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Contents VOL . 20NO. 8

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for originality by TurnItIn.com

COVER FEATURES

The College IssueCollege Planning Timetable.........................17Facts & Figures ..........................................17-24Articles .......................................................18-24Essays ..........................................................25-27College Directory ....................................30-32

Opinion:

Edward Cullen: Gem or Jerk?“Bella is depicted as an evil temptress trying to persuade a morally honorable man into evil, while he attempts to keep their virtues intact. Succinctly, Edward and Bella are a modern Adam and Eve.”

– “Twilight on Equality,” page 14

Video Game Reviews“This game shows the struggles the U.S. Marines hadagainst the Imperial Army of Japan. It makes for afresh setting and fresh tactics, as you have to deal witha severely entrenched Japanese Army that has noqualms about rushing at you headfirst.”

– “Call of Duty: World at War,” page 41

Cover photo by Hannah Beckwith, Coronado, CA

This issue is dedicated to Bob Kuchnicki, our goodfriend and printer. His service over the past 20

years has been invaluable, contributing greatly to our success. He will be missed by all of us.

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12 ART GALLERYPaintings, drawings & photos

30-32 COLLEGE DIRECTORY

25-27 COLLEGE ESSAYS

28 EDUCATOR OF THEYEAR

13 ENVIRONMENT

4 FEEDBACK

44-47 FICTION

16 HEROES

6-10 NONFICTION

14-15 OPINION

34-35 POETRY

33 PRIDE & PREJUDICE

43 REVIEWS: BOOKWhen I Was Puerto Rican • A Thousand SplendidSuns • Life of Pi • Firestarter • A Walk to Remem-ber • The Universe in a Nutshell

42 REVIEWS: MOVIE & TVRevolutionary Road • Confessions of a Shopaholic •Nights in Rodanthe • The House Bunny

41 REVIEWS: MUSICStreetlight Manifesto • Portishead • Judas Priest •David Archuleta

40 REVIEWS: VIDEO GAMECall of Duty: World at War • Fallout 3 • Mega Man 9 • Cave Story

37 SPORTS

38-39 TRAVEL & CULTURE

36 YOU & YOUR HEALTH

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PCS provides a college preparatory program especially designed for young people pursuing challenging goals in the performing arts, sports or other endeavors that may sometimes require time spent away from school. Founded in 1914, PCS is a fully accredited, independent day school enrolling 185 students in grades 6-12. To learn more, visit our website or call our Admissions Director, Sherrie Hinkle at 212-582-3116.

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DUSTY WINDOWSThis piece is a refreshing take on the envi-

ronment. While most articles focus on globalwarming or recycling, “Dusty Windows”brought up the subject of urbanization.Munema Moiz touched on an interestingtopic that most people never think about. Ihadn’t realized that the desert could be affected, but reading this article helped meunderstand.

I live in New York City and find it hard toimagine that the ground under my home wasonce farmland. Decades from now, peoplewill probably be feeling the same way aboutMunema’s town in Saudi Arabia. I could really feel her loss with every word I read.

Selena Zhou, Brooklyn, NY

DEAR PEERS“Dear Peers” by Sitav Nabi is a piece

everyone should look to when they’re doubt-ing themselves. This story summarizes myexperience in elementary school. Now thatI’m older, it gives me comfort to know thesame thing happens to other people.

The story to me is a perfect account ofwhat the “nerd” has to go through every day;unlike the author, most people don’t realizethat it’s something to be proud of. I love itwhen Sitav uses questions to make her point– for example, “Did my teachers stop appre-ciating having me in their classes? Did I loseany inspiration?” Then she answers withthree simple words: “Well … I’m waiting.”Pure gold.

Sitav describes how at first she tried to fitin and pretended to be something she wasnot, and how her classmates rejected her.They knew that she was a beautiful flower ina barren desert, and that flower didn’t fit in.This article shows how many students feel,and the author summed it up so well. I con-gratulate Sitav for being able to tell her storyin a world where few people can expressthemselves so well on paper.

Erin Kiser, Thornton, CO

ISLANDS IN THE STREAMHigh school hallways, a raging river,

absolutely! Ariel Dempsey could not havebeen more correct in her article in the Febru-ary issue.

Attending a high school with only onefloor, two main halls, and about 1,000 stu-dents can truly test your ability to make it toclass on time and alive. Like Ariel, I still seenew people in the halls even by the middleof the year, and with these “new people”come a lot of questions. Ariel is correct insaying that you can learn a lot about peoplefrom hallway observations.

If you are looking for the most currentgossip, turn to the halls; you may hear morethan you really wanted to. In the “realworld,” as adults put it, we should look peo-ple in the eye and firmly shake their hands.However, just as Ariel looks at the wall toavoid contact with the other lone student inthe hall, how often do we see teachers doingthe same thing? All the time! Hallway greet-ings can be some of the most awkward con-versations. But regardless of the plethora ofobstacles in the hall, we continue to enterthese rapids and come out okay.

Ariel, you hit the nail on the head.John Vagas, Canfield, OH

MY FAVORITE SHIRT“My Favorite Shirt” by Kim Christianson

is one of the best uses of analogy I’ve everread. It’s absolutely true that in this day andage, love is treated just like a favorite shirt –discovered, displayed, shared, cherished …and if it doesn’t fit, thrown away and forgot-ten. People can be just as careless with loveas with a shirt; if there’s a flaw, some justgive it up and pass it along, while others willtry to mend it so it can be treasured again.There are as many types of love in the worldas shirts: flashy, elegant, decorative, joking…. One has to wonder what shirt corre-sponds to true love.

Rachel Heineman, Brooklyn, NY

I thought this piece did an outstanding jobof relating love to an object we all under-stand. Everybody has a favorite shirt, andsome share it, just as we all have the abilityto pronounce our love but some choose tohold it in, waiting for the right moment.

As I read, I thought of how many times Itold someone I cared but somehow it didn’tmean the same to them as it did to me. Theact of giving away love must be done withcare, and it must be given to someone youtrust. I can say with confidence that nobodywould entrust a favorite shirt to somebodyunreliable. So why would they trust that per-son with their love? Kim provided a freshapproach to the old subject of love.

Rebecca Brown, Canfield, OH

NIÑITASI enjoyed reading “Niñitas” by Melissa

Lozada-Oliva. Nowadays, parties seem likeover-the-top, superficial public declarationsof who has more money. Just look at MTV’s“My Super Sweet Sixteen.” It was refreshingto see that Melissa felt like she didn’t need aparty to transition from girl to woman.

This well-written article showed me that itdoesn’t matter how poofy your dress is,what gifts you get, or how long a stretchlimo your parents rented, but at the end ofthe day, when you snuggle in your bed, yougo to sleep being you.

Ruby Barraza, Phoenix, AZ

TRUE LOVE, AISLE 2“True Love, Aisle 2” by Molly Krause

shows how we base our society on unrealis-tic movies, magazines, and TV shows. She istotally right in saying that adolescents actout the lives of older teens. My peers seemto strive to be older, acting as they thinksomeone more mature would.

This article really helped me get a senseof how my peers (okay, even me) are unable

to have an intelligent conversation. The me-dia encourages us by giving us the impres-sion that it is normal for teenagers to havemeaningless and vapid conversations.

This marvelous piece really showed howeasy it is to just follow the crowd. But I’mgoing to start an actual conversation today atlunch, and so should you!

Rebecca Chanmin, Brooklyn, NY

ACTINGI immensely enjoyed reading “Acting” by

Kamryn Harmeling. Her words played offeach other in a very fluid way. I enjoyed theway she compared acting to the sense ofpretend that’s found in so many high schoolrelationships. It’s like a battle is raging in-side the poem.

It makes me wonder how it would feelknowing that someone is lying to your face,but doing it so well you almost let yourselfbelieve it. Then in the end you feel like afool because you knew all along it was justan act.

Great, great poem. Magnificent descrip-tion of the battle of manipulation in love.

Mathew Stone, Phoenix, AZ

REJECTIONEveryone has experienced rejection.

Inevitably, some of it is deserved and someof it cannot be prevented. Can you imaginehow thick Teen Ink would be if they pub-lished everything teenagers sent in? Al-though being published in this magazine isnot a contest, I believe it is comparable toone. If you enter a contest, do you get madat the person in charge if you don’t win?

I have never been published in Teen Ink,and although I think it would be cool, I don’tblame the editors for my not getting in.

Hillary Sward, Dell Rapids, SD

FeedbackArticles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com

Teen Ink • A P R I L ’ 0 904

A fall leadership programfor idealistic high school womenwho want to change the world

October 1–4, 2009

Nominations due April 10, 2009For nomination forms and applications visit

www.mtholyoke.edu/taketheleador call 413-538-3500

Mount Holyoke College, South Hadley, Massachusetts

CIRCULATIONThe magazine reaches over

350,000 teenagers and is delivered to over 5,500 highschools and junior highs. In ad-dition, copies are mailed to all32,000 high schools and juniorhighs in the country.

THE YOUNG AUTHORSFOUNDATION, INC.

The Young Authors Founda-tion, publisher of Teen Ink, is anon-profit cor por ation qualifiedas a 501(c)3 exempt organ -ization by the IRS. The Founda-tion, which is organized and operated exclu sively for charita-ble and educational purposes,provides opportunities for theeducation and enrichment ofyoung people.

NOTICE TO READERS Teen Ink is not responsible

for the content of any adver-tisement. We have not investi-gated advertisers and do notnecessarily endorse their prod-ucts or services.

EDITORIAL CONTENTTeen Ink is a monthly journal

de di cated to publishing a varietyof works written by teen agers.Copyright © 2009 by TheYoung Authors Foundation,Inc. All rights reserved. Publi-cation of material appearing inTeen Ink is prohibited unlesswritten permission is obtained.

FREQUENCYMonthly, September to June.

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Publishers: Stephanie Meyer

John Meyer

Senior Editor: Stephanie Meyer

Editor: Emily Sperber

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Volunteer: Barbara Field


Boot Camp Adventures by Laura Reichardt, Dillon, CO

There is a flash. A tremendousboom. The strike could have hit the ground ten feet away.

Around me, seven frantic girls searchthrough soaked, scattered gear underand around a parachute shelter. Therain is pouring down; my change ofclothes is already soaked, and mychilled body is colder than I everthought possible.

“I CAN’T FIND MY SHOES!” Ibellow to the wind. Nobody aroundme cares, or answers. Inwhat has rapidly becomea true survival situation,the teamwork we careful-ly cultivated this weekhas vanished.

I grab what I can andstart the long trek downfrom the girls’ camp andup the other hill to theboys’. Midway, my flip-flops betrayme and I end up standing in mud inmy wool socks with everything I wascarrying scattered around me. I’mcold, wet, and miserable; when I lookup, everything nearby is obscured bythe rain, including my friends.

The path seems to have vanished, Ican no longer tell which way is down-hill, let alone where the boys’ camp is.Another flash fills the sky and bringsthe trees into eerie detail. I stand

amidst my scattered belongings, coldmud oozing between my toes, needle-like rain pelting my skin, and I wonderif I am going to die.

* * *I stand, knees locked, eyes staring

straight ahead at a handhold on theclimbing wall 20 feet in front of me.In times of stress, one of two thingshappens to a person’s vision: either itnarrows, obscuring everything but thedanger at hand, or it expands, bringingthe surroundings into extreme andpainful detail.

My field of vision is restricted by

the requirement of remaining at atten-tion, but my other senses fill in thegaps about my environment. I am,foolishly, in the first rank of cadets. Ihear nervous breathing all around.Fear has a distinct odor – it is over-whelmingly present in this group ofpallid teens. My eyes pick out the fig-ure of an adult instructor climbing thestairs next to the rock wall. In his handis a camera. I wonder if the photos aremeant to make a mockery of us, of

how scared we are, whenthis week is finally over.

As butterflies destroy mystomach, I catch the faintsound of three pairs ofboots marching to the frontof the formation. An AirForce Pararescueman andtwo SERE (Survival, Eva-sion, Resistance, Escape)

instructors stand in front of us. AirmanMcGee’s biceps are as big as a run-ner’s legs. He’s shorter than I am butlooks as though he could pick me upand throw me like a javelin withoutany effort.

Airman Heath just looks mean. He’syoung, maybe just a few years olderthan us, but we can tell he has seenthings beyond our comprehension.

Sergeant Herrera, our lead instruc-tor, is the most terrifying of the three.He stands, impassive. His face is inscrutable. There is the look of an old man in his eyes. His expression today, however, is completely devoidof either compassion for our plight orthe eagerness of Airman Heath.

The three prowl the rows of cadets,pausing intermittently to perform uniform inspections.

“You shave this morning?”“No, Sergeant.” (Later, we found

out that the kid hadn’t gone throughpuberty yet.)

More stalking amongst the rows.“You shine your boots with a

Snickers bar?”Another short march.“You shave this morning? Yes? Oh,

I think we got ourselves an integrityviolation here!”

We stand quaking as the angry voicesfall silent in front of us. Amidst all thepalpable terror, a single word cracksthrough the ranks, making us shudder.

“DROP!”* * *

We’re milling around aimlessly in aparking lot. It is 10 a.m., we’re 8,000feet above sea level, and it is alreadytoo hot. On my head is a bright orangehelmet, buckled loosely and cockeyedbecause I am too busy to fix it. Thegear is supposed to be divided evenlyamong 29 people, but there simply isn’t enough to go around. My team islanguidly removing bags from trucksand opening them. We divide upropes, carabiners, daisy chains, andharnesses. Too slow.

“DROP!” And we do push-ups. I

have lost my gloves, and so the rubblein the parking lot digs into the fleshyparts of my palm. Soon, even that con-cern is lost in the agonizing pain ofoverworked muscles trying to lift mybody and all the equipment I am carry-ing. All around me, my team groans asthey struggle to maintain proper push-up position.

When we are finally done, two people drop carabiners, and we’re onour faces again so in the future we remember to take care of our gear.

Sergeant Herrera decides we’vewasted enough time and can start thehike up the mountain to the rappellingwall. Then he hands me a 15-poundrock and says that because we couldn’tdivide the gear fast enough, he’s givingus more to carry so everyone gets afair share.

I name our rock Sam. Later, we pullout a Sharpie and give him a face.

* * *On our way back from rappelling,

we run out of water. Sergeant Herrerapromises that he’ll “hydrate” us whenwe get off the mountain.

We drive to the small general storeby the river. We’re told we’re allowedto buy two things – I think we may bethe only business they get all year.Most people buy Gatorade or water,but one kid chooses ice cream. I’msure he’ll soon regret it.

I pick up some ramen. Around thecampfire, later, I am the envy of myfriends. You know things are reallyrough when ramen is a delicacy.

* * *We march into the freezing river.

It is either a measure of our completeexhaustion or of our conditioned obedience that no one protests orhangs back.

We follow Sergeant Herrera into themiddle of the river.

“DROP!”This time, there is some hesitation.

Is he serious? The pause is only mo-mentary, though, as my team drops into push-up positionin a ragged line, armsand legs submerged underwater. When weswitch to flutter kicks,I begin to float down-stream. I don’t haveenough mass to stopthe current from carry-ing me.

It is glorious. We’ve had a long, hotday. The water feels amazing. It is myfirst bath in four days.

* * *We’re strung out, 10 in the line,

walking stoically up 1,000 vertical feetof hill through thick undergrowth.There is a monotonous pace count going in my head – the last time oneof us forgot the count, we had to re-turn to the beginning of the course.

I am struggling, even with the relatively light weight of my pack. I

fall farther and farther back. We crestthe hill and I am second to last – not a good place for a leader to be. Myteammate gives me a bit of a push fora few seconds. It helps, but I’m stillexhausted.

We break for lunch, where the in-structors point out that they’ve beenwalking on a trail parallel to our crash-ing journey through the undergrowth.We were so wrapped up in our miserythat we didn’t even notice. Duh. Whenwe continue up the hill, we use thepath this time. We’re getting close; thetrees are thinning and there’s lessbrush.

The cover breaks and we’re stand-ing on a naked hilltop. A lightning-struck tree reaches like a colossal spirefrom the top of the hill. The grass issparse and broken by a massive cairn.

My team poses for a snapshot infront of the rocks. We’re at 10,800 feeton the highest mountain around. Be-hind us loom huge black clouds: fistsof impending doom. Wind whips thehilltop and lightning flashes in the distance, but we don’t care. We are jubilant; we are young and full of vigor. We have seen the PromisedLand, and found it good. There is a triumphant sense of our own abilitiesand power.

We share a pack of M&Ms, andthen knock out a set of 25 push-ups,just for the hell of it.

We are, quite literally, on top of theworld.

* * *As the hail pounds my helmeted

head, I stand on the bank of the river, aloose rope extending to a tree on theother side. I clip my carabiner in andclimb the rope, one foot hooked overthe top and behind me, my other legstraight out and down for balance.

Sergeant Herrera stands knee-deepon the other side of the river, wearing agray Air Force T-shirt and a feral grin.

It doesn’t take long for me to fall off– it isn’t easy to stay on top of a loose

rope. I’ve done this be-fore, though, and knowhow to pull myself alongunder-handed.

In the center, the inevitable happens. Sergeant Herrera grabsthe rope and bounces it,with the help of AirmanHeath on the other bank.

All 100 pounds of me goes flying intothe air and then plunges a foot or sounderwater.

I will not let go of the rope. Again,I go flying. My head submerges thistime, then I’m in the air again, gasp-ing for breath and shocked from thecold. A third time, water and air. Will they ever stop? When they do, I waste no time pulling myself to theother side.

Three people, all looking likedrowned rats, wait for me. We

Photo by Zachary Cyganek, Arlington, TN

You know thingsare really roughwhen ramen is

a delicacy

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form a huddle and link arms forthe return crossing. We wade intothe river but suddenly only one of us is tall enough to stand! Thecurrent pulls us downstream.Frantically, I kick as hard as I can to help propel us.I want out!

* * *The ride back is

four miles, and wehave the luxury of vans due to an approaching thunder-storm. I’ve never experiencedanything quite as wonderful asthat heater.

We hurry to our tents. The rainturns from a trickle to a torrent.A flash. A boom. The girls searchthrough soaked gear scatteredaround our parachute shelter.

The rain is pouring down. Ichange into dry clothes only tobe drenched again.

“I CAN’T FIND MY SHOES!” And this is how I end up stand-

ing in the mud in my wool socks,with everything I amcarrying scatteredaround me. I wonder if I will survive.

Airman Heath spotsme from across the Instructors’ Meadow.

“WHERE’S YOURBUDDY!” I can hear him onlyfaintly over the tremendous storm.

“I DON’T KNOW!” I bellowback, close to tears from cold andfright.

He scoops up my stuff andleads me up the hill like a child. Idon’t bother with my flip-flops.

When contemplating death, whocares about shoes?

After hours, we reach the top ofthe hill. The boys have managedto start a fire under a parachutetarp. It is small, with no guaranteeit will survive for two minutes,but it is a fire.

We huddle in our group of 48,as close to the fire as we can get.I stand in the innermost ring,holding a poncho over the fire to protect it from any water thatmight drip through the smokehole in the tarp.

I am freezing, my sleeping bagwill be soaked tonight, I can’t findmy sneakers, I have smoke in myface, tears in my eyes, and snotpouring out of my nose. But I amsurrounded by my team. I amokay. We’ll all be okay. ✎

Slammed by Hanna Telander, Glen Ellyn, IL

The host’s untamed hair bent in time with hisstrides as he glided up to the microphone. Hiswords seemed to drag as he spoke. Distinctly

annunciating every consonant, he announced thescores of the poets prior to his entry. His free handlingered on his waxy dreadlocks. It felt as if he werepurposefully dawdling to build up my growing anxi-ety. I knew this was it; there was nothing more that hecould possibly do to put off my moment. My nameleft his lips so definitely and so genuinely that itsounded as if he had known me intimately for years.His voice was a pistol at the beginning of an Olympicrace; it filled me with relief, eagerness, and fear. Fearthat the words that I had been analyzing so diligentlyfor the past few months wouldn’t stream out of mymouth in a fashion identical to the host’s. Fear thatthis Chicago crowd wouldn’t be as open-minded asthey looked. Fear that the saying “Don’t let the fear ofstriking out keep you from playing the game” was, in

fact, garbage. But then again, if that phrase wasgarbage in this lecture hall full of authors, whose faultwould that be?

* * *“You look a little pale. Are you all right, Hanna?”

She spoke with concern. When I couldn’t answer in asteady voice, I really started to second-guess the con-fidence I had gone to bed with last night. I glancedout the cab’s window at the snowflakes that resem-bled white satin falling from the gray sky. For so earlyin the afternoon, it was the darkest gray I had seen ina long time.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said as convincingly as I could. “Well, you don’t look fine. It’s okay to be nervous,

love. I would be nervous too if I was reading my poet-ry to a room full of college kids.” Aunt Hilary spokesoftly, like she didn’t want the driver to hear. I let myattention fall on the two names that were carelesslycarved into the pleather seats in a border of a lopsidedheart. I smiled. A sudden jolt quicklybrought me out of my reverie.

“Columbia College, right? Up here onthe left?” The cabbie’s thick city accentmade my shoulders tense up. I got out ofthe cab, which drove off even before Iclosed the door. I watched my shoes joinand part with the slush until we reachedthe opaque double doors.

We entered in silence, but chaos met us with openarms. Clusters of students wore matching shirts withtheir team names, team sponsors scrambled around insearch of a schedule, individual poets stood in agroup, yet each was staring at his or her own marked-up sheet of notes.

It suddenly occurred to me that that’s where Ishould be. I nervously stumbled to the front table andreceived a “Hello My Name Is” sticker; my handstrembled so that although my name is only five letterslong, it was completely illegible. I dragged my reluc-tant feet to join the rest of the slammers.

Orange plastic chairs scuffed across the linoleum asfriends bunched together, leaving empty scars acrossthe floor. The florescent lights went out, and hollersfilled the lecture hall, a sign of readiness. Behind thelow stage was a window that was shared with the trainstation next door. It allowed little light, and the exposedpipes rattled and shrieked when the train passed. The

conversations were uninterrupted by this, and I observed, as worry waved through my body, I mightbe the only newbie in the room.

The first individual poet was introduced andstepped onto the stage, followed by two teams and another individual. Suddenly it occurred to me that Icould count those before me on one hand. Just fiveleft before I had to go up there and spill my heart outto a room of strangers and their families?

Five: A boy about 17, with dark hair in an unkemptponytail at the nape of his neck. His ashen skin awk-wardly combined with a dark T-shirt that clung to hissickly ribs.

Four: A young woman of 15, with tightly woven,ornate braids that accented her dark, shadowy skin.Her torn, fitted sweatshirt said “Stimax,” which I laterlearned was her team name. She spoke of peace anddrugs in free-flowing verses that riled up the audience.

Three and Two: Boys who could have passed formid-twenties, but were 18, decked out inmatching Nike Premiums splattered withvivid paint. Their jeans were loose, buttheir words streamed out continuously andtediously for what seemed like hours.

One.One? Really?I traced a circle on my knee over and

over as the host ascended the stage holdinga coconut banana smoothie.

The music began again and he announced my nameslowly, which – in comparison with my bolt to theplatform – seemed like an eternity. The music faded,and so did the crowd noise: the chairs, the train, therattling and shrieking of the open piping. All that wasleft was me and the microphone.

My nerves surged out along with my words; nostalls, no stumbles, no stutters. And to be honest, Ihad never meant anything I said prior to that momentlike I meant the things on the paper crammed in mypocket that day.

But I didn’t need the paper as a safety net. I didn’tneed the notes on my hand (as illegible as they nowwere), nor did I need the applause and the congratula-tory remarks I received after I descended slowly, chinup, from the platform.

What I did need was that surge. And that’s all anyone really needs. ✎

All that was left was me and the microphone

Photo by Julia Edelman, Roslyn, NY

Photo by Jessica Chantler, Corvallis, OR

The current pulls us

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Guavas by Rewa Bush, Mountain View, CA

My aunt is here. She is two hundred or threehundred or four. I’ll never ask so I’ll neverknow, but she is older than my dad, and my

dad is as old as the house, and the house is edging onancient.

She is wearing a loud yellow skirt, bright like theday and the sun and the stars that are so light they arewashed away by the sky. I think she is smiling, but myhair is in my eyes so I can’t see clearly. Shetells me I should cut it, but her own cascadesdown her back in long orange ringlets.

She’s an oxymoron, my aunt. She is as oldas the hills, and probably as wise, yet whimsi-cal like a child. She always does exactly whatshe wants, explores and reaches and teaches.

The day is golden, and it’s glittering off everything:our hair, the leaves, the clouds. My aunt leads methrough the brambly passage to the side garden, a secretgarden hidden if you’ve lost the child’s knack for find-ing lost wonders, like that red sock that never made itout of last week’s laundry but somehow flew under yourbrother’s bed. Dried pomegranates lie on the ground,round and wrinkly. Past the olive tree – an epiphyllumwith magenta flowers stapled into the fork – is a wall of

silvery leaves with silvery fruits like frozen raindrops.We pluck bunches of guavas and eat them, feeling

the cold happiness smearing on our cheeks, as stickyand sweet as the sunshine. Flecks of pink juice sprin-kle my shirt. My aunt tells me the flowers are edibletoo. I don’t believe her until she places one in mymouth. It’s smooth and perfumy, but it doesn’t want togo down my throat, so I spit it on the ground.

Down the gravel path lined with yellowbamboo we arrive at the cactus garden, a circleof centennials melting in a Dalí-like worldwhere time drips in the heat. The white labelsat the foot of each giant are curled and blurred,their names long lost though their bodies stillcast shadows on the dirt.

The soft rush of speeding cars weaves around a rowof bending eucalyptus trees, tall trunks reaching up andup. Strings of strong-smelling leaves dangle down to theearth like taffy being pulled in two directions at once. Iwonder, if we stopped pulling at the skies, would theylet go and fly away? I stretch up, but it’s far out ofreach. My aunt reaches up and plucks a pink flowerfrom the tree, like a star from the sky, and places it inmy hair. It’s not going anywhere for now. ✎

She is anoxymoron,

my aunt

School for the Blind by Paola Arteaga, Los Angeles, CA

For as long as I can remember, Ihave not been very independent.In a way, it’s not too surprising,

considering I can’t see. The first time Ireally did feel independent was at theCalifornia School for the Blind lastsummer at a three-week camp calledthe Student Transition Education Program, or STEP for short.

The first day, I was very scared. Ihad never been away from home be-fore. I mean, I’d been to camp, but thatwas only an hour away and my parentsvisited. This was six hours from homein a place I had never been. Luckily Iknew some of the kids, including myfriend Louise, who be-came my roommate.Our apartment had asmall kitchen with potsand pans and a stoveand everything. It waslike a little house. Wegot food at the cafe teria,but we could buy gro-ceries too. Louise and Ijust had juice and snacks like cookies.

They even gave us keys to our door,which was strange and new to me. Until this point my life had alwaysbeen controlled. I hadn’t had to decidewhen to go to bed or get up, and I’dnever had to clean up after myself. Ihad never felt more scared and aban-doned than when my parents left methat day. I was suddenly out in the big,bad world with no one for protection.

I think the hardest thing was walkingon my own. Sure, I walked at school,but someone was always next to me, reassuring me. If I went the wrong way,my teacher would say, “Watch out forthe stairs!” At STEP, it was different.There were people to look out for us,but we were eventually expected to

learn our way around. I dreaded the dayI would have to know the routes.

The staff was patient with me. Theylet me learn one route at my own pace.Gradually, I realized that I knew howto get to various places. With just thatone route, I could connect to otherdestinations. I started to understandthat if I really paid attention, I coulddo it, but I was scared to try because Ididn’t want to get hurt.

The best day of my whole life waswhen I realized I could walk on myown. We were leaving the computerlab and there were no counselorsavailable, so the computer teacher

walked with us. Since Iam slower than everyoneelse, I quickly fell behind.At first I was concentrat-ing so hard on the routethat I didn’t notice. I justtook it for granted thatsomebody was there, sincesomeone had always beenthere. But suddenly I no-

ticed how quiet it was. I stopped, realizing that I was alone, and startedto panic. What if there were stairs?What if I fell? What if I got lost? ThenI thought, Am I lost? That’s when I realized that I knew where I was. Andso I started walking, slowly at first because I was still scared. But I kepttelling myself that I knew where I wasgoing and little by little, I startedspeeding up until I got back to theapartments. I was shaking, but I hadmanaged on my own. And that’s whenI knew that if I tried, I could do it.

Another challenge was going out inpublic. We went on a lot of field trips.We had to talk to store clerks and doprice comparisons before we boughtanything. We learned how to handle

money and write checks, although Istill need practice. We even askedpedestrians for directions. That washard for me because some peopledon’t think that blind people should be in public without help. One clerkwanted to call security because Louiseand I were on our own. But I realizedthat we have to deal with those whohave never interacted with the blind. Idon’t want to say that they’re ignorant,but in a way they are. But we learnedfrom them too – we’re not always going to be with those who knowabout us and our needs.

Another completely new activity forme was cleaning. Occasionally I hadhelped Mom with the dishes, but thatwas only when I felt like it, which wasrare. At STEP, I had to clean up aftermyself or nobody would. I couldn’tjust drop clothes on the floor and expect someone to pick them up. Believe me, I tried and I only had abigger mess to clean up later. Momhad always hung up my clothes andput the outfit I would wear to schoolon the bed. She still does, but now Iknow how.

I still need practice with eating. I

can’t really use a knife and fork prop-erly. At home, Mom gives me a spoonfor everything, and she even cuts upmy spaghetti. You can imagine whathappened when they served spaghettiat STEP. I got tomato sauce all overmy hands, face, and hair (not to men-tion the table). Don’t even get mestarted on pouring; that was worse. Itried getting myself some juice athome and ended up spilling the wholepitcher. When I got to STEP, they hadto help me pour, but I got the idea. Idid put milk on my own cereal, eventhough it was a small carton.

We also had fun trips. When wewent sailing, I loved how the boatwent really fast and rocked back andforth. We even got to drive and thecaptain told us which way to steer. We also went on a kayaking trip.

My time at STEP taught me skillsthat I will use forever. I’m not alwaysgoing to have someone to hold myhand. Someday I’ll be alone, and I’mscared of that day. But still, when thatchallenge comes, I’ll be more ready toface it, and I hope that I’ll be able todo so with confidence. ✎

I think the hardest thing

was walking onmy own

Ithink most of us would agree that the Peeps the Easter Bunnybrings us are pretty nasty. So why do we get them year afteryear? It is a question that has plagued children for generations,

and we now have an answer, proven by intense scientific study:the sole purpose of the Peeps is your parents’ enjoyment.

Take this case: my father is a very funny man. One lovelyEaster morning, while the rest of my family was sitting aroundthe kitchen table devouring the mountains of candy we had got-ten, my dad sauntered up. A lone Peep was sitting on the edgeof the table, forlorn and abandoned. Once my dad caught sightof it, his demeanor changed completely. His body stiffened ashe folded his arms up, bringing his hands to his shoulders in anodd, predatory manner. His strides became tiny, mincing stepsas he approached the table where the oblivious Peep rested.

Now he had the attention of the whole family, and fromseemingly nowhere, we heard a cute but desperate “peep, peep,peep.” At this noise, my father’s pupils dilated while his steadybreathing turned to feral growls. He crept up to the Peep anddove at it, grabbing it with his teeth and tossing it into the gaping cavern of his mouth.

We remained speechless for a few seconds as we observedhim devouring the poor chick. Then, with a frightened face, mylittle sister turned to her candy basket and pulled out an entirepackage of Peeps, offering them to him wordlessly. ✎

Peep-Rex

Art by Brian McGuffog, Fishers, IN

by Hannah Fronzak,Oak Ridge, TN


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n The Hospital Visit by Catherine O’Donnell, Arlington Heights, IL

It was the day before Rosh Hashanah, but I wasn’tJewish. I was heading into the hospital, but Iwasn’t sick.

The lobby was like the starting gate at a racetrack:a line of wheelchairs filled with former patients, a group of healed people with their blinders on,chomping at the bit to go home. Many of them hadballoons, teddy bears, and family members for theirentourage. Lucky ducks.

My back pocket buzzed; I paused in a corner neatly arranged with cushioned chairs to take thecall. It was Mom: “Honey, she’s not in the best shaperight now. She may be asleep the entiretime you’re there, but, you know, that’sokay.” After a few sighs and a good-bye, I managed to move my cinderblock feet toward the elevator.

