What if, what if
So what if,
She smiles, doodling curls and cues with the same fervor
As dragons and flames
Aren’t you scared, she asks, as the girl looks up to the right
Where the ideas are all held tight
No, not really
But what about the pain, the terror of friends turned foes
Armed, dangerous and menacing
Yes, of course
Yes, we are
But we know something your generation does not
What’s that
That we are not alone
We have each other
And with that, if one of us falls,
The others are there, alongside them
To raise up their spirits, living or dead
Their hearts, their art,
We see it all,
It’s easier for us to, than not
I had a voice, within me, but the only ones who saw
Were sitting in ivory towers
With judgmental pens, with “constructive” words meant to tear and shred
Or guns, meant to shoot those dead who spoke words of truth
To those who believed in different gods, different crowns, different books
But is that true? she says, laughing eyes
Weren’t there also the sun, moon and stars?
They were catching every last unspoken word, until the world revolved to see it
Now, with the rain, and your pen, and these zeroes, they’re ready to hear it
To feel it
Let it out, let it out
Share it.
Why not?
See if it might stick
This time
Maybe, maybe
Yes, yes, yes, YES
Okay
We’re all here, waiting to see
Us girls of Generation F
Us women of the future
Of force, fire, freedom
Ready for us? One, Two, Z
EN YU ZHANG
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Stuyvesant High School
BORN: Hong Kong, SAR
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Our second year has definitely been filled with more completed writing—my mentor pushes me out of my laziness to at least write a little each time. More significantly, I have been able to develop a lot of my ideas, not even just the ones related to writing. Elizabeth is always willing to listen to me go on about my latest interest, as well as to provide her own insights (ever so helpful!); I feel that I have grown a lot as a person thanks to her.
ELIZABETH KOSTER
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Creative Writing Teacher, West Brooklyn Community High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “Modern Love,” The New York Times, August 2014
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: En Yu and I are working together for a second year, and our bond has become stronger. Our meetings are longer, richer, timed writing sessions peppered with conversations about politics, literature, and existentialism. She is filled with insight and has an eye for the absurd, and it’s a joy to work with her.
The Sky over Our Heads
EN YU ZHANG
This piece explores the idea of freedom through the classic symbol of the sky, and uses quotes (italicized) from Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary.
As we all fiddle with our pencils, double-checking to confirm that they are of the No. 2 variety, that we have erasers, that our cell phones have been turned off, there is nothing more to be done than to wait for time to crawl past, so that our ordeal may be over.
Outside, the cloudless blue sky eludes us all, as though flouting the whole world, particularly our myopic mind-sets that we peer through.
Settling in, there were jokes thrown around about the range of activities that we were able to do upon completion of the exam when time wasn’t called yet. Checking the test for perhaps the sixth time was an apt checkpoint, though sleeping, singing, and all other great, fun activities were prohibited.
I suggested looking out the window.
Of course, I never got around to it, spending my time repeatedly checking my answers.
The splendor of a poetical sky was full of mirth, laughing at me from the shadows of my vision.
It is early afternoon as my friend and I walk by the Hudson River, where “sunlight on waves [is] drowsy tinsel.”* The glittering beads scatter among the yellow-green waterscape as they are directed by the winds. New Jersey peers over from the other side, looking as undistinguished as New York has ever perceived it.
This part of the sky is an intense azure, unmarred by white, as the sun makes its descent. As we walk toward it, we move farther away from the section of sky so densely concentrated with gray clouds that sunlight could not filter through. Such was the divide between cloudy and clear, as we walked along its boundary.
To stare into the unblemished blue sky is to stare into the depths of infinity, for there is nothing in that blue that could be retrieved that the mind could attribute to solid form. It held layers and layers of colors, denser deep down and lighter and lighter toward the enameled surface, allowing us to lose ourselves in those depths.
There is a plane heading into those depths, out of our reach. We stare at it, straining our eyes, trying to hold that white dot within our sight. In the end, the plane still eludes us, becoming indistinguishable from the blue.
We blink some more and laugh it off.
How happy those days were. How free, how full of hope. There are none left now.
The sky from my room is a caged bird, its wide expanse contained by black bars and insect screens. The glass on one side of the windows is translucent, with patches of unidentifiable gray matter spread upon it thinly. My desk is placed right next to this view, alongside a much longer table jammed behind it, leaving only a narrow aisle for my chair. When the chair faces to the north there is the desk meant for work, with nothing on it; when it turns around there is the table with stacks of books piled upon it, meant for escape.
I sit on the ladder, despite its failing legs, reading, despite my obligations to my schoolwork. I gave myself deadlines, which I would extend.
Waiting for a new self at the bottoms of pages, I seek epiphanies from the novels, something to bring into my life. Schoolwork is never fulfilling. On some days I could be full of motivation, seeing the tedious tasks as just one step to complete the higher goal of education. However, most days this is not the case.
