It was 11 p.m. in Almaty, Kazakhstan. My mom, fourteen years old, was trying to rub away a smudge on her little sister’s beige satin blouse. She was recalling the memory of her fifth-grade performance in front of a whole school when she wore the same lucky shirt.
Suddenly, a rageful voice from down the hall pierced through the flashback. It was her father. She knew the sequence of events like the back of her hand. First, her mother would nervously walk on eggshells. Then he would start diminishing his wife, my grandmother. It would turn into a fight. It would turn into a standard demonstration of Kazakh male dominance. And, in a while, her mother, anxious and afraid, would run to her, saying, “Please, talk to him, he listens to you!”
And so it went. Legs shaking, my mom went to the kitchen. And though she had dealt with this very situation before, every time was like the first. She never knew what to expect. She would have to choose her words carefully so that this highly sensitive human, this avid drunkard, would finally back away from the edge and just go to sleep. Her father thought himself a philosopher, and alcohol a way to open his chakras. He drank until he reached deep contemplation. She sat in front of him like this. She was strong and resolute, but her childhood happiness had been annihilated by responsibility. She should have been charged only with juvenile cares, anxiousness for tomorrow’s test. Instead, she had to rescue her mother from her father’s rage and battering. The oldest of five, she had to look after four sisters and get them ready for school.
For her entire life, my mother survived while carrying a huge burden. My grandmother, too, carried a burden. Her husband constantly took “breaks” from his duties, disappearing into intoxication to find “enlightenment.” Her simple state of mind was a symbol of stupidity in his eyes. He saw her as the root of all evil. She was closed-minded in his eyes, and his dissatisfaction manifested as dark purple bruises across her face. My mother never understood what my grandmother was guilty of.
My grandmother was a strong woman, but the tradition of patriarchy in Kazakhstan insisted that she had an inability to disagree with men. Like millions of Kazakh women before her, she was punished for his inadequacy and forced to support her family alone. She passed this quiet strength on to my mother, who became even more determined—set on changing the path for her daughters to come.
Where my grandmother frequently gave up, exhausted from her husband’s onslaughts, my mother worked to build a wall to keep this terror at bay. She protected us from experiencing the same violence. Every horrible situation we heard about our relatives—many of which could have been prosecuted by law—was just a scary story. We have never had to see violence, oppression, or neglect. My dad had nothing but love toward my mom and his three daughters. My mom was strict and disciplined because she knew it was best for us. All three of us were raised with love and were encouraged to embrace our individuality. Even when my mother made the brave step to immigrate to the USA when I was only five years old, I tried to remember her as a real, strong woman. My mother violated the age-old Kazakh tradition of patriarchy where women are seen only as a mothers and servants. In fact, my core values are based on her reform and have become the basis for forming my own self-respect as a woman.
Ghost Geography
LESLIE PARISEAU
When Naze wrote her piece, I thought about what I have done to change so that my kids’ lives (re: Generation F) might be better. At its most essential, it started with leaving where I’m from.
I’m from a small town in rust-belt Ohio. I won’t bother telling you its name because you have never heard of it. I have never met a person in the larger world who has.
But if you are interested in visiting, it can be found by following a county road lined with cornfields and big white grain silos slowly oxidizing from the inside out. Once, a devout woman said she saw Jesus in one of the tankard’s rust stains, and for days cars lined up along the shoulder to catch a glimpse, their passengers peering and nodding at the blood-colored blotches like they knew something blessed had occurred there. Follow the signs advertising once-prosperous, long-shuttered glass factories and sparkplug plants. You’ll know you’ve arrived when you smell the soybeans cooking hot and earthy like boiling beer.
This town sits amid a triangle of train tracks over which slow-moving, graffiti-tagged boxcars whistle at all hours, a lullaby and an alarm clock. Since the railroad ties were laid, kids who live along them have put pennies on the smoldering silver rails, waiting for the CSX line to flatten them into smooth copper ovals. Ghost stories about headless conductors and ladies in white dresses lingering over country crossings have always been recited, eerie warnings to always look both ways.
For decades, nothing has changed. People have left and died, industry has left and died. And yet nothing has changed.
There is a part of my mind imprinted with the geography of this town—its decaying neighborhoods and abandoned grain elevators. It’s the part that reminds me of where I’m from, and yet exists apart from it, so that I might not stay the same—so that I might shift and change and change and change.
