Adult Author Poetry
First Place
His Hand by Susan Frederick
I see a forest green Kenworth in the oncoming lane,
going too fast.
A load of logs
stacked too high.
Then his wide, calloused hand reaches out over the top of the steering wheel, fingers spread wide.
A trucker’s wave.
Me on my way to the office.
Dad on his daily routine:
load on the mountain
drive into town
dump in the log pond
repeat three times.
Tin lunch bucket on the seat beside him, red thermos of black coffee nestled in
the lid, barely staying warm.
I blow him a kiss as we pass.
He’s gone now but those big trucks still run.
Those drivers still drive.
Those logs still get loaded and hauled and dumped.
And I still look for that big hand.
His Hand by Susan Frederick
I see a forest green Kenworth in the oncoming lane,
going too fast.
A load of logs
stacked too high.
Then his wide, calloused hand reaches out over the top of the steering wheel, fingers spread wide.
A trucker’s wave.
Me on my way to the office.
Dad on his daily routine:
load on the mountain
drive into town
dump in the log pond
repeat three times.
Tin lunch bucket on the seat beside him, red thermos of black coffee nestled in
the lid, barely staying warm.
I blow him a kiss as we pass.
He’s gone now but those big trucks still run.
Those drivers still drive.
Those logs still get loaded and hauled and dumped.
And I still look for that big hand.
Second Place
The Bluebird and the Coyote by Joanne Peterson
I was just looking for Jane, Jackie said, frowning a bit,
but Jane was off somewhere, lookingfor hobo trucks.
Who was Jane? I wondered. And hobo trucks?
Morphine brings its own words and weird imaginings,
curling its way through the mind, blurring pain and reason.
What could I do? I could hold her hand, rub her feet,
tidy her bed and offer apple juice she wouldn't drink.
Once I brought her a flop-eared plush bunny~anything to bring a smile.
She said, right away, I love him. His name is Spirit Monkey.
I remember that day. I tucked him in the crook of her arm
and smiled at his name. See you later, Spirit Monkey, I said when I left.
But that was weeks ago. Now the plush bunny mostly slumps on the window sill.
Suddenly Jackie said, Tell that cute man he didn't bore me,
and tell him there was a day I would have flirted with him.
She managed a smile, her head turning toward me.
OK, Jack, I say. I wish I had seen him. I could have flirted with him for you.
She managed another smile, spoke again, voice a bit stronger.
You know, just now? Just now I tried tojigure out whether I was stupid.
There's no way to know, is there?
I agreed that there's no way to know and said I hadn't decided about myself either.
Jackie turned restlessly on the heaped pillows and made a small sound. Pain?
I felt her hand on mine, her touch like a breath.
What can I do for you? I asked. What can I do right now?
Jackie said, I wish we could go somewhere grand. Somewhere not here.
I knew what I wanted for her: velvet cushions in a golden coach
pulled by silver Arabians down a diamond-dust boulevard.
I knew what she deserved: a jeweled barge towed by elegant white swans
down a glass-smooth River Thames, while she reclined in downy comfort.
Oh, I knew what Jackie deserved: every treasure and pleasure.
Of course, most of all, I knew Jackie deserved a future.
Instead? Fresh pillow cases. A pink rose in a vase. Ice chips. Visitors on tip-toe.
Her hand still on mine, Jackie murmured, Could we just go to the park
andpretendwe 're butterflies? I whispered, Yes. Let's do that. Let's pretend right now.
We can be butterflies, periwinkle blue ones or yellow or white. You choose.
But Jackie closed her eyes again, butterflies forgotten.
Then a hushed whisper. Would you go outside for me?
Would you go outside and tell the bluebird and the coyote
that I like their songs but that I am tired of waiting?
The Bluebird and the Coyote by Joanne Peterson
I was just looking for Jane, Jackie said, frowning a bit,
but Jane was off somewhere, lookingfor hobo trucks.
Who was Jane? I wondered. And hobo trucks?
Morphine brings its own words and weird imaginings,
curling its way through the mind, blurring pain and reason.
What could I do? I could hold her hand, rub her feet,
tidy her bed and offer apple juice she wouldn't drink.
Once I brought her a flop-eared plush bunny~anything to bring a smile.
She said, right away, I love him. His name is Spirit Monkey.
I remember that day. I tucked him in the crook of her arm
and smiled at his name. See you later, Spirit Monkey, I said when I left.
But that was weeks ago. Now the plush bunny mostly slumps on the window sill.
Suddenly Jackie said, Tell that cute man he didn't bore me,
and tell him there was a day I would have flirted with him.
She managed a smile, her head turning toward me.
OK, Jack, I say. I wish I had seen him. I could have flirted with him for you.
She managed another smile, spoke again, voice a bit stronger.
You know, just now? Just now I tried tojigure out whether I was stupid.
There's no way to know, is there?
I agreed that there's no way to know and said I hadn't decided about myself either.
Jackie turned restlessly on the heaped pillows and made a small sound. Pain?
I felt her hand on mine, her touch like a breath.
What can I do for you? I asked. What can I do right now?
Jackie said, I wish we could go somewhere grand. Somewhere not here.
I knew what I wanted for her: velvet cushions in a golden coach
pulled by silver Arabians down a diamond-dust boulevard.
I knew what she deserved: a jeweled barge towed by elegant white swans
down a glass-smooth River Thames, while she reclined in downy comfort.
Oh, I knew what Jackie deserved: every treasure and pleasure.
Of course, most of all, I knew Jackie deserved a future.
Instead? Fresh pillow cases. A pink rose in a vase. Ice chips. Visitors on tip-toe.
Her hand still on mine, Jackie murmured, Could we just go to the park
andpretendwe 're butterflies? I whispered, Yes. Let's do that. Let's pretend right now.
We can be butterflies, periwinkle blue ones or yellow or white. You choose.
But Jackie closed her eyes again, butterflies forgotten.
Then a hushed whisper. Would you go outside for me?
Would you go outside and tell the bluebird and the coyote
that I like their songs but that I am tired of waiting?
Honorable Mention
Heartbeet by Donna M Rudiger
She goes down to the garden before sunrise
to meditatively survey the work of her hands
in the opalescent light of dawn.
Morning mist blankets aisles of vegetables and herbs,
watering wands on twisted hoses wait for direction,
shovels and hoes lean against the shed, poised for action.
Everything she planted beckons her attention,
sunflowers gently nod upon her arrival.
She meanders among neatly cultivated rows
contemplating the day’s harvest,
her golden hair sways like sheaves of wheat in the
morning breeze.
Snipping shears in hand, she dances through corridors of
flowers
waving over their perfumes like a maestro,
inhaling their scents as she clips the colors of summer;
pollen gently kisses her hands.
Her fingers are tainted magenta from the juice of freshly
pulled beets,
basil and mint bestow enticing aromas
when she tickles their dew-kissed leaves.
Leeks and garlic stand alert waiting for the sun’s rays,
new potatoes peek through mist-dampened soil,
squash plants unfurl their vines over the organic turf.
Pausing to breathe, she embraces the energy and vibrant
life of the garden;
her ardent love of nurturing the soil feeds her soul and
community.
The moment is electric and pulsing with gratitude,
for the earth is her lover -
the fruits of their passion embrace her feet.
Heartbeet by Donna M Rudiger
She goes down to the garden before sunrise
to meditatively survey the work of her hands
in the opalescent light of dawn.
Morning mist blankets aisles of vegetables and herbs,
watering wands on twisted hoses wait for direction,
shovels and hoes lean against the shed, poised for action.
Everything she planted beckons her attention,
sunflowers gently nod upon her arrival.
She meanders among neatly cultivated rows
contemplating the day’s harvest,
her golden hair sways like sheaves of wheat in the
morning breeze.
Snipping shears in hand, she dances through corridors of
flowers
waving over their perfumes like a maestro,
inhaling their scents as she clips the colors of summer;
pollen gently kisses her hands.
Her fingers are tainted magenta from the juice of freshly
pulled beets,
basil and mint bestow enticing aromas
when she tickles their dew-kissed leaves.
Leeks and garlic stand alert waiting for the sun’s rays,
new potatoes peek through mist-dampened soil,
squash plants unfurl their vines over the organic turf.
Pausing to breathe, she embraces the energy and vibrant
life of the garden;
her ardent love of nurturing the soil feeds her soul and
community.
The moment is electric and pulsing with gratitude,
for the earth is her lover -
the fruits of their passion embrace her feet.
Adult Author Prose
First Place
The Snuffed Box by Natalie Leif
Ethan Westley, who was my mentor of sorts, had just the one rule: don’t touch the box. He had a bunch of suggestions, like “don’t steal from anyone with a weapon” and “be careful who you steal from” and “don’t steal from someone with a weapon,” yeah. (He also had a white bullet scar about the size of a dime on the back of his hand, and when he suggested stuff he’d cross his arms and grip ‘em hard so the scar stood out rippled and bright against the muscle lines.) But there was just the one rule, which was “don’t touch the box”.
I got the stealing part alright. Ethan, you see, didn’t expect me or order me to steal nothing for him, even as a mentor... but he knew that every dirty street kid still had that urge in them when their stomach got empty, like an old shard of rock jabbin’ out when the tides fell back. So he gave me those real powerful suggestions, and I in return never got kill’t, and that was all fine.
The box, though, that haunted me.
It was a little silvery snuffbox about the size of a lighter and nearabouts as shiny. It had a ship carved into it, real elegant, surrounded by a pretty border of little loops and swirls and feathers that probably used to be gold but was now kind of an ugly rust-orange. The rounded edges were all flecked brown-gray, sort of, probably because when he got nervous Ethan’d run it around and around in his big gritty hands until he’d worn out the silver and filled the wears with dirt. Like he didn’t even notice how much it could’ve been worth if polished up nice.
He didn’t keep it real safe, either! That box wandered about as much as we did. It ended up sometimes on a shelf in a rented apartment, sometimes on the floorboards of a luggage car, and all the times showing up right when I’d just about managed to finally put it out of my mind. I think Ethan did it on purpose, like a test. I’d be sitting there in a freight car, wind howling overhead and the tracks thudding bruises into my ass, just about to nod off... and bam! Whammo! There the box was, glittering like a gem in the corner, buried under the stink of old hay and dust.
