Point A to Z; a map of me
SHANAI WILLIAMS
This piece is representative of me connecting the dots and reflecting on how my memories, my parents, and the impact they unknowingly leave on me affects, and will continue to affect, my life.
I am the by-product of a funny set of people.
I’m like my mother in the way that
I am in constant crisis;
“I didn’t grow up with a family dynamic, so I don’t know how to be any other way.”
When the world is calm
We’re the storm watch centers
On high alert
Because every calm we’ve ever encountered
Is the prerequisite to a storm;
I’m like my father in the way that
I am able to thrive in the aftermath.
“Make sure you keep an eye on your sister.”
When everyone else is in panic
We’re the lighthearted laughter
That reminds the world
That things are only as bad as you let them be,
That there is a lesson in every trauma.
“Hey, Mom, so I know it’s early, 5:00 a.m., in fact, and you’re at work, but I’ve been wanting to tell you something . . .
“It’s nothing crazy—”
“What is it?”
“I have a girlfriend.”
. . .
“I think you’re just desperate for attention.”
I never believed my mother and I could be anything alike
She didn’t laugh like me
Or make jokes similarly
People said we looked alike
But I couldn’t disagree more
Until I saw that she struggled too
With finding a home in others,
Did I realize we
Were more alike than I had chosen to see
At her lowest point
She is like me
I have been trying to explain the same dilemma
To multiple humans
In hopes of finding one
Who could just
Understand . . .
“Aren’t I a good person? So why don’t people stay? Is this what I deserve?”
And as my mother’s voice cracked
Trying to express
The same pain
“They don’t ask because they care, they ask because they want to know my business. I’m not stupid, because when I do trust them the one time I need them they aren’t there.”
I knew she was me.
I knew people saw what I wouldn’t see.
“I swear looking in his eyes was the worst, he could make you cry on the spot even if he’d been telling you how beautiful you were.”
I never believed I’d been living with my father my whole life
He wasn’t understanding
He never paid much attention
My sister told me I could trust him
But I couldn’t disagree more
Until I found myself telling my little sister the same thing
When she was struggling
I realized when I was battling internal conflict
My father was the beach that I could escape to
At my lowest point
He is my peace.
The first sign was the rustling in the living room. I’d stare into the darkness toward my bedroom door, expectantly. Then, there was his distinct cough, that was my cue to jump out of bed and head to the living room.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, Daughter.”
I’d watch him awhile, then walk through the kitchen past the shopping cart acting as a laundry hamper and into the hallway by the door. Pick up the black “work boots,” as he’d call them, and retrace my steps back to the couch where he sat with the news now on. He listened to the traffic report as he got up to put on the rest of his uniform, a Jacobi hospital shirt and his black zip-up hoodie.
I placed the boots beside him, proud that I’d done so before he had time to ask.
“Thank you, are you going to go back to bed?”
I’d nod. “After you leave.”
We’d walk to the door, my small feet following behind the thumps of his seemingly massive ones. He’d stop to reach down to hug my little body and kiss me on the forehead. I’d kiss him back on the cheek.
And as I held our apartment door open, smiling, he wouldn’t get past the first steps before I bid him parting words,
“I love you, Daddy.”
I didn’t see him watching carefully
As I tried to lick my own wounds
He knew when to butt in
More than I could admit
He understood . . .
And as my voice cracked
Failing to express
My pains
He spoke to me knowingly.
He’d always been there for me.
“It’s amazing the things we forget.”
I am
The sun
Sitting in a cave
Waiting to be discovered
By an unsuspecting few.
“You have become the highlight of my day,”
The night
Cascading over mountains
And valleys
They all know my presence.
“I miss seeing you on Saturdays,”
Like my parents.
“You look so much alike . . . even your voices sound the same.”
And although
My easel
Has creaky worn-down legs
And my palette has dull colors
My canvas?
Is F R E E of stains
Smudges or other’s
Previous marks
My mind F R E E
My perspective F R E S H
I am
The artist bound
To take away your breath.
But what you see
Is not what you get,
We are merely numbered dots
Each point
Has a connection to the next.