I can never seem to get myself to my desk to even start my work. I know that if I can take that first step, everything will be much smoother sailing. When I watch shows on my laptop my eye is constantly monitoring the clock. Somehow, even as I know of my duties, I can ignore them so easily.
Let the succession of identical days occur. There isn’t much I can do about it, anyway.
I read on, not thinking about all those bothersome issues of reality. If I’ve read everything, will I find the better details of the world? Is there something intrinsically worthwhile in humanity I could cling to, something in myself, that could be discovered in novels, that allowed myself an excuse for my action?
But how can it be easy to express an uneasiness so intangible, one that changes shape like a cloud, that changes direction like the wind?
The sky holds so much beauty, indulging in my need to seek something beyond what modern life can offer. A cloudless sky’s endless depths beckon to me, allowing me to become lost within them, so that I may cast aside the troubles that plague my reality. The ceiling of the world is a relic of the past; sometimes I imagine New York as it had once been, heavily forested, as the sky engulfs my vision. The night sky is my refuge, where I am free to do as I wish for those scant hours of darkness, before society demands I enter again.
Such is the sky’s comfort.
*From David Mitchell’s Black Swan
Green.
Photo Montage
ELIZABETH KOSTER
This piece, inspired by a distant trip to Nepal, is about our human need to share experiences with others, and the way in which social media has amplified this need.
On the penultimate day of our Himalayan trek, we were to ascend the 17,500-foot Gokyo Peak to see views of Mount Everest. Helicopters hovered over the mountain and carried hikers with altitude sickness to medical centers, while I lay in my sleeping bag with a fever, my body wracked with sweat and chills. I almost saw Everest, I imagined telling people, but I was sick that day.
You haven’t been? People would ask. Oh. You haven’t lived. (Who were these people I thought were going to ask me this? How many times has someone said, “If you were in Nepal, you must have seen Everest”? Zero.) But I had to go, regardless of how ill I already felt. At nineteen, I thought I could find myself through travel—having a photo of Everest seemed essential, as if it were a key that would unlock some unknown part of me. The peak was the last 500 feet of elevation gain, and so I crawled out of my tent, clutching water bottles and steadying myself.
A few minutes into the hike, my fingers and feet became swollen and puffy and it felt like liquid was pressing inside my skin, ready to explode. I bent over my knees, trying to breathe, but was only able to wheeze. Up at the top, I saw my friend engulfed in fog, and I dragged one foot in front of the other, my scalp tightening around my skull like a vise.
“Come, take a picture!” she said.
I staggered toward her, faded prayer flags snapping in the wind. To my right was Everest’s jagged iciness, hidden by storm clouds. I got a shot of it and a part of my sluggish brain thought, Saw Everest: check.
I needed to place the glossy 4×6 into an album as proof, in the way people now post Facebook updates of their lives—their dinners, their cat videos—so they can elicit “likes” and comments. If we go on a trip and don’t post photos, did the trip really happen? It’s the urge to be heard, to matter, to live and have something to show for it. See? Can you see me? Do I exist?
To an outsider, the Everest photo might seem impressive. To me, the cloud-obscured peak conjures memories of nausea and wheezing, and of a then insatiable desire to experience without actually tasting.
MIN ZHENG
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Millennium Brooklyn High School
BORN: Putian, Fujian, China
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I was taking a short break from writing when I joined Girls Write Now, so I was extremely nervous when I met Julia for our first weekly meeting. However, we fell right into place. She had a list of prompts for me to choose from and a five-minute timer for each prompt. I have a habit of attempting to perfect my stories before I finish getting my ideas out, and through this warm-up, I find myself worrying less about what I could have done and focusing more on what I have done.
JULIA WEISS
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Copywriter, Beyond, a Creative Agency
BORN: Santa Monica, CA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: One great memory with Min—and I promise you there are many—was when I encouraged Min to analyze the first two pages of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone as a writing exercise. Until then, Min had assured me that watching the movie was enough and that she didn’t need to read the book. But, after those two pages, she was admittedly curious, and we took a trip to the bookstore to buy Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Later, after parting ways on the subway platform, she sent me a text: “I read two chapters on the train. It’s so good!”
Found You
MIN ZHENG
Miyu is a high school student who’s coming home after a late night of tutoring and hanging with her friend, Sam. She’s never questioned a stranger’s intentions despite the news being filled with kidnapping and murder cases. What does she do when she’s in the middle of one?
The ringing in her head was getting unbearable. Miyu opens her eyes and finds herself sitting at one of the Thirty-sixth Street train station benches. It is currently nine p.m. and Miyu just parted ways with Sam.
“Ugh, why did I agree to take the R train? The D train isn’t coming for another six minutes.” Miyu sneers at herself before taking her phone out of her pocket to text-spam Sam of her cursed fate.
