Sorrow is a Girl’s Best Friend by Nara Lopez

INNER CITY STORIES

I've broken down into smaller versions of myself. Wondering if you'd even care if I stopped being someone you used to know. Sorrow is a girl's best friend, the only one who will never leave, reducing feeling to numbness. Perhaps you left in such a hurry because the silence hurt your ears as much as mine. Everything you have built so far diminished by the words left unsaid. Words that will break apart all that we have ever known. I am not the cause of all the broken glass you have walked upon. I am not the darkness, or the poison in your veins. I am not the nightmares you dream but rather the one who is haunted by all that has been lost. I am the rubble left after the hurricane, I am the sand washed away by the waves, I am a rose with thorns wrapped tightly around my body. Regurgitating all the lies you have ever spoken. I wake up and put myself back on the block, taking rage, sorrow, hurt, and loneliness, and storing them inside a box.

Because I Need to Be by Emani Clifford

INNER CITY STORIES

I need to be myself

Not to find who I am but to mold myself into who I want to be

I need stability, structure, and acceptance

I need to be strong until I can be powerful

I need to be strong for my family

Because no one else will if I’m not

I need to be somebody

Not acknowledged by everyone

But accepted by myself

I want to be kind and creative and brutally honest

Because there’s no time for lies and hatred

I want to be forever present in my siblings’ lives

Because I refuse to leave them behind

If I can’t be strong for myself I have to be strong for them

I will be successful

Not by society's standards, but by mine

I will be happy in whatever I do

I will laugh when others try to put me down

Because I am strong

Because I am worthy

Because I need to be

Criticism In the Lilacs by Lydia Lukyanov

PARIS STORIES

The following is a work of creative writing adapted from original historical documents.

FADE IN

EXT.  LA CLOSERIE DES LILAS - EVENING

The CAFE is buzzing. Background noise includes piano music, laughing, and table talk. HEMINGWAY is already seated outside in one of the more secluded terrace seats and is fiddling with the MENU.  Enter FITZGERALD.

HEMINGWAY
Ah my dear Scott! It’s about damned time you show up. 

HEMINGWAY stands up and shakes FITZGERALD’s hand.  HEMINGWAY gestures to the chair across from him and FITZGERALD takes a seat.

FITZGERALD
Greetings and salutations! You’ll forgive me, I had a little trouble finding my way here. 

HEMINGWAY
Shit happens.  Anyways, welcome to the infamous La Closerie de Lilas. They know me as the regular here.  So, how’s the writer’s life?

FITZGERALD
I’ve seen better days…

HEMINGWAY
And the wife?

FITZGERALD
She’s seen better days as well…

WAITRESS comes to the table. 

WAITRESS
(strong French accent)
Bonsoir monsieurs! What may I serve you today? 

HEMINGWAY
I’ll be having the usual martini, dry as always, Adalyn. 

WAITRESS
Of course Mr.  Hemingway.  And for you, monsieur?

FITZGERALD
Some gin and tonic, Madame.

WAITRESS smiles, picks up the menus, and leaves the table.  There is a moment of awkward silence.

HEMINGWAY
Let’s get to the point, shall we? So your new book, Tender is the Night. . . 

FITZGERALD
Oh, uh, yes.  What did you think of it?

HEMINGWAY
(after pausing)
I liked it, and I didn’t. 

FITZGERAlD takes a big gulp of the tonic. 

HEMINGWAY
It started off with a great description of Sara and Gerald. . . but goddamn Scott. If you take real people and write about them you cannot make them do anything they would not do. 

(takes a sip)

Invention is the finest thing but you cannot invent something that would not actually happen. 

FITZGERALD takes yet another big gulp of the tonic. 

FITZGERALD
(raising his glass to Hemingway)
Please, carry on.

HEMINGWAY
In the first place I’ve always claimed that you can’t think, but it’s a lot better than I say Although not as good as you can do.

FITZGERALD
(drains the tonic, a little red-faced now)
Ah Ernest, you always were brutally honest.

HEMINGWAY
(slams fist on the table)
You cheated too damned much in this one! I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit.  I try to put that shit in the wastebasket.

FITZGERALD
Ha, if only you knew the horrors I am facing in my life right now.  Zelda in the mental institute! She cherishes her illness as an instrument of power.

FITZGERALD, tipsy, takes a glass of whiskey from a waiter walking by. He takes a sip.

FITZGERALD
Ah.  If Europe ever goes Bolshevik she’ll turn up as the bride of Stalin.

HEMINGWAY
(clearly infuriated)
You feel you have to publish crap to make money to live and let live. Forget your personal tragedy! We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously.

FITZGERALD almost finishes the whiskey. 

FITZGERALD
(drains the tonic, a little red-faced now)
I’ve spent nine years of my life working on this one. It’s good, good, good. When it’s published people will say that it’s good, good, good.

FITZGERALD suddenly appears SOMBER.

FITZGERALD
Someday you’ll know what people who love suffer.  It’s better to be cold and young than to love.  It’s happened to me before but never like this - so accidental - just when everything was going well.

FITZGERALD finished the whiskey left. 

HEMINGWAY
(In a cool tone)
I’d like to see you and talk about things with you sober. You know I never thought so much of Gatsby at the time.  You can write twice as well now as you ever could.  All you need to do is write truly and not care about what the fate of it is.

FITZGERALD stands up to leave, drunk and somber.

FITZGERALD
New friends can often have a better time together than old friends.

FADE OUT.

