'I AM" by LOVE youth Summer 2013

I AM

A PUBLICATION BY THE YOUTH OF LOVE-U.S.

LOVE IS...

The mission of Leave Out Violence-U.S. (LOVE-U.S.) is to reduce violence in the lives of youth and in our communities by building a team of youth leaders who communicate a message of non-violence.

LOVE was founded in Montreal, Quebec in 1993 by a woman named Twinkle Rudberg whose husband was killed in an attempt to stop a young person from mugging an older women. Twinkle later found out that the assailant was 14 years old and homeless. Twinkle envisioned LOVE as a resource for teens to turn to as a resource to explore how violence has affected their lives, and share compelling messages of nonviolence to their peers. LOVE now has affiliates in Vancouver, Toronto, Montreal, Halifax, NYC, Jaffa (Israel) and Kampala (Uganda).

LOVE-U.S. has a site-based program and with dozens of public schools and other youth organizations within NYC. To learn more about who we are and what we do, please go to our website at www.newyork/ leaveoutviolence.org.

I AM I Am is the first of many new publications edited by the youth at LOVE-U.S. This volume contains poetry, photography and essays by LOVE-U..S. participants from 2012-2013, and is dedicated to those youth who are seeking a safe, creative and supportive community.

PHOTOGRAPH (opposite page) BY Kelsey COVER Photography by Mennen

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Photograph by Khalil

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A Teen’s Life Whiskey is something I drink To wash the painful memories away Weed is what I smoke Just to smile for the day Pills are what I take To keep myself awake So I'm just a teen Trying to survive In the Nightmare Called my life Guys are gentlemen Guys are jerks Girls are Women Girls are fakers And in reality this is our life Where no one will believe the truth in your eyes Peer pressure is a new high Getting arrested and searched are fun

times Going home are always not the best time A surprise lays behind the locked door And It’s times for the lies To save your life But now it’s the night And everyone went to hide So we decide to go outside Soul-less and lifeless the streets are quiet Can’t you hear them The scream of many beaten teens But at least it’s not me For I didn’t decide to become the one night stand or even a puppet So I’ll go home for another sleepless night Sincerely me I am a teen!

Poem BY GERARDO 5

Brook-Lynn PHOTOGRAPH by Jayna 6

PHOTOGRAPH by KAYMAR

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PHOTOGRAPH by JULIAN

Contemplations: My Affection (Excerpt) I’m not happy with knowing I made someone happy, I’m just glad that I could have the ability to. When you spend so much time sobbing on the inside, all you want is for others to be elated. That’s my dream, to put grins on people’s faces. Speaking of, I finally started my job as a sales associate. I do appreciate the accolades but I honestly just enjoy seeing smiles transform a person’s otherwise neutral expression.

The world would be beautiful if everyone could just smile, up to the eyes, “glowing” and all. I seek too much. After all, even Earth’s glorious evening hues are the result of the ozone’s faulty layers. Today, for the first time in a while, momma and I just talked. Simple conversation; it’s the little things. I forgot that she gets lonely. That she, too, is human.

However, even when talking to her, I can still see that there is a great deal she’ll never comprehend. Still, I’m blessed to at least have been given the chance to be with her and continue this slow discovery. She made an observation about me that hit the nail’s head: I’m a sociable loner. No matter how hard I try to connect with people, it never sticks, and when I do it feels innately forced. The feeling is vague but always a prickling awareness that manages to sting from within. Moreover, when I feel an undoubtable meshing with someone, it’s as if the individual says, “Nope, not really,” and just…leaves. My love and care for a couple people is so immense yet I don’t feel an honest blending with any…

If it were up to me, the internal clock would have been frozen at five. Everyone and thing I cared for unconditionally would still be by my side. What’s the use of complaining though, right? Can’t change the calendar, it will only proceed. The most I can do is make the best out of it. I still feel morose regardless though, for this and so many other reasons. Currently, as I sit isolated writing, I have never felt so