Her spam ends abruptly when a pair of shoes enters her vision. “Hi! Is this downtown or uptown? I’m not from around here.” The man is wearing a dark blue North Face coat. His right hand clutches onto his black bookbag while his left hand rubs his neck shamefully.
“It’s downtown,” Miyu replies and gives the stranger a small smile.
“Oh, thanks!” the man chirps back with a grin that stretches to his eyes. He lingers in front of Miyu, who goes back to her spam.
After a moment of silence and a bunch of mock-hostile sent texts, Miyu’s lips move again. “Are you heading to Manhattan?”
“No, I’m trying to go to Coney Island,” the man quickly answers.
Miyu hums in acknowledgment and gives another friendly smile to the stranger before she puts on her earphones and zones the rest of the station out.
The man walks away to the end of the platform.
Miyu is texting Sam, who has arrived home, when she gets a text from her sister, Mio. “I’m on the bridge right now,” the text reads.
“I’m at Thirty-sixth Street right now, do you want me to wait for you so we can go home together?”
“Sure.”
By the time the short conversation is over, the man returns and proceeds to sit down on the empty seat next to Miyu.
“I’m not from around here,” the man repeats from before, while leaning his face too close for comfort.
Miyu smells alcohol coming from the guy next to her. Her heart starts to race, panicking. She gives a nervous smile as an answer and scooches in her seat in an attempt to put more space between them.
“Have you been waiting for the train for a long time?” the stranger asks after a moment of silence.
“Yeah, I’m waiting for someone,” Miyu replies quickly, rapidly texting Sam and Mio.
The guy seems to notice her discomfort and walks away.
Noticing the N train that goes to Coney Island passed, Miyu looks up, only to be startled by the man’s glance in her direction while he passes by her. Miyu’s hands start to tremble as she texts her sister again. “Where are you? Why are you taking so long??”
Miyu’s eyes follow the figure in the dark blue coat closely as another N train arrives at the platform. She stands up from her seat and waits for the train to come to a halt. The figure quickly walks up next to her, waiting for the train to come to a halt as well. Miyu lets out a shaky breath and goes back to the seats. The man parts from Miyu and walks to the end of the platform again.
Miyu’s train is about to arrive, and in her last attempt to figure out if she was being dramatic or paranoid, Miyu walks to the end of the platform.
The man follows.
The D train is entering the platform. The man is now ten steps away from Miyu.
The train doors open. She enters the crowded train. The stranger enters as well. Miyu takes a deep breath with her eyes closed. It is now or never. Miyu looks at her phone as she exits and runs to the next car as quickly as her shaky legs allow. She hides among the crowd in the car.
“Miyu!” a voice calls out. Miyu turns around in alarm and lets out a sigh of relief to see her sister sitting there.
“He was following me,” Miyu says, her voice trembling. “He was following me.”
Miyu peers at the open doors of the train, hoping they will close soon. Miyu holds her breath when she sees a familiar dark blue coat cross her vision. The doors close. Miyu scans his actions, the man looks like he is searching for something . . . or someone. The train leaves the platform and the man disappears from her vision.
Miyu slides onto the floor, lea
ning her head against the doors, and breathes.
Tears are streaming down Miyu’s face when she jolts awake. Curling into herself, she clenches her thin white tee. Her heart pounds as she takes uneven breaths.
“It’s just a dream,” she whispers to herself. She takes a long deep breath, cold sweat is trickling down her neck. “It’s just a dream,” she continues to mutter, almost as if she is trying to brainwash herself.
“Oh, is it?” a voice from the corner of her bedroom calls out. “I found you.”
She shivers, goose bumps decorating her skin. “It’s not real.”
Course
JULIA WEISS
I’m currently working on a poetry collection about women in the workplace, highlighting my experiences at a male-dominated marketing agency and beyond. This is one of the pieces from the book. I hope that the book makes its way into the world, and I hope future generations of women never have to endure the misogyny that those before them have encountered.
The woman behind me in the coffee line
says, “I can’t handle today. Normally,
I can handle his micromanaging bullshit,
but not today. Don’t get me wrong—I love
my job—but not today.” I turn to see
two tall black women with flawless skin
and meticulously painted red lips.
I feel that way every day, I say,
loud enough for them to hear,
quiet enough for nobody else to notice.
Her friend frowns in response.
She beams. “We should’ve been strippers,”
she says, tucking her wallet under her arm
looking up as if contemplating that path.
“Really, we should’ve been strippers.”
Now her friend is laughing. “No,”
her friend says. “No, that’s not our motto.
Don’t make that our motto.”
The barista calls me up. I order my coffee,
they order their coffee, we walk out
of the coffee shop going in opposite directions
Generation F Page 32
