Common Ground July/August 2014
San Antonio Independent School District
Volume 2, Issue 1
Speech to the Lanier Class of 2014 Inside this issue:
Speech to the Lanier Class of 2014 Patti Radle, SAISD Board of Trustees
1
It Emery A.
1
On My Grandmother Joy B.
2
Heart Monitor Antonette F.
2
Simplicity Lisa F.
3
It Hurt Her Madelene G.
3
Underwater Alejandro V.
4
4
Lives Lived Jacob L.
4
It’s Not Easy Marissa G.
5
Grades Jennifer H.
5
The deadline for the September/ October 2014 issue is September 19th.
But tomorrow es un otra cosa.
Listen to the good, not all that berating.
Editor’s Note: This poetic speech was delivered to the Class of 2014 graduates at their commencement ceremony on June 5, 2014. Patti Radle was a huge driving force behind the Sidney Lanier Poetry Festival, and her support of creative expression is evident in the following selection.
But don‟t fear the future, bravely walk right in
Look at you now--you‟re graduating !
„Cause you‟ve got VOK Nation under your skin
Be safe, be smart, be loving, have some fun!
They say, no fear „cause you got the gear
Seniors stand up now and let‟s get this done!
Class, I know that some of you are nervous. Asking yourselves, “What‟s life gonna serve us?” In just a few minutes you‟ll be on your way
Demon Cries Anabelle V.
See page 2 for details about upcoming submission deadlines.
Patti Radle, SAISD Board of Trustees
Diploma, then party, then it‟s another day. Padrecitos, Mamacitas, Abuelitos, Hermanitos They‟re all here to see you get your diplomamosa!
You don‟t need to smoke it, don‟t need to cloak it „Cause all of you folks know how to VOK it. A ways in the future, on down the road, Stop and ask yourself as you carry life‟s load Am I helping to make things better for others? Am I building a better future for my sisters and brothers? And don‟t listen to those who say ya don‟t have the rating.
It Emery A. I don‟t know what it is, but you got it. And you‟re worth it. And you‟ve found it. And I hope it makes you happy. And I don‟t know what it is, but I do know that it couldn‟t compare to you. Because you? You‟re the first page of my favorite book. You‟re the sparkle in everyone‟s eyes. You‟re the punch line to every joke. You‟re the extra to my ordinary. You make me want to be better. A better writer, so I can describe in detail the
way the curve of your smile makes my insides feel like melted chocolate. A better artist, so I can paint a portrait of the way you look early in the morning, with sleep-clouded eyes and outof-control hair. A better speaker, so that I can tell everyone how, even on the darkest days, you manage to make me shine brighter than any star. A better person, so that I could be everything you want and need. I want to show you the way I
develop a slight case of Parkinson‟s whenever you‟re around. Or the way I manage to weasel you into any conversation, even if the topic is something as outrageous as a flying purple long-necked unicorn. Or the way my train of thought has a one-way ticket to You-ville. Or the way you‟re worth so much more than you will ever realize. Or the way you always seem to know just what, and how, to get it. I don‟t know what it is, but you got it. And it makes me love you.
Common Ground
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On My Grandmother Joy B. The smell of pie drifted out of the kitchen and wafted through the house till it reached my room. I inhaled deeply and sighed at the heavenly odor of apple pie. I‟m terrified. I‟m in the dark that is swallowing me whole. I was carried down the stairs, past every family portrait, by the smell of apple pie with a pinch of cinnamon. I entered the kitchen and stumbled to the counter like a drunk, drunk on the smell of apple pie with a pinch of cinnamon and pounds of love. I‟m clawing at the air. Occasionally hitting something, someone. A face old and pudgy with thick glasses and messy gray hair. I‟m wasting air by fighting but I don‟t understand that right now. I look down at the pie and gasp. The pie disappeared and was replaced by a cold heart no longer beating. The warm house started to shrink down, go dark, and go cold.
