Generation F

by Molly MacDermot

  “Lo siento, Giovanni,” Linda apologized.

  “Está bien.”

  Linda suddenly felt unprotected now that she was free from Giovanni’s grip. She ran her fingers through her hair, hissing when she touched the bruise her father gave her. Giovanni noticed this and stopped in his tracks.

  “¿Que pasó, niña?” he asked.

  Linda shrugged.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, niña,” Giovanni hissed.

  Linda jumped when Giovanni pinched her arm, grunting in pain.

  “I had a fight with my father earlier, nothing important.”

  Giovanni’s pupils dilated. Linda hung her head down in defeat. She didn’t need a second fight to occur between her father and her lover. The deep disdain they had for each other had an evil stench to it whenever they were in the same room. A much more malicious rivalry than the one she had with her sister.

  Moms: A Study

  NIKKI PALUMBO

  Inspired by Mariah’s piece, in which she explored Generation F with familial relationships, I examined my own relationship with my mother, as it was passed down from her mother.

  “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”—Mom Gandhi

  I come from a short line of strong women. My mother is patience incarnate. The mother before her—her own—is not. It’s one of their many differences, all of which I’ve very unscientifically cataloged in a federally unfunded case study of nature vs. nurture.

  It’s my biased belief that you can make yourself into anyone. You observe, you choose, you become. A hypothesis based on nothing more than witnessing how my relationship with my mother (or, rather, hers with me) is diametrically opposed to my mother’s relationship with her mother.

  It seems to be the ebb and flow of “mimic the good and eradicate the bad.” Assess, recalibrate, progress. My mother is the rock of our nuclear and extended family. She’s every emergency’s first responder and every celebration’s first RSVP. It’s the role she was ostensibly born to fill: nurturer, matriarch, glue. I didn’t know there was another way for mothers to be, and for that reason, I rely too heavily on my mother, according to my cardiologist and most ex-girlfriends whose support in moments of panic has been eschewed for the preferred phone call to my mom. It’s a relationship she set the boundaries for. My younger sister and I were always welcomed to call, text, knock, barge in. Nothing was off-limits. Nothing is off-limits.

  My mother’s given me more than she’s ever gotten. The gardener to a flower she was never herself. She takes care of my sister and I because she wasn’t tended to. Her proactivity, a reaction. And it’s frustrating to know that I have it so good because she was determined to not let us inherit feelings of tension and distrust in the person you should be most comfortable around. She willfully stopped the cycle and didn’t pass along a strained relationship. She never once spoke derogatorily about my grandmother. Instead, my mother became the potting soil for the nurturing that was to come.

  And I observe and choose to become her—completely. No calibration necessary.

  KIMBERLEY GARCIA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: University Neighborhood High School

  BORN: New York, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Being in Girls Write Now is amazing, as well as having my mentor, Rosie, with me. Rosie has always helped me reach my full potential, and she is great at giving advice. She helps me become a better writer by critiquing my work and reviewing my applications for jobs or internships. When we don’t have deadlines, Rosie comes up with fun writing assignments or we just talk about books.

  ROSALIND BLACK

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 2

  OCCUPATION: Accounting Assistant, Writers House

  BORN: Minneapolis, MN

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: This year—our second year together—we have visited libraries, bookstores, and macaron cafés. We have discussed everything from math to manga. Kimberley even brought me a piece of her birthday cake when we met for our pair check-ins. She carried it with her all day, just to share it with me! If that doesn’t warm your heart, I don’t know what will. As if that’s not enough, Kimberley has made strides in the skill and creativity of her work. It is truly astounding to witness, and I am honored to spend time with such a lovely, talented human.

  Goodbye, Father

  KIMBERLEY GARCIA

  This piece represents family, forgiveness, and fall. I wanted to write a story representative of Generation F. However, the letter “f” can stand for anything, and that is how these three words come into play.

  The air is still and silent. Time almost seems frozen here. The trees are naked and showing their bare bark to the world. Such deep brown reminds me of mud or dirt that seems to complement the white snow. It’s so blinding, it almost stings my eyes. Outside, I feel myself relax. I haven’t slept properly since finishing finals. Normally going outside helps me clear my mind.

  As I walk, I see a snow angel fading away. It reminds me of winter days with my family when I was little. I’m going back home in three days for the holidays. Then it’s back to school to face adulthood.

  “Adult.” The term has followed me since my father died when I was thirteen. After his death, my mother and I tended to each other, trying to keep our heads above a sea of depression. I was worried about losing her, too.

  My father was just supposed to go to the supermarket. I saw him leave the house and get into the car. That night, police knocked on our door to inform my mother and me that my father had died in a drunk-driving accident.

  “Huh?”

  An audible gasp escapes from me. I could swear I just saw a jersey jacket with the number 10 and the name “Shannon” emblazoned on the back. I rub my eyes but the jacket is still there.

  “Dad?” I call out.

