Generation F

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Generation F Page 11

by Molly MacDermot


  Will I ever be like my mother? Will I be a mother? Will I get cancer? Am I going crazy?

  I’ll find out, I’m told, when Saturn returns.

  JACQUELYN EKE

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: The Bronx School for Law, Government and Justice

  BORN: Bronx, NY

  LIVES: Bronx, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Honorable Mention

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I enjoyed working on my college essays in our pair sessions.

  JOCELYN CASEY-WHITEMAN

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: Writing and Yoga Teacher

  BORN: Annapolis, MD

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Jacquelyn is a strong, determined, and honest young writer. Her courage to write through challenging circumstances and her commitment to building a bright future for herself and her community inspires.

  The Letter

  JACQUELYN EKE

  This is a voice from my generation speaking to another generation.

  Grandfather, Mom, and Grandma are going at it again.

  The cement covering of your grave is still intact.

  During the rainy season, it grows mold.

  Sometimes we play on it; sometimes, Grandma strokes it, whispers.

  Tears on her mahogany skin.

  I’m sure she’s telling you about her day. I’m not sure

  you can hear.

  They have cut the mango tree in the backyard. I don’t know why.

  The one in the front is still there. We eat from it during the dry season.

  Your children speak your name with reverence,

  but Grandfather, I’m afraid you’ll be forgotten.

  Your friends are dying, too.

  Your siblings succumb one by one, children also.

  Do you see them where you are?

  Do you see my father or have his sins caught up to him?

  Does he speak of me?

  Does he love me?

  Grandfather, things are the same, but so different.

  The sun shines while it rains.

  Our hearts are stitched but still broken.

  Ceremony

  JOCELYN CASEY-WHITEMAN

  This poem considers resilience in our current moment.

  Sun through cobalt glass pours a river

  on hardwood floor. Lines contain grit

  the broom could not. Outside, the weather

  rearranges wheat until the field

  fills with roman numerals brushed in gold.

  Inside, nerves begin to soothe after a shock

  that made the blood beat hot.

  Clouds spread charcoal blue.

  I try to count the field before night takes hold.

  I don’t know if life will ever be fair

  but when it’s quiet and without threat

  I feel roots reach through earth,

  and in my chest, a rhythm I remember.

  Despite the wind, I keep the candles lit.

  Maybe the world isn’t ending.

  Maybe it’s a mirror that takes courage to see.

  ABBY FISHER

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: The Abraham Joshua Heschel School

  BORN: Riverdale, NY

  LIVES: Bronx, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Silver Key; “When Is the Me Too Movement Finally Going to Make it to My High School?” The Huffington Post

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I was nervous when I met Aimee for the first time. Getting matched with a mentor is like going on a blind date. But this blind date went so well, we might as well be an ad for Match.com. Aimee gets me. She pushes me out of my comfort zone and our discussions are always interesting. In our meetings, I feel myself growing both as a writer and as person.

  AIMEE HERMAN-DURICA

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Teacher

  BORN: Somerville, NJ

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: My Body, My Words: A Collection of Bodies

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: The first time Abby and I met, we unraveled our thoughts on feminism and our reactions to the state of the world. Our conversations have been deeply nourishing to me. She is so articulate in her self-expression. I’ve also been so impressed by Abby’s drive and dedication not only as a writer, but as a positive and well-educated presence. I’ve enjoyed thinking up new prompts to bring to our sessions, and I find that she helps me to approach my own writing in new ways. I feel better about the future of this world knowing she’s a part of it.

  Song of Myself

  ABBY FISHER

  My poem aims to turn the challenge myself and other girls of Generation F have to face into something worthy of celebration. It is a modern reimagining of Whitman’s “Song of Myself.”

  I celebrate every letter in my name and every word in my body

  Every comma of bone

  Every exclamation point smile turned

  question-mark frown . . . and back again?

  My semicolon waist . . .

  Have you yet learned the grammar of your ligaments?

  Have you yet become self-literate?

  Do not erase your graphite smudges

  to become legible to others

  Replace all your “but”s with “and”s . . . let yourself be plural

  Live in the contradictions without . . . fear of being

  understood

  I celebrate my allergies . . . the ways my body knows her limits

  there are some things she will not accept . . . I will not accept

  Any cell in my body is a fighter . . .

  any self in my body is a fighter

  The song of pen scratching paper . . . the sound of beautiful

  friction,

  Pulse, raw cuticles, the taste of metal, the school bell,

  The world’s conjugation and subjugation

  The rhythm of sweat sliding at the pace of tears . . . My

  anxiety is worth boasting about

  I am worth boasting about

  The cacophony of my heart burning madly is not a disorder

  How long have you believed the world . . . . . . . you are the one in need of reorder?

