Graffiti 2014 by Germantown Friends School

Graffiti 2014

GerMANTOWN fRIENDS middle school 31 west coulter street philadelphia , pa 19144

EDITORS: Writing: Talia Cieslinski, Simon Rabinowitz Art: Cassie Coale Honorary: Mesgana Afessa, Maya Esberg Treasurers: Maya Esberg, Jessica Hobbs Pifer

STAFF: Graham Arms, Katie Benoliel, Ishmael Bynum, Ellie Cheung, Brenden Dahl, Lauryn Dresnin, Jesse Friedman, Peter Gard, Gabe Goldberg, Zach Goldberg, Tasso Hartzog, James Hobbs Pifer, Leo Kastenberg, Maya Keren, Akshay Kulkarni, Isabel Ortega, Kavi Palmer, Sam Pancoe, Alex Pear, Sophie Quaglia, Helen Ruger, Andrea Regli, Max Seldin

FACULTY ADVISORS: Robin Nourie, Debra Hoffman

COVER DESIGN: Cover photo and design by Cassie Coale

SPECIAL THANKS: Sarah Detwiler, Gilbert Printing Services

iii

CONTENTS those who don’t 1 SimonRabinowitz

one 2

CassieCoale

time 3

OliviaWells

okay 4

SophieQuaglia

the island 8

LouisBartholetti

squam lake 10 ClaireWeiss

where i’m from 12 NoahAnninger

what i know 13

MayaRabinowitz

sick 14

Anonymous

MayaEsberg

life lessons 24 AlexPear

learning 25 CassieCoale

coping 26

Anonymous

aunt lisa 28

MayaRabinowitz

memories 30

AbigailGaudiner

the girl with the smile 31 ZamiBuggs-King

reflection 32 MayaEsberg

skinny 34

TaliaCieslinski

the climbing tree 41 AylaMalefakis

snow 42

DonovanAldridge

snowflake 43 HelenRuger

winds 44

LeoKastenberg

a ripple in the routine 45 BrendenDahl

i dare you 48 MayaKeren

where i’m from 50 AndreaRegli

birds 51

HelenRuger

the music of lazy mornings… 53 MayaKeren

why 16

haters gonna hate 36

not having a dad 54

hidden light 18

monster under the bed 38

wallet, phone, keys 55

never letting go 20

triangles 39

if 56

Anonymous

BrendenDahl

KatieBenoliel iv

an abrupt truth about living 23

MayaKeren

KathrynBrutomesso-Clarke

LeviAndrews-Hoke

the destination 57 LaurynDresnin

god is my strength 58 GabeGoldberg

my name 58 Anonymous

maya 59

MayaKeren

vulnerable 60 Anonymous

you are the dictionary 60 OliviaWells

regrets 61 OliviaWells

prism 63

MayaEsberg

childhood 64 LukeCartrite

ClairePartridge

SamMauro

CassieCoale v

ART EllieSmith 2

LexyPickering 33

MayaEsberg 7

EllieSmith 34

TheaApplebaum-Licht 9

ElianaGilbert-Trachtman 36

SeverinReitano 10

KaviPalmer 39

EllieSmith 12

AnnieLee 40

OliviaTrotto 17

AkhilKulkarni 43

EllieSmith 19

SeverinReitano 47

RaiaStern 22

GreyPalmer 48

TassoHartzog 28

HelenRuger 51

TassoHartzog, ErinSchott,

JacksonCraig 52

EquiHunter 30

NoahAnninger 56 TassoHartzog 62

vii

those who don’t Those who don’t write vignettes, cannot write vignettes. They rewrite things in different ways. They stall, and write random words and phrases. They make up. Phrases. They drone on and on and on and on and on and on and on and constantly use words like and. They can try as hard as they want but never become as good as those with innate, natural, god-given, born-with, can’t be taken away talent. They list adjectives, all meaning the same thing. They paint a vivid picture like a sunset set in grayscale going down behind a dolphin doing a flip onto a boat filled with jello pools. Fragments. All of the time. But they can be fun to read, like going down a water slide fueled by a chocolate fountain. They are as inventive as the cupholder. And sometimes you just get lost in the writing and can’t even tell what is being written about anymore, and what even is the title or even the narrative anymore or even detect that what you are reading is just one long sentence a. Run-on. But that’s beauty. There’s beauty in those who are ignorant to the ways of writing vignettes. But the question is, who are the ones that really write vignettes? Those who think they do, or those who know they don’t? SimonRabinowitz

one

time

It’s been a long time but I can see a road A cat on a stoop In the black I reach for a dream But none of the faces are his

It has been 9 months 36 weeks 255 days Since I saw you But I feel like I’ve known you Since forever With your careless attitude And caring spirit I know you don’t remember me You didn’t even glance in my direction I have no idea where you are And when we will meet again But know that I love you Through rain, snow, sleet, and hail Across oceans, deserts, volcanos I love you No matter what

Muscle memory is reaching for a phantom hand Breaking lose the phantom chains Embracing a phantom man All my memories are muscle memories The summers of our youth Fuse into smoldering metal Every salty wave, every flower sizzling CassieCoale

OliviaWells

EllieSmith

okay One, two, three, four, five. I counted the taps on my knee, paying close attention to the rapid but sure movement of my middle finger, the other fingers hovering nearby in case any assistance was needed. If I missed five, I would have to keep counting until I reached ten, and by then the girl sitting in front of me with her wavy blonde hair would have realized that something was wrong with me, that I was not a person she should be talking to. I liked her. I liked the way that she had a piece of her long hair up with a bobby pin that was perfectly vertical, as if it wouldn’t be caught falling asleep on the job. I liked the way that the hair inside the bobby pin had no strands falling out, that it was perfectly smooth without frayed edges. I liked the order of it all, so meticulously placed. I looked down at my hands and tried to think of something to say to her, anything at all. My fingers laced around each other and then came apart and then laced again until I had completed the pattern six times exactly, finally moving my hands so that they were clasped tight on top of my jeans. I looked up at the girl again, whose eyes had turned scrutinizing, looking for a solid reason to dislike me, so she had an excuse when people asked. I cleared my throat to try and get up the nerve to speak. “I like your hair,” I offered weakly. I complimented others a lot, because it was the one sure way to make conversation without people hating you. “Really? Thanks. My older sister did it this morning, but I don’t think it photographs well, and if I had known that we would be, like, taking our school photos today or whatever I would have told her not to bother,” she explained, looking bored by it all and picking at her hair as if it disgusted her. “Oh. Yeah.” I let the conversation die. I stared down at my jeans and pretended not to be watching out of the corner of my eye as the girl walked over to her other, normal friends. I saw her sit down gracefully, not worried about letting her hands touch the classroom floor, the blackened ends of each strand of the carpet giving away how many bacteria called it home. I thought of the way that my hands had interlaced, if maybe she had seen, and she would know. I pushed my hands further between my thighs. Imagine how many germs must be on these jeans. It was just one simple thought, and suddenly I was panicked as I tried to recount the cycle that these jeans had gone through before they had reached my legs. My hands felt infected, like they were burning, and I could picture all of the germs lifting up onto my hands, each finger an individual fire of bacteria that could cause an unstoppable sickness, fingers that would become just another way for germs to be carried and 4

