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I will never be ashamed of my ancestors who toiled underneath the sun in sweltering heat, I will always be a firm believer in Black Lives Matter, and I will continue to go up in arms whenever the media portrays “Ebonics” as the result of dim-wittedness rather than a product of the faults in American history.
I will always unapologetically speak and write as I do: I will never be ashamed of how flowery my voice is when I put pen to paper. I will always be a firm defender of treating language as an organic being that can have its rules broken and bent. I will continue to go up in arms against people who have a narrow view of language—as if its gradient can be reduced to solely Black and White.
A Seat at the Table
CECILY ROBINSON
This piece was created as a reflection during the shortest month, which honors Black history. I felt like it’s only right to narrate the legacy and boldness of my people.
Do you mind if I exist?
I demand a seat at the table.
Pass the (Sandra) bland mashed potatoes and cut me a piece of granny’s shepherd’s pie.
After all I brought it to the table.
You can’t eat without me. The genetic code that runs through your body affirms it.
You can’t exist without me.
It’s customary for me to (I can’t) breathe your air yet had to pass a law so I could wear my natural (Don’t touch my) hair.
You appropriate, perpetrate, pretend to be ashamed of your privilege.
Is my authenticity too real for you to see me? You despise me so vehemently.
You hung jury my cases. Couldn’t decide whether I deserve to live or die.
After, you choked me and covered my mouth so our stories are never told.
You try to (Eric) garner empathy.
I want to erase you. Scrub my body down with (Philandro) castile soap to dispose of every trace of you.
The same way you tried to eradicate my royalty.
My features are (Alton) sterling and I’m worth my weight in gold.
But even with our mouths closed our stories sing through this (Michael) brown skin.
I demand a seat and I’m bringing my kin.
SYLVI STEIN
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter College High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Gold Key; two Silver Keys, AIPF di-verse-city Youth Anthology; Generation Now! 2019 Showcase
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My mentor, Nan, has inspired me in so many ways, it’s impossible to pick a single anecdote. It’s the small things I remember: the way she smiles after she reads a really nice line, the way she laughs at my jokes (even the bad ones), the way she always has an interesting story to tell me about this or that. Nan’s encouragement and support have helped me feel free to try new styles and ideas in my writing, and I am so grateful to her for everything she’s done to help me grow as a writer.
NAN BAUER-MAGLIN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 5
OCCUPATION: Professor (Retired) and Writer
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: The New York Times; Editor of Widows’ Words: Women Write on the Experience of Grief, The First Year, The Long Haul, and Everything in Between
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: In our first year together, Sylvi has accomplished so much. She is an imaginative, creative, and prolific writer. Sylvi looks outside of herself for subjects, writing, for example, about missed connections in New York City, drawing various narrators: a cabdriver, a subway rider, or a shopper as they encounter other city dwellers. Still a sophomore, Sylvi experiments with slam poetry and screenplays. I look forward with great anticipation to what she will create over the rest of our mentoring year together. She and I both also like hot chocolate a lot; we indulge once in a while.
Song of the Sea
SYLVI STEIN
I love the sea. The idea of its endless blue thrills me. I chose to use a formal rhyme scheme here because I wanted to try something different from my usual style of writing—the ancient beauty of the ocean inspired me to write in the style of ancient poets.
i.
There are no words to string the sky
across the sea’s great blue divide
I think we go there when we die
(the earthbound soul unsatisfied)
Puffs of white the blueness crowds
Sea and sky’s mirrored connection
I dream the sea foam into clouds
(Which one is which one’s reflection?)
Before me fades the bleach-blue glass
into Homer’s wine-dark sea
These days, these words, this too shall pass
(horizon will forever be)
ii.
I would not fight, if I were you
against the sea’s unending blue
No man can face the ocean’s might—
If I were you, I would not fight
In the ocean, you cannot swim
unwilled by the water’s whim
The mighty wave’s power is great—
To dare to swim is daring fate
All of this is not to say
to master the sea, there’s no way
But for those content to gaze, like me—
We only can snatch at beauty
iii.
I dare the sun to burn out
It pins me against the blazing sands
I stare the sky down—no doubt
the winner is who last stands
I wish I could bottle this heat,
capturing the blue of day
In frozen months, I’d retreat
into the sunset’s fiery display
I collapse into my dreams
as waves tattoo the shore
Nothing is as it seems
but then, all freedom is unsure
iv.
