"Where I'm From" by Lola Lane

I am from white radios and an endless stream of NPR

From glasses with foggy lenses and Giant-brand graham crackers.

I am from dog hair on the couch

From the worn-out, laid back warmth.

I am from the purple tulips that live for one second in Spring

From the cherry blossom tree that plagues our house with allergies

I am from movies on Christmas and Sunday night pizza.

From Clare and Kate

I’m from losing everything that can be lost and eating too fast

And from screaming one moment and laughing the next

I’m from don’t get chocolate on your dress and you’re young, you’ll bounce back

And from be the wish you want to see in the world.

I’m from DC United games and from ice cream of course

I’m from Washington, D.C.  and Irish,

Chili and Easter egg dish.

From dad riding his bike from New Jersey to California,

In two months with 200 dollars.

I’m from the dusty photo albums under the couch,

From the adventurous, the have napped and have worked out

From the try-ers and the cry-ers,

The bold and the loud,

The ones who know not everything is worth it.  

"The Sounds of Silence" by Lola Lane

                                                                       

When I was a freshman, I was terrified of writing. But not just writing; I was afraid of writing wrong. When I was a sophomore in the writing center, it was a little too easy to hold back on what I really wanted to say. I wasn’t censoring myself, but I thought that what I had to say was not important, or, more importantly, not worth any one’s time. As I enter my third year in the writing center, I can tell that I am different. I realized that you don’t have to be the most interesting man in the world to say something. Every voice recorded in a written piece is a step towards a new idea or discovery. Anything shared with another can cause a collaboration, or plant the seed that blossoms into something no one even thought could happen. As I enter my senior year, it is plain to see that writing is a medium that is powerful in an overlooked way. When Carlos Fuentes stated, “Writing is a struggle against silence,” I like to think that he came to the nirvana of writing that I just have slowly began to grasp.

My first year as a writing center tutor scared me to an extreme degree. I was awkward, well more awkward than now, a little over-eager, but mostly scared. I was scared to say the wrong thing, write something dumb, or truly expose myself to my classmates. I worked my way through every writing assignment like a zombie walking mindlessly to his prey. I added just the right amount of cutesy, age-appropriate ideas, and never found myself straying from the image that I pre-fabricated for the eyes of the public. The central issue was that I didn’t believe in what I was saying, and I couldn’t fight the silence that was stacking up in my soul, acting as a blockade against what I wanted to put on the paper. No one was going to call me of this reverie. The only person who could save me was my self, and I was too tightly cocooned in silence to emerge with my identity.

It wasn’t until my junior year, and my second year in the writing center, that I began to see that everyone has something to say, and maybe what I had to say was worth listening to. I began to find my niche in the writing center, something that I had been too scared and inexperienced to do before. I became present which made the tutoring easier, and I stopped rushing through any possible action, or opportunity for dissatisfaction for the tutee. The fight I put up against the silence was a mere soldier, but, nonetheless, it was a start. Writing didn’t get easier. In fact, the difficulty of it resulted in many pages of estranged doodles and unfinished stories. When I thought I was trying to please someone else, I would stop writing. I wanted my work to be raw. I wanted it to be a mirror of me; a voice that was inaudible to any ear but visible to every eye. Slowly, I learned when to take my time, and when to push myself to break the fixture of silence that flowed openly in my mind.

Maybe it’s because I am a senior and I am becoming more sappy and sentimental as the countdown to graduation nears, but writing has come to mean so much more to me than I ever could have imagined when I walked into my freshman English class. In a way, writing is life. And not just because it is a strong media for news, or that it gives English teachers satisfaction to be able to teach what they love. Writing enables me to have a voice. I may not be physically shouting from the rooftops, or changing the world by taking actions right this moment, but, in a way, I think writing lets me be me, and that’s life-changing. The silence I once embraced is the very parameters that I struggle to break free from now. Although I look back at my sophomore self, a scared weakling in the writing center, I understand I have only just started on this confusing maze of finding my style, voice, and personality. For all I know, my future self is re-reading this essay right now, and is laughing about how naïve I was, and how I really had no idea how to write. What my future self thinks does not concern me at present. The only spark of inspiration right now is the fact that I have begun to put up a fight against the shroud of silence that in the past has put a damper on my ideas. I may not have yet been successful in translating the noise that reverberates in my mind on to paper, but I’m trying to be true to myself, which is really all I can hope for. And that’s just fine with me.

