Ctrl + B Page 10
ERICA DRENNAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Ph.D. Candidate, Columbia University
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “Breaking the Frame,” Slavic and East European Journal, Winter 2017
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Ilana blows me away with her boundless enthusiasm and her commitment to always try her hardest! She brings so much joy and energy to her writing—she can craft beautiful poems in minutes, and she always has a new idea for a piece. My favorite writing session this year was when we read Jamaica Kincaid’s story “Girl” and then wrote our own versions. When Ilana read me her piece, I got chills! It was so powerful to hear her put into words the pressures that teenage girls face and to take control of those pressures by writing about them.
NYC Girl
ILANA DRAKE
When I heard this year’s theme was Ctrl + B, I thought about the pressures that many teenage girls face. As a sixteen-year-old, I am learning to push back on what society wants me to be.
Get good grades. Do extra credit. If you’re sick, still go to school. A case of pneumonia? Go to school. But what if I feel sick? Don’t eat snacks. Just drink water. You can’t get fat. Mom, I think I have an eating disorder. You don’t—you’re not underweight. Only eat salads—salads with no carbs. Don’t get bread at Sweetgreen—you don’t need the extra calories. But it’s whole wheat! Be more like Holly. Play a sport, work out, clean your closet. But I share it with my sister. Don’t buy pizza for lunch, you can only eat pizza from Whole Foods. Don’t wear this shirt—it’s too tight on you. Go to tutoring for math—you have to get an 800 on the SAT’s math section. Oh, don’t forget to attend orchestra, and do your homework two days in advance. And you can’t pull an all-nighter because you need your sleep: Eight hours is recommended! Take an interest in the community, too. But don’t forget, school comes first, so do well! But don’t forget to be happy!
Go on diets. Do juice cleanses like your friends, and keep going even if your stomach feels like it is going to explode. Who cares if you faint, seeing as you’re only taking in at most three hundred calories? Study. Study every day. Why can’t you be more like your sister? You won’t get into Harvard. Oh, and you need to complete two hundred hours of community service for school to get a sticker. A sticker? Go swimming, swim a few hundred laps, a lap being equivalent to seventy-one laps. Make sure you swim butterfly and not breaststroke—butterfly burns more calories. Make sure to complete summer applications. Can I have a break? You can’t eat that dessert—it’s more calories than you burned at SoulCycle. Just eat vegetables—spinach, lettuce, and maybe tomatoes. No potatoes or chickpeas—carbs are horrible for you!
Take an interest in what you’re studying and make sure to take at least six AP courses! They must be so fun if they are taught at the college level. The only reason it’s AP is because there’s a test at the end. Life is like apples and bananas. Each decision has an impact on you, so make sure to do well every day! You have a choice to always do your personal best or just show up and not try. But doesn’t showing up mean that I’m trying? College is so close now—your GPA matters! What’s the difference between a 99 and a 99.99? Life is too short to worry! Smile every day!
Try harder in school. Only a 96 on a test? Keep going. Keep balancing orchestra, school, tutoring, fellowships, babysitting, exercise, swimming, and breathing, while not having panic attacks or being overweight. Your sister did it, so it can’t be too hard. Oh, and while you’re at it, say “yes” to every opportunity that comes up. Take on more contests, competitions, and applications. Choose a major! Yes, choose a major for college. Decide what law school you want to go to. Med school? Business? You choose your path. Oh, and when you choose, keep going. Everything has to be perfect. But I’m only sixteen.
Girl Abroad
ERICA DRENNAN
This piece is inspired by Jamaica Kincaid’s story “Girl.” I imagined a character living abroad for the first time who internalizes all the advice she hears and tries to find her own path.
Wear heels when you go out, but not those heels—they look impossible to dance in, and, honestly, it looks like you’re trying too hard; don’t speak English on the metro, or people might look at you funny; if people ask if you’re from Europe, don’t correct them; buy two half-portions of pie, one meat and one berry, and eat them with the same fork—it tastes fine; talk faster to make it seem like you know what you’re saying, even if you don’t; if you forget a word just use another one, or skip it, but don’t ever apologize; this is how you order an Americano—they don’t drink American coffee here; this is how you order a pancake with cheese; this is how you order ten doughnuts; don’t eat more than one doughnut—don’t you know how many calories they have?; yell “Girl” to get the waitress’s attention; don’t make eye contact with that guy, he looks creepy; don’t buy beer by yourself, or men might get the wrong idea; don’t buy sausages there—they aren’t fresh; but I don’t want to yell “Girl”—isn’t it rude?; talk louder so people can understand you, but don’t talk too loud or they’ll know you’re a foreigner; soften your L’s, no one can understand you; look in a mirror before you go on a journey; look in a mirror before you go out tonight—don’t you want to put on some makeup?; this is where you catch the trolleybus, number thirty-seven; this is where you catch the regular bus, number forty-three; this is where you catch the minibus—it’s faster than the regular bus, but it costs more; watch out for those men in suits, they might try something if it’s crowded; don’t sleep with a fan on, or you’ll get meningitis; don’t drink cold water, or you’ll get a cold; hot green tea will cool you down in the summer; don’t ever drink ice, or you might get giardia; put on some lipstick—it looks like you made up half your face and then got distracted; don’t let anyone buy you a drink, or they might get the wrong idea; don’t smile so much, or people will think you’re crazy—only crazy people and Americans smile that much; but I am American; yes, but do you really want people to know that?; here, put on these heels.
