Anyone who wants to say that caring about celebrities is dumb is buying into a sexist narrative. Celebrity, like any cultural interest that primarily belongs to women—cooking, interior design, romance novels—is often sidelined and belittled. Sports? Important and valuable to our discourse. But, of course, sports are widely thought of as by and for men.
And there’s something to be said for caring about something political but with littler nuclear-war-level consequence on our immediate lives. It’s cathartic to get into an argument about Kylie Jenner’s pregnancy at a party. Or about plastic surgery in K-pop with our close friends.
To talk and write and read about celebrity is to think critically about our culture: about the press and social media, about what privacy means and who we grant it to, about who holds power and why; about global standards of beauty, about popularity and mass appeal—and about politics. Who we like, what we care about, who we choose to represent that.
MARYCLARE CHINEDO
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Bronx Lighthouse College Prep Academy
BORN: Bronx, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Gold Key, Silver Key, and Honorable Mention
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Morayo is like my big sister. She gives great advice; she’s funny and amazing. She pushes me to write outside of my comfort zone and write about things I normally wouldn’t write about. Whenever I need help with something that’s not writing-related, she’s always willing to help. For example, once she pretended to be a college interviewer to help prepare me for an interview. Her flexibility and patience are why I’m able to grow as a writer and as a person. She’s such a great mentor and I am very grateful to have had her.
MORAYO FALEYIMU
YEARS AS MENTOR: 6
OCCUPATION: Senior Program Manager, Peer Health Exchange
BORN: Miami, FL
LIVES: Elizabeth, NJ
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Wow! I can honestly say it’s been a pleasure watching Maryclare gain confidence in her voice and sense of humor. Over the past three years, I’ve watched her experiment with different genres, tackle real-world issues through satire, and think critically about how she wants to use her voice as a storyteller. I can’t wait to see her work added to the canon.
Maryclare Yesterday vs. Maryclare Today
MARYCLARE CHINEDO
Generation F stands for Finally. I finally speak my mind and can be unapologetically me. This piece is about my finally being straight with myself and reflecting on who I was versus who I am now.
Maryclare Yesterday
Maryclare Today
Shy and passive
Funny and full of life
I hate putting my ideas out there. They’re horrible!
Yes, you are speaking to a 2018 Gold Key winner. Holla!
I’m not good at anything but watching Netflix
Class of 2018 valedictorian baby! Talk to me nicely.
Is that something out of my comfort zone? Yea . . . I’ll pass
Wow. What’s that strange cool thing? I wanna do it!
Uhm . . . I think I’m okay with only speaking English.
Yo no hablo ingles! Lo siento, chica
If my mom wants me to be a doctor, so be it.
Girl, you know I love dance. Minoring in dance it is!
Should I enroll in AP Spanish? Nah. It’s too challenging
Yea, I’m with you on that one. Let’s take AP Calc instead
I’m not African. I’m, uhm . . . Native American and Latina
Girl, please! You’re Nigerian all the way, baby!
Is that a protest about women’s rights? I’ll just walk past.
“Pro Choice! My Body!” Oops, am I protesting too loud?
Before I do anything, I have to think of the What-Ifs
No you don’t. Be a free spirit! Stop being so paranoid!
I need to delete my Netflix account. It’s distracting
Should I get Hulu and HBO Go? Eh, the more the merrier!
Maryclare Yesterday
Maryclare Today
Shy and passive
Funny and full of life
Bechdel Tests
MORAYO FALEYIMU
The Bechdel test measures women-centered narratives. To pass the Bechdel test, a work must feature two women who talk to each other about something other than men. These narrators try with little success. I think a crucial part of being a member of Generation F is centering the experiences of women.
Test #1: Betta Fish
My b——— kept a betta fish in a huge glass tank. It swam in brisk, uninterrupted circles that my knocking did not disturb. It ignored me, much the same way that D——— ignored me in science class, even though I sat directly in his line of sight. And yet I could not imagine being angry at D. It wasn’t that he was ignoring me: It was that he could not yet see me.
Back at home, I dug out a compact mirror from my mother’s purse. It was marbled purple and gold. The mirror was dusty with powder, but I could still see my own face through the stipple. I turned it toward the tank. The betta swam by once, unbothered. I flicked the mirror back and forth until I caught its attention. It hesitated, taking in the new interloper on the other side of the tank. Then it charged. Again and again, it hurled itself at the glass. The interloper responded in kind. Mesmerized, I watched until the sound of the doorbell startled me out of my reverie. The compact fell from my hand into the tank. The betta went belly up a few hours later.