"The Toothbrush" by Lola Lane

I awoke in a panic. My dreams were scarier every night. I stumbled out of my bed and gingerly maneuvered my way through piles of clothes, books, and various dishes that littered my bedroom floor like land mines. I reached the bathroom, and followed the familiar passage to the lights, fumbling with them until they let me see. I turned on the metal tap and splashed cool water on my face to calm me down. I glanced at myself in the mirror only to see that my hair was frazzled and eyes squinted as they adjusted to the light. I broke the stare and looked down at the two toothbrushes standing side-by-side like man and wife. They stood up straight within their own islands that wobbled and toppled, but were created so that the toothbrushes would never touch the germy counter. The only difference between the two was the plastic color. One gleamed blue, marking my ownership, and the other was green, my dad’s favorite color. The head of my brush was severely worn down. It had been through the ringer of my mouth and was tired from protecting me from cavities.  My toothbrush was perfectly juxtaposed to the clean, pristine brush of my father’s. I yawned and stumbled groggily back to the comfort of my bed.

"My First Memory" by Lola Lane

"What is your first memory?"

I hate this question. Does anyone really, truly know their first memory? Probably not. I have a lot of memories, but I couldn’t tell you my first. However, I have an answer to the “my first memory” question, so I don’t look lame at parties. I was around four, which I know doesn’t fit scientifically because apparently I was supposed to have my first memory by two, but, alas, my first remembered memory was at four. It was a dreary, rainy day. It must have been a Saturday, because my dad wasn’t working and my mom was. As my dad had to handle two crazy kids on a rainy day, he decided to take us to a movie. I remember we went to “Mom’s Apple Pies” first, and I got a smiley face cookie. This wasn’t just any cookie. This was the kind of cookie you bow down to. You see, when I was a child, my father wouldn’t buy as anything that was considered excessive. The answer to any cool toy, concession, or cookie was a solid “no”. So, you can see my excitement at being able to procure such a magnificent cookie.

I thought my life could not get any better, but then it did. My dad took us to the movies, the movies! It was the “Wizard of Oz”. I like to think that this is where my first memory kicked in. The colors in the movie were so vivid and pretty, I was fascinated. Specifically, I remember watching Dorothy just strutting her stuff, and then I remember an urge to eat my cookie. Once I started thinking about the cookie, I couldn’t stop. I had to find a way to eat it, without getting reprimanded. This wouldn’t have been THAT big of a deal if my father hadn’t told me to hide the cookie when going into the theater, as so it would not be confiscated from my gluttonous clutches. This was crucial; I hid that cookie well.

But now, I really wanted to eat the cookie, so very badly. I didn’t want to get caught, at all. I was a good kid, I knew the difference between right and wrong. I knew what happened on “Lizzie McGuire” when she gets in trouble; she gets a detention. This was much bigger than detention, though. This could mean jail, or worse. But the cookie was smiling at me. It looked so good and sunshine-y yellow. I still had the taste of vanilla with a hint of lemon in my mouth from the piece I had eaten before the movie started. I had to have it. 

So, I thought the only way I could get away with this horrible act, was to make sure not a soul saw me. I found my chance, and took it. I slowly lowered myself to the gross, grimy, floor that belonged to the theater. I couldn’t care less; I was in a safe haven to eat my cookie with a calm mind. When my dad saw me, I remember passing it off like I was hiding my eyes from the terrifying flying monkeys. I felt like such an outlaw, but that was outweighed by the delicious taste of victory, with just the slightest hint of lemon. I wish I could say that this experience helped me lead a life of being a cool kid who breaks all the rules, but it didn’t. Life moved on, I became a good kid, and this memory has always been identified as my first.