I Could Rise by Emani Clifford

"Knowing that everything comes to an end
is a gift of experience, a consolation gift for knowing
that we ourselves are coming to an end.
Before we get it we live in a continuous present,
and imagine the future as more of that present.
Happiness is endless happiness, innocent of its own
sure passing. Pain is endless pain."
–TOBIAS WOLFF

INNER CITY STORIES

I Could Rise

If I wanted to I could rise

From the pain

From the hurt

I could rise and blossom into beauty from dirt

-

But I’m stuck in the mud

Held down by the pain

Covered in blood

And bound by a chain

-

One day I will rise

I will smile

I will laugh

I'll have fun without trying

And I won't have to ask

-

I'll be confident and strong

Happy and outgoing

Maybe you’ll see it

I’ll be glowing

A Portrait of our Pure Imagination Young Writers Mentor Vincent Walsh

This profile of Dr. Walsh was written when he was teaching at Lehigh University. A dedicated humanitarian who believes in the healing power of literature, today he brings the same innovative teaching techniques to the inner city students at New Britain High School.

It's five minutes before the start of class, but he's already engaged in conversation with the students steadily trickling in on this damp afternoon. Vincent Walsh, who at first glance could pass for one of them in his faded yellow button-down and casual jeans, apologizes to the class for the "ferocious" debate last week about the contentious Race to the Top, attributing his recent remorse to a Tai Chi revelation at 2 in the morning. Then a student, citing an accounting test, asks him if he can turn in his assignment late. No problem, Walsh says. At this point, most have settled in and Walsh is ready to begin. Welcome to the Fam Jam.

As the name implies, the course thrives on intimacy and improvisation, but this isn't group therapy or a jazz class; this is one of the many sections of the required, and therefore often dreaded, freshman composition and literature course. For five years now, Walsh, an English doctoral student, has attempted to break the mold with what he calls "owning the writing process," an alternative approach to freshman composition pedagogy.

"You're writing for yourself," he affirmed. "Not for me."

The process is quite simple. Students write a 750-word paper every week, and every fourth week they're expected to write a 1,500-word research-based academic paper. They are free to choose the topic of each essay, which has to be nonfictional. Walsh then returns their essays in a timely manner, though without a grade. He marks the papers only for the technical stuff -- weak construction problems, dangling participles, misplaced modifiers, subject-verb agreement and so forth. Another key component is that students read their essays out loud to each other. Out of the 300 students he's taught at Lehigh, only one has ever refused to do so.

Walsh tailored the method of teaching to students' needs and wants because, as someone who once taught in inner-city schools, he understands how difficult it is to motivate students when they can't identify with what they're being taught. Typically, a professor assigns students a particular selection of books, which they are expected to write about later. There are many benefits to this traditional scenario, not just at Lehigh but also in most campuses. Students share the effort in trying to approach the same story in different ways, as Addison Bross, Professor Emeritus of English at Lehigh, points out.

But Walsh insists that the traditional method leads too often to what students commonly label "bullshit papers."

He described this pervasive phenomenon. "You look at a text that bores you, you look at a prompt that you don't want to write about, and you imagine what you think the teacher wants you to say. And you say that, and every once in a while you throw in a fancy word to make it look good," he says. "That's why it's bullshit."

A former student of his, Jen Ingalls, abhorred writing in high school because she felt she was constantly trying to write about topics she wasn't passionate about. Come freshman year in college, her outlook on writing changed. "With Walsh's class, I reveled in the freedom of being able to choose my writing topic," she said. Ingalls is now studying to be an English teacher.

Bross recognizes the power of this first step in Walsh's writing process, saying it gives students more ownership of their essays. According to Taylor Hess, another former student, autonomy, instead of authority, empowered him to meticulously craft his essays rather than just push through them when he was a freshman in the class, and despite his rigorous course load as part of Lehigh's IBE program, he said he looked forward to writing papers every week.

As an old adage goes, repetition is the mother of learning. Runners don't prepare for a marathon by training once a month; they train constantly and build on each workout. That same idea is at the heart of Walsh's argument for weekly assignments, instead of the usual four or five papers per semester required in other composition sections. Practice, he believes, makes perfect.

But even then, he's not looking for unblemished essays. The current dogma across the country in writing pedagogy, he says, is thou must not put thy hands on thy student's paper. Of course, Walsh, who led peaceful protests over the Kent State shootings in 1970, swims against the current in everything, even when it comes to correcting students' essays.

He uses the metaphor of the master plumber to justify his hands-on approach.

"I've been a plumber for 40 years and I'm really good at it. And you want to be a plumber, so you're my apprentice. I'm not going to stand in front of a chalkboard and lecture to you and tell you what plumbing is about; I'm going to take you on the job and assign you simple tasks at first. And every time you run into a problem, you’ll call me over and I'll say, oh this is how you do this," he explained. "It's on-the-job learning."

His method of correcting the students' essays doesn't just involve a red pen. He makes himself available to his students, day and night, by phone or email. It's no surprise for Mary Walsh, his youngest sibling, to learn of the way he nurtures his students' writing.

Once, when Mary was younger, she shared one of her poems with Vincent and his friend who was visiting from college. The friend immediately disparaged it. Though she admitted it's still painful for her to recall the experience, a silver lining quickly materialized. Walsh, her oldest brother, praised the small verse because, she said, he believed it to be a sincere attempt at expression. She never wrote another poem after that; however, those comforting words from her brother encouraged her to keep writing, which is now a crucial part of her job given that she's a senior, three-time Emmy Award winning producer at CBS.

This optimistic attitude, she said, inevitably translated into his becoming a teacher.

"For every student - and every person - there are always fumbles and false starts along the way," she says. "Vincent's constructive embrace of that difficult process goes all the way back to encouraging his little sister to put pen to paper."

