"Exactly What I'd Wanted" by Smurph

I always knew what the goal was.

Freshman year, a hazy dream of a forgotten image. Any sheet of paper could have resembled it. Only the first words on the page mattered: “We are pleased to inform you.” Confirmation of my own worthiness to occupy the space I wanted for myself.

Sophomore year, the dream slipped alongside my grades, chemistry exams dragging at my future like nails on a chalkboard filled with incomprehensible formulas. Doubt curled into the gaps left by a college-age sister, the bed beside mine filled with warning.

Junior year, everyone started asking about it. It’s hard not to question something you keep having to explain to people. Why do you want to go? Don’t you want to be farther away? Wouldn’t you rather make your own path? One after another. The dream became a weight to carry, to clutch tighter than the snarl of expectations around my neck.

Senior year, I actually had to do something about it.

I pulled the essays out of my chest like shards of bone, baring myself for judgement and bowing my head under the gaze of something greater. Carefully crafted sentences became dust under my fingertips as I imagined them under someone else’s scrutiny; there is no rubric for being the kind of person a roommate will put up with.

The interview was agony, the wait was torture. The strain of it all blended together until individual facets of it were indistinguishable from one another. Why bother to count them all when you could just lie back and be crushed under their weight?

We are pleased to inform you. The key to salvation.

In the end, none of it was how I imagined. I was not at home, surrounded by my family. I did not break the seal on the envelope. Not even the words were right.

I was in a hallway, struggling to keep my voice down for the sake of the passersby. I was on the phone, struggling to hear my mother’s voice over the sound of my own hummingbird heartbeat. When the moment broke, I was surrounded by my family, but not one bound to me by blood.

            “It gives me great pleasure to inform you.” That was the opening.

            It wasn’t what I was looking for.

            But as I fought air back into my hollow lungs,

            A four-year-long noose sliding off my neck,

            A floodlight suddenly visible at the end of the tunnel, illuminating the way ahead--

            It was exactly what I’d wanted.

"Just Me and the Finish Line" by Bill the Basil Plant

The gun goes off, then nothing, no cheering, no other runners.  Just me and just the finish line.  Oh, by the way, there are also mark and set commands before the starting gun.  As a track runner I am in a constant state of nothing and everything.  This is a feeling only a true runner can understand.  I am aware that this is a scottsman fallacy, but really it is just the runners who push themselves so hard they feel nothing or rather everything.  

Let me explain.  As a sprinter, there is no greater thrill than stepping up to the line.  Why? Well a sprint insinuates that it is a short dash, and there is no room for doubt, second guessing, or really even thought.  When I start a race, like say the one hundred, I feel everything almost in slow motion.  My muscles are bunching then exploding me forward as fast as they can muster.  I can feel every pin in my shoes grip into the track then released again when I finish the stride.  Yet, I do not really feel anything.  No pain, no soreness, nothing.  This is probably due to me going tunnel vision.  

My apparent lack of focus is very evident in the hurdles, my personal favorite race.  If I second guess my self even for a split second, I will hit a hurdle and faceplant.  My mind lets my muscles take over and let them do what I have trained them to do for so long.  This is one of the reasons I love the race so much, but it is also the reason why I black out, or rather zone out, because in my mind there isn’t a field of black it is more of nothing.  Eight steps, hurdle, three steps, hurdle, three steps, hurdle, three steps, hurdle, three steps, hurdle, five steps, lean.  This entirely is my race, my body is so used to it that I can almost do it with my eyes closed.  And no, I have never tried.  Track is often times like this as your body can react faster than your mind.  This is by no means a problem, especially as the body can break and the runner will feel less pain.  I have dedicated almost three hours a day to track because my body needs to know what to do when my mind goes blank.

Any runner can zone like this and, in fact, many do.  Even a beginner or even the slowest runners can do this because they are pushing their bodies to the limit and they will always feel nothing.  The difference is that the fast runners often zone out before the race.  Before they step into blocks, before they enter the bull pen.  This is me.  I loose track of time and people.  All I know is where the finish line is and where I start.  Why do you think the start is a gun? It is to break through the fog or lack thereof and send the runners into a blind drive to the finish line.  

The point of all this is that the zone out is not just in track.  How many times does a football QB throw a pass in practice before it is instinctual about distance and speed? How many times has a martial arts expert thrown a kick or a punch?  The answer is so many that they just need the mental stimulus to do it.  The same is for track.  