Good silver can get you a lot of nice things, these days. More if it’s got some nice carves in it. Every-time I got sick and wanted a medicine, every-time I got hungry and wanted food, every-time I got cold and wanted a hotel room to stay in for the night... I’d look over and I’d see my hobo-mentor sitting around, rubbing his calloused fingers across the box like a lover. Every-day he ground more hand-dirt into its little curls and dips and wore more dark into the edges, and every-day I’d huddle down in my ratty old blanket and kind of quietly hate him a bit more.
It didn’t make sense! You know? Drifters didn’t have anything, that’s why they’re drifters. Him sitting there with that box was like a bum flossin his teeth with a diamond. I wanted to scream at him.
But I didn’t, because he was my mentor and even when I was fourteen, which is when you still sort of think you’re invincible even with the world after you, I knew he was one of the big things standing between me and getting kill’t.
And besides, every drifter had somethin small and special to them. Somethin taken from home or what they want home to be like, what gives them hope or reminds them of when things were better. I had my rucksack, so worn out and torn up that I’d lost more things to it than I’d ever even stolen, and Ethan had his box, and I guessed that’d have to be okay.
A few days later, though, I broke the ‘weapon’ rule. I didn’t mean to, it just happened like that. The trains had stopped for a while in town, and I started wandering on my own, like I usually did. Drifters are like cats—we don’t mingle long. We just sorta end up back together at the end of the day when the trains leave again.
I was hungry, was the thing. Most towns had outdoor stalls with fruits and meats and all kinds of nice things to snag, but it was nearing winter and just about everything was all closed up tight against the cold. Normally I’d be able to work around that anyway, but my mind kept drifting back to that box and how much I could buy with its weight in silver. I was mad and I was hungry and that made me madder and by the time I actually ran into another living person I was nearabouts ready to deck him in the face.
He glared at me, looking about as ratty as the rest of us, but with that mean sort of look in his eye that some of them get when they get screwed over too often. Drifters are like dogs, that way. You get some that are loyal and cheery until the end, and that’s Ethan, and then you get some that end up hard and mean and yappy when food gets scarce. I immediately didn’t like this guy, and ‘cause I was in the mood for a fight, I let him know it.
I told him to get bent. He said ‘scuse me. I said you heard me, mutt. He said...
...Well. I don’t remember what he said. I remember that he hit me in the gut, hard. He screamed or I screamed or something screamed, anyway. The birds took off overhead and he followed suit, the holes in his jacket fluttering like a surrender flag fulla bullet-holes. I saw a glint, though, and for a second I thought of Ethan’s silver snuffbox and wondered if I should’ve snagged it before the guy popped me.
Then my legs stopped working all of the sudden and I sagged against a wall and put my hands to my stomach and came away with a cupful of dark red syrup that smelled like pennies and felt like warm oil. Looking at it was like looking at one of those illusions, in that it made me feel all dizzy and dis-orientated and next thing I knew I was flat on my back and didn’t the sky look pretty today. It couldn’t have been a snuffbox, then, I figured, ‘cause snuffboxes weren’t sharp and didn’t sink into your gut like jelly and didn’t leave you glassy-eyed and staring up at clouds.
They didn’t leave you staring up at clouds for a long long time.
Ethan came and got me, after a while, I think. He must have, because I blinked and when I opened my eyes again I was looking up at a gray-white paneled roof, with fluorescent lights all buzzing in a dull chorus. My side felt tightly wrapped, and for a second I almost understood what being a Victorian lady in a corset must’ve been like before I realized they were bandages.
I looked left. I was lying in a bed, one in all pearly whites with a silvery bar on the end. Beyond the bar was a pole with little bags hanging from it like prisoners from a noose, one full of clear stuff and the other full of dark red stuff. There was a stink of something chemical in the air, mixed with pine that smelled too strong to be anything other than fake.
I looked right. Ethan was sitting there by the bed, his bulky frame perched on a little chair like a bird. His long hair flopped in front of his face in greasy strands, but I could still see his stern look as he rubbed his calloused fingers together, grinding dirt into empty air like embers off a fire.
“...Where’m?” I asked.
Ethan flinched, startled, then turned and gave me a smile full of crooked yellow teeth.
“Hell. I give you one suggestion. Just one, kid,” he said. The words lost all their spite around that crooked grin. Ethan wasn’t the type to actually get mad. He didn’t have meanness in him.
“Ishospiddle?” I groaned and shook my head. “Can’t ‘fford hospiddle.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He shifted, going right back to rubbing those two fingers together. The scar on his hand stood out white and bright, like the walls.
He looked at me, then, and it was weird. He looked a little troubled, like he was weighing something in his mind, but not really, ‘cause he didn’t have to think about it for even a second before he smiled again and the look was gone.
“I had an emergency fund.”
The Snuffed Box by Natalie Leif
Ethan Westley, who was my mentor of sorts, had just the one rule: don’t touch the box. He had a bunch of suggestions, like “don’t steal from anyone with a weapon” and “be careful who you steal from” and “don’t steal from someone with a weapon,” yeah. (He also had a white bullet scar about the size of a dime on the back of his hand, and when he suggested stuff he’d cross his arms and grip ‘em hard so the scar stood out rippled and bright against the muscle lines.) But there was just the one rule, which was “don’t touch the box”.
I got the stealing part alright. Ethan, you see, didn’t expect me or order me to steal nothing for him, even as a mentor... but he knew that every dirty street kid still had that urge in them when their stomach got empty, like an old shard of rock jabbin’ out when the tides fell back. So he gave me those real powerful suggestions, and I in return never got kill’t, and that was all fine.
The box, though, that haunted me.
It was a little silvery snuffbox about the size of a lighter and nearabouts as shiny. It had a ship carved into it, real elegant, surrounded by a pretty border of little loops and swirls and feathers that probably used to be gold but was now kind of an ugly rust-orange. The rounded edges were all flecked brown-gray, sort of, probably because when he got nervous Ethan’d run it around and around in his big gritty hands until he’d worn out the silver and filled the wears with dirt. Like he didn’t even notice how much it could’ve been worth if polished up nice.
He didn’t keep it real safe, either! That box wandered about as much as we did. It ended up sometimes on a shelf in a rented apartment, sometimes on the floorboards of a luggage car, and all the times showing up right when I’d just about managed to finally put it out of my mind. I think Ethan did it on purpose, like a test. I’d be sitting there in a freight car, wind howling overhead and the tracks thudding bruises into my ass, just about to nod off... and bam! Whammo! There the box was, glittering like a gem in the corner, buried under the stink of old hay and dust.
Good silver can get you a lot of nice things, these days. More if it’s got some nice carves in it. Every-time I got sick and wanted a medicine, every-time I got hungry and wanted food, every-time I got cold and wanted a hotel room to stay in for the night... I’d look over and I’d see my hobo-mentor sitting around, rubbing his calloused fingers across the box like a lover. Every-day he ground more hand-dirt into its little curls and dips and wore more dark into the edges, and every-day I’d huddle down in my ratty old blanket and kind of quietly hate him a bit more.
It didn’t make sense! You know? Drifters didn’t have anything, that’s why they’re drifters. Him sitting there with that box was like a bum flossin his teeth with a diamond. I wanted to scream at him.
But I didn’t, because he was my mentor and even when I was fourteen, which is when you still sort of think you’re invincible even with the world after you, I knew he was one of the big things standing between me and getting kill’t.
And besides, every drifter had somethin small and special to them. Somethin taken from home or what they want home to be like, what gives them hope or reminds them of when things were better. I had my rucksack, so worn out and torn up that I’d lost more things to it than I’d ever even stolen, and Ethan had his box, and I guessed that’d have to be okay.
A few days later, though, I broke the ‘weapon’ rule. I didn’t mean to, it just happened like that. The trains had stopped for a while in town, and I started wandering on my own, like I usually did. Drifters are like cats—we don’t mingle long. We just sorta end up back together at the end of the day when the trains leave again.
I was hungry, was the thing. Most towns had outdoor stalls with fruits and meats and all kinds of nice things to snag, but it was nearing winter and just about everything was all closed up tight against the cold. Normally I’d be able to work around that anyway, but my mind kept drifting back to that box and how much I could buy with its weight in silver. I was mad and I was hungry and that made me madder and by the time I actually ran into another living person I was nearabouts ready to deck him in the face.
He glared at me, looking about as ratty as the rest of us, but with that mean sort of look in his eye that some of them get when they get screwed over too often. Drifters are like dogs, that way. You get some that are loyal and cheery until the end, and that’s Ethan, and then you get some that end up hard and mean and yappy when food gets scarce. I immediately didn’t like this guy, and ‘cause I was in the mood for a fight, I let him know it.
I told him to get bent. He said ‘scuse me. I said you heard me, mutt. He said...
...Well. I don’t remember what he said. I remember that he hit me in the gut, hard. He screamed or I screamed or something screamed, anyway. The birds took off overhead and he followed suit, the holes in his jacket fluttering like a surrender flag fulla bullet-holes. I saw a glint, though, and for a second I thought of Ethan’s silver snuffbox and wondered if I should’ve snagged it before the guy popped me.
Then my legs stopped working all of the sudden and I sagged against a wall and put my hands to my stomach and came away with a cupful of dark red syrup that smelled like pennies and felt like warm oil. Looking at it was like looking at one of those illusions, in that it made me feel all dizzy and dis-orientated and next thing I knew I was flat on my back and didn’t the sky look pretty today. It couldn’t have been a snuffbox, then, I figured, ‘cause snuffboxes weren’t sharp and didn’t sink into your gut like jelly and didn’t leave you glassy-eyed and staring up at clouds.
They didn’t leave you staring up at clouds for a long long time.
Ethan came and got me, after a while, I think. He must have, because I blinked and when I opened my eyes again I was looking up at a gray-white paneled roof, with fluorescent lights all buzzing in a dull chorus. My side felt tightly wrapped, and for a second I almost understood what being a Victorian lady in a corset must’ve been like before I realized they were bandages.
