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  Arya ran to her room.

  Seconds later, she came back with a black plastic bag, intact and as it was when her Grandpa gave it to her. The first to see her was Grandma, and she was stunned.

  “It was in my toy basket,” Arya says proudly, for completing the mission Grandpa assigned her.

  Grandpa jumped into a standing position shouting, “I told you so! Told you, and you didn’t believe me!”

  Grandma couldn’t believe it, but … sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of you. Maybe asking an unlikely individual is the way to find an answer.

  The family was thrilled. Money at last! Grandpa was so happy he brought fried pork to dinner that night to celebrate.

  People

  NUPUR CHAUDHURY

  Recently, as an icebreaker, I was asked, “Who are your People?” This was my answer. This piece is dedicated to my fellow Rockwood graduates. This piece is also dedicated to my people. May we continue to question. May we continue to challenge. May we continue to be bold.

  Your People, Your people …

  Who are your people?

  My people are my mother and father …

  My father, a refugee from a country that has changed its name twice now. Overnight, the country changed.

  My mother, a female fighting for her professional and personal freedom, fleeing her country for personal liberation.

  Your people, your people …

  Who are your people?

  My people are my grandparents …

  My paternal grandfather, a freedom fighter for his country’s independence. A young man who dropped out of school to fight for his country and was jailed as a result.

  My paternal grandmother, an enigma who loved everyone and helped all and whom I supposedly resemble, although with no pictures, I would never know it.

  My maternal grandfather, a village doctor, who made regular house calls and took cows as payment from those who had no money.

  My maternal grandmother, an angry woman who was without a mother, who did not know how to overcome her anger, and who did not know how to find joy in her life.

  Your people, your people …

  Who are your people?

  My people are kids of South Asian Immigrants, and South Asian immigrants. Those who are challenging

  what it means to be desi,

  What it means to be south asian

  What it means to be american

  My people are the people who are not doctors,

  lawyers

  or engineers

  My people are ones who have forged a new path

  My people are the ones who imagine a new reality for themselves in this country.

  Your people, your people …

  Who are your people?

  My people are South Asians who work to be in Solidarity for all people of color in this country and this world

  My people are people who leverage their power for the good of others.

  My people are people who believe that we are not free until we all are free.

  My people are people who believe that another world is possible, one that centers liberation on love, listening and joy.

  My people laugh, my people love without thinking of color or religion or class. My people understand how hard it is to find joy in this life, and hold on to it for dear life when they find it, wherever, whenever.

  My people are silly.

  My people are bold.

  My people question.

  My people challenge.

  My people, my people …

  They challenge your people.

  My people my people …

  Who are my people?

  Who are yours?

  HASINA FOYE

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: A. Philip Randolph Campus High School

  BORN: Bronx, NY

  LIVES: Bronx, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember when I first joined Girls Write Now. It’s a program where I’m able to embrace my passion for writing. Entering this program has allowed me to learn different techniques of writing, and to discover why writing is important to me. Having assistance with writing from my mentor has allowed me to connect with my writing by developing a bond and finding why I should write.

  KYNDAL THOMAS

  YEARS AT GIRLS WRITE NOW: 1

  OCCUPATION: Community Outreach Coordinator, Girls Write Now

  BORN: Allen, TX

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  ANECDOTE: When Hasina walked into the Girls Write Now office, I was immediately struck by her warmth. Towering over me, tall and smiley, she radiated joy. As we planned for the spring semester, we bonded over our love of the iconic 1990s Friends aesthetic and our preference for handwriting over typing. She is as open, genuine, and insightful as her beautiful writing would suggest. I am so proud to have her in the program and can’t wait to see where her wonderful writing takes her!

  Deaf

  HASINA FOYE

  This was inspired by my own life of having deaf parents and how this has impacted my childhood. It’s a story for readers to imagine being in my position, the thought of losing one of your abilities, and to be grateful toward the little things in life.

  Imagine after a night-long sleep, you are just waking up to nothing … Just eerie quietness. Not the loud honks of traffic outside, the pots and pans clattering in the kitchen indicating something is being cooked. Just nothing, as the words you are speaking are coming out. You can’t hear yourself and think: Why does the movement of my lips feel funny and why can’t I hear anything? It takes you a couple of times to process your loss through your brain as you try to adapt. Now you’re stuck with your four senses where they heighten, improving your taste and sight.

