Elba knew this peace in her house wouldn’t last for long because Senen was about to come home. She didn’t know how he would react because he was unpredictable. As she heard the door open, the smell of Bacardi wafted through the air. She knew he was drunk and would not notice the dog was gone. He stumbled through the door to the kitchen and sat down. His eyes were barely open and he didn’t even know where he was. “Where’s the dog?” he asked. Elba did not respond. She knew that he would not remember what he just asked. A few moments later, Elba asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink. He didn’t respond. He was passed out on the table with his head down. Elba left him there, knowing that her plan had worked. She went to their bedroom and lay down on the bed. She was finally able to close her eyes and sleep peacefully; her house was silent.
The Bridge
KATE MULLEY
Growing up, I heard a lot of stories about the gang my grandparents were in as preteens in Chelsea, Massachusetts. “The Bridge” is one of those stories.
Jenny buttoned her new cardigan up against the cold as she walked to meet the boys. They had talked about jumping off the new bridge last night—Johnny had said it first, and Tommy had agreed, and Jenny had looked at Albert, who had shrugged at her. Albert wasn’t a jumping-off-bridges kind of guy. She liked that about him. Particularly because she was a jumping-off-bridges kind of girl. She didn’t know how she had gotten that way, didn’t know what in her previous fourteen years had made her that way. She was the second of seven sisters. The lone tomboy in the gang.
She found the boys on the corner, smiling at Albert, who smiled back. He definitely wasn’t going to jump. Not today. Not ever.
“Ready?” Johnny asked, and Jenny nodded at him. She was a pint-sized firecracker, dynamite packed in a tiny body.
They walked over to the bridge. The boys boasted bravely about how high the bridge was, how great a feat it would be to jump. Jenny didn’t say anything. Neither did Albert.
When they got to the middle of the bridge, everyone looked down at the water below—the tugboats, the steamers, the fishermen.
“Who’s going first?” Johnny asked.
The boys looked around at one another. A test of manhood. A test of bravery and honor. Jenny looked at Albert, who shook his head. A warm spring breeze hit her face. The first after a long winter.
She unbuttoned her cardigan, took it off, and handed it to Albert.
“I’ll go,” she said, and climbed onto the guardrail.
Jenny looked down at the water and the boats, all those feet below. She looked back at the boys, this gang of boys she called her friends. And then, she dove.
LESLIE PANTALEON
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Midwood High School
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I recently stumbled on an unfinished poem I started working on for Lauren in ninth grade, and it made me reflect on how my relationship with her has changed. Lauren and I have often talked about what things would be like one year, two years, three years from when we met. Now that those years are finally catching up with us, I am proud of how much we have matured. Together, Lauren and I have always been special, but this year especially, we have become more open, communicative, and honest.
LAUREN HESSE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 6
OCCUPATION: Social Media Director, Little, Brown and Company
BORN: Albany, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Leslie is one of the most thoughtful, intelligent, kind, and inquisitive people I have ever met. I feel so lucky to know her, let alone be her mentor! From her writing when we’re together to her teaching me about her work in the debate club—I am so lucky to have spent another year with Leslie!
Re: Hazel Moss
LESLIE PANTALEON
This is dedicated to a woman Lauren and I met who, for all her faults, lived her life in accordance with one word: Bold. She is the perfect subject for the theme Ctrl + B.
The light from Penelope’s phone flashed across her face as she groggily swiped open the screen. She moved down her inbox, eliminating about a dozen spam emails before opening one that piqued her interest.
Hey, Penelope,
I know it’s been some time since we reconnected, but I wanted to pick your brain on something. The board of directors at Generic Publishing Agency and Sons has asked me to present an award to a woman who has been working at the agency since its heyday. Her name is Hazel Moss. She seems to be a spitfire, but I’ve never met her. Because of the nature of your work, I know you run into a lot of people; have you met her?
In any case, I’d love to hear back from you. How’s your mom? I hope she’s feeling better after what happened last May. My mom keeps telling me to visit. One of these days, I promise I will.
Best,
Mira
After spending some minutes in bed with her fingers around her phone, Penelope began typing, obsessing over the appropriate way to start this email:
“Hello, Mira.” Aloof. Cold. Distant.
“Hey, Mira!” Excited. Uncharacteristically energetic? Fake.
“How goes it, stranger?” Awkward. Passive-aggressive?
Hi Mira,
I know nothing of Hazel Moss, except that I’ve been briefly acquainted with her at an impromptu lecture she gave at a private writers’ function in uptown Manhattan. I remember her distinctly because she wore sunglasses inside.
Hazel’s sunglasses were so conspicuous that Penelope wasn’t sure if she wore them to avoid attention or to engage it. She’d imagined Hazel’s eyes to be wrinkled and small. Penelope is not entirely mistaken. Hazel’s sunken bone structure tells you that she must have been, for a time, beautiful.