SADE ANDRE
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Millennium Brooklyn High School
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember the first time I read my poem to Keciah. I was filled with pressure because I usually don’t share my writings with anyone. I’ve also never written much poetry before meeting her. But while she was reading it her face slowly became filled with joy, and she loved my writing. Since I hold her opinion very dear, knowing that she likes my writing makes me more comfortable with sharing and makes me more willing to write more even if it’s out of my comfort zone.
KECIAH BAILEY
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Communications Associate, Hebrew Public
BORN: Kingston, Jamaica
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Canarsie Courier
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I think of Sade as “the lion and the lamb.” At first glance, she is this shy and unassuming teenage girl. Then she writes, and someone fierce, bold, and powerful emerges. She is so strikingly self-aware with a perspective on life that is far beyond her years. While I can never craft a perfectly written poem in twenty minutes (which she does effortlessly), she is exactly who I was in high school. It is truly rewarding to take this journey with her yet offer her a wiser, more evolved version of myself as a mentor and as a writer.
(F)ear
SADE ANDRE
“(F)ear” is about my outlook on how life should be perceived. I know many teenage girls who sometimes take life too seriously. At this age, we should think of life as more of a big picture that is still unfolding, rather than as a micro-moment.
Taught from young that the pit in her stomach, the sweat on her hands, and the pain in her chest will always be there no matter what. The feeling of being lost in a place full of people who already have their opinions and intentions for her. They’ll all hurt and destroy her, adding more things to her demise. Although she’s remained strong through mental, physical, and sexual abuse—she knows that it’s coming.
The strength is dwindling
The light at the end of the tunnel is
No longer twinkling.
For it is pitch black, cold, and she’s numb.
She is sweating and shuddering
Because everything is out of her control.
Yet, inevitably, she endures a breakthrough
And the blue devils become invisible
Like gravity, her infelicity into the galaxy . . .
Taught from experiences, she knows that even though these experiences may be dark, she must go through them. Not because she’s terrible or deserves the worst—but because these hardships, sufferings, are nothing but lessons and experiences. The scars and burns are stories to tell someone who needs it. From this she learned a lesson—maybe even a philosophy—that without fear th
ere would be no function, no motivation to get out of where she is. But we must pull positivity from our experiences because we don’t know our expiration date.
So why live in the darkness and not chase the light? Why take everything while we’re young as such burdens and not lessons? There’s no need to view teenage years as if they are negative times, because this time we have is for lessons. Shaping. To formulate the best versions of ourselves. Generation (F)ear is the generation of hope and strength.
Freedom
KECIAH BAILEY
Quite often, it’s the story we tell ourselves about our past and our experiences that keeps us bound. Through my own inward journey, I’ve found that the path to true freedom is to revisit the past, reconcile the good with the bad, then redefine our identities so we can fully embrace the promise of the future. Generation F is Freedom.
I went back into my past and planted a garden there—
The memories were dead and dried.
And all along the fields
Where dreams laid buried,
I gathered up their bones
And prayed them back to life.
In an old shed I found a bucket of tears,
Locked up in frustration and failure.
With it, I watered my garden
Parched with regret and shame,
And sowed seeds of faith,
Where there grew weeds of fear.
Now when I revisit the memories are sweet
Fragrant with life, laughter,
Hope and promise.
The dreams are alive,
Singing and dancing with praise,
And the grains of faith are ripe for the harvest.
I went back into my past and planted a garden there . . .
Now as the future blooms eternal—
She rejoices.
ASSATA ANDREWS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Hillside Arts and Letters Academy
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: At first, I was afraid to start all over with a new mentor because it is tough for me to meet new people. However, Kate was able to take all of my worries away and I am able to talk to her about topics that I wouldn’t with my friends, making me enjoy meeting her every week. She gives me criticism that gives me the ability to think about what I want my work to become. Also, Kate makes sure that I understand my goals. I appreciate her hard work and the good atmosphere that she brings every week.
KATE BRYANT
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: MFA Candidate at Queens College
BORN: Marietta, OH
LIVES: Queens, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Assata’s creativity is really inspiring and I’ve been impressed and amazed with how she plans out her stories. I have learned a lot from talking to her about time management and relating about our shared perfectionist tendencies. We’ve both been juggling lots of deadlines this year, so we are really ready to plan something fun. I think often about how much braver she is than I was when I was her age and how clear she is about her writing goals, and I’m really excited for her to continue expanding her writing horizons in college and beyond.
Dear Black Women,
ASSATA ANDREWS
I came up with this piece once I began to think about the problems African American women face when it comes to being dehumanized and looked down upon by the world and our own community.