“Oh, he’s just doing so much better.It’s unbelievable! I mean, just yester-day he was practically comatose andnow he’s up and walking,” a youngwoman with a colorful paisley scarfsaid into her cell phone as she exited the elevator.Lucky duck.

My fellow elevator riders were an older womanand two kids, presumably her grandchildren. Thewoman pressed the button for the third floor; I wasgoing to the eleventh. I did the usual routine of gazing at anything but the other people in the elevator. Finding nothing terribly interesting aboutthe certificate of inspection, I threw a quick glancetoward the children. Their eyes glimmered with excitement. One hugged a teddy bear and the other grasped a construction paper card, completewith stick figures that, as children, we thought

comparable to “Mona Lisa.” The elevator crept to astop, the doors opened, and the kids bolted; the signfor the floor read “OB-GYN.”

“Let’s go see your baby sister.”Lucky ducks.The elevators opened with a ding on the eleventh

floor. I walked to the nurses’ station and asked for directions to Room 1155, her room. 1151 … 1153 …1155. I waited outside for a few seconds, becomingmy own coach for a pep talk.

“We have to be strong for her,” my dad had toldme the last time we visited. “She’s going through a

lot right now, so we have to keep smileson our faces.”

With a quick exhale, I entered theroom. The woman on the bed had whitehair and wrinkles. Her eyes slowly notedmy presence and then lazily drifted backto the ceiling. The whiteboard next to herread, “Smith, Evelyn.” She wasn’t mygrandma.

I stepped to the other side of the cur-tain. The woman on the bed was sound asleep, hermouth agape, her head tilted to the side. The cancertreatments left a halo of curly hairs on the pillow. Hernails were manicured, but her hands were swollen.She was hooked up to a menagerie of machinery andhad a growing collection of bracelets on her left arm.A picture of the Virgin Mary and a rosary sat on herbedside table. Her whiteboard read “O’Donnell,Adonai” with a lopsided smiley face underneath. Shewasn’t my grandma.

My 5'2" grandma had the heart of a lion and thefight of a tiger. She would tell stories about Boobieand his sister Boobette, troublemakers in the same

league as Dennis the Menace, who always managedto cook up mischief. My grandma would sit us infront of her vanity filled with bottles of perfume and makeup, and brush our hair with her silver- handled brush, a makeover of sorts. She would runher manicured nails through our hair and ask my sisters and me who our boyfriends were. When wetold her we didn’t have any, she would throw out afew names, her way of “giving” us boyfriends. Minewas Templeton.

A cough roused me from my daydream. Shewheezed twice and then settled back into her slumber. I rubbed her swollen, latex-like forearm.

“You lucked out with your room, Grandma. Yougot the window seat.”

The only response was a low grumble from herrespirator.

Dad said conversation usually helped her, so I kept the news coming: Major League Baseball, myclasses and activities, the details of the homecomingfestivities.

Leaving the hospital, I felt slightly reassured.While I had been there, she hadn’t taken a turn for the worse, she wasn’t put on more medication,she didn’t develop further symptoms. She slept.With each of her breaths, each beep of the heartmonitor, I felt more certain that she would pullthrough and be back to her normal storytelling selfin no time.

That Thursday, Grandma’s game of ping-pong between the hospital and her nursing home added anew destination: hospice.

It was the day after Yom Kippur, but I wasn’t Jewish. We were saying good-bye, but I could barelyspeak a word. ✎

Outgrowing “Titanic” by Isabel, New York, NY

My brother, George, has a tendency to get obsessed. Hebecomes sickly entranced

with people, movies, and even randomthings like Crocs. When I was seven,he became infatuated with the movie“Titanic,” and this obsession was un-like any other. He ordered it on PayPer View. He watched it nonstop. Hehad the shirts, the music, and hadmemorized every line of the movie. Itwas all he talked about. He becameangry and violent when my mom for-bade him to watch it anymore. Coinci-dentally, the Christmas after the moviecame out, my family and I embarkedon a Disney Cruise to the Bahamas.

At first I was in heaven. I wasamong gods like Minnie Mouse andDonald Duck. Life, in my opinion, hadreached its peak. However, on thethird night, something happened thatdidn’t fit in with my fairyland dreams.At dinner George was upset with myparents because they would not lethim watch “Titanic” in our cabin. Finally, after yelling, “I hate my lifeand I hate you,” he stormed out. Myparents sighed and started whisperingthat George was out of control,George was anxious, George, George,George. I sullenly picked at my Mickey Mouse-shaped cake.

We finally finished, to the relief of

the baffled waiter, and decided to walkalong the deck, hoping to run intoGeorge. As we turned the last windycorner, I noticed someone climbingthe tall railing at the front of the ship,head bent back, hair streaming. Thefigure was wearing a tie-dyed shirt justlike George’s. The figure had spindlylegs just like George’s. The figure wasGeorge. We ran toward him.

“George! What thehell are you doing? Getdown right now!” myparents yelled. I stoodthere in shock as mybrother slowly climbedthe railing. I was afraidto make any suddenmoves because hemight go right over.Then it would be my fault.

“Stand back! Don’t come any closer. I’ll let go,” George responded,quoting “Titanic.”

This wasn’t funny. He wasn’t Rose.There was no Jack to pull him back. Isuddenly felt ridiculous in my brightpink Disney shirt. My dad quicklymoved to pull George down, but hejust climbed higher. We were stuck.Would he really jump? There was notime to think. My mom ran to get helpwhile Dad tried to calm him down.Meanwhile, I started crying.

George suddenly turned back, hisbraces flashing in the wind. He sawme with tears streaming down mycheeks. I yelled to him, “Georgie,please don’t jump, please don’t do it,Georgieeeeee.”

As he stared, I kept crying andyelling. I even attempted to reasonwith him, saying, “Rose didn’t jump.You shouldn’t either!” I don’t know if

it was seeing me cryingor hearing that, but either way, Georgeheard reason. Slowly he climbed down. Hedidn’t jump. He cameback.

My parents said that Isaved him. I was reallyafraid this was true. I

didn’t want to be the only one whomade George want to be alive. I didn’twant that responsibility.

* * *Since then, George has seen it

all. He’s been on every medicationunder the sun. He’s seen doctors and therapists and everything in between. We’ve heard the wordsOCD, Asperger syndrome, bipolar.He’s gotten better. He’s gotten older.He’s more in control of his life. ButI’m still afraid.

Last summer we all went to

Majorca. One day, we traveled aroundsome islands on a small, private tourboat. The hot sun was beating on thesea. My parents had fallen asleep andGeorge and I changed into our bathingsuits and decided to take a dip. Hewanted to swim laps; I wanted to float.

“Izzy, let’s jump off the top of theboat,” he suddenly said excitedly.

My stomach churned at this notionbut I joined him. I told myself, There isnothing to fear this time. He gave mehis huge, elfish grin as we climbed tothe top. We held hands. I tightened myfingers. Then we leaped and embracedthe cold, searing water together. ✎

Art by Jose Hadathy, Marietta, GA


My grandma had the heart of a lion and thefight of a tiger

I stood there in shock as mybrother slowly

climbed the railing

I respect myselfThat is, until I saw myself get high

It’s just an ugly side of myself I didn’t recognize

Saying and doing things that were not myself

I barely recognized myself

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Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us all year – see page 3 for detailsTeen Ink • A P R I L ’ 0 912

art

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lery

Photo by Ariana Turner, Overland Park, KS

Photo by Matt Steele, Taylorville, IL

Art by Uzair Munir, Faisalabad, Pakistan

Art by Mallika Dubey, Tampa, FL

Art by Katie Sonnier, Pearland, TX

Photo by Chelsea Gortmaker, Farmington, MN

Photo by Chyi-Dean Shu, No. Tustin, CA

Art by Louisa Gaudette, Chicopee, MA

Art by Jen Turner, Hollis, NH

Art by Alice Bucknell, Sarasota, FL

Teen InkRAWViewer’sChoice

Deep Time by Asher Elbein, Atlanta, GA

This is a true story. It’s a late winter day inPlano, Texas. A high school geology class iswalking along a drainage ditch near school.

As the teacher points to the white limestone rock andlectures, the students are shivering and mutteringamongst themselves. “This is a hands-on lesson,” theteacher explains. “I want you to look around and seewhat you can find.” Then he picks up a thin sheet of chalk-white limestone and points to the design inscribed in the rock: a coiled, ribbed shell from a being that roamed the earth millions of years ago.

The students split up; some kick the rocks over, uninterested, while others look more carefully. One or two move methodically, examining the cold lime-stone. Here and there they find a clam shell frozenand lithographed into the stone. Snail shells are everywhere.

One student walks a little farther from the class,eyes down, bored. He’s new, having moved recentlyfrom New Orleans. He’s looking halfheartedly at a bed of fossilized oysters when his eyes fall on something odd. His interest peaks, and he calls theteacher over.

It’s a fist-sized vertebra, and it is not alone.This was three years ago. Four months before, a

storm of near-biblical proportions rolled over the GulfCoast, smashing levies and flooding New Orleans,leaving nearly 2,000 dead and 700 missing. The student in this story was one of thousands of displaced people who fled from thestorm, many escaping with just theclothes on their backs.

For many, Hurricane Katrina was adisaster on par with the September 11attacks four years before. Just like 9/11,it forced us as a nation and as a speciesto contemplate our mortality. What willwe leave behind when we disappearfrom this world?

Everyone considers this question at some point:when we are swallowed by oblivion, when we checkout of this life, how will we have shaped our surround-ings and what void will be left by our passing? Will itbe fame or notoriety? Material things or a new idea?And, most important, how long will it last? A lifetimeis often considered a mere 80 years; empires rise andfall in 500; civilizations might last a thousand.

This student, so recently arrived, stands at thethreshold of an unimaginable 60 million years of history, in a place that was once buried under a shallow sea. And as he’s standing there, just for an instant, the sea comes back.

The vertebra is one of eight, quickly identified by the teacher as belonging to Xiphactinus audax, a15-foot monster of a fish resembling a fanged tarpon.The following weekend, more than 20 people arrive tohelp excavate the remains. Among them are students,teachers, curious neighbors, and me. That weekend,we uncover more than two dozen vertebral spines, arib, and many unidentifiable fragments of bone andteeth. Nearby emerge the foot-long skeleton of asmaller fish, skull fragments of another, and sharkteeth. All around are countless oyster shells andclams, remnants of the inland sea. It is an exciting experience for everyone, but it leaves a deep mark onme. I am a teenager who is crazy about fossils, andI’m having my first experience with deep time.

Humans’ concept of time is necessarily limited. Our comprehension begins to dwindle around 500years, and becomes fuzzy and vague as we approachthe thousands. A hundred thousand years seems anunimaginably long time; in fact, it would encompassall of recorded human history and a good bit of recent

prehistory too. Even today, there are some who drawthe line, claiming the world is a youthful 10,000years. “Isn’t that long enough?” they ask.

No, it’s not nearly long enough. Once you are contemplating spans of time that immense, you arebeyond the realm of easy comprehension. You areswimming in deep time. This is the time it takes acontinent to move, an ocean to advance, a mountainrange to rise, a valley to be cut from rock. In such aconcept, all human history and human achievement islost, with no more effect or importance than individ-ual molecules have on the flow of a stream. In thewords of John Playfair, a mathematician of the Scot-tish Enlightenment, “The mind seemed to grow giddyby looking so far into the abyss of time.”

The concept of deep time was introduced by JamesHutton, a friend and colleague of Mr. Playfair. Huttonenvisioned a world built by uncounted eons of cycli-cal geology, shaped by winds and tides, depositionand uplift and erosion. Most significantly, he realizedthat a world like this could not have been formed outof a recent catastrophe but instead the long processesof geologic time. In Hutton’s words, “We find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.”

It’s a simple statement, but the implications arestaggering.

The ultimate fate of the Xiphactinus was to be displayed in a glass case in our high school’s library,for the interest and edification of students. Once dug

up, it is supposed to remain and no oneimagines it might be lost once again. Butof course the school could burn down,close, or may be ravaged by a tornado.The bones could be sold, misplaced, van-dalized. In a mere 20 years, they could beerased from our knowledge. That thisXiphactinus has an impact on the worldtoday is also by mere chance – a fleetingcoincidence of the right conditions, the

right time, the right people. If that particular hurri-cane-displaced student hadn’t been there, the creaturemight never have been discovered.

What, then, of humanity? When all is said anddone, when we have bowed out of the great game oflife, what will our species leave behind? Artifacts ofone kind or another. Perhaps fossils as well, althoughthat is by no means a certainty. What is more likely isthat all knowledge of our existence will simply beerased. Hurricanes will come; fossils will appear from erosion of the hillsides, unremarked; time willmarch on.

Many of us know this, in our heart of hearts, but we refuse to acknowledge it or in many cases evenconsider it. If it’s true, we say, then what purpose doesour existence serve? Must we be rendered meaning-less before deep time?

It is a sentiment we seem to both fear and find oddly comforting. Percy Bysshe Shelley gloomilywrote: “‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:/Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’/Nothingbeside remains. Round the decay/Of that colossalwreck, boundless and bare,/The lone and level sandsstretch far away.”

T.S. Eliot went still further in a famous passagefrom “Choruses from the Rock,” composed over halfa century ago and reeking with a self-pitying gloom:“And the wind shall say: ‘Here were decent godlesspeople:/Their only monument the asphalt road/And athousand lost golf balls.’”

Is that indeed our fate? Perhaps so. In billions ofyears, the Sun will die, and the Earth will die with it.But by then there will have been billions more yearsof marching life; it is just as foolhardy to assume we

will have no impact as it is to assume we are the endresult. Along with every other living thing, our actionshelp determine the shape of the far-off future, in waysboth subtle and immediate. To walk on fossils is likestaring into the night sky; if nothing else, it forces akind of perspective. ✎

Photo by Sophie Burke, Belmont, MA

To walk on fossils is likestaring into the night sky


environment


Whale SongI have never heard it, phantom whale calls,so deep they make one cringe, so shrill they make one cry,except before I was born.

I know,before I developed the lips, eyelashes, fingers, brain,I have now,I lived in the ocean,I floated like a little walnut,I was the simplest creature,I heard the whale song.This makes me wonder,was it only I who received this gift,or was it you also?

Giant whales, so big, beyond my comprehension,peaceful beauties,we have killed you all.We stabbed and raped and tookfor no good reason.We took our ships,I take blame somehow, I feel so awful,we sharpened sticks and killed yourfamiliespeaceyour song traveled across the ocean,you swam together for centuries through the deep, mystic water.What were you saying? Were you speaking through god?Are you god?I think we should worship you.You blinked your eyes slowly, and your tears melted

with the oceanWe drank your blood with greedy slurps.Are we evolution’s mistake?

I want to learn your song.My race will never learn,I am so lost with my race.If I could trade in my clumsy legs and sharp words,I would gladly accept your fins and godlydemeanor.

by Jaden Gragg, Shawnee, KS


opin

!on Facebook Snoop by Kristine Morgan, Indianapolis, IN

The other day, my friend Alex called me fromhundreds of miles away, saying that she hadsomething important to tell me. Thanks to

Facebook, though, I was already up on the news.Facebook (and other social networking websites) allow people from all over the world not only to connect with one another but also to snoop on each other.

Just a few years ago, people relied solely on wordof mouth and landline telephones tostay informed, but now teenagers oftenopt to browse through Facebook pagesthat document their friends’ lives. Aswith anything, there are positives andnegatives to Facebook. For ideas ongifts, you can simply check out yourfriends’ Interests and Favorites. TopFriends, the supreme revenge tool,often stirs up the most drama, especiallywhen updated or rearranged. Wall-to-Wall is great forfollowing specific conversations and picking up juicygossip. The Photos link usually provides a more ani-mated view of what people are doing, whom theyhang out with, where they go, and also what mischiefthey’ve been up to.

Because people are posting large portions of theirlives on the Internet, I’m beginning to wonder if privacy has become obsolete. Facebook is powerful,and when used appropriately, it’s a great communica-tion and social tool. But, like anything else, too muchof a good thing often has not-so-great results. People

don’t normally keep their bedroom doors open whilechanging clothes, so why would they post photo-graphs of themselves nearly naked on the Internet?

Because users can learn so much from a simplefive-minute scan of someone’s profile, it’s importantfor teens to be aware of what they post. When brows-ing through profiles, I often find myself wonderingwhether their owners know the meaning of public forum. Sure, Facebook allows its users to make their

profiles visible only to friends, but nowthe site’s creators are granting access toother parties because of concerns aboutcontroversial content.

According to The GW Hatchet(George Washington University’s student newspaper), students should be careful about revealing informationon Facebook and other websites becauseemployers, college admissions officers,

marketers, and parents can use the website too. In2005, in fact, one GWU freshman’s parents foundFacebook photos of him drinking and threatened to take him out of school unless he changed his behavior.

According to The Wall Street Journal, 10 percentof admissions officers from 500 surveyed collegesused social networking websites during the appli-cation review process. Of these, 38 percent foundcontent that negatively affected their view of an applicant.

So, for several reasons, personal lives should

remain personal. Young people need to realize thattheir Facebook pages are public representations ofthemselves. Often I hear students complain whengossip about their personal lives spreads aroundschool, but when they volunteer this information online, should they be surprised? People wonder why they are labeled at school, but what they post on Facebook often fuels their reputation.

Yes, I am a Facebook snoop. The website is greatwhen I want to see what someone’s prom dress lookslike, or when I want to read a friend’s thoughts onpolitics – but some things just should not be posted.

There’s a difference between acceptable and excessive. ✎

Twilight on Equalityby Catherine Stafford, New Paltz, NY

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that while reading Twilight I was“dazzled” (pun intended). Almost anyone alive for the past couple ofmonths is certainly aware of the saga, which has received excited acclaim

not only from teenagers worldwide but also such esteemed reviewers as TheNew York Times and Publishers Weekly. So why do I have a problem with it?

Twilight is about Bella Swan, a teen who moves to a new town and is immediately adored by everyone. She instantly has several men vying for herattention and a couple of pretty nice friends as well. Her adoration of classicbooks would imply that she is at least marginally intelligent. Then she meetsEdward Cullen (who has a unique background that is not relevant here), andas their relationship grows, so does her obsession, until it consumes her.Seems harmless, right?

Actually, no. Bella is depicted as an evil temptress trying to persuade amorally honorable man into evil, while he at-tempts to keep their virtues intact. Succinctly,Edward and Bella are a modern Adam and Eve.

But the book goes further in asserting thatwomen are inferior to men. Every time Bella isfaced with a conflict and has to make a choice,Edward swoops in to save her, because appar-ently she can’t possibly decide on her own. Hegoes beyond protective to borderline abusive inTwilight, but Bella justifies it as “love” every

time. When Edward dumps her for a couple months in New Moon, Bella becomes seriously depressed and dangerous to herself.

All the female characters in this series eventually portray similar helpless-ness. Even the first relationship introduced in the book – that of Bella’s mother and stepfather – is sexist. Bella expresses concern about leaving hermother, but then reasons that it’s okay now that Phil is looking after her.

What’s even more ridiculous is that many female readers look up to Bella!Her situation is idealized. After finding Edward, Bella is happy only when sheis with him. She feels that he is her one true purpose in life. So what are girlswho read the novels left wanting? Their own Edward, of course! Not only dothey want one – they need one. The fact that so many intelligent young menand women have been sucked into the Twilight series and have swallowed itssexist manifesto has me worried about the future of gender equality. ✎

A Caring Rebellionby Morgan Tamez, Heath, TX


Vegans can be defined as strictvegetarians who do not eatmeat, dairy products, and

eggs. This definition, though, onlytouches the surface of what a veganlifestyle entails.

Vegans not only abstain from con-suming meat or animal byproducts,but they also do not wear wool, fur,and leather, and a majority also take astand against related issues such asanimal testing, vivisection, sexism,workers’ rights, and animal equality.Veganism is a compas-sionate rebellion inthat the goal is to breakaway from culturallyconditioned percep-tions about food andlive a life that mini-mizes your harmfulimpact on Earth and allits inhabitants.

Research is accumulating that meat-eating and mechanized farmingmethods are harming the environment,contributing to world hunger, anddetrimentally affecting the health ofconsumers. By avoiding these indus-tries, vegans build healthier and moresustainable life habits that benefit ourplanet and increase their longevity.

What’s the point, though? Manycritics of veganism claim that one in-dividual can’t break the institution offlesh consumption. Every revolution

faces opposition. Yet the very pres-ence of strong, healthy vegans is a testament to the success of such alifestyle. Hardly a day goes by thatI’m not engaged in a discussion aboutmy eating habits, and questioned –even harassed – by curious class-mates. One vegan individual can create cognitive dissonance in a roomfull of omnivores. If one person ismade to reconsider the morality of hisor her actions, if only for a moment,that is a success for compassion.

A person’s ethics andmotivations are results of his or her individualexperiences or con-sciousness, but it’s safeto assume that vegansare unified in their wishto make a difference inthe world through every-day choices. Instead of

buying a cosmetic that was tested onan innocent animal, a thoughtful vegan opts for products with a cruelty-free promise. A vegan understandsthat the animals the world thought-lessly exploits have the capacity forsuffering and enjoyment and wishes toend the perversion of life that Westernindustry calls “nutrition.”

It is my goal as a vegan to be a living demonstration of my consistentchoices as an individual, and to encourage others to do the same. ✎

One vegan cancreate dissonance

in a room full of omnivores

I’m beginning to wonder if privacy has

become obsolete

Edward and Bella are a

modern Adam and Eve

Photo by Chyla Pugh, El Dorado, KS

Ilove running. Some days I struggleup Mount Everest and other days I sprint across the Great Plains.

It’s how I learned the names of streets.It’s how I exercise. It’s how I stay sane,or at least try to. It’s an endorphin therapy, my lactic acid antidepressant.As I ran around Lake Arlington forwhat seemed like the five thousandthtime, nearly stepping in yet anotherpile of goose poop, the song “The Pretender” by Jackson Browne blastedin my headphones. Realizing that I hadgrabbed my dad’s MP3 player insteadof mine, I navigate around a pair ofwalkers, almost tripping over a strollerthe size of my bed, and begin listeningto the words. “I’m going to be a happyidiot/And struggle for the legal tender/Where the ads take aim and lay theirclaim/To the heart and the soul of thespender.” I couldn’t help but wonder,where have all the pretenders gone?

Although I occasionally played onthe computer (when I could unseat myolder sisters), I spent the majority ofmy childhood outside. I was a princess;the backyard was my kingdom, theswingset my castle, and the neighbor’sdog a fire-breathing dragon. Today,pretending gets cut from the team.Dress-up clothes, dolls, and buildingblocks that served as toys since beforeKing Tut, have been tossed aside. Zapf,creator of the pooing-peeing-crying-sleeping-teething Chou Chou dolls,states on its website, “Playing withdolls also addresses and supports socialskills such as loving, caring, empathy,and accepting responsibility.” Appar-ently, parents no longer possess theability to teach such lessons.

LeapFrog provides an in-depth andprofound explanation of its products:“Interactive toys that teach children basic skills.” My seven-year-old cousincould supply a more sophisticated definition! Scientists have discoveredthat during the first three years of a baby’s life, the brain forms manysynapses (intersection points betweenneurons). Proper stimulation con-tributes to better brain development.

As a result, companies like Leap -Frog have created learning toys specifically for children under three.They include learning laptops, inter -active puzzles, and lifelike dolls. Fisher-Price sells the Songs & SmilesDiscovery Gym (when did two piecesof plastic, a mat, and a few stuffed animals constitute a gym?), the Laugh& Learn Learning Home Playset (saying it twice doesn’t make it moreeducational), and the Smart Bounce & Spin Pony (preparing children fortheir first drunken mechanical bullride?).

Despite the ridiculous names, parents sprint toward these toys. According to Fortune, Americans spent $2.5 billion on “learning” toys in 2005. Corporations simply put theword learn in the name and the toys fly

off shelves. Walmart and Target sellthem at relatively low prices, so evenJoe the Plumber can afford them.

The learning toy producers deserve a prize for their online advertisingmethods. In addition to statistics, diver-sions, and testimonials, their websitesinclude a plethora of information aboutthe benefits of their products, theHoward Gardner model of Multiple Intelligences, reviews, and articles.Companies convince parents that in today’s fast-paced society, learningtoys provide the only way for parentsto work, cook, or even relax for a fewminutes. Before parents realize it,they’re convinced that their child needsone (or the parent needs a Valium).

Fisher-Price groupsits toys into educationalcategories like Laugh &Learn (infant role-play),Fun 2 Learn (preschoolerrole-play), Smart Cycle(active learning), andComputer Cool School(computer-based learn-ing). The company describes the Smart Cycle as “a sta-tionary bike, a learning center, and anarcade game system – all rolled intoone!” The child pedals and moves thehandlebars to steer a car onscreen,stopping at locations such as MathMountain, Shape Lake, NumberFields, and Letter Creek. (Why waituntil 16 when kids can have their firstdriving lesson at age three?) The unitcosts $100 (of course, batteries aren’tincluded), which might seem like agood investment if it benefits the child.No pain, no gain.

However, cheaper and more effec-tive methods of exercising children’sbrains exist. Parent and child can takea walk together and count the numberof speed limit signs in the neighbor-hood, or point out the colors andshapes of road signs. This encouragesparent-child interaction and, for theenvironmentally aware parents, doesn’t involve the manufacture oftoys in pollution-producing factories.

I have a confession. I fell for themarketing ploys of the toy companiesjust like those gullible parents. In fifthgrade, I became convinced that theLeapFrog iQuest would help me withmy schoolwork, improve my grades,and make me the smartest girl in myclass. The handheld electronic game,the size of a disposable camera, hadstudy guides and quizzes for a fifthgrade curriculum. I spent $60 of myown money to buy the iQuest and anadditional $5 million on cartridges specific to the textbooks I used atschool. While it initially entertainedme, it didn’t do anything except in-crease the amount of time I studied theinformation. My test scores didn’tbreak any records or even improve. Me is a happy idiot.

Recent studies show that no lasting

damage occurs if parents neglect to“properly stimulate” their child’sbrain before the age of three. SaraMead, a senior policy analyst withEducation Sector, states there is noevidence that the first three years “area singular window for growth thatslams shut once children turn three.”A government-funded two-year studyby the University of Stirling foundthat electronic learning toys had norecognizable benefits, inhibited cre-ativity, and even led to shorter atten-tion spans. Not really sterling results.Additionally, children often had trou-ble transferring the knowledge gainedin a game to pencil and paper atschool, which led to confusion and

more time spent on basicconcepts. Electronic toysshort-circuited the learn-ing process.

So why do parents buylearning toys? They wanttheir kids to have a suc-cessful future and by purchasing these toys,they hope to give them an

advantage. So they spend hundreds ofdollars on Chou Chou dolls, Fisher-Price Learning Kitchens, and LeapFrogmerchandise. Einstein didn’t have Baby Einstein tapes but his theories did relatively well.

But what really motivates parents tobuy learning toys? Maybe they simplywish to avoid the responsibilities thatparenting entails. A flashing-blinking-sparkling-spinning-beeping-singing educational toy gives the parent abreak for a cup of coffee, a chat on thephone, or a date with Jerry Springer.Do parents hand off the baton toLeapFrog just as GM, Chrysler, andFord want to hand it off to U.S. tax -payers? Perhaps they secretly desireChou Chou doll children with on-off

switches. Maybe these toys assuageparents’ guilt for not spending timewith their children. An educational toycompounds the relief of this guilt. Butultimately the responsibility of teach-ing young children lies with parents –not toys.

The song continues as I round the final curve of the lake. Browne sings,“And believe in whatever may lie/Inthose things that money can buy.” Iflearning toys fail, look for somethingelse. Maybe a steroid-charged babyformula that ensures a 36 on the ACT,or fortified carrot sticks that morphchildren into the next Barack Obama.

Are learning toys the PowerBars ofeducation, or the steroids of parenting?I’m not sure, but right now this is a social experiment without a controlgroup. And we’re running on empty. ✎

Internitwit by Molly Kane, Hull, MA

Irecently read “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” – an article in The Atlantic abouthow the Internet has changed the way we think. This got me wondering: is ourincreasing dependence on the Internet substantially affecting the way our brains

work? The answer is yes.In his article, writer Nicholas Carr cites research that shows an alarming trend:

the more we use the Internet, the less apt we are to concentrate and absorb largeamounts of information. The human brain is able to adapt to circumstances, as is the case here. Because the Internetprovides us with the information we are looking for soquickly, our brains have learned to expect to get what we’relooking for through skimming or a minimal amount of actual reading. We are slowly losing the capacity to read, let alone absorb, lengthy pieces of writing.

But I believe that the Internet is also affecting our brainsin other ways. The way we write online, the slang we use,

is becoming more and more a part of our offline lives. Have you noticed yourselfmaking more grammatical errors, or having the urge to abbreviate words? You canthank the Internet for that. Because of the pervasiveness of slang in IM and texting,our brains now expect it.

The Internet really is changing the way we process information. Is it making usstupid? Not necessarily, but I don’t like it all the same. ✎


opin

!on

Photo by Jenna Trottier, Ottawa, ON, Canada

Teach Your Children Well by Laura Chicoine, Arlington Heights, IL


Do electronic toys short circuit

the learningprocess?

How is the Internet

affecting ourbrains?

Grandmother

Anna Purviance by Barbara Purviance, Bucyrus, OH


hero

es

When you hear the term“hero,” you might pictureSuperman lifting a bus or

Spiderman spinning webs from hiswrists, battling villains with ultra- super powers. But not all heroes aremythical – some exist, right here,right now, everywhere on the planet.

It doesn’t take laser eyes or flyingabilities to qualify as a hero. In fact,there are no specific standards tomeet; it’s about the way people livelife, their accomplishments andgoals, and what they do to impactothers.

With that in mind, knowing thetrue meaning of a hero is like seeingthe world in a whole different per-spective, or putting on glasses thatimmediately clear the blurriness. Heroes are all around us. Some risktheir lives every day for our sake, and

for that we give them our thanks. Yes, the traffic cop who gave you aspeeding ticket is a hero; it’s his jobto prevent accidents that might leadto serious injuries and death. Fire-fighters and soldiers stationed in Iraqare heroes, facing constant dangerwith bravery and honor.

My hero is RachelJoy Scott. I never knewher, never talked to her,never laughed, cried, orjoked with her. Her story, though, is whatmakes her unique.

Rachel was a intelli-gent young woman full of ambitionand dreams of becoming an actress.Rachel was anything but selfish, going out of her way to reach out tothe less fortunate, spreading her kind-ness everywhere.

When a student was bullied andtormented for being handicapped, itwas Rachel who stepped up andshielded him from further harass-ment. When a suicidal teenager wasready to take his life, Rachel wasthere to befriend him and prevent a

death. When a strangerwalked into McDonald’sto find shelter from thecold, Rachel did not hesi-tate to buy a meal for him.Touched by her sympathyand love, lives have beenchanged by Rachel JoyScott.

Unfortunately, on April 20, 1999,Rachel was one of several victimsgunned down in the infamousColumbine massacre, a shooting at a Colorado high school that claimed12 lives and injured 23. It is truly a

heartbreaking tragedy that the life ofthis teenager, who had such a goodheart, ended amid hate and violence,but Rachel’s legacy of love hasn’tdied. Throughout her life, Rachel’sactions have helped countless others.It was her wish to start a chain reac-tion that would spread peace andcompassion. If everyone continuedRachel’s efforts to make a positivedifference, society would definitelychange for the better.

It wasn’t the way Rachel was killedthat found her a place in my heart – itwas the way she lived, her accom-plishments and goals, and what shedid to change others’ lives. She mightnot have superpowers, but one thing’sfor sure: Rachel Joy Scott is and always will be a true hero. Her deedswill never be forgotten. ✎

Teen

Rachel Joy Scott by Jessica Huang, Brooklyn, NY

Anna married Jerry when he had nothing but25 cents, an old 1941 Cadillac, and a fulltank of gas. “Now that’s trusting in the

Lord,” Jerry later said. “I had no job, no money, andno sense, but we were happy.” Anna was a school-teacher and Jerry had recently returned from WorldWar II where he served as a radio operator on a B-17. Starting a marriage with so little was going to be difficult, of course, but neither Anna nor Jerryknew the struggles that lay ahead.

