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  My friends exchange advice about hip and knee replacements, but they also chatter about how they’re reinventing themselves with encore careers and how being older means being free to do whatever you choose.

  Except at work. Once you turn fifty, you’re a layoff target at a lot of companies and increasingly so with each passing year. Artists and therapists can work as long as they want. And it’s fine for Warren Buffett, who is chief executive of his own company, to insist he’s still sharp at eighty-eight and doesn’t believe in retirement. But tell that to a forty-year-old manager who’d prefer to hire two millennials for less money than the sixty-two-year-old veteran who reminds him of his mother.

  No wonder career counselors advise Baby Boomer clients to pretend that half their working lives never happened by deleting jobs from their résumés that go back more than fifteen years, and eliminating college graduation dates. They also recommend avoiding words like “seasoned” and “experienced” during interviews and coloring gray hair, shaving gray beards and getting Botox injections.

  I’ve tried Botox twice but would rather use the money it costs to travel, and don’t want the pain, risks, or expense of a face-lift—although, I have to admit, I’m a bit envious of how much younger some women my age who’ve had one look. Although I haven’t erased wrinkles, I did erase experience from my résumé when I was laid off from my newspaper job at sixty and thrust into the job market for the first time in twenty-nine years. I landed a new job, thanks to the help of a friend who steered me to an opening, but I don’t think it hurt that my new boss never knew my precise age.

  I try to look youthful or at least not dowdy by dressing in the same black leggings as younger colleagues. And I wear bright-colored shirts and lipstick to try to offset the dark circles under my eyes.

  None of that helped when a thirty-four-year-old editor, who was my boss’s boss, told me she’d attended the same college I had and asked when I graduated. Her eyes widened when I said, “a year before Hillary Clinton got her bachelor’s degree.” I imagined her thinking, Why are you still here? Haven’t you saved enough by now to retire—and am I going to have to work forever, too?

  There’s the rub. Like a lot of people my age and younger, too, I’m worried about whether I’ll have enough money to support myself throughout my senior years. I’m more fortunate than most. Unlike sixty-eight million American workers who don’t have an employer-sponsored retirement plan, I have a 401(k) account. I’ve mostly funded this myself over the years, but my employers have contributed to it. And I’ve saved more than the median $120,000 balance in 401(k) accounts of men and women aged fifty-five to sixty-four. Those savings will provide just $4,800 a year, assuming they retire at sixty-five and live another twenty years. Boomers are expected to live at least that long if they’re healthy when they turn sixty-five.

  My mother lived until she was almost 101. She retired at fifty-eight, and the pension she’d earned as a New York City school teacher carried her comfortably for more than four decades—twice as long as she worked. She never ceased to remind me of this, especially in her last years when the past was more present for her than the present.

  “Tell me, don’t you have a pension like me?” she’d ask.

  “Yes,” I’d answer sometimes, to avoid making her anxious. But other times, I’d answer honestly and tell her that hardly anyone these days has a pension that provides a guaranteed income for life, and most of us have to fund our own retirements.

  “That’s terrible. What happened to the unions?” she’d always say.

  With pensions mostly gone and 401(k) savings meager, it’s not surprising that one in four Americans plan to work well into their seventies and another fifteen percent say they’ll never be able to afford to retire. But unless they’re clever about concealing their birthdays, they may not be able to find full-time jobs with steady paychecks. Layoffs hit older workers harder, and once they lose a job they’re out of work twice as long on average than younger employees and typically must settle for lower salaries or contract work.

  It isn’t only the need for a paycheck that’s keeping my generation at work, however. When I became a newspaper reporter, I felt grateful that I’d gotten the job I wanted, one that hadn’t been available to women older than me. What I never expected was how much I would care about work, how excited I’d feel when I broke and wrote a story or interviewed people who lived entirely different lives than I did.

  So although I’ve left full-time journalism, I’m still a freelance reporter and writer and don’t consider myself a retiree. And more and more, I’m divulging my age. When the response I get is, “Well, seventy is the new fifty,” I say, “Seventy is seventy.”

  LORENA MACA GARCIA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Sophomore

  HIGH SCHOOL: University Heights High School

  BORN: Bronx, NY

  LIVES: Bronx, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember moments when Candace and I just talked about life in this little secret café by my school. We have a lot of similar interests, so we can just chat all day, yet still get our work done by the end. She has been such an inspirational person in these last few months, always encouraging me to reach the final destination, caring about my well-being both mentally and physically. Girls Write Now has given me a space to indulge myself in a place full of wonderful and supporting young women and girls who enjoy writing like I do.