Her arms were covered by chunky bangles like the tattoo sleeves on that café man you despise so much. Her neck was decorated with long, stringy necklaces, like the costume jewelry you’d find at street vendors in Chinatown. Besides this basic physical description … what I can offer is merely speculative.
It was true that Penelope had met Hazel Moss before, though not quite so personally. The woman was a guest speaker during a workshop celebrating women in the publishing industry, and she had certainly left an impression. Penelope held her phone against her chest and stared at her bedroom wall color while she tried to reinvigorate her memories about that day.
When Hazel arrived, she walked deliberately to the front of the room, puffed out her small frame like a decrepit hummingbird boasting its withered feathers. Once there, she made a dramatic show of taking off her things, uncoiling the long black velvet scarf that covered her neck and sat, perched delicately on an antique white wooden stool in front of a sunlight-flooded window. Small conversations subsided in order to accommodate her presence.
She seems used to being the object of attention, Penelope typed. She doesn’t just expect it, she commands it. Her way of life is refreshing, and unprecedented.
Here Penelope stopped, and looked at the bulletin board across the room above her desk. Pinned to it was a neon-yellow square: “AMATEUR NIGHT AT KONG’S. 9 P.M.” At the bottom corner, in small cursive handwriting, was a phone number and a note: “Hope to see you there. You know where to find me.” Penelope stared at that paper for a very long time.
Hazel Moss probably didn’t let people talk over her. Hazel Moss probably told people how she felt. Hazel Moss didn’t stutter, or get choked up when she spoke in front of an audience. Hazel Moss didn’t drink in attention, either. Rather, it was the world that drank in Hazel Moss.
She’s an inspiration to other women. I think that’s all that needs to be said. If you visit my mom anytime soon, let me know. I’ll go with you. I think I’ll need some help finding a publisher soon. I’ve started writing again.
Love,
Penelope
All of the Women Who Will Inevitably Have to Ask The Man in the Coffee Shop to Move His Bag
LAUREN
HESSE
This year, Leslie wanted to take a person we had met in real life and fictionalize them. We both looked at each other and laughed, knowing exactly who I was going to write about: “The Man” in the coffee shop where we meet. I wanted to write about the entitlement that men automatically feel to physical and mental spaces, while women are often left apologizing.
These are all of the women who will inevitably have to ask The Man in the coffee shop to move his bag:
The couple who spends Sunday mornings staring into each other’s eyes. They have done this every Sunday morning for the last three years—they bring coffee from home and sometimes split a sandwich that they buy at the café. They know all of the baristas by name and seem to hang out in real life, not just as customers. They prefer to sit next to each other on the bench that The Man is occupying, so they can hold hands while gazing, wordless, at each other. Some days they stroke each other’s hair and just smile. Today, they cannot easily play with each other’s hair because The Man is taking up three seats with his coat, bag, and a chair that’s just holding his pack of cigarettes.
The pregnant woman who is waiting for a friend. She has arrived early and sees an open seat—she goes to slide into the bench so that she can look outward, making sure she’ll spot her friend when she arrives, but she finds a pile of personal possessions taking up the space. She doesn’t want to be rude, but her feet are aching as she picks up the heavy backpack. The Man remains seated, staring at a blank computer screen and wearing sound-canceling headphones.
The freelancer who arrived late. She usually gets there by one p.m., but is late today because she needed sleep. She stayed up all night because she has a video edit due tomorrow morning to her biggest client, and the four things she needs are: caffeine, an outlet, space, and for The Man to stop staring at the side of her face while he taps his pen on the table.
Me: because it is Sunday morning and I have arrived at 9:45 to get a bagel and coffee so I can stay at the café for several hours without feeling guilty about taking up a table. I will need to spread out my papers, my laptop, a book that I am sharing with my mentee. She will inevitably see The Man, with his cigarette breath, tank top despite the fact that it’s February, and two sleeves of tattoos. She will sit down, smile, move his stuff from her chair and say “Him, again?”
RIA PARKER
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: HCZ Promise Academy II
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Precollege program at Skidmore College, college program at Harvard 2019, published in Youth Communication and Generation F
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: This is my second year with my mentor, Amy, and it has been great. I look forward to our weekly meetings at the coffee shop, where we discuss writing, school, college, the media, and other topics about life. We do like to switch it up every once in a while and see other performances and speakers, such as Claudia Rankine.