I looked left. I was lying in a bed, one in all pearly whites with a silvery bar on the end. Beyond the bar was a pole with little bags hanging from it like prisoners from a noose, one full of clear stuff and the other full of dark red stuff. There was a stink of something chemical in the air, mixed with pine that smelled too strong to be anything other than fake.
I looked right. Ethan was sitting there by the bed, his bulky frame perched on a little chair like a bird. His long hair flopped in front of his face in greasy strands, but I could still see his stern look as he rubbed his calloused fingers together, grinding dirt into empty air like embers off a fire.
“...Where’m?” I asked.
Ethan flinched, startled, then turned and gave me a smile full of crooked yellow teeth.
“Hell. I give you one suggestion. Just one, kid,” he said. The words lost all their spite around that crooked grin. Ethan wasn’t the type to actually get mad. He didn’t have meanness in him.
“Ishospiddle?” I groaned and shook my head. “Can’t ‘fford hospiddle.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He shifted, going right back to rubbing those two fingers together. The scar on his hand stood out white and bright, like the walls.
He looked at me, then, and it was weird. He looked a little troubled, like he was weighing something in his mind, but not really, ‘cause he didn’t have to think about it for even a second before he smiled again and the look was gone.
“I had an emergency fund.”
Second Place
Start at 100 by Joanne Peterson
Something startles me awake. Glass shattering? Child screaming? Building burning? My heart
knocks against my ribs. I realize, though, that I don't hear anything in the blackness except
familiar traffic noise six floors down and the steady drip drip of water into the rusty sink in my
bathroom. White noise. I wish I wouldn't be afraid.
My lease labels this a "studio apartment," a total joke. It's nine feet by ten. I lie on my back in
the narrow trough of my thin mattress, darkness pinning me down like a moth. I remind myself
that I am safe and that there's nowhere anyone could be hiding. Surely I had a bad dream; I guess
I'm glad I don't remember it.
In any case, it's too cold to climb upward out of the center of my mattress and flip on the high
ceiling light, which would only silhouette the dead bugs splayed within the dust of its glass
shade. Way too cold to sit in the massive brown cracking-vinyl recliner that takes up about a
quarter of my space, stuck in a position with the footrest permanently jutting out. How did my
landlord get that thing up six flights? It's pretty comfortable, though, once I climb into it, and-for
$4-- I bought a floor lamp at Good Will and a $2 wobbly table large enough to hold a stack of
library books, a plate big enough for a sandwich--and a beer. Except I gave up drinking. I forgot
that for a minute, lying here in the dark.
My mother furnished our apartment with thrift shop items that always had to be light enough and
small enough for us to carry up all those stairs. A couple of wicker chairs and a flimsy futon. The
futon was her bed. A scarred drop-leaf table, which she kept covered with a tablecloth saved
from her own mother's few treasures, a table cloth printed with faded yellow and orange
nasturtiums and red cherries. For meals, we'd pull the two wicker chairs to the table. Her
grandmother's soft ancient quilt covered most of the definitely ugly futon. We had three locks on
the door, and I knew to be home well before dark. The neighborhood was bleak. Really, the one
aspect that made the apartment home was my mother, pure and simple.
Still lying in my narrow bed, I decide to count backwards from 100 by 7's. My mother taught me
to do that when I was in third grade. 100 .. . 93 ... 86 . .. She said it was a cozy thing that would
help me fall asleep by the time I counted to 23-and I usually did, sometimes only down to 44.
She said it might even help with my math.
There's one important thing I haven't described about our old apartment. Tonight, awakened
from a deep sleep, blinking in a monotony of darkness, I remind myself of myoid room and the
window near my bed. A streetlight a short distance down the block somehow angled, so it sent
one narrow shaft of light slanting across my bedspread every night, from darkness to dawn. I
loved that shaft of light. Spiderman walked that beam. Superman, too. My imaginary German
Shepherd Jeffry. MyoId teddy bear Rupert. It was a magic highway from my windowsill to the
top edge of my sheet. Of course, if she found me lost in imagination and awake past my bedtime,
my mother was there to remind me to start counting backwards, by 7's, from 100.
What a difference between how I feel now and how I felt then. Then? My mother probably said
this to me 1,000 times: "Danny, the future is filled with promise." She could find "promise" in a
dandelion poking up through a crack in the sidewalk.
Every night at dinner, my mother would ask, "So, Danny, what was promising about today?" I
would say dumb kid-things like, "Stanley Owens did not thump me on the head today." She
would say great simple things like, '''The gardener in the park gave me these little prunings of
flowering plum branches. He says after a week in water, they'll bloom! In February! Imagine!"
Strangely, Stan Owens and I ended up being friends. And the pink blossoms bursting into bloom
in the pickle jar on the dining table? They lasted for over two weeks. My mother was enchanted,
and I kind of was, too. "See, Danny, the future IS filled with promise."
Lying in the darkness at this moment, I wish childishly that my mother had promised that she
wouldn't die at 43. I wonder what she would think of me now. She might have to go deep to find
many promises fulfilled in my life, so far, but she would find something! At nearly 23, what am
I? I'm a Navy veteran and an out-of-work, uninsured short-order cook. I lost my job three weeks
ago when I injured my shoulder. Too much flipping of pancakes and hamburger patties, I'd say.
My boss? He said he has no time for wimps. He said "Good-bye, Danny," and handed me one
last minuscule paycheck. So that was that. Jobs are scarce these days, not a good topic to
consider in the deep darkness. And vets don't fare any better than anybody else.
The romance department? I've struck out there, as well. For nearly two years, I thought I had
found the best woman in the world-plus the best child. A wife and a family, all at once! My
sweetheart Frannie, a friend of a friend, was somewhat older, definitely more worldly. She
wanted to pick out her engagement ring and chose platinum with a half-carat diamond-how
stupid AM I? She said a smaller stone and setting wouldn't be bright enough to reflect our love.
The jeweler concurred. Oh. My. God. What was wrong with me? Ijust finished paying for it in
January. I was way too young, for one thing. Quite innocent, really. But I had a job in a tire shop,
Fran was a secretary, Claire was in second grade-I thought my world was perfect.
Claire's mom and dad divorced when she was a year old; she didn't even know him. She soon
called me Daddy. We took the train to the aquarium Saturdays, the two of us, while her mother
had pedicures and shopped. On the train, Claire always chose seats that faced backward, and
we'd both end up nearly carsick---but laughing. After the aquarium, we'd have lunch, and she'd
talk talk talk.
Fran? She apparently wasn't as happy with our family as Claire and I were. She took off with her
sister's ex-boyfriend Robert, who owns an Ace Hardware in Dubuque Iowa. Yeah. She did not
give me back the ring, which surprised no one but disappointed me. She took Claire from me and
returns every letter and package I send. Oh, I miss that child. I cry for that child. Someday .. . who
knows? Right now, in Dubuque, Fran sleeps next to a guy who owns an Ace Hardware store,
while her daughter Claire sleeps peacefully in her own room down the hall. I hope she never
knows? Right now, in Dubuque, Fran sleeps next to a guy who owns an Ace Hardware store,
while her daughter Claire sleeps peacefully in her own room down the hall. I hope she never
calls that guy Daddy, and I hope they don't have a decent aquarium in the whole damn state.
Maybe tomorrow would be a good day to pick up somebody's discarded newspaper in the lobby
and check the employment ads. My arm is healing, and maybe I could get ajob as a cook's
helper in an actual restaurant. It definitely will pay better than doing nothing. I know, though,
that sometimes ideas in the dark seem more likely than they'll look by daylight.
I am sorry that something--or nothing-woke me tonight, woke me with knots in my stomach
and a racing heart., Waking up in the night brings a mess of feelings, and usually most of them
are about loss or sorrow or fear. At least, that's been my experience. Usually when I am startled
awake in the darkness, I feel invisible, vulnerable, pale as a white moth against a cloud.
Definitely insecure. Right now, I can still wish for that beam oflight, the beam that Superman
and Batman traveled across my bed. I guess I need to remember that I was a little kid then, and
I'm not anymore.
Tonight I appreciate that many of my thoughts in the dark have been about my strong mother,
who saw and encouraged the promise in life and in me and in other people. And she believed in
the promise of a dandelion poking up through the grit of the sidewalk and the gift of brown
branches that would burst into color in a pickle jar on a dining table.
I think I'm going to be OK. I can hear my mother saying firmly, "See, Danny, the future IS filled
with promise." And I can hear her saying softly, "Start at 100, Danny, and count down by 7's.
Start at 100 by Joanne Peterson
Something startles me awake. Glass shattering? Child screaming? Building burning? My heart
knocks against my ribs. I realize, though, that I don't hear anything in the blackness except
familiar traffic noise six floors down and the steady drip drip of water into the rusty sink in my
bathroom. White noise. I wish I wouldn't be afraid.
My lease labels this a "studio apartment," a total joke. It's nine feet by ten. I lie on my back in
the narrow trough of my thin mattress, darkness pinning me down like a moth. I remind myself
that I am safe and that there's nowhere anyone could be hiding. Surely I had a bad dream; I guess
I'm glad I don't remember it.
In any case, it's too cold to climb upward out of the center of my mattress and flip on the high
ceiling light, which would only silhouette the dead bugs splayed within the dust of its glass
shade. Way too cold to sit in the massive brown cracking-vinyl recliner that takes up about a
quarter of my space, stuck in a position with the footrest permanently jutting out. How did my
landlord get that thing up six flights? It's pretty comfortable, though, once I climb into it, and-for
$4-- I bought a floor lamp at Good Will and a $2 wobbly table large enough to hold a stack of
library books, a plate big enough for a sandwich--and a beer. Except I gave up drinking. I forgot
that for a minute, lying here in the dark.
My mother furnished our apartment with thrift shop items that always had to be light enough and
small enough for us to carry up all those stairs. A couple of wicker chairs and a flimsy futon. The
futon was her bed. A scarred drop-leaf table, which she kept covered with a tablecloth saved
from her own mother's few treasures, a table cloth printed with faded yellow and orange
nasturtiums and red cherries. For meals, we'd pull the two wicker chairs to the table. Her
grandmother's soft ancient quilt covered most of the definitely ugly futon. We had three locks on
the door, and I knew to be home well before dark. The neighborhood was bleak. Really, the one
aspect that made the apartment home was my mother, pure and simple.