  Deafness is common among my household, as both of my parents are deaf. Not mute, just deaf. This is something they go through every day, they were just born into that circumstance. Their inability to hear themselves has made them function and view society in a different way. As others may see deafness as something to apologize about, to me it’s a blessing, but to them, a curse from God. A curse as to why they couldn’t hear like the others, to properly pronounce or just speak words and a fear that their child will inherit the deafness. It turned out to be false, but their own friends and family members have doubted their possibilities of raising a hearing child and the success that would come from it. It was enforced to my mind to prove people wrong for my mother and to not fail.

  My mom was the last child of five. She was the only one that ended up deaf, which has led to her being treated differently than her siblings. My grandma would often drink alcohol for her sorrows to go away, since my mother was this “curse.” As my mother reached her teen years, my grandma prevented her because of her inability to learn how to communicate, dressing my mother in baggy, unfit clothing with nappy hair, giving her several forms of abuse and just treating her like she was “nothing.” The school saw this kind of treatment and placed her in a dormitory called Fanwood, the school for the deaf. She had easily fit in, but she felt stupid, as she didn’t receive the proper education her peers did. My mother was stuck in basic level education, as the others were in an advanced level. This has made her pass this mind-set to me of being this voice for her, continuously working hard to reach the top.

  I knew I was different from the bottom to the top. My difference made me feel insecure about why I couldn’t be like the others. I used to wonder why the other kids’ parents could talk to them and hear them when mine couldn’t. I used to wonder why Mom would receive the disability checks from the government as if she’s handicapped. I used to wonder why people would mock her as she would make a sound. I used to wonder why the deaf community received special treatment.

  I used to wonder why my mother would say she’s not fit for this world where she has to work ten times harder to prove herself. Lastly, I used to wonder why would they allow this to happen to them and not just speak out. My frustration and pe
nt-up anger from my mother’s deafness made me resent my mom in a way. Most of my childhood, I didn’t really speak as much and mostly signed to my mother. People thought I was deaf due to my inability to speak so I got transferred to “47,” the American Sign Language and English Secondary School, to get speech therapy. It helped me learn to speak words but there were failed attempts at pronouncing the words correctly. My English was mostly chopped up and used in the wrong context. The help of speech therapy has taught me several improvements but has led to me stuttering as I speak. I was uncomfortable speaking out, but I easily fit in, as there were people with similarities in the school. It was where I learned about being a CODA (child of a deaf adult).

  Some usual misconceptions among deaf people are that all deaf people were born deaf, can read lips, do sign language, use hearing aids to help them hear, can’t listen to music, and can’t talk. These are myths, because some deaf people are able to do it. Not all deaf people were born deaf, because some got sick or had an incident occur that made them deaf. Not all people can read lips, because it would be quite uncomfortable looking at someone’s lips 24/7. Instead, they would ask the person to write to them. In different situations, there have been people I’ve encountered who haven’t learned sign language because they were mostly taught to speak or write and some know how to do basic sign or body language. Hearings aids are helpful, as they vibrate when someone close speaks or when there is a loud noise, but it doesn’t restore their hearing. Some deaf people feel hearing aids are disrespectful because it shows the fact they can’t hear and need help from a device. Music has often been a huge impact in their life, as they feel the vibration of the beats radiating through the soul. Songs with a loud bass or drop often get them riled up. When “It Takes Two” comes on, my mother would often start popping and locking with an “ooh” sound coming out of her mouth.

  SIARRA FRANCOIS

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Brooklyn College Academy

  BORN: Brooklyn, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Coming into this program, I was anxious because I did not know what to expect. When I first met Ashley, she helped to make me feel more comfortable coming into the program and pushed me to branch out into genres I wasn’t confident in before. This piece was chosen because I felt like it helped build a stronger bond with my mentor on something that we’d both struggled with.

  ASHLEY WELCH

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Health Editor, CBSNews.com

  BORN: Yonkers, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: When I first met Siarra, she told me the genre of writing that she was most interested in and also the most scared of was poetry. I said, “Same, girl.” But we were determined to find our voices in this writing style that was so foreign to us both. Seeing the passion with which she wrote about her younger brother, I decided to write a poem about a family member as well: my grandmother. We worked together every step of the way, and I’m really proud of the poems that spilled onto our pages.

  Didane

  SIARRA FRANCOIS

  Through the lens of my nine-year-old brother, this piece looks at the challenges that people diagnosed with autism face.

  Didane

  He stands out,

  Energetic like the pink bunny that just keeps going and going.

  No door should be even slightly open because for him that’s out of the ordinary.

  He wipes every tear away but not for the sadness because

  It’s out of place.

  His unique behavior is what makes him Didane.

  Like a beach on a stormy night the world can be frightening

  With the thunder roaring and the shores crashing with the sand

  With the cars honking and an assemblage of people

  What seems like a tumultuous place

  For us is even more challenging for him

  Rigid routines, missed social cues

  Like a brick wall between the two.