The writing process doesn't end there. Since day one, Walsh's students are well aware that they are expected to read their essays aloud during class. Students not only will be asked to write later in life, but they will also need to be effective public speakers, he maintains. Bross adds that this reading aloud teaches students to write for an audience and helps them visualize their own work.

Nonetheless, whenever someone is uncomfortable reading, or simply can't because of a sore throat, Walsh will offer to read for them, as he did that damp afternoon.

It's that time of the semester when Walsh asks students to write an evaluation of his class. He turns to look at Wes Corwin, a freshman, and with a simple gesture of his hands and an encouraging smile he seems to be saying, go for it. The student can barely reply; apparently, he has a sore throat. Walsh happily takes his essay and begins. Like a conductor guiding an orchestra, he feels each word, each sentence flowing out of his mouth, his hand gently rising and falling as if it were holding a baton. He keeps a steady tempo, pausing only to make a remark or to gauge the students' reactions. All eyes are on him, a feeling he grew accustomed to when his parents would have guests over and he would play Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." According to Mary, Walsh was an exceptional pianist. For him, words are akin to musical notes.

"Writing is like music," he says. "Words have rhythm."

Walsh doesn't want his students' words trapped in their essays; he wants them to flow free and uninhibited and build into a symphony of discussion. This is where the magic of the Fam Jam happens.

What Danielle Daisudov enjoyed about the class was listening to other people recount their stories. "It's more of an evolving process as opposed to just reading a single tome of literature and then beating it to death," the sophomore says. "It's what English should be."

In a way, their two weekly class meetings are the chapters and the students are the characters developing a collective memoir. Walsh is not there to lecture to them; he's there to be what he likes to call the "expert facilitator." The desks are set up in a circle to promote a knights-of-the-round-table type of attitude; no one, not even Walsh, is above the students. The idea, Walsh says, is for peers to hear what each other is doing not only so can they be inspired, but inspire others, as well.

In addition, his students learn to defend their essays or their thoughts with evidence, whether the topic is climate change or concussions that football players suffer, by being put on the spot by fellow students. Sometimes many hands shoot up in the air simultaneously and the conversation rises to a crescendo, while at other times Walsh catches himself going off on a tangent before muttering to himself, "Shut up, Walsh." There's never a dull moment.

“It's no wonder that kids are pawing each other to get into his course,” says Vivien Steele, assistant to the English chair. Robbie Fagan, a graduating senior, who took the class in the spring of 2008, puts it simply: "The best class I've ever taken."

Perhaps even more surprising is the fact that Walsh has to do the same for his particular pedagogy. "He kind of has had to fight for it," said Steele, who finds the class an invaluable part of Lehigh students' education.

The feedback he gets from colleagues about his pedagogy is usually wary and skeptical because he deliberately breaks the rules of teaching and writing conventions. But Walsh garners support from the most unexpected people, such as Noam Chomsky. The esteemed linguist, philosopher and MIT professor has been in touch with Walsh for several years now.

"I've been intrigued and impressed by his innovative and creative teaching methods, and by the results. Students have clearly been encouraged to think for themselves, to take on and pursue challenging tasks, to explore and to create, and with real achievements, some of which I've seen," he said by email. "And the enthusiasm and gratitude of many of his students is unmistakable. That's quite a remarkable record, which deserves not only praise, but emulation."

Walsh's younger brother, Mike, explains that his brother was successful in everything as a boy, whether it was chess, music or baseball. But he wasn't selfish in his accomplishments. "He shared it with you, inspired and encouraged you to do it, too," he recalls.

What few people know about Walsh is that he had a terribly dysfunctional family background, a part of his past that to this day hasn't yet been resolved. Instead of acting out in destructive ways, though, Walsh combines his passion for writing with his desire for a close-knit extended family, ultimately creating the Fam Jam.
 

This article first appeared in The Brown and White, Lehigh University's student newspaper.

Liz Martinez is a video producer for the Huffington Post where she focuses on issues related to politics, social justice and identity/culture. She has covered the 2016 presidential election and President Obama’s historic trip to Cuba. Before she helped to launch the award-winning streaming network HuffPost Live, she was an assistant producer for Al Jazeera English's daily talk show "The Stream."  She is a graduate of Lehigh University, where she majored in Journalism and French.

Where I'm From by Destinie Lebron

INNER CITY STORIES

I am from a neighborhood of riding bikes, no fights, growing up and learning to love and to believe. I’ve lost people that I loved, but never gave up, aiming high for the stars, then crashing down and hitting rock bottom. There I learned to cherish every moment of life and to be a better me, not only for myself but for everyone around me who admires me, cares about me, counts on me. I plan to be the first, the first to graduate, the first to go to college, the first to succeed and, the first to be the best. I will do this, not only for myself and my mother but for my father too, who was never there to see me succeed, who caused more pain than anything, who only saw me hit rock bottom. I told myself I will rise, I will show him that I am set for greatness, I WILL NOT let him define who I am, I WILL NOT be like him, I WILL BE BETTER with or without him. He’s made me cry, made me feel like I almost died. He took a part of my heart and smashed it into a million pieces, but that's okay, I don't hate him, I thank him. Because in 20 years I will be able to look back and say “I made it.” I did it without him, I will grow up, have a family, I will make my kids proud to have me in their life to say my name and to admire me, something I am ashamed to do for you. I love you, Dad, I do, but you don't deserve to say “I Love You Too."