  I look up and see the jacket beginning to fade away.

  “Dad.”

  It’s not real. This must be a trick. It has to be. I’m tired from all this studying, the crush of finals week. I take off my gloves and reach out to touch the snow. I want to feel the cold snow and wake up. I feel nothing.

  Instead of a handful of snow, a yellow leaf sits in my hand.

  I rub my eyes again. More snow becomes autumn leaves floating down around me. I’m getting scared now. I pinch myself to wake up. But when I drop to my knees to try to grab the snow, it is no longer there.

  Instead, I see grass, light green as grapes, coating the ground. My fingers curl into a fist, picking up a pile of dirt in my hands. My hands begin to tremble when I feel mud squish through my fingers. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. My heart pounds against my chest. I lift my head and see the trees are covered in leaves of yellow, orange, green, and brown.

  That’s when I see somebody moving in the shadows. I stand up, heart pounding, and start chasing the shadow. I almost stumble when I see who it is.

  “Dad.”

  My father, Elliot Shannon, is standing three feet from me. His tan skin makes him glow, his brown eyes twinkle with pride.

  “It’s good to see you, Robin.”

  I bite my lip in order to stop tears from forming. I stand straighter and face him.

  “Robin, you have . . .” He pauses and looks at me. “You’ve grown up as I always thought you would.”

  My jaw clenches and water springs to my eyes. I feel my face heat up.

  “Dad, I-I-I missed you.”

  “Robin . . .”

  Beep-beep. Dad grabs his keys and puts on his coat.

  “Dad, my friends are coming over today, buy some popcorn and chips,” I say. “Okay, little Robin,” he says. I walk outside with him and notice the autumn leaves piling up. I need to rake them soon. He gets into the car. Vroom-vroom. “See you in ten,” he says.

  “I’m sorry for taking your childhood away from you,” Dad says, heavy.

  I take a deep breath. “You didn’t take my childho
od away from me,” I say.

  “Shannon, don’t lie to me.” Father never called me by my last name unless it was serious. “I know—”

  I can’t help but scream, “You were supposed to come home, not get yourself killed.” I raise my arm, exasperated, and feel tears streaming down my face.

  Dad stands there saying nothing. I don’t need him to, I can tell what he would say. Dad comes to me and wraps his arms around me, placing the jersey jacket on me. The strangest thing is, I actually feel the jacket: its weight and smell of soap and grass.

  “Bye, Robin,” he says with twinkling eyes and a half-smile.

  “Goodbye, Father.”

  The wind blows around me. I close my eyes and raise my arm to protect my face. I open my eyes again to see a white light. It’s shining brightly, yet I feel so cold. It’s snow. I realize I’m lying on the ground. I try to get up but feel a heavy weight on me. As I move my arm, a sleeve falls—it is the jersey jacket. The one my father gave me.

  “Are you okay?” says a concerned voice.

  A shadow hovers over me. I can’t tell who it is.

  “Stay with me. I’ll call 911.”

  My eyes begin to droop. I hear somebody in the distance saying, “Stay with me.” I curl my body and close my eyes.

  I Feel

  ROSALIND BLACK

  I propose Generation Feeling—I believe that, by increasing awareness of our feelings and what they mean for us, we learn about ourselves and others, and the path forward becomes easier. In this poem, I reflect on the sensations, sights, and feelings I associate with visiting the ocean.

  In the sloshing liquid shine, glints glancing off

  crests both angular and soft,

  smooth and ragged, foamy and clear,

  I feel.

  I feel . . .

  buoyed;

  light;

  shaken.

  Swirls of silken water rush

  around my shins, suck

  on my heels with each step and slap my thighs—

  a playful admonishment.

  Me, a happy submission.

  Molten green sings a siren

  song. Murky deep, clouding my feet,

  might suck me under.

  The surface will forget me.

  I feel . . .

  afraid;

  unknown;

  abuzz.

  Pierced from below, I seek my

  assailant. There is none. There is nothing.

  Nobody. Nowhere. Anywhere.

  Everywhere. I drag air into my lungs. I laugh.

  BERENIZE GARCIA NUEVA

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Sophomore

  HIGH SCHOOL: Uncommon Charter High School

  BORN: Brooklyn, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: From sunny to snowy days, from ice creams to hot chocolates, from superheroes to feminists, from a small café to a world without limits, is how I describe my Thursday evenings with my mentor, Anna. She has inspired me to write and paint the female worlds that go unnoticed. She has inspired me to write poems that speak not only to me, but to all women. I really appreciate her patience and time she has invested in me to become a better writer; without her I wouldn’t have discovered my passion for the genre of journalism. Thank you.

