A Letter to My Unborn Daughter
MEDELIN CUEVAS
For me, Generation F stands for freedom, fearless, and faithful. Going through high school, I never thought I was “free enough” to do certain things. This piece holds a sentimental value to me because I cover things I want my future daughter to know and to take away.
Dear Daughter,
I was not the type of girl who hung around with girls. Like, girls who played with Barbie dolls all day long or pretended to be princesses. I was not the girl who was into skirts and Twinkle Toe shoes as a kid. Your uncle was too big of an influence on me for that sort of thing. Instead, he and I played first-person shooter video games on the computer, and I was wide receiver to his quarterback when we played football. You could say l colored outside the lines.
Baby girl, when you come into this world, you will be going through a lot of bumps and cracks and learn a lot of fascinating things. You will learn what you like, set your biggest dreams, take your first steps, and learn how the world works and who you are as a person. I hope you see the world in the most blissful way any child would see it: blue skies, sunny rays of sunshine beaming on your beautiful skin, and happy moments.
However, life will not be all gumdrops and rainbows. You are going to experience people who do not want to see you prosper. You will encounter evil serpents called bullies who will tease you for characteristics that you should cherish, like your big imagination and your beautiful curls, and the butterfly birthmark that you share with me, your tia and your abuelita.
You are what Alicia Keys describes as “A girl on fire” or “a superwoman,” which means a woman with potential and high hopes—a woman who has a high level of charisma, competence, and optimism. With these talents, I hope you think like a revolutionist who seeks to change the world for the better and make a positive difference. Baby girl, shine! Shine like Celia Cruz, Sonia Sotomayor, Michelle Obama, Ilia Calderon, Angela Davis, and even me, tu madre. Whatever you experience, more than likely, when I was younger, I experienced it, too. Bullies doubted me and my talents. But you know what your mami did? I still kept on shining.
When I was growing up, I was pretty lost knowing what I wanted to do when I grew up. I didn’t know how to get a boyfriend, and I was pretty antisocial until high school, where I met a few good people. When I befriended them, they became a part of my support system and life. They were my friends not only because they did support me, but because they taught me how to enjoy life and gave me wonderful experiences to cherish. I learned then that, with friends, it is about quality, not quantity.
My advice for you, mi hija, is that it is okay to ask for help. When I was at my lowest points, I talked to a guidance counselor at school. When there was a problem and I wanted someone to just hear me out, I went to my mom or my best friends. There’s nothing weak about assistance. It does not mean you are a failure. It just means that you are juggling so much and it is starting to go out of hand. Additionally, there will be tests that will stress you out. You might get a score you are not satisfied with. It does not mean you are dumb. It just means you have trouble understanding something. So figure out a way to understand. Never let anyone or anything determine how much potential you have. That number you get on your test will not reflect how much effort and hard work you have done.
So always remember the fire that is inside of you. It is there for a reason. Add more fuel to it and do not let anyone put it out. You are going to do big things, baby girl, and if you ever feel hopeless or you feel that you can not take the pressure anymore, Mami is here to support you.
With love,
Your mother and number-one fan
What I Wish My Younger Self Knew
RAKIA CLARK
Hindsight really is 20/20.
When I was a teenager, I worried about everything. The way I looked, my grades, my friends, my clothes, whether or not anybody could see the pimple beneath my bangs. I went to the restroom between each class at school, smoothing my hair with a small comb from my back pocket and reapplying Vaseline to my lips. Like most teenagers, I wanted to fit in.
I wish I had known how much cooler it is to stand out! The kids who stood out had way more fun than I did. By not letting other people’s opinions guide their decision-making, they ended up doing more of what they really wanted to do. I didn’t understand how important that was for a long time.
As far as I know, the life you’re living right now is the only one you get. Why let someone else call the shots? This is a lesson I learned well in adulthood. But, boy, do I wish I’d have realized it sooner.
BERNA DA’COSTA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Stuyvesant High School
BORN: Goa, India
LIVES: Bronx, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: The end of last year was brutal to me; I was dragging myself out of it in pieces. I stopped writing for a long time, I stopped reading, I stopped going to Girls Write Now workshops, and I stopped meeting my mentor, wonderful, wonderful Jamie. Not everything has subsided completely yet, but I push through each week and wait to sit at the little mint-green booth stuffed into the corner of Financier Patisserie, eat too many hazelnut macarons, freak out about rain sometimes, and write with Jamie.
JAMIE SERLIN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Director, West Wing Writers, LLC
BORN: Philadelphia, PA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Whether she is writing poetry or prose, memoir or fiction, Berna writes in a voice that is unmistakably her own. She refuses capital letters. She is fond of parentheses. She has the gift all great writers possess—the ability to find meaning, and humor, and wonder in the ordinary, like missing your bus stop and walking the rest of the way home. Reading Berna’s work is like taking a trip inside her head. I feel lucky to peek around inside her world.
acknowledgments . . .