Someone I Miss by Yarieliz Alamo

“There is an hour, a minute - you will remember it forever -
when you know instinctively on the basis of the
most inconsequential evidence, that something is wrong.
You don't know - can't know - that it is the first of a series
of "wrongful" events that will culminate in the utter devastation
of your life as you have known it.” 
― Joyce Carol Oates, A Widow's Story

INNER CITY STORIES

Who do I miss? I’m asked this question a lot. Well, I miss a lot of people, from family to friends. But there is one person I miss dearly; I miss my step-father David. Now some people might ask, why would you miss someone who’s your mom’s boyfriend? David wasn’t just my mom’s boyfriend, I saw David as a father figure. I didn’t call him Dad but I still saw him as a father figure. He died on November 14th, 2010. I remember when my aunt broke the news to my sister and me like it was yesterday. It was November 15th, a school night around 6 pm. My aunt, sister, and I had just finished getting out of parent conferences and were in the school parking lot seated in the car. My aunt hadn’t started the car yet, so we just sat in silence until she spoke up and said, “You guys know David, right?” Immediately my sister and I were happy just hearing his name, and we replied, “Yes, what happened?” Suddenly she started to tear up and said, “He got shot yesterday.” My heart shattered. My sister asked if he survived, my aunt replied no. As soon as that word left her mouth, my sister and I burst out in tears. I was ten years-old and so hurt.

David’s mom knew how much he meant to us, so she let us create and place posters around his casket. I remember mine clearly. I had drawn flowers and glued a picture of him and me when I was six, and I wrote the words “I love you” beneath it. My mom didn’t allow us to go to his funeral because she thought it would be too much for us. I was devastated and I still am. David meant the world to me; I still cry when I think about him or even see a picture of him. My mom was in love with David, she was one of the first to know he died; I think that’s why she couldn’t come to parent conferences with my sister and me that evening. Till this day my mom still has every picture they took together, every letter he wrote to her, and even the article in the newspaper when he died. I’ve never gone to see his grave, but this year I will. Ever since I first started thinking about having a sweet fifteen, I’ve wanted him and me to do the father-daughter dance. Now it’s impossible to do so. I just wish he was here right now; I need to give him a hug one last time, to speak to him, to hear his voice. That guy is my real father and always will be. It’s sad to say but I don’t think I would be this emotional if my blood father had died because he was never there for me like David was. So now everyone knows that I miss a lot of people, but no one can top the fact that the one person I truly miss is David.

Where I'm From by Carmen Nieves

“If you didn't grow up like I did then you don't know,
and if you don't know it's probably better you don't judge.” 
― Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

INNER CITY STORIES

I’m from a city full of broken hearts, lost souls
And dreams that never come true.

I’m from a city where schools are packed
To capacity, there’s no room.

I’m from a city where children hate school
But love the streets.

I’m from a city where the streets aren’t safe
Yet people speak so highly of them.

I’m from a city where it’s easier to sell drugs
Than get a real job.

I’m from a city where even something as simple
As a rose garden has an ugly past.
I guess looks really can be deceiving, right?

I’m from a place where everyone hates
Yet never really leaves.
What is it about this place?

I’m from a city where bodies turn up everywhere,
Even in the parks our children play in,
But no one ever leaves.

I’m from a city where most people who come here…
STAY HERE.

Sisters by Agatha Tyc

"Yes, there are a lot of shared experiences that sisters have,
and there's a lot of communication that goes without words."
–LAN SAMANTHA CHANG

INNER CITY STORIES

Sometimes, it’s hard to think about a topic for these open topic essay. It’s the main reason why I sometimes hand it in late. During the times where I don’t have to write one, I get so many ideas, but when it comes to a time where I have to write one, I go completely blank. I guess it’s due to the pressure of, “Damn it. I need this done by *insert date here*,” and while I sit by the computer, with my music playing over the sound of my family talking, I get a brain fart and I end up hand-dancing for three hours in the chair. I’m just writing whatever happens when I’m writing this, so there will be times where the thought completely changes. There’s no exact theme to it, I just say whatever thought comes to mind.

I’ve had the idea of writing an essay like this, just rambling on. I never got to it because last minute I’d always get some topic to write about. I zone out in the middle of writing as I did just now because a really great song started playing and I couldn’t resist the urge to lip sync to it and do weird hand motions. I always end up doing weird hand motions when listening to music because the music just flows through me to my fingertips. I also add a good old hair flip every once in a while if the tune is right and I can do it to the beat. I think I’m Brendon Urie. I don’t get how he managed to lose all of his band members. Now his “band” really is Brendon! At The Disco. His style changed so much from the first album, “A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out,” to the newest one, “Death of a Bachelor.” He went from weirdly painted people and weirdness to the modern day Frank Sinatra. Sometimes people get so shocked when they find out I enjoy Frank Sinatra. Like, yeah I listen to the loud, scary, screamy music, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy someone as great as Frank. 

I usually end up laughing half the time because I really get into the music and I start head banging and bouncing around and then a sad song starts playing because, well, face it, I’ve got to have my sad songs, but then I start making really weird noises to over-react and then I laugh because it’s ridiculous. And here my sister comes along ruining my mood as always. She’s seventeen, but she acts like a ten year old tattle tale. She doesn’t have a life of her own and has to constantly get in my business that doesn’t relate to her in any way.  I don’t know what her problem is. She thinks she’s my mom because she apparently “raised” me since my mom works during the day and comes home at six. She constantly reminds me with,” I raised you. I make you food,” even though I’m always the one making myself food and retreating back to my room where I try to avoid her (she always comes to my room to annoy me with some random song that she sings terribly off key and then she leaves my door open. I close her room door when I leave, but she leaves mine open all the time. DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON WHEN I GO INTO HER ROOM ONCE AND SHE SCREAMS AT ME TO STOP GOING IN HER ROOM EVEN THOUGH I BARELY DO).  “Ohhhh don't be so mean about your sister. She just annoys you because she loves you.” If she loved me, she wouldn’t always do or say something to ruin my mood. Every time I come back from hanging out with my friends, she always has to have something to say. 

