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  LAILA DOLA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Thomas A. Edison Career and Technical Education High School

  BORN: Jessore, Bangladesh

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Every Friday, Jill and I meet for our weekly meeting. Jill always gets there at least ten minutes before our fixed time and awaits my arrival with potato chips. It’s an awesome feeling to know that someone looks forward to meeting you. Jill is a great person and a great writer. Whenever we work together on our writing pieces, she always makes sure I understand the process of editing our work and cutting down on redundant sentences. Having Jill as my mentor is a blessing. I hope to master peeling the layers of an onion someday, just like Jill.

  JILL CHODOROV KAMINSKY

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Freelance Writer, The Washington Post

  BORN: Cocoa Beach, FL

  LIVES: New York, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in The Washington Post; Medium.com

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: On the day everyone gathered to learn who would be our match, I introduced myself to Laila soon after I arrived. We spoke only with each other until the meeting got started. When we were asked to find the person holding the same emoji, we realized we were a match. We laughed and hugged. As I have gotten to know Laila, I know it was no coincidence that we were paired together. She is a role model to me. She is wise beyond her years. She has made me a better person.

  I Have Faith in My Father

  LAILA DOLA

  I made the bold choice to trust my father to choose the man I will marry someday.

  It was a cold winter night and I was in my bedroom sitting at my desk. I had my earbuds plugged into my iPad. I was completely concentrated on the chemistry videos that I was watching while trying to jot down notes. I remember pausing the video for a minute to contemplate a complicated chemistry topic. I heard my name from the living room. I looked up and stared at the door, trying to hear the conversation. I told my sisters to shut up.

  My dad’s friends were staying at our house for the weekend. Uncle Milton and Aunt Mina were visiting from Pennsylvania, and Aunt Mithila and Uncle Rob were visiting from Florida. They were all gathered in the living room, talking about their marriage stories and random things. I heard my name again and realized they were talking about me, about my marriage.

  As I listened to them, I heard my dad say:

  “I have faith in Dola.

  “I know she will not go into a relationship without my consent.

  “I want her to complete her education before properly joining her hands with someone else.”

  His friends agreed.

  Aunt Mina said:

  “Being independent and being able to stand on one’s own feet before starting a family is very important for a woman. Education is always there to support you in times of hardships and struggle.”

  They gave examples of people they know who were cheated on or whose spouses died, and yet they were able to survive.

  My dad continued:

  “When the time comes for her marriage, I will contact all of you. I am not worried about her marriage, because I know I am not alone in making this decision. My friends will also be there with me in regards to picking out the best suitable partner for Dola.

  “And if anyone tries to approach Dola, he will have to get through me and all of you before he can even get to her.”

  My aunts and uncles and my parents started telling funny stories of marriages from their generation, and the difference of marriage with the younger generation.

  I laughed. I never imagined them discussing my potential marriage with such interest and humor. I didn’t know that they were concerned with my future marriage. I am only sixteen. I was worried about my chemistry test the next day, not who I would marry in ten years.

  I was also relieved to know that my dad will always be there for me. He wants the best for me. And I trust his intuition.

  As a woman of the twenty-first century, I choose to rely on my dad for approving my future husband. My dad is not controlling me; he is safeguarding me. He is not limiting my options; rather, he is making sure my options are safe. He is not taking over my life, he is making sure I have a stable life. My dad wants me to pursue an education and a career. He wants equal rights for me as a woman. At the same time, he wants to protect me like a father protects a daughter.

  My Husband Is the Man in Our Marriage

  JILL CHODOROV KAMINSKY

  I made a bold, politically incorrect choice. I want my husband to be the man in our marriage.

  My husband and I decided to rent a car and take a drive outside the city, to see the changing colors of the autumn leaves.

  “Add me as a driver!” I shouted from the other room. He was on the phone with the car rental company.

  He didn’t respond.

  This was not the first time I had asked my husband to add me as a driver. I had asked on many occasions. Each time, he didn’t respond—not with a yes, or a no. Just silence.

  I got married for the first time at fifty. I was making six figures and had already accumulated significant assets when I met my husband. Suze Orman was my guru. I was living in “girl power.” And I had a perfect driving record.

  We were already an hour outside of the city. With each passing mile, my anger grew. I couldn’t hold it anymore.

  “Why don’t you ever add me as a driver?” I huffed. “Why don’t you let me drive?”

  I had already prepared my arguments.

  “Women are just as good or better drivers than men,” I would say. “Why do you think you can make all the decisions?” “If I want to drive, I’m going to drive.” “Doesn’t what I want count?”

  I didn’t need to say any of that.

  He paused for a moment.

  “Because it makes me feel like a man to take care of you,” he said timidly, apprehensively. “You are taking away my masculinity.”

