neighbors, preachers, teachers, muses.
The list goes on and on.
We’ve faced a flood of negative feedback,
but it’s all just noise to us frontierswomen.
It’s not our fate to be held back by the fainthearted,
and we don’t need to be famous to follow our guts.
We know what this world needs:
people to destroy the idea that
money is more important than our right to life.
It’s the same thing this world doesn’t want,
but we provide it anyway,
at Marjory Stoneman Douglas and beyond.
We are fast-growing, fearless, and futureproof.
We are Generation F.
Orbit
MARGO SHICKMANTER
I wrote this poem in response to the many brave women who have shared their stories about domestic violence as part of the #MeToo moment. Because of them, I hope the next generation has fewer such stories to tell.
A blue red planet
eclipsing the orbital socket,
each shattered insurrection
caught bone. He tells you,
you are the fact of your stature,
but you have never been more
than how angry you make him.
The honeymoon: A tropical bird
flared on your rib cage.
At night, you pet its feathers,
so each one knows it is not alone.
When he saw it, he bucked,
hands trying to wring the fever
from his skull, gathering more
instead. Is it a trick of the eye or
did the bird shrink from him, too?
He is the pestle to your mortar.
Were you supposed to be harder
stone and no one told you?
No one told you, but
you are not alone.
BIANCA JEFFREY
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: The High School of Fashion Industries
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I am very proud to say that I am a second-year mentee. These past two years with my talented mentor, Jennifer, have revealed to me the true power of teamwork. This year we have both shared important experiences that have been reflected in our writing. This journey so far has been very exciting and I can’t wait for another year with Girls Write Now!
JENNIFER ROWE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 3
OCCUPATION: Writer
BORN: Miami, FL
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Working with Bianca is always a pleasure! She is so smart, humble, and hardworking. She continues to amaze me with her willingness to take on challenges, even when they don’t totally suit her writing style. Her ambition is very admirable, and I see only greatness in her future. I am lucky to work with such a great mentee who supports me as much as I support her.
We Want You!
BIANCA JEFFREY
When I started thinking about Generation F, I automatically thought of a generation of fearless females breaking down all barriers. I am proud to live in a society where young women are encouraged to express their feelings about the misogyny of the time we live in.
Let’s fight for your rights
Come join an army of women
We’ll take you in
Help silence the cries of those oppressed
The power of your voice will blow your mind
Your words are the sword for equality
They come from within
Don’t feel discouraged
You can be the woman you dream to be
The myths of your inabilities will be put to rest
The job you want is yours
Don’t let them restrict you
Walk with all the confidence in the world
And you won’t be silenced
We’ll make changes
With your strength, this revolution will end soon
We are a generation of feminine activists who will stand up
For the ones who were told to settle down
You will help us knock down the wall of misogyny
We are the force of females
Fighting this corrupt institution
They may not see the problem, but join us to give the solution
For that girl
JENNIFER ROWE
The theme Generation F spoke to my younger self. I wanted to create an empowering piece that spoke to all generations of women. Sometimes we just need a friendly reminder to love ourselves, believe in ourselves, and trust our instincts.
It’s your turn to be first girl
be the one who changes the world
keep your head higher than the birds in the trees
and keep your desires on fire for all the world to see
you are that girl who can speak her mind as she pleases—
don’t be afraid to say what you’re thinking! be fearless!
be fierce, be free, be flawlessly true
remember the world needs a girl like you
the strength of a woman is measured in her spirit—
listen to your voice and learn to endear it
be powerful, believe and always remain wise
embrace all your beauty and be sure to never hide
give love when needed and love yourself too
be that girl, because it all begins with you
ZARIAH JENKINS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 3
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Midwood High School
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: This year Alexis and I became much closer. Our relationship is not only strictly about writing, but we talk about other things such as our day, our likes and interests, our problems, even politics. Alexis has taught me to be unafraid to express myself in my writing. There would be times that I was stuck on a piece and she would always be there to help me get through it. We’re always learning about new things together when it comes to writing. I honestly could not ask for a better mentor, because together we make a great team!
ALEXIS CHEUNG
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Content Writer, Derris & Co.
BORN: Kailua, HI
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: The Believer, Catapult, T Magazine
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: For the last two years, Zariah and I have met in the Connecticut Muffin bordering Prospect Park. Early in the mornings, while cycling groups sip coffee and chew toasted bagels, we sit and write and review what she has written. Very recently, we spoke candidly about her personal life instead: about school and friends, boys and dating, college and anxiety. I was struck by her calm conviction and clarity of vision. It is our final year together, and I am so grateful for those Sunday mornings, where she has shown me that the next generation is prepared to lead us all.