Connect them all
And what do you see?
Point A to Z; a map of me.
A talk with my mother
JULIA CARPENTER
I have thought a lot lately about the interior lives of mothers. When we first met, Shanai and I talked about women of different generations responding to #MeToo. After that, I called my mom to talk.
My mother grew up in a man’s world.
When #MeToo hit headlines late last year, I thought about the women I know. Women forced out of jobs or careers. Women who found out the hard way what it was like to work in that world.
And I thought about my mom. When she was just nineteen, my mother worked at a restaurant where her boss sexually harassed her. One time he tried to push her and a friend into a car to go on a date—in the middle of their waitressing shifts.
When we talked about it, though, my mother did not call it “harassment” at the time. She had never talked about that boss or thought her experience unusual. She did not even know what the words “sexual harassment” meant.
“It was not something you even thought about,” she told me. “You did what you were told. Back then, a lot of people felt that if someone complained, it was the woman overreacting.”
She had never had a conversation with her mother, either.
My grandmother was one of two women admitted to her medical school in 1949. That is because she was bright and driven, yes—but also because the school only ever opened two spots for female applicants.
She met my grandfather there, and they had their first big fight when she bought a car—with her own money.
“I think it quite definitely was a man’s world—if there was a problem, it was because you as a woman did something,” my mom said. “I don’t think it was very often thought that the man had overstepped his line.”
Even when she graduated, my grandmother only worked part-time in an evening clinic. Her income paid
for children’s school uniforms and camp vacations.
When I asked her about my mother’s time at the restaurant, and then about her own experiences with sexual harassment, she barely blinked.
She said something like that had never happened to her.
“I think harassment happens more nowadays,” she said. I did not press her.
When I told my mother about that conversation, she rolled her eyes. What had I expected an eighty-nine-year-old grandmother to say?
“Look at the difference in generation that you and I can talk about this,” my mother said. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of even mentioning it with my mother.”
But I grew up in a different world.
KAITLYN YANG
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Freshman
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter College High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: 2016 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Silver Key; 2017 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Gold Key and Honorable Mention; 2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Gold Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: In just one year of having been a part of Girls Write Now, I have learned so much about writing and gained so many experiences by being around others who share my passion. Meg and I have shared so many stories, and my experiences have inspired new ideas. Spending time with my mentor and the Girls Write Now community has allowed me to share my work in an open, accepting environment and challenged me to reach my full potential as a writer, creator, and person.
MEGHANN FOYE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Writer, Editor, and Author
BORN: Marblehead, MA
LIVES: Jersey City, NJ
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: I am a regular contributor to women’s lifestyle publications, including Redbook, Good Housekeeping, Brit + Co, SheKnows, StyleCaster, and Refinery29.
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: In working with Kaitlyn, my mentee, this past year, we’d start each session off with a five-minute free write, in which we’d download our days, current events, even characters in our lives. Through these free writes, I became acquainted with her world and the unique bravery of her generation in the face of so many challenges. This poem, inspired by our time together, represents the distillation of that courageous force she’s shared with me.
Raindrops and Coffee
KAITLYN YANG
“Raindrops and Coffee” illustrates the relationships between strong, resilient women that surround us. The poem focuses on the importance of supporting one another and cherishing the moments and memories we share.