Unfortunately, most see track as a sport that requires zero talent.  This could not be further from the truth.  Sure, we do not need to throw something or hit something.  However, the skills we need are the same as most other sports, like running but our running is so much faster and so much more precise as we pull out every inch of every step we can.  For this reason, track is a sport that all should appreciate even if they never perform in it.  We may not be massive football players or tall basketball players, but every runner I have ever met has the determination to do what it takes to win, no matter what others say about them.  

"Thanksgiving" by Cadence Sinclair

It was Thanksgiving, perhaps my favorite holiday of them all, and my house was a warm haven of flickering candles and clinking dishes and ringing laughter. My best friend, Helena, was eating this meal with me and my family for the first time ever, but she became seamlessly stitched into our little world, if only for the few hours that she sat on that chair in our dining room, passing the butter, the green bean casserole, telling us another story of her trip last summer to China. People spoke with gentle amiability as they gave their reactions, shared memories, complimented my mother’s simple, but delicious cooking. I experienced a lovely, magnificent dinner that I swear was straight from a movie, but the truth is that, reflecting back on that day as a whole, I feel only sadness and regret. Allow me to explain.

After we had consumed as much as our stomachs could bear and spoken enough about times when Helena, my sister, and I were in elementary school and engaged in such innocent backyard adventures -- catching lightning bugs, spinning in circles until we fell to the soft earth, kicking our flip-flops over our neighbor’s fence just to act like undercover spies on a dangerous mission -- we filed out of the dining room and into the kitchen to help with the cleaning-up process. But my mother, ever the unselfish soul, shooed us, claiming to not mind such an activity at all. Thus, my dad, Lydia, and Helena migrated next to the T.V. room.

I lingered in the kitchen, however, my mouth agape at how many leftovers we had -- leftovers, meaning little traces of our picturesque gathering only moments before, crumbs and slivers of perfection. This must be shared, I thought, my mind made up, my memory already conjuring images of needy humans I had seen out of the corner of my eye while rushing through the streets of a city with my family, in great detail while at the Metro station awaiting the train, even across from me while studying at the computers of Reston Regional Library. I then remembered that right outside of Herndon Fortnightly Library always sat a man, alone and homeless. I resolved to to bring him food -- turkey, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, apple pie, pumpkin pie -- and explained this resolution to my mother who had been looking at me strangely as I put heaping serving after heaping serving onto several plates and then covered these plates with tin foil.

After slipping soundlessly out the kitchen, out the front door, and to my car, I drove the ten minutes to downtown Herndon with classical music on in the background, feeling pleased with my decision to have a moment of benevolence, of being a do-gooder. I parked my car on the eerily serene and empty street in front of this brick palace of books and more books and made my way over to the sheltered area, my hands full with the plates of Thanksgiving staples. In a yawning shadow, amid dozens of trash bags, was a human being with a thumping heart and shivering, crumpled, skeletal body, tangled hair and skin covered in dirt. He was utterly innocent and vulnerable in that nook. Anyone could have come and stolen his possessions, but something told me that no one ever desired to or would.

I passed the plates to him, saying “Happy Thanksgiving,” my voice sounding too high-pitched, the words floating on the silence and looking too shiny, too fake. The man’s hands accepted the offering with quickness and strength. He then smiled a smile I had before encountered -- wholly grateful, with traces of incurable sadness -- and whispered almost, but not quite inaudibly, “Thank you.” These seconds cut me to the core, for I detected a fundamental hunger in him, something food alone could never satiate. He was deprived of so much more than protein and vegetables. Family, love, a home, a sense of purpose in life -- these were surely things for which he was hungry and could never manage to grasp.

I muttered, “You’re welcome,” and then scurried away, feeling perplexed by the emotions stirring within me, awakening from their years-long hibernation. Back in my car, with the engine off, the silence enfolding me like a blanket, I became disgusted with myself, the way I was wearing a fancy dress and cardigan and planning to drive away in a nice car that I, a mere seventeen-year-old, ought to not have. I did not ask what his name was. I did not keep him company while he ate this meal that was not Thanksgiving to him, but rather nutrients to at least temporarily quiet a rumbling stomach, scraps offered by a timid stranger.

Whom was this act of kindness truly for? Him or myself?