The young couple lived with Jerry’s mother,Sylvia, until their first son arrived. When 9-pound,red-headed Steven greeted the world, Jerry was astudent at the University of Tennessee, and Annahad to take time off from teaching tocare for the newborn. Jerry moved hisfamily into an inexpensive house that theyoung couple shared with mice thatroamed freely in the walls and floors.

When Steven was 18 months old, hisparents were finally able to afford a nicehome in the country. “I don’t know who was hap -piest the day we made our trip and left ‘the dump,’as we had called the old house,” Anna later said.The family spent the next 14 years in that home before moving to a bigger house. During that time,Anna went back to teaching until their second son,Mark, was born.

Anna and Jerry worked hard to raise their boysproperly. Steve was extremely intelligent, but hisparents often pushed him too hard. With Mark, itwas much easier. Anna said that Mark had been “acuddly, loving child from birth.” The years passedblissfully, and eventually the boys headed off tocollege. It was during these college years that thetrue struggle began.

During Mark’s sophomore year at Asbury College in Kentucky, he received a letter from hisfather that Anna was sick. “I’ve had a bunch ofproblems relating to your mother’s health. I’ve nothad much time for anything but existing. It should

be no surprise to you that her condition is graduallyworsening,” Jerry wrote. “I don’t see any outwardsigns of healing. She has a good appetite, a sweetdisposition and smile, and no pain or discomfort as yet.”

The letter was dated January 20, 1982. Nine dayslater, on Mark’s twenty-first birthday, Anna died.Mark was so distraught that he attended her funeralin jeans and a raggedy T-shirt. Jerry hasn’t wishedhis son a happy birthday since; he doesn’t thinkMark was ever really happy on that day again.

I never met Grandma Anna, and I only rememberseeing Grandpa Jerry twice. During my freshmanyear in high school, I wrote a letter to him in hopes

of learning more about my family. Now,years later, we still write to each other.Grandpa Jerry is an outstanding man, aWorld War II veteran, and a devotedChristian. But what about Anna?

One day I was searching for somethingin the basement. In an old box filled with

my father’s things from college, I found GrandmaAnna. I never knew that she was a writer, but there she was, alive in dozens of stories scrawled in notebooks and published in newspapers and magazines. Anna’s stories were about life, friends,family, and God.

One of her stories tells about a trip with Jerry andher sons to an old house in the woods. Although thehouse had been abandoned for years, the excellentworkmanship had left it in perfect condition. On thewalk home Anna wondered, “What legacy am Ileaving? When someone views the work of my life,what will they see? Will my life be nothing morethan a trash pile of selfishness or will it be a treas-ure of love and concern for others?” I wonder if Anna knew when she wrote that that she would beleaving her family so soon. However, it is certainthat she left the treasure she hoped to, and I found itin that box.

While reading through the contents I was amazed

at Anna’s brilliance, eloquence, and complete devotion to God. In one of her pieces, she wroteabout slowly waking after an operation. As she“struggled to consciousness,” Anna wrote, “I over-heard the recovery room personnel discussing me. Ilearned then of the malignancy. I was stunned, butGod reached down and gave me peace.” Even asAnna neared the end of her life, her faith never fal-tered. “Illness may be the only way we will slowdown long enough to listen to God,” she wrote. “Wecan struggle and strain and never know the blessingthat God has in store for us. We have to surrenderall of ourselves and wait on God.”

Nearly everything I know about Grandma Anna Ilearned from the contents of that box. Slowly I ampiecing together a picture of my grandmother, usingthese letters and stories. Even though I never hadthe privilege of meeting her, I know that Anna liveda life worth remembering; now I can give it the remembrance it deserves. Anna’s writing has shownme the kind of person I want to be and the kind oflegacy that I want to leave. ✎


Rachel waskilled in theColumbine massacre

I never knew she was a

writer

Photo by Quinn Burton, Lubbock, TX

GRADE 12SUMMER BEFORE:■ Call or write colleges for appoint ments for

interviews and visits. It is usually better tovisit a college when students are on campusto get a real fla vor of campus life. Talkingwith students about college life is helpful.

■ Begin to narrow your list of colleges.■ Request catalogs and applications.

FALL TERM:■ Contact your guidance counselor.■ Develop a final college application list.■ If previous SAT/ACT scores are low, re-

take the tests, and forward scores to col-leges where you are applying.

■ Begin admission applications, especiallythe essay. Have a teacher or a counselorreview a draft.

■ Apply for all possible scholarships.■ Most Early Action/Decision applications

are due November 1-15, so make sure application materials are forwarded early.

WINTER TERM:■ Complete applications for regular

admis sions. Include one or two “safeties”and one “reach.” Pay careful attention todeadlines! Apply for finan cial aid.

■ Request transcripts, send all recommenda-tions (teachers and counselors) and other supporting data to col leges.

■ Complete and send appropriate financialaid appli cations.

■ Be sure to keep a copy of every docu ment.It will save you time, money, and aggrava-tion if an application is lost.

■ In January/February, check with the col lege registrar to see if your applicationis complete and they have received all necessary data.

SPRING TERM:■ March/April – Colleges send admission,

rejection, and waiting list letters.■ Make your choice and, if necessary, visit

colleges again to be sure.■ April/May – Send an acceptance letter and

deposit to your college of choice and write polite letters of refusal to the others.

GRADE 9 ■ Enroll in college prep courses. Math and

English are essential.■ Begin to read about admissions and

think about your college financing plan.

GRADE 10 FALL TERM:■ Contact the guidance counselor to discuss

plans regarding college.■ In October you may elect to take the PSAT

or PLAN (pre-ACT test) for practice.

WINTER AND SPRING TERM:■ Con sider taking SAT II for courses you

are completing this year.

GRADE 11SUMMER BEFORE:■ Begin preparation for the PSAT/NMSQT

and PLAN. If you feel you could usehelp, seek a reliable prep course.

■ Begin exploring college interests andvisit local campuses to get a feel forvari ous settings.

FALL TERM:■ Contact your high school counselor to

initiate the college selection process.■ October: Register and take the PSAT/

NMSQT or PLAN.

WINTER TERM:■ Attend college fairs to gather information

and speak with college representatives.■ Visit nearby colleges to help gain a bet-

ter understanding of characteristics thatare important to you, for example, loca-tion and size.

■ Attend college information sessions at yourschool for additional financial information.

SPRING TERM:■ Register and take SAT or ACT.

Consider a prep course if you need help.■ Take SAT II, especially in sub jects in

which you are taking the last course.

GRADE 11

GRADE 10

GRADE 9

Photo by Megan Mercier, Ocala, FL INSIDE: COLLEGE DIRECTORY, ESSAYS, ARTICLES AND FACTS

Office of Admission320 South Broad Street Philadelphia, PA 19102800-616-ARTS (2787)Visit www.uarts.edu

shout

don’t whisperThe world needs to hear from you.

To hear how your talent and courage can transform the

way we think and feel.

The UArts College of Art and Design

offers an energizing atmosphere for giving shape

and substance to your talent. Whether you're

a painter, graphic designer, or sculptor, we'll help you

gain the confidence to refine your vision and give voice to

your innermost passions.

Open House 4.4.09TI0409

COLLEGE ADMISSIONS TIMETABLE U.S. StatisticsCOLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIESPublic 4-year institutions ......................643Public 2-year institutions ...................1,045Private 4-year institutions, nonprofit..1,533Private 4-year institutions, for-profit .....453Private 2-year institutions, nonprofit.....107Private 2-year institutions, for-profit .....533Total 4,314

STUDENTSEnrollment highlights:Women ..............................................57.3%Full-time............................................61.7%Minority ............................................31.5%Foreign ................................................3.4%

Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education.

Residence of new students:81% of freshmen in fall 2006 who graduatedfrom high school in the previous year attended college in their home state.

Graduation rates at 4-year institutions:All ....................................................56.4%Men ..................................................53.0%Women .............................................59.2%

Average tuition and fees:Public 4-year institutions.................$5,685Public 2-year institutions.................$2,017Private 4-year institutions ..............$20,492

Test scores: Students averaged 21.1 on theACT and 1511 on the SAT.

C O L L E G E C O N N E C T I O N • A P R I L ’ 0 9 • Teen Ink17

GRADE 12

Reprinted with permission from Parents College Advisor, published by College Counsel.

CO

LL

EG

EFOCUS

FOCUS

My Childhood Roommate by Marissa, Grand Junction, CO

Eight Years To GoI was five when I began counting down the

years until my sister would move out. Don’tget me wrong – I love her. I love her like I love thewinter coat crammed in my closet; it’s great whenthe temperature is below freezing and I need it tokeep me warm, but every other day it takes up halfthe space in my closet and I’m tempted to slash it into a million pieces.

Since my sister is four years older, as a child, Ithought she was the wisest person I knew. She tookfull advantage of this. Any story she told (like theone about the cat who gave birth to achicken) was 100 percent true: theboogeyman really would kidnap me if Ididn’t sleep under the covers, and whenwe played Scrabble, the word thatscored her 36 points, confuzzled, wasactually in the dictionary (just the neweredition we didn’t have).

Along with the stories of me being adopted and allour relatives being able to do magic except me, mysister convinced me of another reason why I didn’tbelong in the family. I had always been perplexedwhy my sister and mom both had striking strawberryblond hair while mine was dark.

“That’s because Mom had an accident on yourhead when you were born,” my lovely sister rea-soned.

I washed my hair 100 times that week.

Six Years To GoAs a younger sister, I never once received first

dibs on the chocolate cake batter spoon; I never gotto be teacher when we played school, or be Beautywhen we acted out our favorite Disney movie; riding

shotgun was completely out of the question. Sharinga room, however, caused the most problems.

My sister must have failed basic math because thetape that separated our room clearly did not split it inhalf. It was more like 90/10. Guess who had the big-ger slice. My “half,” however, included the closet. Iassumed this gave me full reign over the clothes in-side. Wrong.

One day while my sister was gone (most likely tor-turing some other innocent person), I decided to tryon her new Old Navy overalls with the rhinestonestraps. I slipped into the two-sizes-too-big outfit and

ran into the bathroom where I admiredmyself in the mirror, pretending to beflirting with Josh, the love of my life (thatweek, anyway). Far from my daydream-ing mind, footsteps echoed down the hall.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words tingled down my spine like aspider. My heart stopped. My hands trem-

bled. I had been caught. Please don’t kill me in my sleep. Dear God, please

don’t let my sister kill me in my sleep.

Four Years To GoThe sounds weren’t unfamiliar; the slamming

doors, the screaming voices, the shattering dishes.Mom was fighting with the boyfriend again. I hadstopped remembering their names. My sister and Itiptoed into our room. Ignoring the tape on the floor,I crawled into bed with her and she handed me herCD player. Everything we had fought about that daydidn’t matter anymore. She was the warm coat Ineeded. And I remembered why I love her.

The next day, when we watched “Aladdin,” she letme be Princess Jasmine.

Two Years To GoTonight was yet another night with my head under

my pillow, attempting to drown out the music thatfelt like an earthquake through the walls of ourhouse. Tonight I hated my sister and her thunderousparties. I hated her for keeping me up until 3 a.m.when I told her I had an important test the next day.It was nights like these that reminded me why Icouldn’t wait for my sister to move out.

I walked downstairs and was disgusted by theteenagers drinking out of red plastic cups and grop-ing each other as if they were checking for ticks.However, the worst sight of all was discovering mysister in the middle of it. No longer was she the wise,beautiful girl I had looked up to, but instead just another person who had let me down.

It’s hard to remember why you love someone whenall you can think about is how much you hate them.

0 Years To GoI had two Christmases the year my sister left for

college. Finally I was free – no more sharing a room,no more being harassed, and best of all, no morenights of only four hours of sleep. After countingdown for nine years, I was finally an only child. Ithought I would be the happiest girl ever. And I was,at first.

No longer did I have to take a three-minute ice-coldshower or share an entrée at an expensive restaurant. Iwas living the life of an only child and loving it. Butafter a few weeks I began to feel lonely. No one wasaround to give me advice about boys or fashion. Sure,my sister and I had our clashes, but we always hadeach other when we were in need. Now, separated by500 miles and a string of mountains, I feel like I ammissing my other half. ✎

I couldn’t waitfor my sister to move out

College Application Tips by Jessica Abughattas, Corona, CA

With college admissions becom-ing increasingly competitiveand deadlines constantly

looming, upperclassmen are alwaysstressing to ensure that their applicationsare up to par. But fret not! The processcan be simplified by following these tips.

Pick your schools. Are you interestedin colleges with fewer than 5,000 stu-dents, or more than 20,000? Public orprivate? In-state or out-of-state? Urban,suburban, or rural setting?Will cost be an issue?With these factors inmind, create a list of sixto eight schools, somethat are a reach for yourtop choices, a few schoolsthat you wouldn’t mindgoing to if you got in, anda couple of safety schools that should accept you without question. Mark theirdeadlines on your calendar and startplanning your applications.

Start thinking about recommenda-tions. You should find three teachers inacademic subjects who are willing tobrag about you, so get going. Whichones love you? In which classes did youexcel? And most importantly, who doyou think is going to write a letter abouthow qualified and intelligent you are?Those who know you personally are

your best bets.Transcripts. Request your most

recent transcripts at the registrar’s officeto send to colleges based on their dead-lines. Senior year is not an excuse toslack off!

Alphabet soup. All those tests – SAT,SAT II, AP, ACT – will finally meansomething! Find out which ones yourcolleges require or recommend, and besure to report your scores in time. If you

plan ahead, you can taketests over, if necessary.

The infamous essay.Your most significant expe-rience, your favorite book,what world crisis youwould solve and how … forsome reason, colleges thinkthat requiring applicants to

compose an essay on these topics willmake them more personable. Well, don’tlet that limit you. Stretch the college’sprompt as much as you need to paint agood picture of yourself. That’s the point.

Have your teachers and peers edityour essay until you have a good draft,but make sure to ask for help nicely andin advance. Revisions from teachers whoare unfamiliar with your writing willlikely benefit you the most.

Remember that your essays can be recycled, shortened, or lengthened as

needed to fit a college’s guidelines.Don’t limit yourself.

Mercy in the Common Application.In the midst of rigorous college regula-tions and requirements, a genius cameup with the common application. Thou-sands of universities accept this standardapplication in place of their own, so instead of filling out eight different applications, you may be able to do onlya couple. The college’s admission web-site will usually say whether they accept

the Common App, but for a completelist, visit www.commonapp.org. Somecolleges require a supplement, so makesure you complete this if necessary.

Early action/decision. There are prosand cons to being an early-action appli-cant. You must begin working on yourapplication(s) very early. Early action islike having two shots at a school. How-ever, if you need financial aid, early action is discouraged.

Those are the basics. Good luck! ✎

Stretch the essayprompt to paint a good picture

of yourself

Colleges and Universities (by state)

SOURCE:U.S. Dept. of

Education

200 or more100 to 1990 to 99

18Teen Ink • A P R I L ’ 0 9 • C O L L E G E C O N N E C T I O N

Top 20 reasons noted as important in selecting college1. College has a very good academic reputation 2. Graduates get good jobs3. A visit to campus4. Offered financial assistance5. Size of college6. College has a good reputation for social activities 7. Cost of attendance8. Graduates gain admission to top graduate/professional schools9. Wanted to live near home10. Rankings in national magazines11. Information from a website12. My parents wanted me to go there13. Admitted through an early-action or early-decision program 14. Could not afford first choice15. High school counselor advised me16. The athletic department recruited me17. Religious affiliation/orientation of college18. Not offered aid by first choice19. My teacher advised me20. My relatives wanted me to go there

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C O L L E G E C O N N E C T I O N • A P R I L ’ 0 9 • Teen Ink

Activities in the past year Performed volunteer work ...............................................................87%Attended a religious service ............................................................80%Socialized with someone of another racial or ethnic group ............68%Tutored another student ...................................................................58%Came late to class ............................................................................58%Played a musical instrument............................................................40%Was bored in class ...........................................................................40%Felt overwhelmed by all I had to do ................................................37%Asked teacher for advice after class ................................................28%Participated in political demonstrations ..........................................22%

SOURCE: The American Freshman: National norms for Fall 2007 published by University of California at Los Angeles Higher Education Research Institute.

Attitudes and Characteristicsof Freshmen at 4-Year Colleges Federal Grants/Loans

Pell Grants .......................................................................................$12,881,000,000Veterans .............................................................................................$3,644,000,000Military/other grants..........................................................................$1,619,000,000Federal Work-Study...........................................................................$1,175,000,000Supplemental Educational Opportunity Grants....................................$771,000,000Academic Competitiveness Grants.......................................................$340,000,000Smart Grants.........................................................................................$310,000,000Leveraging Educational Assistance Partnerships ...................................$74,000,000Perkins Loans .....................................................................................$1,135,000,000Subsidized Stafford Student LoansFord Direct Student Loan Program..................................................$5,159,000,000 Federal Family Education Loan Program ......................................$19,349,000,000

Unsubsidized Stafford Student LoansFord Direct Student Loan Program..................................................$4,417,000,000 Federal Family Education Loan Program ......................................$19,291,000,000

Parent Loans for Undergraduate Students........................................$10,071,000,000 Other loans ............................................................................................$171,000,000 Federal education tax benefits ...........................................................$5,880,000,000

Total Federal Grants and Loans ..................................................$86,288,000,000

State grant programs..........................................................................$7,730,000,000Institutional grants...........................................................................$26,323,000,000Private and employer grants ............................................................$10,170,000,000

Total Federal, State, and Institutional aid.....................$130,511,000,000

Number of recipients and amount of aid per recipient:Program Recipients AmountPell Grants ..............................................................................5,165,000................$2,494 Supplemental Educational Opportunity Grants......................1,291,000...................$597Academic Competitiveness Grants............................................400,000...................$850Smart Grants................................................................................80,000................$3,875Federal Work-Study...................................................................880,000................$1,335Education tax benefits ............................................................8,519,000...................$690Perkins Loans ............................................................................514,000................$2,208Subsidized Stafford Student Loans ........................................5,135,000................$3,240Unsubsidized Stafford Student Loans ....................................3,754,000................$3,593Parent Loans for Undergraduate Students.................................722,000..............$11,179

Student Financial Aid

SOURCE: The College Board, 2006-7. Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education.

19

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Is the SAT Useless? by Caitlin Shea, Smithfield, RI

Fall is a busy and stressful time for many highschool seniors as they complete their collegeapplications – gathering transcripts, teacher

recommendations, and lists of extracurricular activi-ties and awards, and sending them to colleges allover the country. The most nerve-wracking time formany, though, is waiting for their scores from theSAT, a test that has a tremendous impact on whichschools will accept them.

SAT stands for Scholastic Aptitude Test. The majority of colleges require it as partof their admissions process. Morethan two million students each yeartake this three-hour standardized test,which supposedly measures verbaland mathematical reasoning. Although colleges look at applicants’portfolios – including their GPA, classranking, and special talents – SATscores play a large role too. Manycolleges will only accept students who attain a certain score for math and reading.

I believe that SAT tests should not be the most important criteria for acceptance into a school. Stud-ies have shown that females scored lower on the SATthan males, but overall women have better grades inhigh school and college. This shows that these testsdo not necessarily predict success in college. Mostprofessionals agree that SAT tests do have some validity, but there is much debate on whether scoresshould be the main factor colleges use to choose their freshmen.

Another reason SAT tests are not a convincing predictor of academic success is that they are biasedagainst minorities. The National Center for Fair andOpen Testing, or Fair Test, believes that standardizedtests like the SAT assume all test takers have back-grounds similar to white, middle-class students. Thisis certainly not the case. Fair Test seeks to eliminatethe racial, class, gender, and cultural barriers to equalopportunity.

When applying to the University of Texas, studentsin the top 10 percent of theirclass do not need to submitSAT scores. These applicantshad higher college GPAs thanthose who were not in the top10 percent but had SAT scores200 to 300 points higher. Thisdemonstrates that these scoresdo not necessarily predict students’ performance.

My aunt received mediocre scores on herSAT tests. However, she graduated secondin her class from Assumption College, wenton to law school, and graduated in the topfive of her class from Boston College. If thecollege had rejected her based on her SATscores, they would have undoubtedlymissed out on a superior student.

Most successful students must work veryhard in high school to earn the best gradesthey can. Students who get extra help, study,and try their best are the ones who tend to

get good grades. Their work ethic determines howwell they will do in the future. Therefore, a betterway to predict students’ college performance is bylooking at their previous achievements and grades. Ifcolleges focus more on the accomplishments of thefour years of high school rather than one test, theywill more accurately determine how well studentswill perform in college. ✎

The SAT does not necessarilypredict success

in college

Colleges’ Top Selection CriteriaPrivate Public4-year 4-year

institutions institutions

Admissions test scores................................82% 70%

Test of English as a Foreign Language.......79% 70%

High-school record .....................................78% 79%

High-school grades .....................................69% 66%

College-preparatory program .....................48% 25%

High-school class rank................................28% 20%

Open admission ..........................................14% 14%

Recommendations ........................................7% 51%

Formal demonstration of competencies........5% 10%

Number of institutions 595 1,243

SOURCE: U.S. Department of Education

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Colleges With the Most FreshmanMerit Scholars, 2007

SOURCE: Nation Merit Scholarship Corporation

NumberNumber sponsored by

of scholars institutionHarvard University ...........................................................285.......................0University of Texas at Austin ...........................................283...................232Northwestern University ..................................................249...................186University of Southern California ....................................231...................195Washington University in St. Louis..................................204...................154University of Chicago.......................................................196...................156Yale University .................................................................183.......................0Princeton University.........................................................179.......................0University of Oklahoma ...................................................175...................137Texas A&M University.....................................................173...................134Vanderbilt University........................................................172...................116University of Florida ........................................................168...................132University of North Carolina............................................166...................127Stanford University ..........................................................164.......................0New York University ........................................................159...................137Rice University.................................................................159.....................95Arizona State University ..................................................150...................127MIT...................................................................................138.......................0Ohio State University .......................................................118.....................93University of Pennsylvania...............................................115.......................0Georgia Institute of Technology.......................................100.....................73University of Minnesota .....................................................96 .....................73Brigham Young University .................................................95 .....................70Duke University..................................................................90 .......................0Purdue University...............................................................87 .....................66Baylor University ...............................................................84 .....................70University of Illinois...........................................................84 .....................56Carleton College.................................................................83 .....................64Brown University ...............................................................80 .......................0

Proportion of College Students Enrolled at Public Institutions

SOURCE: U.S. Dept. of

Education,Fall 2006

85% and above75% to 84%65% to 74%0% to 64%

Average College Costs, 2007-84-year Public Colleges 4-year Private Colleges

Resident Commuter Out of state Resident CommuterTuition and fees $6,185 $6,185 $16,640 $23,712 $23,712Books and supplies $988 $988 $988 $988 $988Room and board $7,404 $7,419 $7,404 $8,595 $7,499Transportation $911 $1,284 $911 $768 $1,138Other $1,848 $2,138 $1,848 $1,311 $1,664

Total * $17,336 $18,014 $27,791 $35,374 $35,001

NOTE: These are enrollment-weighted averages. Weighted tuition and fees are derived by weight-ing the price charged by each institution in 2007-8 by the number of full-time undergraduates enrolled in 2006-7; room-and-board charges are weighted by the number of students residing oncampus. Estimates of other budget items are based on reports of institutional financial-aid offices.* Average total expenses include room-and-board costs for commuter students, which are averageestimated living expenses for students living off campus but not with parents.

SOURCE: The College Board

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Parting Ways by Nicholas Momeni, Franklin Lakes, NJ

My brother is leaving for col-lege soon, and my mom hasbeen pestering him to clean

out his desk and shelves. As we sortthrough the junk, we find a pen casefrom fourth grade, a souvenir bottlemy dad brought from China when wewere in elementary school, and a crys-talline rock from our trip to the mines.

Most significant of these artifacts ismy brother’s journal, which he has had

since elementary school and has filledwith creative writing. I always madefun of his ideas, but he wastough-skinned and persistent,and now he plans on using his college education to oneday write books from thosestories.

As I watch my brotherthrow out some papers, I notice howmuch we have grown up, how far we

have come in life, and how much haschanged. My brother looks like a man

with his beard, collared shirt,and dress pants. I think back tohow he looked in elementaryschool – dorky glasses, toothygrin, and constant optimism ashe wrote in his journal. I can’tbelieve he’s going to college.

We are separated by just 13 months,and he has been my best friend since

day one. Now it’ll be months until Isee him again.

He was planning a trip for us to goto California to visit our cousin, but Ihave decided he should go withoutme. I think it’s best if we part wayssooner rather than later so he cancome of age on this trip and realizethat he isn’t one of two parts; he is hisown person. “Have fun on your own,”I say with heavy eyes. Then we hugand I tell him not to call for advicewhile he is away, because it is histime, not ours.

But his journey won’t be too differ-ent from mine. While he is off withoutme, in California and at college, I willbe exploring my own independence.My experience will help me becomean individual, and so leaving home topursue a higher education will be easier for me.

My brother’s absence will allow mestep out of my home environment andreach out to a more diverse crowd. Ienvy him for leaving, because he isentering a place I want to experiencetoo: the world outside my suburbanshelter that allows exposure to deepermeanings and complexities. This is theworld I sampled while taking an act-ing course at Fordham University lastsummer. This is the world I am eagerto partake in.

I give my brother a hug and tell himto be excited for his trips. I know he isready for the next four years. I’ll beheartbroken the day he leaves, but I’lluse those emotions as motivation tomake the most of my last year in highschool. I hand him his journal and tellhim not to leave his creativity behind.Now it’s time to get ready for my nextfour years, and my new, mature senseof self will help me through it. ✎

I envy him forleaving

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22Teen Ink • A P R I L ’ 0 9 • C O L L E G E C O N N E C T I O N

Profile of UndergraduatesDegree program All Men Women

Bachelor’s degree 47% 50% 45%Associate degree 37% 34% 38%Certificate program 7% 6% 8%Unclassified 10% 10% 10%

Acceptance Rates Private Public

Less than 10% ....................0% 1%10.0% to 24.9%..................1% 3%25.0% to 49.9%................10% 13%50.0% to 74.9%................38% 37%75.0% to 89.9%................27% 23%More than 90%...................9% 10%Institution has no application criteria.............14% 14%

SOURCE: U.S. Education Dept., 2006-7

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Univ. of Phoenix online campus .........165,373 Ohio State Univ. main campus..............51,818 Miami Dade College .............................51,329 Arizona State Univ. at Tempe................51,234 Univ. of Florida .....................................50,912 Univ. of Minnesota-Twin Cities ............50,402 Univ. of Texas at Austin ........................49,697 Univ. of Central Florida ........................46,646 Michigan State Univ..............................45,520 Texas A&M Univ., College Station.......45,380 City College of San Francisco...............44,392 Univ. of South Florida...........................43,636 Pennsylvania State Univ., Univ. Park....42,914

Univ. of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign....42,738 Houston Community College................42,526 Univ. of Wisconsin at Madison .............41,028 New York Univ. .....................................40,870 No. Harris-Montgomery Comm. Col. ...40,846 Purdue Univ. main campus ...................40,609 Univ. of Michigan at Ann Arbor ...........40,025 Florida State Univ. ................................39,973 Univ. of Washington..............................39,524 Indiana Univ. at Bloomington ...............38,247 Northern Virginia Comm. College ........38,166 Florida International Univ. ....................37,997 Univ. of Arizona ....................................36,805

Campuses with Largest Enrollments

Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education, Fall 2006

Proportion of College Students whoare Minority-Group Members

SOURCE: U.S. Dept. of

Education,Fall 2005

30% or more11% to 29%0 to 10%


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How Public Schools Fail by Owen, Nahant, MA

OPINION

Random House defines educa-tion as “the act or process ofimparting or acquiring general

knowledge, developing the powers ofreasoning and judgment, and generallyof preparing oneself or others intellec-tually for mature life.” This seems likea basic foundation for what the U.S.public education system should be. Itcertainly would be nice if our publicschools taught us general knowledge,helped us develop the powers of rea-soning and judgment, and prepared usintellectually for a mature life. Unfor-tunately, they do none of these things.

Currently, the U.S. education system accomplishes three things:teaching us irrelevant information,preparing us for the bureaucracy of the college system, and destroying our intellectual curiosity.

The saying “All I really need toknow I learned in kindergarten” is notfar off. As students approach highschool, the information they learngoes from necessary, like addition, toslightly applicable, like intermediategeometry (while I may use thePythagorean theorem sometime in mylife, I have yet to encounter that time),to just plain unnecessary. For example,sophomore year we were taught thelaw of cosines, which allows us to findthe length of one side of a trianglewhen we are given the degree of theopposite angle and the length of theother two sides. This is as useless as itsounds, unless you plan on going intomathematics or engineering, and it’sonly one of many useless facts today’shigh school students are forced tolearn.

It’s sad but true that many studentsare more focused on getting into college than on their academic devel-opment. College graduates make substantially more money than thosewith only a high school diploma, andthough there is no direct correlationbetween money and happiness, a col-lege degree also increases your chanceof having an enjoyable job, financialsecurity (different from wealth), andthe respect of your peers. This is allwell and good, but our public schoolsystem has been so focused on gettingstudents into college that it has com-pletely screwed them over.

For one thing,schools now placemore emphasis onpreparing students forstandardized tests likethe SAT and ACT. Only recently havecolleges begun to realize that these testsdon’t actually measure intelligence,and it’s common knowledge that thesetests only determine students’ abilityto take standardized tests. This is badfor both the students who do well andthose who don’t. Bad for those who dowell, because their hard work prepar-ing for the test is an investment thatwon’t help them in the future; bad forthe students who do poorly, becausemost receive a low score simply fornot being good at taking these tests.

The college application process alsoskews students’ priorities when itcomes to extracurricular activities. The concept of selfish giving has already been discussed in the Teen Inkarticle “Acts of (Selfish) Kindness”

(www.TeenInk.com/Opinion/article/9877/Acts-of-Selfish-Kindness/). To sumit up, author Daniel R. claims thatmany students are motivated to do volunteer work and community serv-ice only because of their desire to getinto a good college.

As I was growing up, I struggled tocome to terms both with my genderidentity and my mild Asperger syn-drome. As a result, I didn’t get in-volved in activities like church groupsand community service until I was 15.By then, it was too late to develop atrack record. Of course, that doesn’tmean that I didn’t do any extra curric-

ular activities. I didkarate for seven years, Iwas involved in Webe-los, I was the vice treasurer of my middleschool’s Rotary InteractClub, and I am currentlythe president of myschool’s Anime Club

and an active member in its Gay-Straight Alliance. I even have a part-time job. Still, I was denied initiationinto the National Honor Society(NHS) because of “lack of service.”

I wouldn’t tell you that personal anecdote if there wasn’t a point. Ourschool’s NHS advisor said that manyapplicants were rejected because oflack of service and if we did more wemight be admitted next year. The NHSconsiders service important becausethey believe it shows selflessness. Butif I did more service between my rejection and the next initiation, Iwould only demonstrate that I wantedto get into the NHS, not that I had suddenly become a better person.

Colleges have also messed up highschool education by turning it into acompetition. Your chances of gettinginto a good college often depend onyour class rank, regardless of howsmart or dumb your class is. Or it maydepend on your GPA, regardless ofhow hard or unfair your teachers were.

These two statistics merely providea glimpse into the complexity of thecollege applicant. Luckily for some ofus, the better colleges emphasize stu-dents’ essays, but even that can berisky. Some people just aren’t thatgood at writing, even though they mayexcel at other things, so their essaycould decrease their chances of gettinginto a good school.

The final failure of American publiceducation is the destruction of stu-dents’ intellectual curiosity. When weare in elementary school, we look for-ward to school because what we arelearning is relevant and practical. Thisfades as we enter middle school, andby high school the subject matter isboth uninteresting and impractical.This combination makes high schoolstudents view school as something thatthey have to trudge through every dayuntil the final bell rings and they can

“have fun again.”Where did it all go wrong? When

we started focusing on the competitiveaspects of education and how well ourstudents did compared to other coun-tries, we forgot about the people whoreally matter: the students. How canwe fix it? It may be too late for ourgeneration, but the next one could beimproved with a few adjustments.First, we need less emphasis on the“core classes” like science, math, andsocial studies. We all need basic back-grounds in these subjects, but by thetime students reach high school, theyknow what they like and should be allowed to choose which classes totake. This will allow students to learnwhat they enjoy while still preparingthem for life.

Secondly, we need more emphasison elective classes since they help develop academic curiosity. Whilesome teens view electives as easyways to fill up their schedule, they actually help students grow as peoplewhile teaching them practical skills for life. And since students choosethese classes, they will not lose theiracademic curiosity.

