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“You have her anger,” she says as well

  My grandma often argues that “every heart knows its own bitterness”

  I know she speaks from experience

  And pain

  Profound pain that she holds with her,

  carrying it like a good luck charm,

  no matter how much I plead for her to let it go

  But there’s a special kind of strength reserved for

  holding on to pain

  It’s like she keeps it not because she doesn’t feel it,

  but because it hurts like hell

  Her tenacity is woven with contradictions

  and I find that I cannot help but commend her

  Admire her

  I see her in me

  But I also see me,

  and me alone

  The Things We Carry

  MAYA MILLETT

  Kaya and I talk a lot about legacy—the strong women we come from and admire. Working together on pieces about the matriarchs in her family inspired me to reflect on the women in mine.

  what are the things we carry

  down through the years, through our family lines?

  those intangible, untouchable somethings that pass,

  like currents,

  through our words

  our stories

  through our blood and bones

  they are the rhythm of our laughter, or

  the movements our conversations create

  they show up in frowns and furrowed brows—in those things we do when we’re deep in thought

  do I smile like Ann did? my missouri-made grandmother, my mother’s mother

  The Glamorous One

  whose perfumed memory I’ve held tight to since I was six,

  when they told me she’d passed on.

  do I cross my legs like Grandma Chichi? my dad’s radiant mom

  she stayed and lived and died in panama when he left

  I haven’t heard her voice in so long

  I do still hear it though,

  in my head

  or hear the shape of it, at least—faint through a crackling phone line,

  saying …

  … saying

  words I never can quite remember.

  but she pressed so much goodness onto me,

  that the feeling of those conversations

  it never leaves

  do I take my tea like Estella?

  do I laugh a little like her daughter Blanche?

  do I tilt my head like Aunt Birdie, or Tía Rosie?

  like Chichi’s mother Sara? like Lenora?

  these women knitted our family destinies with their convictions

  molded us with their stubborn love

  created life with their choices, promise with their courage

  determining us

  divining us

  conjuring us

  through the powers of their strength

  these women, my women

  they crossed oceans

  color lines

  picket lines

  they fought and loved and lost—for me

  for the possibility of me.

  what do I carry of these women

  who made me who I am?

  GABRIELLE GALCHEN

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Sophomore

  HIGH SCHOOL: High School of American Studies at Lehman College

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Silver Key

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: The first time I read aloud a poem to Emily, I read so quietly I’m surprised she was even able to hear me! I was nervous because I mostly present myself as this giggly teenage girl, but when I write, a more intense side emerges. I didn’t know what Emily would think. But when I finished, Emily clapped for me and smiled. I realized that it’s okay to share small pieces of yourself through writing, and felt relieved that she accepted me as I was. In accepting me, she helped me accept my own writing and be proud of it.

  EMILY BARASCH

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Writer

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Vogue.com, i-D, Violet

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: When I first met Gabi, she was intensely bright and passionate about writing, but when it came to reading out loud, she spoke softly. As we’ve continued to work together, I’ve observed her step out of her comfort zones, fearlessly try new things, and attain a (well-deserved!) confidence. Watching her rehearse for the CHAPTERS performance in a bold, clear voice and with a big smile on her face—being so thoroughly her—inspires me to feel more confident. I’m so grateful for and proud of her!

  What It’s Called

  GABRIELLE GALCHEN

  I thought that something bold would be something I rarely talk about. Thus, this is simply about who I think I am, who everyone else thinks they know, and how, ultimately, I’m okay with not quite knowing.

  Like a slobbering bulldog, my breath came back at me hot and fussy as I hid behind my straightened hair and tassel. Struggling to remember the words to the national anthem at my eighth-grade graduation, I resorted to mumbling nonsensical sentences somewhat in accordance with what the 150 other students in the auditorium were perfectly reciting. Amused, I eventually resorted to singing my own song, in rhythm with the dull beating of their chorus. When the song was over, we all sat down to listen to our principal give some clichéd speech about our transformation from buds to flowers. Inwardly sighing, I wondered how, during all fourteen years of turning into a so-called flower, I had heard the Israeli and American national anthems so many times that I had forgotten the lyrics to both! At the end of the ceremony, we all smiled as our parents bombarded us with taking photos, and the happy lines next to my eyes resembled the wrinkled and elusive petals that posed as my life.

  When I was little, I had never thought much of who I was. Perhaps as a result of all the fantasy books I read obsessively, I considered my real life boring, simply because there was no magic in it. All I needed to know was enough scattered facts about myself to introduce myself on the first day of school—albeit so shyly that no one ever really heard me.

  I’m not sure when being a mix started to bother me. Why would it in New York City, where everyone is from somewhere or the other, and all of us immigrants’ children are proud of our cultural heritage?

  But at the end of the day, as my patriotic “born-and-raised in New York for generations” U.S. History teacher repeatedly says: “We are all united as Americans!”