I did genuinely care, but that was the problem. I was struck with the unsettling realization that these tiny acts, although momentarily comforting, were ultimately futile unless I addressed the root of the issue, unless I recognized that this aching piece of humanity did not deserve to merely decay in the shadows of a library entranceway.

I finally put my key into the ignition and drove home, not bothering to break the silence by turning on the even the classical music station. Such music made me feel . Instead, I drove slowly, pensively, wondering about that man’s childhood. Had he grown up in a tiny, insalubrious apartment with a single mother or father who drank away the pain? Or had he been fairly lucky in his early years and had a spacey suburban house to roam around in, two parents with names like James and Susan who financed piano lessons and read stories to lull him to sleep?

When I arrived back home, my hands felt like numb, useless things, so I wept into my mother's shoulder. She murmured, "We can't fix everything." True, I suppose. But when I am older and my hands are more capable, I vow to help at least that man rebuild his life. He needs a world in which he smiles his wonderful smile not rarely, but every day. He needs to be able to feel a sense of contentment and belonging while doing something as simple as passing the butter. Imagine -- it is Thanksgiving, perhaps his favorite holiday of them all, and his house is a warm haven of flickering candles and clinking dishes and ringing laughter.

"Who Wants to Go for a Walk?" by Wayne Bow

Lexie and I started out

The sun was rising just above the jagged tree line

The pink and orange sky looked like explosions frozen in the sky

We walked on the cracked and icy path into the woods

The snow of the previous night made everything look like it was covered in powdered sugar

The something came over Lexie and she laid down in the snow and refused to get up

“Why now?” “Why me?”

A gale of wind chilled my bones

I begged and I pleaded, I pushed and I pulled

I felt cold, really cold. The full essence of the word. Nothing in my body felt over 32 degrees

Out of the blue, a stick cracked in the void of the woods

Lexie’s legs slowly began to extend

Her ears perked up and her eyes zeroed in on the noise like a submarine hunting a warship

Crack, crunch, crack, crunch, crack, crunch, crack, crunch

I knew what was about to happen

I dropped the leash

Whoosh

I watched her charge forward

For a second I forgot we were walking and that she was my dog. I was just watching the pure instinct

The beauty of nature and how she worked

Snap.

I came back to my senses and I walked forward to Lexie starring up a tree

Picking up the wet snowy leash in my near forst bitten hands made them begin to smart and burn

We were off again

I led her through the dormant trees and the pure white surrounding us get me a feeling that I was in heaven or a higher place

Everywhere it was all white

I felt like Dumbledore was going to appear

Wuouououuo

Another gust of wind ripped through the trees

Tears dripped down my eyes and froze on my jacket

Seemingly oblivious Lexie walked with her head high

Nothing nature could throw at her would defeat her spirit

I saw the light at the end of the woods

Finally the end

I picked up my pace

Step.

Step.

Step.

Slip!

Thud!

Ow!

All the air rushed out of my lungs

I couldn’t breath

Tears rushed from my eyes

Pain erupted on my bottom

Everything was leaving me

Just then I felt something cold and wet on my cheek

I blinked the saturation from my eyes and saw a black nose and a golden face staring at me

I lifted off the ground

The next 5 minutes felt like a blur

Lexie led me down the hill past the suburban houses covered in snow

The sun bounced off the snow into my eyes

A yellow tint filled my eyes

All of the sudden I found myself grabbing the door handle

The heat overcame me with a feeling that I have never felt since

I looked at Lexie and I knew that I would have to go back out there

“Pink Hats, Rainbow Signs, Energy, and Kind People” by Holly Jo McClelland

I bolt out of bed at 5:45 am.

Today is the day I get to make history,

I say to myself.  

Well, today, and every day that follows.  

That thought is motivation enough.  

I dance downstairs to the kitchen.

I eat my breakfast.  

I'll need my strength today,

I think.  

It has been two months and twelve days

Since Zombie Morning.  

Positivity is back.  

I get dressed.

I carefully pin on the sash I made the night before.  

The front side reads, “RISE UP.”

Each letter a different color of the rainbow.

Because love always wins.  

The back side is a list.

An enumeration of all the women

For whom I will be marching today.  

Each name a different color of the rainbow.

Because love is love.  

And I will march for everyone.  

I run my fingers down the list.

I don't know how I got so lucky

To have such strong, inspirational female role models in my life,

I ponder.  

