"My Late Father" by Emily_Fairy1432

As usual, he was late. I stood on the line marked with the number 7 and watched as the once completely full parking lot became increasingly less and less full. As each car drove by me and out towards the road that would take them home, I became extremely irritated by the fact that I should be sitting in the warmth of my dad’s car with my usual peppermint mocha in hand, but instead, there I was standing in the cold with the other lost and forgotten children. I had actually gotten to know those kids quite well as some of them were regulars to the late line just like me. As each minute passed by, my backpack got heavier and my legs got colder as I had made the not-so-smart decision to wear the short socks that day instead of the long ones. I could feel my plaid skirt blowing up from the wind and I watched as it happened to every other girl standing out there, we were all exactly the same, just how St. Joe’s liked it. I waited and waited until finally, twenty minutes later, I saw the oh so familiar red ford escape skrrt around the corner and speed into the now empty parking lot. I would say it took him a brick to get there, but it felt more like a brick and a half to me. I looked at my teacher, who knew the car right away from the amount of times she had seen me get in it late, and she gave me the go-ahead nod for me to proceed, with caution of course, to my ride.

I hopped into the car, took a sip of my coffee, and said, “Well, while we’re still young! Get me out of this prison or convent or school or whatever you people call it these days,” and on that note, he took the usual route and zoomed off towards the road. I was planning on yelling at him, but I did that yesterday and I was so exhausted so I just asked, “Was it golf or a conference call?” to which he answered, “Both.”. Did I know what he meant by this? Of course not, but I didn’t have the energy to care either. This routine was getting very tiring and also very cold as we were just about to break up for the “Holiday” Break (it used to be called Christmas break until the principal realized one Jewish family went to school there so they changed it to Holiday). I told my dad his new year's resolution should be to stop being late when picking me up and he just avoided the topic and told me to go change the radio station to Alt Nation. That’s one thing I will never understand.  How could someone be twenty minutes late to pick up their only daughter, not bring her food, and then tell her change the radio station… TO ALT NATION?! Preposterous. Nowadays, I don’t mind a little Alt Nation here or there but way back in the good ole 7th grade days, I would have rather ripped my ears off. We finally got home another ten to fifteen minutes later and my coffee was already finished. I sprinted inside to take the medieval looking plaid skirt and dark green sweater from hell with the small St. Joe’s logo on the front off of my body. Wow, made it before 4:15, impressive. I finally sat down on the couch in my sweatpants and sweatshirt, did my homework, and ate dinner. Then all of a sudden it was 5:45 and I had to get ready for soccer practice where this would happen all...over...again.

Of course, every time my dad was late I was angry. Who wouldn’t be? But looking back on it now it was something I overlooked. His punctuality wasn’t the best, but it was part of who he was and I have recently realized that his punctuality is also a part of who I am. I, like my late father, am never on time for anything, and when I say anything I mean anything. I’m sure people get just as irritated with me as I did with him, but I can’t help it because it’s just they way I work. My dad and I were always closer than my mom and I were just because we were so similar in so many different respects. It was always us two that held us back when we were trying to leave for vacation or one of us that would forget something crucial at home when going somewhere with a time limit. Then, when he died, it was just me. Now it wasn’t us two forgetting something at home, it was me forgetting something at home and having no one to understand where I was coming from. Of course now, my mom and I are extremely close and I know she loves me immensely, but she doesn’t understand me or how I work because she’s not the same. My mom is the type of person to the be the first one at the family christmas party or get to the gate at an airport before the plane even gets there. I on, the other hand, am the type of person who would show up to the family christmas party just as people were leaving and barely make my plane if  I do at all because as the White Rabbit said, “The hurrier I go the behinder I get,”. I never realized how much I needed someone there like me to understand my thought process until that someone wasn’t there any more. So yes, back in the day I got a smidge annoyed, but I would do anything for my dad to pick me up twenty minutes late with no snacks blasting Alt Nation again.

"Fog" by July 3rd

November 29th. Dense fog blurred my vision. The bright christmas lights, once so merry, were dimmed in constrained joy. A mist coated the light hairs that stood straight up on my arms. I didn’t feel the cold, yet I saw my breath coming out in harsh puffs. The stone steps were soaked, feet pruney. I felt my hair curling as I waited, waited, waited. Neighbors began to step outside, staying under their front stoop. Quick, loud, panicked sirens neared.  A blazing red flash appeared at the top of the street. My eyes welled. I waved my arms, frantic to be unveiled. Pulling to the side, the ambulance squealed to a halt. I dashed up the steps into the brightly lit hall. .Neighbors doors began to close, privacy. A mere 15 feet into the house felt like a long stretch of treacherous hills. The stretcher caught on the steps. The futon was pushed out of the way. The file of life was handed over. Dashing to the medicine drawer I plucked the eight bottles.