  The confusing part is that this statement simultaneously disturbs and comforts me. Who is my U.S. History teacher, really just a daily stranger, to force me into his neatly wrapped box, shining so red, white, and blue it blinds me? But at the same time, I guess he finally lets me say that I am most definitely American, without forcing me to question my very words as I say them.

  To be labeled as one nationality or not; to be or not to be. It’s not the question, but my answer: the answer to all the questions I ask whenever I must think about things. This can be about things that vary in triviality, from the language I put my phone in to which family I will see the most to which war I will choose: the one of guns or missiles.

  The answer is so far away that sometimes it seems fictitious. Maybe I would rather not be so pathetically half-baked, like someone haphazardly compiled a bunch of dreidels and Barbie dolls into what the modern world calls Israeli American. At least I can thank everyone else who thinks they know exactly who I am.

  Maybe I should believe all those Israelis who call me American, and that one girl who asked me if I eat hamburgers every day because, after all, I live in America where everyone is fat. Or maybe I should listen to my fellow Americans who call me Israeli, and the embarrassingly high number of people who ask me how I speak English if I grew up speaking “Jewish.”

  Maybe no one knows anything, but neither do I.
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  But when I found out that two girls in my grade disliked me for (somewhat) being from Israel, I realized: Perhaps my U.S. History teacher was right. Maybe it’s better to be just American, and nothing controversial.

  But why? Just because I’m Israeli doesn’t mean that I don’t also want to sob when I see Palestinians dying in Gaza. And just because someone is pro-Palestine doesn’t mean they should despise Israeli soldiers trying to protect their nation. But, most important, just because two groups of people both want a home of peace and safety doesn’t mean they should kill for it.

  Which is why it was all the more amazing when I made my first Muslim friend, and then best friend. We complain about boys just as we complain about how the conflict between our religions is so futile—especially when Abraham and Muhammad could have just been delusional, and other people simply followed them. In which case, though both of us believe in God, it would render the fact that 123 wars were fought solely because of religion absolutely terrifying.

  What even is Israeli American? One girl’s self-identification means nothing when everyone already classifies her based off of a measly description, seeping into every double-pronged question like a poison.

  Well, it means something to me, so here goes: If you got to know me, you would know that yes, I actually do love hamburgers, and no, I do not speak “Jewish.”

  It’s called Hebrew, so kfotz li, or screw you.

  Inherited

  EMILY BARASCH

  I wrote this inspired by Gabi’s thoughtful and brave piece about her Israeli American identity and how my own Jewish identity has manifested in powerful ways.

  We inherit our eye color (chestnut, my father said), hair texture (cruelly frizzy), and propensity for cilantro (high, especially in a taco)—so, too, to a degree: our smarts, our athletic ability, our tendency toward melancholia or good cheer—from our parents. And now there is growing consensus in scientific communities that the trauma of our forerunners is also written into our genetic code. That our bodies and our brains remember what we cannot. They force us to experience and then experience again what came before us without ever actually experiencing it.

  And while I may not be able to educate anyone in the minutiae of epigenetics or understand how cortisol swirls through our systems, in my family, it is lived. My mother’s kitchen cabinet is a movable feast of nonperishable items: pastas, grains, couscous, crackers, Panko (kosher for Passover and otherwise), cookies, walnuts, almonds, peanuts, raisins, canned fish—a survivalist’s paradise. And indeed, the food exists, she has admitted, in the event we must flee. Flee from our enclave of Manhattan, where each block is peppered by a synagogue or bagel shop or both?

  But that need—the need to even have an escape plan—well, it’s in her bones. Like Gabi, I am Jewish and a first-generation American on my maternal side. My grandparents were Holocaust survivors; and when I talked about where I’d go to college, my Opa called Auschwitz his Harvard: a master class in perspective putting. Still I always found the food hoarding slightly over-the-top alarmist in modern-day America, but then events like the 2016 election, Charlottesville, and Pittsburgh—not to the mention the countless indignities suffered by other racial minorities, immigrants, sexual orientations, and gender identities—have prompted me to maybe reconsider.

  The feeling of being unsafe in the safest of places or like you don’t totally belong in both your ancestral and home land, as Gabi sensitively writes about—they never quite leave us. Our bodies won’t allow it. So we bundle them up and funnel them into bold compassion and action on behalf of those who need it more than us, and never shy away from using our voice. Even if it means articulating complex things we do not or may never understand.

  MARIAH GALINDO

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 3

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Success Academy High School of the Liberal Arts

  BORN: Harlem, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Nikki is the only person who truly knows my voice. She knows when I’m struggling and why. Throughout all my troubles and problems, Nikki’s advice allowed me to calm down and my writing to prosper. Sometimes I feel as if I can’t write unless I have Nikki there with me, assuring me that my writing is meaningful. Having her for the last three years was the best thing I could have gotten from Girls Write Now. She’s like the big sister I never had, and has taught me more in one weekly meeting than my teachers did in a unit.