Still lying in my narrow bed, I decide to count backwards from 100 by 7's. My mother taught me
to do that when I was in third grade. 100 .. . 93 ... 86 . .. She said it was a cozy thing that would
help me fall asleep by the time I counted to 23-and I usually did, sometimes only down to 44.
She said it might even help with my math.
There's one important thing I haven't described about our old apartment. Tonight, awakened
from a deep sleep, blinking in a monotony of darkness, I remind myself of myoid room and the
window near my bed. A streetlight a short distance down the block somehow angled, so it sent
one narrow shaft of light slanting across my bedspread every night, from darkness to dawn. I
loved that shaft of light. Spiderman walked that beam. Superman, too. My imaginary German
Shepherd Jeffry. MyoId teddy bear Rupert. It was a magic highway from my windowsill to the
top edge of my sheet. Of course, if she found me lost in imagination and awake past my bedtime,
my mother was there to remind me to start counting backwards, by 7's, from 100.
What a difference between how I feel now and how I felt then. Then? My mother probably said
this to me 1,000 times: "Danny, the future is filled with promise." She could find "promise" in a
dandelion poking up through a crack in the sidewalk.
Every night at dinner, my mother would ask, "So, Danny, what was promising about today?" I
would say dumb kid-things like, "Stanley Owens did not thump me on the head today." She
would say great simple things like, '''The gardener in the park gave me these little prunings of
flowering plum branches. He says after a week in water, they'll bloom! In February! Imagine!"
Strangely, Stan Owens and I ended up being friends. And the pink blossoms bursting into bloom
in the pickle jar on the dining table? They lasted for over two weeks. My mother was enchanted,
and I kind of was, too. "See, Danny, the future IS filled with promise."
Lying in the darkness at this moment, I wish childishly that my mother had promised that she
wouldn't die at 43. I wonder what she would think of me now. She might have to go deep to find
many promises fulfilled in my life, so far, but she would find something! At nearly 23, what am
I? I'm a Navy veteran and an out-of-work, uninsured short-order cook. I lost my job three weeks
ago when I injured my shoulder. Too much flipping of pancakes and hamburger patties, I'd say.
My boss? He said he has no time for wimps. He said "Good-bye, Danny," and handed me one
last minuscule paycheck. So that was that. Jobs are scarce these days, not a good topic to
consider in the deep darkness. And vets don't fare any better than anybody else.
The romance department? I've struck out there, as well. For nearly two years, I thought I had
found the best woman in the world-plus the best child. A wife and a family, all at once! My
sweetheart Frannie, a friend of a friend, was somewhat older, definitely more worldly. She
wanted to pick out her engagement ring and chose platinum with a half-carat diamond-how
stupid AM I? She said a smaller stone and setting wouldn't be bright enough to reflect our love.
The jeweler concurred. Oh. My. God. What was wrong with me? Ijust finished paying for it in
January. I was way too young, for one thing. Quite innocent, really. But I had a job in a tire shop,
Fran was a secretary, Claire was in second grade-I thought my world was perfect.
Claire's mom and dad divorced when she was a year old; she didn't even know him. She soon
called me Daddy. We took the train to the aquarium Saturdays, the two of us, while her mother
had pedicures and shopped. On the train, Claire always chose seats that faced backward, and
we'd both end up nearly carsick---but laughing. After the aquarium, we'd have lunch, and she'd
talk talk talk.
Fran? She apparently wasn't as happy with our family as Claire and I were. She took off with her
sister's ex-boyfriend Robert, who owns an Ace Hardware in Dubuque Iowa. Yeah. She did not
give me back the ring, which surprised no one but disappointed me. She took Claire from me and
returns every letter and package I send. Oh, I miss that child. I cry for that child. Someday .. . who
knows? Right now, in Dubuque, Fran sleeps next to a guy who owns an Ace Hardware store,
while her daughter Claire sleeps peacefully in her own room down the hall. I hope she never
knows? Right now, in Dubuque, Fran sleeps next to a guy who owns an Ace Hardware store,
while her daughter Claire sleeps peacefully in her own room down the hall. I hope she never
calls that guy Daddy, and I hope they don't have a decent aquarium in the whole damn state.
Maybe tomorrow would be a good day to pick up somebody's discarded newspaper in the lobby
and check the employment ads. My arm is healing, and maybe I could get ajob as a cook's
helper in an actual restaurant. It definitely will pay better than doing nothing. I know, though,
that sometimes ideas in the dark seem more likely than they'll look by daylight.
I am sorry that something--or nothing-woke me tonight, woke me with knots in my stomach
and a racing heart., Waking up in the night brings a mess of feelings, and usually most of them
are about loss or sorrow or fear. At least, that's been my experience. Usually when I am startled
awake in the darkness, I feel invisible, vulnerable, pale as a white moth against a cloud.
Definitely insecure. Right now, I can still wish for that beam oflight, the beam that Superman
and Batman traveled across my bed. I guess I need to remember that I was a little kid then, and
I'm not anymore.
Tonight I appreciate that many of my thoughts in the dark have been about my strong mother,
who saw and encouraged the promise in life and in me and in other people. And she believed in
the promise of a dandelion poking up through the grit of the sidewalk and the gift of brown
branches that would burst into color in a pickle jar on a dining table.
I think I'm going to be OK. I can hear my mother saying firmly, "See, Danny, the future IS filled
with promise." And I can hear her saying softly, "Start at 100, Danny, and count down by 7's.
Honorable Mention
Upside Down by Mary Pan
When we take a bath together she likes to run her finger over the rust-red scar. It’s bumpy, tactile. Sometimes I wonder if the stitches are still lurking, just beneath, slowly making their way to the surface or migrating ever deeper, disappearing into my pelvis.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. All those years delivering babies, a trained physician’s hands at the ready, guiding the crowning head, gentle traction on the after-birth’s cord, sewing up the torn vaginal tissue; reapproximation, each stitch restoring the mucosa to its previous unshorn shape. When I was the one delivering the baby, I had control.
Then came my turn: swelling belly, persistent vomiting, ballooning breasts, healthy baby. On each visit, according to all the tests, everything was textbook. But then, almost to term, my baby turned upside down. Breech they call it. Bottom first tucked in my pelvis, not head first, like it’s supposed to be. I knew right away what this meant. A caesarean section. An incision. A scar. I tried to get her to turn. I was desperate. I tried it all; everything the internet told me might work. Frozen peas at the top of my belly, awkwardly pregnant handstands in the lap swim lane at the pool, playing music near my pelvis to lure the baby’s attentive ear to the preferred nether regions.
She was stubborn. My obstetrician tried to coax her to flip. He lubed up my belly like a lewd wrestling match. The medication they gave me to relax my uterus made me edgy and vomitus. With carefully directed massage, he got her head to move four inches to the left, his right. (Whose perspective counts here?) Whichever way, it wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t budge, her head bobbing back against my liver like an evasive apple in a barrel mid-autumn. I held out hope to the very end. But eventually they had to cut her out.
I walked calmly into Labor and Delivery that grey winter morning; no contracting uterus, no water breaking. Just the pinch of an IV into my arm, the steady hum of the blood pressure cuff, inflating every few minutes, ensuring I was ready for and stable on anesthesia. The sterile blue curtain, just inches from my face, blocked my view. All I felt was a vague tugging that heralded my babe’s debut just beyond.
In all the excitement they forgot to remove the dividing curtain, as they’d promised. I’d assisted in many caesareans but wanted to witness something of this birth, of my own. It was a last attempt to play some role in the birthing of my own child, strapped down and immobilized as I was. Instead I lay there numbly, blindly, listening to the joyful exclamations from my husband, the rhythmic hum of the blood pressure cuff, still tightening around my upper arm. I held her, my daughter, as my lower innards lay open to the world: uterus sewn up, patted down, checked for any bleeding. They systematically put things back in place, the way it’s supposed to be.
Years later, my lower abdominal scar is still bumpy, more raised to my left, your right. (Whose perspective counts here?) The scar is a little off; not quite straight, not quite centered. My symmetry is disrupted. This surgery, my first, branded me for life.
Sometimes she still runs her finger over my scar. “They had to pull me out of you, bottom first, upside down.” She says it cheerfully, matter-of-factly; her bright eyes gleam with recalling a personal memory that she could never actually remember herself. “Yes, they did, Baby.” I affirm her history, running my finger over the slanted scar. This was my initiation into parenthood and all it entails: the loss of control, constant questioning and recurrent failures. My body, my careful plans, my life’s moments, were no longer my own. My child, even cut out of me, was still tethered. I’m marked by a scar that reminds me that my history now and forever going forward intertwines, often unpredictably, with another’s. Upside down and jumbled about, she readied me for motherhood. Maybe that’s the way it’s just supposed to be.
Upside Down by Mary Pan
When we take a bath together she likes to run her finger over the rust-red scar. It’s bumpy, tactile. Sometimes I wonder if the stitches are still lurking, just beneath, slowly making their way to the surface or migrating ever deeper, disappearing into my pelvis.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. All those years delivering babies, a trained physician’s hands at the ready, guiding the crowning head, gentle traction on the after-birth’s cord, sewing up the torn vaginal tissue; reapproximation, each stitch restoring the mucosa to its previous unshorn shape. When I was the one delivering the baby, I had control.
Then came my turn: swelling belly, persistent vomiting, ballooning breasts, healthy baby. On each visit, according to all the tests, everything was textbook. But then, almost to term, my baby turned upside down. Breech they call it. Bottom first tucked in my pelvis, not head first, like it’s supposed to be. I knew right away what this meant. A caesarean section. An incision. A scar. I tried to get her to turn. I was desperate. I tried it all; everything the internet told me might work. Frozen peas at the top of my belly, awkwardly pregnant handstands in the lap swim lane at the pool, playing music near my pelvis to lure the baby’s attentive ear to the preferred nether regions.