Maybe it’s
because my memory’s been slipping or
because I’ve only heard your voice on a recorded message for a while now but
I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how you looked
outside the mirror
the photographs
that filled the scrapbooks we made during the day you got off from school
are still filed in the cabinet
beneath the bookcase
in the den
even without creaking down the stairs to
flip through the now-faded pages I can remember
the pittering-pattering against the windows and
you sneaking sips from the chipped green mug you made me for my birthday but
scrunching your face at the bitter taste though it was
a creamy light brown with milk and sugar
your smile with
the two front teeth slightly crooked beamed happiness
bouncing in your seat at the wooden dining table in
your favorite sneakers
navy worn into gray and a big toe threatening to poke out
proof of a hard-won race from
the edge of the schoolyard to
your classroom
your leggings torn at the knee
were another clue
the shadows
that danced along your cheek from a growing number of flickering dripping candles on your cake
looked to have gotten darker
and deeper each year like
layers of unhealed bruises
even without squinting my eyes to
see beyond the camera’s flash I can remember
the pittering-pattering against the windows and
you brewing another pot of strong black coffee in the machine we bought at the flea market but
wincing as you poured a cup and dribbled some onto your fingers even though it was
the second time your shaking hands did it this morning
might be easier if you kept your heavy eyelids open
even though the overhead lights that dimmed until they disappeared with a fizz
may be to blame
and the reflection
in the murky puddle on edge of the cement path
that shattered and splashed from scrambling tires to
your stockings as you waited for the light to change
lasted only a moment but
even without running my finger over the scars
from pinching myself with the needle I can remember
the pittering-pattering against the windows and
you throwing open the door in tears and
crashing into your seat even though the stuffing of the cushion was already climbing out
shaking the table with a pile of books under the shortest leg
that chipped off after we balanced on it to change the lightbulbs
I didn’t say a word but
handed you a cup of coffee
with a little sugar
you needed something sweet
you took the cup
downed it and
fell asleep at the table
the thread fought against slipping into the eye but
I stitched your stocking up
and the wait
by the bus stop
covered in a black umbrella
purchased after you read that
black is metropolitan in a magazine
hair straightened just that morning but
already curling up at the edges
when the bus pulled up by the curb
you stepped inside
shaking out your umbrella
handing the driver
crisp birthday money
removed from its neat folding in your wallet
you found a seat by the front
and waved to me but
by the time I waved back
the bus was no more than a cloud of smoke and
the rain stopped me
from running after you
and I can see the picture
of your face staring out the foggy glass window
of the café
so clearly in my mind
content to sip your black coffee
beside strangers and
go home to silence
fingerprint-covered tortoiseshell glasses pushed up
on your nose
a closed umbrella rested on the
chair beside you
dripping onto the
black and white tiles
nervous but feeling safe
behind a mirage
and the hope
that shone from your face to a reflection off a tall building
drew a halo around your head
that only I could see
chic mug in hand
swirling around your drink
in a practiced manner
studied the women sitting next to you in the café
teetering on bright red pumps
and slipping on the wet pavement
feet aching but smile in place
in your precious city it’s just
have a seat
tell me about yourself
goodbye
you trudge out
shoulders slumped
tears hidden behind tortoiseshell gla
sses
you wrestle your umbrella open
the black one you brought with you on the bus
now torn but
bills to be paid and
there’s not enough to buy a new one
then the wind blows and
flips it inside out
you drop onto the sidewalk and cry
I hope you can feel my hand
patting your shoulder
and pulling you up
for a hug
maybe one day
I will see you again and
perhaps you’ll happen to be standing before me in line
I’ll order coffee sweetened with milk and sugar while
you get yours black or
maybe you’ll decide to catch a bus ride home and
surprise me with a visit
I might not recognize you at first
haven’t seen you outside the mirror for a while
but I hope that we’ll learn to remember each other
over raindrops and coffee.
One Two Z
MEGHANN FOYE
“One Two Z” encapsulates a conversation between the generations. It highlights the ways the young can often remind us to remove our blinders and see all the possibilities.
She comes in quietly
Beyond her fourteen years, an equanimity
She pushes her multicolored strands into a high messy bun
She sits, open to new ideas, open to feedback, open to wisdom
But she doesn’t realize, her example contains it
A woman of forty, her low messy bun now gray
looking back and wondering
Why she waited, waited so long
To free her own voice, hear her own song
Her voice was always there, whisper-screaming the words
No, no, no, NO
The ones she never learned to say
The girl wields her pen, her pad, her shining confidence
Brave and bold, she names her emotions, her thoughts, her fears
One, two, three
The darkness only contains stars and dazzling galactic winds
It’s just as bright with the moon
As the day that comes with the sun
Why not see what’s there
She asks
But wait, but wait
Generation F Page 31