  NIKKI PALUMBO

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 3

  OCCUPATION: Creative Writer, Google

  BORN: Union, NJ

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: McSweeney’s, Reductress, Upright Citizens Brigade Theater

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: This is my third year with Girls Write Now and Mariah—and the two have become synonymous to me. Mariah’s a senior this year, so the bulk of our time together in the fall was spent writing and rewriting and rewriting college application essays. It was enlightening: a little because I had forgotten how much I hated doing it myself, but mostly because Mariah has a natural gift for writing about herself and her experiences. It’s amazing how quickly and wholly Mariah has found her voice, and it’s only made me work harder to solidify my own.

  Setting Precedent

  MARIAH GALINDO

  My piece represents Ctrl + B because I am in control of my education—and my future. I am also laying a foundation that my brothers will, I hope, continue to build upon.

  Applying to college made me realize a few things about myself and, surprisingly, how much I have in common with the Founding Fathers. We all had to create something out of chaos. Setting the precedent for those who will come after us. That kind of legacy requires tedious work. While the Founding Fathers had to build the foundation for an entire country, I have—I would argue—the more arduous task of trailblazing for my three younger brothers. The responsibility weighs heavy on my shoulders, just like on the Founding Fathers’, to “not screw up.” So I followed their example, and began my journey of self-discovery and legacy by finding my voice.

  It wasn’t an easy road. A trail blazed, but with plenty of misfires. I explored many forms of writing: political commentaries, epic fantasies, poems, and songs (raps, specifically). But each topic, each genre, led to the genesis of my voice. A voice I’ve harnessed in published pieces and performed in front of crowds at the New York Historical Society. It is important that my voice is heard because my writing not only benefits me. It’s also preparation for my ultimate creation: a family legacy.

  The Galindos are stuck in a cycle of never attending college or even graduating high school, generations plagued with lost opportunities. My writing amplifies my voice to be louder than the rest. It also breaks the cycle and carves a path for my younger brothers, proving to them that sí se puede. Yes, we can—we can rise above. Throughout my academic career, I’ve studied for tests as my brothers studied my work ethic—learning that academic success is possible. They watched me write application essay after application essay—learning that the road to college is walkable.

  Graduating from a top-tier university (like Tufts, where I’ll be a freshman in the fall) will crystallize the legacy I have worked to create. By showing my brothers that a Galindo can—and will—attend and graduate college, I’ll cement in them the importance of using our voices. My voice will start a familiar chant for our whole family to finally chime in. My success as a high school author is only the whisper of what my voice and the voices of my brothers will one day shout. Sí se puede! Yes, we can!

  Throughout their lives now, my brothers will find crossroads where once there may have been only one way or, worse, a dead end. They’ll have choices—multiple routes that will all lead my brothers to something previously unfathomable. But first, I need to barrel down my own path. In order for them to follow, I need to lead. I have no choice. I need to be academically excellent, incomparably successful. My family depends on it. And then it’s up to them to continue it.
My aim is high, but theirs will be even higher.

  An Ode to My Short Hair

  NIKKI PALUMBO

  One of my defining features is my short hair, which I never see but others immediately clock as my entire identity. I wrote an ode to it in one of this year’s workshops because there’s nothing bolder than the control of your physical appearance—by yourself or by society.

  Out of my face

  to make way for my face

  to face the world

  with a full-frontal identity.

  To some, an assault

  to others, an assurance

  that short hair

  does

  not

  care

  about the uniform

  of classic femininity.

  My short hair is aggressive

  in demurity and delicate

  in angularity,

  going to great lengths to be

  comfortably me.

  One

  on

  the

  sides,

  a little longer on top.

  Fluent in a new language

  a shorthand in confidence,

  demystifying the barbershop

  and its hypnotizing masculinity,

  because you never outgrow

  having your hair played with.

  Can’t hide behind a curtain of hair,

  an impenetrable defense mechanism

  needing exhaustive maintenance

  of clogged shower drains.

  Minutes,

  possibly hours,

  shaved off the morning routine,

  time saved to squander

  some other time.

  KIMBERLEY GARCIA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 3

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: University Neighborhood High School

  BORN: Queens, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Appelley Publishing 2019 Rising Stars Collection

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Whenever I have a story or poem for Rosie to see, she always gives me the best advice and continues to help me improve my story. I used to be self-conscious of sharing my work with others, but now, thanks to Rosie’s and my family’s support, I have become so much more open with my work that one of my poems was chosen to be published in the Appelley Publishing 2019 Rising Stars Collection. I know that whenever I’m stuck on an idea or having trouble with my essays, Rosie is always there to help me.