Like today for instance, I had a fun day at the park with Greta, but I was home an hour late (she only gave me an hour and a half out because of some unfortunate reason). I told my sister that I was at Greta’s house after the park and she flipped. When I got home, she yelled at me, saying my actions are irresponsible. She assumed I was on drugs because she just overreacts. She started saying I’m an attention seeker because of my actions; I do impulsive things for attention. She’s entirely wrong though. I don’t want any attention from her. I don’t like her. If I’m acting nice around her, it’s only because I’m in a good mood and she isn’t acting like the annoying nag she usually is. She always complains I spend too much time in my room, but when I finally go out with my friends, she gives me two or three hours. And then she goes on saying I’m anti-social after I spend one day alone in my room. She thinks that I live in my own bubble and think I’m the most important person in the world; people serve me everything on a gold platter. It’s funny that she says she wants to understand why I act like a renagade. She wants to understand the anxiety and other mental problems I have, but she seems to never have the time to do her research. 

Storytime: on her birthday, we went to Olive Garden. It was completely jam-packed. Since I’m claustrophobic, I was getting anxious. When I’m anxious, I’m very irritable and I start feeling fidgety. Before hand, I pointed out what I wanted to order five times and she heard.  My mom asked my sister what I wanted and my sister said she doesn’t know, and I asked her how could she not if I pointed it out to her five times. She said she hadn’t noticed and then asked me why I was being so rude. I reminded her I’m claustrophobic and I have anxiety so that’s why. She then had the audacity to say, “Why are you trying to ruin my birthday? Why do you behave like a wild animal? Why can’t you ever act normal?” She tends to say that kind of stuff every time my anxiety takes over (which is very often). 

With regard to the attention seeking thing, I can’t help it if my actions are erratic sometimes. I can’t control how my anxiety makes me behave. You can’t really understand it if you don’t have it. But the thing is, I want anything but attention. I don’t like having the spotlight on me. I stay in my room all day for a reason -- to get away from people and to “recharge” because that’s how introverted people get their energy back from being out all day. Apparently, that’s a cry for attention, though. I’m just begging for people to come up to me and ask me how I am. I don’t like it when people talk to me when I am alone. IT IS WHY I AM IN MY ROOM. Alone. I am ready for you to talk to me if I go out. Talk to me all you want then. 

Another thing about my sister is that she always either thinks I’m on drugs because my actions aren’t “normal” and that I need to be put on meds because I don't know how to act like a normal person. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve told her and my mom that I have problems. Yet every time I “act out” they always act like it’s new; like I never acted like that before. I’ve been like this for three years. One thing I really hate about my sister is that she thinks she’s way better than me because she’s a straight A student. My mom bought me new clothes and shoes online and she just had to go and say, “Why does Agatha get all these new clothes? I have straight A’s and I deserve new clothes. With Agatha’s horrible behavior, she doesn’t deserve anything.” Like, good for her she’s a good student, but school grades aren’t everything. Yeah, it gets you into good colleges which can get you a good job, but you shouldn’t just use up your youth on academics. Youth is where you don’t have to worry about working yet so you should be doing everything you can before you get tied down by adulthood. My problem is that my sister thinks life revolves around good grades. She blames my friends for the way I act. She blames them for me lying to my parents and for coming home late. She thinks I smoke weed with them and drink. The only things we do are walk around, talk about all the shitty things in life, talk about funny random things, and drink energy drinks. If we go to the mall, we pick out the most ridiculous outfits and say it would be perfect for the other person. My sister thinks I’m completely oblivious to the problems out in the world and that I’m blind to what effects my actions have on me. I’ve experienced mental and physical problems first and second hand. I’ve suffered through major depression and anxiety. I’ve had several panic attacks. I’ve talked people out of suicide and helped them through panic attacks. I’m one of the reasons why one of the people in our English class is still alive. I know about all the shit going on in the world like ISIS, homophobia, racism, transphobia, natural disasters. If anything, she is oblivious. She hangs around with all the academic kids and they spend all night cramming themselves with school knowledge instead of learning about real world problems. The only things they seem to worry about is getting a B on an assignment and keeping up with today’s fashion trends. People like me have already been contaminated and our innocence has been corrupted. Nothing phases us. When she acts as if I know nothing and assumes that I think I’m the most important thing, it severely pisses me off because I know I don’t have much to contribute to the world. I only affect my friends’ lives. I don’t expect people to notice me. I don't expect them to help me. But being told I affected one person’s life positively just makes it more appreciable. My sister will never see me the way my friends see me. I’ve been told by her that she knows me better than I do. But the way she knows me isn’t me at all. I am anything but useful to her. She defines me by my impulsive actions and grades. To my friends and boyfriend, I’m a life saver. Two are my friends are still alive because of me. My boyfriend is overcoming his depression and stopped self-harming because of me. I will not allow the term “useless” to be applied to me.

I can easily go from being random to completely deep in only a few moments. Well, I literally used up all my energy writing that. At least I got all of it off my chest.