My Female Superheroes
ZARIAH JENKINS
This piece is dedicated to the two women who have impacted my life. Without them, I would not be the strong and confident person I am today.
According to a random study I found online, the average person meets about 80,000 people in his or her lifetime. Still I can guarantee you that no one has ever met anyone like the women in my life.
My grandmother is about five feet three inches tall. She’s small but mighty, and always keeps busy, whether she’s working, testing new recipes, or hitting the gym. She’s kind-hearted, sweet, and doesn’t care what anybody has to say, especially when she’s on the dance floor. At just ten years old, my grandmother and her family moved out of her home in Greenwood, Mississippi, to live in the “Big Apple.” Not only was the transition hard for her, but she was bullied at school because of her small frame and thick southern accent. My great-grandmother would often tell her, “Not everyone will like you, but as long as
you like yourself you are doing good. Never give up on yourself!” My grandmother was an honor student throughout elementary, junior high, and high school. Even after losing her mother at a young age and becoming a mother at a young age, she continued to become the strong independent woman she is today. My grandmother wanted the best for her children. So she provided them with everything that they needed for a happy and healthy life, just like my mother did for me.
I’ve always believed my mom is a superhero. She’s five foot seven, has brown eyes and a smile that’s contagious. She’s fearless, and knows how to handle any obstacle. To this day, I admire her strength. My mother never lets anybody talk her down. She always stands up for herself, no matter what. She is confident, smart; she knows her capabilities. She’s a go-getter, and she works hard for what she wants. Not only that, but she’s funny; she always finds ways to make me laugh, even when I’m in a bad mood. My mother has always been there for me. When I used to come home crying because kids at school would comment on how small I was, she would tell me that I am beautiful just the way I am and that I don’t need to change myself for anybody. Even when I felt like there was no one I could talk to about things that bothered me, she always made sure that I knew I could come to her for anything. I could rant to her for days about the same thing, and she would listen every single time. Over the years, she has shown me the importance of trying my best and always believing in myself. She has taught me to love myself and to never let anybody treat me as any less than I am. My mother always goes out of her way to make me happy, even when I do wrong. I’m extremely thankful for the sacrifices she continues to make for me, making sure I am getting everything I want and need, just like her mother did for her.
My mother and grandmother have both influenced me and helped me grow over the years. Because of them, I know my worth. I am a work in progress and I should never allow people to make me feel ashamed for how God made me. My lithe frame doesn’t define who I am; neither do my mistakes. It’s about my personality and drive. The mark I leave on the world. They have taught me to work hard and never do less than my best. They also taught me that life is too short to be sad all the time. I should continue to smile and do the things that make me happy because surrounding myself with negativity won’t do anything but hurt me. I am extremely grateful for these women, and I hope to one day inspire people like they inspired me.
Although I don’t express it enough, I’m very thankful for the women in my life. Even though I’m a couple inches taller (five foot nine), I look up to both my mother and my grandmother. If I grow up to be anything like these two amazing women, I know I am doing something right.
Ring Around Iceland’s Ring Road
ALEXIS CHEUNG
This piece is for my Generation F: my two fun, fearless female friends who turn navigating this world (Iceland, in this instance) into a story worth sharing.
I flew to Iceland out of privileged pity for my best friend. “I don’t want to go alone!” Hannah lamented. Because I freelanced, I obliged. Then our other best friend, Marcela, joined the trip; our duo turned into three.
Together, we’d drive Iceland’s Ring Road: an 827.7-mile looping journey along the coast.
After an evening of heavy drinking in Reykjavik, we stranded Hannah (who arrived one day after Marcela and myself) at the airport the next morning. Hours behind schedule, we began driving almost halfway across the country. The landscape changed from grassy and expansive, oceanic and peaceful, volcanic and otherworldly. I begged them to pull over so I could throw up, marring the breathtaking beauty.
We drove to one waterfall, then another. We lay in the grass, our clothes damp and clinging to our bodies. Then we peeled away our soaked layers, like soggy labels from beer bottles. Marcela drove; Hannah made cheese sandwiches; I tinkered with my phone. For hours we subsisted on gas-station snacks.
Female friendships, Elena Ferrante wrote, “are a terra incognita, chiefly to ourselves, a land without fixed rules.” When both women declared me their best friend, I remembered my surprise and pride—the feeling of belonging, knowing we could navigate our friendship according to our own code.
Like romantic love, deep friendships dispel long-endured loneliness and pain. Shortly before I met Hannah, I left my boyfriend of four years. A few months later, Marcela lost her mom. Right before our trip, Hannah had lost someone like a sister. Packed together inside that tiny, rented car, as Iceland’s lunar landscape rushed past our windows, our friendship became the balm soothing every unhealed hurt.