In the end, the biggest change neededin the U.S. public school system is listening to students. While some psychologists would have you believethat teenagers shouldn’t be in chargeof their education, our input is criticalif we are to flourish in high school.Many students are surprisingly knowl-edgeable about their educationalneeds, and if our voices are heard,then the education system could getback on its feet and accomplish itspurpose: to impart general knowledge,develop the powers of reasoning andjudgment, and generally prepare us intellectually for mature life. ✎

Photo by Ana De la Torre, Worcester, MA

Elective classeshelp students

develop academiccuriosity

Profile of UndergraduatesFields of study of those with a declared major

All Men WomenArts and humanities 13% 13% 13%Business 20% 21% 19%Computer/information science 6% 11% 3%Education 9% 4% 12%Engineering 5% 11% 1%Health professions 16% 7% 23%Life sciences 5% 6% 4%Mathematics 1% 1% 1%Physical sciences 1% 1% 1%Social/behavioral sciences 9% 8% 10%Vocational/technical 6% 9% 3%Other 10% 9% 11%

Most popular activities of those who performed community serviceAll Men Women

Neighborhood improvement 13% 9% 7%Work with children 12% 11% 12%Church service 10% 12% 13%Tutoring 8% 9% 12%Health/nursing home 8% 6% 8%Homeless shelter/soup kitchen 7% 5% 6%Fund raising 6% 7% 9%

SOURCE: U.S. Department of Education

Last summer, I found myself sitting on a couch opposite a 38-year-old Filipino man named

Peter who smelled like stale tuna, dirt,and a dream deferred.

“Where are you from?” I asked.“Here.”“What made you homeless?”“I need my green card.”“Where do you stay and get food?”“I need my green card. I need … my

green card. I go clean the mall. I makeplans for the future.”

I later discovered, by talking withthe soup kitchen staff, that Peter ismentally handicapped. He moved tothe U.S. when he was five, but he stillhad an accent. He probably already hadhis citizenship.

This was an unconventional way toexplore a social topic. My best friend’smother was the manager at a homelessshelter, and their fund-raising eventwas coming up. My friend was a filmmajor at our school, and I was a theatermajor, so we pooled our talents andmade a documentary about the causesof homelessness and how the shelterhad helped many find counseling,food, shelter, and showers. I inter-viewed; she filmed.

It quickly became apparent that Peter wasn’t the only homeless person

with seemingly insurmountable prob-lems. There was Don, a 58-year-oldprofessional drunk who had been inand out of rehab and jail most of hislife. He was a colorful storyteller –he recalled in vivid detail being therethe first time Ozzy Osbourne bit off abat’s head. A marijuana stem was tat-tooed on his arm. When he was 15, hisfriend started to ink the tattoo, but Dondecided to stop halfway through theprocess – an appro-priate metaphor forhis life. Every timehe went into rehab,every time it lookedas if he had foundsteady employment,he quit halfwaythrough.

Then there wasthe woman simplyknown as the Bag Lady. A paranoidschizophrenic, she had amassed a collection of detritus and kept it in agrocery cart, never letting it out of hersight. She spent her days waiting for abus that never came; she would scruti-nize each one that passed her stop, in-variably deciding it was the wrong one.She kept all her clothes layered on herbody, even during the oppressively hotand humid Georgia summers. One day,she uncharacteristically tried to remove

her clothes to take a shower at the shelter. She couldn’t. Sweat and dirthad plastered them to her body, and myfriend’s mother had to rip them off her.She became hysterical when we askedto interview her.

As I helped set up the camera in thecafeteria to pan across the room, I be-came overwhelmed watching everyone.Peter prayed for his green card. Dondisplayed the tattoo that was never

completed. The BagLady stared out thewindow at her stop inhopes that her buswould finally arrive. Icould only think ofthat dream deferred.

My studies in home-lessness continuedlong after the camerastopped rolling. I

conducted more interviews, this timefor myself. Most of these people werethrown onto the streets because an unexpected debt had upended their already volatile paycheck-to-paycheckexistence, or because they were addictswho had never found adequate rehabil-itation, or because they had a mentalillness. Realizing the fragility of theline that separates “person” from“homeless person” has helped me treateveryone with compassion.

Instead of lecturing the homeless onnot using welfare to buy drugs or hug-ging my purse as I speed by a parkbench, I take time to listen to them.This experience also helped when Iworked for the Obama campaign. Iregistered more people to vote in oneday than most interns did in a week,because I approached the people lyingon park benches, the ex-felons andhomeless people who didn’t know thatthey could vote in Georgia. One mancried as he filled out the registrationform; the State of Georgia had takenhis vote from him 20 years ago. Afterthat, the Savannah campaign helddrives at all the homeless shelters.

Learning about the plight of home-less people has made my world a littlemore beautiful. I learned the differencebetween a mandolin and a guitar froma street musician named Guitar Bob. I learned about the history of metal music from Don. Al taught me how toweave a rose out of palm tree leaves.Most importantly, I learned that thesepeople are not welfare leeches, drugabusers, or society’s cross to bear.Homeless people have specific prob-lems that aren’t impossible to manage,and with a modicum of effort and ingenuity, perhaps one day their buswill finally come. ✎

Tall Chai by Meredith Swim, Lexington, KY


colle

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essays

They are not welfareleeches, drug

abusers, or society’scross to bear

“Grande Cappuccino!” “Venti CaramelMocha!” Caught in the coffee chaos atStarbucks, I stand impatiently in line

waiting to order my chai latte. As I wait, I glance atthe piles of low-fat blueberry muffins and stretch myneck to steal a glimpse at The New York Times. A darkgreen book catches my eye. I lean over to pick it upand my mundane morning coffee run is interrupted.An African boy around 10, eyes downcast, flip flopshanging off his feet, and an AK-47 slung across hisback, is pictured on the cover. Memoirs of a Boy Soldier – the words linger in the driftingsmell of coffee and paint a different lighton this casual Starbucks trip. Memoirs of aBoy Soldier. The title spins in my head.

The book resonates with my spirit, and I am reminded of a quote I heard on aBBC radio interview. The man being interviewed was Andrew Harvey, and heencouraged young people not to follow their “bliss”(as Joseph Campbell suggested) but to follow their“heartache.” Discovering Memoirs of a Boy Soldier inStarbucks that day reminded me of this quote, of mybliss and my heartache.

My bliss is writing creative stories about goblinswho suffer from dry skin. My bliss is exploring Frenchhistory and then telling the story of the French revolu-tion from the perspective of a pink French poodle.When I’m in the creative process of writing a story, I want to wake up at dawn and get the day started. Focusing on the world of imagination is a secret passion, one I can slip into during pre-calculus classand when I feel alone in a crowd.

Expressing my feelings in the present moment is

difficult due to my introverted personality and the fearof how my words will affect others. Therefore, I takethe unspoken words and put them into stories. Writinggives me the opportunity to express my inner world ofimagination and feelings. Writing serves as an escapefrom harsh realities.

But the book I am holding in this line will not be anescape; this book will awaken me to the horrors ofwar and reveal the cruelties of human nature. I realizeI could easily put it down, buy my tea, and return tomy world of ACT prep and the latest text message

from a friend. This book could be forgotten. But the boy on the cover haunts me. I pre-

tend I have the power to reach into the pho-tograph and pull him into Starbucks with meso I can buy him a peppermint hot chocolateand see childhood reborn in his eyes.

Since the world of imagination is my bliss,then my heartache is children who are robbed

of their chance to experience the world of imagination.As the coffee line moves, I am now one customeraway from the counter. I realize the author, IshmaelBeah, and I both write to reveal our inner journeys – aform of therapy through the written word. Reading hisbook will break my heart but at the same time feed thefire that burns within me, that grows stronger andmore vibrant with each story about cruelty towardchildren. This fire hisses and demands change for theforgotten children of the world.

If I follow my bliss, I could be writing for myself,to show the world my wisps of imaginings. By fol-lowing my heartache I could contribute to the greatergood. I could use my writing to help others, to sharethe stories of people who have been pushed to the side

and cannot speak out themselves. My heartache is theabuse of innocent children, and through writing I canhelp their voices be heard. I place Memoirs of a BoySoldier on the counter and order my drink.

Like the author, I want my inner voice to speakpowerful words that will in some way, however small,evoke change and bring peace in our world. ✎

The boy on the cover haunts me

Photo by Hyunwoo Kim, Charlottesville, VA

Waiting for the Bus by Rose Brannen, Savannah, GA

My Last Lecture by Kristine, Indianapolis, IN

Each day in my World Literatureclass, we read a chapter or twoaloud from The Last Lecture by

Randy Pausch. As we read, I thinkabout my life and try to decide whatpoints I would make if I had to give alast lecture. This may sound silly, because I am so young – my life hasbeen small compared to the lives ofbrilliant college professors – but I do it anyway.

I think I would talk about my familyand their impact on me. My parentshave alcohol problems, so I guess thatwould be the most significant topic Icould speak about, but it’s not exactlyabout me. I could also talk about myposition as the managing editor of my high school newspaper and how important that is to me, how I spendhours in the journalism room coachingwriters and trying to perfect the publi-cation. That sounds a bit arrogant,though. I could mention the sports Iused to play and how my passion faded as I became older, but that might sound like I was just trying tomake excuses. By the time the bellrings, I always feel frustrated. I am soglad that I am not a college professorwho is ready to retire. I wouldn’tknow what to say.

As I speculate, I get stuck on theidea that most people my age have atleast something to talk about. I knowsomeone who went to Africa to helpchildren with AIDS, and another who

took a month off school to go on amission trip to Guatemala. Thenthere’s my friend Duncan, who is in aband that is currently producing itsfirst album. That really impresses me;plus, the band is extraordinary. I go toconcerts and come away feeling like adifferent person.

I just haven’t done anything thathuge. I have only been out of thecountry once, to Australia on a Peopleto People Student Ambassadors trip,and I didn’t really doanything charitablethere. I’m not in a bandeither, although Duncandid try to teach me thepiano.

The truth is, I justlove to learn about lifeand people and then find a way to putit into words. It’s the most incrediblefeeling in the world stringing wordstogether that sound right, that feelbeautiful as they collect in the brainand flow through the fingers onto thepage. But that’s not monumentalenough to inspire people.

This weekend, my dad and I drovefive hours to visit a college. This reallyis impressive if you know my dad. Heis 5'5" and weighs about 115 pounds.Nobody is sure of his exact weightsince it is constantly decreasing. Hedoesn’t drive or go places anymore,but he made this trip with me. Myfamily fights a lot, but this weekend

my dad and I only had one short-livedargument.

I cried three times during the trip.Once was when my dad fell asleep really early. I looked over at him, andhe reminded me of a child curled upwith the blankets pulled around hischin; he’s cold all the time. He lookedso fragile and tiny. Sometimes I can besarcastic or even mean, but I’m not atrue pessimist. As I looked at my dad,I was overwhelmed with compassion.

It just made me so sad.Once my dad beamedwith joy and laughter, but now he hides withinhimself, even in his sleep.I know there is evil in humanity, but each time Ithink about hating anyone,

I remember my dad – his addictionsand his anger, but mostly his sadness.

The next time I cried was on the actual tour. About halfway through,my dad began to fall behind the group.I noticed and turned back.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.“Nothing,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Don’t worry about me. If I knewwhere I was going, I’d just meet you atthe car. Go ahead.”

My dad’s weakness broke my heart.He’s 51, but looks 70. Instead of goingahead as he asked, I waited.

The third time I cried was on theway home. A car was merging into mylane, and the driver didn’t see me. I

swear we almost died. This was themost memorable moment of my life. I began shaking and crying, and Ilooked at my dad. His face was blank;he wasn’t scared. Suddenly I thoughtof courage and The Things They Car-ried by Tim O’Brien, which we readin class. In the chapter entitled “Onthe Rainy River,” a boy my age wasdrafted to fight in the Vietnam War. Heran away, heading to Canada. When hegot there, he stopped, cried, turnedaround, and went to war.

In that moment with my dad, I didn’treally need courage; I only needed thecommon sense to get out of the way.My dad, though, needed courage morethan anything. Like the boy waveringbetween the United States and Canada,he faced either life or death. I’m notsure which one he wanted at that moment. He told me to stop cryingand watch the road. Finally I forcedmyself to stop, and my dad opened another can of beer.

As great a story as this is, at least to me, I’m not sure if it’s last lecturematerial. I guess I obsess over thisway too much. Besides, I’m tired, andI can still remember how peaceful mydad looked sitting in the car next tome as we zoomed down the interstate.Perhaps that’s enough for now. I mayor may not see a smile like that on his face again. Maybe that’s my lastlecture, my strongest desire; I want tokeep my dad forever. ✎

My dad’s weakness broke

my heart


college

essa

ys Failing Successfully by Candace Moberly, Berea, KY

My day in the sun had arrived – my magnumopus would be revealed. I had just delivereda memorized speech that I had labored over

for weeks, and I was about to learn how the paneljudged my performance. The polite but sparse audi-ence leaned forward in their folding chairs. A hushfell across the room. The drum rolled (in my mind,anyway).

The contest organizer announced the third-placewinner. Alas, the name was not mine. Then he readthe second-place winner, and once again it was not me. At last, the moment of truth came.Either I was about to bask in the warmth ofvictory or rue the last several months spentpreparing. While neither of these came topass, my heart felt closer to the latter.

Losing is a part of life, and I have dealtwith the emotional baggage that travelsshotgun with it on more than one occasion. However,it was an indescribably underwhelming feeling todrive 200 miles round trip, get up obscenely early ona freezing Saturday morning, and yet still finishfourth out of four contestants. After Lincoln lost the1858 Illinois Senate race, he reportedly said, “I feltlike the 12-year-old boy who stubbed his toe. I wastoo big to cry and it hurt too bad to laugh.” Oh yeah,I could relate.

I had spent many hours in front of a computer andin libraries doing research for the Lincoln Bicenten-nial Speech Contest. As I pored over several biogra-phies, one notion stood out: Lincoln was handed

many sound defeats, but he never allowed them to(permanently) hinder his spirit or ambition. While Ibelieve many history lessons can be applied to mod-ern life, I hadn’t considered “the agony of defeat” asa historically valuable learning experience. I neverdreamed I could relate to Lincoln! A president noless, and the greatest at that. I thought “failing successfully” was a very appropriate topic, given the many letdowns Lincoln experienced, and so thisbecame the title of my speech.

After not placing in the first year of the speechcontest, I really wanted to compete again.Lincoln had been the epitome of persistence,so I was not going to give up on a contestabout a historic individual who did not giveup! I reworked my speech for the followingyear, and while I did not come in last, againI did not place. Some days you’re the dog,

and some days you’re the hydrant, and this was definitely a hydrant day that brought me down for a while.

I couldn’t accept the fact that I had failed twicein something that I had worked so hard on, until Icontemplated the individual whom I’d spent somuch time learning about. Never mind the lostprize money (ouch, major) and praise (ouch, minor)– I had learned, really learned, about a great manwho had experienced failure and disappointment,and had many chances to give up. We rememberLincoln because he didn’t take this route; he didn’tthrow lavish pity-parties, and he persevered to

become, according to many, the greatest Americanpresident.

While I did not earn monetary awards as a result ofthis contest, I did gain a new perspective. Throughlearning about Lincoln, I discovered that I can failsuccessfully, and that it is possible to glean applica-ble wisdom from the lives of those who have comebefore us. Now, whenever I’m faced with a setback, Iremember what Lincoln said after his unsuccessful1854 Senate race: “The path was worn and slippery.My foot slipped from under me, knocking the otherout of the way, but I recovered and said to myself,‘It’s a slip and not a fall.’” ✎

Photo by Hailey Jones, Lake Oswego, OR

Losing is a part of life


colle

ge

essaysAhigh-pitched squeal pierced my

eardrums. Of all places, I was in FortDetrick – 20 minutes from the nation’s

capital. Fragments of thought collided in mymind as I stared at the light dancing on theconical tube shaking in my hand. Is this a terrorist attack? Definitely.

And then my mentor, the docile scientistwhom I had met two days before, beganlaughing maniacally. Was this some kind ofjoke? Could he really be behind it? He waslooking past his brand-new intern, who was onthe verge of hyperventilating, and staring atthe -20˚C freezer.

I was not at all relieved todiscover that my ears werethrobbing not from a terroristattack but because of thefreezer’s alarm. My mentorhad, in fact, been scheming asI innocently gathered the nec-essary enzymes to completethe digestion reaction assignedto me. It was my third day atthe National Cancer Institute (NCI) Cell andDevelopmental Signaling Laboratory, and Iwas completely focused on executing my task perfectly. Little did I know that my 20 orso expeditions to the freezer would inducemechanized screaming. My mentor had beenwaiting mischievously as the freezer’s tem-perature rose to -7˚C. Ever since then, I havebeen wary of that banshee freezer.

I found my first days as a Summer CancerResearch Training Award Fellow filled withmany wild experiences. The first time I heardabout CERT protein, my head spun, but by theend of the summer I had cloned it multipletimes and studied the protein-protein inter -actions of its specific domains using S2 cellmodels. This summer I did so many thingsthat I never could have imagined. I woke up

many times fearing that it was all a dream. Iloved this new world that I was experiencing –a world saturated with science.

Of course, I faced challenges during myeight weeks at NCI. My second week, mymentor announced that we would be dissect-ing pregnant mice in our attempts to generatea CERT knockout mouse. My pinky toe quiv-ered enthusiastically, as it usually does when Iam overexcited. In what looked like an icecream carton with holes was a swollen femalemouse with slick black fur. The pungent smellof food pellets filled the lab. As my fingers encroached into her space, her black-marble

eyes locked with mine. I immedi-ately snatched my fingers back –was it compassion, fear, regret?

My mentor motioned for me topick her up, and my hand slowlydescended into the box again. AsI lifted her by the tail, she strug-gled fiercely, but I did not loosenmy grip. The hardest part wasdropping her into the CO2 box

and watching her chest heave as she took herlast breaths. It may have been silly, but Iprayed for that mouse. But as I was doing thedissection and removed the linked chain ofembryos, I understood that in order to advancescience and save thousands of lives in the future, sometimes sacrifices must be made.

Leaving the lab left me hungry for more science. I still find my thumb in a pipettingposition and retain the ability to unscrew bottles and tubes with my left hand. And Isometimes wake up thinking that I was justdoing a dissection or an experiment until I realize that it was a dream. In search of a continued experience, I am already looking for internship opportunities at research labora-tories, and I absolutely cannot wait to get backto that environment! ✎

How I Became an “Old Man” by Hao Wu, Culver, IN

“Sir‚ name and rank‚ sir.”That was my most frequently used phrase

during my first month in the United States at the Culver Military Academy. I was a second-class man(junior) but also a new cadet.

As a Chinese student who had never been to America before, it was painstaking to memorize the names and ranksof the “old men” (branch-qualified cadets).

“Sir, good morning, uh – uh – First Ser – Ser, uh, Sergeant uh – Puc, uh, Puccia, sir.” It took meforever to greet them in the hallway.

Feeling embarrassed, I wrote down thenames and ranks of all 47 “old men” in my unitand sat on my bed for hours each day, readingmy list and whispering, “Lance Corporal Turner, Color Corporal Weber ….”

“Tuck in your shirt! Don’t talk in the hall-way! Square your corners when you march!”they would always bark at me.

Waking at 5:30 each morning, I put on my uniform,shined my shoes, swept the floor, and made my bed sothere were absolutely no wrinkles. Then I stood outside myroom, waiting for inspection. That was the reality of my career as a new cadet.

Because of my superior performance, I was the firstcadet invited to Boards, the rigorous testing and inspection

for a new cadet to become a branch-qualified “old man.” The most important part of the process was the room

preparation, so I needed to thoroughly clean my room andmake sure every nook and cranny was spotless. I woke upat 6 a.m. that Saturday and got to work. To eliminate thedust bunnies hiding in the corners, I bought two bottles ofLemon Pledge. I pulled out the drawers of my desk andcrawled underneath. Lying on my back, I sprayed andwiped every inch of the desk, including the underside, the

drawer slides, and the legs. I did the same to mywardrobe, bed, and lamp; I even polished myroom key.

The hardest part of the preparation was thefloor. Dragging, pulling, hauling, pushing, Imoved everything out of my room and into thehallway. Piles of dust hidden for years lay wheremy desk, bed, and wardrobe had stood.

After I had swept up the dust and mopped thefloor twice, I opened my second bottle of Pledge. On myhands and knees, I polished the floor one section at a time.By the time I had backed into the hallway, my shirt waswet, my knees were numb, and sweat dripped down mycheeks faster than I could wipe it away. But the floor shone,almost too much. I soon realized how smooth, even slip-pery, my floor was – I had cleaned it with furniture polish.

“Hey, what’s up, Wu?” a friend asked as he stepped into

my room. “When are you– aagh!” His feet flew out and he fell flat on his back. I can hardly remember how manyother boys fell. In a while, my room was filled with cadetsin socks spinning like ice skaters.

I lay on my back in the hallway outside my room. “One‚two‚ three … Go!” Jason pushed my feet and I glided intothe room, staring up as the ceiling sped by. Wham! Myhead slammed into the heater.

Back to work, I shined my shoes until I could see myteeth in them. I folded shirts for five hours, kneeling on thefloor with a steel straight-edge: “No, it’s still not exactly 8by 10 inches.” I folded them, unfolded them, folded themagain.

I spent 17 hours cleaning my room. I passed Boards.I keep two empty bottles of Pledge and a steel straight-

edge on my desk to remind me of that day. When I facehuge academic and emotional pressures, the sight of thebottles keeps me motivated; when I feel contented and sated, I turn to the steel straight-edge, which inspires me toseek perfection. I bring this motivation and perfectionismwith me as a member of Squadron Staff, supervising 138cadets, leading my unit to be the best in the regiment, andgetting straight A’s.

I keep two empty bottles of Pledge and a steel straight-edge in my room to remind me that I can accomplish greatfeats. ✎

The Jungleby Amy Zheng, New York, NY

Istood in front of the classroom like a specimen under thescrutiny of 23 pairs of eyes. The children were hunters onhigh alert, ready to pounce on any mistake I made. I began

stuttering and gave wrong answers for simple math problems,only to be instantly corrected by several smirking students. The rest started murmuring in the background. Yes, they wereskillful hunters.

In the summer of 2008, I worked as an assistant teacher at achildren’s day camp. I struggled to create weekly lesson plans,pulled apart kids who were clawing at each other, and taughtChinese to students who were novices to the language. Amidsttheir incessant chattering, the rare moments of silence came onlyafter the teacher’s booming calls for attention. The classroomwas a hectic sea of kids running around playing tag, shoutinginsults at each other, and arguing about who should go first in a

game. Every day was a battle betweenme and these wild little creatures.

What had I become? I was sup-posed to teach them, and yet I had become their terrified subordinate. Ihad an epiphany one day and realizedit was time to do something aboutthis. I was older, more knowledge-

able, and most importantly, I had more authority. The next day,I walked into the classroom and stood in the front firmly andcalmly. The students curiously studied me, but I did not flinchor stutter. From that day on, they gradually started to pay atten-tion. Some even started calling me “Ms. Amy.”

Seeing a hint of respect in their wild eyes was like gettingrecognition for my achievements. I was finally acting as an authority figure, someone they could look up to. The respect Ireceived also marked a crescendo in my self-confidence. Itmade me believe that I had the ability to overcome obstaclesand command respect. It was a confirmation of my skills andabilities.

One month after my summer job ended, I went back to visitthe students. I saw the same hectic room full of kids runningaround and shouting at each other. However, their playful in-sults were a different kind of music to my ears now. Instead ofthe cacophony I heard that first day, this was a unique harmony– the song that played during my march to self-confidence andbelief in myself. ✎

This was the reality of my career as anew cadet

I loved this world – a worldsaturated with

science

I had becometheir terrifiedsubordinate

Perfect Chemistryby Sminu Bose, New City, NY


He sits in the back of the room, hands in-terlaced over his stomach, feet proppedup on the antique desk. Although he

appears relaxed, his pleased expression and enthusiastic nods as he observes our seminar in-dicate anything but inattentiveness. Like an old,wise owl he watches us discuss, observing ourthought processes through the steel-rimmedglasses perched on his freckled nose. A genuinesmile reveals his teeth, which contrast with thesilvery beard that adorns his jolly face. The wallsare plastered with posters, photos, bumper stick-ers, newspaper clippings, buttons, banners, andfigurines. I could stare at this seafor hours and still find somethingnew. On this particular afternoon,I find myself repeatedly glancingat a banner that reads, “Knowl-edge is not enough.”

An excerpt from PaulHawken’s Blessed Unrest adornsmy binder, illegible black mark-ings filling every inch of themargin. “And although we may not recognize it,we are part of the biggest social movement onearth,” I assert. “According to Hawken, changecomes from the bottom up, and that’s what thismovement is.” I turn to make eye contact withTim Kipp, looking for feedback, approval ordisagreement. But his knowing smile conveys acertain stubbornness; this is our discussion. After the bell, Mr. Kipp stands in the doorway,his weathered briefcase reflecting his character– the leather tearing at the seams, knowledgeready to pour out the sides. Students scurry, borrowing markers and tape, and seeking hisadvice.

Even after he leaves, Room 132 is still vibrant with a palpable sense of community.Fifteen teenagers arrange chairs in a lopsidedcircle, each one’s eccentricity adding to the“hippie” appearance of this group of activists.

Clad in thrift-store flannels and jewelry fromfaraway places, they brainstorm ways to sharetheir ideas with the world. Like a budding tulip,the knowledge that Tim Kipp has bestowedtransforms into action. They are aware; they areempowered.

One ever-present question hangs in the air: howcan we use our voices to create change? Danc-ing around it like leaves on a fall morning, plansof fundraisers, presentations, bills in the statelegislature, and Friday night bake sales swirl.

Each day this group takes small steps towardits goal of eradicating exploitative labor. To

these teens, it is a known fact that“all you need to change the worldis some markers and a roll ofmasking tape.” Armed with thenecessary supplies, students raisetheir hands to indicate their will-ingness to give presentations tofreshmen later in the week. “Holdon, I can’t write your names fastenough,” exclaims one girl as she

squeezes a list of volunteers into the margins ofthe whiteboard.

A rosy-cheeked blonde glances at the lengthyagenda scrawled on the board as she leads themeeting. She expresses her excitement, saying,“I met with students at Twin Valley and Lelandand Gray, and they really want to start groupstoo.” New members watch, still unaware of theenormity of the movement they have joined. “… And anyone who can should come to Tues-day’s meeting with Leland and Gray.” Her eyessparkle as she glances at the banner that shenoted earlier that morning, and satisfaction fillsher body. Self-conscious about talking toomuch, she hands over the floor to a lanky junior,whose unusual bracelets jingle softly as shescribbles notes.

And above their heads Tim Kipp’s messagerings true: “Knowledge is not enough.” ✎

educ

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Tim KippSOCIAL STUDIES � BRATTLEBORO UNION HIGH

by Maya von Wodtke, Guilford, VT

Over the course of my 12 years of school, I have had many teachers – hardteachers, funny teachers, and some who were out of their minds. The onewho has had the greatest influence on me is Mrs. Nelson. She is funny,

has great energy, and loves teaching. She shows devotion to her students and willgo out of her way to help them when they are struggling. She is, by far, one of thebest teachers I have ever had.

On September 2, 2005, I underwent emergency brain surgery and spent sixweeks in the hospital. This was a really bad time in my life. I was close to dying

and the outcome of my recovery was unknown. When I came back to school after my brain injury, Mrs. Nel-son helped me catch up on assignments for all of myclasses. At first, I was forgetful about assignments andcouldn’t remember the material I learned. She showed,most importantly, great patience with me.

Mrs. Nelson has been teaching for a long time and isone of the most experienced teachers at ArrowheadUnion High School. She is respected by all the faculty

and is a mentor for teachers just starting their careers. Mrs. Nelson is so easy to talk to and is a great listener. When students go to her

for help, she listens to what they have to say and puts all of her effort into helpingthem. She treats all her students like they are her children, which is nice becausethat shows she’s passionate about giving them the best education possible.

Mrs. Nelson is one of the coolest teachers ever. She has touched my life as shehas so many others’. I don’t think she will ever know how truly grateful I am. Sheis simply the best teacher I have ever had. ✎

Kathy NelsonLANGUAGE ARTS � ARROWHEAD UNION HIGH

by Adam Melka, Pewaukee, WI

Detention, detention, write-up, suspension.That was the behavioral pattern I had fol-lowed, undeterred, from kindergarten to

seventh grade – that is, until I met my match. I wasnever one to go looking for trouble (okay, maybe onceor twice), but somehow, trouble and I always found ourselves entangled, as Conrad Middle School’s Deanof Discipline quickly discovered.

“It’s a brand-new year at a brand-newschool. The whole ‘teacher doesn’t likeme’ excuse won’t work here, Maurice,”my mother said before my first day atConrad. Deep inside, I knew she wasright. That excuse wouldn’t fly anymore.So it was time to come up with a new one.

It wasn’t even a full week into the school year whenI was sent out of class for arguing with another studentover something I had probably instigated. “Take thisand report to the dean’s office,” my teacher barked asshe handed me the behavior referral I had become alltoo familiar with in years past. Since I didn’t knowwhere the dean’s office was (and didn’t care to find

out), I decided this was the perfect opportunity to tourthe building. After a few minutes, I rounded a cornerand ran into a tall guy in a suit and a funny haircut.

“Are you Maurice? Follow me,” he said, before Icould even reply. We must have passed 50 classroomsfull of enthusiastic, well-behaved students on the wayto his office. Once there, we both took a seat, and he

stared at me for a full two minutes. “Is thisyour idea of a good first impression?” heasked, in a way that demanded a responsebut almost made me afraid to answer.

“Uh … not really,” I mumbled. Fromwhat I remember, Mr. Wakeman lecturedme for 45 minutes. All the while I stared athis haircut. Upon hearing the word suspen-

sion my attention snapped back and I began to sweat(tough guys don’t get scared, I think the thermostatwas busted). “Huh?!” I squealed (puberty sucks).

“The code of conduct states that roaming the hallsconstitutes being in an unauthorized area. That’s athree-day vacation,” he said. By the books – that isMr. Wakeman. That visit was my first, but it certainly

wouldn’t be my last. I’d be lying if I told you I knewhow many times I sat in his office awaiting my pun-ishment, just like I’d be lying if I told you that hewas my favorite guy for my first two years at Con-rad. But by the time eighth grade rolled around, Ihad shaped up considerably and grown to like Mr.Wakeman. Eventually I feared getting in trouble not because of the repercussions but because I wasafraid to disappoint him.

Sadly, it is only in retrospect that I realize what apowerful impression he made on me. He was strict,but I knew he genuinely wanted to see me succeed. Hehas this sarcastic humor that I couldn’t help but laughat, but he knew when it was business time and conse-quently so did his students. The thought never crossedmy mind that someone who had cost me weeks uponweeks of punishment and extra chores would be a per-son whom I’d admire so much just a few years later.

I honestly believe that because of Mr. Wakemanand his firm but concerned tactics, I am undoubtedlya better student today. But above that, I am a betterperson, which I still thank him for to this day. ✎

Jesse WakemanSTUDENT ADVISOR � CONRAD MIDDLE SCHOOL

by Maurice Gattis, Wilmington, DE


Nominate your favorite junior and senior high school educators:Online: www.TeenInk.comMail to: Educator of the Year • Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461 Email to: [email protected]

Be sure to include your teacher’s first and last name.

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Educator YearContest

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www.assumption.edu

ASSUMPTION COLLEGE

Since 1904• Academic Excellence in the rich,

Catholic intellectual tradition World Class Faculty in Small Classes

averaging 20 students Quality of Life in a 90% Residential Community

500 Salisbury StreetWorcester, MA 01609

1-866-477-7776

500 Salisbury St., Worcester, MA 01609 1-866-477-7776

For info, text 648acma to 64842 www.assumption.edu

Teen Ink • April ’09 •

The City College o f N e w Yo r k

Convent Avenue @ 138th StreetNew York, NY 10003212-650-6981www.ccny.cuny.edu

Find your future in more than90 specializations in architec-ture, biomedicine, education,engineering and liberal arts &science at CCNY.

Liberal arts college with an emphasison preparing leaders in business, government and the professions.

Best of both worlds as a member ofThe Claremont Colleges. Suburban

location near Los Angeles.