  I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I turned to look out the window at the red and gold leaves. My entire dating life flashed before me. I had spent three decades exercising my equal rights in relationships. All the while, I was stripping men of their dignity. In my feminism, I had probably demoralized many men who simply wanted to take care of me.

  More important, I was robbing the man I love of showing his love for me in his own way. I felt ashamed. I had pushed my husband to admit that he needed to be the man in our marriage. What he said to me was politically incorrect, and he knew that. It was also honest and beautiful. It was the first time in my life that I truly felt loved.

  KIMBERLY DOMINGUEZ

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Academy of American Studies

  BORN: Queens, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

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

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: This being my second year, I have felt myself become more confident in my writing than I ever have been. I remember realizing this during one of the many conversations Liz and I have had about wanting to explore experimental poetry. After every meeting, I realize how I am slowly growing into myself and who I hope to be. Reading and writing with Liz allows me to learn so much from her and about myself. Finding new novels or theories to discuss with her are the highlights of every day. I cannot fully express how grateful I am to have her in my life!

  ELIZABETH THOMAS

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: AVP of Communications and Content Strategy, New York Law School

  BORN: Norfolk, VA

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I’m so grateful to have worked with Kimberly for more than a year. She’s creative, driven, and very funny. She constantly pushes herself to try new genres, and she’s a voracious reader. Working with her has inspired me to not only read new books, but to expand my own horizons as a writer.
Kimberly’s talents know no bounds, and her instincts are so sharp. Watching her develop as a writer and stay true to her inner voice has been a joy. I can’t wait to see where she goes next.

  Elegy to My Mother’s Perfume

  KIMBERLY DOMINGUEZ

  I have always been fascinated by my mother’s femininity, which is best embodied by her Dior perfume; I have a love-hate relationship with it.

  The number of years that my mother’s bottle of Dior’s Poison had lain on my white dresser was to be lamented. It had a horrible stench and was the only imperfection of the dresser, which I had picked over the circus in 2008.

  I had boiled it in a pot,

  With a cinnamon stick,

  And a few crow’s feathers

  I have a sincere admiration for it. How delicious.

  I cried and ached!

  At its darling soul in pain

  Eau de Parfum, Eau de Toilette!

  I was very upset by the whole ordeal and visibly shaken to my core.

  It always caught me in a

  Dizzying nausea

  How many roads does a poison walk down until you can call it perfume?

  My heart burns once I realize,

  It will no longer fill the vacant

  Telephone booths

  Or the sticky taxicabs

  She (my mom) had been wearing it when I was food-poisoned by canned pozole. In a gypsy cab, its stench triggered my projectile vomit. To be fair, I was three.

  Oh! But I never told it,

  How much I loved it

  As high as I can reach, right up to the moon and back.

  It will be embedded in my

  Mother’s chest,

  Long after it has grown spotted and wrinkled

  I have this sense she really didn’t start growing until her twenties. But, you know, I would hate anything to happen to her.

  She will exhale it through her glands

  And, with it, evaporate

  Back to mother, it’s another empty day. Uncle Arthur likes his mommy.

  Eau de Parfum, Eau de Toilette!

  Recently Unearthed

  Microsoft Encarta Entries

  (Circa 1998)

  ELIZABETH THOMAS

  I was inspired by Kimberly’s love of experimental forms to boldly try a new type of writing. It’s a quirky take on the disc-based encyclopedia I used when I was her age.

  GROUND SQUIRRELS

  In the winter, ground squirrels dig a hole in the ground and climb into it. They fight sleep. They learn what we all must learn: Resisting our bodies is pointless. They sleep. They stay in their sanctuaries, unconscious, surrounded by the frozen earth.

  CHEERLEADER CRABS

  Cheerleader crabs grab nearby sea anemones and rip them in half. When the half-anemones regenerate, the crabs shake them like pom-poms. They perform this show on an empty stage, before an audience of no one.

  MAYFLIES

  Mayflies are tiny aquatic flies known for the brevity of their life spans. They are born in the water, and within twenty-four hours, they have matured and reproduced. Night, noon, night: a vast generation of mayflies, whose identities we will never know.

  HORSE BEHAVIOR

  Once I saw horses walk in a straight line, along the side of a mountain, in the rain. The terrain was so steep that I feared a horse would lose its footing and tumble down. But instead the horses walked in a controlled manner, nose to tail. They held on to their balance. Barely, and with some near misses, but they held on.