passed on. Suddenly, I felt like I needed to cut off my hands in order to rid myself of these germs that would travel, a never ending journey of disease. I jumped up, and ran to the bathroom, feeling the water begin to wash the unwanted intruders away, but it wasn’t enough. Soap, the bubbly promise of clean, wasn’t enough. I needed more. I washed my hands again, putting the soap back on and feeling the cold numbing water wash it back off, taking the germs with it, and then again, and again until I finally felt like my hands were clean, at least for the moment. I began to take my hands away from the water until I realized in a panic that I had washed my hands four times. Four was not a safe number. I would need to start all over again. I quickly turned the water back on, letting my hands go through five more of the handwashing cycles, this time the movements hurried and sloppy as I rushed to resume my life and escape the whitewalled cell of the bathroom, until finally I had washed my hands five more times. Five was safe. I pulled my hands out of the water, seeing they had turned wrinkled from their time in the water, every fingertip an individual maze, all leading to the same destination of clean. I quickly walked back to class, only to find that class had already started in my absence, which seemed to go unnoticed. I sat down in the back quietly, and stared up at the board where the notes I would have to write down were. My stomach sunk deeper than I knew it could as I realized I wouldn’t be able to take them. My pruned hands stared up at me from under the desk, where they rested in the air, because there were no germs in empty space. If I reached into my backpack and took out a pencil, I would have to touch first the zipper of the backpack, then reach in for a pencil and have my hand brush the sides of the pocket they were in, and then I would have to touch the pencil itself. Three dirty, germy things I would have to touch. All of my handwashing would go to waste. Worse yet, I would need to wash my hands afterwards and put my life on hold once again while I cleaned my hands only for them to become dirty, again and again, a cycle of the pauses and resumptions that made up my life. I began to feel frustrated, annoyed, upset, and incredibly small. I knew that touching the pencil in the long run really wouldn’t matter, and yet I couldn’t physically stop the panic and anxiety even just the thought of touching it caused me. It’s a scary thing, to have no control over your mind. Tears began to push at the back of my eyes, and my breathing grew ragged as I started to panic again over all of the time that I was continuing to waste, trying to get my brain out of my head, until the tears finally escaped, falling noiselessly down my face and splattering onto the 5

empty paper in front of me. Just as quietly as I had walked in I walked back out of the classroom, without anyone noticing that I had either entered or exited, or ever really existed. I walked across the hallway, holding back my sobs as I suffocated on my silence, walking eleven steps forward before walking six steps back. Eleven was safe. Six was safe. They subtracted down to five, which was also safe. I was safe, but only for as long as I walked in pattern. As soon as I stopped, I knew that the panic and the pain would come back, and I would deal with it until I couldn’t anymore. Just like always. By the time I got home that night, I was okay. Even as I brushed my teeth five times, and put my pajamas on twice because I didn’t put them on in the right order the first time, and checked the lock on my door fourteen times before I went to bed, and even then have to get out and check once again just to make absolutely sure, I was okay. I knew that giving into the obsessions will not stop them, only momentarily bandage them, but sometimes that’s enough, and for me it would have to be. The next day, I follow my usual routine. I avoid all of the things that will set off the thoughts, and I pretend to be normal. I am okay. I sit down with the people I always sit with at lunch, and I laugh when they laugh, and get up and walk when they walk. I can be normal. I am okay. I count the number of bites I take, I count the number of steps I walk, but nobody notices, and so to them I am normal, just like always. We walk around the perimeter of the school, and my friends laugh and gossip, and I nod when it seems appropriate. Everything is good. Great, even, because I’m okay, and life is great when you’re okay. It isn’t until someone runs into me, knocking me to the ground, that I am reminded of my own mortality. Confidence has a way of deceiving you into thinking you’re indestructible so that when you break you break into a hundred more pieces. I can feel the cold, hard ground beneath my hands, my entire body covered in the germs that had been on the bottoms of the shoes that had been walking over it the entire day. I lift up my hand slowly, and I can see the imprints that the gravel had left on them, some of the pieces of the black rock still stuck in my palm, and I brush them off quickly. I can hear the murmurs around me of ‘get up,’ ‘you just fell,’ ‘c’mon, you can’t actually be hurt.’ They don’t get it. I can’t get up. I see my friends exchange a look, a roll of their eyes, whispering and then a short giggle. I am paralyzed. I am trapped on the wet gravel, filled with parasites and disease and remnants of dog poop and vomit and whatever else could be found on a city sidewalk. I can feel my perfectly washed pants getting stained with the telltale black tar, my necklace cracking as it is pulled. My mind is freezing me here, my anxiety levels growing higher and higher as the dirt and the germs and

everyone’s watching eyes each prove themselves an obstacle my mind can’t seem to overcome. My hope comes crashing down as I realize that any normal person would have simply gotten up. I am not normal. I am not okay. SophieQuaglia

MayaEsberg 6

the island The long hot summer day was melting away as we looked over what was ours. The Island is what we called it. It was an ancient ship dock before the strong vines and grasses had taken it over. Parts weighed down by dirt and vegetation had sunk creating small pools of river water. We cleared a spot after the long hot bike ride to put down our only means of transportation. The tall grass was thick and full of little needles that would cling to our pants and shoestrings. The small opening in the fence where we crawled through was bent back from our frequent visits. The thing we called the bridge was just a small sliver of dock, maybe two or three planks. It was different from anything us kids in the city had ever experienced. The magic of a mysterious jungle island all to ourselves was almost more than we could handle. A place untouched by the loud people of the city and the dirty exhaust of the hundreds of impatient cars going home or going to work. A kingdom to ourselves, finally something that was ours. The thick jungle of vines and overgrown weeds that were more like trees abruptly stopped at a tiny shore with jagged wood skeletons on either side. The slightly damp sandy soil that made up the â&#x20AC;&#x153;beachâ&#x20AC;? was what we were there for. It was isolation from pressure and expectations, you could spend hours with just your friends and nothing else in the world would mater. No one was better or worse than another, there were no leaders, no rich, no poor, just us. The Island. It was ours. LouisBartholetti

TheaApplebaum-Licht

squam lake North in the woods Is a place I call home A lake I call my very own It whispers its secrets into my ear And the call of the loon is eerie and queer The sweet water splashes into my Sunfish To be here now is my only wish Your sunset is an indescribable hue Your loons call their death trills as if on cue Some tell me you are sleepy Some tell me you are creepy Some tell me you are horrific Some tell me you are terrific But you are north in the woods A place I call home You are a lake I call my very own.