  CANDACE CUNARD

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: High School English Teacher, Little Red School House and Elisabeth Irwin High School

  BORN: Laguna Beach, CA

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Whether it’s in the vivid imagery and detailed narratives of her poetry, or in the way her eyes light up as she explains a particularly complicated and suspenseful plot in one of her favorite stories, Lorena’s enthusiasm reminds me what it feels like to write for the sheer joy of it. The writing we do together isn’t always easy—sometimes, finding the right word is a challenge, and revision feels like an endless struggle with deadlines looming—but in these moments I cherish the knowledge that our frustration can end in the shared delight of expressing ourselves just right.

  A Bouquet of Symphonies

  LORENA MACA GARCIA

  A girl or woman is strongest when she feels that she can trust her feelings, especially if they’re about love.

  As I walked with no aim within this darkness,

  I felt a slight breeze at my side.

  As I turned, I remembered the place where I could escape from my troubles.

  When my sight was clear yet,

  the dullness of the space inside my heart overbearing.

  As I walked on further the wind flowed and caressed my slumped cheeks,

  The aroma of the sweet, pleasant lavender surrounded me

  The bright melodies of the piano filled my head with tunes of the blossoming symphony.

  My ever-so-light touch onto the keys, glide across into an arrangement,

  Ready to give a finale.

  As I think back toward my past lives,

  To the little girl at the age of six

  who danced with the wind,

  Twirling along with the petals of the egg-shelled daisies.

  To the girl at the age of ten

  who discovered her love for the intricate pieces of Chopin.

  To that rebellious fourteen-year-old teen

  Who chose to see the vibrant Peonies before her

  Instead of the slight blush of embarrassment of hands beneath.

  To the eighteen-year-old me,

  What fun it was to see the world, ranging from the Rosemallows in the tropics to the Primroses

  In the cool climate playing with the sounds of a long-misused sonata.

  I play this tune especially for my twenty-six-year-old self

  who lost the splashful paint of her garden, the predawn indigo sky, and the glossy onyx fingers

  placed gent
ly between their rightful pair.

  I play the joyous tunes by the memories of my wedding night

  That began to weave the threads of fate into fruition and unfold an everlasting fragrance

  Of fifty-three years.

  I play the tune of the wilting Lobelia which returned to the earth too soon. I should have watered

  the roots more. Gave you more sunshine, which you deserved.

  This interlude of passing lines my eyes with tears

  As the final stroke is played

  In silence.

  The Goddess of No

  CANDACE CUNARD

  It can be challenging to refuse others’ expectations or demands. This piece is inspired by the courageous girls and women who say “no” to these expectations—creating the space to say “yes” to ourselves.

  In the foothills of the Y-range, where the river gushes wild in the spring thaws, there lived a weaver, his wife, and their three daughters. The eldest was beautiful, the youngest was kind-hearted, and the middle daughter was neither. Her name was Mara, and although she could by the age of ten pick out a pattern in cloth and thread to rival her mother’s work, her demeanor was abrupt and angular as the lines of her face. In her youth, Mara’s parents worked hard to wean her from this unbecoming habit of speaking her mind. But it was as though a voice spoke in Mara’s head, saying, You do not have to be the person they want you to be—and so, for a while at least, Mara was not.

  Time unspooled like a bolt of fine linen, and Mara found the voice crowded aside by the chatter of women in the workshop, and the assessing glances that spoke derision or disappointment in the face of each small defiance.

  But as the strands of a braid strengthen each other with every cross and turn, so did the voice grow stronger even as Mara denied it, until there came the day when the cord stretched so long and strong that it became a weapon she could use.

  “It is time you had a husband,” said her mother.

  “I know a dyer in the city,” said her father.

  “He will not mind an older bride,” said her mother.

  “It will be good for business,” said her father.

  And as they wove their argument together, Mara saw it was nothing but a net, to keep her bound to the service of others. She remembered the voice, though she could not quite hear it, and she wondered what her life might become if she could find the strength to hear it once again.

  Mara frowned, tilted her head to one side, and said simply, “No.”

  Some time later, Mara paused on the road out of town. She knelt on the hard ground at the edge of the river, closed her eyes, and clasped her hands before her. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice threaded clear and strong amidst the sound of the rushing waters.

  CIARA McKAY

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Harvest Collegiate High School

  BORN: Brooklyn, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: The Moth High School GrandSLAM

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: When I first met with Alexa, I was so scared that I walked around the block three times just to calm myself down. When she arrived at the coffee shop, which quickly became our go-to place, we clicked. We talked for an hour about our favorite sitcoms, podcasts, and movies. I had hardly noticed that the time had gone by. It’s been like that ever since. Alexa always pushes me to try new things, write in new styles, and read new authors. I have loved every minute of our meetings, even when we forget to write.