Curving along Iceland’s coast, I watched lava burn into the sea. In the backseat Marcela and Hannah were jostled awake when I steered us onto a suddenly unpaved road. By now we had driven for ten hours straight. We were lost, we were tired, we were hungry: an unholy trinity that devours some friendships forever.
Yet no one yelled. No one screamed. No one hurled blame. Instead, we laughed. Marcela, always compassionate, spoke soothing words. Hannah, so solution-oriented, assumed her copilot position.
“It’s shit on the right,” Hannah warned.
“It’s shit on the left,” she confirmed.
“It’s shit on both sides!” she said. And we barreled along in the darkness, together.
FAIZA KHANOM
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Baccalaureate School for Global Education
BORN: Dhakha, Bangladesh
LIVES: Queens, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Girls Write Now has introduced me to an amazing person this year. With the help of my mentor, Nandita, I was able to improve my writing skills, specifically in creative writing. We juggled through junior year, with our half-hour conversations about everything from how our moms bargain in Indian clothing stores to college advising. I was able to get one-on-one attention in my writing and learned so many more insane English grammar rules. Nandita has made me realize that writing can be fun and even the little stories in your life matter.
NANDITA RAGHURAM
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Writer, Gizmodo Media Group
BORN: Chicago, IL
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Vice, Refinery29, Bustle, Chicago Reader, Racked, and more
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I always knew Faiza and I had a lot in common on the surface. We were both from Southeast Asia and our parents were immigrants. But it was not until I read her Anthology piece that I really understood just how similar we were. That pair session, reading about her grandmother, I realized we connected on a deeper level: We navigated the world in the same way. Seeing this piece develop over our weeks together has been truly special, and I am so proud of how far Faiza has come as a writer and as a young woman.
My Nani
FAIZA KHANOM
This is a piece about my grandma. She died on September 21, 2007. My grandma made an impact on my life because she encouraged me to try new things and we went through many adventures together.
It was September 18, two nights before my sixth birthday. The smell of fresh, ripe mangoes filled the air of Sreemangal. I lay on the soft bed. Patterns swirled on the headboard. There was a flower in the middle, with lines carved into the petals. I stared at the fan. Netting surrounded the bed, protecting us from mosquitoes. My arm itched on my shoulder. The moist air melted on my skin. Rain banged on the steel roof above me.
Nani came in the room. She wore an orange cotton saree and had a glass of milk in her hand. Her hand was shaking as she approached me. The glass of white milk was glowing in the dark. The diamonds on her bangles shone.
I gulped down the milk, holding my nose with my fingers. I hated milk as a child. My grandpa’s farm was filled with cows that had horns the size of my arm. Their horns would stab the air, scaring me. Huge globs of cow poop filled the cow house. Every time I saw milk, I would smell that stench: garbage mixed with soil. But if I refused to drink the milk, Nani would say, “Don’t you want to grow?”
She sang her old be
dtime lullabies in Bangla, her voice soft and crackly like an old radio. As she paused, I would hear the crickets chirp. We drifted to sleep. Nani’s arm hung around me and felt warm and protective. The ceiling fan turned, but my hot skin still felt sticky. But that did not matter to anyone because we had each other’s company.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of fried eggs. I loved mornings in Bangladesh because they were busy. I would wake up to the smells of eggs, tea, kichuri, and parathas. I would always lie in bed for a long time, enjoying the smells.
As I walked down the long hallway to the kitchen, I noticed my jam plant. A few weeks ago we had eaten fruit from my grandpa’s farm. It was divided into sections for bananas, coconuts, mango, tea, jam fruit, and more. Hundreds of tea bushes on hills stood in green, curved rows. Women with barrels on their backs would pick up tea leaves.
Jam was sweet and purple. As I bit into it the purple juice filled my mouth and dripped all over my dress. I couldn’t believe that food could grow from a seed, but Nani encouraged me, saying, “Just try, we’ll see what happens.” So I planted it. And that morning before my birthday, the plant had sprouted. Because of Nani’s encouragement, I was able to accomplish something I had never done before.
As I walked to the cavernous dining room everyone had already finished their morning tea and biscuits. Uncle had already left for work, and Mom had left my fried eggs on the table. One of my pet peeves was uncovered food, and a fly was already making circles around my plate like a magnet. I lost my appetite.
Since my birthday was tomorrow, Mom and Aunt flipped through their phone books and started calling relatives.
“What kind of cake do you want?” Mom asked.
“I want Aunt to make the cake, the cake that she made for Tuha’s birthday was so pretty,” I replied.
Aunt would decorate the cake beautifully with different colored icing. There was no oven, so Aunt and Mom had to bake it on the stove. It would take five or six hours, so they started that day.
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