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  My home is the safe space where I feel comfortable to do anything, to just chill and be at ease, and to be myself. It’s the place where all my memories are and where my community is. It’s where I transitioned from a little baby into a teenager, where I had all my sleepovers with my cousins, and where I opened up all my presents on Christmas morning. It’s where I can be authentic and never forget my roots. I’ve lived in the same apartment since I was born. I went through puberty there, and my best times were in this apartment. When I feel sad and angry, this is the place where I feel the safest.

  But now, in the neighborhood that I’ve called home, I often feel sad and angry at the world. Because the street I’ve lived on my whole life is changing. Latinos who have lived here for years have been slowly leaving or paid to leave; old apartments are being reconstructed to be more modern. Gentrification is taking away the homes and safe spaces of all the people in my community. Now most of the people I grew up around are gone, the bodega no longer plays merengue or bachata, the other businesses have either closed down or been bought out. There’s not enough Dominicans to talk to on the streets. Everything has changed—the culture and the people—gone.

  Although sometimes I wish to have more of my own space and live like the girls in the movies with their big rooms and walk-in closets, without my small room and bunk bed, I wouldn’t have grown to be the person I am today and to appreciate and love my culture.

  This house and this community have made me the person I am today.

  There’s just no place I would rather call home.

  Home

  KATE JACOBS

  The older I get, the more my nostalgia for my childhood home increases. I feel very grateful and lucky to have a place that is such a constant in my life.

  On the corner of an average block in an average midwestern town sits a redbrick house. When I was a teenager I would have called it a small redbrick house, but now after living in New York City for twelve years, it doesn’t seem so bad. There’s a bright kitchen with a window over the sink and an informal dining room and a comfy living room. In the back, there’s a screened-in porch and two huge oak trees. (I worry about those oak trees—how long before they are struck by lightning or felled by some invasive bug species?) There used to be a playhouse on stilts with a ladder to get up and a slide to get down, but my dad had to take it down for insurance reasons. The insurance company said we had to take out the woodstove in the basement, too, the one we lit on cold Saturday nights when we watched family movies and sat in bean-bags around the TV, covered in blankets and eating microwave popcorn. Now the TV is upstairs, in the living room, and there is cable—something we never had when we were kids—and everyone agrees it’s much better. But I still miss the woodstove.

  In the small, not small, redbrick house there are two bedrooms on the main floor, and the upstairs is one big bedroom with a walk-in closet and a full bath. We shared that room for nine years, my two sisters and I, longer if you count the summers when I was home from college. We did homework there, shared clothes there, put on makeup there, while listening to Top 40 pop on the radio. And sometimes I would stay up late at night reading, and across the room my sisters would mumble in their sleep as if talking to each other.

  Now I have a picture of the not-too-big, not-too-small house hanging on the wall of my New York apartment. It’s covered in snow and there are Christmas wreaths on the door and chimney. It truly is just right. I keep the picture there to remind me of where I came from and how I was loved. The brick house on the corner with the big oak trees that never really changes, where I am known, perhaps better than I know myself.

  AMINA MORGAN

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Institute for Collaborative Education

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Posse Foundation Scholarship recipient

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Lauren has been one of the strongest pillars in my support system, and I have been so lucky to have her! Over the past two years, we have bonded over our mutual love for tea, travel, cannolis, and more.

  LAUREN SPENCER

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: Assistant Managing Editor, Woman’s Day, Hearst Corporation

  BORN: Pasadena, CA

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I especially like that this year we wrote together more often and spurred each other on to try new styles (I’m looking at you, poetry). We also laugh a lot, and that’s awesome.

  An Ode to Tears

  AMINA MORGAN

  To cry with pride is bold. It’s a fascinating reaction that our body does when we experience sadness, anger, surprise, happiness, confusion, or disappointment. Tears remind us of who we are and how we feel, and demonstrate our strength in overcoming them and let them come.

  No,

  not the ones when you watch a sappy movie,

  or when you get a crumb in your eye.

  Not the ones when you stub your toe,

  or when you get surprised.

  The ones with a purpose

  one not always known.

  To release a tensed knot

  before it takes control.

  A true ringing,

  deep within the creases and folds.

  Beginning with a warmth,

  a nervous settling in the stomach.

  A bubbling over:

  wells once dry spring up

  to meet the surface.

  To stop, kiss,

  and spill over.

  The first: a traitor.

  The second: a confirmation.

  The next is uncontrollable.

  Vision blurred as all light

  and color

  and sound

  and smells blend.

  A kaleidoscope of confusion

  so loud you can’t see,

  so bright you can’t touch,

  so warm you can’t smell.

  Under it all, the rhythm of the chaos continues,

  an unseen conductor twitches

  with excitement as the approaching crescendo

  rumbles through.