Knowing the Difference by Angelie Lopez

I have experienced disillusionment with the limits of human life
and understanding. Perhaps, because I live so intensely in the imagination,
this has hit me harder than most–I really can't say.  But the mythos
that underpins all societies is transparent, and that transparency,
once seen through, is crushingly disappointing.
–T.C. BOYLE

INNER CITY STORIES

How can you exactly tell what's right from wrong, or when enough is enough and you need to let go because it's the best thing for you to do. So many mixed emotions, but one thing I know for sure is that what must be done is moving on in life and leaving what’s past behind. No matter how many hurtful people I meet in my life I will always have a good heart and no one can change that. I have to learn that I need to stop trying to look for happiness in the same place that I lost it, and to forgiving myself for falling in love with his potential, even though I had seen the warning signs and his inconsistency from the very start. I know by now he will never change and begin treating me right. Some people ask me if I cry myself to sleep or how I overcome all the pain. I answer if something is killing you inside you just have to act like you don't care; even if it’s the worst you have to keep your head up because you have to show them that you’re doing just fine with or without them. Even in my case, someone being your everything can easily become “Oh him, yea, I know him” within just a few months. 

I honestly never wanted things to be so messed up how they are now but I’ll never lie down on the floor just so I can be walked all over. I deserve respect, and if I don’t get that you won’t get my presence. One time I told that some things are temporary but what we have is forever, but what is forever? There’s no such thing as a forever in my eyes, and there never will be never again. I lose so much trust and respect for people when they show their true colors. “Stick with the girl who has been down for you since day one. The one who understands you, your past and your present. The girl who cried herself to sleep whenever you did her wrong and still forgave you. The girl who has other guys’ attention but only wants your affection. The girl who accepts your ways and life, who will ride for you and only you. The girl who never failed to stay committed, which means she’s still here. Stick with the girl who loves you.” 

Boys seem to do the opposite, hurting the devoted girl. When a boy is your first everything, you think about him every day. I mean I don’t cry or put myself down now, but I guess it just hasn’t hit me yet; when it does I’ll probably be the most miserable person in the world. But for now I keep my head high and smile like there’s no tomorrow. Life is too short to be waiting on a person to act right. Never lose yourself while trying to hold on to someone who doesn't care about losing you. Just because you miss someone doesn't mean that you need them back in your life; missing is just a part of moving on.

My Number One Supporter by Amya Green

The relationship between parents and children, but especially
between mothers and daughters, s tremendously powerful,
scarcely to be comprehended in any rational way.
–JOYCE CAROL OATES

INNER CITY STORIES

Most teens, adults and just humans in general usually say that their number one supporters are their legal guardians or their parents, but I’m different. I do have a mother who supports me I’m not saying that she doesn’t, but my number one supporter would have to be myself.

My mother DOES support me and congratulates me sometimes, but she doesn’t do it often. My mother is not one of those moms who constantly asks to see my grades or asks me if I have any homework, or comes to teacher conferences; she never really has been involved. Now I know not to even ask because I know she won’t make it or I know she won’t show. My mother is the type of mom that I don’t like going for advice to, because I’m just not comfortable opening up to her.  She’s missed lots of concerts and out of twelve football games for band, came to zero. 

From huge biomedical tests to midterms, to final exams, to quizzes, to the first day of school I’m the one to wish myself luck. I teach myself how to study, I teach myself how to dress, what the slope of a line is, how to use a calculator, and how to put on my makeup. I do it all by myself without asking my mom for anything, and I think I’m doing a pretty okay job. I know to tell myself that, “Amya, you’re going to pass this test, and you’re going to do great,” even when I’m about to fail the biggest test of my life in the ninth grade. I constantly motivate myself, and support myself, and that’s okay.

I know my mother loves me, I know she’ll try to help me anyway possible and try to give me the things I desire, and in order to do that, my mother has to work her you know what off. She never comes to school events or plays or whatever the case may be because my mother is always tired -- from long days of work to coming home to cook, clean, and then driving all of her other children around all over town, including me. 

Part of why I think she doesn’t really ask about school or do things like that is because as a child growing up she never really seemed to have that support either, the kind of support that I want pretty bad, so she doesn’t really know how to show it to her own kids, which is sad and sort of sucks. The other part to why I think my mother doesn’t ASK me questions about school is because she trusts me that I’ll do my homework and that I’m getting great grades, which may not always be true, but I do try. 

I understand that to others my mom might sound absolutely terrible, but I love my mom and I sure do know she loves me back. After all the missing out, I find myself not angry with this woman. Isn’t that just rich? Most kids would probably be depressed by something like this or upset, or angry, but why is it that I’m not? I know at first it’s upsetting, but I do get over it because I just know that while my mom isn’t there at a concert, or at a football game, or has missed another teacher conference, she’s at work making money, to benefit me, or at home, making me dinner. So for that, I am VERY grateful. 

I love you mom.

My Hero by Carmen Nieves

“We are made to persist.
that's how we find out who we are.” 
― TOBIAS WOLFF, In Pharaoh's Army

INNER CITY STORIES

I think a hero is someone you look up to, someone you’d want to be like one day. Well, some children when asked say that their hero is their mother or their father, or maybe even a police officer or firefighter, and of course as a child I was one of those children. But as I grew older I realized that there was someone else, someone I looked up to a bit more than anyone else. Now don't get me wrong, of course I look up to my mom, just maybe not as much as . . . Her name is Nadine, and she my favorite aunt. She hasn't had the best life; she's had it rough, especially growing up. She wasn't popular in school and she wasn't all that happy at home either. She was considered the fat ugly girl. No one really saw the potential in her, not even her parents, so she turned to the streets, drinking and doing drugs, and other dangerous things. Many unspeakable things have happened to her, things you couldn't even imagine, especially at such a young age. She started skipping school to be on the streets and getting into all kinds of trouble. It seemed like she was turning bad, but in reality, she was just hurt. Hurt because she wasn't being loved and treated the way she should have been at home. The alcohol and the drugs took all the pain away. Until she found out she was pregnant, that is. After she found out she was with child she straightened herself up, made sure she had a job, got an apartment, and got off the streets.

