HWC October 2013 Statistics Report

Now that November is nearly over, we decided it was time for us to finally share our October data! ;)

October 2013 was the busiest opening month we have ever had. We opened on October 7, and by October 31, we had conducted over 120 tutoring sessions!

Thanks for helping us to kick off the year, Herndon!

"Content" by Percival Brendan Noble the Third

Outside, it is raining and cold and gloomy. Parents are dragging their whimpering, half-asleep toddlers to dim sum with the grandparents. People jam themselves into the bus shelter, waiting impatiently for the bus to arrive. An unsuspecting pedestrian shouts indignantly as a car drives over a puddle and splashes him.

There is a cramped, hole-in-the-wall bookstore on the corner of 6th Avenue and Clement Street in San Francisco. The bookstore is quiet except for the shuffling of boxes being unpacked, the creaking of the wood floors, and the plitter-platter of the rain against the roof. The only voice is the polite greeting at the door, or the hushed but excited whispers from one friend to another. The air smells of aging, dusty books. The cookbook area downstairs is a bit too warm, but the psychology section upstairs a bit too drafty. The shelves are packed, books pushed into the shelves every which way.

Despite all its flaws and imperfections, this is my environment; this is my home. The flaws make it real. Without the overly pristine feel of regular chain bookstores, I can truly relax and enjoy the store. Walking into the bookstore, I hop into a bubble. I walk around, sipping my tea, and reading book reviews by the employees. The stresses of life evaporate, and nothing by the stories and I exist. My mind is blank as I meander around, ready to jump into the worlds contained in the pages of the old leather-bound novels. Pulling a book from the shelf and settling into a lumpy sofa, I enter completely different world.

The bookstore sells used books. Used books have withstood the test of time. It's warming to know that I am about to connect with the thousands of other people who have read and learned from the same books. If generations after generations of people have read the books, it's still going to have relevance in years after mine. I can picture myself speaking to the people of the future about books we've both read. The best thing this bookstore does with some of its used books is placing them in a cart outside the store. People can stop by and leave books or choose new ones to read for free. The casual system is different from a library's strict schedules and fines. It lets me feel like I'm holding a glimpse of someone's life in my hands.

This bookstore is a gift, an opening to endless opportunities. I have control. There is so much I can absorb. I can read whatever I want, whatever my curiosity pushes me to read. I can read more into Pavlov's experiments with his dogs, or a priest's life in pre-apartheid South Africa. I can learn how to take an mp3 player apart and put it back together so that it still works. The bookstore provides a break from normal, everyday life. The books change me from a first generation daughter of Asian immigrants living in the 21st century to a knight of the Round Table, a Death Eater, a teacher in one of Brazil's favellas, a kite runner in Afghanistan, a scientist dealing with moral controversies, or a parent living in a dystopian future.

The books force me to keep an open mind, to walk into a book without expectations or assumptions. Stories that are based in alternate universes that have different social norms invite me to see the world in which I live in a different light. The bookstore introduces novels that challenge my beliefs. I can read from the viewpoint of a male character with heavily misogynistic thoughts. Reading novels that challenge my beliefs either strengthen them or offer a different side that I didn't see before.

The bookstore on Clement Street is an odd place to find contentment. But, given the chance, it can be better than any tropical paradise.

"Seventeen" by Bartholomew Stewart

The red and green digital clock had seventeen seconds left on it. Anyone who knew anything about wrestling would know that the red man and the green man were tied four to four. I was the red man. It was a cold January evening in the Herndon High School Gym, and two schools were present: Herndon and Wakefield. The atmosphere in the gym was similar to that of all high school wrestling matches: Very intimidating, serious, and in your face. There were only about twenty people spectating in the stands tonight, we had a crowd. There was one large red mat with a big H in the middle of the gymnasium. Two rows of chairs facing each other were filled with my teammates, and the Wakefield wrestlers. I was standing off to the side, with Mrs. Petruzzi stuffing my nose with gauze to keep it from bleeding, and Ms. Bishop was wiping the blood off of my leg. For some reason, I was very cold, even though others would say that the gym felt hot and sweaty. Coach Gonzales was nearby, and he looked at me, and said, “You know what you need to do.” I nodded. Mrs. Petruzzi and Ms. Bishop finished, and the referee walked over to examine me. “You’re good.” He said blankly. I begin to walk back to the center of the mat, and I got into referee’s position, and my opponent got on top. “Bottom man ready?” My mouthpiece was in, I nodded.

