Littal stepped closer to the water and held on to the rail. Her rich skin glowed. She smiled and stared at the view. Ripples of water sparkled like stars, and just past the docks the bay opened to a seemingly endless horizon. The sea could have merged with the blueness of the cloudless sky that day. Risha stood by my side, mesmerized.
Littal proposed we climb over the gate. I looked at Risha with unease. I could tell that she was not on board with this idea either. Even so, as Risha and I scanned the area for another way in, a loud thud met our ears. I turned around to see Littal on the other side of the gate. She smiled mischievously.
I sighed and threw my bag over to her. Then Risha and I began to climb as well. It was surprisingly easy. Once at the top, I felt a rush of adrenaline that coursed through my body like an electric current.
We were finally on the Manhattan Beach boardwalk. We raced each other to the sand, all out of breath but still laughing. We had made it.
While we sat on a bench and removed our shoes and socks, my mind began to wander. I started to question why we were even going through with this idea. It seemed foolish now. Couldn’t we have just gone to the park? How was this little beach any different?
What if Dad finds out? What if Mom finds out?
“Guys? Do you think we should just go back now?” I asked.
Risha and Littal looked at each other.
“We’re already here, though …” Littal began. “And I told my mom I’d be out until around five …”
Risha nodded. I had been outvoted.
But it was hard to be mad when the sand felt warm between my toes. I stretched them out and closed my eyes. Although this was no Bahamas, it was the closest I had ever been.
Littal pulled out a massive picnic blanket from her book bag. There were barely any people on the sand, so we had the whole area to ourselves.
“We should go climb the rocks to get a better view,” Risha suggested. Without hesitation, we abandoned our things and made our way up.
The ocean covered every inch of the horizon. Waves crashed and the sky was clear and bright. The rocks were damp from sea-water. Moss grew over them and the odd shells I couldn’t name. Seagulls cried overhead and dove down toward the water, never touching it. I felt high enough to fly as well, like my fingers could graze the sky.
I stepped over crevices and various slopes until I was nearly at sea level and dipped my toes in. I walked in further and felt rejuvenated with both my legs now half-submerged. My friends joined me and I laughed at their horrified faces from when they felt the chill of the water. We splashed one another and began to run across the sand.
About an hour later, while my friends returned to the blanket, I ventured alone by the shore in search of seashells. Some were jet black, some even coral pink. I tossed many into the ocean and stuffed others into my pockets.
Then my phone began to ring. It was my mom. I picked it up hesitantly. She asked me how I was doing. She told me that I had to leave soon. My thoughts turned to the park that I was not at. Excuses popped in and out of my head. I said I was on my way home. I was not. I felt more anxiety build up with every lie. Eventually we hung up. Then I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Do you think we did the wrong thing today?” I asked.
Littal said that she was nervous at first, but that we made a great decision. I felt terrible but so great all at once, glad to get it off my chest. We were here and it seemed worth it, somehow.
I realized that I wouldn’t have done things differently. It may have been the best day of my life. But my mother found out soon enough, and she was furious. I would be grounded for nearly all my vacation, but every time I thought about that day, it brought a smile to my face.
I still have the shells I collected. They sit on the top shelf of my dresser, displayed proudly, from the day I was bold.
Borderlands
CAROLINE FULFORD
Like Jayla, I was too used to being a “good kid” to feel very comfortable with independence. However, my imagination presented an opportunity to escape.
The borders of our fantasyland extended as far as we were allowed to wander on foot—that is, shouting distance from the cul-de-sac. Our street was nestled too close to the Park & Ride not to be awash in the dull roar of Route 17, but our parents’ calling pierced all other noise. We knew to make our way back as soon as we were called. That way, our parents would know no one had “stolen” us.
There were five of us—me, my younger brother, my best friend, Tara, and her two younger sisters—a good number for any self-respecting company of noble adventurers. By then, most of us had read Tolkien and Rowling and Hamilton’s Mythology. When we read, these books led us to the outer edge of our little worlds and showed us where the gates were low enough to jump over.
Our inner compasses oriented, we set off to find a dragon to slay. We would assign the role of the Princess in the Tower later.
There was a public elementary school not far away whose athletic field backed into a phlegmatic creek. The inglorious collapse of soccer turf into trickling water was as close as it came to varied terrain in our concrete-covered suburb.
We stomped down into the creek with no regard for our shoes and socks. As the oldest, it was on Tara and me to lead the way. Tara’s youngest sister hung back, her buck teeth perched above a trembling lower lip.
We followed her gaze and there in the creek, haloed with clouds of tadpoles and clods of mud, was a U.S. Postal Service delivery worker uniform. A man’s jumpsuit, discarded whole, as if in an ecstatic rage. There was no other sign of human presence. The stand of woods was quiet but for us.