The sun illuminates the sea
in all of its violent beauty
Tireless waves beg for more
only to ram against the shore
Patience is a lesson one
can learn from endless sea and sun
The world may dash hopes to pieces
but hard shells crumble into beaches
Shadows shift against the sea
White-capped waves call out to me—
“For you, the sea’s song does resound
Your ship awaits still, outward bound.”
v
Beneath the dark sea’s craggy waves
the mighty Kraken does reside
sending great galleons to their graves,
a siren Davy Jones’s bride
Basking in the dusk, sea foam
reflects pink as daylight dies
vi.
Before the backdrop of the sea
my brother sits and writes for me
The seas echo infinity,
blue unto eternity
The great ocean does not resign
itself to human’s grand design
The sea is the only true home,
the only true roof is the skies
Silver dusk is stained with ink
Horizon farewell, fade to black
I wonder, watching the sun shrink,
Will the sea always call me back?
The ocean teaches us to rage
against dying light, and turning page
Sun beats down, my brother sighs,
closes the notebook and his eyes
His story has only begun
The ocean’s struggle is never won
vii.
The simple calm in wind and water
and light collapses on the waves
Time tried to drag me on; I fought her—
Here’s peace most find only in graves.
I imagine sleep to be like death
and I see death as like the sea
The sea
foam’s gasp is a dying breath
and dreams surrender, peacefully
Perhaps my words are nothing more
than graphite smears, not songs of sea
but right here, on the pale shore,
this is the way that life should be.
Pink Toe Shoes
NAN BAUER-MAGLIN
After reading Neruda’s “Ode to My Socks,” Sylvi and I listed things about which we might write a poem. Among Sylvi’s list was peanut butter, scissors, and her brother. My list included my old toe shoes.
In the middle of the night
I would wonder
what I would grab in case of fire.
I was twelve years old.
I feared mushroom clouds
and “duck & cover.”*
My parents out for the night.
Hostile babysitter.
Would they ever return?
From my bed
I surveyed the window.
Climb out on the roof?
Flames licking my feet,
pink toe shoes
dancing against disaster.
* The ritual of “duck and cover” was started in the public schools in 1945 as a method of personal protection against a nuclear explosion.
JOANNA TAN
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter College High School
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: The first time I met with Kate was to work on this story. I had always been anxious sharing my writing with others, but seeing Kate’s face light up and say that she liked what I wrote was so inspiring. She taught me to draw out my writing voice, to accept it, and to be proud of it. With her encouragement, I’ve been able to explore different genres of writing that I had always wanted to try—like found poetry and memoir—and to have confidence in what I have to say.
KATE NEWMAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Content Strategist, The Washington Post
BORN: Washington, D.C.
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: As a scientist at heart, Joanna is a keen observer of the world and a master of detail—but she’s also not afraid to experiment. This is reflected in her writing: She’s got a true sense for character development and scene setting, but she always finds a way to challenge the reader’s perspective. I’ve loved watching her learn to trust her instinct as we worked on everything from college essays to fictional short stories to found poetry. I always leave our pairs sessions optimistic about the future, knowing it will be in the hands of young women like her.
Ripples
JOANNA TAN
In this piece, I was inspired to write about a character who starts to define her interests outside of her parents’ expectations.
Cassandra walked into the lacquered waiting room, cool gray dress fluttering as the heavy wooden door squeaked shut behind her. Fifteen teenagers were spaced evenly apart, each with a hovering parent reminding them to start off playing soft and quiet like a devil’s whisper, or to imbue passion in that crescendo on the fifty-second measure, or to just take deep breaths and loosen up. She strode past the spectacle and sat down on an empty cushioned leather seat, then began going through her usual pre-competition checklist.
First, breathe deeply for a minute. In, out … in, out. Nice, most of the butterflies were gone. Next, exercises to warm up her hands. Hands are the lifeline of every musician. Treat them like your most precious treasure. Cassandra tried to shake her mother’s sickeningly cliché phrase out of her head.
A static buzz sounded through the PA system and every head craned toward the speaker. “Good evening, performers,” a metallic monotone announced. “Please listen carefully for your name and performance slot. First: Sarah Winn. Second: Cassandra Chen. Third …”
Well, second wasn’t so bad. It was still early enough to intimidate everyone else into submission. She opened her polished case and extracted her violin.
It was over in a flash. She’d slipped up on a few notes, but the smiles on the judges’ faces hadn’t twitched. Another trophy for her Juilliard application—but she couldn’t go home yet. Report the results. We need to keep an eye out for competition.
“What a waste of time,” she sighed as she headed to the bathroom. At least the screeches of her fellow performers would be diminished in there.
“Cassandra Chen! Your performance was amazing!” A bright, bell-like voice called out. She turned to see a boy of medium height, wearing baggy pants and a daisy yellow dress shirt cuffed one too many times.