  But it shouldn’t stop there,

  The heart of society has opened.

  He now has the ability to save lives

  And fight for the rights of others just like him.

  What was once a challenge

  has become something that he conquers every day.

  He is more than autism

  He is Didane.

  Carmen

  ASHLEY WELCH

  This poem is about my grandmother and my feelings of watching her struggle with severe illness for the last ten years of her life. She was one of the boldest women I’ve ever known.

  My grandmother came to New York without knowing a word of English.

  American soap operas and find-a-word puzzles, her teachers.

  At fourteen, how arduous, isolating that must have been.

  Was she scared? Did she miss the farm in Puerto Rico?

  I never thought to ask.

  In the projects of Chelsea, my grandmother made her home.

  At the age of eighteen she had her first child, my mom.

  Eight more followed. So did hardships and rotating foster homes. She couldn’t care for them all.

  Was it painful? Did she miss them?

  I never thought to ask.

  I’ve heard stories of her youth and her resilient spirit.

  A booming laugh, a cigarette always dangling from her fingers.

  What was she like when she was younger?

  Her hopes, her dreams? Did they ever come to be?

  I never thought to ask.

  The broken English never left her.

  Words like dirty were pronounced “day-tee.”

  Germs she called “Germans.”

  Was she disappointed I never fully learned her language?

  I never thought to ask.

  My grandmother got sick when I was sixteen. A decade spent in and out of hospitals and nursing homes.

  Two painful leg amputations. Chronic infections, her body slowly wasting.

  How awful was it? Was she scared?

  I couldn’t ask.

  What would my grandmother think about the world today?

  About Trump. About Kavanaugh.

  Would she have marched with me?

  Does she want to FaceTime with me?

  There’s so much I want to ask that I can’t.

  KAYA FRASER

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Brooklyn College Academy

  BORN: Brooklyn, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: From the moment Maya and I exchanged our first hellos, I knew our meeting would lead to something bigger than any poem or story I could ever write. Maya and I have built a relationship that transcends the walls of Girls Write Now. One day back in the fall, we were discussing how we both felt that the education system often robs people of color of the opportunity to learn about their history. In that moment I felt that the feelings I’ve had for years were being reciprocated by someone just like me. With Maya, I feel understood.

  MAYA MILLETT

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Freelance Writer, Editor, and Producer

  BORN: Boston, MA

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Two News & Documentary Emmy Award nominations; my online research project, Race Women, honoring our Black feminist foremothers, was recently highlighted in Well+Good and Yes!

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Kaya possesses this wonderful ease and comfort, not only with herself, but with her words—something I wish I had at her age! It’s been a joy to discuss her ideas each week and to watch them evolve. Even when she’s wrestling with something, I know her creative compass will never fail her. She has an amazing ability to take our conversations and completely transform them, allowing them to take her writing into new, surprising directions. Kaya pushes me to show up and dig deeper. I feel so lucky to learn from her, and
to share whatever wisdom I’ve gleaned along my way.

  Esther Is Her Name

  KAYA FRASER

  To be bold is to be unapologetic. It’s raising hell with your words and never relinquishing control of your life to any person or circumstance. My grandmother is the embodiment of being boldly in control.

  Rings of Guyanese gold covering her fingers

  Empty holes littering the expanse of her ears

  Short, cropped black hair contrasting with the bits of gray at the nape of her neck

  Smooth, baby smooth brown skin glowing from inward out

  A towering voice booming from a five-foot frame

  Esther is her name

  But I call her Grandma

  She is Sunday morning hymns she always sings on key

  An encyclopedia of curse words that most wouldn’t know existed

  She is mother

  Was once daughter

  Was once wife

  She who brought five into the world

  Riddling their lives with old sayings that I find to be on par with Shakespeare

  Old sayings, many of which I couldn’t decipher even if I tried

  She is thick-skinned

  Hardheaded

  Strong-willed

  Stubborn

  Her mental fortitude akin to that of a concrete wall

  Yet she is

  Sensitive

  Sentimental

  She can hold a grudge

  She will hold a grudge

  She won’t forgive if you let her

  She is laughter

  Her giggles and snorts matching the gleeful tears in her eyes

  Joy evident in her smile,

  the upturn of her plumlike cheeks

  She is dresses she’s crafted by her own hand

  Fabric pooling at her feet

  Pins and needles between her delicate,

  sturdy fingers

  Every stitch made with certainty and confidence

  Certainty and confidence that I wish she could stitch into me

  I am often compared to her,

  in the best and worst of ways

  “You have her wit,” says my mother