  ALEXA WEJKO

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 3

  OCCUPATION: Publicist, Soho Press

  BORN: Auburn, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: One of my favorite moments with Ciara was the time we met for our very first pair session. All we did was talk—and with each new moment, we discovered a new commonality, a new shared interest, a TV show adored in equal measure. We left the pair session that night with a list of new writers we’d promised the other to check out. More than anything else, the spirit of things shared has characterized our year—but with those shared spaces, we have also helped each other see what else may have room to grow there.

  Death Walks Through New York

  CIARA McKAY

  I wrote this piece on a day when I missed the snow with Alexa. We wrote villanelles, which are poems where the first and third lines of the first stanza repeat.

  I walk the darkened streets, blanketed with snow

  Windows black, curtains close, one by one as i pass them by.

  It’s easiest to forget what you cannot know.

  Coffee shops shut their doors, lights still on with a yellow glow,

  A girl sits on the street corner, distressed, and turns her head to cry,

  I walk the darkened streets, blanketed with snow.

  I turn right on Thirty-fourth Street, and see cars abandoned, row after row.

  Times Square in the distance, lights flickering

  It’s easiest to forget what you cannot know.

  The bright white walk sign shines but there is nobody but me to go.

  It’s getting hard to run—no matter how hard i try.

  I walk the darkened streets, blanketed with snow.

  I would laugh at the people of New York, but i would never sink so low.

  A man atop a rooftop looks ready to fly,

  It’s easiest to forget what you cannot know.

  I turn to my shoulder, there i see a crow

  I do not bother to wonder why,

  I walk the darkened streets, blanketed with snow,

  It’s easiest to forget what you cannot know.

  Villanelle Against Backsliding

  ALEXA WEJKO

  This villanelle came out of an exercise I did with Ciara, where we exchanged lines to write our own poems. The goal was to interact with each other’s writing in a new way, and to explore repetition.

  The moon glows softly, but I am wary.

  The night is cold, and the boat empty.

  Just us, together on the Staten Island Ferry.

  You steal glances. Eyes blue and bleary.

  The wounded look? Your offish posture? Tempting.

  The moon glows softly, but I am wary,

  Skeptical of the text you sent and the weight it didn’t carry.

  This “hangout” is contrived. An apology? The perfect entry.

  Just us, together on the Staten Island Ferry.

  But it wasn’t “just us” last week. There was—what’s her name? Sheryl—or Sherri?

  Your awkward silence is its own pathetic sea shanty.

  The moon glows softly, but I am wary.

  I know where this is going; call off your iPhone dignitaries.

  Save your excuses. I know you’ve got plenty.

  It’s just us, together on the Staten Island Ferry.

  Take my advice: The next time you’re trying to get married,

  Make sure your inbox and DMs are running on empty.

  The moon glows softly, but I’m too weary.

  Of this—just us—together on the Staten Island Ferry.

  ANGELY MOREL

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Manhattan Village Academy

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Honorable Mention

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: The first year at Girls Write Now I was diffident about sharing my pieces and thoughts. After learning how much Kate and I have in common and how nice and understanding she is, I just can’t stop sharing my stories with her. I can say that I have learned to be more confident toward everything I write and to feel free to express myself through my writing. Having Kate as my mentor has challenged me to try new things, like ramen! Which is something we now bond over.

  KATE JACOBS

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 7

  OCCUPATION: Senior Editor, Roaring Brook Press


  BORN: Grand Rapids, MI

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Angely is a petite immigrant’s daughter from Manhattan, and I’m a tall midwestern girl twenty years older than her. But Angely and I are so alike! We love watching Netflix, and ranting about social issues, and ramen. Most of all, we both have a fierce love for our families and a strong sense of home. Our homes are very different, especially because Angely’s neighborhood is constantly changing and the block I grew up on hardly changes at all. But writing helps us share our different experiences with each other. My time with Angely is a real gift.

  Home

  ANGELY MOREL

  I wrote this piece because gentrification is an issue that has really hit home to me in the past year. As I grew older, I noticed how strongly I feel about my home and how it has shaped me.

  I’ve shared the same bunk bed in the same small room with my older sister since I was three years old. The same bunk bed we turned into a fort when we were smaller, and the same bunk bed we sit on to watch The Handmaid’s Tale now. Our room still has the half pink, half purple walls from when pink was my sister’s favorite color and purple was mine. It’s where me and my sister sat together to watch movies all night, write in our journals, and do homework together. This small room is one significant reason why me and my sister are so close and why she’s my best friend.

  This bunk bed in this room is where I have many of my memories at home. But my home is not just my apartment—it’s my neighborhood. While I was growing up, I knew everyone on my block. People were so friendly while they listened to merengue and bachata in the bodega, and while they shopped at other neighborhood businesses, they would stop to talk to their vecinos about the latest news from DR. The majority of the people in my neighborhood were from the Dominican Republic and we were proud to be Dominican. Everyone spoke Spanish and was very authentic. It’s where we brought a little bit of our motherland to feel safe and comfortable.