SeverinReitano

ClaireWeiss

where iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m from

what i know

I am from the bitter cold and the snow numbing my feet, the back of the woods of the pines, just exploring. I am from the backcountry skiing through frozen rivers weaving through trees and obstacles. I am from downhill skiing through the dense woods enjoying the risk. I am from where the sun beats down on the red canyons, carved by rivers, and trails. I am from the harsh cold nights spent in a tent just to wake up and find another stifling hot day, another day to explore. I am from going off the trail to venture with friends only to find ourselves lost, again and again. I am from the peaks of mountains and valleys of rivers. I am from Coloradoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Fourteens in the summer, the back of the woods in the winter, and the outdoors year round.

There are leaves, glittering green, streaked with sun as shadows dance across warm solid ground. The sapphire sky, the crisp air, and a wave of nostalgia lift me off the ground, carry me back to my days here when I knew I could reach for that glittering sky, yet still have the ground beneath me, ready to catch me if I fell. Here, where I never questioned the love, joy, magic of the world. Here where I was not blind to reality. If anything, my eyes were more open, watching, looking for all the beauty. I was raised here, leaning against the ancient maple tree, knowing, even at seven or eight that this was a good life. Now I am back, but just for a glimpse, and to tell my story, to give others a turn at what I experienced here. And even though I see those same leaves and the limitless azure sky it is different. It is no longer mine. It belongs to the new ones, the young ones who have so much still to learn. This home of mine now lives inside me. And this is true because every time I see the emerald leaves, or look into the endless sky, I know.

NoahAnninger

MayaRabinowitz

EllieSmith

sick “Damn it.” I mutter as my elbow smashes against the lockers and pain rockets up my forearm. I shake it, trying to rid it of the stinging pins and needles. Looking down, I rub my finger softly over the thin, long scab that covers most of my lower arm. After flicking off a smidge of dried blood, I surreptitiously glance up to see a girl with too much makeup on striding down the hallway. My eyes follow her until she is invisible amongst the colors of school, then catch on a boy whose jeans are a bit too small for him. His white ankles seem naked and vulnerable in the stark light. As he shuffles away into the crowd, I get a fleeting glimpse of a woman, a teacher who has unknowingly spilled coffee on her yellow cardigan. I feel bad as I look down at my feet, but not enough to say something. I lean back on my locker, exhaling deeply, and continue to scan the blur of people rushing through these tiny halls. People flitter by, oblivious to the world around them, like little hamsters in their flimsy plastic balls. They are caught up in their own trivial problems. Their minds sometimes reach, like plants to the sun, for something deeper, but slowly their ignorant consciences shudder and retreat back to superficial social hierarchies. I observe different people every day, ones with red, squinty eyes that I feel ashamed of and others with small, purple bruises on their necks that I pity. I see some with expensive fur boots and others who wear the same t-shirt four days in a row. Noticing these people takes up my spare time. This is my hobby. To judge, critique, and grade. To find the faults in others so that I can forget what’s wrong with me. So I can ignore my skewed DNA, my defective chromosomes. My sleepy daze is broken by a sudden jolt. I’m jerked backwards again and my lock digs into the small of my back, sending a red bolt of pain up my spine. Warm breath makes my ear tingle and my heart skips a beat. Adam’s hands clutch my shoulders and his head towers menacingly above mine. His dark blue eyes blaze with anger, or maybe passion. The scene feels almost intimate until Adam pinches my shoulder blades with his strong hands, until I know that there will be ten red indents in my flesh when he draws away. He licks his lips, then whispers sharply. “Nick.” I glance up, hopeful, into those eyes that make me feel like I’m falling. I see a dimple on his chin, and I suddenly feel like kissing it, to make it, to make it go away. Adam’s whole face stiffens, and his jawbone tenses, just for a second. 14

Then he hits me, across the cheek, hard. “Faggot.” The words sting more than the imprint of his fingertips as he backs away, eyes averted. I slump down, and suddenly my backpack feels too heavy. I feel too heavy. I am a mistake. A single tear etches its path into my rosy cheek and I hear the echo of Adam’s rough voice, once more. Adam, with his tall strong figure and smooth shoulders. Adam, with his thick dark eyebrows and collarbones I could die for. Adam, whose voice makes me melt and cringe at the same time. I bury my head in my hands as, once again, the blur of color surrounds me. I think of myself, the part that tries to notice girls, to lust over their bodies and feel their soft skin. Then I think of the hidden me, the one that marvels over eyeliner and the shirtless boys in those magazines with perfume samples inside. I am sick and I must be cured. Anonymous

why Why do I miss him so much? I feel like he’s a stranger now I look into his face and see someone else But sometimes I glance into his avoiding eyes And see the remnants of who I thought he was Why does it hurt When they talk? Why do I feel as if somehow I’m the one Doing something wrong? When it’s so obvious that He’s moved on? I’ve learned not to act on my feelings Because the longings pass And once again I feel numb When he looks at me Roll my eyes When he laughs As if to pretend I don’t Miss that smile Anonymous

OliviaTrotto

hidden light Among the darkness Lies a light That only A trained eye Can see Among the light There is The dark A darkness that Cannot be Everyone sees it The darkness that is For it lies in plain sight But nobody sees The glimmering Hope The quiet but Beautiful Light BrendenDahl

EllieSmith 18

never letting go I walk alone in an old musty warehouse late at night. Scary, I know. I feel like I’m setting the scene for a horror movie. The old white painted walls are crumbling down and it is getting dark. The grey cement floor underneath my old, muddy red shoes is rough and worn. But I stay hidden in this place. I am lonely and growing weaker, sicker, filthier, but I am growing more brave. I am hidden from the soldiers, which is good, trust me. Allow me to retrace my steps. Not long ago, the Sunday before New Years, my father decided to go camping up in the north woods of Montana. The snow was piled high, layer after layer. The warmth of the fire was no good. My mom, dad, little brother and I were all sitting around the fire outside of our tent. I kept shifting back and forth because the log I was sitting on was not very comfortable. We all sat around the fire in warm clothes, me in a red scarf my mother had made me. The sky was stunning, the stars were glistening bright and the moon was so striking. It was like white fire. I shoved my brown hair out of my mug of hot cocoa; I held it with both hands because my fingers were partially frozen. There was a rustling in the bushes but I thought it was just an animal, and it was almost 20 yards away. Suddenly men with guns were running toward us like we were chicken and they had not eaten in days. They all had roughly the same uniform, black jacket with saggy grey pants. Their big brown boots stomping towards us made me shiver. I was trying to think fast but I wasn’t fast enough. They were aiming their guns at us. I held back my scream and fell backwards off my log into some dirt. I heard the ear-cracking sound of a gun shooting, and then more guns. I thought I had no chance of surviving even if I stayed on the ground. I got up and ran, but tripped and fell. Somehow I willed myself back up. I sprinted away as fast as I could, but I couldn’t keep myself from looking back. I saw my father and mother lying on the ground screaming at me and my brother, telling us to run and hide. My mom’s face was dirty and sweaty, and her eyes were filled with tears. They were dying, the color of the iris slowly drifting away. My brother tried to get up and run into my arms, but the men grabbed him and pulled him down. He let out a scream and kicked the man’s face. The man groaned and fell backwards from the momentum of the kick. My brother, Felix, ran to me as fast as he could, leaving the man to sit there in pain. Felix ran into my arms and we hugged, but we had no time. Three other men were running towards 20