There was nothing overtly sinister about the mysterious object. Yet all of us, without discussion, picked up and left. The abandoned clothes, and whatever turn of events had landed them there, spoke to us of an adult unhappiness. We could not yet investigate, only flee.
Yet our desire to forge ahead in our fantasyland was not snuffed out. We had only stepped briefly out of our shared country. Emboldened, we continued our adventures out from under the trees. In open air, where we could hear our parents if they called us home.
ANIYA GREENE
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: NYC iSchool
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: We sat near the window of the Ninety-sixth Street public library. I tried a free-writing exercise, but all there was were the white pages of my notebook. I knew Robin sensed something was odd, but I had no intention of admitting my real feelings. She asked if everything was okay. I decided to be honest with her. She never interrupted. To me, that’s been the greatest gift. I’ve developed my singular voice as a writer, all while cultivating a friendship that is comfortable and honest. I’m grateful for both the work and the bond Robin and I have created together.
ROBIN WILLIG
YEARS AS MENTOR: 4
OCCUPATION: Chief of Staff, Center for Reproductive Rights
BORN: Far Rockaway, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: We meet every week in the library on Ninety-sixth Street. Each week, the scene is a little different—families, people finding books, usually a child crying somewhere, a librarian giving instructions. Each week it seems Aniya has a different hairstyle, and it takes me a minute to find her. Each week I’m greeted by her beauty, her warm smile that must be earned. I’m always amazed at how quickly she taps into her imagination, how much she loves to take a prompt and make a great scene. I love hearing and reading her words. I’m lucky to be paired with her.
An Open Letter to Teachers Who Hate the Hard Questions
ANIYA GREENE
This piece is addressed to teachers who try to shy away from questions that may seem uncomfortable. It urges them to create a conversation rather than shut students down.
I know you don’t have all the answers, and that’s okay. We challenge you. In elementary school, I had a really clos
e friend, Faith, who loved to ask questions. I can remember several times when she had asked too many, really. You were Mrs. Harrison then, teaching fifth grade and notorious for being the toughest in the entire school. It was Catholic school: There were strict dress code rules. No hoop earrings, no nail polish, which really restricted my eleven-year-old self. You said that God wanted us to be the best versions of ourselves. I couldn’t understand how the earrings I wore made me a lesser version of myself. I remember talking to Faith about how ridiculous the rules were. She asked, “Why would God care what kind of earrings we wear or the polish we decide to paint our nails?” This question was one I had never even considered. I never dared to question God, at least not out loud.
In religion class, I decided to ask you about God and our student dress code. I found the courage to raise my hand and muster my question. You stared at me blankly. With my hands clasped, I waited for your response. I wanted desperately for you not to be angry, but I yearned for the truth. Finally you answered, “God does not like when women are dressed immodestly.” I thought of the short skirts my mother didn’t allow, that see-through shirt she made me return. “How are earrings immodest?” I asked. You looked me in my eyes. “If you choose to disobey the rules of our school and of God, then you can go to another school.”
Education is intended to “liberate” us all from our own ignorance and form us into active participants in our society. I am certainly not a teacher, but I have been taught by many. Some of you have freed me, giving me the opportunity to find my own path. Others, like Mrs. Harrison, have attempted to bind me to the ideals that ring true to them, what they believe to be good and right.
I find myself now in Advanced Placement Language class, surrounded by students from different boroughs, of different races and ideologies. You are Mr. Jones now. You open up a discussion about cultural appropriation in a 2007 Toyota advertisement. I know I have something to add, something meaningful to say. I am reminded of Mrs. Harrison, but I am certain there is a part of me that I have to share. I raise my hand almost hesitating. She is in me still. The thought that you can shoot me down is in me still. She whispers to me, “No one will ever agree.”
You have taught us that there are unspoken and assumed right and wrong opinions. And if we by any chance have a feeling of opposition, we should be silenced. We enter your classrooms each day and we are knowingly and unknowingly silenced by those in authority. These positions give you the responsibility to be open, even if that means you are challenged. It is not my intention to make being a teacher sound like it is an easy job. It is clear that the pay you get is in no way the amount that you deserve. But too often, the kids who grow up questioning and wondering tirelessly about the world get to your classrooms and we are dismissed. Our curiosity and appreciation for the world around us is cut too short. Our questions are never answered and we are unable to have the hard and uncomfortable conversations, forced to sit silently when you, our teachers, ask, “Any questions?”
How are we meant to find the questions when you have for so long shut our questions down when they are not to your liking? Be open to the hard questions, the ones that make you feel cold, the ones you may never have an answer to. Is there a God? Who’s smarter, males or females? Why are some neighborhoods in New York City whiter and wealthier than others? The answers you give could give hope to the child desperate to create change but unsure of how to do so. Your opinion is valued, but it should never be the only voice we feel ourselves listening to. So embrace the difficult questions because if you don’t, there will come a time where we won’t listen and you’ll wonder, “Why so much silence?”