BERNA DA’COSTA
I believe that life creates a writer. My life, the people around me, the things I’ve loved, the places I’ve been to, the happy days, the crappy days, have turned me into the type of writer I am. It’s given me my style, my voice.
for a book i will probably never write
p.s. (in the beginning because i never follow the rules when it comes to writing anyway) this is going to be long because i have a lot of people to give my love to. BUT BUT BUT if you’re just a reader and not someone who expects themselves to be included in my acknowledgments, just read the first few sentences. if you’ve already flipped past this page and closed the book . . . you’re not going to see this anyway . . . . . . . . . . . sooo . . . . . . . . . . . . this is awkward for me.
to the reader, thank you thank you thank you in every language of the world for picking up my book and actually finishing it. if you loved it, you get a free puppy (not really). if you didn’t, i’m not going to say thank you for pushing yourself through, i’m going to say sorry.
to my mother, you will always be the first person i thank for any success in my life, and this book is probably also dedicated to you even though you might never read it. that’s okay. thank you for your patience—it is the strongest thing in the world. for your kindness, for always loving me (because i make it so hard sometimes). you have always believed in the best of me. i’ve hurt you, and no mother should be hurt, especially you. i’ve screamed and yelled and fought with you and it breaks me a little how easily you hug me after everything. thank you for reminding me to cry. you have shown me the greatness of a mother’s love, the invincibility of it. i’m growing up and slowly realizing you are the world growing from underneath my feet. thank you for staying awake with me until i finished my homework. thank you for the lemon tea, for the papaya. i love you.
to my publisher, for releasing this monster out of its cage. i’ve spent a majority of my life with this story in my head, and maybe i should say that this story is for the readers, for every lovely person who is willing to turn
pages and bury their nose in new books (i hope my book smells good). but it’s not. this is for me. i have written every word with the most selfish intentions because i needed to let this story go.
to my editing team, thank you for whipping my manuscript into readable and publishable shape. i am the biggest disgrace to grammar. sorry for all the commas (i know i use too many of them), sorry for all the run-on sentences (unfortunately i can’t bother with proper punctuation), sorry for never knowing how to use one of these “-” or one of these “–” or one of these “;” or one of . . . well you get the point.
to production, thank you for designing the cover of this book. you’ve added to the beauty of (i hope) many bookshelves.
to my father, thank you for teaching me how to use my words carefully. you’re the reason i write.
to my sister, thank you for showing me that i am capable of loving someone too much. thank you for being everything i’m not. thank you for your heart and the space you let me reserve in it. thank you for being the stronger one. i want to give you every sunrise, every sunset, every rainy day. you are stars and moons, an explosion of light every morning. my little moju, always finding you on the other side of the bed, waking up with limbs and jungle hair, i can’t leave you alone. keep on drawing. uwu.
to the community, thank you for giving me memories, for making me laugh harder than i do with anyone else, for making me feel like something more is possible, for the weirdness, the craziness, the insanity of us together in a room dreaming like fools. we need more paper plates.
to the stars,
to the moon,
to the rain,
i will never stop writing about you.
to goa, the only place that feels like coming home.
to all the books that let me wander around in their world for a while.
to all the songs that melted my heart.
to all the poets,
to all the authors,
to all the writers,
who found the words that i couldn’t, arranged them into a tangible thought, gave me that moment of yes,
god yes,
this is what i meant.
to words, i love them so much.
to the moments of silence, i appreciate them.
to every person who understood me, thank you, give them an award please.
to every person who told me to write, write, write, you are wonderful human beings who believe in the magic of this world, in extraordinary things, like me using a semicolon correctly.
to me, you wrote a BOOK!
(this book will never exist.)
Ode to an aspiring author . . .
JAMIE SERLIN
This is a true story of how I let a grumpy old man derail my novelist dreams. I still hope I write my book one day—but I know for sure Berna will write hers.
I am nine and he is half a century older. He is a local celebrity—a nationally renowned children’s author. I am a voracious reader and an inconsistent diarist. I dream of writing my own novels. He has published more than twenty.
When I find out he is coming to my fourth-grade career day, I can’t believe my luck. The day’s second-most-exciting presenter is a preowned car salesman. Every student is allowed to pick four tables to visit. I am the first to sign up for the author’s booth.
The morning of career day, I slip a copy of his most celebrated book into my book bag before I leave for school. He arrives in the auditorium looking mussed and fussed, collared shirt misbuttoned, gray hair slightly askew. I imagine he is so busy churning out masterpieces, he does not have time to concern himself with unimportant things like combs and shirt buttons. When the time comes, I make my way over to his table, stomach fluttering.
He talks about the book in my bag, which won the Newbery Award. I listen intently to every word. When he pauses for questions, my hand shoots up.