Short tests were given, dad failed them all. Hushed whispers and pleas erupted from the corners of the living room. I sat down, reluctant to take my eyes off of him. Shuffling to the head paramedic, I answered the basic questions.

The cabinet, a dark wood with a glass door full of Christmas cheer was now the housing for all of the medications. All of the bottles lined up, a transparent, obnoxious orange. Unpronounceable names, botching them all.

Our quite large living room was spilling with people. Some paramedics filtered out into the hall or the family room. More wandered into the kitchen to scope out the extra meds. Two trucks were outside, full of the equipment. I could still see the brightly lit red fog peeking through the blinds.

First they tried the wheelchair, then the stretcher. He ended up at Reston, transferred to Fairfax. Nonetheless, he was at the hospital and being taken care of, something I could not do.

December 2016 Statistics Report

November Statistics Report

HWC Tutor Alum Emma Gallagher's Reflection on the National Storytelling Festival

HWC tutor alum Emma Gallagher had the opportunity to attend and perform a spoken word piece at the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee, this October. Emma is now a first-year Architecture major and Creative Writing minor at Virginia Tech. 

I was lucky to get the chance to attend the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee from Friday, October 7th to Sunday, October 9th. Jonesborough is a quaint town that belongs on a postcard with the sun setting and a couple walking hand in hand towards their happy ending. The town’s population hovers around five thousand and it is known as Tennessee’s oldest town. The immediate area that the storytelling festival was held--Historic Jonesborough-- wasn’t sullied by a McDonalds or a Subway or even a Starbucks. The arguably biggest building in the area was a United Methodist Church, which seemed to be a bit bigger than the school. A walk along the main road would take you to a few locally owned coffee shops, a bunch of boutiques and a lot of antique shops. You passed a ginormous town hall (quite possibly bigger than the church!) and many shops that sold “I <3 Jonesborough” T-shirts or cookies that showed with a little heart where in Tennessee Jonesborough was. In total, walking through this town I got the feeling that everyone knew everyone and town gossip spread faster than the plague.

When I walked into Jonesborough, the second thing I noticed, after than the absolute quaintness of the town, was the sheer number of people who were packed into the streets, on the steps of the town hall and in the tiny antique shops and candy stores. International Storytelling Center President Kiran Singh Sirah said that by October 2nd over eleven thousand people had registered. That’s more than twice the number of people that live in the entire town! So as I walked down the streets, finding it impossible to not bump into people and be bumped into, I marveled at the number of people who still find the first form of history, the first form of entertainment, the first form of communication, important and enjoyable in this day and age.

The way that the storytelling festival works is that there are sessions--time slots-- throughout the day. There are five tents and a theater and you choose which storyteller you want to hear and you go to the tent that they are in during the session that they are there. At the end of the day, you have gone to six or seven different storytellers. The tents that the sessions are held in are huge, white tents fit for a carnival, and they are packed. Some of the tents where the more popular storytellers perform are so packed that people are standing in the back and sitting on the cool ground where the aisles are supposed to be.

The first session that I went to was to see Antonio Sacre share a piece called “High Five Daddy!” This session turned out to be my favorite session of the weekend! Antonio relayed the story of how he met his wife, how she took him out swing dancing, but he was only used to salsa since he was Cuban, so he was bad at that. Then he took secret dancing lessons for three weeks to impress her. He then merged into a story about how his then girlfriend (future wife) loved camping and so he took what he called “secret camping lessons” and spent a fortune on camping supplies and took her not only camping but backpacking. Of course, many mishaps ensued and laughter filled the audience as we related to his mishaps and swooned over his love for his wife. Then he spoke about having their first kid, first family camping trip when the boy was only two years old. He spoke about the second kid and her first camping trip. He spoke about the many camping trips that followed, some rugged, some luxury, some with just the immediate family, some with the entire second grade class. He spoke about the burritos they had for dinner and, of course, the leaking gas that followed. He spoke about the sweet moments like singing their children to sleep and the catastrophic moments like when the clumsy girl tried walking with the last s’more.

What I enjoyed most about Antonio’s stories was not that he could relay in perfect detail the journey to the top of the mountain where the campsite was located, but that he somehow made me wonder, even as I was sitting, listening to his excited voice swing up and then fall gracefully down as if it was traveling the mountains itself, watching his animated body carrying the invisible two-ton backpack and dance a swing-salsa fusion, I still wondered if he was going to make it to the top of the mountain, and if he did, would it kill him to get back down. The way that Antonio told his stories created surprises in the little moments. He uncovered layers of his life and his family so that you felt joy in each detail he revealed.

Going to the storytelling festival changed my perspective not just on storytelling but on writing and living and, mostly, listening. Listening is such a powerful thing in the modern world.  Today, many people listen just to add or reply, but at the storytelling festival, you listen to hear. The only interruption was the train rumbling by. There was not one-upping or comparing of scars. You hear the words of the storytellers and accept them. You hear the words and feel them. You hear the words and are grateful that you got the opportunity to be there when they poured or streamed or shot or oozed out of the storyteller’s mouth.