Anyhow, I am glad I do.  

I cannot wait to think of them all today.

I hug my parents.

They are excited, too.

I begged them to let me march today.

I think they are proud.  

We hop in the car.  

We drive to the metro.  

The roads are flooded with cars

For so early an hour on a Saturday morning.

I like to think they are bound for the march, too.  

The metro station is packed to the brim.

It is full of pink hats

Rainbow signs

Energy

And kind people.  

I snap a photo of a group of women from Michigan.

They tell me how much they love my sash.

I thank them and beam.  

The train arrives.  

The doors open.  

I think to myself,

New Year’s Eve in Times Square must be something like this.  

Swarms of women

(And men, I note happily)

Are packed inside.  

I just barely squeeze myself in,

Pulling my parents behind me.  

There is no room to breathe.  

But I don't mind.  

Oddly enough, I like crowds.  

Especially crowds like this.  

I talk to a woman and her daughter

From Mobile, Alabama.  

They tell me the tale

Of their long-but-worth-it road trip

And how excited they are

To be here today.  

The march has not yet begun.

I am not even in the city yet.  

Still, for the first time since the election,

I am comforted.  

I am not alone.

I knew that, of course.

But here is living proof.  

Finally, the turbulent train ride slows to a halt.  

Foggy Bottom.

This is it.

Mom, Dad, and I hold hands.

We force ourselves through the masses

And onto the platform.

We wave at the train

As it starts to move again.  

Everyone on it waves back,

Flashing thumbs up

And grinning broadly.

I am filled with hope.

I skip up the escalator

And out into the street.

We aren't yet at the epicenter.  

Mom, Dad, and I walk towards the mall.  

Passersby wink at me.  

I wink back.  

On our way,

We meet a girl and her mom

From St. Louis,

Also bound for the march.  

Their passion is beautiful.  

We approach the mall.  

It is a horde of yet more passionate people,

Waving posters and banners

And chanting in excitement.

“THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!”

They holler.

We join in.  

It is true.  

We push our way through the masses.

I look around.

I am in complete awe of the scene.  

T-shirts and signs reading,

“Women's rights are human rights”

“March like a girl”

“Nasty Women unite”

“Stronger Together”

“Love Trumps Hate”

“We all make America great”

And more still

Abound.  

I am reminded of one of my favorite quotes

From the musical “Hamilton.”

“This is not a moment, it's the movement,”

Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote.  

How much those words

Meant to describe the stirrings of the Revolution

Ring true in today’s America.

I am part of this movement.

I am so grateful.  

I look over at my parents.

We take hands again.

We take a step forward.

We march.

"Friends (I Like School)" by RaeKwonThaChef

I know this may sound strange to a lot of people, and trust me, I’m sure I’ll look back in a week or so and think to myself, “Are you kidding?” but I’ll go ahead and say it anyway; I like school. Now, before anyone has any remarks, let me clarify: I do not like tests! I don’t like writing essays, science fairs, or assigned seats. Did I mention TA? I especially dislike TA. I value school for something that I think we all take for granted; the people who we every day.

AP Chemistry is probably the hardest class I have ever taken. So much information, so many worksheets and practice problems, and an AP Exam that inches closer every day. On Wednesday, I had my fourth chemistry test of the year, and I had been studying since Saturday. On Tuesday, my teacher was hosting an after school review in his classroom, and I felt that it was for my best interests to go. Surround by my fellow AP Chemistry classmates, we went over what would be on the test and what to review. However, throughout the hour and a half discussion, I noticed something. The class was constantly cracking jokes, making fun of each other, and having a great time, despite the huge test tomorrow. I was amazed.

Sitting in my chair during the review, I pondered on this idea. Here we all sit, knowing that we all have homework or practice later (in addition to the huge test tomorrow), yet we are all laughing and having a great time, care free. I was in awe, and then I thought. I thought even though how much we all hated exams and deadlines, we all stayed together because, well, each other. No matter how tough my day has been, no matter what grade is marked in red pen on my test, no matter the few hours of sleep I got the night before, I know there will be someone there to make me smile, to make laugh, to reassure me that everything is going to be alright. It’s something we all take for granted.