The pillow presses against my face and traps me in the dark that‟s swallowing me. I‟m terrified. I‟m five years old and all I know is that I was crying and, because I was crying, my grandmother threw me on the bed and put a pillow over my face. I‟m running out of air and fight. I‟m forced to lie down so the wood I‟m now encased in doesn‟t crush me. The coffin I‟m trapped in made the air tight, the air unbreathable, and the air gone. I can‟t breathe anymore. My cries have turned to large gasps for any air left under my Minnie Mouse pillow. I‟m dying. At five I know that I‟m dying. My arms fall to my sides because I don‟t have the ability to keep fighting anymore. In a matter of seconds I‟ll be gone. I touched the lid only to pull my fingers away that are now stained with blood. I‟m now aware of the glass I‟m on. Pictures of another time crumbled underneath my weight. The broken picture
frames cut my skin and the pictures haunt me as I lay in the coffin. I‟m disappearing. I‟m gone now. My last gulp of air has left me and now I‟m gone. I‟m not the one that belongs in the coffin. The coffin I‟m in belongs to my newly deceased grandmother. I‟m not dead! The pillow is removed and I gasp for air. My lungs burn as they expand with fresh air. My grandmother with tears in her eyes leaves the room. I‟m buried in the newly dug up dirt with blood red roses tossed on top. I don‟t belong in the coffin. I didn‟t die. I brace myself as I look at the coffin‟s lid with glass shards protecting the wood. One, two, three, I hit the coffin‟s lid with all my might, hoping I had broken it just a little so I can get out. The lid pops open and a blinding bright light blinds me momentarily. I remove myself from the coffin‟s tight hold and look around. I‟m standing in the
foyer of my old house. I‟m caught off guard for seconds before I hear my voice echo loudly. I look up and I‟m on the stairs. The memory comes back to me like flashes from an old nightmare. I remember this day. I peer past the stairs and stare at my grandmother. She is glaring up at me with my two little sisters by her side, both against me because in their eyes our grandmother can‟t do anything wrong. Today was the day she told me she wished for my death. I back up against the door and search blindly for the door knob. The cold knob comes in contact with my hand and I open the door so that I‟m not told that a second time. I leave the house and enter my old bedroom in the last apartment we owned. I‟m curled up into a ball pressed against the back corner sobbing as my grandmother looms over me. I remember this day too. Today she called me a monster, she told me how little I meant to her, she explained to me why she hated me, and she cried as continued on page 3
Heart Monitor Antonette F. I watch as he lay on the white uncomfortable bed with pipes coming from everywhere: his mouth, nose, and chest. I glance every minute to check if the vital monitor is still on, hoping God would give us a miracle. Hoping God would respond to mine, my sisters' and brothers‟ prayers. Hoping my father could hear his little girl tell him she loved him for the very first time as a teenager.
But, all he took with him was memories of his daughter yelling at him and telling him all the wrong things. Refusing to speak to him, treating him like he was just a friend. I was the first one to find out he was gone. It was the worst feeling ever. I wouldn't want my worst enemy to ever feel that way. It hit me where it had never hit me before. I couldn't speak, much less stand to my feet. The man I got these two beautiful dimples
from was gone. I can still picture his beautiful smile; it shined more than the stars ever will. His dimples were as deep as the ocean. His laughter was like music to my ears. I never showed him I loved him, but I did. I loved him so much more than the sun will ever shine in a year. As the doctor came in and out of the room, there wasn't any way I would take my eyes off of him. I didn't want to miss the
moment of him waking up. The doctors were taking all types of tests they could to get results, but those scars on his neck seemed to take his life little by little. When the final test came back positive, there was nothing left for the doctors to do. They unplugged every single pipe, every type of machine, and as they unplugged the heart monitor, I couldn't help but feel as though they unplugged mine.