"The Herndon Writing Center Does CAPTA 2016: A Recap" by Jessie W.

A harsh wind kicked up the scattered leaves across the empty parking lot. Almost the entire writing center had gathered by door 3, decked out in our Herndon Writing Center shirts, excited for what was about to unravel at George Mason’s Arlington campus. The third year tutors stood laughing in the large circle as the newcomers shuffled their feet, unsure what to expect.

27 HWC tutors, Ms. Hutton, Ms. Brown, and Ms. Sneed, attended CAPTA 2016.

Flash forward to 9:00: CAPTA had a keynote speaker, Dr. Jennifer Wells, a professor at New College in Florida and author of The Successful High School Writing Center: Building the Best Program with Your Students. Dr.Wells had one main message: if you believe that you are capable of achieving your goals, you will be able to. She explained that one’s perception of himself is the ticket to succeeding in the future. Over 500 students, from 48 schools across 10 states, sat shuffling in their seats, excitedly whispering about what presentations they were attending.

One big improvement from last year to this year was that all attendees were able to choose their presentations they attended. This is an improvement from being placed in sessions without any choice.

500 Tutors, Directors, and Administrators listening to Dr. Wells' Keynote

Presenters broke off first, rushing to their designated room to set up. For my first session, I attended Tutor APtitude, a presentation on how to tutor AP essays, lead by tutors from Oakton High School, and its joint presentation on managing stress from AP courses, lead by HWC tutors Sofia Caballero and Jo Luttazi. The contrast of the two presentations was perfect because I could relate to both AP course stress and tutoring these challenging essays. The best part about each presentation was how useful and applicable I found them to be. Seeing peers give presentations like the ones at CAPTA is so inspiring to me.

The next session was on advertising and bringing in more people to the writing center. I loved this presentation because it was really similar to a topic I presented on last year! Everyone in the audience was given a chance to suggest our own marketing strategies,creating a huge collaborative discussion. I love hearing about how other writing centers operate and getting new ideas to test in our own.

Hundreds of peers flocked the steps outdoors in a variety of colorful writing center shirts. Lunch time was full of bonding between other centers and setting up more dates to meet and chat about tutoring. The lunch was delicious and we even had time to do our own mannequin challenge! My partner and I snuck back upstairs a bit early to begin setting up for our own presentation that was to come.

My partner Laura Wycoff and I presented on tutoring ESOL students and how we could make them feel more comfortable in the writing center. Our solution was digital tutoring! After giving our presentation, we had the rewarding experience of being asked to present again on a later date at Northern Virginia Community College. Another woman who viewed our presentation asked if I would share my material with her so she could share it with her colleagues. It was a great opportunity to make connections and get feedback on what we had worked so hard on.

Jessie and Laura after their presentation

The last session I attended was on setting up a writing center. The presentation answered all of my questions on Google Classroom and got me even more excited to test it out in the Herndon Writing Center!

#Squad

After staying late to get my questions answered, I ran down for the closing ceremony. After a day full of excitement, all 500 students piled back in for congratulations and treats. I scanned the crowd full of tutors and saw the Herndon Writing Center sitting together and sharing new ideas. After a long day of meeting people, I settled back in with my friends as we cheered on Mrs. Hutton and the other CAPTA directors at the podium.

Who had fun at #CAPTA2016?

"Magnifying Glass" by Gunn

My writing is holding up a magnifying glass to the intricacies of the world around us. Writing throughout my life has given me the ability to explore the more analytical side of  my thoughts that are constantly trying to find some deeper meaning of a text. It allows me to breathe life into my thoughts, something that wouldn’t happen if they were just spoken. Writing frees my thoughts from the confines of my brain and puts them out into the open for the world to see.  

The things that make writing fun for me is being able to make people think deeply about something that they only see the surface of. Instead of them snorkeling at sea level, I want them to be able to dive 300 ft under with scuba gear. Snorkeling at sea level is like reading the text without thinking about what the author wants you to see, while diving under the water shows you how much more there is to see. This diving under is the deep examination of a text, in which you can finally understand what the author wants you to see, and more. This analysis happens only with either slow and deliberate reading of a text or the repeated reading of it. There is so much more detail in every piece of text that you read that very few people notice or can see. The ocean that I let the readers of my analysis explore starts at the glowing keyboard in my poorly-lit, always chilly basement room. The environment surrounding me affects my writing process tremendously. Small things like the keyboard I am using being uncomfortable to use throw me off focus, chatter between people has the same effect. Almost every paper, report, journal, short story, or note that I have written has been one of two keyboards for almost 6 years. I never have any kind of music playing in the background while I work, only the sounds of the keys going click and clack, and the sounds of my brain attempting to put my jumbled thoughts into coherent sentences on a screen.  