Yes, we all know school can sometimes suck, but I feel like we all sometimes forget how much it can rock. Almost all the friendships and relationships we have established between one another have been sparked by those same yellow buses those, the same student pledge, those same damn PRIDE cards. That’s the value in them. This brick building on 700 Bennett Street in Herndon, Virginia, has been the origin of an infinite number of friendships. So many memories have been created here, so many great moments forged into thoughts, so many relationships that will never be forgotten.

So I sat at the desk in AP Chemistry, reminding myself of how a greater number of electrons lead to greater polarizability thus stronger London Dispersion forces, which you know of course, exist in all covalent compounds. But I also reminded myself of the people around me, how much I value them, how much they value me, and how much I’ll miss this classroom in only one and a half more years.

"Dear Em" by Your Big Bro

Dear Em,

As you make your way through your remaining three years of high school, you will experience many pleasures as well as hardships that come with being a teenager. You have seen the ups and downs Molly and I have both experienced while trying to find ourselves and, as a parting gift, I wanted to share with you the hardest obstacle I have had to overcome; change. Change seems to be forced upon us and accepting change can be difficult. From small transitions, like having different teachers every year, to adjusting to major differences, like life in college; change is hard. I equate change with being different, and as teenagers that is scary.

Something as simple as getting my haircut made me feel vulnerable - like everyone noticed me. In the last two years I have learned to welcome change, which has helped me grow. It was a slow process, but it has made me stronger and more confident.  

The best advice I can give you is to welcome change and take chances. Switching from baseball to track was tough, but track allowed me to meet new people and on top of that, I worked hard, lost weight, and even got an award.

I can tell that change scares you too. If you can learn to embrace it, like I have, then it may be a catalyst for you to become more self-assured and outgoing. It may even be the best part about being a teenager for you too. We are both nervous about me leaving for college, but trust me, embracing this change will help us grow and become stronger. I hope that while I’m away you will learn to greet change with a smile because it can do wonders. I love you, Em.

Sincerely,

Your Big Bro

"Revolution" by Emily_Fairy1432

Revolution. In history class, we hear about so many different revolutions that the word “revolution” isn’t given a second thought. Well, now that you’ve heard it so many times you’re probably thinking about it a little more. Now I have to beg the question, what does it really mean? According to Dictionary.com, revolution is defined as “a radical and pervasive change in society and the social structure, especially one made suddenly and often accompanied by violence,”. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to disagree with Dictionary.com to a certain extent. I do believe Revolution can be a change in society, but I also believe it can be a change within an individual and can oftentimes be paired with no violence at all. Revolution, whether it’s within one’s self or within a society or nation, is difficult to uphold, can be used for good or bad, and most importantly of all, makes people stronger, makes a nation stronger, makes the world stronger - revolution is a heavy weight just waiting to be lifted.

You may often hear people say, “A big weight has been lifted off my chest”. This is exactly how America felt once the revolutionary war was over. They knew the revolution was something that needed to be done for the strength of the country, for the perseverance of the country, and for the existence of the country, but it was tough and it was a long and enduring process. During the time period of the Revolutionary war, there was a man named Benjamin Franklin. Franklin is most known for his experiments with electricity, one in particular involving a kite and a key. Other than his incredible discovery of electricity, Franklin wrote a guide, per say, of how to live a full and pure life. He wrote of thirteen virtues one must possess to truly live the way one is supposed to. This “guide” revolutionized himself and lifted the weight of living immorally off his chest. Franklin could be considered one of the faces of revolution.

One may often even compare lifting a weight in a gym to revolution. It takes a lot of effort and may hurt at first, but in then end it makes the individual stronger and more prepared to attempt the next heaviest weight.

Everyone has had some type of hardship in their lives, a weight on their chests that they feel like they just can’t lift. Personally, I have had to try to lift one of the greatest weights anyone could have to lift and it’s a pain I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. When my father died, it felt as if the entire world was crumbling down and falling on top of me piece by piece. He was more than just me father, he was my mentor, my coach, and my inspiration. The man who was supposedly always going to be by my side to help me through anything and everything I needed no longer was. Everything changed the minute I woke up and he didn’t. My future changed, my mom’s future changed, and his future sure as hell changed. Even though it was the worst thing that could ever possibly happen to me, I had to learn to change myself and my lifestyle to get through this. Now, three and a half years later, I am stronger. Have I completely gotten over it? No. How could I? But piece by piece I am lifting this weight off my shoulders and revolutionizing myself and my life

January 2017 Statistics