“I’m Ollie!” he said, grasping her hands and shaking excitedly. “The way you did those crescendos were so sharp and smooth.”
Cassandra felt heat gathering in her hands, enclosed in the boy’s hard grip. She plastered on a smile. “Thank you. Paganini is one of my favorites.” Her parents’ favorite, she meant.
“Your style is so clear and pretty, it reminded me of my brother. He’s not here right now—long story—but it was so inspiring.”
She just stared blankly at the boy. His voice trailed off and he let go, taking a step back.
“Sorry, I guess that was a little too sudden. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He paused. A very, very long silence stretched out between them.
“Oliver Evans, please be prepared to play in three minutes.” She jumped at the announcement and glanced at Ollie.
“I guess it’s my turn. See you later, Sandy!” He gave her a small grin and scurried from the room.
“Sandy? Who does he think he is?” Cassandra stared at her hands, finally regaining feeling after Ollie’s steel grip.
She snuck into the auditorium from a side door and leaned against one of its walls. Ollie gently strode onto the stage, clutching his violin to his chest. He came to a stop, bowed, and introduced himself.
“Oliver Evans, playing ‘Sonata II in G Minor,’ Händel.” He straightened up to a relaxed standing posture. Closing his eyes, he held his bow over his violin. And he began.
There was the usual furrowed brow of concentration, but the way he smiled, the way his fingers curled gently around the violin’s neck, and even the way his head shook with each violent stroke of the bow—each motion was so full of life. Cassandra felt herself leaning toward the stage.
Each note was like a precious piece of his heart that he drew out to share with this hall. When he finished, there was a heavy silence. Then, the audience erupted into applause. Some even gave a standing ovation.
“What a natural,” Cassandra heard a man whisper to his wife.
She felt her throat starting to burn and eyesight become watery. This was a competition, she thought. No one came here to fool around. How can he look so happy?
She began to trudge out of the concert hall, nails digging into her palms. She didn’t want to hear the competition results. She felt her heart rise to her throat as she imagined telling her parents the news, their looks of pity. How could you lose to a newcomer? Who was it?
Oliver Evans. His performance was burned into her memory: his effortless playing, the thunderous applause, the notes more beautiful than any sound she could coax out of her own violin.
Her phone buzzed. When she glanced at the dark screen, Cassandra realized she was smiling.
Recycled Reasoning
KATE NEWMAN
I’m constantly jotting things down in my iPhone notes. Our found poetry pair session inspired me to sift through these notes and “CTRL + B” certain phrases or words—creating something new out of my digital junk drawer.
I have all of the pieces.
I just don’t know how
to construct them.
I find myself wanting
to go back, to pocket
richness of being.
Knowing a tree by its leaf.
The salamander by its spots.
We don’t understand the world
as made up by things. Potatoes,
lemon, carrots, ice cream.
We understand the world made
by kisses. Midnight breakfasts.
Everyday exchanges.
The process is the
closest thing we have
to feeling limitless.
Do we enjoy the puzzle
as much as we should?
JANIAH TAYLOR
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Academy for Young Writers
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember when I was in the running as a Posse Finalist and Lyndsey was always waiting for any kind of updates. Always my number-one supporter, she never had a doubt that I could get the scholarship. Even though I didn’t get the scholarship, she still pushed me to continue my college search. Now that I am hearing back from some of the top schools in New York state, Lyndsey is just as excited as I am. Knowing that I won’t be with her next year is painful, and I could never repay what she’s given me.
LYNDSEY REESE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Product Solutions Lead, Squarespace
BORN: Cincinnati, OH
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Among my favorite moments this year were the conversations Janiah and I had about her final round of interviews for a college scholarship. I was so proud of her! She’s an extraordinary student and writer, and I know she’s going to excel in college and beyond. Her passion and creativity inspire me to try new things in my own writing, and she reminds me of the joy that comes in doing creative work. I’m going to miss her so much next year!
From Past to Future Me
JANIAH TAYLOR
This piece is inspired by the reflection of my character as I finish my final year of high school.
Taking the express Five Train from Flatbush Avenue on a weekday between seven and eight a.m. is a physical, never-ending nightmare. You’re hot standing next to about seventy other people squeezed into a train car blazing at forty miles per hour underground. You’re with thousands of others making their daily morning commute. You can’t really see anymore, but you’re pretty short so you tend to get lost in the crowds. Stop after stop you consider, physically, how many people can actually fit in a train car. Pushing, shoving, and tripping your way out, you finally make it to Franklin Avenue. You breathe the fresh air after being trapped in the human sauna for fifteen to twenty minutes. But your journey isn’t even halfway over.