Sadly one of the things that make writing difficult for me is the premise of writing for a grade. Even this assignment, one which I thought I would enjoy writing, has put me off and caused me to procrastinate it’s completion on the basis of that it will end up as a letter or number in a grade book that I check at minimum 5 times a week. That letter or number will either make me feel good or bad about what I wrote, and then I move on. Depending on what that grade book says, I take two very different courses of action. One involves the possibility of a relatively high grade on this paper, the other involves the possibility of a low score. With a high score on this paper, I see that this boosts my overall grade and I become complacent. I feel satisfied with the work I’ve done and never again think about the contents of this paper. If I receive a low score however, my mind focuses on every possibility I have to soften the blow of this low score through extra work, late work, missing assignments, and so on. These are all distractions from my writing, especially that which is not school assigned writing. All in all, these forced assignments will always take me away from my writing, no matter the outcome or score. This explanation of endeavors in our education system works to describe many tasks if you replace the word “paper” with assignment.

         

These restrictions on my writing make me feel as though I am not a writer myself. I do feel that I have grown since writing Harry Potter universe short stories, and that I have become more adept at being able to show the reader how I think and feel about certain things. However writing is sadly not one of my main priorities in my day to day life, nor is it something I could easily make a priority without changing the way I live my life. One day, after high school and after college, I hope to be able to find the time to fit writing into my day to day and to be able to express all of my ideas in a way that is enjoyable to many. Only then would I feel that I am a writer. At this point in my life, I cannot bring myself to say so.

"Stress Haikus" by Leonita Cassidy

Procrastination

Work begins to multiply

You will not catch up

Worry comes in waves

Drowning in anxiety

Can’t reach the surface

There are things to do

You race to get it all done

Yet time has run out

It’s overwhelming

So much pressure to do well

Seems impossible

October 2016 Statistics Report

National Day on Writing Celebration: Haiku and Cake

On Thursday, October 20, 2016, we celebrated the National Day on Writing with our annual Haiku and Cake party. Below are some selections of the haiku we received.

What are you writing?
A haiku. For English? Yes.
Sounds fun. Yeah we get cake too.

Math is glorious.
With food, it's even better!
Math + Cake? Pure joy!
(By Mrs. Margraff)

I play on defense.
Defensive link to be clear.
Football is my life.

Determination
Skill and passion in soccer
Makes the player great

Rebellious bolts
Blades of lightning cleave the sky
Cleaving right from wrong

Buffalo Chicken
Wings are very very delicious to eat
They were a good treat.

Chemistry is hard.
Why do they even teach it?
Do you think I"ll pass?

Haikus are awesome
But they don't always make sense
Refrigerator

I just came from math
We had to do trig problems
Please give me some cake

Be your Kanye best
Put your skills to Kanyes test
Beat the Kanye rest

Billions of bright lights
Shine against a dark canvase
In the clear night sky

Haiku is starting.
Haiku is nearly finished.
Haiku is complete.

"You Sit Down to Write" by Smurph

You sit down to write

And there is a sloth about your neck.

The words flow like marbles, dropping individually to the paper, dammed back

By the droop of your eyelids

And the tremors in your hands.

The face of the clock is blurring

But you know it isn’t late enough

So you push the heavy creature aside

And you keep writing.

You sit down to write

And there are moths fluttering in your chest

Making a home inside your ribs

Lifting, everything becoming that much lighter

And the words float out of you

Like each is a single gossamer insect

Seeking the light.

You sit down to write

And there’s a dragon clawing at your throat.

You can feel its breath sting your eyes

And the words roar out of your pen

Burning the page

Then extinguished by the tears that quickly follow.

It escapes from you in bursts of heat

And bloody anger

And it flies away

Leaving behind the taste of ash in your throat

And the promise of return.

You sit down to write

And there is something inside you

Deeper than the moths.

If you turn your head quickly enough

You can see feathers

And hear the beat of fragile wings.

This is the most valuable creature

And the only one

That will not fly away.

Treasure it.

"When I Write" by Kelly Shepherd

When I write, I am a bird

I am free, I let go

I let myself fly

The wind whipping in my ears

My hair flapping around like wings

My thoughts scramble across the

Vast expanse that is my mind

When I write, I am a character in a book

I’m your average girl fighting dragons

I’m an astronaut discovering a new planet

I have no limitations

I can be who I want to be

When I write, I am alone

I’m surrounded by no living human

I’m immersed in a world no one knows

It is mine

And mine alone

When I write, I am a social warrior

I feel the pain

I see the injustices

I fight for what is right

With only a paper and a pen

When I write, I am a tape recorder

Recalling memories,

Playing them back,

Sharing my wealth

When I write, I am a sprinter.