890 Columbia Ave.Claremont, CA 91711909-621-8088www.claremontmckenna.edu

CarletonCollege

A national liberal arts college of1700 students, located 35 milessouth of Minneapolis/St. Paul.

Distinguished in humanities and science education, 60 percent of

students study abroad.Admissions OfficeCarleton College

Northfield, Minnesota 550571-800-995-2275

www.carleton.edu

3D Modeling and AnimationMultimedia/Web DesignDesignIllustrationLife DrawingPaintingWatercolor Painting

American Academy of Art332 S. Michigan Ave.

Chicago, IL 60604-4302312-461-0600

Visit us @ www.aaart.edu

Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs

Cornell, as an Ivy League school and aland-grant college, combines two great

traditions. A truly American institution,Cornell was founded in 1895 and re-mains a place where “any person can

find instruction in any study.”410 Thurston Avenue

Ithaca, NY 14850607-255-5241

www.cornell.edu

CORNELLU N I V E R S I T Y A member of the Ivy League and

widely recognized for the depth,breadth, and flexibility of its under-graduate program, Dartmouth offers

students an extraordinary opportunityto collaborate with faculty in the pur-suit of their intellectual aspirations.

6016 McNutt HallHanover, NH 03755603-646-2875www.dartmouth.edu

Dartmouth

A religiously-affiliated liberal arts college located just outside of

Philadelphia offering an outstandingand truly personalized academic

experience grounded in an environment of faith.

2895 College DriveBryn Athyn, PA, 19009267-502-2511www.brynathyn.edu

For info, text 6delval to 64842

Preparing students with individual learning styles for transfer to four-year colleges.

15 majors including two B.A. programs in Arts & Entertainment Management and Dance.

99 Main Street www.dean.edu Franklin, MA 02038 877-TRY DEAN

Hawaii’s only Catholic university pro-vides an excellent education in the liberalarts tradition, offering unique programs

(e.g. Early Childhood Education, Forensic Sciences, Interior Design) and generous merit scholarships.

3140 Waialae AvenueHonolulu, HI 96816-1578

800-735-4733www.chaminade.edu

Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates aneducation from distinguished faculty inmore than 40 fields in the liberal arts aswell as engineering and applied science.

8 Garden Street Cambridge, MA 02138617-495-1551www.harvard.edu

Fostering creativity and aca-

demic excellence since 1854.

Thrive in our environment of

personalized attention and in

the energy of the Twin Cities.

1536 Hewitt AvenueSaint Paul, MN 55104800-753-9753www.hamline.edu

Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit

philosophy of education, marked

by excellent teaching, intellectual

inquiry and care of the whole

student, in the capital of the world.

For info, text 6FRDHAM to 64842

Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuitphilosophy of education, marked by excellent teaching, intellectual

inquiry and care of the whole student, in the capital of the world.

www.fordham.edu/tink

• Quality and affordable private university• Safe and historic campus near theJersey Shore• Choose from over 30 majors• Residential Women’s College• 7 NCAA Division II Sports• Coeducational University College

900 Lakewood Avenue • Lakewood, NJ 08701-2697800.458.8422, ext. 2760 • www.georgian.edu

DUQUESNEUNIVERSITY

600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590

E-mail: [email protected]: www.admissions.duq.edu

Duquesne offers more than 80undergraduate programs, more than

140 extracurricular activities andpersonal attention in an atmosphere ofmoral and spiritual growth. Ranked byUS News among the most affordable

private national universities.

Learn to Write: Fiction Writing DepartmentLearn skills to help you

publish fiction, creative nonfictionand scripts and to succeed in awide range of jobs – at one of

America’s premier writing programs

600 S. Michigan Chicago, IL [email protected]

www.colum.edu

Columbia CollegeChicago

Small seminar-based classroom settingInterdisciplinary curriculum focusing

on social sciences, humanities, arts and sciences

Located in the historic Greenwich Village neighborhood of New York City.

880 students from 43 states and 13 countries

www.newschool.edu/lang

BURLINGTONCOLLEGE

Ea r n a B . A . o n o r off-campus, develop

y o u r o w n m a j o r , attend classes at The Fi lm School , become a c i v i c a l l y e n g a g e d citizen, and much more.

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BURLINGTONCOLLEGE

Earn a B.A. on or off-campus,develop your own major, attend classes at The FilmSchool, become a civically engaged citizen, and much more.

For info, text 6burcol to 64842

www.artacademy.edu • 800-323-56921212 Jackson Street • Cincinnati, OH 45202

An independent, accredited, four-year college of art and design

located in Cincinnati.

BFA degrees for fine artists and designers.

Our nurturing environment embracesyour uniqueness.

Earn a BA in Global Studieswhile studying at our centers in Costa Rica, China, India, Japan,

South Africa, and New York City!

For info, text 64gcliu to 64842

9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201www.liu.edu/globalcollege718.780.4312 • [email protected]

Hamilton College is a nationalleader for teaching students

to write effectively,learn from each other

and think for themselves.

Writing resources from a writing college:www.hamilton.edu/teenink

CCH is the film school with focus. You learn the whole art and thewhole business. You graduate with a hot reel, and areal BFA. Come Find Your Focus.

18618 Oxnard Street, Tarzana, CA 91356800-785-0585 • www.columbiacollege.edu

For info, text 6484cch to 64842

Personal attention.Engaged learning.Explore the world.Visit www.alma.edu to learn more aboutthe Alma College experience and thestudents and faculty who embrace it.

www.alma.edu • 1-800-321-ALMA

CVA is a private, accredited, four-year college of art and design offering Bachelor of Fine Arts degrees in graphic design/interactive, illustration, photography, drawing/painting, sculpture, and interdisciplinary art and design studies.

C V A www.cva.edu

College of Visual Arts344 Summit AvenueSaint Paul, Minnesota 55102651.224.3416

• Small New England College founded in 1784• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends• Every incoming fulltime student receives a

laptop computer• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon

graduation

Office of Admissions61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609

1-508-373-9400 • www.beckercollege.edu

Box 870132

UA has a rich tradition of excellence in academics, sports, and student life.

Consistently named a top-50 public

university by U.S. News & World Report, 11 degree-granting schools and colleges,

a 1,000-acre historic campus.

To learn more visit gobama.ua.edu/teenink


Pace University offers talented and ambitious students the opportunity todiscover their potential and realize their

dreams. Campuses in New York City andPleasantville, NY.

Experience the Power of Pace.For more information call

1-800-847-PACEor email [email protected]

www.pace.edu

� Palmer College is where chiropractic began

� Three campuses to choose from – Iowa, California, Florida

� Natural, drug-free, non-surgical health care

� Graduate-level program leading to a Doctor of Chiropractic degree

www.palmer.edu

Ohio Northern is a comprehensive university of liberal arts and professional

programs offering more than 3,600 students over 70 majors in the colleges ofArts & Sciences, Business Administration,

Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.Office of Admissions

Ada, OH 458101-888-408-4668

www.onu.edu/teen

• Personal attention to help you excel• Powerful programs to challenge you to

think in new ways• No limits to where St. Mary’s

can take you

ST. MARY’SUNIVERSITY

One Camino Santa MariaSan Antonio, TX 78228-8503

800-367-7868www.stmarytx.edu

A culturally diverse urban, student-centered, Catholic university, dedicated to educating leaders who contribute to

the economic and cultural vitality.

800-367-9010www.stu.edu

For info, text 6484stu to 64842

16401 NW 37th AvenueMiami Gardens, FL 33054

Princeton simultaneously strives to be oneof the leading research universities and

the most outstanding undergraduate col-lege in the world. We provide students

with academic, extracurricular and otherresources, in a residential community

committed to diversity.

Princeton, NJ 08544(609) 258-3060

www.princeton.edu

PrincetonUniversity

degrees that work.BACHELOR ASSOCIATE CERTIFICATE

Choose from more than 100 career fields.

www.pct.edu/ink

• Nationally ranked liberal arts college• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty• 100+ campus organizations• 23 NCAA Division III sports • A tradition of service-learning 61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015

800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu

For info, text 6484owu to 64842

· Over 40 undergraduate programsoffered with Dual Admissions intograduate and professional schools· Located in Fort Lauderdale, FL· New state-of-the-art Performingand Visual Arts facilities

www.nova.edu/admissions (800) 338-4723

Located in New York City, Parsons’ rigorous programs and distinguished faculty embrace curricular innovation and global perspectives in design. Programs in all art and design disciplines.

www.newschool.edu/parsons

A visual arts college north of Bostonwhere creativity and independencethrive through choice, connectionand community. BFA and Diplomaprograms. Founded by artists to educate artists.

For info, text 6484mca to 64842

www.montserrat.edu • [email protected]

Mount Holyoke is a highlyselective liberal arts college for

women, recognized worldwide for its rigorous academic program,

its global community, and its legacy of women leaders.

MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075

www.mtholyoke.edu

A faculty consisting of 70+ world- renowned jazz artists.

Strong emphasis on small group performance.

Priceless experience in clubs, performance halls, and recording studios in New York City.

www.newschool.edu/jazz

BELIEVE.PREPARE.

CONNECT. SERVE.

The World Awaits.

MyMarywood.com

World-renowned facultySmall classesPersonal attentionInternational student bodyNew York City location

www.newschool.edu/mannes

SlipperyRockUniversity

SRU provides a Rock Solid education.Located just 50 miles north of Pitts-burgh, the University is ranked num-ber five in America as a Consumer’sDigest “best value” selection for aca-demic quality at an affordable price.

1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu

For info text 64srupa to 64842

A picturesque New England campus,offering programs in Business,

Communications, Health, Liberal Arts,Education and Law. Located

mid-way between New York City and Boston with Division I athletics.Consistently rated among the topMaster’s level Colleges in the North

in U.S. News and World Report.

275 Mt. Carmel AvenueHamden, CT 06518

1.800.462.1944www.quinnipiac.edu

Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing BFA for aspiring young writers.

Weekly discussions by guest writers and editors. Nationally recognized

college for the arts. Beautiful residen-tial campus minutes from Manhattan.

200 Willoughby AvenueBrooklyn, NY 11205

800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514email: [email protected]

www.pratt.edu

Develop your creative mind in BFAand BA programs emphasizing

independence, experimentation, andthe development of personal vision.The interdisciplinary environment combines studio and liberal arts.

800 Chestnut StreetSan Francisco, CA 94133

800.345.SFAIwww.sfai.edu

Academic excellence and global perspective in one of America‘s most “livable”

metropolitan areas.

1000 Grand AvenueSt. Paul, MN 55105800-231-7974www.macalester.edu

A leading liberal arts college, where writers thrive (together with

artistis, scientists, and other lovers of learning).

Office of AdmissionsRansom Hall, Kenyon CollegeGambier, Ohio [email protected]

Excellent Programs.Outstanding Facility.

Affordable Cost.

337 College HillJohnson, VT 05656-9898

1-802-635-2356

W W W. J S C . E D U

Excellent Programs.Outstanding Faculty.

Affordable Cost.

Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakesregion, Ithaca College provides a first-rate

education on a first-name basis. Its Schools ofBusiness, Communications, Health Sciences

and Human Performance, Humanities and Sci-ences, and Music and its interdisciplinary

division offer over 100 majors.

my.ithaca.edu100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850

800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission

Degree programs in business, culinary arts, hospitality and technology

Hands-on learning from industry-experienced faculty

Co-ops and internships built into the curriculum

Johnson & Wales plans to award $105 million in financial aid in the 2008-2009 acdemic year

Four campuses: R.I., Fla., Colo. and N.C.

Johnson & Wales University 8 Abbott Park Place Providence, RI 02903

1-800-DIAL-JWU www.jwu.edu

75 years of keeping Hands-on in Higher Education

Training Pilots and Technicians foraviation and related industries since

1928. Call or log on today and beginyour flight to a successful career!

8820 East Pine St. Tulsa, OK, 74115800-331-1204

www.spartan.eduLicensed by:OBPVS

A distinguished faculty, an innovative curriculum and

outstanding undergraduates offerunparalleled opportunities for

intellectual growth on a beautifulCalifornia campus.

Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.Stanford, CA 94305650-723-2091 www.stanford.edu

Hofstra University can help youget where you want to go, withsmall classes, dedicated facultyand an energized campus.

hofstra.edu • [email protected]

A challenging private universityfor adventurous studentsseeking an education with

global possibilities.

Get Where You Want To Go

www.hpu.edu/teenink

For info, text 64HPU4U to 64842

Central Pennsylvania’s only professional art college, offering BFA programs in fine arts, graphic

design, illustration, and photography.

2o4 North Prince StreetLancaster, PA 176o8-oo59

1-8oo-689-o379 • www.pcad.edu

Where art becomes opportunity


Yale College, the undergraduate body ofYale University, is a highly selective liberal

arts college enrolling 5,200 students inover 70 major programs. Residential life is

organized around Residential Collegeswhere students live and eat.

P.O. Box 208234New Haven, CT 06520203-432-9300www.yale.edu

Earn a world-renowned degree in apersonalized environment. Work withprofessors who will know your name

and your goals. Choose from 41majors and many research, internship

and study-abroad opportunities.

www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787Bradford, PA 16701

beyondyou can gowww.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787

Bradford, PA 16701

For info, text 6upittb to 64842

A medium-sized university, the University of Rhode Island offers both the

resources of a larger research institution andthe friendly, comfortable atmosphere of a

traditional New England college.Newman HallKingston, RI 02881401-874-7100 • www.uri.edu

For info, text 6484uri to 64842

At Westminster College, you'll engagein a full college experience.

Reach your fullest potential –Inside the classroom. And out.

Visit us and turn YOUR college thinking inside out.

501 Westminster AvenueFulton, MO 65251

800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu

Private, Catholic, liberal arts collegefounded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and9 graduate programs. The only women-focused college in Ohio and one of fewin the United States. Ursuline teachesthe empowerment of self.

2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124

1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu

A liberal arts college of 1,500 students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore

is recognized internationally for its climate of academic excitement andcommitment to bettering the world.

A college unlike any other.

500 College Ave.Swarthmore, PA 19081

800-667-3110www.swarthmore.edu

SWARTHMORE

www.uccs.edu

P. O. Box 7150Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150

1-800-990-8227

TM

Located on the vibrant Avenue

of the Arts in Philadelphia,

The University of the Arts is

devoted exclusively to the study

of the visual, performing, and

media arts.

The University of the Arts®

320 South Broad StreetPhiladelphia, PA 19102800-616-ARTS (2787)

wwwwww..uuaarrttss..eedduu

THE UNIVERSITY OF THE ARTS®

Teen Ink Introduces Text Messaging!

We hope you take advantage of the new texting options to get informationfrom colleges.

While most texting promotions use your phone number to send additionaladvertisements, we don’t. We won’t sell your number or send you anyunrequested information, so you are in complete control.

Attention Students!

Join the Teen InkStudent Advisory Board

Teen InkWantsYour

F E E D B A C K TeenInk.com/StudentBoard

So many options for college...

1-866-CALL-HPU • www.hpu.edu/teen

• Ranked a “Best in the West” college by Princeton Review• Receive personal attention in classes under 25 students• Learn alongside students from more than 100 countries• Choose from more than 50 acclaimed programs

…the choice is clear.

Hawai ‘ i Pacific University

Suffolk University, located in vibrantdowntown Boston, offers over 80 areasof study, providing students with theskills and experience they need toachieve lasting success.

www.suffolk.eduUndergruate Admission 800-6SUFFOLK8 ASHBURTON PLACE, BOSTON, MA 02108

Commercials. We all hate them, some more thanothers. Many of us try to avoid them as muchas possible. But for those who watch them, I

have a reason why commercials may be a lot worsefor us than we think (besides the fact that they makeus wait five minutes for our favorite show to comeback on).

We may not even realize it, but much of what wesee on TV affects how we think and act. Televisionshows and commercials often put images in our headsthat we instantly believe. For exam-ple, when we see someone who has amental disability, such as Down syndrome, what do we think? Idiot?Charity case? We’ve all seen actorson TV call others “retards” if they areacting foolish. We’ve seen ads forcharities to help research mentalhandicaps. Watching this, someonemay conclude that these people arehelpless charity cases. This is wrong – dead wrong.

Two people who are very important to me havemental disabilities. My 10-year-old brother was bornwith autism. People with autism don’t look different,but they exhibit strange behaviors. It also affectstheir ability to communicate with others. He hasmore trouble with some things than other people do,but he manages to work through these challengesand succeed. He is now in fifth grade, near the top of his class, and serves as student council president.He is one of the funniest, most lovable kids you willever meet, and most people can’t tell he has autism.

I often forget myself. In addition, my uncle, who is 35, was born with

Down syndrome. This condition affects people bothphysically and mentally. Common physical character-istics are upward slanting eyes, small ears, and a largetongue. Down syndrome also affects a person’s abilityto learn. Although it may be at a slower rate, they dolearn, contrary to some beliefs.

Uncle John has challenges, but, like my brother,he manages to work through them and succeed.

He lives independently with a roommate who also has Down syndrome, and he has a job. John is loved by almost everyone hemeets. He is also rolling-on-the-floor-not-being-able-to-breathe funny, especially when he tells stories from his childhood. For example, when John was young heconvinced his sister (my aunt) to put

him in the dryer. He was hilarious then and contin-ues to tickle everyone’s funny bone. I cannot be nearhim for more than 30 seconds without bursting intolaughter. He can easily make anyone’s day a bit better. As I have hopefully shown with these examples, those with mental disabilities are morethan our televisions make them out to be.

“Try Proactiv and you too can be beautiful!” Yetanother miracle beauty product advertised on yourTV, this one claims it can clear up acne in just days.As realistic as some of these ads seem, they are veryunreliable. Do we ever see a person on one of those

commercials who is ugly after they try the product, orsomeone for whom the product didn’t work? Never,right? These ads try to put ideas in our heads that wewill be beautiful if we buy the product, and manyviewers buy products because they believe these commercials.

Nothing good can come from believing what commercials tell us – except disappointment and bad judgments. When your favorite TV show cuts to a commercial break, change the channel. Or try ignoring the commercials or finding something to do during the break. Then maybe we will all makefewer bad judgments about people and products. ✎

Stargirl by Rasheeda Smith, Balch Springs, TX

Dear Jerry Spinelli,I’m not your typical teenage girl. I

am homeschooled by my wonderfulmom. I have eight siblings who can be irritatingat times, though I still love them. I love creatingart from reusable items like cans, plastic, andnewspapers. I blog. I use photography to express myself, and I can’t go a day withoutreading one of my favorite adventure books.

Not long ago, I was what some people wouldcall a wallflower. I was very self-conscious andwould never raise my hand when the teacherasked a question. My list of friends was asblank as a sheet of white paper.And I would have rather eaten raw fish than socialize with othersmy age. But reading your bookStargirl inspired me to embracemy individuality.

When I first picked up yourbook, Mr. Spinelli, the title struckme as a bit odd, but as I beganreading, I started to comprehend why you choseit. Stargirl gave me a better perspective on howboth children and adults resolve situations whencoming in contact with new people. I think thereason some people don’t treat others with respect is because they don’t respect and lovethemselves.

I learned this firsthand at a school I attended.My first year there was third grade. The studentbody was 99.9 percent Christian, and I stood outbecause I wore a headscarf like many Muslimfemales do in public. In a school where all theother girls wore their hair uncovered, I wassomewhat uncomfortable. My headscarf made

me stick out as though someone had written abig red X on my forehead. Everyone wouldsnicker and stare; even the teachers treated medifferently. In my opinion, people like thatshouldn’t be allowed to work with children.

Almost every day I faced verbal abuse frompeers. Some would say “You’re ugly” or “Yousmell” or “Boys will never like you.” The list ofinsults went on and on.

It was very degrading to my self-esteem,which reminds me of what Stargirl had to dealwith. Nevertheless, she rebelled against thenegativity of others by remaining herself,

serenading her peers on their birthdays, and giving out candy and notes on special occasions. That is something I would haveliked to do, but I wasn’t boldenough at the time.

Stargirl and I are alike in otherways too. We both have beautifulspirits, we’re creative, smart, and

have the same perspective on the world. Cool,huh? Sometimes I imagine if Stargirl were topop out of your book, I’m sure we would begreat friends. But thinking about it now, thereprobably is a girl somewhere out there just likeme, looking for a friend like me. And one day Ihope we will meet.

In conclusion, before I read your book, Mr. Spinelli, I hadn’t found my path in theworld. But reading it helped me understand that every girl, including me, no matter whatrace or religion, is a Stargirl at heart.

Thank you for writing this inspirational book.Your biggest fan, R.M.S. ✎

Why Not?by Anthony, Wilmington, DE

Do you want to go to the boys club where the testosterone lingers like garlic chicken leftovers?Do you want to go to McDonald’s where dreams

and futures are ground up like the beef in the freezer?How about outside, where the “ghetto” is friendly to natives and hostile to outsiders like an unseen but always-present spirit?

Why not? I ask as I shuffle my feet, a million problemsin my mind but smiling as if I couldn’t care less. I wave tothe “gangsters,” “thugs,” and “hustlers” of the neighbor-hood. Why not?

I need to relax. I’ll have a stroke if I worry – brother isin jail and sister is pregnant yetagain. So why not? I deserve it. Inever knew there could be pressureto succeed at 14. It sucks when youhave to be the first in your family toattend college.

Broken bottles lie forsaken andbattered on the street, a bag lady

curses out pigeons in the distance. This is the other side ofsuccess, the not-so-glamorous world that many experi-ence. For some, it leads to ruin and despair. College is myonly hope. I lost my best friend to this ugly yet beautifulworld; I owe it to him.

Everyone is counting on me, my cousins on the corner,my friends who may not have the opportunity, and my late friend. I am determined not to let them down, and myambition will drive me through others’ expectations andpropel me in a successful jump into life after college.

So when I ask myself in the mirror, Do you want to go down in history as the first person in your family to excel, despite widespread inner-city clichés that make this journey seem trite? I say to this prominent ultimatumin my life, Why not? ✎

Almost everyday I faced

verbal abusefrom peers

This is the other side of success

A P R I L ’ 0 9 • Teen Ink

pride&prejudice


Change the Channel by Patrick, Franklin, MA

Photo by Garrett McMahon, Port Angeles, WA

Nothing good can come from believing what

commercials tell us

33


Poetry

Photo by Richard Foland, League City, TX


I Got the Joy!I got the joyto pop the cornside the walkswing the setmock the birdglow the wormgas the light

Tobreak the fastice the boxstair the wellschool the boysbubble the gumfrench the kiss

Toyellow the fevertreasure the chestmiracle the growmarry the goldnight the mare

Tojump the jack and back againI believeI believe I got it … that joy!

by Lydia Hynson, Thiensville, WI

Anti-HeroSaved by a fingertipholding onit could never be wrongto trust you.Watch me sleepheadphones, face-smushlegs curled, two-handed sleeping face palm.Silent guardianplayingPearl JamreadingCamus“… break his noseif he comes any closer …”Might have beennothing to you,but it carefullyflipped my world.

by Jaime Maxwell, Winnabow, NCwhen i am deadWhen I am dead, my dearest, don’t stick my bonestogether with Scotch tape. Do not try to fit themunderneath a frame. Use them, one by one,as a weapon, a gavel. My bones,they can be good back scratchers, honey mixers,and hands of clocks.

You can toss them across spaceand see how far they’ll glide until another handslips across it. When I am dead, dearest,thread my bones to the top of a mountain.

The next time you arrive at a glass sea,spill it boldly. Spell your life in two parts,watch them float until they descendlike a weight down into that container.

by Hannah Wright, W. Des Moines, IA

TravelerI have traveled the spine of the coastcrackedroughcurved like a turtle’s shellTrekked over mountainslike sharp incisorsand then across the soft bulge of the prairie’s bellyswollen with diseaseWalked through canyons’cracks on the massive skull of the desert

by Alexander Pollak, San Francisco, CA

There’s Plenty of Fish in the Sea, ButWho Wants to Go Out With a Fish?My face is breaking outred boils on my foreheadblack craters in my noseand Momma has her door locked.I got a 72 on my math testwhat if I don’t get into collegewill I be homeless in six years?and Momma has her door locked.Boys ignore meI bite my tongue ’til it bleedsdid I wear my shirt backwards on Monday?and Momma has her door locked.The scale says I gained five poundsI’m heavier than all my friendsmy pants are too shortand Momma has her door locked.I feel 15 thousand years older than yesterdaymy joints are all stiffwill I die before I get to be as old as Grandma?and Momma has her door locked.

by Molly Livingston, Jamesville, NY

ThanatopsisIn the midst of autumnMr. Bowne takes us outTo the old, white and brown wooden gazebo Outside the 400 hallwayThere is a cold, brisk breezeBlowing around the dead fallen leavesYou see the yellow and orange leaves at the

roots of treesAs you walk along the red bricks with moss in betweenThe awkward, confusing weather tricks the daffodilsInto coming out of the fertile ground to die soon Looking to the bright blue skyYou see the sun shine through the white, gray cloudsOne takes a glance around To see naked limbs of poor little treesI sit in the gazeboAnd take a moment of silence for those who lived and

left behind such beautiesI look up and find names such as Bob Hendricks, Mike

Goode, and Linda ChinskiStudent or faculty member who contributed to the

sensation of autumn Bowne says it’s time to go inI take a last look at the areaI see an everlasting evergreen that tells meLife goes on

by Naseef Tafader, Voorhees, NJ

Violin in ChildhoodThe vibration of the string resonatesagainst my neck –tightening the band aroundthat untraceable organ Istrive to avoid feeling. The soundof it is a sour, broken melody,and soaks the band in alazy acid, not burning, but irritating the soft skinjust enough to stop my bow.My muscles tense beneath my brow, frustrated. The band slackensin relief. But an unrelentingfear threatens to resurface –fear of forming a habit. Laziness.I pair it with the looming conscienceof the warden, listening fromacross the hall,and I anticipate another familiarache as I repeat my last cadenza.

by Jade James-Gist, Jackson, TN

Home Sweet HomeA thousand miles froma place that’s supposed to be a “home”when it’s just a housesheltering four peoplethat have nothing in commonexcept some DNA.

by Haley Nolan, No. Barrington, IL

Secret SwanYou.Gossamer swanbathed in moonlightshed of speechedge of the lakeyou are my most precious secret.

Yours.Glances I tuck awayinto the front of my shirtsto examine in class.Yours are the glances I relish.

You.Floating on water feet trailing behindwalking like JesusI pluck feathers braid into my hairsmells like mud and watersecret swanthin, fat string of calls I don’t understand.

by Jaden Gragg, Shawnee, KS

Lazy bounds of stadium lightflicker on our boys

but we are tearing up the night

cutting open nebulasravaging the moon

inky black guts slidei hear them scrambling over barbed wires

attempted lust in the treesfumbling with skeleton hips

adolescent lips digging into sharpened necksleaving their burrow to inhale sweeter highs

someone’s china-glass tears are heardbelow the idle roar

we are only allowed to screamwhen rubber balls are involved

pounding car ride far awaya cotton moon glares at the windshield

these earthly nightsnever felt so real.

by Yasmin Majeed, Cupertino, CA

A Cannibal in LoveI want to make a feast out of youyour fat swollen chops would be greatnourishment for my lovesick mindyour savory lips pack the flaky crunch

that goesperfectly with crimson molasses like mydear honey bear draining the life out of its bellyoh yes! the belly!my tongue yearns for medium rare sausages …your tubular will do perfectlyfillets off your midsectionstill fresh and perfect for sushiwon’t you say?I can’t wait to get a bite out of you andwon’t you want a piece of me too?

by ZiXiang Zhang, Ridgewood, NY


Poetry

Photo by Demetrius Anderson, Ft. Meade, MD


Youngest DaughterIn the night, sweat glued my thighs to my jeans; the mothsmelted like nodes of fat on the window screens while thecreek perused, a sluggish intestine of hot water; I lookedto see, in a corona of fireflies, my youngestdaughter. They stuck, lighting jewelry to her umberthroat. They were gemstones pulsing on hersoft grass-stained toes; they rippleddown her cheeks in tears ofjoy that say, “Mother …last night … Imet aboy.”

by Rita Feinstein, Glorieta, NM

Teen InkRAWReader’sChoice

Remnants on the MantleI am not you,just the remnants from the mantle of a deteriorating family, whisked away by the man with a crowbar and a blackening handle.When we used to be a threefold troupe, and you stomped all over it to crush the picture with your dirty foot.

It’s about time I rise up from who you are. I am so much more than your deafening resounds. Bravery and risk taking is who I am and you are nothing but the woman on the floor crying over your spilled milk.I am so much more.

by Ellen Frank, Noblesville, IN

BirthdaysI met you at Jessica’s fourteenth birthday party,where we stayed up all night on the couch.I don’t remember a word of what we talked about but I can still see you there, with the blanket

on your lap, and you were laughing. Always laughing.I’m glad we became best friends.

I was there for your fifteenth birthday –we watched “Flushed Away” at the Grand.We laughed about it as we ate cake in the glass party room where everyone could see us.I’m sure that if they noticed you, what they saw was thatyou were so alive.

You were there when I turned fifteen, and we ate at Friday’s.

I took a picture of you there.Your dad has it now, he keeps it with him.And I haven’t eaten there since.

Jessica didn’t celebrate her fifteenth birthday the same –

by then, you were gone.

For your sixteenth birthday, all your friends gatheredat your grave, and we wrote you notes.We rolled them up tight and put them in balloons.We sent the balloons away and pretendedyou would get them.

I turned sixteen.I lit a candle; I wished you were there.

Saturday is your seventeenth birthday.And it’s hard to believe. This year, I think we will try to forget.But your impact, it’s still here.It’s like tiny craters in my skin.And I will always remember you,through all the years.Through all the birthdays.

by Jillian Bush, Prentiss, MS

The Empty StreetsI watched the traffic lights change from green to yellow to red,from behind my steering wheel,from the other side of the glass.And I drove the empty streetsthat reminded me so much ofthe empty hallways of your heart;I guess I knew you weren’t coming back.So I circled the block once morehoping maybe we would passand I nearly thought we did,but those weren’t your headlightsthat I was staring at.The slow and steady pulsingof the biggest small town, cars passing through lightslike my blood through valves;missing you is like background noise,like traffic outside my window at night.And when I press my head to your chestto hear the slow and steady pulsingof your blood circling the block again,the stars spread out before me like city lights from atop a hill.

by Jessica Brenn, Wayne, NJ

Letter to IndividualityIndividuality, dearest one,

What has become of you?You are a flower so rare in this “modern” world.Pray tell, were you hiding from the world again,With Chivalry and Dignity, your secret friends?

It’s sad, the world without you.Did you hear Hope is lost,And Purity was taken?What has happened to Forgiveness, you ask?You’d best not know.Chaos bullies Innocence,And Sin rules supreme.

And poor Love and Romance,The sisters are no more.My dearest neighbors went away,And Lust has moved next door.

And Imagination Was run over by the band wagon.And Faith, her fate worse than death –The world believes her irrelevant.

Please, before more are taken,Save the world, for it is shaken,Teach us to think for ourselves,So the Virtues may return.

Always yours,Emily

by Emily Roldan, Bettendorf, IA

Writer’s BlockWriter’s block …fingers waxen, haltingtyping out a repetitive, ugly patternthe words like burns across the page.Hesitantly, I gingerly attempt to grasp hold of myunusually absent river of creativitytapping the flowguiding it to where it is needed, an irrigation system for

the drought in my headand am met with empty hands and slapped wrists.

by Jasmine Pesold, Park City, UT


you &

your

he

alt

h Pipe Dreamsby Daniel Madatovian, Glendale, CA

These days teens face a monumental amount of peer pressure. Trends in themethods of using harmful products such as tobacco and alcohol change fre-quently. The latest troubling fad is smoking hookah. The flavored tobacco

smoked in a hookah is more palatable to teenagers than cigarettes. There are manymyths about hookah smoking. For example, some teens believe that the water reservoirfilters dangerous chemicals out of the tobacco, making it a healthy alternative to ciga-rettes. Although this sounds plausible, it is not true. Hookah smoking is as dangerousas cigarettes, contains the same harmful chemicals, and does, in fact, involve tobacco.