us now. I started to run as fast as I could into the forest. I looked back to see my brother, but he was standing still, not moving. “Run!” I screamed, but he wouldn’t move. I screamed and shouted his name as I ran, but he stayed still. Felix ran towards the men, screaming at me to run. My eyes filled with tears as I started to run away. My legs were numb and I couldn’t feel anything. I ran about 8 miles to the nearest town. It was empty and torn. The men had come here already. The buildings were falling down, the streets were on fire, and cars with broken windows were stranded. The air smelled dirty and it was grey. The grass and the parks were filled with debris and ash. But here I am now, living on hose water and the leftover food from the broken down supermarket. The group of men had killed innocent people, and I am not going to let that go. I will find whomever I can and will fight back. No matter what, I will never go down without a fight. I hear footsteps. I’m not sure if they’re boots, but I’m about to find out. I grab a wooden stick, and start to slowly walk down the hallway. The men had killed my family and friends, but they did not kill love. Because love will never die, no matter what. Love stands tall in your beating or non-beating heart and it can overcome anything, even fear. All you have to do is never let go. I walk slowly down the hallway and I see, standing there, my brother, with a wicked smile on his face. “So, how are we getting revenge?” my brother asks. KatieBenoliel

an abrupt truth about living I think that we are matches. When we’re born, we’re a clean slate, fresh and untouched. When we’re born, we’re all so similar. Maybe one may have a slightly different shape than another, but we all start out principally the same. We don’t all start to dig into life at the same time, just as all the matches in a box won’t be lit at the same time, but each light is beautiful nonetheless. Once we’re lit, we go off with a small crackling, and a burst of light. It is alluring, and mesmerizing. As we continue to burn, there is less excitement. The light is still beautiful, but there are no more unexpected crackles or wild outbursts of heat. As the flame moves down the match, all that is left behind is blackened and burned, and some may even break. No part is as fresh as what comes ahead of it. The flame moves onward rapidly, licking the air as it goes, enthusiastically moving forward. After some burning and the flame has moved, it starts to get too close to the fingers holding it. It’s dangerous, and there are only two options. The match can be set down, and left to burn gracefully, to finish its course naturally. But the match can also continue being held and the flame must be blown out. When the flame is blown out, it is quick and ugly, and leaves the small end unscathed. The first is more graceful, but the latter is more common. More often than not the life of the flame is suddenly blown out, leaving more wood to burn, more life to live. And that, is the abrupt truth about living. MayaEsberg

life lessons

learning

I’ve learned some things in my few years

Learning is accepting that a sweater Doesn’t smell sad anymore. It’s cleaning upSmoothing the sheets and ironing The black and blue handbags Under your eyelashes. And opening the windows And opening your palms Up like the bellies of sleek salmon And trout, They are pearly and loud.

I’ve learned that tomorrow will always come That life has many opportunities for redemption And that it does no good to dwell too long on the past I’ve learned that at the end of every storm there is a rainbow That there is always the choice between good and bad And that the fine line between things is only up to us I’ve learned that imagination is your one ticket to your dream world That dreams change but never die And that everything happens for a reason, even if the reason seems absent to us I’ve learned that learning who you are isn’t easy That accepting others for their imperfections is harder than it seems And that there is good in everybody if you look closely enough I’ve learned that never failing is impossible That knowing that you’ve tried your best sometimes isn’t good enough And that life goes on I’ve learned that to be a part of life is different than to control your life That others influence a lot of your decisions whether you like it or not And that not being afraid to be yourself can get you a long way I’ve learned that being yourself and getting judged for it can really hurt That being scared of the future is different than being a coward And that inspirational quotes are a lot easier said than done I’ve learned that crying doesn’t help the experience go away That we all have traits we dislike about ourselves And that sometimes attention can feel very unfulfilling

Forming full sentences again, Learning how to own the breaths You take The words You speak Learning how to walk again, How to sleep with your eyes closedYou are busting out of your bed You are unchained You are ok. Learning is knowing that the cocoon You made for yourself That you spun from your own Quiet hands Is too small for you to learn in. CassieCoale

I’ve learned that actions define you better than words That helping someone is one of the best memories to hold on to And that feeling happy is always special and can sometimes surprise you I still have some things to learn in my years to come AlexPear

coping Coping is accepting that grief is an incurable pain Coping is living with the knowledge of death in your heart Coping is crying until you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cry anymore For you never know how much you love someone until theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not there to love you back Anonymous

aunt lisa Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d heard them on the phone, so I already knew. Aunt Lisa has cancer my mom says, and she is trying not to cry for me, but I can see it, how her chin wobbles and wrinkles, her voice gets low and choppy, like the spinning blades of a helicopter. Cancer Cancer Cancer, and she is crying, softly, like whispering rain, like a child. And I am crying because she is crying and I hold her because she needs to be held and I need to be held. And I know my Aunt will be fine, because she has to be. Because there is no other option. And Aunt Lisa moves back to the east coast, to New Jersey, to live with her parents and be in the place where she came from. A circle. And we go to see Aunt Lisa, and she does not try to be strong, because she is not anymore. Used to be, like she was when she would hold me high above her head, spinning in the grass, and I knew she would never, never let me fall. She does not cry in front of me, but the panic is clear in her eyes, impossible to put out, covered in a blanket of despair, because she has given up. And she is trying to plan for the world without her, because she is scared, and although I still have the white flower of hope growing inside me, she does not, because hers has been smothered by the dark inside her. Giving up. Are you going to die? my baby cousin asks. That question does not help. Nothing helps, and it is winter inside her. But like it does every year, the winter ends. A good test result, more screening, more. She is fighting again, and she is winning, and the hope flower begins to peek up, out of the ground inside her, just daring to open its blossoms, timidly, slow. The fear is still there, making its howling voice heard. But every day, she fights it. Every day.

TassoHartzog

MayaRabinowitz

memories

the girl with the smile

When everyone has left she kneels by the grave, no longer does she know how to act nor how to behave. The girl is not a girl anymore for now she understands just how cruel it can be when God holds up his hand, she feels as if she is falling through a never-ending hole and she tells herself, she tells herself, that she will never let go of the memories that her mother once helped her to hold.