To be quite honest, I didn't really think I would have an aunt still here with me before my little cousin came along. He's her little miracle baby! He inspired her to get her life together; she found God. She gave her life to God, and then a couple of very hard years later she found a man. A man who treats her well, a man who loves God just like she does. Man oh man do I thank him! I've seen my aunt get treated like something scraped off someone's shoe. Now I look into her eyes while she talks to me about him and all I see is this beautiful twinkle in her gorgeous brown eyes, and I know that this man makes her happy. He pushes her to be the best woman she can be, and I'm glad that she has found him. Years later my aunt now has a second beautiful baby boy, she has graduated from school, and most importantly she is happy, she's happy with the way she's living. She has her baby boy’s love and the love of her life. I am so proud of her; words can’t even begin to explain how proud I am of her. She is this new and improved woman, and a spectacular mother. This goes to show that even if you come or started out from the gutter, you can always pick yourself up and make something of yourself. It is never too late.

Splitsville by Chantalee Lizardi

"I run into my ex-best friend every once in a while. [...]
I want to ask him if he saw me holding his girlfriend’s hand that night,
and if anything changed for him, if anything went dead or alive or if any
holiness was exchanged, if he’s been feeling the long crushing, too [...]
We’d have to still be friends."
–SAM LIPSYTE, "My Best Friend's Girlfriend"

INNER CITY STORIES

First Person:

I’m on my way to Katie’s house to go out for our one year anniversary to the football game where we first met. I tried calling her, but she didn’t pick up, so I figured I should just go to her house and surprise her there. I got her a silver necklace with a small heart charm, which was rose gold with a diamond rim hanging from the end of it. It was from Kay Jewelers. It just reminded me of her so much that I had to get it. The silver resembled her eyes which are gray like, the rose gold resembled her long, wavy, beautiful hair, while the diamonds resembled the sparks of love we had in our eyes for each other. The size resembled her height since she was only 5 foot 1. I was so much taller she seemed so tiny, just like the charm. I thought it was the perfect gift. I started walking to her house, since it was only two blocks down from mine. When I got to her house her mom Marie greeted me at the door saying, “Katie’s upstairs in her room.” I went inside and up to her room. As I approached the door I heard what sounded like kissing. My head filled with frustrating thoughts and negative energy. I just tried to think that it could be sometimes thing else, but I couldn’t fight the negative thoughts. I was furious. I started shaking the sturdy, and rusty knob to open the door, but it was locked. I thought to myself, “How could her door be locked, she never locks her door.”

Third Person Limited:

Katie heard the shaking of the knob, and quickly stopped kissing Carlos. As Carlos kept trying to kiss her, Katie pushed his face away. She then shoved Carlos into the closet and told him, “Don’t make a sound.” She then began anxiously thinking about what to do. Frightened, Katie approached the six foot wooden door in front of her, her heart beating faster and faster as she reached for the rusty knob to let Kyle in. When she opened the door, she saw Kyle with his sea green eyes, his light brown, straight, short hair, and his 5 foot 9 inch frame. Katie’s mind started filling with hatred toward herself. She thought, “I have betrayed him; how could I have cheated on him?” Katie loved Kyle, but her love for him slowly faded away like the sun sinking in the sky making space for the moon at night.

Third Person Objective:

Kyle swung open the door, demanding, “What’s going on in here? I heard kissing!”

Katie replied, “What are you talking about? I was just cleaning my window, that’s what you probably heard.”

Kyle screamed, “I know what I heard!”

Kyle was on a rampage and started opening everything. Katie tried to scream over his rampaging while he was making a huge mess in her room. When Kyle started walking toward the closet, Katie distracted him. Katie grabbed his hand which was reaching for the closet’s door knob. She screamed at him, “Kyle, stop! I love you and would never cheat on you, especially on our anniversary; let’s just go to the football game to have our date!” Kyle calmed down, grabbed Katie, and they started leaving the house for the football stadium. Meanwhile, after everything was quiet Carlos left the closet and snuck out the window. Carlos was 5 foot 6, had dark brown, puppy like eyes, and black, short hair; he had been Kyle’s best friend since preschool. Carlos went home to get ready since he was going to go to the football game as well. It was now 6 o’clock and the game was about to start. Sitting on the riser Kyle was in the middle, while Carlos was on the right and Katie was on his left. Katie and Carlos kept looking at each other furtively the whole game, but didn’t say a word -- not even to Kyle.

Third Person Omniscient:

Kyle was suspiciously thinking to himself, “Why aren’t Katie and Carlos talking? Something must be up.”

Katie was nervously thinking, “Oh my gosh, what if Kyle finds out he would hate me, and I would then hate myself.”

Carlos was anxiously thinking, “I can’t believe I could have done that to my best friend! What was I thinking, especially on my best friend’s anniversary!”

Concerned, Kyle asked Katie, “Katie are you alright? You look nervous.”

Panicking, Katie replied “Yes, everything is fine; why wouldn’t it be?”

Confused, Kyle then asked, “Then why aren’t you talking? And that goes for you too Carlos!”

Carlos stuttered and frightfully replied, “Ugh, because, umm you see, I ugh” (trying to distract Kyle), “Hey, look, we just scored a touchdown Woo hoo!”

Katie then yelled, “Yea, Woo hoo!”

Raising his voice, Kyle complained,“ Why are you guys doing that, and why are you acting weird around me? I thought we could tell each other anything!”