To those with large, dark lips, nappy kinks, and midnight skin—
sorry to say that we amount to nothing
We are nothing but the loudmouthed, dumb, jealous, ugly, and bitter roaches that everyone is ready to step on
Even our own are prepared to do it
We are the female dog, the garden tool, and that is all we’ll ever add up to be
Our beauty is nonexistent
We hold no power or resilience
When someone says we deserve better, prepare yourself for the rants:
“No! All women deserve better!”
Feeling pretty?
Well let’s prepare ourselves to be bashed against the head and spat on by our own men
Skin color will separate us because light is always better
Bodies drooled over, but when finished being used
are thrown out like trash or dragged through the mud no matter what we do
Portrayed as hoodrats, poor, and ghetto is an inevitability
Attitudes holding us back because we are the worst kind of woman
Imagine believing that?
Imagine that we aren’t the glue that is holding this world together
Imagine that we haven’t influenced others,
despite never having been given any credit that we deserve
Imagine thinking that our sun-kissed skin is an abomination to society unless it is as light as a brown paper bag like Beyoncé’s
Imagine that we aren’t one of the most educated demographics
Imagine that we can’t come together and grow
We are powerful, resilient, and beautiful
And we do deserve so much more.
Even though I know how very far
KATE BRYANT
When I wrote this I was thinking about some of the things Assata and I have been talking about this year: our hopes and fears about the future, and how to share the reality of our experiences through words.
The eclipse made me think of
two cartoon mice singing to one another
Fievel and his sister, whose name you might not remember
but it’s Tanya Mousekewitz
And later a steel drum band covering the song
someone sending it to me before the reality problem chasmed between us
And later, quite recently, two celestial bodies converging along their paths
the way they do from time to time
Their pace is leisurely and relentless, a way I’d like to be
A momentary awareness of the shared sky and then we’re back
wrestling strong theories and donating to GoFundMe
Money sent to strangers for any and every thing
A meditation made material, without the pause or the peace
All year I have been tired and awake
or asleep with my mind racing
There’s a story that keeps reoccurring
where we’re not seeing the same thing
even if we’re in the same place, looking in the same direction
I’m trying to say what it looks like over here
and I want to know what it looks like where you are
The future depends on us speaking precisely
so that’s what we are learning to do
JANEIN BROOKES
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Success Academy High School of the Liberal Arts
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: two Silver Keys
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: As a free-verse poet, committing to a sonnet, a structured writing style, was not easy. I remember being frustrated with counting the vowels of each word, and that annoyed feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever Cynthia asked me to choose a different word. Still, when I wrote the last word, even though there was no drastic world change, I felt like the entire world had tilted on its axis. Despite my clammy hands and throbbing migraine, I felt a rush of pride and overwhelming self-worth, like a great breeze had blown the clouds out of my sun’s way.
CYNTHIA-MARIE O’BRIEN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Copy Editor, Queens Library
BORN: New Haven, CT
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: America, The Literary Review, U.S. Catholic
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: After the Structured Poetry workshop, Janein was initially reluctant to use forms. She even told
me that she hates structure. I challenged her to use form—a sonnet—to focus her ideas—and she did! The resulting poem won a Scholastic Art & Writing award. I was so proud of how she stretched herself as a writer and moved the judges.
Soar
JANEIN BROOKES
“Soar” is a sonnet, and my first structured piece. As a poet, I prefer to write free verse. “Soar” is personal because, while I don’t know the boy, I watched him grow up.
Go on and fly little chocolate boy, fly! Won’t you fly?
Will your wheels roll fast enough for you to get along
In a world that doesn’t protect little chocolate boys?
Tell the world that your moving body is not a toy. Fly!
Your stare is patient enough to hide insanity
within dark eyes that have borne witness to travesty.
But how long can you avoid the restriction of your blue
jacket? Just remember that people can catch up to you.
I’m up here, little chocolate boy, watching the moving
form of you, wondering if you expect someone to swoon
at your little tricks. Because you have skin they want to peel
and with your valiant resistance, they’ll make the perfect
example of you, soon enough. Little boy, you’ll have to fly
when the airplane of tomorrow’s resistance soars above.
Lunchtime by the Bay
CYNTHIA-MARIE O’BRIEN
I wrote this lighthearted piece for our Structured Poetry workshop. The sounds are meant to convey and conjure up vivid memories of enjoyable afternoons. Generation F is connected to earlier generations, celebrating their example.
Mary’s at the seat of her truck
Thinking that with some good luck
For her lunch today
She’ll eat at the bay.
Generation F Page 4