That girl in the picture with the smile so wide, that’s me. Her smile is white and her teeth are small. Her hair is cut short to her head. And she smiles and keeps on smiling. I was 5 years old. Most girls that age love Barbies and princesses and pink. I couldn’t stand that stuff. I dreamed of flying away, flying so high I’m with the birds and among the clouds. But I didn’t fly - I stayed planted on the floor counting pennies in my favorite jean skirt. I dreamed of flying but sometimes I really wished I could just leave, on foot, without turning back. I could never put up with the constant fighting, the tears. The photo is taken at my stepdad’s apartment where we would watch tv and eat take out Chinese food and do everything I never did at my other life. I remember counting those pennies and feeling normal, not like how I felt when I cried myself to sleep at night and dreamed of the sky. I often imagined my stepdad to be my dad, I wished he was anyway. Sometimes in my dreams their faces were interchangeable. As much as I loved being normal there was something about switching houses every other week that did seem normal to me. I remember my dad’s apartment. There was a tree that only grew in the tropics yet he insisted on keeping it alive, all year round. He would water it and it never died. Every year around Christmas we would decorate the tropical tree with ornaments made of iron-on beads, and colorful lights. We would sit on the couch and watch re-runs of a Charlie Brown Christmas over and over again. If I had a chance to give that little girl with the smile so wide some advice, I would tell her to never lose that smile - so pure, so innocent. Hold onto the purity and innocence so tight that your fingers feel numb and your knuckles are white. Keep smiling through good and bad and one day it will get better.

AbigailGaudiner

ZamiBuggs-King

reflection Her eyes flash with a glint of curiosity. She is imperfect, but in your eyes She is nothing less than a dream. Her hair falls just around her shoulders And encircles her neck, comforts her frame. You wish nothing but to stare at her, For no one should be denied Of absorbing God’s given pleasures, Beauty, grace, and raw vulnerability. But my question to you is all too simple, Could you ever replace “she” and “her” With “I” and “my”? Could you ever look in the mirror and simply love yourself ? See your reflection without any flaws? Or better yet, to see those flaws. See them and love and embrace them. How rare it is to see a person love themselves, Yet how much we embrace others. It’s silly, isn’t it? To say you love others Before you truly, unconditionally love yourself ? MayaEsberg

LexyPickering 32

skinny like every other s k i n n y wish it begins with regret my s k i n n y dream gets lost in the craving the need the oh-so-indulgeddesire inches and inches pounds and pounds of just yum but not

s k i n n y a painful dream from the very inside of my being but it gets trapped by the layers of hate and fear hiding concealing protecting my s k i n n y whisper continues with a hush a promise to stay silent a book exploding with centimeters she is s k i n n y

ribs showing busting out in all the right places she is skinny skinny skinny so skinny i can see right through her bones her soul her everything that makes her up because she is s k i n n y not me I can seem s k i n n y when i wear the right clothes and walk the right walk keeping my legs far enough apart so the seams of my too tight jeans don’t touch making the “pop” “pop” “pop”

sound so in case people cant see they can hear that I am not s k i n n y enough so when he looks me over to decide weather Or not to look again he can see in my too small dress the piece of pizza I had and the diet soda bulging out from inside me in to the world he can see that i am Not s k i n n y so he won’t look back. TaliaCieslinski

EllieSmith

haters gonna hate He hates And he hates And the words come out Like jumbled animals Snarling and Ripping and OUT OF CONTROL

Why does he hate? Why do his words growl and hiss? Maybe because he can’t love Maybe no one loves his Gaping hole of a mouth His animals Ripping and tearing and shredding No one Thought once To give this hater a hug Everyone accepted the stream of Insults and lies and HATE “Haters gonna hate.” MayaKeren

ElianaGilbert-Trachtman

And they laugh “He’s just opinionated!” “Haters gonna hate!” But no Does he realize That when he opens his Gaping hole of a mouth The white of the world is TAINTED An ugly black The color of a bad bruise

monster under the bed I cannot stand many things, but this one I hate the most. Perfection. The one word that can bring an end to a happy life. Forget getting fired, even war. Those you can recover from, somehow. Though it may seem impossible, it isn’t. But the illusion of perfection is a vortex, sucking in everything and everyone. You are constantly asked to give 110%. A percentage that doesn’t even exist. Everyone searches and searches, but never finds. People give their life to perfection, to get it. To hold it for a second. But they find they are holding wisps of smoke. Parts of a dream, now crushed. You lose passion, and suffer severe heartache. All with no prescriptions to help. I, myself find at points I am longing for perfection. To be the best, to beat the monster of mediocre. You hear of the perfect ravioli. Of the perfect wedding. Perfect to what standards? There is always more than 100%, but to us, 100% is the maximum. Why? Because 110% doesn’t exist. Perfection doesn’t exist. We search and pine for a lost treasure. A lost art. Long gone. You may be getting a test back, 99%, you feel good. The person to your right gets 100%, they feel okay. They are sucked into it. They have bowed down and haven’t gotten up. Perfection is a monster. Like the one under your bed. You know it is there, but there is nothing you can do about it. There is no anti-monster serum. I hate perfection because it is only the smoke of something that was never there. No matter how much we want it, 99 cents doesn’t make a dollar. And so, when lives are wrecked and dreams are crushed, I do feel there is one big monster under the bed. Perfection. KathrynBrutomesso-Clarke

triangles

KaviPalmer

I hate that one little triangle on the windshield that the windshield wipers never reach. Every time the wipers cross the windshield and miss that one little spot, I reassure myself subconsciously that they will get it the next time. Of course, they never do, and every time they don’t, I die a little inside. It seems to me that the people who design the windshield wipers should have figured this out by now, but no, I have to sit there in the car and be taunted by that wretched little triangle. It makes me want to break off the wipers and wipe that smirk off the face of the triangle, and the triangle off the face of the earth. Having a moose - a big, kicking, flailing moose - fly through the windshield would be a relief. Sometimes the triangle is okay. When its made of big droplets of water, so when you pull up behind a car it turns red because of the lights reflecting off the droplets; these are the times when I can stand the sight of that otherwise terrible triangle. Then again, sometimes in the winter, the triangle is made of a thin layer of ice. Then, when the sun is in my line of vision, it reflects off of that abhorrent polygon and into my eyes. At this point, I just close my eyes and imagine a world free of malformations. LeviAndrews-Hoke

the climbing tree The resting place for all tired boys and girls causing the Snapping of your crisp twigs And crunching of your dead leaves You are thin like a tired old woman But you are strong like a young man Strong enough to weather the lashes and whippings of the wind Yet weak enough to give underneath a child’s feet For this they tell us you will fall down soon Or a truck will rip you from your ground They say you are the runt, “Why not play in the maples, children?” they tell us We will not tolerate your absence, for the maples are too tall The apple trees are just too small And you are just perfect Even if one was to fall from the top of your leaves They would still breathe Pleasing the daredevil with a nasty sprain That’s what you do You please who you wish My climbing tree. AnnieLee

AylaMalefakis

snow

snowflake

You can never have too much snow. You can make shapes in the snow, and shapes out of snow, and when you fall into snow it’s like falling into a pile of a million wet feathers which melt when you touch them. Snow is soft. Snow is a million mini best friends that make you laugh and wrap you in a blanket of white softness. Snow covers everything, lawns, houses, streets, cars, trees. When snow swirls around you it feels like you’re dancing in a magic winter land, snowflakes falling as if in slow motion, caught in an endless quiet sprinkle. Snow is quiet, peaceful, like a still lake not making a sound. Snow that is made into a ball and is thrown at someone makes a small “piff ” when it lands. Snow, what children make angels out of, what causes everyone to miss school hoping that it will happen again and again and again until school gets canceled forever. Snow, it makes your cheeks rosy red and your nose cold, makes you go inside when fingers and toes are frozen to relax at home, wrapped in a cozy blanket, holding a warm cup of hot cocoa with the little white marshmallows floating on top, sitting in front of the fireplace where you can hear the crackling of the flames and wood. Where everything around you is quiet and peace.