Would you like to be published in Common Ground? Send us your work and you could be included in an upcoming issue! Email your submissions to: lhslitjournal@gmail.com Be sure to include: your name and grade, your English teacher, the title of your piece, and your revised and edited submission in the body of the email (1,000 words maximum) The deadline for the September/October 2014 issue is September 19th
Volume 2, Issue 1
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On My Grandmother, continued continued from page 2
she told me why couldn‟t I just kill myself. When she left the room I sobbed harder. Today was the first day I ever considered suicide. Two days later would be the first time I ever cut myself just to make her happy. I exit the room not brave enough to witness my weakness yet again. I awake, bathing in sweat with sheets tightly wrapping me in their cocoon. I‟m in reality now. The reality where it leaves a bitter taste behind. Every memory goes back to hiding behind the wall I‟ve built so that they no longer exist. I lean into my pillows and look at the O ornament hanging by my bed. The O ornament was once in my grandmother‟s nursing home but since her passing it now hangs by my bed as a reminder of her death. How am I the one living, breathing, bathing in regret? Is it because when she finally left I cursed her as she walked out the door? Or is it because
I prayed that I would never have to see her again? Maybe it‟s because of the letter she sent me, the letter I ripped into pieces until the letter was basically ash in a dirty trash can. I was fifteen when she sent a letter apologizing for all the wrong she had done. I was fifteen but acted like a three year old when one refuses to give him or her candy. I tore the letter while cussing and hoping for her death to be painful. I was bitter and hateful at fifteen. I had my reasons for the hate I projected to her. My grandmother wasn‟t the Hallmark, apple pie making, hugs all around grandmother. My grandmother would have used a whip if child abuse wasn‟t illegal. Her hate was only directed towards me. My younger sisters were her favorite and I was the bug on her car‟s window, a burden. While my sisters where treated like royalty I was treated horribly. My sadness and fear turned into anger, bitterness, and
hate. I stayed that way for the next two years. I turned seventeen April 26, 2014 and my grandmother turned 62 April 11, 2014. I spent my birthday wondering if she remembered what day my birthday fell on. The next day I went back to hating her like I did every day for the past two years. On May 3rd, 2014 I made a joke about how evil, in reference to my grandmother, never dies. I spoke too soon. May 4th, 2014 I was given the news my grandmother died. I cried for a minute that seemed to be hours and when I stopped I was numb. I didn‟t understand what I was feeling. This woman gave me 14 years of pain and agony. I tried committing suicide twice because of her. She was gone and I was not. I buried any and all feelings of sadness in a hole in my heart. At a memorial service everyone kept saying she was wonderful. She read to people, made people smile, made people laugh,
I like the simplicity of your face,
“...and as they unplugged the heart
You don‟t need any make up on to hide your mistakes.
monitor, I couldn‟t help
I love the beauty in your eyes,
but feel as though they
I would promise you the stars but that would be lies.
unplugged mine.”
And if I could just hug you, I wouldn‟t drop you in the mud. I would just hold you close until I could no longer hug.
The answer came to me as I stared at the O ornament. The O ornament that was part of a collection, the collection that spelled J-OY. My grandmother tried to reconcile with me, but my fourteen years of abuse created hate so powerful no amount of “I‟m sorry” was going to fix anything. My hate buried me in the ground. My memories of only the bad trapped me in the dark. I had the power to fix everything and I didn‟t take it when it was offered to me. Now as I live, breathe, and age so will my guilt of never saying “I‟m so sorry,” or “It will take a while, but I can start trying to forgive you now.”
It Hurt Her
Simplicity Lisa F.
worshipped God, and never raised her voice. Where was that grandmother when I was growing up? Did I bring out the evil in her? How was she everyone‟s grandmother and not mine? My sadness melted away so that rage could take sadness‟ place.
-Antonette F.
Madelene G. Her laugh brought everyone a smile. The day she left brought tears to my eyes; the pain of losing her was harsh. Today‟s her birthday, she‟d turn 92. But, her being here hurt her. So, I just listen to everyone say she‟s in a better place. Her being up there almost ruined our family. But, what holds us together is her spirit
right next to us, giving us faith, helping us through our problems. Even though they weren‟t hers. Because she was here she just did what she thought she needed to be done. She did what was possible because she loved us. And we showed how much we loved her each and every day. Because that‟s what big and loving families do.
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Underwater Common Ground is a student-led, studentreviewed literary journal begun in 2014 with the mission of featuring and celebrating original student writing of all genres. Editor-in-Chief: Antonette F.