  STEFANIE DONAYRE

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Senior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Susan E. Wagner High School

  BORN: Staten Island, NY

  LIVES: Staten Island, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: As a new mentee, I didn’t know what to expect. My writing has always been a creative outlet for me. This was the first time I shared it with someone who was going to provide feedback, which I don’t get from teachers. Anna made every meeting exciting as we dove deep into different genres—poetry being my new favorite. It wasn’t long until I felt comfortable, as Anna helped me find my voice and preserve it, even after edits. I learned the importance of feedback, as I have seen it benefit me while I continue to better my writing.

  ANNA HUMPHREY

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Director, West Wing Writers LLC

  BORN: Lexington, KY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: When I moved to New York last year, a friend asked me what I was most excited about. My answer? “Becoming a mentor for Girls Write Now.” I’ve had so many teachers and mentors who have encouraged and improved my writing, and I wanted to pay that forward in some small way. I’m grateful to have done that with Stefanie. It’s been an honor to witness her growth during our time together, and I hope to continue cheering her on in the future.

  A Punch of Confidence

  STEFANIE DONAYRE

  You have to shed old skin in order to find a better version of yourself. All you need is someone who believes in you, who can push you to work even harder.

  The end is close. There’s no escape. You find yourself in the same spot once again. Standing tall, with your fists close to your face. You wait for the man with the piercing blue eyes to make a move as your heartbeat echoes through your veins. While the euphoric feeling strikes, a punch approaches you from your left. You quickly pivot around to your right, gliding safely past him. You smile, caught up in the victory.

  “You forgot to jab before you do the check hook. Drink some water, and we’ll try it again,” says Coach Freddy as he adjusts the mitts on his hands.

  You sigh in defeat. You make your way to the mirror and see a better version of yourself staring back at you. The last time you looked in this mirror, you stood at 4'11", with your ponytail higher than your confidence. You’d just begun to miss the cheer bows and the glittery pom-poms you had been accustomed to. As a flyer in cheerleading, your squad was there to catch you when you fell. But in boxing, you were alone in front of an opponent whose goal was to bring you down. You had your doubts about trading it all for this new life of boxing mitts and hand wraps.

  You remember your first time walking blindly into the boxing gym. It was impossible to not be intimidated. At the gym, you were no Waldo. You were the only sixteen-year-old girl, surrounded by men who were either four or forty years older than you. Either way, you were drowning in a sea of self-assured adults.

  You fidgeted with your hand wraps until you saw a man approach you.

  “First class?” he asked, as he placed his water bottle near his punching bag.

  You nod.

  He chuckled. “Well, good luck.”

  You weren’t sure why he chuckled until you realized boxing was unlike any sport you had done. It didn’t take very long to discover you weren’t the only one with that thought.

  Soon after, a ruthless coach made his way through the maze of punching bags and began his class. Twenty minutes into the workout, you look around, shocked. The guy who had talked to you was one foot out the door. You watched as the others who intimidated you also followed him out, taking what was left of their egos with them as they called it quits before Freddy’s class was even finished.

  You stayed and enjoyed everything from push-ups, to ducking and weaving, to shadow boxing. You were exhausted. You knew you would be sore for the next few days. But there was something about accepting the challenge that made you return the next day—and the day after that. And the day after that.

  Now boxing is a daily essential and the ultimate stress reliever. Even the toughest coach saw the potential you couldn’t see. Somehow, you broke his tough exterior: He offered to train you one-on-one, purely out of the kindness of his heart.

  After your unexpected loss, you put your water down and rush back to your coach. You raise your blue gloves just as you had before. Galvanized by the ringing of the bell, you begin to hit the many combinations he calls out in his Russian accent: “Under! Cro
ss! Jab!”

  And, finally, “Check hook!”

  Each landing strike echoes like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Each one makes you feel invincible.

  Time to Be Brave

  ANNA HUMPHREY

  During one of our sessions, Stefanie and I worked from a prompt asking us to weave the best compliment we ever received into a poem about a rainy day. This is what came out.

  I wake slowly

  Lonely

  Raindrops pinging the window unit

  “You really need to get that thing fixed”

  Fixing me with your gaze

  I can’t move

  Think

  Memories flooding my muddled mind

  “Promise me this isn’t the last time”

  Crossing my fingers behind your back

  I still smell you

  Hear

  Laughter rumbling from your chest

  “Look at that smile”

  Knowing it’s lovelier because you’re leaving

  A storm passing through

  ILANA DRAKE

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Sophomore

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

  BORN: Manhattan, NY

  LIVES: New York, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: When I first met Erica, I was super-nervous about sharing my writing. I had always loved writing but was afraid of receiving criticism. However, Erica immediately became like an older sister to me, and when she told me that she liked my writing, I was elated. When Erica read my story “NYC Girl,” she was grinning and was so excited about the piece. She made me feel really confident about it, and I felt like I was on top of the world. She has enabled me to keep sharing my work and be open to trying different genres.