THEME PARK BUTTERFLIES

Collins Nelligan

CLICK!

“Hello everyone, we’re You’re On Mute! We are performing today at the OC Fair! Wooo!” we exclaim into the camera.

The band seems ready to perform our songs. But am I?

“Great work, guys,” the videographer says, pressing his finger on the off button.

It is time to start setting up our instruments. I head straight to the large, black stage. The August sun beats down on us, but luckily a large tarp lies above the stage, providing shade. People gather and settle down, waiting for us to begin. As I go to adjust a drum, I see my father walking over from helping another band member. “Hi!” I say as I jump in for a hug.

“Hey, bro!” he replies, wrapping his arms around me like a present. “Are you ready?”

I glance up at him. “I don’t know! So many people are here to see us play!”

“You’ll do great, I know it. You’ve worked so hard to be in the place you are in! Come on, I’ll help you get your drums set up.” I unleash him from my tight embrace, and we continue to alter my drum set.

Now that everyone has set up, I high-five Mr. Ashley, one of the sound professionals. Mr. Ashley walks around to the other side of the stage, leaning side-toside with each step, and picks up a shiny, brand-new microphone.

“Welcome, everyone,” he says to the audience of about thirty people, “to the OC Fair! We have a band of eleven-year-olds performing today. Give a warm welcome to You’re… On… MUUUUTE!” Mr. Ashley bellows like a host of a game show.

Cheers and applause burst from the parents and children. I smile while silently saying my own little “Woo hoo!” I examine the stage to see my bandmates grinning as well. I wave and smile at my family and they mouth “Hi” back and give me a thumbs up. A flutter from the butterflies that want to escape reminds me that we will start playing soon. Numerous bombs of “what ifs” explode in my mind. What if I mess up? Nevertheless, I can’t give up. A tremendous amount of effort had gone into this set list, and if I quit right now, all the fun I had creating this music magic would disappear. I hear clapping and snap back to reality. I tap my sticks to start our first song, “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll.” My heart beats loud and fast, and I wonder if it will change the rhythm of the song. BOOM! I immediately start the song and forget about my nervousness.

Time flies by, and the song ends in a blink of an eye. Relieved, I sigh and wipe my forehead with my sweaty palms. We had eight songs on our set list, leaving seven more to go; however, now, I am not worried. The first one went well. I believe the rest will too!

Our last song will begin shortly, and the crowd has grown! I think that around sixty people are now listening to us play. I hope more people come and watch us.

“Don’t stop!” I hit the drums as hard as my arms can take it and finish our set. More screams and claps come from all the people. My face hurts from smiling, and I look around to find anyone I had not recognized while playing. Seeing people I do not know makes me glow even more than finding the people I already knew. They must have thought we were interesting or good enough to make it worth their while. I light up and feel proud–not just for me, but for all my friends and bandmates who have worked tirelessly to succeed. I am looking forward to another show to continue this inspiring experience. We are called You’re on Mute, but I think we finally found our voice!

Putting The Pieces Together

Leela

Tripathi

Does everyone coming to this camp want to run far away? I certainly do when we pull up to the basketball arena. My dad, grandpa, and I had just flown to Kentucky the night before. About to do a basketball camp with the University of Kentucky basketball team, I anxiously think, How will I keep up with all of them? What if I am the worst player there? What if I mess up? These thoughts swirl in my head like a furious hurricane, fighting to break my skull in two.

“Are you ready?” asks my dad, thrilled to experience his childhood once again.

“I guess,” I reply, not really telling the truth. I have to admit, excitement builds inside me as we walk toward the doors. We walk into the Memorial Coliseum, a basketball arena at Kentucky University. When we get to the terrifyingly open doors leading to the court, I want to run away. But I do not.

“You fired up?” asks my dad, his go-to saying before a basketball game or practice. No, I think.

“Yep.” I reply out-loud.