AMY FLYNTZ
YEARS AS MENTOR: 7
OCCUPATION: Owner, Amy Flyntz Copywriting LLC
BORN: Bridgeport, CT
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in Electric Literature, WELL Insiders
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Ria continues to inspire and amaze me with her talent and passion for activism. She is a warrior at heart, and she is fearless in her pursuit of social justice through the written word. Finding out that she got accepted into a summer college program at Harvard was one of the highlights of our year together—and the year isn’t over yet! I look forward to continuing to watch Ria soar.
The Day I Realized
RIA PARKER
This piece is about the moments I realized a certain aspect of my identity and how I am going to be in control and bold with what makes me, me.
The day I realized I was black is a faded memory to me.
For I don’t actually remember
the one moment
when I knew I was black
but I remember watching the news one night
and seeing protestors outside my apartment for Trayvon Martin.
That day along with many others was when
I realized that
people can and will
hate you just because
of the color of your skin.
The day I realized I was a girl was when I got told to smile.
Now this may not seem like much to you but anybody
who identifies as a woman can tell you
the first time they felt less than a human being
because they were assaulted or harassed.
The day I realized the world was cruel
was when I saw the tears in one mother’s
eyes after her child was killed for being gay.
When I saw a child building a fountain out
of their tears when they were beaten in the foster care system.
I realized this world was cruel when the people
who are the absolute worst got to walk free, while
victims and survivors were placed in chains to suffer.
I realized I was an activist
when hearing these stories and those similar
made my heart ache and break into pieces.
I realized I was an activist when I felt
like I needed to do something to stop these injustices
because doing nothing meant I was letting
ignorance, bigotry, and hate win.
This was the day I realized
that I can’t control how people
act towards a certain race, gender, sexuality, religion.
But I can control how future generations treat each other.
That was when I realized that I have to be bold and in control,
with no apology.
Five Months
AMY FLYNTZ
This piece was inspired by the fearlessly bold Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, who testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee in September about being sexually assaulted in high school by (now Supreme Court Justice) Brett M. Kavanaugh. I think of Dr. Ford often. I still believe her.
I’m worried about Dr. Christine Blasey Ford.
It’s been five months since Dr. Ford fearlessly testified that Brett Kavanaugh sexually assaulted her in high school. Five months since she sat at the walnut table in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee, leaned into the microphone and spoke her truth. Five months since she answered questions for four hours about one of the most private and traumatizing memories of her life. Five months since she politely asked for caffeine. Five months since she admitted to having had to move her family multiple times for fear of their safety in the face of this controversy. Five months since she shared that she had insisted upon building a second front door during a home renovation. Five months since she admitted when she couldn’t remember something. Five months since she recounted the things she could.
Five months since Dr. Ford uttered the words that still haunt me: Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter, the laugh—the uproarious laughter between the two, and their having fun at my expense.
Five months since those in power decided to silence a woman’s voice—however clear, however controlled, however brave, however credible, however intelligent, however bold—in favor of amplifying a man’s. Because it was louder. Because it was indignant. Because it howled in the face of a threat to its privilege. Because it is the way it has always been. Because the perpetrator cried “Victim!” Because we are not ready, as a society, to believe women. To support women. To uplift women. To allow women.
What is she doing now? Has she resumed her work? Has she moved back into the house with the two front doors? Has she had nightmares of that night all those years ago, or have they been replaced with her testimony at that walnut table, the nation weighing in on her trauma like they were casting votes for American Idol? Has she had to explain to her children that the same man about whom
Mommy told the truth will be a man who will spend the rest of his life ensuring girls and women no longer have autonomy over their own bodies?
What’s autonomy, Mommy?
I’m worried about Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. I’m worried for all of us.
STEPHANIE QUINTERO
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Academy of American Studies
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: During the Poetry workshop, one of the guest speakers was a former mentee, and she recited one of her poems to us. One of the things that struck me was that she wasn’t reading directly off of a page; it was all memorized. The way she recited her poem was so unique and powerful because the story itself was about when she was in her mother’s womb. As she couldn’t possibly remember that, it was all based on what her mother had told her. She was an activist, too. She was so inspiring.
JULIA LYNN RUBIN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 3
OCCUPATION: Freelance Writer and Author
BORN: Baltimore, MD
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Burro Hills (Diversion Books, March 2018), published in Sierra Nevada Review, RipRap Literary Journal
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Each week, my mentee and I usually meet at the Housing Works Bookstore Café in SoHo. One day we were both stuck, not sure what we wanted to write about, until I picked up a photography book and opened to a random page. It was a photo of a flower on a windowsill. From there, we free-wrote for twenty minutes, and I ended up with a flash-fiction piece that I submitted to literary magazines. It was so liberating, and an amazing reminder that I have so much inside my head waiting to be written about.
A Bold Moment in My Life
STEPHANIE QUINTERO
During my childhood, I was very uncomfortable with my own sexuality until I actually spoke up about it, and at age seventeen, I decided to write this piece.
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