  Noses turn to faucets,

  cheeks to hot stones,

  eyes to deep rubies.

  And as quickly as it came,

  Sounds render to soft murmurs,

  lights dull, distant as stars.

  A blanket, softened from use,

  Comes to rest on weary shoulders.

  All that remains is the warmth, and slumber settles.

  An Ode to a Certain Age

  LAUREN SPENCER

  Being a woman of a certain age means facing myself in mirrors looking not the way I remember myself being. There’s a boldness in having to own myself and my age. It’s refreshing actually… and I’m working to get better at it. This is for all the women who celebrate being certain of their age.

  You looking at me?

  Because I’m just living here.

  Looking at those who wear it well,

  The women of the world kicking ass

  Not staring down L’Oréal, Garnier, CoverGirl to solve their problems.

  But oh you creams and tinctures, ointments and unguents.

  Sure, Helen Mirren winks at me looking fierce and fabulous,

  (And yes she’s selling something, but still.)

  To rewind

  Deny

  Resist

  Destroy

  Erase the lines until they don’t exist.

  The magic serum promises that

  Because they’re chock full of AHAs

  Ahhh

  Haa

  That sounds like laughter.

  And it shows.

  Those look like laugh lines.

  And I wouldn’t trade them for all the twenty-four-karat liquid gold

  luminous, glowing

  Face oil

  You may try and sell me

  No matter what.

&n
bsp; AMINA MUKHTAR

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Benjamin N. Cardozo High School

  BORN: Lahore, Pakistan

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: As a senior, I was praying that my last year at Girls Write Now would be memorable. I’m so grateful to have a mentor who is so understanding and helpful in my journey as a writer and as a young adult. From honing my college essays to exploring different genres of writing, I’ve truly grown this year. Linda was obviously an important person in my life this year, and I am looking forward to growing closer to her even after my Girls Write Now journey ends. I hope to continue my writing career in college and as I grow older.

  LINDA KLEINBUB

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 6

  OCCUPATION: Writer/Editor

  BORN: Queens, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in Nassau County Poet Laureate Society Review, Volume V; Riverside Poets Anthology, Volume 18

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: When I first met Amina, I was impressed by her ambitious schedule. She was enrolled in four advanced-placement classes and several after-school activities. We got to know each other as we worked on her college essays. Even though Amina was a busy senior, she managed to squeeze Girls Write Now into her busy schedule. Amina is a determined young woman, and I hope all the knowledge she gathered from Girls Write Now will help her to succeed on her journey.

  All Is Good in His World

  AMINA MUKHTAR

  Innocence and childlike fascination should be treasured. This piece reflects and juxtaposes the whimsical mind of a child to the logical and overly rational mind of an adult.

  You can see the boy bursting with energy from a mile away. He is running on a patchy field, not caring about the dirt that now coats his legs from the knee down. His arms are raised because he is convinced holding them out like they’re the wings of a jet is going to help his legs move faster. He runs back and forth across the field, seemingly training for his own Olympics. He times himself as he runs, but will incidentally be a couple of seconds off. Instead of the thirteen seconds it actually takes him to run between the trees, he conveniently shaves off eight seconds for a “world record” of a five-second run. Despite his mother, siblings, and seemingly everyone he meets telling him that that’s impossible, he is unbothered. He holds on to his record with his dear life and will never budge over some “inconsistencies.”

  However, this time, he’s not concerned with timing or breaking his record. Anyone looking at this scene would simply see a little boy running unstoppably in a mostly empty field, but he is in a completely different mind-set. In his world, he’s on another planet. He’s an alien catcher, on the hunt for the herd of pink, purple, and blue aliens that escaped from a compound. However, while on his mission, something went wrong. Oh, shoot! They’re behind me! He ran and ran and ran because of the sheer horror of a bunch of aliens running after him, which were all imagined by him. The limitations of his own mind are enough to move him to joy, terror, sadness, and anger. His imagination is enough to take him on otherworldly adventures without leaving his neighborhood.

  That’s what he’s been worried about; that’s what’s been plaguing him. The made-up aliens in his head potentially catching up to him. All of his stress and worry about a problem that will go away as soon as he wants it to, a problem that has no effect on him.

  Just a couple of yards away is his dad who is sitting on a makeshift stool. The old, boring accountant who insists you call him a CPA, as if that somehow brings more meaning to his job. His tie is loosened and his blazer is resting on his lap, his disheveled hair reflecting the controlled chaos that is his life. Tax season just started, and now his weekends are gone, too. The only days he is allowed to rest and spend time with his family are now going to be wasted to the vicious cycle of his professional life. His mind is racing like it was in a competition, but the winner is never clear, because it seems like he ends up worse than he was when his mind started spiraling. He stays away from introspection because no matter how well his life is going, five minutes alone with his thoughts are sure to lead to him finding more problems in his life and feeling more regret than he already did.

