marko

Senior Lecturer & Director of the First-Year Writing Program, Fall 2014

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Meet the SPINE Staff — Mary Nolan, Editor and Co-Designer Mary Nolan will be graduating this May with a Master of Arts degree in Publishing and Writing. She hails from the Midwest about a stone’s throw from Chicago. Therefore, she says, “pop” and not the s-word when referring to carbonated drinks. Before arriving at Emerson College, Mary had a vision to incorporate a publishing course within the emersonWRITES program. This year, she led a 3-week introductory workshop on publishing and design. This hands-on pilot program taught students the basic components of a book, how to layout poetry and prose and how the publishing industry works. The workshop will set the stage for next year’s emersonPUBLISHES course.

Bryana Scalley, Co-Designer Bryana Scalley is a second year MA student in Emerson’s WLP program. She has lived in Massachusetts all her life and still can’t manage to get Bruins tickets.

Jacarrea Garraway, Assistant Designer, emersonPUBLISHES Workshop Student As a creative writer, Jacarrea is so used to creating the story that she usually does not think of the process that goes into making a work of literature complete and get distributed to various readers, otherwise known as publishing. Jacarrea was first curious about getting a bit of insight into publishing because she thought that maybe one day she would publish her own works if they were not being published by other people. During these workshops, she learned some helpful basics into that process, such as the terminology for different parts of a book, figuring out how to put a piece of writing onto a publishing application and how to cxli

Meet the SPINE Staff (con’t.) — start laying out the piece with fonts, page numbers, styles, titles above or below the pages and etc. One of the last things she was taught was how to make a cover, which was probably the most interesting lesson for her. With this newfound knowledge, she can see herself looking into other publishing classes in the future and hopefully having her own work in print very soon.

Andy Rondon, Assistant Designer emersonPUBLISHES Workshop Student During the publishing workshop, the class explored possibly one of the most important features of a writer’s work, and that is how it is presented. When thinking about the content of his writing, Andy always wondered how to present his work effectively, and make a stunning first impression. With this workshop, he has seen the endless possibilities that he can do with the way he presents his work to the public. It has also given him the opportunity to experience InDesign first hand, which is one of the many programs used to develop the aesthetics of an author’s work. The workshop was informative overall and allowed Andy to gain knowledge about the publishing process, which he will definitely need to know for his future writing career. With the information presented to him here, such as the anatomy of a book and the importance of the way body content looks, Andy feels as if though this could help when the time comes for him to actually publish his work. Andy won’t be a writer standing on the sidelines when someone puts his content on paper, but rather, he will be immersed in the process and helping printers create the product that he envisions his work to look like. The workshop might have been short, but it was worth every second that he spent there. cxlii

IN THIS ISSUE

Luthien Jabar

Ledio Jaho

VOL. 5

Larryssa Jean-Jules Samantha Langmead Kirsten Mauriello Stephania Mejia Hailey Norton Alia Ortiz Mykell Pruitt Nadeja Richardson Andy Rodon Samantha Rosa Karmen Situ Antonio Terrell Weathers Caroline Tobin Jana Walker Michaela Williams

S P I N E â&#x20AC;˘ 2014-2015

Masai Ahmad Naâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ima Ball Tyra Bairos Lorenzo Beaton Danielle Betano Alyssa Caraher Marie-Helen Carr Karen Cheng Antonio Conte Ralph Corbelle Angel Cruz Bruel Desroches Nia Dorsey Abi Fisk Dajuan Frasier Cheyanne Fullen Justin Garcia Jacarrea Garraway Iesha Guerrier Toni Harris