  ANNA FIXSEN

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Senior Web Editor, Metropolis

  BORN: Le Sueur, MN

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: When I met Berenize, we decided our internal theme would center on her favorite fictional character: Wonder Woman. But as our relationship developed, I began to realize the real Wonder Woman was sitting right next to me. I am consistently blown away by Berenize’s intellect, and writerly range, from finely wrought poetry, to moving family memoirs, to incisive political commentary. It’s been a pleasure to watch her grow, and to grow alongside her as a person and a writer. Though we live in a turbulent era, my time with this wonderful young woman gives me hope for a brighter future.

  The Undocumented Wonder Woman

  BERENIZE GARCIA NUEVA

  Undocumented mothers deserve more recognition. They are portrayed by the media as frightened kittens, hiding. But inside each of them there is a roaring lioness, a fierce she-warrior.

  She was seduced by the brilliant red sun between the mountains,

  By the Green Lady who lit the way with her fiery torch,

  By the unalienable promise of Uncle Sam: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,

  the American Dream.

  She dared to crawl the dry sea, under an unforgiving angry sun.

  She used her bracelets to ride La Bestia, a monster known to kill, and remove human parts,

  But also the only train ride to freedom and equality, away from even bigger monsters.

  She reached El Rio Grande, its water fierce, strong, ready to drown anyone, ready to drag their dreams and hopes down its currents.

  She used her lasso to tie herself to the Land of Dreams.

  She survived.

  But it was all a lie,

  The dry sea, La Bestia, El Rio Grande were her true guardians.

  They were fierce and intimidating, begging her to stay away from the true monsters.

  No—demons.

  The white men were no longer those warm smiling faces, they only smirked with cruelty, they used her dreams and twisted them into nightmares.

  Suddenly the home she fled seemed better than the concentration camp she was in.

  They clawed off her bracelets and stole her lasso and chained her to a crippling life,

  Constantly running from the men in green suits, the men with the word ICE across their chests.

  But she hasn’t broken.

  She sleeps in a small corner knowing her children go to sleep with full stomachs, and dream with their eyes open.

  Her new refuge is God, surrounded by saints.

  People outside envelop her, raise their fists and yell,

  SHE IS NOT AN ALIEN SHE IS A HUMAN, A MOTHER!

  She doesn’t beg, she demands.

  She isn’t on her knees, but she stands with her head held high and, with the same fury she fought the monsters,

  She will fight the demons outside.

  A Hero Is a Heroine

  ANNA FIXSEN

  Berenize and I often discuss the importance of telling stories about women—stories that are overlooked all too often. This poem (my first in many years!) was inspired by recent Women’s Marches and the countless Wonder Women that surround me.

  A hero is a heroine

  who doesn’t have a name

  Hoisting the heft of the world, its oceans

  atop her fragile frame

  Her forehead is lined with creases,

  unironed from life’s unfolds

  Yet her spirit is steel and time-tempered

  and Wisdom is her gold

  A heroine is the dreamer

  in Keds and simple garb

  But a pen is her weapon, truth her shield

  the words her lethal barb

  She joins them in the pulsing streets

  a rivulet in the azalea flood

  Truth and justice live on her lips

  and fire in her blood

  Our protectors don’t perch on hills

  or hide behind Roman colonnades

  No, true champions are our sisters,

  ordinary renegades

  A hero is a heroine

  her song unlocks the shuttered doors

  No nightmares, no limits, no gravity,

  above the ground she soars

  SENJUTI GAYEN

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Stuyvesant High School

  BORN: Dhaka, Bangladesh

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: two Gold Keys, Honorable Mention

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: When I first signed u
p for Girls Write Now, I did not anticipate how much it would mean to me. I did not anticipate how much bubble tea my mentor and I would drink together—tea I would never have been able to find if my navigation-challenged self had not met Alikay. I did not anticipate thinking of my mentor as an amazing close friend, while also being a trusted adult in my life. The one thing I was sure of was that Girls Write Now would be one of the best things that ever happened to me. And it is.

  ALIKAY WOOD

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Editor, Guideposts

  BORN: Sacramento, CA

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Senjuti and I clicked from the moment we learned we were both Slytherins. I felt like we connected on an even deeper level on our walk to the train after our mid-year check-in. We’d been discussing her writing and our goals and she turned to me and said, “Before joining Girls Write Now, I didn’t feel like a real writer. And now I do.” Her confidence in her right to call herself a writer has inspired me to take more ownership of my work. It’s been a wonderful year of growth for both of us—as writers and as women.

  (Im)Perfect Rose

  SENJUTI GAYEN

  I chose to write this sestina because it was the most difficult form of poetry we discussed at the Girls Write Now Poetry workshop. I tapped into my desire for perfection. I realized through the writing process that perfection is impossible—but it is possible to love yourself.

  Every day and every night, I wonder: I question everything.

  I look deep within and I ask myself: am I perfect

  in every way, shape, and form? Or, am I an imperfect

  vision of what should not be, of cracked glass?

  It’s like walking on a stony path, in a garden

  full of dark velvet-petaled roses.

  Have you ever held a creation so perfect, so unlike you? Roses

  I once held in my small hands, and yet I felt like I had everything.