  He works and lives this mediocre life for his family, but why does providing for his family come at the price of his dreams? Why are his passions and goals always put aside for an average job that allows his family to live an average life?

  His forehead creases to reflect a man deep in thought and in worry. He doesn’t acknowledge the beauty of the sunset that evening, or the myriad of shades of orange and red showcased by the trees. He is simply lost in his own thoughts, worrying about the deadlines and clients he has to meet. But he’s used to it, it’s the same routine he’s had for fourteen years and will continue to have for the rest of his life. He remembers when he was a kid and used to wish for a spaceship to travel the infinite universe, or a ship full of sword-swinging pirates to sail with. Now all he dreams of is a one-week vacation to the Bahamas. It seems wrong to dream of something more, as if he’s cheating on his current life. Anyways, he’s not a child anymore. How could anyone respect him if he still has childlike imagination and fascinations? At least, that’s what he tells himself. His imagination is limited to the confines of his world and his paycheck. He dreams of no more, no less. He escapes from the prison of his own mind for a minute and looks at his child, running carefree on a field that is in desperate need of some watering. I wish. I wish I could be that old again. He’s so innocent, the weight of the world hasn’t burdened him yet. Real-world responsibilities and worries haven’t worn on his ability to find happiness in the simplicity of life. He is living in the moment, rejecting societal norms and expectations, because he can.

  Someone passing by will see nothing out of the ordinary. It is simply a father and son on a field. A dad, tired from work, and the son, who never gets tired. However, there is so much more to this scene than what meets the eye. The pair are on completely different planets, emotionally and mentally. The son will start to understand the strain of adulthood and responsibilities in a couple of years when it’s his turn to grow up. But for now, the boy finally defeats the scary, colorful aliens and all is good in his world.

  Relic

  LINDA KLEINBUB

  This poem was a reflection of a situation I experienced.

  We rush about gathering pages.

  What colorful lament leaves regret?

  Leaves we’ve meant to photograph.

  We gaze up looking for stars

  Building the sun.

  The equality of secrets,

  Secrets positioned,

  Pruned and tied neatly along the fence.

  Task at hand becomes a distraction:

  Phone calls unanswered,

  Voices unheard,

  Messages unread.

  Is there serenity in the steps you shuffle?

  And what comes of the pages?

  Myths of scorn and greed

  Blanketed in the silence of memory lost.

  We return again to meditate

  As we move along underground tracks

  Through underwater tunnels.

  We gather again.

  A scrap of ideas,

  A phrase of prayer,

  A creation, we made.

  Our ancestor’s assignment remembered.

  What will be remembered?

  In this rhythm beaten down

  Generations lost,

  A faded photograph—

  Only to be slipped between the pages

  Folded to form a book,

  Book to be passed on

  To future relations

  Still unknown,

  Still unconceived.

  Held on by tradition.

  Held on by a string.

  Held on until your grasps fails.

  Let go.

  Are we left empty handed?

  What imprint in the dust?

>   SARADINE NAZAIRE

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: The High School for Math, Science, and Engineering

  BORN: Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in Generation F

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My goal this year was to continue our exploration of NYC’s cafés and restaurants. Sometimes we revisited our favorite place, Maison Kayser, on Seventy-sixth and Broadway, where we talked and revised my work. We also continued our tradition of seeing a movie together around Christmastime. Our choice: Aquaman. In terms of my writing and revising, it has been hard. With Laura’s help, however, I was able to complete our stories and our goals.

  LAURA GERINGER-BASS

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 3

  OCCUPATION: Author

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: The Girl with More Than One Heart; creator of the #BeYourOwn Writing Workshop; Girls Write Now speaker; graduate student mentor at Stony Brook; member of the National Advisory Board for First Book

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Saradine has reached a deeper place in her writing this year. I’m very proud of her. The ability to take the painful memories represented in her piece, “An Educated Woman,” and shape them into a powerful autobiographical story is impressive. To quote Lady Gaga when she accepted the Oscar for her song “Shallow”: “It’s about… not giving up. If you have a dream, fight for it. There’s a discipline for passion. And it’s not about how many times you … fall down or you’re beaten up. It’s about how many times you … are brave and you keep on going.” Bravo, Saradine!

  An Educated Woman

  SARADINE NAZAIRE

  My family came to New York from Haiti after the earthquake of 2010. My piece is about the obstacles they faced living in America without an education and the promises I made to be educated.

  In 2008, my father built my home in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, block by block. On January 12, 2010, it, crumbled. I can still feel the blocks and debris hit my back, as I lay on the ground, certain I would not live to see another day. When the earthquake passed, we were left with our lives and little else. We spent a year in tents, with no school.