“unwholely-whole” because after all, nobody “gets” you but you. In this state, I don’t feel lonely. Loneliness is dispiriting; I try to make sure no one has to undergo its silent pain. Of course they will eventually but around me, I try to eradicate the emotion. Again, when you spend your existence upset, you make it your mission for others not to. My problem is, I think, when I do make my own personal connection with someone I usually face the realization that they are a loner as well (or simply not open emotionally). So obviously that relationship becomes doomed from commencement. I knowingly set myself up for disaster believing optimism will be a positive catalyst. A reason I am sociable at times is because I do want a connection with somebody, because it is weird seeing all these pairs, trios, groups, etc. while you only have a corner with your book and thoughts. It is not that I am particularly dissatisfied with being alone. It’s the fact that I feel as if there’s essentially no place for me to go otherwise…

I crave alternatives, even if superfluous, because backups provide security. Fortresses of compassion and hope, like family for instance, are pertinent resources to fall against when too much space becomes claustrophobic. I don’t know how I could ever be sustained without these “walls” so I block them out as if they were not there to begin with. I am subconsciously prepping myself to be stalwart under consistent solitude if it ever were to become my future reality.

Although within this mental boot camp I am weakening my resistances, leaning towards the safety of apathy and allowing each drill practice to make my spirit further callused…

This is part of the reason as to why I am so affectionate and sensual towards others. I pour my love through touches and hugs, hoping the admiration to be reciprocated through the very pores themselves, maybe finding the same yearning from someone else that’s within me. Because that is how the truest connectivity is reached, I believe. By two broken humans helping to make each other complete…

Essay by Kemara

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The New Black PHOTOGRAPH by XYANNIE 10

Sweet Blur PHOTOGRAPH by Kaitlin 11

Mom said way back then That if they’re mean, it’s because they like you Either we’re both immature now Or the rules just don’t change.

Every punch feels like a pinch of passion to the face Making me dissolve As I absolve his sins With the washing of salty tear stains and dried blood crust Reminder of cherries munched Cherries popped, cherries crushed. I gave everything.

Because malice obviously meant he gave a damn

Why did you lie?

Why didn’t you tell me that jealousy is not justified; That the yanking of hair and gouging of eyes Had an age limit?

Between “like” and the loss of life, you lied, That every slap stated, that maybe, just maybe I had been saving him from hidden emotions When does “mean” No longer mean he cares for me?

When does the hand round my wrist Need to have loosened grip?

Is he guiding me towards desire? Or his own mapped-out destruction I hate being adored so deep. Having me rolling in a fog where even sleep Is a feared state of mind because the pillow beside me Has a heartbeat of its own That wishes to knock against my nose Kicked me into a state where I correlate cracked bones Until my ribcage, to no longer arise with kindness He is smothering me with a sweetness that expired past Mom, I think he likes me a lot grade school Every bruise burning with the by-product of a caress Be wary of the 5th grade bully that becomes boyfriend That I digress may have lasted a decade or so too long The boy that boasted distaste secretly They say when it’s real, it hurts Garnished with an interest that manifested into, deadly; That love is not a walk in the park Beware: he is a dry dandelion – a pretty illusion And you know Mom, they were right The flower that will never be despite fervent trying I’ve been dragged through countless bushes He is the weed in your garden, no matter how beautiful As his hands hugged my neck tight his outer petals may be “Too, too much affection,” I tried gasping out Hold him next to the wind – watch As the grasping tightened and the clasping of childhood As his “truth” floats away and you’re left mental reference index With what mommy wanted you to believe Eluded me past the thickening of an admiration tarnished Mom, tell India I am not ready for love By a falsified innocence – my heart is not broken My body is a canvas not big enough for all this red paint He is suffocating it Leona, I cannot bleed for his love, not anymore Poisoning it with passion, killing it with kindness Adoration’s left incisions that will not heal He is blinding me with nihilistic niceness I thought with each scold he was treating me like gold Mom, you never told me Flattery towards the point of a flat line To be madly in love, is to make me a murder victim You always said, “Punishment is for your own good.”

The Things

She Told Me

I must be at my best yet ever so pious, as the pistol caresses Beating blatantly as brain struggles To process this last message, to be cared for by a boy that kept it old school Going by invisible rule books That if it’s affection you yearn to express, hurt is how to display it the greatest A mentality born of etched innocence And visuals of tombstones stating their best wishes Because a life after this one Is the most perfect gift you could think of Mom, tell your next child, your son That love is not lynching the life out of their crush, and to like, Not a look of disgust.

