Generation F

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Generation F Page 20

by Molly MacDermot


  I’m Muslim first before anything.

  I have Allah to thank for that.

  Alhamdulillah.

  #MeToo, Circa 1978

  STEPHANIE GOLDEN

  This poem, written in our Poetic Forms workshop, presents a #MeToo moment of my own from long ago, before we even had a term for such an experience.

  Leashless,

  snuffling the grass,

  puppy gambols about.

  Sunny weekend afternoon

  at park.

  Up comes

  baby-faced cop,

  younger even than me.

  “That dog can’t be off leash,” he warns.

  “Okay.”

  So young,

  doesn’t scare me,

  though after I leash her,

  shrug, walk off, he follows,

  talking.

  Why? What?

  Wants to seem tough,

  this baby policeman,

  so frightens available girl,

  or tries.

  But fails—

  I’m too naïve

  to fear a policeman,

  though he wants to see me scared, just

  for fun.

  Why not?

  Girls are for that.

  CIARA McKAY

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Sophomore

  HIGH SCHOOL: Harvest Collegiate High School

  BORN: Brooklyn, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Jaime has changed my life and writing in so many ways. She has helped me actually edit my work (I know I wouldn’t without her) and she understands when writing is “Just too much right now.” With her I have opened up about sharing my work and ideas. Our weekly meetings at The Bean will always be my happy place.

  JAIME MISHKIN

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Freelance Writer; English as a New Language Teacher

  BORN: Trenton, NJ

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: My favorite thing about meeting with Ciara each week is hearing about all of the amazing things she’s doing—I’m always in awe of the number of books she reads each week (three or four!), the new recipes she tries, the essays she’s writing for school, the podcasts she’s listening to, and more. Over each cup of coffee we share, she inspires me through and through, and reminds me to be curious and brave.

  Sisters

  CIARA McKAY

  This poem is about my relationship with my older sister, and how she affects my life; it’s about change, evolution, and finding myself. This is for you, Oona.

  When I was 5

  And you were 6

  I always used to cry when you got in trouble

  ’Cause I didn’t want to do anything without you.

  Dad would say

  “Oona can’t watch the movie with you”

  “She’s in trouble”

  But I would cry until you could.

  When I was 12

  And you were 13

  I was fine with you getting in trouble

  But I only liked Doctor Who because

  You liked Doctor Who

  And we could talk about it

  For hours on end

  Until I started to like it for myself.

  Now I’m 15

  And you are 16

  Next year is your last at home

  And I’m scared for you to leave

  Because I’m not sure what living without you is like.

  But I’m excited

  To learn what liking Doctor Who by myself is like.

  Blessings

  JAIME MISHKIN

  Every age greets us with new challenges. I wrote this poem thinking about my relationship with Ciara this year: two women, ten years apart, trying to navigate our lives and this crazy city.

  Blessings, 10 years ago

  May you stop straightening your hair.

  May you stop shaving your arm hair.

  May you talk on the phone with friends for hours and never hang up.

  May you hug your mother and forgive your dad.

  May you walk home from school very, very slowly.

  May you go to the movies with your mom every chance you get.

  May you suspend your eye roll.

  Blessings, today

  May you breathe.

  May you wait.

  May you . . .

  Blessings, 10 years from now

  May you sit down every day at your desk and write.

  May you own a proper desk.

  May you stop worrying about what people think of you.

  May you be kind and gentle to yourself.

  May you have a job with benefits.

  May you go to social gatherings without hesitation.

  May you make new friends.

  May you keep the old.

  NATALIE MOJICA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Central Park East High School

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: Bronx, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Gold Key

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I think the first time I met Gabriella outside of the Girls Write Now office was the most important. I was terrified that she would be someone I would never be able to talk to or want to share my writing with. However, from the first moment we started speaking I quickly realized the opposite would be true. She is someone who cultivates my creativity and inspires me to work on writing more. She doesn’t dismiss my opinions or input, and supports me in more ways than one. I owe much of the writing projects I’m working on to her.

  GABRIELLA DOOB

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: Editor, Ecco/HarperCollins

  BORN: New Haven, CT

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Natalie has led me to think differently about my writing by being willing to try new things herself. She is constantly pushing herself to broaden the scope of her work, and I’m inspired by her example. She reads widely and finds her material in so many different places. I feel pretty confident we could sit down and write about almost anything together . . . and that’s often what we do.

  Self-Conscience

  NATALIE MOJICA

  I wrote this piece after finishing what is now one of my favorite shows of all time. As I’ve grown as a writer, I’ve realized how the nuances of relationships can be explored through prose, and, using inspiration from the main characters, I created this short story.