As my hand races across the page,

The timer is ticking,

But my breathing is calm

And my heart is pounding joyously

When I write,

I am a bird

I am a character

I am alone

I am a social warrior

I am a tape recorder

I am a sprinter

No matter where I am,

Exploring an island,

Driving along the coast,

Or sitting in my room,

Eating chips on my bed,

I am always on an adventure as I write

When I write,

I fly above the clouds

Omniscient,

watching,

When I write,

I’m living within someone else,

Telling their stories

Or I am myself,

Finally being myself.

When I write, I am myself,

I let every emotion

Seep out of my pen and onto the page,

I am honest,

Really, truly honest.

I admit my every emotion.

I laugh,

I cry

When I feel like I am stuck, motionless,

I write.

When I feel like I just need to cry,

I write.

When literally everything in the world annoys me,

I write

Whenever I am feeling too much,

Whenever I am feeling too little,

Whenever,

I write.

Writing is my therapy.

Always turning,

My mind keeps running,

Never shutting down.

Writing is my therapy.

It calms me

It catches me when I am falling.

Writing is my therapy

Because...

When I write,

I am a bird

I am a character

I am alone

I am a social warrior

I am a tape recorder

I am a sprinter,

But most importantly,

When I write I am myself.

"Writing like a River" by Bill the Basil Plant

I am a flowing river.  I move forward regardless of destination, regardless of changes in the future.

This describes me both as a writer and as a person.  When a difficult point comes, much like a rock for a river, I flow around it finding the best path of movement.  I can explode with energy like rapids or I can be calm and mellow like a meandering stream.  

To me writing assignments are like a dam.  An impenetrable force that builds up pressure until a crack is found and the water rushes through.  I stress and stress about writing until I work myself into a position where I cannot think.  All I need is that crack to rupture and bring it all out.  Throughout my life writing has been about assignments and stress in crafting words.  

Like a fast moving river, my mind does not slow to wait for my finger to catch up.  This causes many missed opportunities that I might otherwise have had.  Too many times I  have had to return to a thought in order to achieve it but, like an eddie in a river, it is not the same exact thought.  Decisions about writing have been like people floating in a river.  I ponder the outcome for long periods of time, slowly going through the possibilities, and deciding whether it will sink or swim.  

Writing is a rock that will not budge.  I try to push it but I know that a slow and steady pace will erode the monumental task and make the entire thing a little easier.  Too many times have I tried to buckle down and write one thing or many things in one sitting.  Similarly to a river, it does not work.  

I do not write much outside of school and this is something I have not had a need for.  When I have wanted to write I have found that I do not know what to write about or I can not find the words to describe what I am thinking.  Too often writing is stressful and tiresome, I have found that writing for fun in or out class of class is methodical and stress relieving as I can release tension from my self.

Like a river, I do not mind other streams or people rather looking at my work.  I openly ask for help and any recommendations I can get.  I do mind the thought of my work being used without my permission.  Also, I accept that I am not a fabulous writer.

Like a river my work can change.  Sometimes it is slow and methodical stating facts and fact based commentary, and other times it is like a waterfall.  A waterfall is full of energy, much like my opinion based essays.  One thing is always true.  Water always flows downhill, however this can be changed with clever engineering like canals and Archimedes screws.  Similarly, I always default to an AEC style essay, but I can mend my style to create any type of writing.

Water is the essence of all living things.  Much like a river feeding an ecosystem, a writer feeds every subject.  Writing is needed for history, literature, science, and even math.  As a writer I write about anything I so choose if there is no prompt.  A river can flow anywhere and can become entrenched in old habits as it carves a path through the earth.  However, a river, like me as a writer, can break free from the old habits and create branching streams.  

I am not the best writer, and usually find it strenuous.  However, I always need to flow in a direction never faltering.  I am nothing without direction, much like how a river would turn into a placid lake.  I cannot write what I cannot think, and unfortunately my mind blanks far too much for my liking.  I do not doubt that there are others who are in my very same predicament.  However, I am trying to change how I write and why I write.  Thus I am a flowing river.

"That Little Smudge" by Kelly Shepherd

Oh I see a smudge

Let me just wipe my bright white sleeve across it

It's still there but yet it’s not

To anyone other than me,

all there would be to see is

a blackish tint replacing the smudge

but I see that tint

so I wash and I scrub

trying to remove any lasting color from that smudge

It wasn’t a large smudge,

maybe only the size of pinky nail

yet when I looked at the artwork that I had been given

the artwork that I wanted to change,

I saw the shadows of the smudge surrounding the entire room

I felt myself suffocating from that little smudge

I couldn’t stand it

The shadows were filled with such smoke

It had spread as quick as a disease around the room

Everywhere I turned, all I saw was that little smudge

That little smudge consumed my days

I wished to make it go away

So I tried just that

I tried to wipe it all away

but that didn’t help because all I saw was that tint

All I saw was the parts of the artwork smudged by

my bright white sleeve

soon that little black smudge wasn’t so little

and it wasn’t just one

The smudges grew and grew in number

until I no longer could see a piece of art

I blamed the other precious pieces of art,

the pieces of art that I saw as perfect

When I should have been blaming the smoke

I didn’t use a fire extinguisher

I didn’t try to stop the fire from spreading the deadly fog

I just let it consume me because of

that little smudge that just wasn’t perfect

I guess that’s how it starts though

the cycle for perfection

is a finite as a hamster spinning in a wheel

you think “oh there’s just one thing I don’t like”