Faculty Advisors: Kerri Ward Tiffany Jenkins
Alejandro V. Being underwater is intimidating. Being underwater unable to see is terrifying. Water fills you lungs as you try to reach for air, trying to find the surface, hoping you‟re not at the bottom. The sound of your heart echoes in your head and fear runs through you. You try to find something to hold onto, but there is nothing but water passing through fingers. Something so tangible yet so ungraspable. Feeling lost in the watery body. You know it‟s just a pool, but it feels like an immense ocean.
Common Ground Lanier High School Literary Journal
For the raven whose feather flew high in the sky. And for the shadow that blocked my sunlight from my eyes. But for the demon whose cries still linger within my head. I say I am truly sorry. Sorry for the pain I have caused you and sorry for the struggle that you face every day. But, I cannot deny that I will pity you. For if you had not met me, then this pain you feel in your chest would not exist.
Es norma del distrito de San Antonio no discriminar por motivos de raza, color, origen nacional, sexo o impedimento, en sus programas, servicios o actividades vocacionales, tal como lo requieren el Título VI de la Ley de Deprechos Civiles de 1964, según enmienda; el Título IX de las Emmiendas en la Educación, de 1972, y la Sección 504 de la Ley de Rehabilitación de 1973, según enmienda.
perception. Swimming might be scary, but when you finally overcome your fears, with a little help, it can be the best experience ever.
Demon Cries Annabelle V.
It is the policy of San Antonio ISD not to discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, age, sex or handicap in its vocational programs, services or activities as required by Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, as amended; Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972; and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973, as amended.
Then, came along a pair of dorky looking bo tt led goggles. Putting a barrier between your windows of your soul and the underwater world, you can finally see. It feels like dream of what you see. A vastness of deep blue and see the hue of your skin clashes into it. Relieved, you are just like water, going through it just as it moved through you. Bubbles escape from your mouth and nostrils, going at a rapid pace to join with the air above. You move your arms as if they were fins, kicking your legs to and fro. Touching the bottom seems so far away but the water, like a magician, illusions your
But, can you blame me for fighting who I am? Can you truly blame me for fighting what you are? For it is of your cries that my dreams are filled with fright. And it is of your pain that I feel. For, you see, you and I are the same. You see the world as a cold and dark place while I see it as a battlefield, filled with such pain and loss. But we are the same in one thing…our pain.
this world and it is through our pain that we find one another. For I turn to you for guidance while you look to me for support. „Cause when the sky is dark and rainy it looks beautiful and breathtaking to me. Your cries are painful but they are also beautiful. A demon‟s cry is said to be feared, but to me a demon‟s cry is a prayer being answered.
Our pain is what binds us to
Lives Lived Jacob L.
feline and mice.
I'm claimed to be labeled as an underachiever, but these words I'm spitting feel like fire from a broken heater.
Way back to my descendants who carried AKs and fishing line, but never thought three generations later their greatgrandson would one day be paid for his rhymes.
I could show up to my senior prom in a messy wife beater and still take home Prom King crown. Is this my reward for always being frowned upon? But, this is not chess. This is not checkers, this is not dice and my life isn't a simple game of
Why don't you take a look at my spine and analyze the frustration passed down by my grandmother, who was never accepted as a human being? But, no one was seeing the great qualities she possessed.
I won‟t rest until her name is given the right gratitude it deserves or, better yet, reserve our family name. Beginning with L and ending with A, a new and bright future full of opportunities and, most importantly, a legacy. I‟ll rest when I'm dead: these five words are what kept her going until she could no longer walk. She‟s the ultimate definition of a long life lived great.
Volume 2, Issue 1
Page 5
It’s Not Easy Marissa G.
end his life at any time.
They say that family will never let you down. Life doesn‟t always speak the truth. They say your parents are your number one fan. How can they when your number one fan is too busy working or sitting on a stool somewhere, holding a bottle that can end his life at any time?