The whistle blew. I exploded upward with all of my strength, in an effort to get my one point that I needed to win the match. The clock was ticking. Fifteen. I was now up, but the Wakefield kid still had control. Ten. As I continued to struggle to break his hands, I recalled something in which Joey Riley taught me earlier in the winter. Five. I began to rapidly grind my knuckles against the back of his hands. Four. All of my body weight was stacked against his. Three. He began to grunt out of pain. Two. His left hand came free, I threw it up, reversed, and took him down. One. “Red man, two points, reversal!” Zero. The buzzer rang loudly. I got up, and went to the middle of the mat. I quickly shook hands with the Wakefield kid, and the referee took my hand, and threw it up towards the ceiling. I can’t help smiling after a win a match, because it is simply the best feeling imaginable. Maybe it’s something about having your hand raised up high, or maybe it’s looking into the stands, and seeing your loved ones cheer for you. That was the last match of the duel. As I go back to my chair to put on my warm-ups, and my sweat shirt, I look over at the clock. The red and green digital clock displayed this: 10-8

"Adit" by Hiram McDaniels

The house is empty,

only you breathing

life into its still rooms

here, high in Appalachia, the setting sun

casting long shadows

down in the valleys.

Dinner by seven, a long night ahead.

By candlelight you twirl in time,

feet sweeping constellations across the kitchen floor,

the radio a conspiratory whisper of song

murmured to an audience of one.

Choral ranks of spring peepers

rise and fall, stay constant.

the daylight hum of grasshoppers

is hushed silent in the blackness.

It is a waiting game.

You listen for the door.

He is a flame you keep putting your hand in,

pushing the envelope, waiting to see how long

you can hold on before you burn.
The clock on the wall ticks toward two.

Imagine: a night where he makes it home

before the birds start.

Elsewhere,

the walls are damp, the mine winds

through miles of rock.

A single headlamp beam pierces gloom

and glints off great crevasses in the earth.

He dreams of dinners together,

He dreams of dinners with you.

(He dreams of dinners for three, for four,

small plates and smaller hands.

But he knows his lungs will be black by forty.)

He treads

unstable ground, smells only

coal dust, shale-stone, the drip

of groundwater over the seams.

Pitch here, differing still

from darkness above. The overseer

orders ten cuts by sunrise,

sweating in the heavy air.

He would rather be anywhere else,

your arm in hand, the dance floor,

a Co-cola, your girlish dress.

He will coax the machinery, listen

for the tremble of pine supports,

forecasting danger ahead.

Slurry pools around his ankles.

The radio goes silent, beams and bolts

gritted in the mountain’s teeth,

a great rumble from the gullet of an angry planet.

You will get the notice at five. The locusts

have not started their buzz, keeping mum

in a dawn vigil.

The creek will not run clear that day.

The creek will not run

but for a trickle of mud, the way ahead

blocked off by rockslides on the mountain.

Three knocks

come at the door frame,

your little country house he bought you

with what little country money he had saved.

The radio has been playing static for hours.

You stumble, knee-deep in arbutus, sinking

your palms into dry earth.

Imagine: a life lived with no sunrise.

You are a moth, spiraling dizzily

about an extinguished candle.

You fall

from orbit, singed

and stricken numb with grief.

A crushing weight.

Dinners for one, now and always for one.

The day dawns gray:

His eyes, never again to open,

you, never again to dance.

"Heart" by Ann Onimous

            I love hearts. Human hearts in particular. They hold a vast amount of purpose and meaning. The heart, as anyone can tell you, is vital for life. It’s what pumps blood throughout your body. It’s the very heart (pardon the pun) of the circulatory system. It allows blood to receive oxygen from the lungs before sending it off to the rest of your body. It’s highly important to keep your heart healthy enough to do this through diet and exercise. Are you aware that heart problems are the leading cause of death of Americans? I recently learned that. Quite interesting, in my opinion.

            The heart represents mortality. What’s the first thing one checks for upon discovering a body in one piece? A pulse. A flat line on a heart monitor has become a much used, even cliché, symbol of death. When the heart stops, everything stops. It’s like the power cord of a computer. Pull it out, and all operations cease. It’s done. Finished. Over. Goodbye.

            I think it’s funny how love is so closely associated with a symbol of a heart. In this day and age, “heart” is sometimes seen as an informal synonym for “love”; “I <3 you” and “I heart you” are rather popular phrases among teenagers these days. In fact, I’ve heard that our symbol for a heart is supposed to be two human hearts sewn together. The heart has nothing to do with love. All the feeling comes from your brain. Even when people describe their hearts racing from passion, it’s just a response to chemicals that their brains are releasing. Some might call it improper crediting. But if you think about it, we humans are connecting our life lines with love. “I love you from the bottom of my heart” could be taken as “I love you with my life force, my very essence of being.” And I think that’s beautiful.