but then suddenly you notice every

Single tiny yet soul consuming imperfection

and you can’t take it

Eventually that one wipe

on that bright white sleeve

creates an even bigger mess

It blurs the colors together,

trying to hide the black smudge

yet now the beauty that was there

is now overshadowed by the

deadly smoke

Once a beautiful, original,

masterpiece

now a blur similar to all other pieces of art

I took that white sleeve and tried to erase

but there is no erasing this art

there is only replacing

beauty with smoke

Every wipe we feed the flame

the smoke grows and surrounds us until

it too hard to breathe because each breath remind us

that we are

NOT

perfect

The smoke whispers taunts and

vicious words that are sharp enough to kill,

words that float in and out

always there

keeping this unending cycle in motion

Without those words spoken by the deadly smoke,

the masterpiece might have stayed perfect

for the more we try to erase

and “perfect” our masterpieces,

the less perfect we become.

"Little Girl" by Bianca Butters

As a little girl she would love to sing and dance

She’d play dress up and have pretend romance

She loved the stories such as the princess and the pea

But also adored the superheroes she’d want to be

She ran around with a tiara on her head

A cape around her neck, jumping off the bed

She doesn’t know what is about to come next

As she got ready for school, looking her best.

She held onto her Iron Man lunch box and wore her bluest dress too

Only to go to the bus stop to be made fun of before noon

She came home that day with tears streaming down

She cried, “mama they made me feel like a clown”

Her mother was too busy on the phone

Yelling out words a little girl should never know

The little girl was so lost and confused

How come her mama wasn’t listening to her sad news?

Soon she realized it was daddy on the other end

After a week he realized he made problems he couldn’t mend

He left his little girl who was having it tough

She grew to become bitter to what she thought was once love

Her father was meant to be the first man she adored

Now how is she going to find something worth so much more

Her happiness didn’t last

As the days flew past

The little girl who once loved to sing and dance

Put away all that along with the romance

Looking down on the world like it was nothing

She came to a realization that she wanted to be worth something

Now working on being the little girl to be proud of

She put away all her tiaras and superpowers

She tried her best in all subjects at school

Tried so hard not to make herself look like a fool

After all the years she had been unnoticed

She did her best to keep her focus

Nothing was going to bring her down at her peak

She wanted to be everything, everything but weak

Now the sad thing is that many of you girls can relate

You kept all this pain held up inside even to this very date

Well I just wanted to say that the strength in your eyes

Is bigger than any man can be likewise

And hear me out on this

 I didn’t intend to make it as a diss

I don’t mean to leave out sorrow for the guys

But you already know you’re worth when women are denied

All through life we long for affection

The feeling for someone to build a connection

The power of our hearts beat unsteadily

Only to find somebody that can be our remedy

To find the happiness we had once as a child

To have a significant other that will be able to reconcile

The hurt and the loss we had felt several times previously

All the moments where we weren’t taken seriously

We are not the little girls that I had told you of before

We will not stand it anymore

Our worth has not shrunk though

So I am here to recognize how much you’ve grown

In fact, you’re worth has exceeded over time

And my, oh my, how brightly you began to shine.

You probably shine even brighter now than from when you were that little girl.

"The Poem" by BBB

I am a kid at hope,

I am talented, smart, well that is what they say

I work two jobs and go to school

I hang with friends and act like a fool

Little do they know the struggles I have faced

Running from family that I have disgraced

I work on my craft and continue to aspire

but I can barely get off the ground and can't go higher

I’m stuck in one place and can’t move on

Looks like my work isn't moving along

"My Day in a Mental Hospital" by Jane Doe

There is turmoil in my dreams and my mind is soon astir. The cool touch of metal singes my arm and I jolt up, only to be barred down at the collar. My familiar bedroom has been replaced by darkness and a stiff metal bed. Something beeps twice and I am suddenly engulfed in the glaring light of fluorescent bulbs, as if my movement has awaken a beast. Once my eyes adjust, I survey my surroundings to find that I am in a hospital room. The ropes around my body seem to slither and constrict, drawing out my breath and squeezing the air out of my lungs. It's a python, coiling and hissing with an evil snicker. I look down to see that there are two needles pricked in my arm. like fangs, they inject venom into my veins. My eyes slide up to where the needles meet a machine. It's a familiar apparatus, but replacing the normally clear and sterile IV liquid is a thick black concoction that drops, ever so slowly, down the length of a slender tube until it ultimately meets my flesh. I watch as it pours into me and circulates in my veins. I don't feel like myself.

