We: shed exoskeletons of burden
We: harvest of possibility
Laughing ourselves out of ourselves, we bloom
night, unraveling all the space we need
LAILA DOLA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Thomas A. Edison Career and Technical Education High School
BORN: Jessore, Khulna, Bangladesh
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “The Diversity Visa: A Ticket to a Better Life,” Gotham Gazette
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Ever since I met Megan, I’ve never seen her without a big smiley face. She always made my day better and inspired me to smile more often. Through Megan I learned that being an adult just happens and you slowly realize it, and that entering adulthood can be scary but I will slowly get the hang of it. I learned a lot through the experiences she shared with me. Megan never fails to find a happy approach to the things around her. She is AWESOME and BEAUTIFUL. Megan is changing the world with her beautiful smile.
MEGAN ELMORE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Assistant Production Editor, Penguin Random House
BORN: Rochester, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: From the moment I met Laila I was impressed and inspired by her outgoing personality and positive approach to life. Even when her schoolwork is overwhelming or when she feels like an outsider, she always manages to find the silver lining and the grace in every situation. She brings a sunny outlook and a determined work ethic to everything she does, whether it’s her beloved Web design class or a Girls Write Now workshop. I have really enjoyed getting to know her and I have no doubt that she’ll go forth to change the world.
The Clouds That Smile
LAILA DOLA
This piece is inspired by my personal struggles and how I overcame them with the optimism that I had inside me and that other people brought to me.
As I sit by the window
I sense the sun looking at me,
Its neon red-orange vibes staring at my insecurities.
As I look up to meet its eyes,
I feel the sunshine lighten my spirit,
Making my dark brown eyes look like bright brown-red.
I can sense optimism rising in my soul,
But then, suddenly, the dark clouds surrounding the sun
Start to prevent the rays from meeting my heart.
Now I can sense the emptiness inside my soul,
As if pessimism has started to take control.
I can still see a little bit of optimism left inside me,
So I quickly smile at the clouds and wave them a hello
Because they say that a smile can brighten the darkest days,
And remove the clouds of fear and doubt.
But my intention was not to drive away the clouds,
Rather it was to embrace them and turn them into a positive crowd.
And as the clouds change their frowning face,
They smile back and grin as if someone has finally understood their grace.
You see, all my life I’ve felt misunderstood.
At home, at school, on the streets, or in nearby stores.
The desolation inside my heart is something I cannot explain,
But it’s not like anyone wants to hear my pain.
By now I am used to comforting myself.
And I’ve learned to tell myself “I’m strong.”
As I walk through the main entrance of my school,
Or sit there inside a classroom,
I feel like my body is on earth but my mind has flown away to Mars.
I feel judged based on my test scores,
And the flaming report cards that feel like a stamp classifying my future
It’s as if they have the capacity to define who I am.
But I’ve learned to follow my heart and stop letting numbers define my potential.
As I walk on the streets,
I feel like a burden drowning this entire universe.
I pass by the lamppost and the humongous trees,
Feeling so little and invisible as if no one sees.
I feel a sudden force pushing me onto the ground.
And as I struggle to get up, no one reaches out a hand,
But that is how I learned to stand up on my own.
Everyone stares at me as if I am an alien,
As if I am a failure which no one deserves to look at.
As if I did something wrong every minute of my life,
And I have to justify all my actions and make sure everyone knows
that there’s no bomb in my black plastic bag or inside my backpack.
I cannot fit in with society’s terms.
I usually feel like an outcast.
I fail to formulate a reason for the sudden increase of my heartbeat,
And for the tears in my eyes that are overflowing.
I’m going crazy overthinking everything.
Yes, I sense the world in front of me,
The roads and pathways to many opportunities.
But sometimes it can be very intimidating.
So I taught myself to ask questions and figure out solutions.
But deep inside my heart,
I know that we’re all the same in terms of being a human.
That we all sometimes feel rejected.
So if you feel like a dark cloud is storming inside,
I’m here to tell you that optimism still lies within you.
So don’t give up and keep moving forward,
And turn those dark moments of your life into beautiful lessons to learn from.
And that is the power of positivity.
Within you lies humanity.