  “I’m the one that you could come to for guidance, bring you home alive when you was wildin’”

  Living in the country is hard. It’s too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. You run out of blankets quickly; and before that, you run out of love. There’s something cute about how they thought they could run away from everything. As if death didn’t haunt you if you lived far away. The grim reaper knows no boundaries. Why did they think moving to the countryside would make anything better? It is only worse. When things die here, everyone is too tired to even bother digging graves.

  He found comfort in her like hot chocolate on a winter night, or how men always find comfort in the women they think are easy to make homes out of. Why is it that a girl always has to be a home for you to love her? Why can she not just be a woman? I have never understood. Maybe they go looking for bodies to live in because their own houses are too cold. But now they have run out of blankets. He should’ve just bought a space heater and called it a day.

  A concept: They are young again. Her smile is enough now. The city is vibrant with colors so pretty they don’t have names yet. But he pretends they do. She names all the flowers she finds after him. A normal day is boring. Insignificant. Uneventful. It involves him breaking the rules to be with her and her laughing, telling him he shouldn’t, but grateful that he does anyway. These days pass by slowly. She doesn’t mind being a home for him. She relishes the fact that she is there for him. Al
ways. Even when they are apart they aren’t. He picks up sticks and puts them in her hair. She calls him immature but keeps all of them.

  Here’s the thing about sticks: They break.

  Here’s the thing about flowers: They wilt.

  The countryside has droughts. There isn’t enough water for her to grow flowers for him anyway. Not that she would. Even if it did nothing but rain, it is already too late. She would just let them drown. Being someone’s home is exhausting. Sometimes all she wants to do is collapse. Fall asleep and stay that way, let their love rest in peace, as she has never been able to let it do. But then. A flicker of light appears in his eyes. Always on the days that the sun scorches their skin. He will look at her and she will feel the admiration from his gaze. He says thank you for letting me stay in your house with his eyes. She says you’re welcome with her lips. On these days her smile is still not enough, but it is close. So close he can ignore how hard living in the country is. How death is coming for them still, how he’s not sure he wants to run away from it again. These days they are young. She looks at the weeds growing in their farm and thinks, Maybe I can name something else after him.

  Born

  GABRIELLA DOOB

  One of the great things about writing alongside my mentee has been feeling free to experiment with new forms—and to think about the future. As my friends start to have children, I think about new generations and what it means to decide to bring a human being into the world.

  The vertiginous headlong

  making of a human being.

  When do you decide?

  Is it now?

  Is it now?

  Is it now?

  Is this the moment that changes all?

  Maybe now was the moment

  And now it’s gone by.

  Maybe then was the moment

  It will always be gone.

  Maybe soon is the moment

  It will never arrive.

  The catapulting-into-unknowingness

  Making of a human being

  The breaking of a human life

  into then and now.

  You can’t undo

  You can only do

  And into the space you didn’t know was vacant

  Bring a person whose name,

  spoken at the chosen moment,

  will always have the power

  to shatter you.

  BETSY MORALES

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Baccalaureate School for Global Education

  BORN: Queens, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

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

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Boy, am I glad I met Stephanie. At last, an adult who appreciates my sense of humor. Though she’s way more than that—she’s become my friend that lives far away that I see frequently at cafés for girl talk . . . and girl write. From struggling to connect to Juan Valdez’s Wi-Fi to buying overpriced snacks at the Brooklyn Museum, we have done it all. But we’ve mostly drank tea and chai lattes. Sitting in the dark atrium after Amy’s Bread closed in the NYPL wasn’t so scary, unless chairs were dragged around. This year will be unforgettable, thanks to her!

  STEPHANIE FLETCHER

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Editor, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  BORN: San Pedro, CA

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Getting to know Betsy has been so fun and inspiring. I’ve loved hearing about her amazing dad, who takes her to their favorite restaurant in Chinatown and decorates their apartment every year for her birthday (this year a space theme!). Her sense of humor is a little snarky and always refreshing—she was able to laugh and write about getting bitten by a dog on vacation, even though she had to get rabies shots! Sometimes the state of the world can feel very heavy, but Betsy always makes me feel optimistic, and I’m glad to have her on my side.

  Generation F: The FIGHT IS ON

  BETSY MORALES

  The first (PG) F-word that came to mind was “Female,” but I wanted to go beyond that. After brainstorming, my mentor, Stephanie, and I thought “Fight” would ignite a thrilling story.

  Woke

  /wōk/ adj.: being aware of the social and political environments regarding all demographics and socioeconomic standings.

  A white wall stood in the parking lot of the Museum of the Moving Image, trash blown around with occasional gusts of cold wind.

  The white wall now had a camera in its middle. The words HE WILL NOT DIVIDE US were printed above it in bold black letters.