Crystal Bowl
ROBIN WILLIG
I began this piece during the Girls Write Now Poetry workshop, The Economy of Words. I had broken my mother’s crystal bowl that morning and was devastated by the loss, which was about so much more than a bowl.
I took the bowl.
When you were clearing out your home
After raising four of us, and a husband,
giving things away
moving where you wouldn’t move your own mother.
Things we got so used to seeing,
we stopped looking.
There would be just the one room for you now
And so much to be rid of.
I took the bowl.
Crystal and heavy,
wide-rimmed.
Patterned edges,
rough on the hand, like pineapple skin.
Once, it held clementines in season
Sometimes grapes.
When we were adventurous, kiwis.
Sometimes just the sun, which bounced and broke into colors,
Spotlights on the wall
I had no room
for the dining room chairs that I played beneath on Thanksgivings
Or the hallway mirrors where I spied on you from the steps.
Or even tiny teacups held in the bureau.
I took the bowl.
And never bothered to ask.
Where it came from
A wedding gift, a sale, a thank-you from guests who overstayed.
What it meant to you
I took the bowl
And left it on my kitchen counter
where there was no sun.
It held unopened mail
The plastic cover for avoiding microwave splatter
Dead double As that felt wrong in the trash
Some stamps, the Forever kind.
I never looked.
Until today when I reached for the cumin
And the pepper mill tumbled down.
The clash assaulting my ears before I dared look,
tiny peppercorn beads running across the floor like newborn roaches
I swept the pieces together
the batteries, bits of blood in my palms.
I took the bowl.
ANALISE GUERRERO
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Middle College High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My mentor is an absolute ray of sunshine who is always looking out for my best interest. She is always keeping a smile on my face. She has helped me to write poetry, which is something I used to struggle with while entering the program. I thought I had weak imagery skills and I wanted to be a better writer when it came to poetry. She sat down with me and brought up very creative writing exercises that allowed me to progress on my own, and now I adore writing poetry. She will forever inspire me.
CATHERINE LECLAIR
YEARS AS MENTOR: 5
OCCUPATION: Freelance Writer
BORN: Bangor, ME
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in The New Yorker, Deadspin, MEL magazine
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: In our third year as a pair, Analise and I have deepened our relationship and worked through writing blocks, life struggles, and everything in between together. Our biggest highlight of the year for me was seeing our faces on a Girls Write Now billboard on a cold December day in Times Square. In the photo, we’re facing each other, hugging, with our faces pressed in close to each other. That is emblematic of what I feel when I see Analise each week: She envelops me in love and support, and inspires me to love those around me in the same way.
Relapse
ANALISE GUERRERO
Writing this piece was a little difficult for me. I wanted it to have a dark feeling but at the same time be beautiful, as a reflection of my life where it has the good, and the bad.
And it’s funny
How my world falls apart
So slowly
Following a waltz of falling leaves
Not quite touching the ground
Just barely kissing the cement
Playing with the idea of flying
Back to where it has fallen from
And with this
Comes a false hope
Tha
t we can just pick up where we left off
Even though there will be no brighter days
And the stars are forever out of reach
Millennial Men, on Joining, and Then Leaving, the Priesthood
CATHERINE LECLAIR
This is a reported feature I wrote for the men’s site MEL magazine this past year. With this story I tried to explore the way that entering the priesthood gave millennial men a chance to more deeply connect with themselves, which ultimately gave them the courage to leave.
When I walk into the library at St. Andrew’s Hall at around ten on a Friday night, I don’t know what I expect to see, but it isn’t a group of twentysomething men sitting in a circle listening to Taylor Swift’s new album, Reputation. It’s late November 2017, and I’m in Syracuse, New York, at one of four Jesuit Novitiates in the country—that is, an institution where men (called novices) spend two years deciding whether they want to take vows to become a Jesuit, which is a specific type of Catholic priest.
One of the novices in the room also happens to be among my best friends, Shaun. “Oooh, put track five on,” he says, and I muse at how the novices have regressed back to CD language. Just behind the circle of young men sits a boombox of the shape and size that was customary in 2004. None of the men here have access to iPhones, Androids, Bluetooth speakers or anything more modern, because under the vow of poverty they’re supposed to use only what St. Andrew’s Hall has provided them. This includes the outdated CD player.
The CD itself came from Shaun, who informed our friends of the purchase with an email whose subject line read, “I only get $75 per month.” In the body of the email, Shaun disclosed he had spent fourteen dollars—nearly twenty percent of his monthly allowance—on Reputation. “I feel liberated,” he wrote.
Track five is actually called “Delicate.” It’s an intriguing choice for the moment and the crowd: young men who have all taken a vow of chastity. In the song, Swift navigates the fragility of an undefined relationship, internally struggling with the phase in which you’re trying to play it cool and care the same amount as the other person.
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