HWC November 2013 Statistics Report

We had our busiest month EVER!

"Pushed" by Bear Force One

This piece was inspired by a photograph on the website "Humans of New York". You can find the original image, published on October 7, here: www.humansofnewyork.com  The caption reads: "I just got out of prison. I was there 37 years." "What'd you do?" "Something I shouldn't have done." "What was that?" "Someone pushed me. So I killed him." 

His unapologetic expression burns into my retina. The wrinkles on his leathery skin seem to be the product of extraordinary stress or bad habits dying hard rather than natural aging. A murderer is gazing right at me with his cold, piercing eyes, yet in them I can still see decency, a sense of humanity. I am feeling pity and sympathy for someone that took away another person’s life simply for “pushing him”. What if the person he killed had a family? What if that person had someone in his life that only he could support? What about his aspirations? Goals? Beliefs? Just what in the hell did he mean by “pushing”? Was the old, weary man in the picture really capable of snuffing the light out of someone for something as trivial as being moved a couple inches towards a certain direction in a semi-forceful manner? I mean, he didn’t say “shoved”, “thrown”, or “pummeled”, so when he said someone pushed him he meant it literally. Goodness, take a second and think how ridiculous that notion is for a second. Just think about how many times you run into someone by accident or walk by someone and nudge them a bit too forcefully in a crowded hallway or room. Well that’s how many times you deserve to die using that man’s logic, and I’m not even considering how meaningless that death would be in the first place. A person’s death can be so powerful and represent so much in such a brief moment. It could indicate the ushering of a new era, a new king. It could lead to hundreds of lives being saved and being able to go on and make families of their own/reunite with their current ones. It could represent the socioeconomic, personal, and mental struggles of a person struggling to find themselves in a world that can seem impossible to make heads or tails of. Instead, what a death like that would mean is that someone needs some anger management.

"Battle of the Brains" by Justin Turner

Prompt: What does your sleeping dreaming mid think in the moments before you wake up? What are its last hopes, fears, or promises to itself as the alarm goes up and it feels itself vanishing?

            Ugh. 5:56. Four more minutes before I have to deal with him.  I don’t have time for his utterly happy thoughts or his complete laziness. There is work to be done, thinking to do!

            5:59. Here we go. 6:00. “Beep! Beep! Beep!”  I can feel Justin begin to move. Come on shut it off. Just a few steps to your alarm.  I try my best to keep him in a groggy state of mind as he slowly inches toward the alarm clock.  Just a few more steps!  I can feel my power over him slowly slip away as my pesky neighbor begins his day.  No. I’m not done yet.  Justin slams the alarm clock and as per usual I coax him back to bed. “Come on just more minutes,” I think to him.  After studying for chemistry the night before, he can’t resist and is soon back on his bed dreaming.  Phew.  He hadn’t finished solving his problem yet. Now he has a few extra minutes before he really has to go.  However I now have my own problem to deal with. 

            “Good morning!” I roll Justin’s eyes in his sleep as my arch nemesis comes for his turn. “How are you today?”

“I was fine until you came along,” I said expressionless.

He lets out a staged laugh, “Looks like you’ve taken some extra time again. You do realize it’s my turn.  There are things for Justin to do and learn you know.”

“No. You say that every morning, yet you still manage to make him procrastinate and watch TV instead of doing something truly productive; as a result of that you cut into my time at night when he’s trying to vigorously catch up because you just had to enjoy every little thing but what he needs to do. I’m the only one actually doing anything productive around here.  Just listen to what he’s dreaming about. He’s problem solving, without your distractions I might add.”

He smiles, and says, “He’s not learning anything! I supply those problems you so desperately want him to fix.  Listen to yourself; you need me!  I’ll give you until 6:15 today, but I expect an awake boy tomorrow at 6.”

“Fine,” I say full well knowing that tomorrow was Saturday and not even he wanted to work that early in the morning.  He disappears for a little while at least and I peacefully sit back and watch the beauty of sleep at work.

Writing Center Bros

HWC Tutor Danny V. (Junior) worked with his brother Patrick V. (Freshman) today in the HWC after school. 

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