For those who are unfamiliar with the term, a hookah is an intricately designedwater pipe for smoking flavored tobacco. Hookahs have been used in the MiddleEast since the 16th century. Tobacco dipped in molasses or honey with other natural

flavorings produces smoke that smells and tastessweet. A hookah consists of a bowl, body, vase, andhose. The bowl is packed with flavored tobacco andcovered in foil, which is perforated and covered withhot coals. Sucking on the hose produces smoke fromthe tobacco that has traveled down the shaft andthrough the water. Because the smoke passesthrough water, many erroneously believe that a

hookah filters out the harmful chemicals. However, hookah smoking contains the same harmful chemicals as cigarette

smoking, including tar, PAH, chrysene (a tumor initiator), and phenanthrene (a carcinogen). All of these have been known to cause cancer and are also found in cigarettes. One hookah smoking session has about double the tar of a cigarette.Smoking hookah can lead to lung cancer and cancers of the mouth and throat. In addition, it involves sharing a mouthpiece, which increases transmissions of infec-tions like herpes. Hookah smoking is also a gateway to marijuana use since a hookahcan be packed with pot instead of tobacco. When someone begins smoking, it is notvery difficult to cross into marijuana smoking, or unknowingly smoke a hookahlaced with marijuana.

Regardless of whether smoking a hookah is better for you than cigarettes, allforms of tobacco use can cause cancer. So when faced with the choice to try hookah,listen to the facts, not the rationalizations. ✎

RipplesMy own hands are betray-

ing me. I watch the waterin my glass ripple, and I

know it is happening again. I gripthe glass a little tighter, trying tostop the movement, but it’s no use.I place it on the counter and sink tothe floor.

The shaking spreads. It goes upmy arms until it reaches the rest ofmy body. I hug my knees to mychest and squeeze my eyes shut. Ido not cry out when I accidentallybite my tongue.

I rifle through my mind, trying tofigure out why this is happening.I’ve done everything I’m supposedto. It’s the Friday before an emptyweekend, so I shouldn’t be stressed.

I ran today like I always do. I’vebeen good and haven’t had any caffeine. Why now?

I’m still shaking too hard tomove. Little red crescents rise upon my skin where my nails cleavemy palms. No one calls. The door-bell does not ring. All I can do ishold on and wait.

Eventually, the shaking subsidesenough for me to stand. I keep onehand firmly on the countertop whileI straighten my shirt and push backmy hair. I pick up my glass andtake a long, slow sip. It’s over.

There is no one here but me. ✎Writer’s note: We don’t know whatcauses my shaking, but my doctorthinks it might be anxiety.

My Prison by Hannah, St. Louis, MO

The fan clicks unevenly. My pencil is off-center on the desk. My neighbor’snotebook is touching my arm. Breathe.

Don’t get overwhelmed. Focus. As the teacher lectures, my mind wanders to a

million other imperfections (mybags aren’t touching). Seemingly insignificant placements, noises, and sensations plague my mind,consuming my thoughts and trapping me in a prison of my own creation.

OCD. The letters roll softly offmy tongue now, not like their original excruciat-ing sharpness. Obsessive-compulsive disorder –these words are so commonly thrown around, adiagnosis often misused to describe Type-A personalities. Just the sound of thesethree words can bring anxiety andfear to a true sufferer, yet most peo-ple are unaware of the reality of thisdisorder.

I was officially diagnosed withOCD/panic disorder sophomoreyear. While others fretted overhomework, taking notes, and Friday night plans, my biggeststruggle was to stay in class. Ifought to control my bodyfrom showing outwardly thebattle I was fighting within.My main concern wasstaying me – staying“normal” – through all

the medications and countless hours of cognitivetherapy.

I would like to say that I conquered my battle,that I again became the good student I once was.However, junior year was one of the toughest of

my life. Meds changed – upped moreand more until the only thing I couldfeel was anxiety and anger.

Mistake number one: I gave up.Changing a thought process is hard. Idid not want to. Avoidance became mytop priority. I thought if I could avoid atrigger, I wouldn’t have a panic attack.

Mistake number two: I gave in. I succumbed tothe idea that my disorder defined and controlledme, rather than realize I had the strength to con-trol it and define myself. Finally my house of

cards crashed down on me, revealingmy laziness and self-deceit.

Accomplishment number one: Itook back control of my mind andmy emotions. No longer would my “issues” define who I was orexcuse my actions. My chal-lenges are still real and painful,but I have realized I have toolsto control most of my anxietyand can learn more. ThoughI still feel those compulsionsevery day, the effect theyhave on me is almost obsolete.

Accomplishment numbertwo: I became me again. ✎

Photo by Sadra Lemons, Buckeye, AZ

Photo by Susannah Benjamin, Greenwich, CT


Hookah smoking is as dangerous

as cigarettes

ZombieI’ll never forget those glassy mahogany eyes. How could I

forget the hollow glare they pitched my way and the sight oftheir owner arising from a deathly slumber?

“Mom?” my sister called, breaking the stillness of the house.“Mom?” And my mom came running.

“What is it, Adrianna?” My sister didn’t respond. “Are youawake?” Mom asked. At the time I thought it was a dumb question.

“I don’t know,” Adrianna answered. Mom instinctively knew theright questions to ask. My sister was sleepwalking.

Sleepwalking is fairly common in children; however, it also occurs in adults. But if sleepwalking is so common, why does theaverage person know so little about it?

Sleepwalking, also known as som-nambulism, causes people to get up,walk, run, and even talk in the third andfourth stages of non-rapid eye move-ment (NREM) sleep. In NREM sleep, aperson usually is not dreaming and hasslow breathing and heart rate. People

who sleepwalk are not aware of what is going on. They are notconscious and won’t remember what they did while sleepwalking.

How can you tell if someone is sleepwalking? People are differ-ent, and so are sleepwalkers. Some quietly amble about, while others run in an attempt to “escape.” Sleepwalkers are often slowto answer or don’t respond at all.

Sleepwalking has many causes, ranging from genetics to environ-mental factors. If someone in your family sleepwalks, it’s more likelythat you will too. Stress, alcohol, and drugs are factors, along with alack of sleep. Some psychiatric conditions, like post-traumatic stressdisorder and multiple personality disorder, cause sleepwalking too.

It is a little unnerving knowing that my sister wanders the housein a subconscious state. Even though I’ve only witnessed it once,that image remains etched in my mind. I’ll never forget her glassymahogany eyes. ✎

How can you tell if someone

is sleepwalking?

Most people are unaware of the reality

of OCD

by Amanda Sternklar,Glenmont, NY

by Christian DiMare,Uxbridge, MA

Winter Run by Ben Bugher, Newark, DE

Ping-pong is a sport that has the reputation for being nerdy and point-less, but if that’s your impression of it, you have a lot to learn. Letme explain.

Playing a match is like taking a test: you have to calculate angles andprobabilities under time pressure. If you don’t determine the right forceand acceleration, you might completely miss the ball. Professional tabletennis players do not become great overnight, as with any sport. Instead,they dedicate long hours (perhaps spent more productively elsewhere)learning.

It’s inevitable: the more you play, the more types of players you’ll encounter. The Ping-Pong Dork is the worst kind of challenger. He bringshis own signature paddle to the match, insists on using his regulation- standardized ball, will argue for hours about 40 mm versus 38 mm, and actually knows the names of the greatest players in the world. The mostpathetic part is he’s beaten mercilessly every time.

Then there are the cautious folk, the fear of defeat causing them to playconservatively. A more liberal style, on the other hand, suggests control.

You won’t try to slam when the game is moving ata fast pace, and you won’t attempt a cut serve whenthe score is 19-20. But when you can exploit theother player’s weakness and jump ahead, you’refree to miss all the slices and smashes you want.

Don’t think for a second this game isn’t cut-throat. Ping-pong teaches character. You can win,even if you’re down by 10, if you persevere with

tenacity. You learn to work against anxiety, sometimes caused by the otherplayer’s trick shots, sometimes by spectators, and sometimes by your ownpsyched-out self.

I remember one match against my dad, an opponent with over 30 yearsof experience. He quickly grabbed the lead, and the score stood at 17 to 10.It was my turn to serve. Boom! Boom! Boom! Three points off the return.Dad was starting to lose momentum, and he had broken into a sweat. BAM!I floated one. Can’t be doing that at this point, I thought. Nothing is worsethan the ball not even hitting the other side of the table (floating). Thescore was 18 to 13, creating a psychological crossroads: was it time to pullout my killer move – the Slam Slice Supreme – risking everything? Orshould I wait the momentum shift out, hoping Dad doesn’t regain hisrhythm? I chose the latter and won. Why? Dad lost his mental game, caus-ing him to lose the match.

Ping-pong is the art of cool – cool calculation, cool consideration, cooldelivery. The most successful players know when to go in for the kill andwhen to sit back and let the opponents kill themselves. Next time you havethe opportunity, play a game or two. You just might learn something. ✎


sp

or

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Ping-Pong Daredevil by Victoria Phillips, Laurel, MD

Dare-dev-il (noun): a recklessly daring person

No one believes me when I say I’m not a daredevil. It doesn’t help that I routinelyhang by a rope several hundred feet in the air, supporting my body weight withmy fingertips on ledges barely the width of a fingernail, with my life in the

hands of my climbing partner. Still, if you can get past those little details and hear meout, I promise you’ll see that I’m really not a daredevil.

I can’t blame people for the assumption. After all, pop culture insists that “rockclimber” is synonymous with “daredevil.” How can it notbe, with countless action flicks showcasing a half-nakedAdonis breaking every rule in the climbing book and almostgetting himself killed in the process? Since this is the onlyexposure most people ever have to the sport, they assumeHollywood’s version is typical. Why viewers would thinkthat this particular movie detail is real while they laugh atthe absurdity of the hero’s secret gadgets, I’ll never know,

but the fact is they do. The not-so-cinematically-exciting truth is that a good rock climberalways thinks, plans, and maintains control. We have to; our lives depend on it.

In rock climbing, nothing is done on impulse. If I wake up one morning and decideon a whim to go climbing, chances are a search-and-rescue team will pick me up dayslater, dehydrated and hypothermic, after I’vebeen stranded by a storm.Before I even lace up myclimbing shoes, I checkand re-check the weather.I also inspect my gear,pack food and water, andgo over a list of othersafety precautions.

Even on the rock itself,nothing I do is sudden.Every move of my bodyis controlled and thoughtout. If I jump, I waste energy that is in shortsupply on a vertical land-scape of barren rock. So Ithink, go slowly, movepur posefully, and climbsuccessfully.

Now tell me, does thatsound like a daredevil to you? ✎

He sat in front of the computer screen andstared, but he saw nothing. The YouTubevideos became a blur as he lost interest. He

had to get out. Everything was dull; he felt lost andlifeless. So he laced up his Nikes.

He stepped out into the crisp winter air, the kindthat burns your lungs and freezes your throat. Hestepped off the porch and took off. He didn’t knowwhere he was going, but he had to go;there was nothing for him here.

He ran at a brisk pace, his strides slowly coming into step with the beatingof his heart. Each stride took him fartherfrom home into the cold, but he feltwarm. He ran through grass, on side-walks and roads, across driveways,through neighborhoods and woods. Heran up and down hills, across bridges and streams.The cold pierced him like frozen needles, but he feltnothing. It began to snow, and the white crystalsstung his cheeks. He could have, and should have,turned back, but he ran on toward some unknowndestination.

His legs burned like fire, but he welcomed the heat;it brought him strength. He burned and burned untilthe fire began to dwindle away. Then he turned back.

Each step brought him closer to home, towardwarmth, out of the cold. He ran through grass, onsidewalks and roads, across driveways, throughneighborhoods and woods. He ran up and downhills, across bridges and streams. The cold bit intohim like a wolf devouring its prey, and he ached.

The snow had stopped, but he still felt the sting of the tiny white flakes. His strength diminished as

the cold dug deeper and deeper into him,trying to reach his fiery heart, but the coalsof the fire kept him going, fighting backthe chill. As the last glowing ember waslosing its life, he arrived home.

His whole body ached. His calves were stone, his thighs lead. He sat downwithout any hope of getting back up. It was amazing, though, how he felt. He was

rejuvenated, and the world had regained its color.For that short time, he had been free – away frompeople and computers and television. It liberatedhim, and once again he was full of life. He wasproud of what he had done, though no one else took notice.

It is amazing what going for a run can do. It revitalizes the spirit, mind, and body, and providesan escape from life’s burdens. ✎

Photo by Garrett Cherry, Schenectady, NY

Ping-pong is the art of cool

In rock climbing, nothing is done

on impulse

Each stridetook him

farther fromhome

Photo by Sophie McCormick, Wolfforth, TX

by Rachel Brockhage,Mason, OH

Five Sensesby Zainab Vasi, Plainview, NY

Ismell India before I see it: the mingled odors of street vendorsselling chapati and puri and coconut water, along with deli-cious cooking aromas wafting from houses. The bazaar smells

of ripe, freshly picked fruits and vegetables, some grown only inIndia. Coastal cities like Mumbai have the scent of the ocean andjust-caught fish.

Next comes sight. There is so much to see, I could not glimpseit all even if I lived my entire life in India. Vendors are selling allsorts of food. The poor are begging and smiling and selling trin-kets. I see big railroad stations and taxis and cars in the largecities. In the small towns, rickshaws speed along the narrow roads,

full to overflowing with schoolchildren orelderly parents. Small shops are spread outall over town, mostly within walking dis-tance. The ocean sparkles and glimmersinvitingly. In some areas, the Himalayanmountains make a beautiful backdrop.

And then there is the sense of touch. Thefruits and vegetables are crisp and cool. The air is almost tangible.

The taste of India is the taste of the air and chapatis, puris, andsamosas right off the stove. Sweet candies and marzipans freshout of the oven. Hand-picked vegetables and fruits are crisp andsweet. The naan is amazingly soft and fluffy.

Noise is a word for sounds that are loud, uncoordinated, and unharmonious. However, this does not describe India. The sound of India is more like music made up of common sounds. Peoplechattering on the street, vendors hawking their wares: these thingsare the melody, the high notes. The bass is the rickshaws’ enginesroaring and animals roaming the streets, their hooves thuddingagainst gravel, adding their voices. This is a melody that everyoneenjoys, a melody that completes the five senses of India. ✎

Bad Gamble by Kate Huh, Fullerton, CA

As everyone knows, ours is a fast-paced so-ciety. In a world of instant messaging andlightning-quick jets, busy vacationers look-

ing to make the most of their time flock to the oneplace where they can experience Rome, Paris, NewYork, and Luxor in a single night:notorious Las Vegas, Nevada. Withdizzying lights and hilarious fauxarchitecture, the city is mind-numb-ing and superficially entertaining.

When imagining the heart of thecity, most picture “the strip,” agrandiose four-mile section of LasVegas Boulevard South that featuresdozens of themed hotels like the Venetian, the Imperial Palace, and the Sahara. Tourists with cameras are often seen shooting from car windows

as drivers pass the lights and neon signs, eyes wideand mouths gaping.

To Las Vegas newcomers, the city is the ultimateget-more-for-your-buck experience. Where else,they ask, can one see Elvis Presley, the Eiffel

Tower, Roman statues, and Egyptianpyramids in the span of 15 minutes?But to the discerning eye and sea-soned Las Vegas frequenter – like me– Elvis is just a redhead with a beerbelly, the tower is a pitiful replica, thestatues are obviously painted plastic,and the pyramid is a big glass hoax.

The themed hotels make no at-tempt to capture the true essence of the locationsthey represent. The Luxor, for example, featuresmummies and pyramids, but where is the authenticEgyptian cuisine and indigenous music? Egyptianculture does not end at King Tut.

Though the City that Never Sleeps is, true to itsnickname, wildly entertaining – each hotel offersdecadent buffets and endless slot machines and arcade games – the cigarette haze eventually be-comes stifling, the clinking of coins rings annoy-ingly in the ear, and the artificiality becomesmind-numbing.

To visitors looking to sip margaritas and playblackjack until dawn, Las Vegas is paradise. But tovacationers looking to experience cultural depthand history, Las Vegas – for all its hilariousgrandeur and cultured airs – is a hopelessly badgamble. ✎


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A Summer of Excess by Taylor Wear, Kearneysville, WV

Las Vegas is mind-numbing

and superficiallyentertaining

I smell India before

I see it

The Explorer of the Seas is a name that brings tomind not string quartets and velvet-backedchairs, but rather bearded, yellow-slicker-wear-

ing Ishmaels in last-resort lifeboats, sailing right to theedges of maps (eyes to telescopes) into the uncertainparts that fearful cartographers used to label “here bedragons.” It’s an unusual moniker for a cruise ship.

She is swanky and upscale, with the prepackagedelegance of painted Egyptian gold and Las Vegaspink. At times she is so ludicrously extravagant thatshe is almost comical, with midnight buffets adornedwith ridiculous swans carved out of ice and moun-tains of food for passengers who really weren’t thathungry anyway. Every attraction isaimed at our desire to keep up withthe Joneses. Twenty-four hours a daypassengers can sample fluted glassesof the world’s finest champagne whileadmiring a handful of diamonds onher royal promenade. In the diningroom, floor-to-ceiling windows dis-play an absolutely breathtaking viewof the sapphire waters steadily lapping at the rudders– ignored by most for the flashing lights and chimingbells of the casino below. Who cares about the viewwhen you’re on a floating shopping mall?

On the fifth day, she docks at St. Martin, the Dutchhalf of a small tropical island in the northwestCaribbean. Mountainous and arid, the secluded beaches and picturesque scenery bring about a newkind of luxury, one that is innocent and undisturbed.The ocean here is a different shade of blue. It is not thedark foreboding navy that swallows up naive ships andsailors, but a brilliant azure that makes the sea almostindistinguishable from the sky. The water is clearenough for us to see the white sand trenches gettingsteeper and steeper beneath, like steps in a swimming

pool. The overpowering briny odor associated withmost North American beaches isn’t found here. Ratherthere is simply the fresh, clean scent of unadulteratedair, and something else you can’t quite put your fingeron, perhaps cotton or the damp flowery smell of anoncoming downpour. The vegetation is a shade ofemerald so bright it’s almost painful to look at. Thereare smiling women with warm, welcoming bellylaughs and faint Eastern European accents sitting onwoven blankets in the sand, braiding their daughters’jet-black hair into thick ropes. You get the feeling thatyou are floating in a fishbowl; the sky and sea and airare your own private kingdom, foreign and exhilarat-

ing, but familiar and therefore safe.* * *

The detour is an accident. Like forgetting to carry the one when addingor washing a red sock with a load ofwhite shirts, it seems small and inconse-quential at first but nevertheless causeschange. The fishbowl is turned over andeverything perfect disappears, leaving

you gasping for air and fumbling for the map. Youfind yourself in the outskirts of town, the sky now anominous gray. The white sandy beaches and ceruleanwaves are replaced by gravel roads, dusty sidewalks,and crumbling stucco buildings with broken win-dows. You aren’t sure where you are; all you know isthat it feels vacant and hollow, much like the shat-tered glass bottles scattered about or the empty shellsof businesses in this ghost town in paradise.

Then, a girl about your age steps out of a laundro-mat carrying a baby. Her coarse dark hair is twistedbehind her head, there are dark bags circling her eyeslike bruises, and her sandals are too big. For a terrify-ing second, you think she is looking at you, and youjerk your head away.

You have seen poverty before. When you were seven, your parents took you to visit your grandparentsin Nogales, a small border town in Mexico. You werestanding near a vibrant rainbow of a mural when a boyyour age scurried up. His face was dirty and his heav-ing chest bare, and hand-beaded necklaces were strungon his thin right arm like Christmas tree garlands. Heoffered you one, catching you off-guard. The neck-laces were pretty, but you didn’t have any money, andyou reached for your cousin’s hand – why, you’re notsure. You remembered the four words your father hadtaught you, “Lo siento, no gracias,” and you smiledawkwardly, ashamed and uncertain. But before youwere even on the second syllable, the boy turned andran off to find his next customer. You were shaken.

Now, at 15, you see a difference between Mexicoand what you find here. The living conditions are just as bleak; it is the people who are different. InNogales, they were impoverished yet determined,survival of the fittest. They did what they had to toget by. Here, though, it feels more desperate, hope-less. There is a sense of having given up and lettingnature run its course. At 15, you know what irony is.You look up and see rows of million-dollar summervillas owned by white people who are rarely here,carved into the rock cliffs above these slums.

Evening is falling; it is time to get back on boardthe Sunset-Strip-with-rudders and take your place inthe dining room. Your friendly Trinidadian waitress,who works 11 months each year to pay her son’s education back home, serves you. Suddenly the lob-ster bisque and strawberry napoleon seem less appe-tizing. You look out the window – you’re the onlyone doing so – and watch the island, the beaches, theyoung mother and her too-big shoes, grow smallerand smaller until they’re a tiny speck on the horizon.And you think, Never again. ✎

The sky and sea and air are

your own privatekingdom

Photo by Mike Bailey-Gates, Harrisville, RI

38


Tra

vel&

Culture

A South African Song by Quinn Nichols, Hopkinton, NH

An array of color cast by the flurry of 24 skirtsstrolled down the street in the chilly morning.My footsteps were deliberate and purposeful.

In anticipation of our visit, we had prepared a shortclap dance routine and clumsily rehearsed our singingover dinners at our hostel. I was not nervous aboutvisiting the township high school. Armed with thementality that we were here to make a difference, I figured we would enter the school grounds and bestow upon the poverty-stricken students a little bitof hope, just as their principal had requested of us.

Waterval Boven lies within the province ofMpumalanga in eastern South Africa. RepresentingThe Traveling School, my 18 classmates and our sixteachers were staying in a hostel a few blocks fromMain Street. The effects of apartheid are evident here.A resident from the surrounding suburbs with a pock-etful of rand can hit uptown for basic necessities (grocery stores, gas stations, post-offices, and banks).In the opposite direction is the township, which en-compasses dirt paths and meager homes constructedfrom any materials inhabitants can scrounge up. Wewitnessed this poverty from the point of view of

sheltered outsiders. We watched mothers clutching thedirty hands of their children by the dancing flames oftheir cook fires. Clotheslines swayed beneath theweight of drying garments. Countless dogs with un-ruly coats and eyes glowing with hunger scavengedfor food among squealing pigs that scamperedthrough the dirt. Seeing a colorful township garden ora tin roof weighed down by rocks, some might say,“How cute.” But our principal emphasized that town-ship life “is not something to be romanticized.” Shewas right, of course. Why else would the principal ofImemeza High School wish for us to bring hope intothe classrooms of students who know no other life?

Journeying through the mist on thatearly South African morning towardthe township of Waterval Boven, weheld that purpose in mind. We walkedwith a subtle bounce in our steps, eagerto transplant something positive intothe school atmosphere, to leave some-thing intangible and significant behindin remembrance of our visit. The cheer-ful exclamations of the younger chil-dren as we passed the primary school buoyed our confidence. They called out to us through toothy grinsand burst through upper story windows to blow kissesin our direction. Our anticipation increased; we couldnot wait to arrive at the high school and spread ourAmerican hope.

When we entered the looming iron gate of ImemezaHigh School, my confidence was shattered. I felt asthough the students regarded us with disdain. They certainly were not blowing kisses. I wanted to back outof the gate and scuttle back to the primary school. Myclassmate Mallory motioned toward a group of boys;one had decorated his backpack with the words, “Don’tlabel me a criminal.” Needless to say, I was intimidatedby the unfamiliarity. I don’t belong here, I thought desperately, with my fancy camera and colorful skirt.Surely I was far too naive, far too American to enter

these grounds on the grand pretense that I was here tomake a difference in anyone’s life.

I no longer knew what our mission was when we finally found ourselves at the front of a classroom,subject to all those expectant eyes. Hesitantly we facilitated a game of Pictionary on the chalkboard, secretly cowering within. To our grateful surprise, the room sprang to life. Team members approachedthe board to demonstrate their artistic skills (or lackthereof), and the room erupted in a cacophony oflaughter, cheering, and encouragement. Absorbing thestudents’ energy, we performed our clap dance. Sud-denly, everyone in the room was united in a clapping

rhythm. It was a profound moment ofconnection, a cultural merging thatwords cannot do justice.

Afterward, the students burst into abreathless symphony of buttery voices.When they performed their national an-them, I felt that I could touch the spiritof this country’s past seeping throughthe melody if I reached my hand intothe air before me. One boy stood on a

table and sang with his eyes closed, his fist clenchedpassionately in the air. “I am South African,” said onegirl, as though that said it all.

In the end, I had not the slightest idea whether ourmission was a success. We might pretend we stimu -lated something within them, but I think the energywas already there, a gift passed down from mother todaughter and father to son. Through their music andheavily accented English, the students communicatedtheir soaring strength and pride despite the povertythat surrounds them. They are teenagers like us withdreams of becoming psychologists, financial analysts,and entrepreneurs. Although we came to make a dif-ference in their lives, we were the ones who walkedaway changed, emerging from the school gate with an increased cultural awareness and strands of theirmusic interwoven into our hearts. ✎

Spiritual Shock by Alison Gerver, Wyckoff, NJ

“Dear God, please let my great-grandmother be healthy …,”my pen scrawls. Sitting on

the empty steps, I write a prayer in theOld City of Jerusalem. There is silencearound me as others prepare prayers to beplaced into the Kotel. I have never prayedbefore, I think, as my eyes scan the shopsfilled with Judaic art and jewelry.

I finish my prayer and the hairs on myarms stand up. Thoughts of my deceasedgrandfather stir in my head; I am in a stateof spiritual shock. As much as I try not tocry, I can’t help myself. My close friendslook worried, and I cannot find the wordsto reassure them, so I get up and walk.

As my sneakers pound the pavement tothe Kotel, I think, Could this be a sign thatI am connecting with my religion? I pushthrough the crowd of Hassidic women toslip my prayer as high as I can reach into asmall crevice of the wall to the right of ashrub growing out of this sacred space. Istartle myself in my call to God. I lay myhand gently on the wall as if I am going tobreak it and I lean my head on it too. I re-cite my prayer and listen to the blessingsbeing chanted around me. My feeling ofisolation in this crowd bonds me to my

faith and my family. I know that I willnever be alone, for spirituality ties me tomy family and God.

It has been four days since my en-counter at the Kotel and I’m volunteeringin Haifa with six teens from my trip. After a few hours at the day camp, I meetIsraeli and Palestinian teens who are partof a peace program. Behind Yael’s thickeyelashes is a 16-year-oldgirl who would do anythingfor peace and loves herPalestinian friends. “I ampro-Israel,” Aseel says as wedrink iced coffee. It neveroccurred to me before thatthere are Palestinians whoare pro-Israel.

While discussing ourcommon interests in peace, travel, music,movies, art, and nature, we form a un-breakable bond. Saying farewell isn’t really a good-bye because we have madea promise to see each other again. I willnever forget meeting these Palestinianand Israeli teenagers. It is a once-in-a-lifetime experience that has left me moreopen-minded, with a desire to spreadfriendship, hope for our generation, and

understanding of our cultures.As I fly home from Israel and consider

what I have learned, my experience inMorocco is in the forefront of my mind.While I was there, my eyes were openedto Arab culture. While my long skirtswept along the dirty, overcrowded medi-na, I realized the importance of valuingthe freedoms I have as an American

woman. The majority ofArab Moroccan women arenot permitted to obtain aneducation, must cover theirbodies from head to toe, andare not allowed to maketheir own decisions. Experi-encing life in Morocco asan American Jewish teenchallenged my values, my

assumptions, and my ideals.Before this trip, my religion did not

have that much of an influence on me norwas I very interested in it. During my tripI realized how blessed I am. While experi-encing new cultures with teens my ageand forming incredible lifelong friend-ships, my priorities changed. I am moreconnected to my religion and my family. I learned that teens around the world in

different cultures are more alike than Ithought.

Seeing and experiencing how people inother countries live and the way they aretreated taught me a lot. I cherish my fami-ly and my education more than ever. Now,my curiosity is piqued. What else can Idiscover about the world and myself? I willnever forget how this trip changed mylife, leading me down a path of questionsrather than quick answers. ✎

Suddenly, everyonein the room was

united in a clapping rhythm

Art by Margaret Gilroy, Hillsborough, NJ

Photo by Juliana Marín, Medellín, Colombia


Could this be asign that I am

connecting withmy religion?


Fallout 3

The name Bethesda Soft-works makes many think

of “Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion.”This is about to change sincethe company released “Fallout3,” which was voted best role-playing game (RPG) of 2008 atthe Spike Video Game Awards.This has quickly become myfavorite game.

The story begins with themain character’s birth in an underground vault. Many ofthese vaults are located aroundWashington, D.C., to protectpeople from the nuclear holo-caust that occurred 200 yearsbefore the game’s setting of2277.

The player chooses his or her abilities and is thrown intosome challenges to learn thecontrols. Soon the main charac-ter’s father leaves the vault, andyou must find him. You ventureinto a wasteland where multiplequests await you.

This game may turn somepeople off because it is anRPG, but it has as much actionand speed as any other shootingor first-person game. I bought“Fallout 3” thinking I wouldn’tlike it since I’ve never been afan of the RPG gaming style,

but after five minutesof play, Iknew it wasspecial.

The quests never become tedious, and for shooter fans,there are guns. “Fallout 3” uses VATS (Vault-Tec AssistedTargeting System), whichfreezes everything around you,allowing you to choose exactlyhow you would like to attackyour enemy. You can watch inslow motion as the bullets flyor a knife or fistfight plays out.The idea of watching the actionagain and again in slow motionmay sound boring, but actually,it’s the complete opposite. Youare excited to see how the bat-tle will go next time with a different enemy. Or, conversely,you can just aim your weaponand fire it like any other game.

Now, a look at the problems.Honestly, there are few. Whileplaying, at times the gamewould stop for a second. An-other problem I had was thepartner AI. The main charactercan have followers, but some-times they become more of ahassle than an aid. The partnermight run off and attack an enemy out of your sight, andthey always have to take thelong way around since they

cannot jump down or over obstacles.

These problems are easy tooverlook considering howmuch work was put into thegame and how massive thewhole playing experience is. I give “Fallout 3” five out offive stars. ✎

by Fernando Perez, Glendale, AZ

COMPUTER/XBOX 360/NINTENDO DS/WII/PS2/PS3/MOBILE

Call of Duty:World at War

Hoping to expand on thesuccess of Infinity Ward’s

“Call of Duty 4: Modern War-fare,” Treyarch has continuedthe series with “Call of Duty:World at War.” The WWIIshooter game setting is over-used, but somehow Treyarchmade it fresh. They accom-plished this through refining Infinity Ward’s features, suchas the online ranking systemand multiplayer, moving thetheatre of the battles, and introducing some amazing new features.

What I LovedDetail: Every room you enter

in the campaign has somethingnew to look at, without any thatare empty or repeated. Thisshows the effort the creators putinto making this game realisticand how much they respect theseries and the gamers.

Scale: Certain battles arehuge; for example, the Bloodand Iron level will blow youaway with its size and the num-ber of people shooting at you.This complexity takes time andeffort to develop, not like simplyplacing 42 troopers throughout alevel and letting them go. Theyprogrammed each individualtrooper’s interactions with hisenvironment and the player ashe progresses through the game.

New Settings: The past Callof Duty games (except “Mod-ern Warfare”) were set duringWorld War II. Once again, theseries travels back in time butintroduces a new setting: thePacific Theatre. This gameshows the struggles the U.S.Marines had against the Imper -ial Army of Japan. It makes fora fresh setting and fresh tactics,as you have to deal with a severely entrenched JapaneseArmy that has no qualms aboutrushing at you headfirst.

Cut Scenes: These scenes between missions are amazing,showing a beautiful version ofthe experiences of troops, andhow the mission is progressing.Actual video of the war is

included, which is sometimesgruesome but connects you tothe real history.

Realistic Deaths: When itcomes to video games, I’m allabout realism, and this game de-livers. The gory effects make iteven more jarring and realistic.

Multiplayer: Once again“Call of Duty” delivers withmultiplayer. All Treyarch reallydid was update Infinity Ward’sversion, but it’s still amazing. Itencourages players to improvein order to unlock better guns.Treyarch added a plethora ofnew perks, weapons, and greatgame maps.

What I HatedEnemy AI: AI, or artificial

intelligence, is a major sellingpoint in games today, and al-though Treyarch throws a lot ofbad guys at you, they are aboutthe stupidest bunch I’ve everseen. The Banzai troops’ solejob is to run right at you, eventhough you can’t be attacked by

more than one.So there aretimes whenthey’ll runpast all of the

troops in front of you and whenthey get to you, one will attackand the rest just keep running.Also some enemy soldiersdon’t even shoot you when you get close to them.