My mother fished them both out that evening and replaced the betta before my b——— got home from his overnight game. The new betta fish swam in a languid, confused circle. Poor thing: trapped in a tank, not knowing a single thing about girls.
Test #2: Lipstick Theory
We are reading the labels and deciding who to be tonight. A dusky English Rose. A lurid Tropical Sherbet. A slash of red in Sultry Siren. Or one, dark purple, simply titled Mistress.
Test #3: Last Night
I dreamt of a gate tied shut with two pink ribbons.
I dreamt of a world without men.
BRIANNA CLARKE-ARIAS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Freshman
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Meeting with Rachel has led to many breakthroughs in not only my writing, but in my views of myself as a writer. I have become more conscious of my role as a constructor of worlds simply through the sharing of my lenses of my surroundings and experiences. This act of openness had always seemed daunting to me before, and through a closer and continuous relationship with a mentor who is a writer herself, I can feel myself becoming braver and more bold.
RACHEL SHOPE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Associate Editor, CB Insights
BORN: Chapel Hill, NC
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I always look forward to meeting with Brianna, because it’s magical every time. Whether we’re tucked in a corner at the public library or sharing red-velvet cupcakes in a café or snagging chairs at a random Whole Foods, we connect as writers and friends. I am constantly struck by her talent and brilliance. I leave each of our pair sessions with a renewed sense of creativity and hope for the future. Being her mentor has made me a stronger editor, a more disciplined writer, and I think just a more positive person overall.
Musings from a Lost New York Native
BRIANNA CLARKE-ARIAS
This poem explores the process of getting to know oneself when given the freedom to do so. More recently, I’ve noticed aspects of myself mirrored in the city, and I want my work to reflect that.
I don’t want to put on a hat.
My ears are so cold
they burn.
But I won’t do it.
>
I can’t.
Warmth feels unnatural now.
Let the air prick and my hair
run loose in the
wind,
slipping into my eyes,
out from behind my ears.
I left my scarf at school. I’ll
probably never see it again. The cold
bites into my skin as I gaze skyward,
to the tops of the buildings that
I pass.
The night swallows every
building I pass. They are
frigid and invisible in the dark, only
light can unfreeze them.
My hair could stand on end in this cold . . .
it feels like it is.
It’s late now,
and only the top of
the Empire State Building
matters anymore.
The bottom half of my head
stays cold and forgotten too.
The dark wanders along beside me
in this big city.
It’s a larger than life
kind of town, so many eyes to watch
what belongs to me,
let them see.
I don’t want to put on a hat.
Let the air prick and my own hair
bite into my skin as I gaze skyward.
My hair could stand on end in this cold,
but only the bottom half of my head
belongs to me.
Let them see.
From Ellis Island
RACHEL SHOPE
This poem is about finding your place, and feeling so strongly that you belong there that it seems like you’ve been there before. It is about the connections we share to our past, previous generations, and the homes that we choose for ourselves.
Standing in the Great Hall,
I know
I have been here before.
I heard the echoes
when they were voices.
Smelled the ink and the anxiety
of the stamp poised to grant entry,
to give permanence.
Or something like it.
I had a different face then.
A different posture.
I was carried in the blood
of my great-great-grandparents,
tucked between
the fibers of their coats,
folded into the spaces
left by the letters they erased and
the new ones written in,
making them blend,
making them American.
I am familiar with starting over.
That is a language I still know.
The assonance of your few possessions
in one trunk—they mean
everything and nothing.
You cling to them,
but wonder if you could bear that loss.
You are almost tempted
to pronounce it—to
let go of the handle and walk away.
Perhaps you would forget.
Perhaps you would carry that weight
forever, like you carry your great-great-granddaughter,
like you carry the letters cut from your name.
Silent. Heavy.
The city was different then.
And it is the same.
I was passing through.
But now, I let go
of the handle of my suitcase.
I open the trunk and unpack,
allowing myself to say the word—
Permanence.
Or something like it.
I look at the city
from this island, like they did.
My face is my own.
The letters spell a name wholly different
from the one in the book,
the one etched on the wall.
I trace the letters with my finger.
I say them aloud.
I have been here before.