She gazes up on a cold frigid day Searching for something to excite her, transfix her with awe Her eyes land on the smallest of wonders Drifting down from above with no clear path to follow The snowflake dips and sways, erratic as it falls from the sky Its route down to the ground is confusing, its destination unclear Yet as it falls, it is unique No worries or cares The girl is mesmerized by this complex and microscopic spectacle The individual crystals amid the snowflake standing out against the sky The light from the sun reflecting off its pure whiteness The journey of the snowflake ends as it settles gently on the girl’s nose And melts.

DonovanAldridge 42

HelenRuger AkhilKulkarni

winds

a ripple in the routine

When the wind blows east All enjoy its gentle touch Though none like it’s ever slight chill

What do you see when you look at the sky? It varies, right? It varies on the time of day. In the daytime, you see blue, maybe some clouds, maybe some other colors. Gray, red, orange, maybe even purple sometimes. But mainly you see blue. People take that as a given. You know, the sky is blue. It’s a plain sentence. Nobody would question you if you said it. So say you woke up one day, and the sky was green. People would be confused, dumbfounded, even. They would assume it was some trick of the light. They would assume that the sky was still blue, that nothing had changed. You might say that you don’t mind change at all. You think it is why life is always interesting. But really, we can’t stand change. We all have a routine that we follow. The things inside the routine change but we still follow a very basic pattern. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Water is wet. The ground is sturdy. But what if these things changed? We would fall apart. Our routine would break. I look up from my work. I read it over a couple of times. I fold it up, tape it sealed and stick it in my pocket. I walk to the kitchen of my small New York City apartment. I walk past my skyline view that I’ve stared at for so many hours. I dodge the beanbag chair, the small reading desk and sit down on the fake mahogany bench on the edge of my kitchen. The way it creaks and shifts slightly to the right soothes me. I rest my head on my hands to wipe the sweat off my eyebrows but instead awkwardly poke myself in the eye. This is the kind of day it has been. Rewriting this same paragraph over and over again is insanely annoying. But I have to do it. I walk over to the window. Sitting down next to it, in my usual beanbag and something is changing right before my eyes. Something is happening that will matter in a hundred years. No, actually matter. I want to write something that will make people rethink what they are doing, just stop and think about whether it will be different than the day before. It will change the future. If everyone continues their routines, without thinking twice about it, will they be remembered in a hundred years? No. Not if they stick to their routines. The people that are remembered are the people who stop and think of how they can change the world. People don’t know this, but we are all machines. We all operate on the same wires. The unique people are the ones that have the courage to unplug themselves. The ripples in the routines. I walk over to my door. I open it careful to not make sound because it is late at night. I don’t know why he insists on meeting in the night but I’m not one to question him. I creep downstairs. Opening the door, I look around me to make sure that I am alone. All clear. I walk down

The east folk ignore the chill The west folk ignore its touch Rare is the man who acknowledges both Though all know both And all feel both Common is the man who speaks only one For fear of leaving his own folk Accused of being different All are those who feel this pain LeoKastenberg

the street to the bus stop with the red graffiti. A hooded man smoking a cigarette waves me over. “Can you get it in the paper,” I ask him, slipping him the folded paper. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says taking off his hood to reveal shaggy black hair. “Your father runs the paper, right?” I say, passing him a twenty. He laughs. “I don’t think he cares at all what goes into it, but, yeah, he owns it.” The man looks away. “Why so desperate to get this in there?” I look into his eyes—a deep blue. Filled with years of lies and anger. Filled with sadness. “Personal reasons,” I mutter, looking away. “Tomorrow?” I ask. “Tomorrow,” he says with a grin on his face. I can’t sleep. Excitement about what might happen the next day, mainly. But also fear. I have spent years preparing for this moment. What if it is just disregarded, another part of the routine? People act as if they don’t care and continue their lives. I guess I am mainly nervous. Somehow, I guess I fell asleep. I wake up the next morning feeling refreshed. I check the clock. 7:30. Still too early. I get out of my makeshift bed (two chairs and my beanbag). I walk over to the window, and stare. The first person I see is probably a college student. She looks about nineteen, carrying a backpack, She is also carrying a newspaper. The second person I see with a newspaper is an older man in a suit, an angry look on his face. Stressed about something to do with work, I’m guessing. The third is a mother, holding hands with a younger child. She has the paper open to the page we talked about printing it on. There are plenty of other people holding papers but not near me. I will just follow these three. I wait some more. I follow them over to the very edge of my window, when finally; I know it’s time. I grab the edge of the window, pull and squeeze my body onto the ledge. I brace myself. I count in my head. 1, 2… 3. I jump. Falling through the air is like nothing I’ve experienced before. Looking around me while I’m in the air makes me notice every little detail of every little thing. I can’t help but grin. I hear a woman shout, “Oh my GOD!” Probably the college student. I don’t care. I am changing something. I look down on the ground. The people are reacting to me as I expected they would. Calling 911, trying to find a way to help. Some are trying to catch me. The ripples are trying to make a net with their arms or something. They won’t in time, but they are trying. Others are not trying at all. If a situation like this happens again, maybe the ripples will be more practiced and maybe they will actually prevent the disaster. At least I have planted a seed.

Do you know what it’s like when you have a dream that you are falling? When you wake up just before you hit the ground? Life in a way can be like that. You might say that life is a disaster waiting to happen. But we will wake up just before we hit the ground. We will wake up, and everything will be back to normal. Back to routine. You will forget about the dream that you had by the by next day. You will start over. But there are the people that remember. Those people are the ripples in the routine. BrendenDahl

SeverinReitano

GreyPalmer

i dare you “I dare you,” says Olivia. “Come on, it won’t be that bad.” She grins, pulsing with excitement as the heavy, grey cloud above lets out its first drop of rain. The wind blows with a reckless ferocity as our clothes begin to get progressively wetter. I stare through my water-speckled eyelashes at the sparkling lights of the city. It’s two o’clock in the morning. Olivia and I are on the Empire State Building. And I’m standing on the edge, outside the protective guardrail, gazing down at the lights far below me. How did we get here? I blame Olivia. Of course, when she called me at one o’clock AM in my tiny apartment in Manhattan, suggesting an adventure, I couldn’t say no. Whenever Livi has an idea, it’s bound to be risky, but incredibly fun. Last time we went swimming in the Hudson river (and I swear, I saw a floating body.) A few years ago we camped out in Central Park without our parents knowing and watched the stars while gossiping about boys. It was a really special night. But while Olivia has great ideas, sometimes I’m terrified by her recklessness. I’m sure that she will die young, but in a wonderful, exhilarating way. Like hang-gliding 48