  I celebrate the lone eggshell in the sink

  The recipe called for three . . . I cleared away two Know I was here

  Accept my un-apology for taking up space

  I celebrate each superstition . . . religious as a holiday . . . spiritual as a bedtime story

  I look away from the teapot so it can boil

  I deliberate over eyelash wishes

  I turn reality into ritual . . . I am not pretending

  Study the language of yourself

  Teach it to others and be patient

  Remember that for so long you had dyslexia of the self . . . the world twisted you into an alphabet you did not recognize

  Learn your letters, the words of your body

  Start with your name

  Dear Universe (A Manifesto)

  AIMEE HERMAN-DURICA

  I was walking my dog, singing prayers to the universe, thinking about all the ways wishes can be manifested through footsteps and howls. This poem fell out of me, followed me home, ate lunch with me, asked me why I call myself a feminist and all I could say was: Because the fight continues and I’m sharpening my tongue.

  Dear Universe, I want a full-time teaching job and at least two closets in my apartment and a complete understanding of the difference between “effect” and “affect.” That time I asked my students to stare at one another for sixty seconds (insert laughter, discomfort, and a continuous need to look away) and my student, who tried so hard to share his eyes with me, kept whispering how hard it is to look at someone who isn’t speaking. And when we shared our experiences afterward, I asked him the color of my eyes; he said silver. Dear Universe, I
want to see the shiny in me too.

  Dear Universe, when did you tell me that none of this would end, that brains congeal and there is only so much a scalpel can remove?

  I used to collect ants, scooped them up like cake crumbs and spelled out prayers with their slow-moving bodies. Dear Universe, can religion be that simple?

  Dear Universe, I don’t know how to hashtag, but it happened, keeps happening.

  Dear Universe, when my ribs were the only cage I climbed into. Yes, can we go back to that?

  One night when I ran out of things to hold, I gulped down enough street signs to make me feel like I understood what I was doing. Cut my tongue on their sharp edges and I still got lost. Dear Universe, my belly contains a GPS but it always brings me back to where I am afraid of going.

  Dear Universe, there is a mouse living inside my oven, so I haven’t cooked anything proper in months. I rolled up a poem and set it on fire hoping the ashes of words would lead it elsewhere. Like that time I read Vera Pavlova and she led me out of that mental hospital. Sometimes we just need an extra map to free ourselves from borrowed kilns or bone breaks.

  I want a backyard to plant dandelions and hyaloclastite. Universe, can you give me some land to roam against?

  Somehow my wrists slipped their way out of midnight and I am collecting sharps again. Like a brushfire. Like a tic-tac-toe board of blood and guts. Dear Universe, I don’t need any more Band-Aids; it’s surgery time.

  Remember when guns sprayed water instead of organs? I left the country of my body because my passport expired and I lost the code to get in. Dear Universe, can you leave the back door open?

  ZOE FISHER

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: The Clinton School

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Meg is very kind and generous. On our first meeting outside of Girls Write Now, we both wrote a poem relating to a rainy day. I didn’t know her for long when I was invited to see a play along with her family. She has challenged me to want to be a nicer and more caring person. Meg uses her computer a lot since most of her work involves one, but once you step into her house there are so many books and aesthetic-looking items. When I saw that, it made me realize I need to read more real books.

  MEG CASSIDY

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 4

  OCCUPATION: Book Publicist

  BORN: Milwaukee, WI

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I so look forward to my Wednesday-evening sessions with Zoe; she always has funny stories to share from her school day, and it’s the perfect break for my own workday stressors. It’s been amazing how often our thoughts and themes on the page overlap, despite what different worlds we come from. She’s inspired me to be more bold in my own fiction writing, and I’ve been so impressed with how much of herself she has shared with me this year through her poetry writing. I feel honored to get to know her more each time we get together.

  REBIRTH

  ZOE FISHER

  Alexia lives in a future world where people choose their appearance, then get transmitted into a file to live in a technological world forever. In this piece, I try to address how social media affects women’s views of themselves.

  The electricity runs throughout my body, turning my veins neon blue. The feeling is exhilarating as it spreads everywhere. My hands explore my new-and-improved facial features. All of the liquid inside the syringe is injected in my veins. I waste no time pulling it out, but as I do, the same liquid shoots up from the bottom of the tank. I try to stop it, but I can’t find the source. I start to panic as it reaches my ankles. I don’t remember this happening in the transformation videos. I pound rapidly on the glass, but the robots just continue working. I try to yell at them to do something, but nothing changes. As the liquid fills half the tank the sirens go off. The bots only turn their attention to me now and finally begin to scramble for what I hope is a solution.