She was stubborn. My obstetrician tried to coax her to flip. He lubed up my belly like a lewd wrestling match. The medication they gave me to relax my uterus made me edgy and vomitus. With carefully directed massage, he got her head to move four inches to the left, his right. (Whose perspective counts here?) Whichever way, it wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t budge, her head bobbing back against my liver like an evasive apple in a barrel mid-autumn. I held out hope to the very end. But eventually they had to cut her out.
I walked calmly into Labor and Delivery that grey winter morning; no contracting uterus, no water breaking. Just the pinch of an IV into my arm, the steady hum of the blood pressure cuff, inflating every few minutes, ensuring I was ready for and stable on anesthesia. The sterile blue curtain, just inches from my face, blocked my view. All I felt was a vague tugging that heralded my babe’s debut just beyond.
In all the excitement they forgot to remove the dividing curtain, as they’d promised. I’d assisted in many caesareans but wanted to witness something of this birth, of my own. It was a last attempt to play some role in the birthing of my own child, strapped down and immobilized as I was. Instead I lay there numbly, blindly, listening to the joyful exclamations from my husband, the rhythmic hum of the blood pressure cuff, still tightening around my upper arm. I held her, my daughter, as my lower innards lay open to the world: uterus sewn up, patted down, checked for any bleeding. They systematically put things back in place, the way it’s supposed to be.
Years later, my lower abdominal scar is still bumpy, more raised to my left, your right. (Whose perspective counts here?) The scar is a little off; not quite straight, not quite centered. My symmetry is disrupted. This surgery, my first, branded me for life.
Sometimes she still runs her finger over my scar. “They had to pull me out of you, bottom first, upside down.” She says it cheerfully, matter-of-factly; her bright eyes gleam with recalling a personal memory that she could never actually remember herself. “Yes, they did, Baby.” I affirm her history, running my finger over the slanted scar. This was my initiation into parenthood and all it entails: the loss of control, constant questioning and recurrent failures. My body, my careful plans, my life’s moments, were no longer my own. My child, even cut out of me, was still tethered. I’m marked by a scar that reminds me that my history now and forever going forward intertwines, often unpredictably, with another’s. Upside down and jumbled about, she readied me for motherhood. Maybe that’s the way it’s just supposed to be.
Honorable Mention
The Edge of the Ocean by Edward Cornachio
The phalanx of gulls faced sea and wind, their lance-like beaks poised in obstinate defiance to the tide encroaching upon their ranks. A bulbous sun, low on the horizon, cast a warm, titian glow over this seaside battlefield. From the hospital’s outdoor deck, Arthur watched for almost an hour, admiring the gulls’ military discipline — a formidable force facing a formidable foe. Before the sun completely capitulated and retreated into the sea, Arthur propelled his chair along the narrow, concrete path, built specifically for wheelchair access from the hospital to the beach. The path ended at a paved area where a red-lettered sign proclaimed, Park Your Wheelies Here.
With a great deal of effort, Arthur hoisted himself out of his chair and managed to tumble onto the sun-warmed sand. Getting back on again would be more difficult, if not impossible, but he knew that Shelley would start looking for him before long. His convalescent trainer was a hard-nosed pain in the ass sometimes, often working him to the point of exhaustion, but Arthur had no doubts about her dedication and support. You can do it, Arthur, she always said by way of encouragement, I know you can.
From his prone position on the sand, Arthur looked toward the legion of gulls some twenty yards distant. Crab-like, he began to sidle toward them. With both legs gone it proved to be slow going, but using his arms and a swing of his hips, he managed to drag himself ever closer. Halfway there he rested, looked back at his own undulated sandprints, wondering what some casual beach stroller might think when seeing his inscrutable tracings in the sand. The spoor of some strange, freakish animal? The trailings of a mermaid? A mythical sea monster risen from the depths? Arthur smiled, thinking of the possible interpretations. Helluva lot more eye provoking than those dumb-ass ink blots he was asked to interpret.
Three months back from Nam, a good chunk of him left to rot in that godforsaken country, he was being bombarded with tests from a battery of psychiatrists who had no idea what it was like not to be able to take a leak standing up, jog around the track, or have a normal hard-on. Like most amputees in the ward, he was scheduled to be fitted for prosthetics, plastic and titanium substitutes for the parts of him left behind in Nam. But there was no available substitute for the part of his mind that was also left behind. There were no prosthetics for that. Hi mom, hi dad. Hey Jenny, it’s me, Artie, your lover. l’m back. Look, I’m recycled! Plastic Man!
Psychiatrists! They didn't know shit! Hey, Dr. Mueller, take a look at these tracks in the sand and tell me what you see? Ain’t no fucking ink blot butterfly, that’s for sure! Hundred to one nobody would guess that it’s the track of some asshole with no legs. Arthur laughed at his own caustic joke and continued crab-like toward the gulls, threatening their flank — a one man reconnaissance mission spying on the enemy. Go easy, Artie, VC just over that ridge. I’m on it, lieutenant.
Sensing danger from an approaching shadow, the crush of gulls began to stir, cautiously at first, but as the ominous figure slid ever closer, they suddenly erupted into a violent, cacophony of desperate, clawing wings and raucous protest. Directing their ire at the retreating sun, they flew straight at it before turning back toward shore, regrouping at a safer distance down the beach. Arthur watched and cheered as the main body of the enemy retreated en masse … except for one lone individual.
A single gull lay strangely still and mute upon the sand, one wing outstretched, rustled by the wind from the sea, ocher-stained sea-foam circling its head like a saintly halo. The probing fingers of the incoming tide nudged the lifeless bird, as if coaxing it to take wing and fly again. Arthur sidled up to the dead gull, poked it with the stub of his amputated leg, assured no life remained in this white-breasted creature. Combat death was no stranger to him, but here, at a seemingly tranquil stretch of beach, he had no clue how this particular soldier had died. Shrugging off the question, he plucked one feather from the gull’s tail, stuck it through a lock of his hair, a battlefield trophy of his latest skirmish. Arthur stared into the gull’s clouded, vacant eyes, “Dumb-ass, you gotta look out for the fucking land mines!”
end
The Edge of the Ocean by Edward Cornachio
The phalanx of gulls faced sea and wind, their lance-like beaks poised in obstinate defiance to the tide encroaching upon their ranks. A bulbous sun, low on the horizon, cast a warm, titian glow over this seaside battlefield. From the hospital’s outdoor deck, Arthur watched for almost an hour, admiring the gulls’ military discipline — a formidable force facing a formidable foe. Before the sun completely capitulated and retreated into the sea, Arthur propelled his chair along the narrow, concrete path, built specifically for wheelchair access from the hospital to the beach. The path ended at a paved area where a red-lettered sign proclaimed, Park Your Wheelies Here.
With a great deal of effort, Arthur hoisted himself out of his chair and managed to tumble onto the sun-warmed sand. Getting back on again would be more difficult, if not impossible, but he knew that Shelley would start looking for him before long. His convalescent trainer was a hard-nosed pain in the ass sometimes, often working him to the point of exhaustion, but Arthur had no doubts about her dedication and support. You can do it, Arthur, she always said by way of encouragement, I know you can.
From his prone position on the sand, Arthur looked toward the legion of gulls some twenty yards distant. Crab-like, he began to sidle toward them. With both legs gone it proved to be slow going, but using his arms and a swing of his hips, he managed to drag himself ever closer. Halfway there he rested, looked back at his own undulated sandprints, wondering what some casual beach stroller might think when seeing his inscrutable tracings in the sand. The spoor of some strange, freakish animal? The trailings of a mermaid? A mythical sea monster risen from the depths? Arthur smiled, thinking of the possible interpretations. Helluva lot more eye provoking than those dumb-ass ink blots he was asked to interpret.
Three months back from Nam, a good chunk of him left to rot in that godforsaken country, he was being bombarded with tests from a battery of psychiatrists who had no idea what it was like not to be able to take a leak standing up, jog around the track, or have a normal hard-on. Like most amputees in the ward, he was scheduled to be fitted for prosthetics, plastic and titanium substitutes for the parts of him left behind in Nam. But there was no available substitute for the part of his mind that was also left behind. There were no prosthetics for that. Hi mom, hi dad. Hey Jenny, it’s me, Artie, your lover. l’m back. Look, I’m recycled! Plastic Man!
Psychiatrists! They didn't know shit! Hey, Dr. Mueller, take a look at these tracks in the sand and tell me what you see? Ain’t no fucking ink blot butterfly, that’s for sure! Hundred to one nobody would guess that it’s the track of some asshole with no legs. Arthur laughed at his own caustic joke and continued crab-like toward the gulls, threatening their flank — a one man reconnaissance mission spying on the enemy. Go easy, Artie, VC just over that ridge. I’m on it, lieutenant.
Sensing danger from an approaching shadow, the crush of gulls began to stir, cautiously at first, but as the ominous figure slid ever closer, they suddenly erupted into a violent, cacophony of desperate, clawing wings and raucous protest. Directing their ire at the retreating sun, they flew straight at it before turning back toward shore, regrouping at a safer distance down the beach. Arthur watched and cheered as the main body of the enemy retreated en masse … except for one lone individual.