In life, you are supposed to be taught how a man or woman should treat you. In this case, it‟s how a man or woman shouldn‟t treat you. You‟re supposed to feel love and comfort, not hate and fear. You‟re not supposed to go on day by day, hoping you won‟t see your super hero stumble over. When you answer a phone call saying, “Daddy,” you‟re not supposed to hear an alcoholic, a depressed man, telling you it‟s your fault. But, you seem to listen to what you think is right. You stay and listen because that man on the other side is supposed to be your number one fan. Yet, you seem to be the one that picks up that bottle that can end your life at any time.
It‟s never easy when you see the one person you think is your super hero only every other weekend. It‟s scary to constantly meet giant adults, seeing them go in and out of the home you‟re to feel safe in. It isn‟t easy sitting in the back seat of a car, praying to God at only 7 years old that you make it home safe because your super hero picked up a bottle that can
“It‟s your entire fault and this
is what life must be,” is what you tell yourself. The actual fact of the matter is that it‟s not. We are too blinded by this image that it‟s okay to be lonely, depressed, and drunk all in one person. On the other side of that phone call you are supposed to hear a proud father that will never let you down or disappoint you at your rising times. A father that will show you how a man is supposed to love you and how to love. Many women seem to seek the father that they desired as a child. The outcome is that they find a man exactly like the man they wanted to get away from. As a father, they should be that super hero that will never let you fall. You should never have to stop your super hero from falling. Children should never be parents to their own
parents. Yet, these generations seem to follow in the footsteps of their parents. We need to start making changes in the lives of emotionally abused children that suffer with alcoholic parents. We need to open the eyes of these parents and show them that the bottle they choose to pick up can end their children‟s life or even their own life in just a blink of an eye. Children need their parents in their lives. We need that love and comfort. We shouldn‟t have to seek it as young adults. We are scared, weak, fearful children. It‟s time for you to put down that bottle because your little girl needs her super hero back.
Grades Jennifer H. Grades. These words are often classified in the category of school. How to keep them up while keeping the stress level down is the impossible question no one seems to know the answer to. The bitter taste in your mouth strengthens as you realize what you‟re doing this assignment for. A grade. But not just any grade. An outstanding grade. Something that will keep yet another grade outstandingly high, which of course, is what you‟re aiming for. Isn‟t it angering to know that your main goal in high school isn‟t to learn? That it‟s to simply „pass and get out of school?‟ Teachers always enforce the “you come here to learn” statement. “Knowledge is power,” they say. I keep that close to me, but if we really go to school to learn and feign knowledge, why do grades exist? They certainly aren‟t to help us learn. They‟re to put a label on our supposed „understanding.‟ You
see, nothing really proves our understanding. It simply proves that we know how to take notes and complete worksheets. Maybe it‟s because teachers don‟t have another choice. They can‟t just break the terribly boring cycle that consists of assigning pages to read and notes to take. Things have been that way for ages, and people don‟t have any other way of measuring a student‟s actual understanding, and not just their memory. So they give into the stereotypical way of learning and decide to give out grades based on worksheets, exams, and notes. We memorize the notes we take, we practice our memory with the completion of worksheets and studying, and we test our memory with exams. This is all for what? A grade. Grades me are about. grades
and assignments to obviously all I think How to get good for the end of the
course. I‟m not really sure if we‟ll be getting worksheets or textbooks when I start working, but I want to be prepared, you know, just in case. It‟s quite reasonable, actually. In addition to the meaningful grades, teachers really shouldn‟t even bother trying to explain why we‟re completing assignments and studying textbooks. It‟s not like we want a sensible explanation as to why we‟re doing what we‟re doing. We just want to complete the work to get a good grade! Though stressful, good grades are all we strive for. Soon enough, we‟ll be done with high school and thrown into the real world. Adulthood. And I‟ve heard that the “real world” isn‟t at all like the “high school life.” Apparently there are these things called „responsibilities‟ and „mature/ adult decisions‟ that we‟re eventually going to have to go through. But of course, with
“I‟m not really sure if we‟ll be getting worksheets or textbooks when I start working, but I want to be prepared, you know, just in case.” -Jennifer H.
the knowledge and experience from high school about how we would handle situations in the real world, I‟m positive that we have absolutely nothing to worry about! I mean, at least we know how to graph a polynomial function!