The Place We’ve Made
MEGAN ELMORE
Laila’s relentless optimism inspired me to work through my anger and hopelessness I feel about our current political climate to find the simple goodness that we’re all capable of bringing to the world.
on the days I most want to burn the world to ashes—
down to the charred detritus of men’s unwanted touches, presidential tweets and YouTube comment sections—
I think of how much easier it would be
to go inside a warm, dark place
and wait for the halcyon days of spring to arrive
dripping wet with freshness and vitality and possibility.
how much easier to hide oneself away,
but how impossible,
how even inside the bear’s closed den the fingers of frost creep.
to be safe in this world seems more impossible with each passing day;
and even the expectation of safety,
once unquestioned,
somehow rings naïve.
a girl fainted in front of me on the C train last year,
crumpling to the floor silently, without warning, and
all at once our sleepy train burst into action.
someone rolled the girl onto her side because she had started to shake;
two other women pressed the emergency call button to alert the train operator;
another man stood there shouting that she’d had a seizure and that she’d peed herself,
which was neither helpful nor accurate.
and I could do nothing
except kneel on the floor of the car with the girl’s curly brown head in my lap,
so she wouldn’t wake with her head on the filthy train floor.
in the end, that may be what matters most in this life,
doing what we can in the face of fear and uncertainty,
even when the lure of the warm, dark place beckons,
the lure of the safe place,
because increasingly we learn that these places are not inviolable
and because the only real place we have is the one that’s right here,
and we must make of it what we can.
KIMBERLY DOMINGUEZ<
br />
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Academy of American Studies
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: 2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Honorable Mention
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My mentor has helped me explore new forms of writing, such as journalism. The sharing of her favorite articles has made me want to write and read pieces similar to those and also educate myself more on important and newsworthy topics. She also helped me develop more interests, such as art and new dystopian novels. Reading one of her favorite novels, Brave New World, changed my perspective on our current politics and social customs.
ELIZABETH THOMAS
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Director of Content Strategy, New York Law School
BORN: Norfolk, VA
LIVES: Queens, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: My mentee, Kimberly, has infected me with her passion for great poetry! As a result, it’s a form I’m now exploring. She also encouraged me to read her favorite book, 1984, and I enjoyed the many conversations we had afterward about its themes and relevance to society. I have also loved discussing Kimberly’s interest in art and the notion of who “owns” art, an idea she has explored in her writing.
Dianthus
KIMBERLY DOMINGUEZ
This piece follows a feminine figure as she encounters and accepts a new companion. I was exploring and experimenting with different ideas outside of my realm.
A quiet walk down a solemn street
It slowly creeps around the corner,
And turns in the direction of the wind,
As it glides through the Night,
Seeking your Scent
It whispers in your ear
Tugs on your hair
Skims the side of your hip
It observes you from behind,
Its silhouette visible from the corner of your eye
It follows you home and slips through the doorway
It presses on your chest while you lay in bed
The next morning it stares at you through the mirror,
As you apply your mother’s lipstick
It walks with you to the subway,
And sits beside you on the empty train car,
Your shoulder brushing against it
One day,
You followed it instead
Other days,
You left the door open
Its Warmth kept you close,
Its Breaths became your own,
As you inhaled its Dianthus Scent
Daylight Saving
ELIZABETH THOMAS
I have been inspired by Kimberly to explore poetic forms, and this piece is different from most of my writing. The narrator is a woman evaluating her decisions and contemplating change.
A soft drip from the upstairs pipe
is weakening my ceiling. And
behind the plaster of these walls,
the wood is aging in the dark.
And buried in the cabinets,
the baking pan is caked with crumbs.
The floor is soft, like spoiled fruit
unused but past its usefulness.
So many things I have ignored
in hours or days, I thought,
or weeks, I would repair them but
instead they waited months or years,
like dying trees in public parks
or beaches stripped of shells and sand
or lonely birds who perch on rocks,
as seasons changed and years rolled by like cars.
But I can feel a coming change
that seeps in through the window gaps,
and waits behind the closet walls,
and comes in vapors through the pipes,
and streaks the sky in rose and gold.
Another chance to start again
to leave the old things on the ground
to walk out of the room and close the door.
JOLI-AMOUR DUBOSE-MORRIS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Benjamin N. Cardozo High School
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: 2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Honorable Mention, Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: One time, Alex and I went to the Museum of the Moving Image, and something had happened to me the day before. My mood was quite gloomy. Being with Alex at the museum definitely did more than just inspire my writing, it uplifted my spirits as well. We sat at a table after giggling throughout the Muppets exhibit, and she bought this strange donut. We sat there for two hours and I shared with her the reasons behind my sadness. Alex enlightened me with words that eased my pain and reminded me that “people” come and go.