A single gull lay strangely still and mute upon the sand, one wing outstretched, rustled by the wind from the sea, ocher-stained sea-foam circling its head like a saintly halo. The probing fingers of the incoming tide nudged the lifeless bird, as if coaxing it to take wing and fly again. Arthur sidled up to the dead gull, poked it with the stub of his amputated leg, assured no life remained in this white-breasted creature. Combat death was no stranger to him, but here, at a seemingly tranquil stretch of beach, he had no clue how this particular soldier had died. Shrugging off the question, he plucked one feather from the gull’s tail, stuck it through a lock of his hair, a battlefield trophy of his latest skirmish. Arthur stared into the gull’s clouded, vacant eyes, “Dumb-ass, you gotta look out for the fucking land mines!”
end
Youth Author Poetry
First Place
The Spring by Jenneve Heuett
Maybe it’s just mania talking
but I am so unbelievably happy
Like “I can’t remember the last time I was this happy” kind of happy
The kind of happy that makes you feel like you could burst into tears
Or a million pieces at any moment
The kind of happy that makes you feel like you’re on drugs when you’re sober
The kind of happy that fills up your stomach with warmth and that cliche butterfly feeling
The kind of happy that floods your lungs until you can hardly breathe
But it’s okay if you suffocate because you’re just that happy
The kind of happy you feel when spring finally shows it’s warm bright face after a long cold
winter
Or rather a series of long cold winters
Winter that entices you with christmas lights and herbal tea and fluffy blankets
but ends up soaking through your shoes and leaves you shivering
Winter that plays the guitar and your emotions
Winter that takes your picture but doesn’t take you seriously
But spring is in the air and it is soft and warm
And spring has blue hair and plays the drums
and loves the Beatles as much as you do
And spring doesn’t ignore you
or keep you waiting around until 2 am
Spring doesn’t treat you like a silly high school girl
or leave you wondering what’s wrong with you
But instead has you singing in the shower again
And catching yourself smiling for no reason
And the spring gives you hope that things really could get better
The Spring by Jenneve Heuett
Maybe it’s just mania talking
but I am so unbelievably happy
Like “I can’t remember the last time I was this happy” kind of happy
The kind of happy that makes you feel like you could burst into tears
Or a million pieces at any moment
The kind of happy that makes you feel like you’re on drugs when you’re sober
The kind of happy that fills up your stomach with warmth and that cliche butterfly feeling
The kind of happy that floods your lungs until you can hardly breathe
But it’s okay if you suffocate because you’re just that happy
The kind of happy you feel when spring finally shows it’s warm bright face after a long cold
winter
Or rather a series of long cold winters
Winter that entices you with christmas lights and herbal tea and fluffy blankets
but ends up soaking through your shoes and leaves you shivering
Winter that plays the guitar and your emotions
Winter that takes your picture but doesn’t take you seriously
But spring is in the air and it is soft and warm
And spring has blue hair and plays the drums
and loves the Beatles as much as you do
And spring doesn’t ignore you
or keep you waiting around until 2 am
Spring doesn’t treat you like a silly high school girl
or leave you wondering what’s wrong with you
But instead has you singing in the shower again
And catching yourself smiling for no reason
And the spring gives you hope that things really could get better
Second Place
My First Love (You Came to Me in the Summer Sun) by Emily Heineman
You came to me in the summer sun
Skin bathed in soft radiance
A gentle smile
And gentler words
You came to me like cookie dough
Spilling through my fingers
With chocolate eyes and caramel skin
And a laugh sweeter than either
You came to me on paper planes
Soaring above a sea of people
Heights that we could dream of reaching
Arms extended to the sky
You came to me as a pen scratching on paper
Late at night in a dimly lit room
Pages of messy thoughts on clean lines
“I love you” and jumbled nothings
And you left me in the pouring rain
Drowning in the depth of your words
Yet, still I would sink even further
If it meant to see you again.
My First Love (You Came to Me in the Summer Sun) by Emily Heineman
You came to me in the summer sun
Skin bathed in soft radiance
A gentle smile
And gentler words
You came to me like cookie dough
Spilling through my fingers
With chocolate eyes and caramel skin
And a laugh sweeter than either
You came to me on paper planes
Soaring above a sea of people
Heights that we could dream of reaching
Arms extended to the sky
You came to me as a pen scratching on paper
Late at night in a dimly lit room
Pages of messy thoughts on clean lines
“I love you” and jumbled nothings
And you left me in the pouring rain
Drowning in the depth of your words
Yet, still I would sink even further
If it meant to see you again.
Honorable Mention
The Sailor by Lilly Chase
At the gush of a faucet,
Comfort was found in a closet.
My little knuckles were white with tension,
Knees pressed close the only consolation.
Solace found in the hue of Earth’s unfettered beauty.
Sonorous silenced serenity.
Mama’s sea green eyes had drown the heart of their admirer.
I had emerged to gallent chaotic weather.
Currents hard to contain, life became too heavy,
For the embankment, of a once strong levee.
Her eyes had become the sea.
Her very soul frothing with effervescence.
The ocean had seemed to ameliorate upon the feel of my gaze.
The slam of a door cued the horse’s chorus.
I wondered if their love was strong enough to make father stay,
A question converted rhetorical,
As tail lights streamed through the window pane.
For his asylum resides on more tranquil waves,
In a sailboat blistering under gleaming rays.
Father’s pastoral bliss concocted.
More often than not he’d share this privilege with me.
The calloused embrace that ensured my comfortable living,
initiated our journey.
But turbulent waters have yet to be my epoch.
Be cautioned upon approach.
Avoiding a nefarious sea he once braved.
Imprinted sand, she craves.
Salt air bounded only by an infinite sky of azure,
A tinge of vivid persimmon promises dusk’s impending demise.
Our buoyancy reliant on unpredictability beneath us.
Her complexity I admire,
my maternal patriarch.
In contrast, Father’s age corresponded with his disposition.
Exempt from the ignorant bliss he contacted.
Conceiving ailments of delusional aspirations.
Oh sailor, didn’t you know the inevitability of disturbing the sea’s limerence with your hull?
Sure, I could argue how blue compliments the sky.
But sailor, just know.
I can’t say the same for Mama’s eyes.
The Sailor by Lilly Chase
At the gush of a faucet,
Comfort was found in a closet.
My little knuckles were white with tension,
Knees pressed close the only consolation.
Solace found in the hue of Earth’s unfettered beauty.
Sonorous silenced serenity.
Mama’s sea green eyes had drown the heart of their admirer.
I had emerged to gallent chaotic weather.
Currents hard to contain, life became too heavy,
For the embankment, of a once strong levee.
Her eyes had become the sea.
Her very soul frothing with effervescence.
The ocean had seemed to ameliorate upon the feel of my gaze.
The slam of a door cued the horse’s chorus.
I wondered if their love was strong enough to make father stay,
A question converted rhetorical,
As tail lights streamed through the window pane.
For his asylum resides on more tranquil waves,
In a sailboat blistering under gleaming rays.
Father’s pastoral bliss concocted.
More often than not he’d share this privilege with me.
The calloused embrace that ensured my comfortable living,
initiated our journey.
But turbulent waters have yet to be my epoch.
Be cautioned upon approach.
Avoiding a nefarious sea he once braved.
Imprinted sand, she craves.
Salt air bounded only by an infinite sky of azure,
A tinge of vivid persimmon promises dusk’s impending demise.
Our buoyancy reliant on unpredictability beneath us.
Her complexity I admire,
my maternal patriarch.
In contrast, Father’s age corresponded with his disposition.
Exempt from the ignorant bliss he contacted.
Conceiving ailments of delusional aspirations.
Oh sailor, didn’t you know the inevitability of disturbing the sea’s limerence with your hull?
Sure, I could argue how blue compliments the sky.
But sailor, just know.
I can’t say the same for Mama’s eyes.
Honorable Mention
Woman ≠ Weak by Jackie Shaw
I would say we are not damsels in distress but it is the distress that has kindled the inferno to
send social stigmas into combustion.
Rising amongst embers an unqualified beast breathes in smoke and attempts to construct walls
fueled by fear when what we want is to knock them down.
We are in distress but are not waiting amongst tall towers to be rescued.
We have learned that Prince Charming isn’t Charming when to him we are only objectified as a
prize he thinks he deserves; yet it is us that has endured the air thicken with chaos and smog and
we are tired.
We are tired of feeling radiant in the skin we call home only to be called “slut”.
We are tired of feeling unsafe walking streets in dim light and nighttime and daytime and all the
time.
We are tired of walking hot summer sidewalks and getting catcalled by strange men in cars.
We are tired of our shoulders being too provocative.
We’re tired of reaching and reaching and breaking bones for un-realistic images.
We are tired of being skinny and told we’re anorexic or fat and told we’re lazy or
being woman told we’re weak.
We are tired of crying in bathroom stalls and we are done putting up with bullshit.
We are in distress but we will not wait amongst tall towers.
We will assemble on foot with a battlecry so powerful that the ground will shake.
So don’t sit with skeletons in silence but feel the thunder in your veins and prepare to be heard.
We are women.
We are not weak.
Woman ≠ Weak by Jackie Shaw
I would say we are not damsels in distress but it is the distress that has kindled the inferno to
send social stigmas into combustion.
Rising amongst embers an unqualified beast breathes in smoke and attempts to construct walls
fueled by fear when what we want is to knock them down.
We are in distress but are not waiting amongst tall towers to be rescued.
We have learned that Prince Charming isn’t Charming when to him we are only objectified as a
prize he thinks he deserves; yet it is us that has endured the air thicken with chaos and smog and
we are tired.
We are tired of feeling radiant in the skin we call home only to be called “slut”.
We are tired of feeling unsafe walking streets in dim light and nighttime and daytime and all the
time.
We are tired of walking hot summer sidewalks and getting catcalled by strange men in cars.
We are tired of our shoulders being too provocative.
We’re tired of reaching and reaching and breaking bones for un-realistic images.
We are tired of being skinny and told we’re anorexic or fat and told we’re lazy or
being woman told we’re weak.
We are tired of crying in bathroom stalls and we are done putting up with bullshit.
We are in distress but we will not wait amongst tall towers.
We will assemble on foot with a battlecry so powerful that the ground will shake.
So don’t sit with skeletons in silence but feel the thunder in your veins and prepare to be heard.
We are women.
We are not weak.
Youth Author Prose
First Place: Moana
The Non-White-Male Savior of Disney by Jonna-Lynn Alonso
Disney is racist and sexist. They have only created work about the white-male-savior complex and haven’t focused on female independence and empowerment. Stories always play out with the stereotypical male hero rescuing the damsel in distress. This has been true since the beginning. The Walt Disney Company continuously shows “whitewashing,” a lack of ethnic diversity, and gender bias in its animated movies. In films like The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and Frozen, Disney actively chooses to focus on Western, Euro-centric stories and principles. However, its most recent feature, Moana, displays aspects of Polynesian culture through the perspective of a young, native girl. The film fully and openly embraces Pacific Islander culture, a culture lesser known to Westerners. It revolutionizes Disney by presenting a female-led story that focuses on a unique, diverse history and people outside of the usual spectrum and inspiring a new generation of individuals, especially those from minority groups.