Mom, tell him love Is conceived through compliments Not the crippling of a woman’s ego Teach him first, to use fine words over fists And if another daughter, please tell her That if the first guy she falls for Is because he tripped her, remind Her, this is not love Tell her that love is not a bruise. It is a bandage Words are not Wounds. They are antibiotic.

PHOTOGRAPH by Kemara

Night

poem BY Kemara

Night 13

PHOTOGRAPH by Katya Metamorphosis

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PHOTOGRAPH by Kelsey

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The 6 word challenge was inspired by a challenge tackled by Ernest Hemingway to tell a story In just 6 words. His read: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”

Love me, but don’t touch me. –Xyannie Love the dog. I won’t anymore. –Clayton

First born. Never more. All alone. –Alix Don’t drop that thun thun thun… - Khalil A better life could be found.—Mennen All young hearts be free today.—Erica Stop making death; etymology of existence. –Kemara We are who we are: humans.—Khalil Make me a bird that flies.—Jayna With rising age comes growing indifference.—Kemara She was only six years old.– Isamar

The 6-word memoir challenge

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PHOTOGRAPH by Gnesis Essay by : Kemara 17

Brain, Heart, Bowels, pt. 1 Here I am looking back in my mind Realizing it had been filled with lies Which leads me to a certain place and time When I got pushed around by the shadows of life Where promises became false thoughts in my mind Leading me back inside to the nucleus called my life Traveling through my vessels like a roller coaster ride Crashing into the locked beaten doors Leading to a fragile glass heart inside Remembering my first time When love became lies Making me a puppet in her eyes Tearing my heart out before I could even die

And when time past I got it back And now it has a large crack That reminds me of that day When I was about to fade away Which leads me to the bowels of my mind Where pain stayed and wouldn’t go away Where scars wouldn’t fade If only I can Forget that day When I got betrayed And now this glass heart is about to break But I will thank you For you made me the man I am today.

Poem by Gerardo

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PHOTOGRAPH BY DANIELLA

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An Introduction That is More Than a Name and a

spitting them out, but I know commuters would rather curse the delays and the MTA bemoan the blood on the tracks then think of the cause.

And all those Who are you’s? Were just an excuse to categorize by hobbies And goals and those other little boxes that we silently tick off during every introduction because I never know what to say to the question, Who all anybody really needs is a name and an indication that you’re important. are you? And How are you? And the rest of those answerless questions people So let me put this into terms that you can attempt to file away neatly: ask to convince themselves “Someone once told me that if I looked in the they are not just talking to empty air, to darkened lines in the outline of a girl like a dictionary crime scene marking where a body used to be. And my name would be synonymous to life but but who knows if you really are talking to being told that you are the beginning is not someone, the same as believing it and I think that I am because some nights I am so far one more fitting I am sure when my ‘Missing’ posters go up as a conclusion because everybody knows that there will be nothing there. at least endings are valued, They ask me How am I? but I’m sure they do the trip from ‘A’ to ‘B’ doesn’t matter as long as they get there; not care to know, beginnings, however, are just getting started.” that all those Fines were stones I held in my And maybe that’s what I’m so scared of. mouth, smoothening it People always think of the end of the means with the whorls of my tongue because I was or practicing how get caught up in the journey but to keep unsightly truths inside instead of 20 they always forget how it started and

Number

maybe I don’t want to be an afterthought, a footnote on the bottom of a page in the story of our lives no one even bothers to read and makes me want to ask, What about me?

What about you? They would ask.

And I’d say, “What about me are you unable to gloss over?

What cannot fit in a three sentence obituary in the back of a newspaper, or what’s carved on my gravestone as if I can be reduced to just three words?

Daughter, Mother, friend. tell me how a, “In Loving Memory of-“ and an ill-fitting name is an apt enough description? What about all the books I thumbed through wishing I too had a life made up of pages and the love letters I never wrote on the lines of someone else’s palms and all the words I held between my teeth even when they burned going down and the people I’ve touched, fingertips first as if afraid they’d bite and the loneliness that wants to hold me when others won’t and and andHow could you possibly fit all of that?”