“What is it like to write a book?” I ask him. “I want to be a writer, too.”
His bushy brows furrow. “You want to know what it’s like? You’ll have an idea you think is pretty good. You’ll work day and night, for years, to write the perfect manuscript. When you finally complete it, you will send it off to agents and publishers. And when it arrives they will dump it in the trash without ever reading it.”
I wait for the “but” I know must be coming. “That’s what it’s like,” he finishes with a shrug.
I decide I need a new career.
Two decades later, I meet a high-schooler in a mentorship program. I am a speechwriter. She is an aspiring author. I am still afraid of rejection. She is clever, and brave, and sharp as a tack.
She talks about the book she will never write (though she has already written the acknowledgments). I assure her that she can and she will.
GIA DEETON
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Baruch College Campus High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: 2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Award, Honorable Mention for Writing Portfolio
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I really want to know the algorithm that Girls Write Now uses to pair mentors with mentees, because Lindsay and I couldn’t be a better match for each other. Whether we’re working hard at our favorite café, the Hungry Ghost, or wandering around the Brooklyn Botanic Garden just for fun, our conversations are always enjoyable and inspiring. After three years together and many hair color changes between the two of us, we’ve developed a friendship that will surely last beyond my graduation from Girls Write Now.
LINDSAY ZOLADZ
YEARS AS MENTOR: 3
OCCUPATION: Staff Writer, The Ringer
BORN: Washington Township, NJ
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: The Generation F topic has led to so many enlightening conversations between Gia and me. Because of media stereotypes, I am used to thinking of the word “millennial” as synonymous with “young person”—and, let’s be honest, often “entitled, lazy young person.” One day Gia and I had a long conversation in which I asked her what “millennial” means to her, and her empathic viewpoint made me feel a little more comfortable embracing the word. We are not sure yet what the media will end up calling her generation, but regardless, I feel optimistic about what it will come to stand for.
85 White Street
GIA DEETON
Despite profound differences among several generations of family members, they are all connected by a shared location: 85 White Street. The address is fictionalized, but all the other details are true to my family’s experience.
Imagine a time when one of the busiest streets in Manhattan was deserted enough for kids to roller-skate in the middle of the road on the weekends. Believe it or not, this was the reality for my mom when she was growing up, before Canal Street became infamous for its ability to attract crowds of tourists with counterfeit bags and great restaurants. It’s even harder to picture Canal Street as an actual canal in the early 1800s, surrounded by towering bluffs, which also have streets named after them now. In 1850, my great-grandfather’s grandfather lived on White Street, just a few blocks south of Canal, peddling goods such as shoe polish, fabric, and kitchenware before leaving for the Gold Rush. Just down the street from where he’d lived, a new cigar warehouse was built in 1868. To this day, my family still lives there.
I’ve always lived at 85 White Street. Although it’s been converted from a warehouse to a residential building, the building’s five floors still seem unfinished and not really meant for human life. I learned to crawl up the four flights of stairs to my apartment before I even knew how to walk. When the ten-foot-tall crimson doors at street level are opened, you’re greeted by a steep mountain of seventy-eight steps that stretch all the way to the back of the building. Unlike the other buildings in the neighborhood, it has unprofessionally installed plumbing, no elevator, and a threat of giving you a splinter from the floorboards.
My grand
parents purchased the top two floors of 85 White in 1969 for a relatively cheap price, and the building has increased in value in more than just monetary ways. My mother was nine years old when she first moved in, and we’ve shared some of the same childhood experiences of falling down the treacherous stairs and picking splinters out of the soles of our feet. Unfortunately, though, I don’t think Canal Street will ever again be empty enough for me to try roller-skating there like she did. Her father was a painter, so choosing a house with lots of space to work on his vast canvases came first, and comfort came second. The loft still smells like oil paint and sawdust, because just like my mom’s dad, my dad is a painter. My dad’s abstract paintings often compete with the large sizes of my grandfather’s figurative paintings, and these enormous works can be found hanging side by side under twenty-six-foot-high skylights.
The house has become a relic of my family’s history. For three generations it has remained the home and workplace for many of my family members, and for me and my sister, it’s the only home we’ve ever known. Not everyone has the experience of having lived in only one house, and it’s even rarer that I’m able to grow up in the same house where my mother did. People often move to New York City to escape their hometowns and live in pristine apartments that offer a fresh start. There have been times when I wished our house had less clutter and looked more normal, but that was before I realized that a lot of our knickknacks have important meanings. We don’t necessarily need to hold on to my grandfather’s cassette collection since nobody owns a cassette player anymore, but it’s always a nice reminder of the times he’d blast loud music while painting. Some days he’d play Mozart, other days he’d play the Sex Pistols. Now that we have the Internet, we don’t really need my grandma’s old cookbooks, but getting rid of them isn’t worth the price of losing her best recipes.
Generation F Page 8