Through centralizing Moana’s story on people of color, the film helps Disney usher in a new progressive age that invites more inclusion in the film and entertainment industry, industries that have the power to shape lives and catalyze change. Moana openly and emphatically embraces feminist and multicultural themes, crucial in an era characterized by rejection of inclusion and diversity (Harris). The movie is authentic and fresh as it introduces new cultures to the mainstream, such as the ones in the Pacific Islands. It provides the means for Disney to create intrigue and relations to different audiences by reflecting those people and Pacific Island cultures as something completely new and exciting, as well as something familiar and intimate. [Moana] owes its popularity to “its ability to create stories featuring diverse protagonists that reflect the changing face of the moviegoing public” (Lang). Representation is incredibly important, and the movie perfectly showcases it. John Lasseter, executive producer and chief creative officer at Pixar and Walt Disney Animation Studios, discusses how important it is for Disney to have female and ethnic characters (Desta). Disney transforms by utilizing such inclusive themes for a forever-changing consumer base, especially means for immersing diverse cultures.
Rooting Moana directly in Polynesian settings and heritage initiated Disney’s attempts at inclusion by breaking away from racist and inaccurate depictions of social and ethnic groups. Many parts of the Pacific Island culture, such as the connection and respect between the land, sea, and people; navigating and wayfinding; music, singing, and dancing; and tattoos are implemented into the film. For example, “Knowing your mountain” is recognizing and acknowledging lineage, ancestry, and family, essential to understanding identity (Voice of the Islands). The people’s insight into their culture and history makes the project purer and genuine. The film challenged the studio to “try and reach out and find origins of legends all over the world” (Desta). Disney extended beyond its usual casting pool and set a goal to cast voice actors of color who were from the Pacific Islands from which the film was based (Voice of the Islands). In casting a young Hawaiian native, Auli’i Cravalho, and an actor of Polynesian descent, Dwayne Johnson, Disney explicitly represented the culture in a way unlike any time before. It created a distinct feature by staying true to the islands’ foundations and taking a new approach to storytelling in the form of a decisive and capable heroine.
Disney progressed even further by presenting an independent, driven female lead whose focus was to save her home and people and in turn find herself in the process. The pinnacle distinction between Moana and other princess-led Disney films is Moana does not have a love interest driving her actions and decisions. “[There are] no gender-specific obstacles… Moana herself could be replaced by a male character and the movie would play out the same… Disney has proven that stories aren’t limited by the genders of their protagonists” (Foote). The film endorses feminism naturally, and breaks down all stereotypes of women in any form of media. “I saw a young woman with a strong sense of self presented with a substantial task and fulfilling it without needing a man to help her. And she was complete at the end of the movie without love” (Frick). Along with the prominent presence of feminism, there is a complete lack of the complex of a heterosexual white male saving the day. The shift in gender norms sets Disney apart from any other studio. It embraces a young spirit. It embraces freedom.
Though many aspects of Disney showcase shifts in typical archetypes for the better, there are still much-needed changes such as the Moana production team being mostly comprised of Caucasian Americans. The co-directors of the film, John Musker and Ron Clements, mention they worked with “a team of anthropologists, cultural practitioners, historians, linguists, and choreographers from islands including Samoa, Tahiti, Mo’orea, and Fiji,” to ensure cultural accuracy and sensitivity (Desta). The production team actively put effort and time into researching and understanding the nuances of Polynesian culture by travelling out to the Pacific Islands and forming an “Oceanic Story Trust,” made up of experts in multiple field of study like choreography and archeology (Voice of the Islands). Additionally, Disney has previously made animated movies revolving around characters of minority ethnic groups and settings rich in culture such as Pocahontas. However, films like Pocahontas were still “whitewashed,” where a white male or female was chosen to play a character originally portrayed or representing an ethnic group. Moana tackled prominent themes that these films did not such as representing culture and history in an accurate and appropriate manner.
Moana changed Disney for the better in a time where minority representation and feminism are so unbelievably relevant through embodying a culture, its history, and the fundamentals it stands for. It is crucial that every person can receive inspiration and representation in all forms of media and entertainment. It should be certain that every person can recognize themselves in what they experience and witness. Disney took the first step in achieving this goal by putting Moana out into the world.
The Non-White-Male Savior of Disney by Jonna-Lynn Alonso
Disney is racist and sexist. They have only created work about the white-male-savior complex and haven’t focused on female independence and empowerment. Stories always play out with the stereotypical male hero rescuing the damsel in distress. This has been true since the beginning. The Walt Disney Company continuously shows “whitewashing,” a lack of ethnic diversity, and gender bias in its animated movies. In films like The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and Frozen, Disney actively chooses to focus on Western, Euro-centric stories and principles. However, its most recent feature, Moana, displays aspects of Polynesian culture through the perspective of a young, native girl. The film fully and openly embraces Pacific Islander culture, a culture lesser known to Westerners. It revolutionizes Disney by presenting a female-led story that focuses on a unique, diverse history and people outside of the usual spectrum and inspiring a new generation of individuals, especially those from minority groups.
Through centralizing Moana’s story on people of color, the film helps Disney usher in a new progressive age that invites more inclusion in the film and entertainment industry, industries that have the power to shape lives and catalyze change. Moana openly and emphatically embraces feminist and multicultural themes, crucial in an era characterized by rejection of inclusion and diversity (Harris). The movie is authentic and fresh as it introduces new cultures to the mainstream, such as the ones in the Pacific Islands. It provides the means for Disney to create intrigue and relations to different audiences by reflecting those people and Pacific Island cultures as something completely new and exciting, as well as something familiar and intimate. [Moana] owes its popularity to “its ability to create stories featuring diverse protagonists that reflect the changing face of the moviegoing public” (Lang). Representation is incredibly important, and the movie perfectly showcases it. John Lasseter, executive producer and chief creative officer at Pixar and Walt Disney Animation Studios, discusses how important it is for Disney to have female and ethnic characters (Desta). Disney transforms by utilizing such inclusive themes for a forever-changing consumer base, especially means for immersing diverse cultures.
Rooting Moana directly in Polynesian settings and heritage initiated Disney’s attempts at inclusion by breaking away from racist and inaccurate depictions of social and ethnic groups. Many parts of the Pacific Island culture, such as the connection and respect between the land, sea, and people; navigating and wayfinding; music, singing, and dancing; and tattoos are implemented into the film. For example, “Knowing your mountain” is recognizing and acknowledging lineage, ancestry, and family, essential to understanding identity (Voice of the Islands). The people’s insight into their culture and history makes the project purer and genuine. The film challenged the studio to “try and reach out and find origins of legends all over the world” (Desta). Disney extended beyond its usual casting pool and set a goal to cast voice actors of color who were from the Pacific Islands from which the film was based (Voice of the Islands). In casting a young Hawaiian native, Auli’i Cravalho, and an actor of Polynesian descent, Dwayne Johnson, Disney explicitly represented the culture in a way unlike any time before. It created a distinct feature by staying true to the islands’ foundations and taking a new approach to storytelling in the form of a decisive and capable heroine.
Disney progressed even further by presenting an independent, driven female lead whose focus was to save her home and people and in turn find herself in the process. The pinnacle distinction between Moana and other princess-led Disney films is Moana does not have a love interest driving her actions and decisions. “[There are] no gender-specific obstacles… Moana herself could be replaced by a male character and the movie would play out the same… Disney has proven that stories aren’t limited by the genders of their protagonists” (Foote). The film endorses feminism naturally, and breaks down all stereotypes of women in any form of media. “I saw a young woman with a strong sense of self presented with a substantial task and fulfilling it without needing a man to help her. And she was complete at the end of the movie without love” (Frick). Along with the prominent presence of feminism, there is a complete lack of the complex of a heterosexual white male saving the day. The shift in gender norms sets Disney apart from any other studio. It embraces a young spirit. It embraces freedom.
Though many aspects of Disney showcase shifts in typical archetypes for the better, there are still much-needed changes such as the Moana production team being mostly comprised of Caucasian Americans. The co-directors of the film, John Musker and Ron Clements, mention they worked with “a team of anthropologists, cultural practitioners, historians, linguists, and choreographers from islands including Samoa, Tahiti, Mo’orea, and Fiji,” to ensure cultural accuracy and sensitivity (Desta). The production team actively put effort and time into researching and understanding the nuances of Polynesian culture by travelling out to the Pacific Islands and forming an “Oceanic Story Trust,” made up of experts in multiple field of study like choreography and archeology (Voice of the Islands). Additionally, Disney has previously made animated movies revolving around characters of minority ethnic groups and settings rich in culture such as Pocahontas. However, films like Pocahontas were still “whitewashed,” where a white male or female was chosen to play a character originally portrayed or representing an ethnic group. Moana tackled prominent themes that these films did not such as representing culture and history in an accurate and appropriate manner.
Moana changed Disney for the better in a time where minority representation and feminism are so unbelievably relevant through embodying a culture, its history, and the fundamentals it stands for. It is crucial that every person can receive inspiration and representation in all forms of media and entertainment. It should be certain that every person can recognize themselves in what they experience and witness. Disney took the first step in achieving this goal by putting Moana out into the world.
Second Place
The Nameless Boy by KT Nguyen
After trekking for hours up the secluded trail, we turned the corner and beheld a gruesome sight. Hidden under the blood-spattered foliage lay the body of a young man. As the two of us neared the fallen boy, the rancid smell of metallic blood combined with this morning’s fresh rain made its way to our nostrils. When I could finally see his face, I couldn’t help but turn the other way. There was something so wrong with seeing a human-being lifeless, so clearly sinful that I feared if I stared any longer hell would swallow me whole. The image wasn’t horrific, but it felt just the same. His blond hair was stuck to his head with the red liquid that spilled from his scalp. His probably once pink toned lips laid pale, lilac, and barely opened as if he had tried to utter last words before his body betrayed him. His ghostly hands were splayed about his side, his attire stained with his own blood, now dried so that it matched the brown dirt that made appearance on his skin. But the most disturbing thing were his eyes. They were open. So open and so blue, like cobalt pools and stared at me as if God himself had come to condemn me. It was Michaela’s voice that drew my eyes away, “When Laurel said she did a bad thing, I didn’t know she meant this.” Her voice was shaky and wavering, her cheeks flushed from the wind and her hair slicked to her forehead from the relentless rainfall. “We have to call the police, Katherine.”