into the side of the Grand Canyon. Or being killed by Somalian pirates. As lightning streaks through the sky, I’m beginning to think that this is not one of Olivia’s greatest plans. “Here, look, I’m doing it!” squeals Olivia, swinging herself from the rail so she’s dangling over the city with one arm. A flutter of vertigo passes through my body and I grip the metal rail so hard it hurts. “Olivia, stop it! You’re going to fall!” I urge. Olivia drops her hands from the metal bar for a moment, pretending she’s lost her balance. I scream and reach out to her but she simply grasps the bar again and laughs. I let out a deep breath, thoroughly shaken, and let the tremors of relief run through me. “See, it’s fun! Come on, Maya! I’m never going to do something like this again with you if you chicken out!” Olivia says, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Okay.” I whisper, loosening my grip from the bar for a moment. Timid, I turn so that my back is to the rail and so I’m facing the city. A wave of adrenaline rushes through my veins and I shudder at the vast space between me and the ground. For a second, I imagine myself splayed out on the street, pool of blood surrounding me. “Maya! Do it!” Olivia says frantically. I glance over at her once, then very carefully let go of one arm and lean off of the side of the building. I feel like a bird, or maybe Superman. I laugh, and feel some of my tenseness dissipate. Olivia smiles back at me. I swing gently from my arm over the glowing city and know this is a night I will never forget. All of a sudden, thunder booms and I jump. My feet slip, and I scrabble for the edge of the building with my fingertips. I can’t think, can’t hear. I can only see the wet concrete in front of my eyes and feel a piercing fear so bright and real that I don’t know what’s happening. I think that Olivia is screaming, or maybe it’s me. I’m kicking frantically as my hands slide, losing friction. Slowly, ever so slowly, my left hand slides off the ledge and now I’m suspended over Manhattan by one hand. I look once more back at Olivia’s horrified face and realize that she cannot reach me anymore. She cannot help me. I analyze my situation and suddenly the horrific truth hits me in the face. “Help me,” I mumble, as my right hand inches off of the ledge. And then, I fall. MayaKeren

I’m from good times and bad times, And times in between, I’m from more than I imagine, And less than I dream.

where i’m from I’m from two parents, Different but alike, I’m from choir to jazz, Opera to Rock and everything in between, I’m from Fairytales of Rapunzel, And all the classics, I’m from snowflakes and ice skates, From spring breezes, And winter freezes, I’m from more than I know, And less that I can imagine. A mom with little hearing, Taught me to sing, A too loud dad, Taught me to laugh and play, A truth telling brother, socially impaired, Taught me to be kind to everyone I found near, A sunrise taught me to see, And a wind taught me to breathe, Someone I can’t see made me, me. I’m from betrayals and busy work, Blue houses and storybooks show me the way, I’m from no friends to ten friends, From teacher’s pet and too much talk, I’m from high sky expectations, From a school like family that I thought I’d never leave, 50

My world is now backwards, And that’s who I am, I’m from him, and her, and both of them as well, I’m from much more than I can tell, This is all who I am, And who I am, Is where I’m from. AndreaRegli

birds Freedom Flying, Swooping, Soaring Up above everyone Free to fly, to sing and to follow the sky to wherever it takes them No roadblocks or detours to stop them Singing and flying Each one unique and capable of something special The mockingbird sings, the eagle dives Up where the air is clear, where it is free Gathering, feeding, watching Each in their own world of Freedom. HelenRuger

the music of lazy mornings and long nights Jazz is warm and aromatic like black coffee. Made to be sipped with heavy eyes and soft, worn pajamas. During lazy Sunday mornings or nights when the homework builds up like an avalanche. When the snow piles up to my neck- that’s when the sunny jazz melts the stress, down, down, until a B flat blues scale emerges from the steam. Jazz tastes like good quality dark chocolate, maybe 75%, or 80%. Once you nibble it with your eyes closed you can’t go back. Expensive. Rich. That’s jazz. Drums like aluminum foil. Saxophones like a back massage. Bass holds everything up with firm legs. And piano, the piano, leaping from note to note, slipping through chromatic approaches, and springing from chord to rootless chord. Flat ninths, sharp elevenths, tacked on to the end like a gold star. When I’m down, jazz lifts me up. When my head is buzzing, jazz clears my mind, when there’s no one to talk to, jazz will listen. Like the sun, jazz is there for me today and will be there for me tomorrow. MayaKeren

JacksonCraig

not having a dad

wallet, phone, keys

I hate not having a dad. It seems that the rest of the world does and this really aggravates me. People talk about their dads not even considering that there is someone standing right there who doesn’t have one. Sometimes people refer to dads as if everyone has one and it is impossible not to. For example, in Spanish class, the question that we had to ask our partners was, “Como es tu padre?” (How is your father?) and I responded, “Yo no tengo un padre.” (I don’t have a father). My partner thought I was saying the wrong answer, which really outraged me! What else am I supposed to do, describe someone who is not living? I also hate not having the feeling of having a dad. I don’t get the second opinions or advice from a dad like most of my friends get. I haven’t done something fun with my dad since nearly five years ago, nor could I, since he is in heaven. Sometimes it seems like people don’t understand what I am going through; they just go on with life, enjoying their dad. When my dad first passed away, in second grade, I only wanted to go to school with people in a similar situation. It seemed like people just didn’t seem to get my sadness and why I never wanted to leave the house. Now that I am older I am better with going to other people’s houses and I understand that I am not the only one going through such a hard thing.

On the odd occasion my parents, stepsisters, and I all went to dinner together, a strange ritual occurred. We were brought to our table and had all begun to sit down. Miraculously the objects in our pockets would, all at the same time, shift into their rightful place at the table. My sisters, in all their prep school glory, slipping their phones out of their sweatshirt pockets, hiding them under their legs. As if that would make a difference when they would whip their phones out behind the table later in the meal, the light from the screen beaming off their faces. And my dad would say, give me the phone. No, just one second. Give it to me. No. Girls! What? They always spoke to him as if he were beneath them. A stool they stood on to reach the desert hidden on the top shelf. My mother’s phone remained in her pocket, ringer turned off. She didn’t like disrupting the meals. My phone remained in my pocket too, set to vibrate. Little signals for me to get up and leave the table. Leave the fierce catfighting between my sisters. My father’s desperate attempts to connect with them, my mother’s desperate attempts to pull them out. My father always puts his things on the table, to his right, in a very distinct order: wallet first, then his phone, then his key. His wallet, with his platinum Amex card, which he loved to whip out to give to waiters as they passed, or while they took his plates, never mind they were already carrying too much. His phone, iPhone which we forced him to get. The background picture, an inspirational quote he had yet to follow. His key. Sleek, silver four-door Porsche. His prized possession. The reason I hate when he drives me to school. The girls loved it, always wanting him to go faster, play the music louder, vye for his attention more. Mom and I, clenching our fists, eyes scrunched together, hoping he wouldn’t crash. Wallet. Phone. Keys.