  I don’t want to be here. I’ve dreaded my eighteenth birthday for this very reason. The whole idea of becoming a part of technology has scared me. An idiot named Klaus decided that instead of everyone hating their appearances, what if we chose what we wanted to look like? Sounds great, right? No. It was fine when it was just plastic surgery and it was optional. But this guy, he wanted it to be enforced for everyone—to implant technology into every human vein. Just one problem, no two people can look the same. So the features and skin tone options always change, not to mention you can’t choose your original features. However, people still didn’t like the way they looked, so what happens? Pills. When you start feeling insecure you take a pill, when you feel sad you take a pill, when you feel depressed you take a pill, when you’re feeling anything except euphoria, pop a pill. No one knows what’s in these pills, but hey, they make people happy.

  This whole problem goes way back to the twenty-first century. Social media gave people a chance to hide and be someone they weren’t. They were able to see people from all over the world and envy them. But because they were hiding behind a screen they weren’t actually being seen. No one could tell if they were ugly or pretty. That ideal inspired that stupid idiot to create this Design Yourself law for all of society. Klaus became worshipped like a god. It would’ve been wiser for him to try to help people understand beauty lies within, but it’s too late for that now.

  The liquid is almost at the top of the tank. Maybe this is what I get for hating this system so much. I take my last breath as I prepare myself to die. I’ve been raised like everyone else to love this day. The “Rebirth” is the official name. But I was fine with the way I looked. I didn’t want to change, but I didn’t have a choice. Maybe dying is freedom. I feel my lungs needing air, but there’s nowhere to go to get it. A robot with a giant drill comes up to the glass. My body starts to shake and I close my eyes as the bot begins drilling into the glass.

  I open my eyes, but they immediately shut from the bright light above my head. They open slowly adjusting to the light. The smell of rubbing alcohol fills my nostrils. I’m in a hospital. Someone holds my hand and I follow their arm until I see them.

  “Mom?” I ask, dryly surprised to see her here.

  “Hi Alexia sweetie. You look beautiful.” She cups my cheek.

  I’ve only seen and heard my parents through an iPad. I’ve waited all my life for this moment. I hope she’s here because I’m in heaven.

  “I’m not dead?”

  “Of course not, baby. You made it through Rebirth. You’re in Technotopia.” My heart breaks. I’m just a file in some department somewhere. My body is gone. I’m just digital makeup now. I look past her to see the window. My mouth drops as I see the tall buildings and hovering transportation. I can see the same blue electricity that ran through my veins in everything. I look at my mother and the room only to see that I can see it in her, too. The overexposure to the liquid has allowed me to see the currents running through everything here. “Sweetie, what is it?” My mother’s calm voice brings my attention back to her.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “It’s just Technotopia is better in person,” I add to convince her.

  “That’s what everyone says.” She smiles warmly. “Well, let’s take you home.” Home. My home is back out there. Back in the real world, but it’s too late to go back there now, so I nod and sit up. She helps me to my feet as I accept my fate. I’m forever stuck in a mask of a false reality, far from understanding the truth of beauty.

  Spring Green

  MEG CASSIDY

  I found it interesting that Zoe chose to write about a generation in the future, whereas mine is about a woman, and a town, very much stuck in the past. Springtime and adolescence have an obvious correlation, but in this story I wanted to explore how the “late spring” season in a young woman’s life has expanded so dramatically over recent years, at least for some of us.

  Thanks to the rarely washed windows at the front of the diner, I can see just enough of my ref
lection to pretend I’m still fifteen. When I started working here, my mind ran wild with thoughts of saving for one-way tickets to California, college tuition, a tiny apartment of my own in a big city. I counted every penny, letting the same men I went to church with pinch my ass as they ordered lunch. It all seemed worthwhile watching the measly tips add up. And my boyfriend joked that I’d amassed a small fortune—right before we drained it all on a modest wedding and baby furniture.

  These days, I could run the place in my sleep, serving up rounds of corned-beef hash in a fugue state to the locals, who now treat me indifferently. The tips were slightly higher when I started, sure, before they got used to seeing me in the same uniform, sometimes stretched over a pregnant belly, but I prefer their apathy. No wagers over my virginity as I walk away from card games, no phone numbers written in threatening scrawls on bar tabs. We’ve settled into a dysfunctional family dynamic I’ll probably be part of until this place implodes.

  It’s fine, I convince myself, whenever my girlhood daydreams reappear. It’s easy to spend my days here. And what else would I do at the ripe old age of twenty-six?

  My biggest worry is that Daisy, my teenage sister, won’t get out of this town, either. As messed-up as it sounds, she’s become my second chance. Weekends are a drag without her coming in after school once the lunch crowd clears and all the rusty Trump-stickered pickup trucks have driven away.

  I was surprised the first time Daisy and her friends came strolling in like regulars. I’d hosted them for sleepovers, but standing there in my dull blue dress made me self-conscious. Still, I was tempted to pull up a chair and join them over Cokes and grilled cheese. Ron, the owner, often told me it was good business to have “pretty young things behind the counter,” so I assumed he’d have no problem with them loitering on the other side.

 

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