JOLIAMOUR DUBOSE-MORRIS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Benjamin N. Cardozo High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Silver Key and Honorable Mention
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My relationship with Annie is as golden as it gets. She’s the brightest gem that has ever been put into my life, and without her I wouldn’t be able to take certain writing risks. My year with her has been amazing—filled with some blows and challenges, but Annie’s always been there with a bagel and an ear to listen. This year has impacted my writing tremendously, as it has taught me to go further into my vulnerability and the things that concern or confuse me. Girls Write Now has given me the tools to be a versatile and passionate writer.
ANNIE BRYAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Project Manager, Time
BORN: Philadelphia, PA
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Society of Professional Journalists’ Mark of Excellence Award; Off White; Macbeth in the Basement
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Joli is such a source of inspiration to me. At the risk of leaning on an old cliché, Joli has taught me as much as (if not more than) I have taught her. While I’m lucky to have a creative career, our relationship has pushed me to work on areas of writing that I don’t tap into regularly, as well as parts of myself I am not always willing to confront outside of our safe, sacred relationship. I look forward to staying in touch with her as she goes to college and beyond.
winter v. spring
JOLIAMOUR DUBOSE-MORRIS
This piece is about the need to take hold of life and how it comes. Exactly how it is, instead of waiting for a better time to come. Learning to love life in all of its defaults.
Sometimes you listen to music more on the sad side
because you think it’s the right thing to do. You cry because it’s the right type of charade, you want to convey that you’re sad; probably.
I write abstract poems most of the time now. Seems like the most artistic thing to do. Can’t shake off that melancholy kiss to the cheek, so I pretend to talk to myself most of the time. And then I’ll listen
To sad music. ’Cause it seems like the right thing to do. Stuck in this winter limbo, the more your hands go numb, and then burn, reminds you, reminds me, that I’m in a passing time. Sitting in my room on
Saturdays. Believing that there’s this place out there in the city, bending over backward so I can view it. Someone’s waiting in the middle of the street for my arrival, moving to the opposite side of orbital planes because anywhere that is New York isn’t everywhere and anywhere with better heat but radical earthquakes can do that thing.
What’s that thing, Joli?
That thing where you can brag about it later. I don’t know, that thing that compels you to post about how you’re having such a good time in Cancún, or how you dyed your hair a color no one imagined you to do.
“Wow.”
“I know, right!”
“It’s … um, it’s um—it’s blue.”
“I know, I wanted to do like a navy but not too dark, but definitely, you know, want to hit the ball out of the park.”
Apparently, I’m not the only one. My senior year feels like how I imagine an infant’s first few days on Earth are. Just fucking awkward. You don’t know what anything does, you don’t know what you’re supposed to live up to, and winter, that whistle of wind that takes its time before that first seasonal sixty degrees, so it can remind you that whatever shit you’re living in: it gets harder to clean up.
Your room is usually a mess, and whoever you’re giving your time to treats it like a poll.
@someonewhodoesntloveyou
1hr
*insert picture*
“Joli?????? IDK man, what do I do with her?”
Nothing———25%
Nothing, but in a rude way———75%
And then you start a presumptuous cycle of doing nothing, and feeling everything, wishing to be anywhere not here, but not being appreciative of being here in the first place. Take a damn breath.
I took most of my senior year to recognize that whatever options and actions weighing on me were happening in my orbital plane. That there was always a fine equator, a fine medium that you could draw the line at. ’Cause, the amount of energy you use to cry, and listen to sad songs because you believe you’re sad is the same energy you can have to do other things.
What’s this thing, Joli?
Realizing that every second you waste in a pensive pending sadness pushes back that rebooting spring. Waiting for the pendulum to swing, waiting for luck to fall in your hands, waiting for your summer Cancún trip, and waiting for your tears to dry—take that breath.
You’re in control of your transition. You’re the root to all your possible seeds of reaping.
Look at your local tree, and see the flower bloom before it’s ready to grow. Do you see it?
blank wall
ANNIE BRYAN
My piece is about owning my body, flaws and all. It boldly owns the parts of my life and body that are imperfect, even painful, and repurposes them to make honest art.
Everyone else’s arm looks like an arm, but mine doesn’t. It took me forever to realize those girls shrunk their noses in photos before posting. I get sinus infections enough without a narrower nose canal. My glasses slide down too much as it is. When people tell me I’m naturally motherly I don’t usually tell them my uterus can’t carry a baby. (There is a wall where the baby needs to grow.) Sometimes I am asked why I have so many walls up when it comes to my body. When I do tell people, I find myself scrambling to make them feel better. (Don’t be sad for me, I wanted to adopt before all this, anyway.) A cabdriver once told me it was too bad I was gay—I’d make a beautiful baby. I told him I couldn’t, anyway. I didn’t mean for him to think those two facts were related. (He did.) Little one, will you mind that we aren’t technically related?