Carlos and Katie looked at each other and then looked at Kyle who was now standing up in rage. While the big screen pointed at them, stopping the whole game, Katie sadly cried, “Kyle you’d better sit down for this,” (Kyle now sitting down), “I have been cheating on you…”

Kyle angrily shouted, “What, Katie? You’ve been cheating on me with whom? Who is this guy so that I can pummel him and crush him like a soda can the way you crushed my heart.”

Carlos timidly mumbled, “She has been cheating on you with me, Kyle; I’m so sorry, I…”

“Save it, I would never accept your apology,” Kyle abruptly interjected, “How could you do this to me? You’ve been my best friend since preschool, and the same goes for you Katie. I can’t believe I spent a whole year of my life with a piece of trash; well the whole world comes back around in a circle to put people back where they belong, so I guess this means that you’ve have been officially dumped back into the trash.”

Crying, Katie pleaded, “Kyle please don’t, I...I...I . . .” The tears were running down her face like two waterfalls as if she was just drowning in them; Katie choked on her own breath knowing that she was wrong. Kyle looked at both of them and said, “Bye, guys; it has been sad knowing you.” Everyone watching in the stadium gasped at the sight of what had just happened on the big screen as they saw Kyle just walking away from both of them, leaving them there to drown in their betrayal.

And then it was one year later, and everyone has gone their separate ways. Kyle has a new girlfriend and has met lots of great new friends, while Carlos and Katie broke up soon after that incident; they’re still good friends. Everyone still talks about that football game. Kyle still sees Katie and Carlos in the hallways at school, but just ignores them in the disgust he still feels for them. People will forget about that game one day, but Kyle, Katie, and Carlos never will. None of them goes to the games anymore. Nowadays Carlos and Katie are too ashamed to show up, and Kyle just doesn’t like to remember that’s where his heart was slowly ripped apart piece by piece by his first love.

Second Person:

Ways not to breakup with someone:

1. Don’t send a friend to tell the person you’re breaking up with that you’re breaking up with them.

2. Don’t just tell the person you’re breaking up with them and then walk away. That’s insensitive. Give them a sensitive reason and then walk away.  

3. Don’t break up with a person and go straight to another new person. That shows you might have been cheating or had eyes for another person while you were dating.

4. Don’t break up with a person over Facebook, twitter, email, text, or any other website. You’re being insensitive and you’re being a coward for not telling them to their face.

5. Don’t break up on your anniversary!!!!

Inspiration by Robert Zapor

The one thing that you have that nobody else has is you.
Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw
and build and play and dance and live as only you can.
–NEIL GAIMAN

INNER CITY STORIES

I believe that inspiration is one of the most important things to have in life. In my eyes inspiration is the key to everything. Now there are two types of inspiration, there’s positive inspiration and there’s negative inspiration. What I mean is that people have inspiration to do positive things and people have inspiration to do negative things. I myself have lots of positive inspiration to reach my goals, something I think everyone in this world should have.

The first thing is you need goals. My main goals in life are to make my family proud, finish high school, go to college, get a good job, and eventually start my own family. I find inspiration for my goals everywhere, whether it be looking up to my parents or maybe even just watching TV -- inspiration for me is everywhere. I also find inspiration from my grandparents. My grandparents lived in a small poverty stricken farm town and worked from before sunrise until after sunset in the sugarcane fields trying to make a living. Once they had saved up enough money they had the courage to leave their gigantic family behind and move themselves, my mom, and my aunt all the way to New Britain. After they arrived my grandfather began working 2-3 jobs and my grandmother worked at a factory with horrible working conditions just so they could provide for my mom and my aunt. My mom says the reason they worked so hard was because they refused to go on welfare or receive help from the state. This allowed both my mom and aunt to get college degrees later on and both get good paying jobs. It just amazes me how my grandparents did all that while facing a language barrier, no other family members, and trouble with finances -- they were still able to persevere and provide for their family. I am thankful for that because without them I probably wouldn’t be here right now and probably wouldn’t be living this good of a life. So whenever I feel like giving up or feel like I can’t do something I just think about them and all the things they had to go through; it just inspires me and gives me the push to achieve my goals.

Inspiration is also a big part of me playing sports. Inspiration allows me to get better every day. I get inspiration from everything; one main source of inspiration for me is my dad. He played varsity football for NBHS back in the day and my goal next year is to start on varsity as well. I also get inspiration from watching professional athletes on TV, or just seeing other varsity players or even coaches. One varsity player that inspired me is Zach Connolly because he is in my opinion the best linebacker in our school; he received a season ending injury his senior year but was still on the sidelines being a leader. This helped me realize that even though I might not be on the field with my teammates due to an injury I can still help my team from the sidelines. All these people and things inspire me every day to be the best at every sport and every position I play. My overall goal in playing sports is to be able to get a partial or maybe even a full scholarship to college.

The problem with our world today is that people have little or no inspiration, and there are a lot of people with negative inspiration. What I mean by negative inspiration is that people are inspired by negative people. For example, there are kids who feel more inspired to have all the girls or be known as the “bad ass” rather than being inspired to get an education and set up a life for themselves. That is just one example of having negative inspiration; there are a whole lot of people inspired to do negative things. Another huge issue is that people who have no inspiration at all have almost no goals in life. Now this kills me because I see kids every day and it sucks knowing that in four years these same kids probably won’t be walking the stage with everyone else. This might sound crazy but I believe it's not completely their fault. The main reason for their lack of inspiration is they constantly get put down by lots of people; sometimes even teachers do it to kids. Another major problem is that there is no support coming from home. In my opinion if the parents don't care why should the kids? And that's the way some of these kids think. Due to this I think it's society's obligation to help push these kids, give them that support, and inspire these kids to do well and make a life for themselves. I believe that if you're inspired anything is possible.