My mind is spinning and something churns deep in the pit of my stomach. My heart is suddenly louder in my chest; nerves send signals of alert down my spine and I shudder with an unconscious panic. The sounds of all things mush together and radiate in my ear drums to form an incessant static noise. My discomfort has pushed past the point of the drugs effects and I am suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of my dire state. My first instinct is to call for help. I go to open my mouth and must fight to pry open my dry and cracked lips. It burns as the brittle skin rips and crumbles. My voice croaks inside my throat, weak and crippled. I look around.

I remember back to when I broke my arm in junior high; there was a call button on my bed that I pressed to summon a nurse when I wanted another popsicle. I scan the various machines that surround me and cock my head unnaturally to check the bed for any hidden controls. I find no such luck. I do see a plethora of shiny metal surgical tools on a tray to the right of my bed. I cannot reach them from where I lay, but I begin to thrash violently, hoping to shift my bed towards the tray. Rusted wheels screech and shutter beneath where I lay. I take breaks in between my spasms. My usual endurance is stripped and replaced only by fatigue. The bed inches closer to the tray. Still, my trapped hands cannot reach out to grasp the tools. A little more power and I'll be there. Finally, with one final jolt of energy, the corner of my bed reaches the tray. The stool the tools sit on tilts violently with the weight of my bed. I clench my jaw, begging myself not to breathe, not to move another muscle. I’m so exhausted and I know I can’t flex my core much longer. I let out my breath and relax slowly. It seems as though the tray is stable, but just as I sink back onto the bed, the tray clashes to the floor. Metal clashes against metal and the sound is angry and piercing. I wince and stare at the door to my room. It must have been loud enough for someone to hear. Just as I expected, a nurse comes rushing in and stares from the floor to me and back again with bewilderment. I look wide eyed at her. My voice rises in my throat, and I hoarsely call out to her for help. She rolls her eyes and hastily picks the tools up. All the while, my voice is cracking in my throat and I try to reach out to her. She slides my bed back to its original position and starts flipping through a clipboard. The drugs make my eyes feel fuzzy, but I blink and readjust to try and read what the file says. I see a name that is not my own.

“Who is that?” I grumble.

The nurse stares down her nose through her wire-rimmed glasses at me like I am speaking a foreign language: “That’s you honey, you were admitted here a few days ago and we found your ID on you”.

I wrack my brain to try and remember what happened in the days leading up to my being here, but nothing comes to me. She must see my look of confusion because she sighs and digs through a drawer to pull out a wallet. It's a wallet I have never seen before, so I know that this must be some sort of mistake. She draws out an ID and holds it up to the light. She brings it close to my eyes and I see myself. Smiling with my hair curled, there I am in the left hand corner beside someone else's name. I look closer. I am wearing a shirt I have never seen before and I have no memory of this photo being taken. Everything is a blur. I feel inside out and upside down but I decide not to protest for fear that they will put me on more drugs or keep me locked in here for a longer time. I wonder if my days here will all be spent like this, immobile in my bed. The nurse says I will be here for five more days, at least. Everything feels wrong, but there is that ID card with my picture on it that proves what the doctors suspect of me. Here I am, locked in a mental hospital under someone else’s name.

"The Ides are on Point" by Verity Eyre

"Hey Caesar?"

"Yeah, Brutus?"

"You're going to the Senate meeting tonight, right?"

"Yeah." "I heard its going to be exciting."

"Why?"

"The meeting will just be all on point tonight."

Later that night at the Senate meeting: (Brutus looks down on Caesar's prone body with many stab wounds) "I don't think he took me seriously when I said the meeting would be on point."

"Doing My Best" by Keyser Soze

I don’t really know how to start this.

I guess I just do my best.

I want to tell you this because it matters. It’s important. It’s not the easiest topic to talk about, I get that. A lot of people don’t like talking about it at all. But I think they just don’t understand. So I want to try to remedy that. I’ll try to make sense.

I have anxiety. 

I’ve always been socially awkward, ever since I was a little kid. Making friends was difficult. I’ve also always been a little OCD. That’s not the same thing as being a neat-freak, so don’t get confused. I’m actually a very messy person. My room is filled with scraps of paper harvested over years of writing and reading and drawing. I lose stuff under piles of knick-knacks that I’ve been saving since third grade. I trip over textbooks and shoes strewn about the hardwood floor. So I’m not a neat-freak. I’m just a habitual person. I hate, and sometimes can’t handle, when my schedule is changed. That means things like pep rallies, two-hour delays, SOLs, and snow days are hard for me. I have to set my combination lock back to zero before I can walk away from my locker. And that’s not even all of it.

Like I said, I’ve always been socially awkward. I’m not able to deal with small talk, introductions, talking on a cell phone, or group projects the same way that you probably can. I have trouble communicating, which is why I write. Things I say don’t always come out right. It can seem blunt, cold, sarcastic, or mean. I have an odd sense of humor, and that can be off-putting for people. A lot of that aspect of my life has improved since joining the Writing Center. I’m slowly improving my ability to express my ideas in a way that makes sense to people and doesn’t isolate me from everyone else.