However I imagine their response will be: Nothing. There is nothing we cannot gloss over.

And yet you wonder why I hate introductions.

Photograph by Isiah Poem by Anonymous

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Many faces carry masks to hide their true feelings and intentions.

Many hold on that mask so people won't find out the truth.

Many stand straight like a statue and use the mask to fake a happiness that really doesn't exist in them.

The whole looks can be deceiving thing? Yeah believe that!

Being A Statue Is A Cover- Up Every mask is a cover-up.

A cover-up that doesn't show what your actually feeling.

That mask for many helps to cover up the river of tears you been feeling.

When people ask me how's everything? I know it's time to act like a statue and put my mask.

My response is simply fine because I don't want to talk many.

But, everyone knows that each mask always ends up falling down once a person has reached it's limit.

I know Being A Statue Is A Cover- Up because I have put on that mask many times.

It's just been waiting until the right time for it to come completely off.

Being a

Statue is a

Cover-Up Poem by ERIKA

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Photograph by Amanda

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Through My Eyes Through my eyes, I see a world that is never perfect Many people with many talents But they all fall on hard granite

I see different lights of my summer scenery And people having fun in a different world

I see creativity in many different things Through my eyes I feel the vibrations of a melody.

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Composite poem by SMP 2012 Photograph by Vicks

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I Am /We Are I am.

I am hopeful.

I wonder at what point people begin to lose their hope?

I hear it’s a point in their life when there’s nothing to hold on to.

I see it in those I love but still, I am hopeful for them.

I want there to be a change for something better.

I am hopeful for change.

We are change.

We feel we can unite.

We touch the ones who need us.

We worry we can’t intrigue them.

We cry for everyone We are the change.

We understand not everyone can see it.

We say they do We dream they do Photograph by Luis

We try to help them see us

Poem by SMP 2013

We hope they can believe us We are trying to be the change.

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Thanks for reading our work and viewing our poetry and essay. The Summer Media Program, and many other LOVE-U.S. programs would not be possible without the participation of our courageous youth, dedicated board and staff, assistance of our school partners, and the generosity of our individual funders and foundations-namely the Nicole Schiffman Foundation (sponsors of the Summer Media Program).

Thank you all so much.

Twinkle Rudberg, M.S.M. – Founder Barbara Goldstein, LOVE-U.S. Chairperson Emeritus HONORARY PATRONS LOVE U.S. Richard Kirshenbaum Dr. Isadore Rosenfel Toni Schulman Avram Westin Mortimer Zuckerman Artists in LOVE Carlton DeWoody Henry Joost Erin Falls Ariel Schulman Yaniv Schulman Mickey Sumner

U.S. BOARD OF DIRECTORS Linda Thibodeau, Co-President Claudia Glenn Barasch, Co-President Romi Swidler-Howard, EVP Sheldon Hirshon ESQ, Treasurer Jane Brody Marienne Hill-Treadway Joe Townsend Michael Vasami Lynette Ashby Craig Loewenstern STAFF Clayton Evans, Executive Director Erica Reade, Program Director 501C3 # F021118000312 EID 72-1542113

PLEASE CONTACT US AT WWW.NEWYORK/LEAVEOUTVIOLENCE.ORG, OR CALL US AT 212-714-1194.

SMP 2013 Staff and Youth: Vicks, Mike, Edward Alex, Alix, Amanda, Andy, Daniella, Erika, Gnesis, Isamar, Hailey, Jayna, Julian, Kaitlin, Katya, Kaymar, Kelsey, Khalil, Luis, Mennen, Nykemah, Xyannie.

Publication Design consultations from: Jill Armus and Erik Fox-Jackson Primary Youth Editor: Xyannie

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WEIRD; CHANGING; CULTURE; GOOD; BEAUTIFUL;

ME;

FREE; PRO-WOMAN; ABSORBANT; LOUD; OBSERVANT; ENERGETIC; SARCASTIC; DIFFERENT; ART;

COURAGEOUS; BOLD; ALIVE; CARING; CORNY; A

DREAMER; CREATIVE; PEACE; A VOICE; EVOLVING; LOVE; AN INDIVIDUAL; A FRIEND; A BELIEVER;

FUTURE.

THE