We walk through the doors and down the stairs leading to the court. Suddenly, I realize something. And that something makes the little excitement I had disappear. I scan every dad and daughter on the court, and none of them have brown or black skin. Not a single Asian or African American person in sight. They are like sharks surrounding me, a minnow. Suddenly, now very aware of the pigment of my skin, I realize I never have had a problem with my skin before. In fact, at that moment, I do not have a problem with my skin. But I like to blend in, and I know that I will stand out. Alone and surrounded. The only Indian. The only person with dark skin. The only trio in the mass of duos. The only one who has played basketball for less than a year. The only one who does not fit in with the crowd. The only puzzle piece that does not fit. We walk down the stairs toward the court, and my dad starts talking to another dad. I should talk to his daughter. “Hi,” I say, shy and quiet.

The girl, about my age, replies, “Hi,” in a slightly southern accent.

After that, I don’t really know what to say, so I ask, a bit more boldly, “Are you excited about this camp?”

“Yeah,” the girl says with a bit of uncertainty in her voice. “I’m a little nervous.”

I can definitely relate to her. “Me too,” I say. Although I am sweating a little and anxiousness covers my face, knowing that she feels the same calms me down a little. I look up and notice how everyone is talking to the people next to them and shooting baskets on the court. I realize that although my family differs from everyone else here, we all have something in common. We all came here to play a game we love: basketball. My dad now talks to a small group of dads, and I think, He fits in, but not in the way I thought before. For a puzzle to form, all the pieces have different shapes. Because of our unique shapes, we can click together to make a beautiful picture. Unlike the other girls, I came from California as an Indian girl with brown skin and black hair. That makes me my own unique puzzle piece. And that piece helps create a beautiful picture.

DUCKS!

Aurora Sun

“Ducks!” my brother yells as we hop out of the car and glance at the pond. I unbuckle my seatbelt, and it buzzes angrily. After three long hours in the car, we welcome our arrival.

The pond glistens under the sunlight, and a few green trees stand tall and proud adjacent to the pond. White, fluffy clouds cover the diamond-blue sky, and hundreds of ducks fill the pond. Little rocks and gold sand cover the ground and a few green plants also rest on the sand, with their young leaves waving in the wind. They all let out a marvelous aroma that fills the air and wind.

I run on the soft sand and dash to the ducks. They waddle away as soon as I stick out my hand to touch them. They leap into the pond like a row of ballerinas and quack as if jeering at me and saying, “Ha, ha! You can’t touch me now!” My heart also leaps like a ballerina as I run down to the pond, splashing my ankles with fresh water. To my surprise, some ducks even chase me! I leave footprints on the wet sand, and they vanish immediately after the water washes over them, just like a falling star would flash its life out, burning with all its might and then disappearing in the darkness.

I sit and draw pictures on the sand with my fingertips. The ducks’ masterpieces, however, look a lot better than mine. They waddle and leave a trail of abstract marks behind.

“Aurora! Come on! It’s time for our picnic!” Mom yells.

I run over to Mom, who is sitting on a slope. Several ducks crowd around us to see if we are willing to share our food. Sadly, a sign next to the pond said, “DO NOT FEED THE DUCKS!” Underneath, it explains how feeding the ducks will lead to the ducks’ health hazards and behavioral problems.

“Sorry! No food for you guys!” I say. The ducks understand and waddle away. I suddenly really want to feed them, but I press down the urge and tell myself, “Care for the ducks.” Then, I notice other visitors feeding the ducks the food they have brought from home. They feed the ducks with chips, popcorn, ice cream, and soda. I clench my fists as I stare at them. The ducks might get sick with all the junk food. The visitors know that. Then, I think that I might want to feed the ducks. So does that mean…? I shake my head and tell myself, No. You only thought about it. You didn’t do it. It’s okay. But my brain still keeps thinking about it.

After eating, we pile into the car. The ducks chase me until I get into the car. They wave their feathers as if saying goodbye.

“I hope we didn’t forget anything,” Mom says.

“We’ve got everything!” Dad replies.

“Can we come here again next week?” I ask.

My family chats as Dad drives carefully on the winding freeway with all sorts of turns. Mom turns on the car radio and quiet, soothing music spills out of the speakers like a raindrop that drips off the corners of a leaf. A question fills my head. How can I do something for the ducks? That’s when it hits me. I cannot control others, but I can control myself. I will make a difference by doing the best I can. I stand for animals.

Seventh Grade