Storytelling: Despite thescale, detail, and cut scenes, thestory isn’t all there. The charac-ter you play is never given aface or a personality, perhaps inthe hope that you’ll see yourselfas him, but that doesn’t happen.The story is also very scripted,and parts are predictable if youhave played a Call of Dutygame before. Despite Trey -arch’s attempts to realisticallyrepresent this horrible war thattaxed all nations, you don’t fully connect to it.

I rate it 8.5 out of 10.

by Evan Witham, McDonough, GA

PS3/XBOX 360/WII

Mega Man 9

“Mega Man 9” looks likea game from the ’80s.

While most might dismiss itbecause of this, the gamingcommunity knows exactly whythis game looks and plays theway it does. The reason is sim-ple: newer is not always better.

Over the past 10 years, MegaMan has been through manychanges both in appearance andgameplay. After the release of“Mega Man ZX,” the bluebomber had produced fourgame series. Mega Man is nowthe gaming franchise with the

largest number of games in theworld, but when it comes to fun and quality, it’s always theoriginal Mega Man that gamersturn to.

Capcom, the creators of theseries, apparently took note ofthis; after 10 years, they’ve created a true sequel to “MegaMan 8.” This release marks thebeginning of Mega Man’sdowngrade to a better series.

Mega Man isn’t the onlycharacter to be downgraded,Wario, Mario’s popular neme-sis, has returned to his 2-Droots with “Wario Land: ShakeIt!” the fifth installment of thatseries. Using an incredibly detailed animation style, thesecond-party developer Good-

Feel Gameshas createdwhat is essen-tially a play -able cartoon.

The visual style, merged withthe motion controls of the pop-ular Wii gaming console, makefor a great combination of newand old technology.

A third, more unsettling titlehas caught the attention of thegaming community. “SilentHill: Homecoming,” the sixth inthe series (eighth counting thearcade and cell phone versions),remains true to the previous entries, even though it is nowdeveloped by American com -pany Double Helix. To this day,the Silent Hill series remainslargely untouched (with minorchanges to the more problemat-ic areas), and we can expect theseries to deliver trademark sym-bolic and disturbing imageryalong with the occasional scare.

Though we live in a world of quickly progressing tech -nology, there is still a demandto return to simpler methodsand styles. As long as this feel-ing exists within the gamingcommunity, we can expect old to become new again invideo games. ✎

by Brandon Turley, Akron, OH

COMPUTER/PSP/XBOX/WII/GP2X

Cave Story

Lately I have been searchingfor a good game. Many

gamers believe this comesdown to graphics. Techno -logical advancements continueto raise the bar, but even afterplaying games with spectaculargraphics, I felt starved. Sure,games continue to evolve tomore closely resemble reality,but graphics weren’t what I washungry for. No, I needed storyline and gameplay, which many

games lack.“Cave Story,” by Daisuke

Amaya (who goes by “Pixel”)and the company StudioPixel,is a free, downloadable sci-fi/fantasy computer game that fol-lows a mysterious cyborg boysuffering from amnesia. After abit of adventuring, he finds atown inhabited by rabbit-likecreatures called Mimigas.When the main character ar-rives, the town’s population has

dwindled tosix. As thestory pro-gresses, youuncover in-

formation about their historyand find out why you are there.You befriend Sue, and the mys-teries start to build.

Although the game is inJapanese, fans have made anEnglish patch to translate it.Five years of work has resultedin a side-scrolling, 8-bit slice ofnostalgia that reminds me ofthe old NES games. The game-play is a mix of old-schoolMegaman and Metroid side-scrollers – basically, a 2-Dworld. The keyboard controlsare easy to get used to.

Since this game is freeware,it’s absolutely free to downloadand play. A run-through of“Cave Story” would take atleast seven hours, which cantriple (or even quadruple) whenexploring the many secrets anddifferent endings.

The graphics are not top-notch and have been criticized.What many forget, though, isthat Daisuke never intendedthem to be the best. Althoughthe graphics aren’t wonderful,they serve the purpose. Thesoundtrack is also old-fash-ioned, resembling that of an arcade game. Even so, the com-poser made each song uniqueand catchy. The plus side is thatsince the graphics and soundquality are both quite low, mostcomputers should be able torun “Cave Story.”

This game isn’t famous forits graphics or music, but for itsstory. The game itself isn’t veryhard, but it isn’t a stroll on thebeach either. The quests areeasy, and the comfortable con-trols won’t leave you frustrated.Once you submerge yourself inthe plot, you will want to tearpast levels and decimate mon-sters so you can learn moreabout the story.

So what are you waiting for?Grab the Deluxe Package fromwww.miraigamer.net/cavestory.You are only a download away! ✎

by Derek Zhang, New York, NY


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SKA

StreetlightManifestoSomewhere in theBetween

This album has been a longtime coming. Streetlight

Manifesto is known for its perfectionism, which explainswhy this 10-track disk tookfour years to make. While a bit on the short side, it’s one of the best albums ever made,certainly the best that ska fanshave heard in years.

Ska bands are known to begeneric; 90 percent of themsound almost identical, with

offbeat guitar parts(similar tothose of reggae), fast

tempos, and horn sections withshort interjections.

Streetlight Manifesto tran-scends this mold with a rarecombination of ska/punk andEastern European genres likenothing listeners have heard before. The only features thattie this band to the ska sceneare its fan base and horn sec-tion. Featuring Matt Stewart ontrumpet, Mike Soprano ontrombone, and Jim Conti on alto and tenor saxophone, thegroup is one of the best ever assembled in a non-jazz envi-ronment. And these guys canplay; the horns are the drivingforce.

Much of the credit also be-longs to Tomas Kalnoky, themadman at the controls of thismusical freight train. He writesthe lyrics and composes themajority of the instrumentationon an acoustic guitar at oddhours of the night. As Kalnokyhas said in album liner notesand interviews, he writes achord progression on the guitarand hums a melody, which hethen gives to the horn section toflesh out. While this may seemlike a strange way to write music, it certainly is effective.There is never a dull momenton this album.

I have noticed that the aver-age musician struggles with theart of transition. When chang-ing tempo, key, or dynamic (orall three at once), most musi-cians tend to run astray. This isnot the case with StreetlightManifesto. Their tightness canbe attributed to the band’s fouryears of touring. On “Some-where in the Between,” everytransition is executed perfectly.In fact, most listeners barelynotice the changes. Even moreimpressive, their transitions arejust as perfect live, a feat that

few bands can boast.While every track is strong,

the highlights are “Would YouBe Impressed?” and “What aWicked Gang Are We.” Thehypnotic breakdown in the former keeps the listener entranced as the tension buildsfrom barely audible guitar riffsand quiet vocals to wailinghorn lines and screaming vocals that declare, “I lookedaround, I stood alone, I knewwhat I had to say, I said it’s allmy fault!” In the other song,the contemplative lyrics in-spired by Shakespeare andsoulful melodies of the hornsection draw the album to abeautiful conclusion, leavinglisteners wanting more.

This is one of the most talented groups out there. It is nearly impossible to find aweakness in this album. It isthe modern equivalent of PinkFloyd’s “Dark Side of theMoon,” a masterpiece filledwith subtle intricacies that become more apparent witheach listen.

The best word to describethis music is “intense.” It is byno means easy listening, and itmay seem loud and annoying atfirst, but I promise, once youget into Streetlight Manifesto,you will never get out. ✎

by Christos Schrader, Wyckoff, NJ

POP

PortisheadThird

After a 10-year hiatus, Portishead is back with

the release of “Third.” Theband combines jazz, hip-hop,and experimental music to produce a unique sound. Thisalbum definitely is not theirbest, but that doesn’t stop mefrom loving it.

Portishead picked up exactlywhere they left off and cameback as strong as before.

Beth Gibbons’ vocals seempart of theinstrumen-tals at times,with herEnglish ac-

cent tinged with a bluesy feel.But often there is an obviousconcentration on vocals, whichillustrates her great imagery.The perfection of lyrics isripped apart by electronic beatsand trippy riffs. Gibbons’ voicetells a story like no other, be-coming a part of it and you.

As someone who spendsmost of her time paying atten-tion to the instrumentals, I wassurprised by the lyrics. Gibbonsgrabbed my attention with her

riveting tone. The songs are spooky but

inviting, with influences fromRadiohead, Hendrix, Joy Divi-sion, and Howlin Wolf. Theriffs provide a labyrinth foryour mind to spiral into. Songslike “We Carry On” have me-thodic, sinking beats and guitarriffs that remind me of SonicYouth’s prime.

Portishead can go from beau-tiful melodies to gut-wrenchingriffs instantly – not the stuffyou can dance to. “MachineGun” features hard-hitting electronic beats that stay withyou, and are both haunting andmesmerizing. This interestingblend allows for short breakfrom the intensity with “DeepWater,” which brings you backto reality.

You’ll be compelled to give“Third” a second listen. Nowonder website last.fm pro-claimed it the second-best album of the year. ✎

by Emily McKinstry, New City, NY

METAL

Judas PriestPainkiller

Imagine my utter shock anddismay when I took a stroll

through the archives of TeenInk to find a disappointing lackof reviews of British heavymetal band Judas Priest. “Pain -killer,” acclaimed as one of theband’s most prodigious offer-ings (and my personal favorite)was Judas Priest’s twelfth studio album.

Despite its having been released in 1990, this album remains one of the greatest“complete” metal albums. Youcan hit play on any track andbe thunderstruck by the simpleyet hard-hitting lyrics, electri-fying riffs, and of course thebreakneck finger-melting,mind-numbing solos that metal

fans crave.Things kick off from the get-

go on the title track. Leadsinger Rob Halford’s octave-defying vocal range gets youfired up for the impendingmarch of the Painkiller (a fic-tional creation of Judas Priestthat the song revolves around).Even though it’s doubtful any-

body couldreplicateHalford’sastoundingvocals

(somewhat akin to King Diamond), you can’t stop yourself from singing along to the chorus: “He … is … thePAIN-KILL-ER! This … is …the PAIN-KILL-ER!”

And did I mention the drumsolos? Scott Travis, followingthe departure of Dave Holland,takes his craft to a whole newlevel. He sets the groundworkfor what makes this album atrue classic.

Guitarists K.K. Downing andGlenn Tipton are bloody mad-men (I had to squeeze in a bitof British lingo). If you don’tbelieve me, go check out thetunes “Metal Meltdown” and“Hell Patrol.” To see these guysplaying live must be a realtreat, as I’ve ascertained fromwatching a few of their scarceconcert videos.

However, don’t assume theirsongs are all expeditious for thesake of speed; they slow thingsdown at the album’s end withthe oft-underrated “Living Bad Dreams,” which brings asmooth rhythmic close to thisbreathtaking album. In myopinion, “Painkiller” takes itsplace at the top of the heavymetal regime alongside suchgreats as Metallica’s “Master of Puppets,” Iron Maiden’s“The Number of the Beast,”and Megadeth’s “Peace Sells –But Who’s Buying?”

Unfortunately, I can onlyrecommend this album to those

who have delved into metal’sroots, as I have found that Halford’s vocal styling can beoff-putting to those unaccus-tomed to the genre. That said,if this album has somehowslipped by you, take a momentand give some serious thoughtto purchasing this unsung heroof heavy metal.

After nearly two decades,“Painkiller” is still the favoriteof many a metalhead, and I can almost guarantee you’llfind yourself unable to partwith it. ✎

by Corey Patton, Kamuela, HI

POP

David ArchuletaDavid Archuleta

David Archuleta’s self-titleddebut album is one of

those discs that never get old. If you are a fan of pop, soft ballads, or just good music torock around your bedroom to,you will be starstruck.

The album opens with thechart-topping song “Crush.” IfArchuleta’s voice hasn’t capti-vated you after that number, thenext few will most certainlyleave you wanting more.

Archuleta really brings “teenlife” to his songs and speaks to

his listenersabout fallingin love, theconfusion of breaking

up and, of course, “crushing,”which any teen can understand.Archuleta closes with the phe-nomenal “Angels,” originallysung by Robbie Williams.Slower tracks on the album(“You Can” and “To Be WithYou”) fit perfectly with thefaster, more upbeat “Touch My Hand,” “Running,” and“Don’t Let Go.”

What makes us fall head-over-heels in love with this 17-year-old rising star? Is it hisvoice? His talent? His charm?Normally, I listen to classicrock radio stations; I grew upwith the music my dad playedin the car. I love bands likeAmerica and The RollingStones, so I never imagined Iwould love a pop singer likeArchuleta. But his fantasticvoice, upbeat attitude, and conservative values really drawteens – and their parents – tothis sensational new album.

It doesn’t matter whetheryou are eight or 78: you will beable to relate to any song on thealbum. It’s worth your while topick up a copy today. ✎

by Jillian Langford, E. Grand Rapids, MI

The hornsare the

driving force

Hauntingand mes-merizing

Top of theheavy metal

regime

Brings“teen life”

to his songs

Photo by Bianca Azcuy, Damascus, MD


Mo

vie

&TV

revi

ew

s DRAMA

RevolutionaryRoad

Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet star as Frank

and April Wheeler, a youngcouple unfulfilled by theirmundane life in the suburbs.When they settle down on Revolutionary Road, they realize that their dream of marital bliss is quickly fading.

April wants to move the fam-ily to Paris, a city Frank alwaysfelt was “alive.” Despite theirneighbors’ disapproval, Apriland Frank pursue their goal to

lead inter-esting lives.The physi-cal andemotionalchallenges

that follow hinder the couple’shappiness as they struggle tokeep their dreams alive.

Based on the novel byRichard Yates, “RevolutionaryRoad” explores the realities ofa crumbling marriage and apa-thy. Set in the 1950s, the glam-orous, wholesome setting jux-taposes with the couple’s bleakprospects. The impeccable setand costume design help sus-pend a modern-day audience’sdisbelief and bring us into anew world. Grim realismwrapped in a 1950s sheen iswhat gives this film its impact.

Background music appearsand disappears at the perfectmoments. Silence adds to thetension during arguments, andmusic brings an unreal aura toother scenes. In the club, whenApril dances with her neighbor,the music creates an emotion -ally numb atmosphere. Musiconly appears where it would inreal life – another element thatmany movies lack.

Winslet, DiCaprio, MichaelShannon, and Kathy Bates all give extraordinary perform-ances that bring the story alive.The leads’ previous work on“Titanic” produce a high levelof comfort, allowing them topush even further. The emo-tional intensity is believableand entertaining, as is the fuming banter between thecharacters.

Two complaints: Winslet’sAmerican accent sounds unnat-ural, and DiCaprio’s violentscenes often feel melodramatic.Despite this, the film definitelydeserved more Oscar nomina-tions than it received. Shannon’sportrayal of the Wheelers’ men-tally ill neighbor garnered hima well-deserved supporting- actor nomination.

Although the depressing

subject matter couldn’t havecome at a worse time – with oureconomic crisis, food shortages,environmental issues, and so on– it’s still a must-see. Eventhough the main characters both“play the victim,” “Revolution-ary Road” brings insight intothe human experience. Unlikeother films with similar storylines, the Wheelers’ argumentsare free of unrealistic wit, andthe ending is grim (but notwithout a surprise).

Overall, this movie’s stellarwriting, gut-wrenching acting,and remarkable directing makeit an invigorating film. Althoughweak in spots, the gripping story line and talented cast carry it through. ✎

by Naomi Desai, Richmond Hill, ON, Canada

This movie is rated R.

COMEDY

Confessions ofa Shopaholic

“Confessions of a Shopa-holic,” a romantic

comedy based on the novel bySophie Kinsella, will touchyour heart and tickle your funny bone. Don’t let the titlefool you – this is more thanyour average chick flick. Theunique characters and witty dialogue make it entertainingfor both genders.

“Shopaholic” follows thestory of Rebecca (Isla Fisher),a shopaholic who lives forGucci, Prada, and Chanel. Lifeis good until Rebecca findsherself under a mountain of

debt withouta job. Be-lieving she isapplying forher dreamjob at a fash-

ion magazine, Rebecca some-how lands a gig at a financepublication instead. Neverthe-less, her column is instantlypopular, catapulting her tofame and gaining the attentionof her boss, Luke (Hugh Dancy). Luke and Rebeccashare a quirky and charmingchemistry, adding to the film’shumor. The actors play off one each other’s personalities, creating an adorable romancethat audiences will invest inand root for as it growsthroughout the film.

Although the movie hasover-the-top fashion, it isn’toverdone or too far-fetched.Audiences can relate to Re -becca’s vivacious and energeticpersonality, which Fisher portrays with charisma, butthey can also understand her

struggle to turn her life around. The movie’s balance of hu-

mor and heartwarming momentswill leave viewers with a mes-sage about friendship, family,and living life to the fullest.With well-chosen music, fantas-tic fashion, and hysterical mo-ments, this movie will entertainand leave you ready to shop! ✎

by Vicky Atzl, New City, NY

DRAMA

Nights in Rodanthe

Based on the best-sellingnovel by Nicholas Sparks,

“Nights in Rodanthe” managesa few tear-jerking moments,while squandering in unrealis-tic events and flat suspense.

Diane Lane plays Adrienne,who is soon to be divorcedfrom her clingy husband, Jack(Christopher Meloni). Adriennehas just about had it with life;she’s over-stressed, over-worked, and exhausted fromraising two kids. A weekendaway at her friend’s beachsideinn in Rodanthe seems the per-fect getaway. At the same time,Paul (Richard Gere), a once-prominent surgeon in Raleigh,is still tormenting himself for amistake he made during a sur-

gery a yearbefore. Heuses Rodan-the as a timeto reconcilewith the

ghosts of his past. Adrienneand Paul spend a turbulentweekend together that endswith passion and sparks ofhope for both.

In the beginning, Lane andGere’s chemistry seems awk-ward and forced, resulting intheir characters seeming as fictitious as fairy tales. Yet asthe weekend progresses, theycome alive as though awak-ened from the dead. They trulybegin to interact and portraytheir characters’ romance in abelievable way.

However, no dose of realitycan save viewers from theover-stretched emotions thatsap most of the movie. Laneclearly wants to make her presence felt, and thus, sheoverplays many of Adrienne’semotions – laughing too hardat her friend’s jokes and revel-ing in passion when she readsPaul’s letters.

Along with the unrealisticacting, “Nights in Rodanthe”has several technical errors. Forone, the beachside inn’s loca-tion on the waterfront is obvi-ously too close to the water. Ifthe tide was lapping at its steps

normally, it would have sus-tained major damage from thehurricane that blows in. In thesame scene, Paul’s car is shownparked outside, completely un-harmed, which is very unlikelyconsidering the storm.

The screenwriters have alsoaltered several details from thebook. In the novel, Adrienne recounts her weekend with Paulto her 30-year-old daughter,who recently lost her husband.The movie shows the scenewith Adrienne and her daugh-ter, but the daughter is a teen -ager upset over her parents’pending divorce. However, onlythose who have read the novelwill notice the change.

Aside from its clear technicaland acting flaws, “Nights inRodanthe” is a beautiful exam-ple of Southern culture andscenery, from the sandy beachesand multicolored houses to thecrab festival and classic Dixiemusic. If you love Diane Laneor Richard Gere or insanely romantic, cliché plots with atraditional Southern backdrop,“Nights in Rodanthe” shouldbe worth renting. ✎

by Emma Rainear, Charlotte, NC

COMEDY

The HouseBunny

My limited experience withHappy Madison, Adam

Sandler’s production company,has not been pleasant. For example, “Click,” with its juvenile humor and manipula-tive plot, tops my list of worstfilms of all time. So when myfriends dragged me to HappyMadison’s latest feature, “TheHouse Bunny,” my instinctstold me to bail.

I should have listened to myinstincts.

“The House Bunny” followsShelley (Anna Faris), a PlayboyBunny who has just beenkicked out of the mansion. Insearch of a new home, she findsa pair of college sororities: Zeta, a small group of unattrac-tive misfits looking for enoughpledges to keep their house;and Phi Iota Mu, a large, pop -ular sorority whose housemother and leader seek to de-stroy Zeta because its membersare … unattractive misfits.

After she is rejected by PhiIota Mu, Shelley agrees to helpthe Zeta girls become more attractive and popular so theycan gain pledges. By the end ofthe movie, Shelley and the girlslearn that appearances aren’teverything and you should bewho you are.

Where do I begin?First, let’s examine the main

problem with the plot: the an-tagonists. In order for a story tobe plausible or intriguing, boththe protagonist and antagonistmust have a reasonable motiva-tion. Here the protagonists’ motivation makes sense, but it’snot clear why the members ofPhi Iota Mu want to demolishZeta. Sure, they might not looklike … well, like Playboy Bun-

nies, butthat makesthem lessthreatening.Phi Iota Muhas nothing

to gain from Zeta’s downfalland nothing to lose from its up-rising, so how are we supposedto believe these characters?

The most insulting aspect ofthe film is its message. Besidesbeing cliched, it’s hypocritical;the film exploits the heck out ofthe same chauvinist views itcondemns. By the time Shelleyproclaims that appearancesdon’t matter, dozens of impos-sibly “attractive” characters andwalk-ons have already prancedaround in skimpy outfits on-screen for 90 minutes. In addi-tion, the only characters whodon’t look like Playboy Bun-nies are automatically typecastas hideous wildebeest untilShelley makes them over tolook like every other plasticrunway model in the movie.

I kept asking myself, “Isthere anyone in this movie wholooks normal?” The attempt ata message almost seemed morelike an excuse for the filmmak-ers to say, “We didn’t just makea piece of superficial garbagefilled with unrealistic swimsuitmodels! We think brains andpersonality are important too!”Don’t believe it for a second.

Now, you may be thinking,This is a comedy. It’s just sup-posed to be funny! And you’reright – but this movie isn’t fun-ny. All the jokes were writtenonly to confirm either that Shel-ley is as vain and stupid as ParisHilton and Jessica Simpsoncombined (imagine an entiremovie of “I don’t eat buffalo”jokes), or that the girls of Zetaare hideous and unpopular. Be-lieve me when I say that thesejokes are not funny. Clichéd?Sure. Superficial? Definitely.Stereotypical? You bet. But notfunny.

Happy Madison pictures justkeep getting worse and worse.You definitely won’t see me atthe next one. ✎

by Jake Oakley, Bloomington, IL


Grim realismwrapped in a1950s sheen

Quirky andcharmingchemistry

Unrealisticevents and

flat suspense

Clichéd,hypocritical,chauvinistic


FICTION

Life of Piby Yann Martel

Pi Patel is a 16-year-old boywho takes a ship with his

family and their zoo animalsfrom India across the PacificOcean. Before they reachCanada the boat sinks, and Pi is thrown overboard and onto a lifeboat. He soon realizes heis not alone; with him are ahyena, an injured zebra, anorangutan, and a 450-poundtiger named Richard Parker. Pimust use all his knowledge andcourage to survive.

When the book begins, Pi isalready anadult, settledin Canada,reliving hischildhood.He describes

that he was born into Hinduismbut discovered Christianity andIslam during a family vacation.He also spends time at his fam-ily’s zoo and the swimmingpool. And then his family decides to sell some of their animals and move to Canada.

And this is how the shipsinks and Pi is stuck in alifeboat with a deadly tiger. As the tiger kills and eats theothers, Pi uses his knowledgefrom working at the zoo to tryto tame him.

I really enjoyed Life of Pi. Iespecially liked Pi’s point ofview and how the book beganwhen he was already an adult.Yann Martel really made Picome to life. Even though theplot seems far-fetched, Martel’swriting makes it seem plausibleand real. I also liked how hedeveloped Pi’s character. It was interesting how Pi was religious and scientific. Thesecharacteristics usually don’tmix well, but Martel pulls itoff. I really liked the book because it was exciting andvery different. ✎

by Alison Rossini, Whitmore Lake, MI

MEMOIR

When I WasPuerto Ricanby Esmeralda Santiago

You are probably wonderingwhy in the world you

should read this book. Plain and simple, it shows you the trials that immigrants face whenthey move to the United States,including the many differencesin language and culture. For

example, when Esmeralda wasgrowing up in Puerto Rico shewould hear baladas, and whenshe got to New York, the musicwas rock and roll. In addition,the book shows what it’s like tohave parents who are constantlyfighting.

This book was great to readbecause I can relate to it; I am

from PuertoRico andknow thewhole jibarolifestyle.

However, the book is about agirl and what she has to livewith: her parents never get mar-ried and her dad has a daughterwith a different woman.

This novel also shows thecustoms of Puerto Rican people,like their small shops and tradi-tional foods. Author EsmeraldaSantiago was raised in PuertoRico and when her mom gets ajob, they move to New York,leaving their old life behind. Herlife there is difficult because sheis responsible for her youngersiblings and herself.

When I Was Puerto Ricanis perfect for those who likebooks that have real meaning.Sometimes it will make yousad and other times it will makeyou laugh. I highly recommendit to everyone. ✎

by Luar Orriola, New Castle, DE

FICTION

A ThousandSplendid Sunsby Khaled Hosseini

You might not realize howlucky you are to live in the

United States, a land of free-dom, until you read A Thou-sand Splendid Suns. This bookexcellently portrays a saga ofMiddle Eastern families. It’slike Khaled Hosseini is tellinghis own experience and remem-bering every moment, eventhough he isn’t.

Hosseini easily details the inhumancharacter -istics ofRasheed,Mariam’sand Laila’shusband. I

liked this book because the author gives you backgroundon the characters and makesyou wonder about them. Toward the end it all begins to make total sense.

The book is so unpredict able;you think you know what willhappen next, but you never do.

The characters don’t have theopportunity, like Americans, tolive in peace and freedom, andevery day Laila and Mariamface a world of tragedy and thefear of being beaten to death bythe husband they once trusted.

I enjoyed this book verymuch and strongly recommendit to anyone who likes dramatic,well-thought-out stories withplot twists. Hosseini makes youappreciate being an American,especially for women, but thebest part is really the way hewrites – it is simply heart- stopping. ✎

by Anastasia Pleasant,Bethel, AK

THRILLER

Firestarterby Stephen King

Never get on the bad side ofeight-year-old Charlie

McGee. Sure, she has tantrumslike any other child withscreaming and crying, but get-ting stuck in the middle of oneof Charlie’s fits could leave youa little crispier than before.

Charlie has a talent, and herpowers areenvied by theorganizationresponsiblefor them.Now it’s a

game of cat and mouse … andfire.

Firestarter has a unique wayof dropping a plot line and thenpicking it up later. Also, thestory develops every characterso you learn what makes themtick – what they think about,what they worry about in a waythat directly applies to the plot.

Firestarter is a story like noother with an ending that couldhave you in tears, making it theperfect book for anyone with ataste for irony, action, rebellion,science, and a life-or-death battle for what is right. ✎

by Bradi Heaberlin, Greenwood, IN

FICTION

A Walk to Rememberby Nicholas Sparks

Set in Beaufort, North Caroli-na, in the 1950s, A Walk to

Remember tells the story of 17-year-old Landon Carter, wholearns to live life differently af-ter meeting Jamie Sullivan. Ini-tially, Landon is the kind of guywho cares too much about whatpeople think of him. But whenJamie comes into the picture, he

only cares about being with her. Things are looking up for

Landon, until Jamie drops abomb that changes their livesforever.

In A Walk to Remember, thecharacters take time to get to

know eachother andend upfalling inlove. Likeother novel-

ists of realistic fiction, NicholasSparks emotionally engages thereader. A Walk to Remember reminded me of all of LurleneMcDaniel’s novels, becauseboth authors use themes of loveand death.

A Walk to Remember is abook that you will not want toput down until you’ve reachedthe last page, because Sparksdraws the reader in with emo-tions, descriptions, love, anddeath. For those who enjoynovels that touch your heartand make you think about reallife, A Walk to Remember isperfect for you. ✎

by Stephanie Sanchez,Prosser, WA

SCIENCE

The Universein a Nutshellby Stephen Hawking

Ifound Stephen Hawking’sThe Universe in a Nutshell

very disturbing. Before I readit, I had considered logic therule of the world. Through logi-cal reasoning we can learn ourpast, predict the future, inter-pret every phenomena, and findthe right way to do anything.Hawking’s book made medoubt my confidence in logic.He introduced me to Heisen-berg’s uncertainty principle andGödel’s first incompletenesstheorem.

The uncertainty principlestates that we cannot learn, precisely, a particle’s positionand momentum at the sametime. Gödel’s first incomplete-ness theorem states that in anymathematical system, there always exists at least one state-ment that can neither be provednor disproved.

I was shocked to learn this!Even things as simple as thenatural number couldn’t be perfectly defined by our logic.How could this be the generalrule of the intricate world? Theimpact that these concepts hadon me was comparable to a Roman Catholic losing his belief in God.

As a rationalist, I believe innothing except science and logic, and Heisenberg andGödel crushed my entire beliefsystem. For a few weeks, when-ever I was learning anythingabout math, I would alwaysthink, There is a Gödel state-ment in this system. And thenI’d feel depressed and not wantto learn any more. I had similarfeelings when I was learningphysics. I was lost and didn’tknow what to believe. It was theend of the world for me.

After a period of depression,I realized that logic is not an

absolute objectiverule but away that humanscomprehend

the world. It is based on thethought of an individual. It isthe limitation of rationality, andI had been naive not to realizeit until then. Comparing thisnew realization to literature, I now understand why somepeople prefer Agatha Christieto Arthur Conan Doyle; she realized the limitation of ration-ality and invented Miss Marple,who investigates cases based on her perception of people’snature and emotions as well aslogical reasoning.

In summary, my new acquaintance with Hawking,Heisenberg, and Gödel hascaused me to look at the worldin an entirely new way. I havegained a greater appreciation of its complexity, and I realizethere is no general rule to explain it. To perceive the fullness of reality, we need notonly logic but abundant knowl-edge and experience of history,humanity, and science. Theyare essential to advance our understanding. ✎

by Yongzuan Wu, Culver, IN


Bo

ok re

view

s

Makes youappreciatebeing an

American

Stuck in alifeboatwith a

deadly tiger

Sparksemotionallyengages the

reader

A game ofcat and

mouse …and fire

The trialsimmigrants

face

Made medoubt myconfidence

in logic

Photo by Isabelle Ingato, Toms River, NJ


Her, Him and the ReceptionistOur daily jog together. At least I like to think

of it as our jog. It’s not like we actually runtogether, but in close proximity in separate

universes. It is hard to remember the days when we did not

run together. My elliptical jogs right behind histreadmill and always keeps up. It would have been soeasy to say hi the first time. But with each passingday, it has gotten harder and harder, and now impos-sible. We have had occasional looks back and forth,but those were probably coincidences. Of course I always look at him. As for the times his glance metmine, perhaps something else called his gaze. AndI’m way too shy to budge from my routine to ap-proach confirmed rejection. Why can’t he just makethe move? I know, that’s a funny one. Look at himand then look at me – especially without makeup!

I don’t turn red from exercising, but I do blushwhen I’m nervous or embarrassed. So my cover storywould be that my redness is from my heavy-dutyworkouts. After all, I am at the gym. I’m strugglingto keep up with myself. My mind is going faster thanthe elliptical. My fervent fears, my neurotic nerves,my taxing trepidations, my angry anxieties whirlingthrough my brain. Now I’m really dizzy.

Even he has flaws. It’s not like I think he’s perfector anything. How could he be perfect with shoes thatsmell like that? He comes close to perfection. Andhis feet come close to me as he lifts them on thetreadmill upwind of my elliptical. Just as my iPodadvances to the next song, a wave of toxic air per -meates my nostrils. “Tell me how I’m supposed tobreathe with no air? Can’t live, can’t breathe with noair … If you ain’t here I just can’t breathe. There’s noair, no air,” sings Jordin Sparks. Whew, how can Ibreathe in this air? Deep breath in. Deep breath out.Ahh. How can toxic air be refreshing? But amidthese toxins, there is some sweetness. I can just senseit; I have that tingling feeling in my nostrils.

It’s hard for me to hold back a little smile. I can’tget away from it this time. It draws me closer. Theoccasional silent connection I have with him is worththe foul air I endure. I must be high oneither the stench or endorphins, becauseI don’t believe in drugs. I am exercisinglonger than usual. I am pumped. I amnot getting tired. Exercise is a healthyform of procrastination for what I mightdo next.