YADYVIC ESTRELLA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: University Heights High School
BORN: Santiago de los Caballeros, Dominican Republic
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Gold Key, Upward Bound Math and Science 2017
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: In the past few months, Nupur has inspired me to continue writing. She is always open to my ideas and hearing me rant about whatever is happening in my life in a café or in the library. It’s hard to choose one specific moment that captures how she’s impacted my life—there are simply too many. She’s fun to be around, and gives me the best advice. She’s the best mentor I could possibly have asked for, and I can’t wait to see what we do next.
NUPUR CHAUDHURY
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Program Officer, New York State Health Foundation
BORN: Boston, MA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in American Journal of Public Health, Philanthropy New York
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Yadyvic has inspired me to reactivate my writing practice and reidentify as a writer in this world. I am inspired by her passion for science and writing, her ability to be and love both sides of her, in a world that tells us to be one or the other. I’ve taken a page from her book—I am a South Asian organizer, urban planner, philanthropist, and writer. This is a bold presence in this world, and I’m ready to be bold, just like her.
Coffee Chocolate
YADYVIC ESTRELLA
Dedicated to my great-grandfather, José D. Batista, aka Tata (1930–2018). Being bold is not always about being brave and heroic. Sometimes it’s simply about being open and true to yourself and others.
Dusty clothes and muddy shoes. The discolored draperies clothed Timothy’s body, even though it was a bare decoration to protect him from the beaming sun above his brow. He didn’t like hats, especially since the straw would brush against his skin, making him brush his hand over his forehead every few seconds. He didn’t think it was worth the trouble. As he leaned forward, he felt his tendons stretching, nails blackened with soil. His palms have long become rough to the touch, like sandpaper against his granddaughter’s soft cheek. It didn’t seem to bother her, so it didn’t bother him.
When his first granddaughter was born, he loved her and protected her like she was his own daughter. She was clever from a young age. She liked going to the field to sit near the blanket of shadows beside the chicken house. Arya saw the world as it was, unbothered. Unfiltered. Flowers were flowers, and alcohol was like water in a bottle. She figured.
This season was particularly bad for everyone. Rough and bitter on the tongue, like those dark coffee chocolates Grandma buys for Grandpa. Droughts, floods, no food, no money, all taking, no giving. Grandpa had not brought any food from the field in some time, and the store out front was empty except for Arya’s cousin behind the counter. His grandpa didn’t allow her to take the pink gummies she loved, said they couldn’t afford it.
Arya was playing with her dolls in the front yard, her back hot from facing away from the sun. A young lad came to the house, one Arya didn’t know. Grandpa was leading him to the back, making quick conversation. The next day, the same man came again with a truck and another man. Again, Grandpa led them to the back toward the field. Arya didn’t know what was going on until Grandpa appeared holding a string. The string tied around a grown, pale-pink pig—one of four he had out back. With short legs, big belly and dirty, dirty fur, the mammal walked on four legs, not realizing soon she would be killed for her meat and sold as fried pork in a few days.
One man had two baby piggies in his arms. Arya watched as her piggies were placed in the back of the truck, barred with cheap wood. Eyes round, hands still, Arya couldn’t b
elieve Grandpa would give away her babies like that. She ran to Grandma, asking where they were taking Charlie and Lovi.
“We need the money, Arya, you understand.”
She didn’t.
Grandpa went out that day, came back at nine. Grandpa’s words were slurred, his small eyes almost disappeared from the big smile he wore on his face. If Grandpa is happy, she’s happy as well. He brought her up toward the moon, swinging her in the air until the stars collided into a big, mushy mess. She giggled. He had a black plastic bag in his hand. A firm hold as if this was a gift from their savior.
The next morning, Arya woke up to yelling. A commotion, unlike the cluck of chickens at dawn. Arya walked out of bed to take a peek. Grandma was yelling. Her uncles were there, her dad, her mom, too. They were yelling about the money. Her grandpa pressed a hand flat against his cheek, swearing he had it last night, he had it when he came home. He thought he might have given it to Arya to put away.
“How do you give a child a bag of money to put away?! How?!”
All the yelling was making her head hurt. She went back to bed. The entire day, everyone was running around, in and out of the house. Arya was calm, sitting in the yard surrounded by her toys. Arya asked Grandma if she could help.
Grandma said, “No, just go play outside.”
Arya notice that as the sun set and the wind picked up, the faces of her family became solemn. She simply picked up her toys and moved inside.
The next day, everyone blamed Grandpa for losing the money, taking nips at him for being so careless. Yet … he swears he asked Arya to put the money away. Ignoring protests, and warnings, don’t get her into this! He walked over to Arya and nicely asked her to go get the bag.