  Walking by on a rather glum day, music emanating from the “abandoned” parking lot made me stop and investigate. An abundance of teens danced around one another, forming circles and raising their arms. HE. WILL NOT. DIVIDE. US.

  The repetition of these words compelled me to walk over and admire a few feet away. Holding on to my bookbag straps, I pondered who this mysterious “HE” was. A familiar face wearing a red beanie and all denim motioned my friend and me to join the crowd. Not once did he stop chanting.

  Drummers beat on white plastic buckets resting on the gray gravel, bringing rhythm to the scene. Students desperately chanted, as if our words could change the glum atmosphere haunting our country.

  Walking into the crowd, it hit me. The date was January 20, 2017, a historical day—for worse. It was the day of Donald Trump’s inauguration.

  The faces of teenagers from all around the world stunned me, even more so to find that they were all from the two nearby high schools, mine included. As soon as I joined the crowd, we all became one, preaching that no matter who is in office, we will stand our ground and voice what we believe in: unity.

  Busy teens scurried around the small area of the parking lot. A girl with radiant skin and a soft smile offered me a flower to place in my hair, to match everyone around.

  Possibly the only individual older than eighteen danced inside the circles we formed. He chanted the loudest as he bounced from side to side.

  “YEAH, SHIA!” a boy with hair curled as tightly as rings of iron wire screamed.

  Oh my God . . . It’s Shia LaBeouf!

  HE WILL NOT DIVIDE US was an interactive artwork by Shia LaBeouf and collaborators Nastja Säde Rönkkö and Luke Turner. It started the day of the inauguration in 2017. Visitors became part of the installation as they repeated the phrase “HE WILL NOT DIVIDE US” for as long as they wished into the security camera.

  The following days burst with all of our voices. Our generation was being heard, rain or shine. The rain dropped hard and cold; we all bunched in small clusters under colorful umbrellas. The movement in our bodies never stopped, always demanding change. No, I don’t mean change of POTUS, which we would all love, but change in society—acceptance of all people as what they were, people.

  Soon enough, Shia left the scene, left New York. The crowd’s vitality depleted consistently. We’d then all walk by and think of the memories we shared, music, unity, love, and life.

  Until, on February 10, 2017, the museum abandoned the project. The camera vanished, the words were simply painted over with more white paint. It was as if all our hard work and efforts were never exerted. Our footprint was erased. Days, weeks, and months passed by, everyone seemed to have forgotten those two weeks. Truly, that was unfair to the experience and all it had provided us with was a safe space where we shared a belief . . . Trump sucks big-time! But it also offered a glimmer of hope. In the sense that this generation—our generation—has so much more to give, and we should never be written off as dumb technology-absorbed kids.

  It was once more a white wall that stood in the parking lot of the Museum of the Moving Image. Occasionally the gusts of wind reminded us all of our exuberant cries yearning for change.

  Time Travel

  STEPHANIE FLETCHER

  Trying out new genres in our workshops inspired me to get outside my nonfiction comfort zone. Instead I wrote not ju
st a work of fiction, but challenged myself even more for one that’s entirely dialogue.

  “I think we should do it.”

  “Perry, you know we can’t. Forget the butterfly effect—you’re talking the last two hundred years—all of American history—annihilated. If we go back in time, if we convince them not to adopt the Electoral College, the world we know is gone.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But look around! Look at where we are now! Whatever the alternative, it couldn’t be worse.”

  Maya bit her lip and looked at her friend. Couldn’t it? “You don’t think we can still make it better, here, now?” she asked. “You don’t think we can come out on the other side?”

  Perry frowned.

  “Germany came back after Hitler,” Maya said.

  “Hitler was defeated by military might. No one can defeat the U.S., and if they try, he’ll nuke the world. He’ll destroy it. Everyone. I mean, the real apocalypse.”

  “And if we go back, if we do this, who will stop Hitler then? What if America isn’t powerful anymore?”

  “I know, it’s risky. But an America without military power might be a blessing. Think of Afghanistan, Syria, Nicaragua, Vietnam. Don’t you think the world could be a better place without our meddling?”

  “Maybe,” Maya said. She pressed on. “But what about the end of slavery? What about President Obama? If Dubya hadn’t won in 2000, would Obama have won in ’08? That could all be gone. We could come back to a Confederate America, or a real-life Handmaid’s Tale.”

  “Is that so different from where we’re headed now?” Perry cried, flinging his arms wide. “If we’re there anyway, we have nothing to lose.”

  His voice softened. “But think where we could be. The good timeline. Think of the world we could have.”

  Maya let herself see it—a utopian America. The good timeline. Clean, and healthy; kind people who value equality and community; an economic landscape where everyone has a fair shot; a political process where everyone has a voice.

 

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