ALEXANDREA KLIMOSKI
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Associate Editor, Architectural Record
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “Magazzino Italian Art,” Architectural Record (March 2017)
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: In the room, before we met, Joli sat in the front row, and I a few behind her. I first noticed her from the back of her head. Her hair was adorned with dozens of beads—some wood, some with metal embellishments. Since then, she’s donned several hairstyles, each uniquely her. Joli has cultivated a rich sense of style for a young person, and exhibits a strong sense of self. She isn’t afraid to explore what’s inside her. She is a brilliant artist. Her curiosity and dedication inspire me to push my own boundaries as a writer. Her spunk energizes me.
Lonely, Womanly
JOLI-AMOUR DUBOSE-MORRIS
This piece is about existing, specifically as a soon-to-be woman. It is about approaching adulthood and womanhood, and accepting growing up, even if we feel unfit to exist.
THE WORLD IS SMALL, microscopic, dense, and it’s intense. The cities aren’t as big as one perceives them to be. Yes, there are streets, alleyways, and the buildings cave inward like pop-up cards on Valentine’s Day. Except I’ve never received a card from anyone other than my mother.
THE PEOPLE ARE SO LARGE, I wish I could peel my skin off and try someone else on for a change.
Yet that is not possible,
I guess I’ll have to grasp on to myself, and what’s left of it, and grow into a woman to be, even if the small child beneath her isn’t okay with where she is, and where she’s supposed to be.
My eyes are burning, as if they are washcloths getting wringed out so tight.
I still right my wrongs.
Womanhood vastly approaches like the alarm clock
we knock over when it dawns six and sleep has to be postponed because right now, morning calls.
The duties of human are to talk and socialize but I disguise myself in various hairstyles and teary eyes. I’m not acquainted with Womanhood but she sits at the table of adulthood and cocks her brow with a poise that I’ve always dreamed of having. Womanhood and I will never be friends because she holds a better résumé and is ready to perform her flirtatious repertoires.
I’ve said it before, I am afraid to grow up,
yet it dawns on me that Womanhood is the first to show up, her hugs warm and motherly, but I don’t need another mother, I just want more friends. I wander through the world like a solemn ghost with wild hair, and everyone sits next to everyone else while I’m that one that doesn’t know what or who I belong to, unless I’m supposed to remain by myself.
No matter where I am,
silence saunters sonorously around me
and it weighs, and w
e
i
g
h
s.
The cities are so small, but the density comes from the intensity of the amount of people existing around one another. Then there’s me. Somewhere in between being a kid and a woman, kind of lost, and kind of found, but unsure of
what foot to step with next. Womanhood sits on the bus, and she sits beside me, and whatever comes after that,
is unwritten history, perhaps.
Saturn Returns
ALEXANDREA KLIMOSKI
This piece is about being in limbo. It’s a reflection on being in between a young person and an adult. It’s about questioning my own femininity and what it means to be a woman. It’s an observation of myself. It’s a stream-of-consciousness about nothing.
It always takes me a while to leave the house. I like to be relaxed when I rush; to linger in the day’s first thoughts of nothingness; to sit motionless in my most adult-looking chair, eyes fixated on my sleeping cat’s rapid, subconscious ear movements. I wallow in the shiny newness of each morning.
My horoscope dictates that I have a tendency to overindulge. It warns me about gaining weight from gluttony. It assures me that I am stubborn, almost insists that I am lazy. I once looked to my aura for some better, alternative perspective. It was a baritone blue that oozed into a fringe of black. It silently screamed: You are plagued by ambivalence. What gives?
I’m twenty-seven and desperately trying to know myself. But how to know oneself? How to love oneself? I’d crawl down every pulpy cavern of my brain to find out. But I’m always too tired.
On the street I passed a man discussing vegan lasagna with his companion. As he passed I could not help but mutter the words: “Vegan lasagna! Vegan lasagna!”
I mocked a strange man for his vegan lasagna. I wonder if I will always be this cynical.
It occurs to me that I do not possess the “womanly” qualities that my seventeen-year-old self fancied I would. I still am bad at laundry. I still cannot walk in heels. And I still can pass for seventeen if I wear my hair a certain way.
I’m the type of person who will leave a near-empty bottle of Diet Coke in the fridge, not because I’m convinced that I will savor that last drop of flat, caramel-colored liquid, but because, hey, I’ll just throw it out next time. I leave glossy catalogs and oversized envelopes to amass in my narrow, cramped mailbox. I let my plants die.
But my mother is a myth wrapped in an exquisite layer of flesh. She exudes femininity with celestial ease. At the beach, she drapes her skin in linen. She has a greaseless stovetop and dons red lipstick to the grocery store and she always smells sweet. The scent of my perfume never lasts past three o’clock. My lips are always chapped. I often feel unsexy.
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