“No, Michaela, Laurel is our sister. She needs our help.” Even I knew it was wrong, but I had always grown up being taught that family comes first, only second to God, and the idea of my sister spending her life in jail, growing old and rotten appalled me. So for the next hour we worked, wrapping the nameless boy in flannel blankets we’d found in the back of the car and nurturing moved him into the trunk as if we were apologizing, as if he would forgive us. We got into the car hoping that the shower would not only wash away the blood from the leaves and the grass, but the guilt that drenched our skin.
We drove the next two hours to the deepest lake we could reach. The sky was black, watching over us with judgement as we carried his body out to the edge. Earlier, we’d stopped at a hardware store to buy some rope and were now binding it tightly around his body. We had both wanted to leave the blanket on him for fear of him growing cold, but soon banished the idea; we were treating him as though he were alive. The wind rustled the leaves, seemingly to whisper our crimes into the night as we tied a large rock to his body. Finished, we stood back to stare at him, under the white beam of our flashlights, his haunting eyes stared back at us. I felt sick, with tears begging to leak. With her trembling fingers, Michaela shut his eyes, muttering prayers as she did so. I stood there not knowing what to do, I could not bear to touch him again, in fear that he would suddenly awaken and grab my wrist with a frigid, stiff hand and scream as he clawed at my face. Minutes before we set him into the lake, I ripped the cross necklace from my throat, pressed a kiss to the symbol and strapped it around his neck. I said nothing. We watched him float for a few minutes at the center of the lake, dwindling and uncertain, before the lapping water completely submerged him. I looked down at my dirty hands, unbelieving that I committed a vile sin such as this... But the lake had swallowed the boy and I was still here, standing in fear and my own guilt, praying that God would keep him warm.
The Nameless Boy by KT Nguyen
After trekking for hours up the secluded trail, we turned the corner and beheld a gruesome sight. Hidden under the blood-spattered foliage lay the body of a young man. As the two of us neared the fallen boy, the rancid smell of metallic blood combined with this morning’s fresh rain made its way to our nostrils. When I could finally see his face, I couldn’t help but turn the other way. There was something so wrong with seeing a human-being lifeless, so clearly sinful that I feared if I stared any longer hell would swallow me whole. The image wasn’t horrific, but it felt just the same. His blond hair was stuck to his head with the red liquid that spilled from his scalp. His probably once pink toned lips laid pale, lilac, and barely opened as if he had tried to utter last words before his body betrayed him. His ghostly hands were splayed about his side, his attire stained with his own blood, now dried so that it matched the brown dirt that made appearance on his skin. But the most disturbing thing were his eyes. They were open. So open and so blue, like cobalt pools and stared at me as if God himself had come to condemn me. It was Michaela’s voice that drew my eyes away, “When Laurel said she did a bad thing, I didn’t know she meant this.” Her voice was shaky and wavering, her cheeks flushed from the wind and her hair slicked to her forehead from the relentless rainfall. “We have to call the police, Katherine.”
“No, Michaela, Laurel is our sister. She needs our help.” Even I knew it was wrong, but I had always grown up being taught that family comes first, only second to God, and the idea of my sister spending her life in jail, growing old and rotten appalled me. So for the next hour we worked, wrapping the nameless boy in flannel blankets we’d found in the back of the car and nurturing moved him into the trunk as if we were apologizing, as if he would forgive us. We got into the car hoping that the shower would not only wash away the blood from the leaves and the grass, but the guilt that drenched our skin.
We drove the next two hours to the deepest lake we could reach. The sky was black, watching over us with judgement as we carried his body out to the edge. Earlier, we’d stopped at a hardware store to buy some rope and were now binding it tightly around his body. We had both wanted to leave the blanket on him for fear of him growing cold, but soon banished the idea; we were treating him as though he were alive. The wind rustled the leaves, seemingly to whisper our crimes into the night as we tied a large rock to his body. Finished, we stood back to stare at him, under the white beam of our flashlights, his haunting eyes stared back at us. I felt sick, with tears begging to leak. With her trembling fingers, Michaela shut his eyes, muttering prayers as she did so. I stood there not knowing what to do, I could not bear to touch him again, in fear that he would suddenly awaken and grab my wrist with a frigid, stiff hand and scream as he clawed at my face. Minutes before we set him into the lake, I ripped the cross necklace from my throat, pressed a kiss to the symbol and strapped it around his neck. I said nothing. We watched him float for a few minutes at the center of the lake, dwindling and uncertain, before the lapping water completely submerged him. I looked down at my dirty hands, unbelieving that I committed a vile sin such as this... But the lake had swallowed the boy and I was still here, standing in fear and my own guilt, praying that God would keep him warm.
Honorable Mention
School Isn't That Easy (Dear Little Girl) by Jackie Shaw
Dear little girl,
I remember kindergarten. I remember when you learned the ABCS and were so proud
and beaming you were nonstop singing it for at least a week. I remember 3 recesses a day. A
mystic time where children got fulfillment from running around endlessly chasing each other for
no apparent reason.
Where you played pretend and always got stuck as the green powerpuff girl because no one liked
her and no one really liked you, but if you wanted to have those friends you had to suck it up.
Where they always played “boys vs. girls” but the last thing we need is more division between
genders. I remember the “all about me” book we made in class and the page that said to color in
your skin tone but skin color is a spectrum they don’t have enough crayons for, so how was this
possible? Confused, you asked the teacher what color to use and she responded with “a mixture
of brown and yellow”. That was the first time you felt lost in a sea of peach crayons scribbled
onto paper. I remember when you told dad that when you grew up you didn’t want to be a
princess or a rockstar; instead you wanted to be blonde and white and a cheerleader because
that’s what the media made you think was beauty. I remember when you lied to the kids at the
public park saying your name was Brittany or Sarah because you didn’t feel comfortable with
your identity.
Dear lost girl,
I remember 4th grade. I remember popcorn filled sleepovers with friends and thinking
you were a badass for rebelling to bedtimes by talking on pictochat. I remember trekking to 7-11
on a hot summer day just for the satisfaction of a cheap slurpee.I remember when my friend
Sammy got her first set of shaving razors too young, she was in 5th grade. Let kids be kids and
stop implanting unnecessary beauty standards because soon they will think they are only
beautiful when they live up to these standards and what does that teach about self-love. You
were confused as to why what's natural started to become taboo. I remember you getting shamed
by boys for having hair so in 7th grade, so you started shaving too. But if boys are being raised
without knowing girls grow body hair then that’s the real problem, not you.I remember that from
elementary to middle school, being Asian meant only having a chance with the boys that had a
“thing” for asian girls as if we were a fetish instead of human. And because of this you thought
you would never experience love, that you were incapable of being loved. I remember that when
a boy used to bully you, or push you down, it was okay because that meant he liked you and
well, boys will be boys. But when you’re 17 and he still pushes you down because he thinks it’s
okay because he likes you, do you still think the same way? I remember not feeling wanted or
like I belonged and my friends feeling the same because discrimination, beauty standards, and
shame
are experienced young and they stay with you. They are the things you will remember and they
plant their roots deep even if you don’t know. All these things do is soil the innocence you still
have time to grow.It doesn’t matter how young you are, these feelings of not fitting in have
always been valid and okay. We’re reaching for equality so why is it so hard to raise boys and
girls the same way?
I just hope for a world where one day instead of remembering the struggles we faced,
we will only remember
self-love.
School Isn't That Easy (Dear Little Girl) by Jackie Shaw
Dear little girl,
I remember kindergarten. I remember when you learned the ABCS and were so proud
and beaming you were nonstop singing it for at least a week. I remember 3 recesses a day. A
mystic time where children got fulfillment from running around endlessly chasing each other for
no apparent reason.
Where you played pretend and always got stuck as the green powerpuff girl because no one liked
her and no one really liked you, but if you wanted to have those friends you had to suck it up.
Where they always played “boys vs. girls” but the last thing we need is more division between
genders. I remember the “all about me” book we made in class and the page that said to color in
your skin tone but skin color is a spectrum they don’t have enough crayons for, so how was this
possible? Confused, you asked the teacher what color to use and she responded with “a mixture
of brown and yellow”. That was the first time you felt lost in a sea of peach crayons scribbled
onto paper. I remember when you told dad that when you grew up you didn’t want to be a
princess or a rockstar; instead you wanted to be blonde and white and a cheerleader because
that’s what the media made you think was beauty. I remember when you lied to the kids at the
public park saying your name was Brittany or Sarah because you didn’t feel comfortable with
your identity.
Dear lost girl,
I remember 4th grade. I remember popcorn filled sleepovers with friends and thinking
you were a badass for rebelling to bedtimes by talking on pictochat. I remember trekking to 7-11
on a hot summer day just for the satisfaction of a cheap slurpee.I remember when my friend
Sammy got her first set of shaving razors too young, she was in 5th grade. Let kids be kids and
stop implanting unnecessary beauty standards because soon they will think they are only
beautiful when they live up to these standards and what does that teach about self-love. You
were confused as to why what's natural started to become taboo. I remember you getting shamed
by boys for having hair so in 7th grade, so you started shaving too. But if boys are being raised
without knowing girls grow body hair then that’s the real problem, not you.I remember that from
elementary to middle school, being Asian meant only having a chance with the boys that had a
“thing” for asian girls as if we were a fetish instead of human. And because of this you thought
you would never experience love, that you were incapable of being loved. I remember that when
a boy used to bully you, or push you down, it was okay because that meant he liked you and
well, boys will be boys. But when you’re 17 and he still pushes you down because he thinks it’s
okay because he likes you, do you still think the same way? I remember not feeling wanted or
like I belonged and my friends feeling the same because discrimination, beauty standards, and
shame
are experienced young and they stay with you. They are the things you will remember and they
plant their roots deep even if you don’t know. All these things do is soil the innocence you still
have time to grow.It doesn’t matter how young you are, these feelings of not fitting in have
always been valid and okay. We’re reaching for equality so why is it so hard to raise boys and
girls the same way?
I just hope for a world where one day instead of remembering the struggles we faced,
we will only remember
self-love.