The elliptical bars are sandwiched between my palms and my fingers. I ampushing on them with all my strength. Just as I alter-nately push and pull on the levers – left, right, left,right – my strength to contact him alternates with myfear of rejection. Our closeness has been on a meta -phorical treadmill – no matter how hard I try, no matter how fast I run, we don’t get any closer. Thecounteracting forces of acceptance and rejection arepulling on me equally. I am in equilibrium. I am mov-ing at a constant velocity on the elliptical, but I can’tget myself to move toward him. Physics. Echhh!

I try to look cute in my gym clothes, but it’s hard.The mirror tells me I look fat and ugly. Those are theonly things the mirror ever tells me, besides red hair,freckles, Raggedy Anne.

My pink good-luck sweatband hasn’t brought meany luck. I’m going to go buy some new colored ones.I’m getting kind of sick of pink. People must think Iwear the same sweaty headband every day, but I havedozens of them from that sale at Costco. I know that’swhat he’s thinking when he turns around: freak, loser.

Droplets of sweat drip down my face, ravaging mypores and burning the roots of my confidence. But hegives me a feeling all over my body just by looking

at him. So I know it’s worth it. The odor burns my nostrils, but I can’t resist. I tip-

toe into the hallway outside the men’s locker room;one hand holding the heart-shaped Post-It, the otherplugging my nose. I see them resting on the woodenbench, right where he left them after “our” jog, lacesuntied and tongues forming obtuse angles. Why arethey here? My hands are shaking and my legs aretrembling, but I bite the corner of my lip and stickthe note face up in the heel of his right shoe.

I am leaving the gym and I can’t stopthinking about him. Still. I hope hefeels the same. But he won’t. I hope hewill call. But he won’t. It’s been sevenminutes since I put my note in his shoeand put my heart on the waiting list forrejection.

I enter my apartment and begin pac-ing. It’s been an hour and three minutes.I shouldn’t have done it. He doesn’t like me. It’s going to be awkward. No way. I’m not giving in. I’mnot going to change my workout routine. But it willbe hard to look at him tomorrow. I hope he saw thenote before he put his shoes on. If not, I hope the inkdoesn’t smear.

* * *There she is. I could set my watch by her if I had

one. Same gym. Same time. Same workout. Same asme. She never misses a day. I don’t think I ever willeither. My mom and dad are both kind of, I don’twant to say chubby, but yeah, they are. I can’t let thathappen to me. But I have another reason too.

Crack. Crack. My neck always cracks when I turnmy head swiftly to check the clock behind me. Atfirst this was a pain, but then I saw her. When I real-ized I got to look at her everytime I turned to check thetime, my neck strain didn’tbother me. I must be discreet.I love looking at her, but Idon’t want her to know thather beauty keeps me staring.

At least not quiteyet. I’m not astalker, just shy. Iwant to talk to her.I want to go up toher. But what ifshe thinks I’m justhitting on her? I’mreally interested in

knowing her. How is she sup-posed to tell the difference?

What a cutie. She’s just mytype: tall, slender, and I cantell her skin is smooth. Thecutest freckles. Milk chocolateeyes. Her gorgeous, wavy redhair is tied is back in a ponytail and she wears a pinkheadband. She must love pink. She should, it’s her col-or. Her hair sways with every step. Thank you, pinkheadband – not a hair is blocking my view of her face.

What I like most is that she doesn’t act like she isbeautiful. She doesn’t know how nervous she makesme. She doesn’t know the grace she exudes. She hasa story to tell. I want to hear it. But I’m afraid to askher. Wimpy, maybe. Intimidated, definitely. I feel likeI’ve watched the same Candid Camera episode 5,500times. My failed attempt keeps replaying in my head.With every day that I say nothing, she’s more andmore likely to think I’m either gay or I need a watch.

I want to know her name. Seeing her every day forweeks, I refer to her as Pink Headband. How pathetic.I have to know her name. At least for now, it would beeasier to ask the receptionist for Pink Headband’s

name than to ask her. At least if she refuses, it won’tbe as humiliating as a no from Pink Headband.

So I make my way to the desk. I say excuse me tothe nerdy girl behind the counter. I have caught herstaring at me in the past, but the one time I actuallywant her attention, she’s preoccupied. I’m the onlyperson here. The phone is resting comfortably on itshook. But she is talking to someone or somethingnonetheless. I sigh. I’m getting impatient. I feel likeI’m hailing a taxi. Waving and waving, and they just

drive by. Same with her. I’m waving andthat freak seems to be talking to her sta-pler. Finally I get her attention. I ask. Sheanswers. I write “Molly” on the envelopecontaining my note to the woman I usedto know as Pink Headband. I ask the receptionist to please give it to her.

As I sit on the bench outside the men’slocker room, I fight my urge to chicken

out and retrieve the envelope. I bolt into the lockerroom to take a shower. The hot water is soothing.Shoot! I left my shoes on the bench. Not to worry.Who would want to steal those smelly old things?

Realizing I must have left my cell phone in my car,I get dressed quickly, jump into my shoes, and leave.I don’t want to miss her call.

* * *I hate working at this place. Why do I work here? I

need out. I need a work out. I’m so funny. I alwayslaugh at my own jokes. Ha ha ha, snort, snort.

All day I inhale air tainted with the smell of sweat.And no, it’s not me doing the sweating. Oh, herecomes Mr. “I’m so much better than you that I won’trespond when you greet me.” I scrunch my nose topush up my glasses, the way I always do when my

hands are busy. He’s headedright toward me. It seems like he needs to ask me some-thing. This will be a first.How will he do this and stillkeep his perfect record ofnever saying a word to me?Of course, it must be so hardto say “good evening” tosomeone who has just said itto you.

I can feel my nervoustwitch starting up again. Mytop lip is moving diagonally;my invisible enemy has strunga thread through my lip withhis needle. I try to yank it inthe other direction, back intoplace, but it won’t budge.

The name of the girl in thepink headband? Uhhh. Thegirl in the pink headband! If she’s wearing her pink

one today, it must be either Sunday, Monday, Tues-day, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.Gross. But apparently he either doesn’t notice ordoesn’t care. How sweet. For once he is nice and it ishard to hate him. He writes “Molly” on the envelopeand hands it to me. Sure I’ll give it to Molly, all right.

He heads for the locker room; he is out of sight,but he sure isn’t out of my mind. Neither is the favorhe asked of me. He wants me to give the envelope toMolly. Sure I will. I’ll be as good at giving this toMolly as he is at responding when I say hello. Actu-ally, better because now my paper shredder’s name isMolly. Molly loves envelopes. She’ll fall bin overwheels!

* * *Is there something in my shoe? ✎

Photo by Michelle Long, Syosset, NY

No matter how fast I run,we don’t get any closer


fic •

tio

n by Samantha Schmidt,Encino, CA

I’m not a stalker, just

shy. I want totalk to her

A P R I L ’ 0 9 • Teen Ink45VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLES ON TEENINK.COM AND TEEN INK RAW

Purple Sands by Kat Ahl, Cave Junction, OR

The stars blazed with a brilliancenever seen on Earth. Their glowlit up the violet sands of the alien

planet’s smallest moon, the only inhab-itable area in the solar system. The airwas thin, too thin for most people tosurvive in comfort, so the moon wasgiven a number recognition in theLeague of Worlds database and left tothose foolish enough – or desperateenough – to seek the red diamonds thatcould be found there. The moon’s dia-monds were rare and prized on otherplanets, for their beauty was unlike thatof any other stone. Desire drove manyto the moon’s surface, but this placewas not kind to those who would stealits stones. Few who ar-rived in search of profitever left; the moon’s vastdeserts held dangers forhumans seeking wealth.

Those who survived,who adapted to the harshclimate of the planet’smoon, were a mixedgroup of fortune’s fools,those willing to risk their lives in thepursuit of riches, and those who had noother choice. They came from all partsof the galaxy, surviving by sheer will oran unwillingness to give in to outsideforce. These prospectors were few butenduring, seen infrequently in the smallspaceports scattered sporadically acrossthe landscape. Dangerous people, itwas said. Inhabitants trying to scrapeout a safer, if more meager, living in thetiny towns avoided the fortunehunterswho roamed the purple deserts.

Jet was one such prospector, a fiercewoman, rangy and fit from too long inthe deserts. She was descended fromthe tribes native to the American conti-nents of Earth, but her heritage was farremoved, weakened by time and disre-garded in a time when only personalgain mattered anymore. Some of herancestors had come from another land,giving her eyes as cold and hard asfrozen emeralds. Tall and lean, madehard from life in the galaxy’s worstplaces, she kept to herself mostly andstayed in the desert as long as shecould, preferring the company of thestars and her desert-runner to that ofothers of her kind.

* * *In the dark, under the brilliant stars,

she gave the draconic desert-runner itshead and let it run as it would. Sheclung easily to the heavy saddle. Therunner would find its own food, elimi-nating the need to feed it from her supplies. Jet was headed for the Spine,the low, sprawling mountain that ranbetween the moon’s poles. It was therethat the greatest number of red dia-monds had been found recently, butshe was in no hurry. Her supplieswould last through a side trip to feedthe hungry runner.

Jet knew what it was that the desert-runner smelled, since only the scent of

death could get this reaction from thenormally placid reptilian beast. It hadsmelled another creature’s demise andwished to feed. Jet wondered idly whathad been caught out in the arid desert.Perhaps it was human.

Her lips curled, baring her teeth in acruel, predatory expression. She had nogreat love for interlopers.

* * *It was no prospector who lay in the

desert, breathing in the fine-grained purple sand. It was a K’han woman,one of the natives of the small moon.She lay in a pool of blood, but she wasstill alive.

Jet pulled the desert- runner to a haltand sat watching. Thewoman raised her head andstared at Jet with strange,pale blue eyes. Her purpleskin was stained with gold,signaling both dehydrationand pain. A large gash inher right leg bled goldenfluid, staining the sandblack.

She met Jet’s eyes with a proud arro-gance that spoke of her unbending will,in spite of her situation. Jet could seethe sunken, cracked skin of her face,showing that she had been too longwithout water in the harsh climate. Herbones stood out in sharp relief, makingher look like a living skeleton. Onlyher pale eyes looked alive, staring outwith a wounded predator’s last, hope-less pride.

For a long moment, Jet consideredthe K’han woman. The moon’s nativeshad no love for the race that had cometo their world to rob them of the blood-red stones so sacred in K’han culture.The humans were there for the jewelsalone, and many would do anything toget them, including desecrating K’han temples and tombs.

Had their positions been reversed, Jethad no doubt that the K’han womanwould leave a human to wait for thedesert’s predators to finish the job. ButJet had no argument with the K’han.She may have been an offworlder, butshe respected their right to the dia-monds, and sought only the stones thatcould be taken from the ground. TheK’han were welcome to what they had;she wouldn’t debate their claim.

Jet let out a soft breath, then drew in alungful of the dry, thin, almost painfulair of the desert night. Those who livedin the harsh conditions of the moon-desert had their own code, beyond thatof races and cultures. Though invaders,interlopers, could be chased off orkilled, a wounded traveler would not be left unaided. Jet could not leave theK’han woman any more than she couldleave a wounded human, or other livingcreature, in the same situation.

She swung her leg over the saddleand slid down, landing softly in the ankle-deep sand. The K’han womanwatched with wary eyes from her prone

position. Jet raised both hands, showingthat she was unarmed, and slowlypulled the waterskin from her belt. Paleeyes followed the human’s motions.Noticing the dagger that the native hadhidden in the waves of dark blue hairthat spilled around her body, Jet set thecanteen on the ground within reach ofthe other woman.

“This help is given without ties,” shesaid in the K’han tongue. “I give itfreely and without bindings. Anyonewho wishes may receive it and owe menothing.”

The giving of help was a ritual of family in K’han culture, akin to becoming sisters in blood. Help could only be accepted if it came from one who would be family, or one who formally renounced the tiesthat would otherwise be formed.

The K’han weakly reached out andtook the canteen, struggling with thestopper. She drank a few quick sips and held them in her mouth for a longmoment. To drink as deeply as shewished, after so long without liquid,would be a death sentence.

Jet pulled a medical kit from the saddlebag. Her green eyes scanned thesurroundings, but she could see no hintof why the other woman was here,alone, when her people’s closest out-post was several hundred miles away.There were cases when the K’hanwould cast out one of their own, leav-ing them to die in the desert, but suchoccasions were rare. Jet didn’t knowenough about their rituals to hazard aguess. It could have been a simple at-tack too: the desert was far from safe.

Jet turned back to find the otherwoman watching her with those paleeyes, so at odds with the intense colorsaround them.

“Why help?” the K’hanqueried in her whispering,fluty voice. She coughedpainfully. “Why do youhelp me, human? What doyou wish to gain fromthis?”

Jet shrugged, setting thekit down within reach, asshe had with the water. She was carefulnot to look the K’han in the eyes,which would have been a direct chal-lenge.

“Not everything is for profit,” shesaid evenly. Many a fight had beenaverted by Jet speaking a single word,as anything uttered in her flat, decep-tively sweet voice could have been either threat or simple statement; onewas never sure.

“No matter what you might think, afew humans have honor too.”

The K’han snorted, a strangely human sound that made Jet’s mouthcurl up. The prospector riffled throughthe pack, pulling out a roll of bandageand a bottle of pills to destroy infection,which she handed to the K’han. Thewoman looked down at herself for a

moment, then back at the human.Though Jet didn’t know it, thoughtsflashed behind the native’s pale eyes,too quickly to speak aloud.

She helps me, though she is an off-worlder, the K’han woman thought.She has no reason to; she could haveturned her desert-runner away andleft when she saw what I was. TheK’han looked up at Jet again, facingthe truth. That is what I would havedone, and we both know it. And yetshe aids me despite this. Perhaps ….

Carefully, she handed the medicalsupplies back to the human, keepingher face blank. Jet hadn’t expectedher help to be rejected, since it wasfreely given.

“You have shared water with me,”the K’han said slowly, “and helpedme without provocation. But as of yetI am too weak to tend to my ownwound. I ask for your aid.”

Jet’s eyes widened in surprise. InK’han culture, this was the equivalentof asking someone into your family,to become sisters in full. No K’hanwould give such an invitation to an offworlder, especially a human.

She shook her head, trying not to offend the other woman. “I have helpedyou freely, and I do not ask for repay-ment. You do not have to do this.”

“I wish to,” the K’han said simply,still holding out her offering, though Jetcould see that her arm was beginning totire. “Long have my people hated yoursfor the cruelty shown to us, but we areas much at fault as you. Accept thisbond as an offering of peace.”

Jet let out a slow breath. In one ges-ture of kindness, she had broken downmore barriers than any other culturalenvoy. She could see the sincerity in theother’s gaze and knew that the offer

was not made lightly. Hu-mans and K’han were notfriends and would not forgethose bonds easily, but Jetcould see that they wouldbe worth the effort – andnot simply for the riches tobe gained in the process.

Taking the medicinesfrom the K’han woman’s grip, she setthem in the sand and clasped the other’shand. Light seemed to flare betweentheir palms, sealing their pact. Thevows they gave were silent, unspoken,but all the more powerful for the lackof words.

After a moment, Jet smiled truly forthe first time in years. The K’hanmatched her expression, a trace of wonder in her eyes that Jet had nodoubt was reflected in her own.

“I believe,” the K’han said slowly,“that we are more alike than I thought.”

Jet laughed – a rich and bell-likesound. She tilted her head back to takein the blazing stars above.

“I think you are right,” she agreed.“And fools will be those who do not see it.” ✎

Those who livedin the moon-

desert had theirown code

“Long have mypeople hated

yours”

fic• tio

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Improvising by Onjuli Datta, Hastings, England

Hi, I’m bored. What are you doing? I read a pretty book today. No, not just

today. I’ve been reading it for three weeksbecause I read slowly. I’m not stupid, though. Ijust don’t like missing things. If I think I haven’tcompletely gotten something, I have to re-read, re-read. Shall I re-read you?

The book was pretty. I said that already, sorry.You said, “Hey, I love that book. Cool.” I’m sure itwas a flippant comment, because you’re made ofthose – you radiate them – but it made me want tocry big fat attention-seeking tears.

You read fast. Whenever I give you anything,you whizz through it. You think whizz is a funnyword, it makes you laugh when I use words likewhizz.

I want to go to sleep and wake up and find thatyou’ve called me, but instead I just pick up anotherpretty book and read it all night and prove to my-self more and more that you’re wrong. You call meand say, “You read too much,” and I smile and say,“Yes, I do.”

I listen to bad music sometimes and you tsk and say,“No, listen to this.” Music is your passion. I think youworry you’ve offended me when you’re nasty about mybad music, which is nice. When I turn off the bad musicand play one of your “more than just noise, this meanssomething” songs, you say, “You’re kind of cool,” andmy heart turns into a hot air balloon. Float, float, whizz.

I thought about you saying that over and over. Canwe run away together? You have a lovely way withwords.

Your music is so much prettier than mine, and itmakes me smile big, so I worry you’ll think I have uglyteeth. I don’t have ugly teeth. I want you to tell me that.Will you tell me that?

I’m sorry, but I wish your teeth were ugly. Your teethare so, so perfect. I’m so, so sorry.

Do you remember our meeting? That sounds like itwas a pre-planned corporate event, like it was a thing. It

wasn’t a thing. You said, wasn’t I a friend of a friend?And I said, “Maybe of a friend.” You laughed. The truthis, I doubt I was even a friend of a friend of a friend.We were vague and unconnected and hopeful. You saidI was funny. I made you laugh.

I re-re-re-re-recorded my answer phone message –that means I did it five times – after you left me a message, the premiere, the number one (“Hello. What’sup?”). You left the first message on my answer phoneand I thought my voice was wrong.

I want to record the sound of your voice when youlaugh and print it on a T-shirt, paint it on a wall, etch itin my brain.

Your second voice message ever said, “I liked yourold answer phone ….”

I’m so, so sorry. I tried to re-re-re-re-record it likehow it used to be, but it wouldn’t play right, it wasn’tthe same. It was just wrong.

You told me your dog died and it made you sad. Iwant to buy you a dog that won’t ever, ever die. An immortal dog. I hate dogs; they’re smelly and ugly andthey bite and they’re similar to people, but I would give

you an indestructible dog. Completely in-vin-ci-ble. If I couldn’t find one, I’d build you one. I’d put my hairinto a ponytail to get it out the way and then I’d buildyou one out of coloring pencils and the grass we sat onthis afternoon and the screen of my phone when it saysONE VOICE MESSAGE.

And I said to you the other day, “I have a secret” –because I wanted to be interesting and you looked tiredof me. Were you tired of me and the stupid things I wassaying? I wanted to say, “Are you listening? Can I keeptalking? Do you just let me bore you?”

“… And then someone said we couldn’t take the Atrain because it didn’t stop close enough and we’d betoo cold to walk, and did you know Ihave a secret?”

I said it like that.You said, “Do you?”Do I? I nodded and bit my lip and

you bit your lip and smiled, but I didn’ttake any teeth away from my lips. Ithought, Ugly teeth! but I still didn’tstop biting my lip until you said, “Whathappened with the train?”

You wanted to know what happened with the train.And then I blinked like I’d been hit, but I’ve never

been hit – you know that, I think. I might have told youthat. You can’t tell – you don’t understand that flinch. It cannot be pinpointed. Still. I told you my boring, boring story and you asked more questions and Iblinked more and more and more.

My lip hurts this morning because I woke up andthere were NO MESSAGES and I chewed and chewedand blamed it on the trains and my inane rambling andsecrets and other girls you prefer.

My secret is that sometimes I wonder about yourlips, because I don’t really know anything about them.No, I know a little about them. For instance, the borderbetween the lips and the surrounding skin is referred to– by whom, I don’t know – as the vermilion border. Thevertical groove on the upper lip is the philtrum. Theskin between the upper lip and the nose is the ergotrid.

Ergotrid – you’d like that word.But that I could read in a book. What I just cannot

pick up from a passage of writing is what your lips feellike. I can only wonder. I think they’re like the paperbirds I used to make with my friends when I was smallenough to believe in fairies and dreams and nightmares.And your lips are like the red flowers spilled on thefloor of my apartment. And they’re like a thunderstormthat reverberates, making more-than-just-noise music,and the lightning spells out our names across the sky.

That’s what I think. People make me crazy some-times, and I want to kiss you.

There’s a party this evening that I might not go to.You don’t call me sometimes. I know I have to come

to terms with that. That makes me laugh, coming toterms. Terms aren’t really a thing you can come to, arrive at. If you dissect it, it doesn’t make sense.

At this party they had fries, so I ate some becauseparties make me tired, and I licked all the salt off myfingers in case someone saw and thought I neverwashed my hands, that I was disgusting. I am disgust-ing. I couldn’t wash my hands right then, because yousaid, “Have you drunk anything?” And I said no anddrove you home, and you said I was too skinny in thesame way you said I read too much.

I drove you home and my car felt warmer when wetalked about bees and stars and Traumatic ChildhoodEvents. Your breath came out white and misty, exhalingphantoms to prove you weren’t a ghost.

We are both connoisseurs of road safety, or at leastwe like to think we are. So you only grabbed my handand squeezed it when my car was parked nice and safeoutside your building. You had such a strong grip,

super-human strength. You’re my hero – can I kiss you? You grabbed my hand and squeezed, and I said,“What,” because I couldn’t analyze the situation and Iwas hoping you could shed some light. Like a butterflyshedding its cocoon.

After seven lifetimes you replied, “Nothing,” and oh,you have a lovely way with words and you’re so politebut you need to stop lying when people ask you ques-tions, because then they try to dissect you and it doesn’tmake sense, and after a while you let go and leave.

The next morning I was awake when you called because there are some nights when I just don’t sleep.You said you read something you liked. You wanted me

to read it. We chatted on the phone anddidn’t talk about it and didn’t talk about itand didn’t talk about it.

My car felt cold this morning. It justdoesn’t make sense.

You said my music isn’t good enoughfor me, and you gave me these CDs. Lotsof the songs are love songs, but then, lotsof the songs in the world are love songs,so it doesn’t mean anything.

The songs you sent me catch in my throat a little, andone of them says “Don’t let go,” and it hurts that youthink you have to tell me that, hurts like my lip whenyou don’t call.

I said to you, I liked the song, the “Don’t let go” one.And you said you liked that one because of the instru-mental between the lyrics. And you never held my handagain, and I never even thought about it. But that’s okay,because I still listen to it lots and lots and lots and Idon’t. I don’t let go.

I was ill today and tomorrow and the day after that. Ifloated around in fragments, thump-head, achy teeth,and chapped lips. My eyes felt warm and open andblurred. Resting in a bed felt like resting inside my ownmouth outside my own skin and ah, my head. My skinfelt like flannel and I remembered the cough syrup Ishould have taken.

You sent me a note to say get well soon but didn’tvisit. This – this whole you-not-visiting isolation televi-sion imagination situation – this was expected. I wasready for your casual negligence; I always am. Back inmy fever, my throat burns and it’s setting fire to mymind. I’ve been staying up too late. Three whole daysin bed with too much sleep, and you don’t even visit. Inmy head, to pass time, I relive things. We dance. Yougrab my hand.

And then I’m better, I’ve gotten well soon like yousaid. I don’t smell like vomit and I’m good as new.

You say, “Oh, you’re so pale.”I say, “I was ill,” and you nod sympathetically and

you mean it, I think.The next time my hands touched yours, you came

to hang out with me for an hour or so and I wasn’tnervous but I managed to drop a plant because I’m soclumsy. On the floor was this plant, snapped and earthyand its pot was broken. We danced around it and thesoil between my toes felt golden and bright, like a sunset.

After about an hour or so, you went to see anotherperson, and all I know about her is she doesn’t have asilly secret about you. And she’s not pale. That’s all Iknow. She’s your friend. I’m the person who accidentallydropped a plant with red flowers, red flowers like mystupid secret, and it made you laugh and you said, “Let’sdance,” and I thought, Oh, so this is hanging out?

You are a catalyst, I decided. Catalysts are chemical;they are unchanged by reactions and they make thingshappen. They can work together with heat, or oxygen,or continuous stirring, but sometimes they will kickstartthe buzzing fizzing all on their own. They don’t killpeople, catalysts. Catalysts speed things up. Come

Photo by Megan Bonini, Cincinnati, OH


People make mecrazy sometimes,

and I want to kiss you

fic •

tio

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➤➤

Monsoon by Kate Fisher, Fountain Hills, AZ

Iwas surprised when Ali called andinvited me to the movies. Weweren’t very good friends, though

we orbited in the same social solarsystem. But Harkins had given hersome free tickets to a prescreening of“The Island,” and she had to go withsomeone. It was mid-July, and our richfriends had ditched the white hot Ari-zona sun for islands with deliciousnames. Barbados. St. Bart’s. Turks andCaicos.

Anyway, I was convenient leftovers,and I wouldn’t say no to a free movie,especially if it contained Ewan McGre-gor kicking major clone booty astride afuturistic motorbike. It was the summerbefore high school, so my parents hadto drive us. We picked her up at herplace. I remember that we accidentallywore the exact same shade of green, andthat she looked better in it than I did.

“So, Ali, how are your parents?”That was my dad.

“Oh they’re great, Mr. Ramos! We’reall having a great summer!” Her nor-mal modus operandi is so determinedlycheerful that it seems pharmaceuticallyenhanced, but she is really just thathappy. I remembered why we weren’tbetter friends.

“And are you looking forward tohigh school as much as my daughter?”

At this one Ali and I exchanged aglance.

“Um‚ I don’t know.” Maybe she wasn’t so bad. “You should be jumping up and

down. It’s the best time of your life,you know.”

Another glance. “I suppose.”With their duty as inquisitors

fulfilled, my parents turned up the music, leaving us free to indulge in real conversation – a.k.a. talk-ing about guys.

Both of us were madly inlove with upperclassmen‚Cole and Brandt, respectively.It was just about the onlything we had in common, themight of our crushes. Theyleft battle scars: Ali’s narrow shoulderssunburnt from hours spent watchingCole from her roof, my fingertips callused from learning jazz guitar toimpress Brandt.

But even the minutiae of our poten-tial love lives weren’t enough to lastthe whole drive. Casting around for atopic, I landed on high school.

“So, you’re about as thrilled as meabout being a freshman, huh?”

Ali laughed. “You have no idea howmany parents I’ve had tell me it’ll be thebest time of my life … and how many

high-schoolers tell me it’ll be the worst.”“I know, right! I’m totally terrified.

It’s like, you have to get a job, get acar, get a boyfriend, get involved, getgreat grades so you can get into a greatcollege so you can get a great job.”

“Exactly. What happens if you don’tget it all?”

There followed a nervous silence,but it was mercifully cut short by ourarrival at the theater. In all the bustle of

finding seats, we could almostforget about it. Almost.

The movie wasn’t verymemorable, a standard sum-mer orgy of explosions andchiseled actors. Afterwardsthere was about a half hourbefore my parents’ movie got

out, so we needed to find a way towaste time.

We walked out of the theater to waitin the thick, hot night under the dim orange lights by the wall of upcomingmovie posters with the clusters of othermiddle school kids. All of us were trying to look as though we weren’tbeing picked up by our parents, likewe didn’t even know such things asparents existed – we just popped out of test tubes and were spared all thatembarrassment. It was awkward.

Ali and I had run out of safe,

superficial things to talk about beforethe movie. I mentioned the alreadythoroughly dissected subject of ourhigh school expectations, and we foundfive minutes worth of material, talkingtoo happily and too loudly in our relief.All too soon we were quiet again, andin my desperation I said, “I wish …,”and could not think what for.

I looked around for inspiration, hop-ing that it lurked somewhere in the sti-fling, aching night. What could I say? Iwish for everything? It was true, but notright. Sweat trickled in that hideouslyunpleasant way down the small of myback, and suddenly I knew.

“I wish it would rain.”Unbelievably, impossibly, miracu-

lously, out of the blank black sky a solid wall of water whumped down onus. Heat lightning fractured the hori-zon, and thunder came so loud it pulledat our ribs. The heat that had smoth-ered the sienna desert pulled away, andthat wet dirt mineral smell filled theair. For a moment Ali and I merelygoggled at each other, matching greenshirts and matching expressions ofwonder. Then we screamed and dancedlike dervishes in the warm rain, shout-ing all our other wishes to the sky,more than half believing that theywould come true too. ✎

A P R I L ’ 0 9 • Teen Ink

fic• tio

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“I wish it would

rain”


on, let’s go. Let’s start. You have a lovely way with words,and you probably held your friend’s hand much tighterthan mine.

You’re a catalyst.You’re a scientist.You’re a newly discovered vitamin pill.You’re a start-whistle but less shrill.You’re a solemn warrior in the dark, saying, “It begins.” You like that movie, maybe just because I don’t, and I’m

grateful for that. For disagreements, and for movies, andfor vitamin C and omega-3, self-improvement programs.I’m grateful for my vitamin and mineral friends, theirlaughing and therapeutic conversation and,“Hey, listen to this,” like dangling by athick, sturdy thread.

You give me a slice of cake one day, andwe watch a movie and wittily disagree anddon’t talk about the girl with no secrets aboutyou. I see her again with someone else. Itmakes me feel refreshed and revitalized likesomeone in an ad with low-cholesterol anddecreased heart problems. Omega-3 and vitamin C. Health food.

Even before you held my hand and then didn’t talkabout it, I used a notepad and a pen to call you. I have towrite down what I’ll say, how I’ll start, word for word.

Hello, you. Want to know something funny?When I get the guts to call you, I read off a script that

I’ve written, and I know you think I’m a bad actor, butthat’s only because I told you I was. I said, “I’m a bad actor,” and you said, “So?” But it’s easier when I’ve written my own script. And you think how I write is pretty,so do you think what I say is pretty?

It’s quiet so I tell you I’m not cut out for this. You mightnot be a catalyst, sometimes my metaphors don’t translateto anything. I don’t say that last bit, so you ask, “Not cutout for what?” And I say, “Oh, sorry. Ignore me. It’s not

important. Forget it.” I meant, Oh, please. Notice me. It’s important. Remember it.

Next morning, there’s ONE NEW MESSAGE andyou’re saying, “Hi, how are you? Let’s meet up later.” Yousay that, not me. You’re a bad actor too, and you’ve nevermentioned writing. Complete improvisation.

How am I? I’m fine. I’m fantastic. I’m wonder-kid witha bright red cape, with an air balloon heart and chappedlips and super-duper love, and I think a lot about wordsyou like, whizz and November and syrup, and your grincarries me all along the phone line.

One of my orange-juice kind-face friends says I seemhappier. Bubbly. I laugh because I can, andask her if she means like froth, and she saysyeah. I buy a hot coffee with lots and lots offroth and it’s warm and sweet and I called youtwo days ago without writing down a singlething, not a word.

I’m following your lead and improvisingmore and more, and we’re spending less timeblinking and more time smiling, and my ugly

teeth stay away from my lips; and I dare myself to giveyou nicknames. You say, “Hey, remember that time wedanced around your red plant?”

It’s great to be your friend.Your message this morning didn’t scare me. Nothing

scares me. I’m Sonic, I’m Jonny Bravo, I’m Superman,I’m not scared of anything. You said you wanted to talk,when you know I’ll only start rambling something stupid.Do you want to hear that? You’ve heard it before. You sayyou just want to talk.

The sunrise this morning was so elaborate it made thesky strange and green, but it only reminded me of envy.And if the sunrise can morph itself today, then what?

I think maybe you want to tell me you’re moving away.Or you just don’t want to talk to me anymore. Or you’vefound someone; you’ve fallen in love. You just remembered

that we held hands once and you’re asking me to please nottell anyone. I never ever know.

If you want to talk, I’ll buy you coffee with vanilla in it.If you like. You say you don’t want coffee, you want to talk.You want to go and buy me a scarf because I always lookcold. And I blink at you and say, “I always look cold on myneck?” But what I mean is, I thought you wanted to talk?

You hold up a dark blue scarf. I like it in your hands –it looks soft, and you tell me I need to eat more. I say, “Iknow, I know.” You remember the time when you held myhand, and ask if I minded that. Did I mind?

And then – oh. Oh, I see. As it happens, kissing feels like kissing, you feel like

you, this feels like home.We’re still in the scarf shop, surrounded by patchwork

fabrics, and everything is suddenly easy and sweet. You’restroking my knuckles like there’s a treasure buried just beneath them. There isn’t, but I don’t mind if you want tokeep looking. Just in case.

You buy me the dark blue soft warm scarf and I wear itall day. ✎

Photo by Amanda Barrows, Brookline, MA

47

I was ready for your casual

negligence

april 2009 o th y teenink comcdn-issues.teenink.com/2009-04.pdf · a severely entrenched japanese...

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