            In short, human hearts are wonderful. They are vital for life and recognized as such. They symbolize love, one of the strongest feelings a human can possess. Human hearts are powerful. Human hearts are important. Human hearts are beautiful.

            And that, Your Honor, is why I collect them.

We've Been Busy!

This month, the HWC has been busy working with Mr. Cupolo's and Mrs. Mentis' ESOL 4 students on their Integrity essays. The English 9HN students have also begun trickling in with their Ishmael essays. We've been delightfully busy!

"Last Tuesday Night (Bananas)" by Phil

Well, where do I begin? Her name was Helen, not actually but it’s the name I gave her. And me? I’m the man with the answers, the individual that is about to impart my world of incriminating knowledge upon your very being.

                About a fortnight or so ago, I found myself at the restaurant known as “Un Papion”; it’s French, don’t ask me what it means because I don’t know. As usual, I went there to get a drink and not to eat. Yes, it was one of those nights again. Not the cheapest place to snag a drink or two, but it had become a mere habit in my ever-busy daily routine. It was more or less of my escape at the end of the day. I never ate there because I prefer filling food to five-star cuisine. Besides, the night was far from over and I was in no mood for eating.

                People-watching had recently become a practiced hobby of mine; almost an unspoken addiction if you will. She was shockingly large in size considering her dainty eating habits, which I had observed for the past few weeks. Her end-of-day routine was more or less like mine, for we both sought refuge in the same place. Yet, that night was different from the others because this time, she brought someone with her. The second woman, who I have chosen not to give a name for reasons you will find out in a moment, was one of the most mysterious women I had ever seen. Her greasy jet-black hair fell only to the tip of her bony chin and gave her an almost ghostly appearance. She looked like a character straight out of A Nightmare Before Christmas, which gave me an eerie and uncomfortable feeling.  But I guess it was nice to have a new person to observe. Suspicious, as well as deeply intrigued at what the two were so avidly discussing, I casually passed by their table, pretending to be uninterested in their seemingly secretive discussion.

                It was particularly one statement that stopped me in my tracks and made me turn on my heels. “If I don’t get them the check for $13,612, it’ll be my neck,” Helen hurriedly said to the other woman as she pushed around her small portion of salad she had just ordered. Knowing that they would eventually realize my eavesdropping, I resided to a nearby empty table where I ordered a dish of Ahi Tuna in order to keep up my cover. I felt like an undercover government agent spying on wanted criminals. Little did I know I was not so far off point.

                I am not going to bore you with specific dialogue between the two, mainly because at that point I had no idea what their situation was, but I will tell you what I learned. Basically what I learned was that the gaunt woman was Helen’s trusted friend whom she was dealing some pretty heavy information on. Helen was in neck-deep in trouble. She had been taken to the hospital three times just the week before for potassium deprivation, and had accidentally gotten herself into the harsh black market for bananas in attempt to cure her illness. Desperate to be healthy once again, especially due to her weight issue, she had bought fifteen thousand bananas so that she would never run into her predicament again. Little did she know that a week later, she would be in debt for over $13,000 to the Black Market Banana Company, or the BMBC.

                I’m assuming her friend was very wealthy, for she wore lavish clothing and had bought a $140 bottle of wine for the two women to share. Helen obviously went to her friend for money, considering her almost fake friendly tone towards her friend before she dropped the bomb about her obscene debt. So there I was, sitting an eating my tuna even though I was not hungry, coming to the realization that Helen was both a wanted woman, and criminal. I knew I had to do something, I just didn’t know exactly what.

                Not even knowing what I was doing, I stood up and began walking towards the table. I was ready to alert authorities when all of a sudden; three gorillas dressed in old school gangster attire busted in and immediately approached Helen. The gorillas had clearly dressed to the occasion. They had everything from the stylish fedoras to the suede shoes to the black and white pin-striped suits with a banana patch sown over the breast pocket. Only now do I realize how truly silly they actually looked. But I guess it was no sillier than the idea of mobster gorillas.

“Ooooo oo ahhh…money…banana…where…now,” said the largest of the three gorillas as the other two grabbed Helen and shook her around. The gorillas made it obvious they weren’t leaving without their money. Almost as soon as Helen exclaimed, “I don’t have your money”, she was swept out of the restaurant, leaving her friend, myself, and the whole restaurant in utter awe.

                I never did see that Helen again, and her name never appeared in the newspaper (hence the pseudonym given by myself). I assume she never did pay back that debt and spent the rest of her life peeling bananas for her hungry gorilla bosses. So the moral of the story? If you mess with the gorilla, you get the banana peel. At least she won’t have to worry about her potassium levels depleting again.