That doesn’t mean I’m not still isolated. It’s much the opposite, actually. I let conversations flow around me, but I hold off from contributing. I watch Netflix and scroll through Twitter just like everyone else, but I’m still not able to talk about the Gilmore Girls revival or Donald Trump with them. Sometimes, I can smile and nod along. Rarely, I make a short comment that is heard, replied to, and promptly forgotten. And that’s okay.

However, my anxiety has also gotten worse. In recent months, my ability to talk to people has deteriorated. If I have a panic attack, my chest gets tight and I have a more difficult time breathing. I cry. A lot. I don’t care enough about myself. I let school weigh me down, causing late nights working and more stress. I had to push through fierce battles with people that betrayed my friendship and my emotions. In the battle against the universe, I found myself struggling to win.

The worst part was, I was mostly alone. People who used to help me gone. My older sister was off at school, not able to come home and comfort me. My old friends had stopped talking to me. My parents didn’t know, mostly because I was too ashamed to tell them, too afraid.

It got worse. I couldn’t control my personal struggle anymore, and I didn’t want my life to deteriorate. So I told my mom. I could tell she was hurt that I hadn’t told her sooner, but it’s not like it was her fault. It was mine. How could I be expected to tell her about this terrible monster that left me weak, tired, and miserable? A monster that wasn’t even medically diagnosed? In my head, telling her would be a submission to the beast, a confession that I am sick and unable to take care of myself. I didn’t want to be weak.

But she’s a mom. It’s her job to love me, no matter how weak I am at a point in my life. And love me she did. She did her best to understand, and I did my best to explain. But let’s look back at my inability to communicate. I also have a hard time processing what other people are trying to convey. I assume everyone is just really, really mad at me, and either hiding it or showing it. She was really just frustrated that she couldn’t understand what I was going through.

We had a lot of discussions, and piece by piece, I was able to explain exactly what I go through on a daily basis. I’m not going to explain all of that to you because it took a really long time, some of the comparisons are odd or confusing, there’s a lot to explain, and not all of it is your business. I mean that with no offense. You have your troubles, and I have mine. Long story short, living my daily life is hard, so we scheduled an appointment to see if a doctor could make it any easier. Ironically, as the days crawled towards my appointment, I was actually more anxious because of my inability to communicate and my tendency to cry.

The nurses were nice. The doctor was trying. She clearly didn’t like teenagers, and I clearly didn’t want to be there. What they don’t tell you is the questions you’re asked are mostly just to make sure you aren’t dying. I went to the lab to get my blood drawn. I’m scared of needles, so I’ll just let you imagine how that went. There are follow-up appointments to be had, results to be analyzed, and treatment to be decided upon. I’m not really going to explain any of that either. I’ll just say that the doctors have ways to help people in my situation, and they’re going to pick whichever one they think is best. Right now, I’m mostly just waiting.

My life didn’t change when the world found out. Nothing is different now that adults know. I guess that I became closer to one of my newer friends. He bought me gifts after my first appointment because he wanted to help and didn’t know how. I explained everything to him, and I guess he was sad that I hadn’t really told him sooner. He let me stay up talking until one in the morning. I appreciate people like that.

Getting the help you need takes courage. I wrote on the Courage Wall, hoping to get some. That wasn’t all it took, though. The movies Little Miss Sunshine and The Way Way Back helped a lot. So did the book Perks of Being a Wallflower. I also read the book Tease, which I think is a very insightful look at bullying in school and how important it is to get help. Most importantly was the novel It’s Kind of a Funny Story. That’s a book I hold very near and dear to me. It’s one of those powerful stories that everyone should read because it matters and it will really be eye-opening for a lot of people.

However, those movies and books aren’t substitutes for real people that can be here for me. I learned that the hard way. If you need help, you have to get help. There is always someone out there who cares about you.

I didn’t write this for pity. I didn’t write this to make a statement. This isn’t even one of those “there’s someone else out there” situations. We’re all different. What I go through will never be exactly like what you go through.

I wrote this for myself. Some things need to be written down, and for me, this was one of them. This isn’t the full story, but this is the closest I’ll get to writing it and sharing it with people other than myself. I can’t communicate well, but this is the forum in which I flourish. This isn’t my best work, nor is it my worst work. But it is my most important work. I need to be okay again. I’m doing my best. And I hope you’re okay too. Just do your best. That’s all anyone can ask of you. If you feel like you don’t have anyone that cares about you, I’ll be that person. I care about you. You need to care about you, too. Get help if you need help, please. I did. I’m not better, but I am on my way. The universe is a funny thing. It’ll stack all odds against you, but in the end, you’ll still win. The stars are rooting for you. Look up and you’ll see them shining back at you.