LILA COOPER
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Institute for Collaborative Education
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Girls Write Now has helped me grow as a writer. It’s taken me out of my comfort zone of plotless short stories and poetry. Even though I do a lot of poetry, I have learned there are other genres that I actually enjoy. I’ve appreciated Robin’s critiques, because she makes me think in a different way about my writing. She helps me see what’s working and what isn’t; she gets it. Sometimes we both obsess over a single word. It’s great to be able to do that together on Saturdays over a cup of tea.
ROBIN WILLIG
YEARS AS MENTOR: 3
OCCUPATION: Chief of Staff, Center for Reproductive Rights
BORN: Far Rockaway, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Summer Residency, Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow, Eureka Springs, Arkansas
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I never studied poetic forms and I was struck, in the Girls Write Now session, by the many rules. Lila and I talked a lot about “Garland Cinquain.” Wasn’t he an informant on an SVU episode? She and I share a love of words and often our time is spent dissecting and rebuilding. At the end of the Poetic Forms workshop, the girls read their pieces aloud and each chose to ignore the rules. I appreciate that about the mentees, and Lila especially—their willingness to explore. Generation F indeed: freedom, flouters of rules, and, likely, founders of a better way forward.
In Memory of Ma
LILA COOPER
This poem is a recollection of the time I spent in India as a child.
God slipped in between the gauzy white sheets last night
she pulled at the bottom of my slip separating me from the warm sun that enveloped my barely there body
Begging for my attention
she was dressed in red like fire and roses and watermelon in July
Like the man who took a bite out of a pomegranate like it was an apple
she wore marigolds around her neck like I did when I was five
Like my mother did on the day she got married
she wore the ones in the Kainchi garden where I sat and tasted the sweetness of mangoes for the first time with my best friend
Where we chased each other into the terra-cotta pagoda hearing the faint chants of kirtan wallahs and cow bells
In monsoon season we would venture down the unpaved road in our bright pink rainboots to get toast from the Tawaris
piled up to my head and wrapped in crinkled tinfoil
She was blue like the dye from my skirt that would run into the river
She had warm hands like the milk she gave me in her garden, my hands have always been cold
I am in a house without her while it’s snowing outside and all I have is a child’s blanket to keep me warm
I miss you
I hope you’re doing ok
I can’t wait to see you again
Talk soon,
Lila
Her hair was always white like the temple walls
The ones I was a devi under
The ones I ate halwa and basin ladus out of a banana-leaf bowl under
She always reminded me of the trees during monsoon season, so big and full of life, the kind of life I didn’t see in New York
that’s probably what I remember the most about India how comic book green all the trees were and when we were driving around a bend and I looked down all I could see were those Technicolor trees for miles and miles
Sometimes I wonder when I’ll go back and how it will feel now that she’s no longer there
Poetic Forms and Dance Steps: A Sonnet
ROBIN WILLIG
This attempt of a Shakespearean sonnet was started in the Poetic Forms workshop at Girls Write Now, in which I was challenged to follow the rules. I was inspired by the freedom with which those rules were rejected by our fearless mentees.
Surely men made up th
e poetic forms
Sonnet, sestina, villanelle, cinquain
Like boys and drinking games in college dorms
How ’bout: Five tercets and then a quatrain
Repeat this word, third stanza, second line
How low can you go, can you go down low?
So I chafe and resist those rules assigned
Who counts the syllables? And also: no.
It’s not the words with which I so quarrel
But arbitrary, patriarchal rules
The art confounds me. Wherefore the laurels
Would women create such confining tools?
You and I, let’s create our new bounty
Let’s write lines as if no one is counting
Lawless. Unburdened. Free.
MEDELIN CUEVAS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: H.E.R.O. High School
BORN: Bronx, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: When I first met Rakia, I knew that she was the perfect fit for being my mentor. She is smart, talented, and genuine when it comes to my writing and other life events. When I told her about NYU, she was ecstatic! It is great to share your biggest dream with someone who watched you grow, and Rakia has been the greatest mentor for me.
RAKIA CLARK
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Senior Editor, Beacon Press
BORN: Atlantic City, NJ
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I remember when Maddy showed up to our weekly session more excited and bubbly than usual. She had just received her first admissions letter to college—NYU, of all places. I was so proud of her, I could barely stand it. I have seen Maddy work incredibly hard to make herself a great candidate for college, all while balancing a busy home life. More acceptance letters quickly followed, but that first one was the sweetest.
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