ClairePartridge

SamMauro 54

if If the Pennsylvania turnpike flipped belly-up And my car flew into space Would the sky turn brown? Would the house fly away? Would the shutters close and ashen with age? If we both floated into the atmosphere Would we see each other 238,900 miles up, Orbiting the moon? Would he reach to me, fingers brushing stars? Or would the air escape our lungs Like it does on nights that hang like wet towels in the air And his fingers would curl around the space near my hand. The words frozen near his lips, “I love you.”

the destination

CassieCoale

NoahAnninger

People say the journey is more important than the destination But what if your journey is terrible Full of fear and desperation Desperate to just get there and be done Just be done But no one thinks of done It’s just me No one thinks of the destination It’s just me Everyone thinks of the work needed to be done Everyone thinks of the journey needed to get there What if all of this is a distraction A distraction to keep us from thinking… What is the destination? What if we all end up in the same place? What if the journey isn’t worth it? Can we escape? Can we escape a fear? LaurynDresnin

god is my strength

maya

In English, my name means average. Not too long, not too short. Not talented, yet not boring. Not exciting, but not annoying. But it is the other meaning that sets me apart. God is my strength. That is the other meaning of my name. It is the name my parents gave me. It is the name I have chosen to keep all of these years. It is my most cherished possession. God is my strength. I have interpreted this in different ways. I have survived lots of fatal accidents from the moment I was born. Literally. That very moment was when I had my first. But is that its true meaning? I argue not. To me, my name means hope. It means trust. My name means giving and accepting. Apologizing and forgiving. Leading and following. There is no one meaning to my name. It can mean whatever I want it to mean. So if I had to choose one meaning, that would be it. Choice.

In Arabic my name means princess. In Hindi it means illusion. The translucent truth we like to think is reality. It means brave. Generous. It has slipped through the fingers of Greek gods and mingled with the indigenous people of Central America. It’s steam, dissipating from the bowl of chicken soup my grandmother makes every Passover. Maya can sound like a whiny complaint, but it also slides off the tongue like hot air. It’s a vibrant clementine-peel orange when shouted at the top of one’s lungs and light blue like mist hovering over a lake when whispered. My name lingers in the atmosphere like your breath on a frigid day. In London they said my name like it was sharp at the end, a glistening knife tip. But when my grandmother says my name, Mayaleh, it’s a soft spring breeze. Mai, which is what my friends call me, is short and sweet, like a slice of orange. Juicy, tangy, twisty, tart. Exploding like water balloons on my back on a summer evening, freshly-mown grass on my legs, and a squeal on the tip of my tongue. I like my name. Like me, it’s bright and buoyant, happy and sweet. Never ceasing to bounce and sing. Simple and clean, like my taste in clothing. Ringing, like my laugh. My name tastes sweet and ripe, with an aftertaste like clouds. It’s what you shout when you jump off of a swing, right at the peak of its height. As you plummet to the ground, the remnants of your exhilarated shriek float in the wind, never to succum to the iron grip of gravity. They fly, gently murmuring to all. Maya, Maya, Maya.

GabeGoldberg

my name My name sounds like what it means, the most, the greatest. Everyone whom I’ve ever met asks me if my name is short for something else, as if there’s supposed to be more to it. Like I’m not completely there. My name is the brown beneath every color, the moss underneath each stone. It has a certain beauty, but only if you look deep enough. Sometimes it doesn’t sound like a name, more like the word it was meant to be. If you look in a baby-naming book, you will never find my name. It is the hidden name under layers of expectations, so thin you might not notice them, but so dark, so that you’d never see what’s underneath them. For a name meaning the greatest, the greatest seems to be very hard to find.

MayaKeren

Anonymous

vulnerable Vulnerable, raw and exposed Like an armadillo without the comfort of a shell She steps out, a target of hatred No joy in her eyes, no curve across her mouth But how can she… Her life, filled with taunts and insults, each increasingly worse Causing the pile of hate to rise higher Her mind, thinking of when the torture will end, when she will be free Her eyes, searching for a kind soul, an angel amongst the devils, as she thinks: Why me? Anonymous

you are the dictionary I decided to write a poem about you, But when I put pencil to paper, Nothing came out. There is no word to describe you. Perfect would be an understatement. My heart is fluttering all about, and I’m getting a fuzzy feeling Just thinking about you. I’m not an impatient person, But anyone would turn impatient, When trying to write about You.

regrets When I think of you, I think of things I could’ve said. I’m back in the moment When I had the perfect chance, But I didn’t take it. And I remember Looking out your car window, Our ears filled with the sweet notes of Favorite songs past, Thinking tired thoughts But acting wide awake, Feeling warm, supported, and comforted. You have new friends. I’m losing mine. You were the one I could tell anything. I wasn’t your second choice, Even though I treated you as mine. I know it could’ve been different, I know you’re gone. I wish you were here. Even now at 11:32 at night, I’m thinking of you. I’ll miss you forever. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough. OliviaWells

OliviaWells

prism Like a prism filtering light, Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re born a blank slate, A stream of white light. Our coming of age filters us through, Producing a brilliant rainbow of bright. MayaEsberg

TassoHartzog

childhood I knew my childhood was over the first time I fell asleep on a couch and woke up there too. I would often fall asleep during movies with my family, and for years my father would always gently lift me up and carry me up the flight of the brown stairs to my blue-walled room and tuck me under the covers, letting me drift off into sleep. One day, that just stopped. I was watching a movie with my sister and my dad, and I nodded off as I often did, only to wake up a few hours later in a panic. I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t know what time it was, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I got up and gazed around the room. The TV pressed into the wall facing the couch was off and the halls of the house were silent. I stood up, my bare feet pressed against the cold, wooden floor, and wandered up the stairs to my room where I could see the time illuminating out of a small blue clock on my desk. “3:17” it read. 3:17 AM. In the coming weeks, I realized changes in my dad’s behavior towards me. Some days, when he had to leave early for work, I would have to pack my own lunch. Some nights when he had to come home late, I was expected to make my own dinner. “What’s for dinner?” I would ask. “What are you making?” he would respond with a smirk, before heading off to a meeting or a conference or whatever else needed to be done. Some days when it was warm, I would ride my bike to school instead of sitting in the brown-cream seats of his car, the wind in my face and the radio playing softly. I had more work to do. I had to do more cleaning of the house, I had to help clear and set the table for dinner, I had to go outside and pluck the long weeds that sprouted up in the garden. I had to be responsible. With responsibility came rewards. I was allowed to stay up later, go to friends’ houses more, and see more movies. But even with all these “earned rewards”, I didn’t feel any older. I didn’t feel any more mature. I just felt like I was a kid with responsibilities. Over time, however, I got used to this. I would pack my lunch every day, I would make my own dinner on the nights that my dad had to work late, and I would ride my bike to school whenever it was warm enough to glide through town, slipping around the back roads and cruising into the parking lot of the elementary school. And, although I knew my childhood was over, I wasn’t sad. That little bump in the road was a nudge towards being an adult, or at least a more mature kid, and I was on my way. LukeCartrite