Writopia Lab Proudly Presents...

Posted by Rebecca Wallace-Segall

This exceptional memoir was written by Writopia Lab writer Leanna S. She started writing it during a 2007 summer writing workshop, continued developing it during her fall and winter workshops, and read an earlier version of it as part of the Barnes & Noble event. Leanna's writing style, honesty, and insight has moved everyone who has had the pleasure of reading or hearing her most recent piece. I am so proud to be able to share it with our blog readers!

By Leanna S.
8th Grader & 2007 Scholastic Silver Key Winner


Receding Tides
Waves lapped gently against the shore, and a cool breeze flowed through the open window. Ripples cast by the wind danced across the tranquil ocean and my brother’s deep breaths echoed through the bedroom. I was only eight at the time, and my dad and I were speaking in gentle whispers at our house in Long Beach. August was coming to a close, and the new school year was drawing inexorably nearer. I had been eagerly anticipating my brother Ethan’s company in school that year: picturing myself as a superior third grader stopping to wave to my little brother in the hall like so many of my other friends had done to their younger siblings. The stillness of the moment made it so serene, but the lull of my dad’s voice brought me back into the moment.

“Ethan just doesn’t understand things the way you and I do, which is why he is going to Churchill and not Heschel,” my dad told me. “He doesn’t learn things in the way that the rest of us do.”
At that moment, I didn’t really have an understanding of what I had just been told. At eight years old, perhaps I hadn’t really started to comprehend what the more significant ramifications of living with a sibling with learning disabilities would entail. But from what I had understood, I was upset at every image of Ethan and I at school together being crushed, gone, and finished like the ocean receded back into the tide.

Looking back on this, my inability to anticipate what might emanate from an event like this is surprising. Later I would discover that our attendance of different schools made up a marginal fraction of the disappointment I would experience next.

Over the course of the preceding year, my parents, with the help of a slew of occupational therapists had diagnosed my brother with learning disabilities, and they had been faced with the challenge of finding a special school that would cater to his special needs.

September opened with me at Heschel for third grade, and my brother at Churchill starting kindergarten – no significant changes, as we had been attending different schools thus far in our lives. Like the ominous calm of the ocean in the morning I had remembered so well from the house in Long Beach, the year had for the most part slipped by, untouched and unnoticed.

But when Ethan entered first grade, things changed.

The first year of homework. My brother had always been particularly gifted in reading, math, English, social studies… basically any subject offered in a first grade class you could think of, my brother could do. You would think my brother would have had a pretty easy time, but he couldn’t apply the skills that had come so naturally to him to his class work, simply because he felt no incentive to do so.

Then came the rise of the reward system.
My parents began to offer my brother a reward, sometimes a new game boy cartridge, or an inexpensive toy that my brother had his eye on, in exchange for a week of completing homework and class work on time and without protest. Later this reward system extended beyond the confines of homework and class work. Gifts were offered to my brother on a regular basis for things as simple as getting dressed in the morning, and getting to bed on time at night.

Ethan had gotten into the habit of making these annoying sounds, and in order to get my brother to control those impulses, they started rewarding him when he stopped with the sounds. I remember one Saturday Ethan had just walked his friend Orli to the door after they had spent the afternoon together. The slam of our front door meant two things: the end of Orli’s visit, and the beginning of my brother’s irritating fortissimo. I heard my brother’s feet thudding away from the door as he burst through the house with a tornado of energy imitating a Nintendo character, probably a character in his new Game Cube game he recently received for stopping making the noise. I practically exploded with rage—I knew my brother was capable of controlling what my parents thought were “involuntary noises” because all afternoon when he was with Orli they had stopped, but as soon as she left he chose to start with the sounds again. I was furious with my parents for rewarding my brother for something so infantile, furthermore, something he was unmistakably competent of restraining.

I was ten years old at the time, and I didn’t understand that my brother needed further incentive to do certain things, but I did notice that my parent were rewarding my brother for things like getting dressed and doing his homework, things they had taken for granted when I did.

As time went on, so did the reward system, and I began to get angry. I didn’t care that my brother was getting all these neat toys and gadgets; I was just utterly baffled and furious at the fact that I wasn’t receiving such attention. I tried to coax myself into believing that I didn’t need those sorts of rewards. C’mon Leanna, you don’t need any stupid game boy cartridges to do your math homework, or any buzz lightyear water gun to get to bed on time, or sometimes, Leanna, that’s so infantile, don’t be like Ethan, don’t let him and his stupid prizes bog you down.

But over time anger just morphed into plain jealousy, jealousy no amount of buttering up to myself would be able to fix. I knew the truth was that Ethan’s “stupid rewards” had gotten me embroiled in a conflict, and I wanted those childish rewards for going to bed on time, whether I really needed that kind of motivation was lost in the conflict. With every new reward, I grew more insanely jealous, my parents tried to explain their motivations behind the system, and to some degree, I understood my brother’s lack of incentive, but any sort of understanding was wasted on my complete and utter resentfulness for the reward system for Ethan’s seemingly trivial accomplishments.

The reward system bothered me, but Ethan never received anything I actually wanted until we got our laptops. Well, until he got his laptop. For many months two years ago I had been studying and preparing for my Bat Mitzvah, and I used some of the gift money I had received to buy myself a laptop. A few weeks after my expenditure, my parents bought Ethan a laptop for particularly good work in school, something I paid for out of my own pocket, but something Ethan received for seemingly (or what seemed to me as) effortless endeavors. I wasn’t jealous; I was just seething with rage. It didn’t make sense to me that my parents who had been trying to teach both of us money management skills would go ahead and deprive me of a laptop, and at the same time take money our of their own pockets so my brother (and frankly, I don’t think it was so necessary that he have his own computer in the third grade) could have one.

Over time, anger and jealousy transformed into sadness—the sadness of loss, as I was beginning to be exposed to exactly what I was missing out on in having a brother like Ethan. As my brother and I got older, and I began to spend more time at friend’s houses with their younger siblings, I noticed that their relationships with their younger siblings were a lot different than the way Ethan and I would interact with each other. My friends would involve their siblings in board games, like Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit, and on occasion when I would stay over for dinner, oft times involved younger siblings in debates while they ate. I was over at my best friend’s house, and we were all taking part in a discussion about communism, particularly enjoying the insight of her brother, who is only a few months younger than Ethan. But at my house, over Friday night dinner, my parents and I were sharing summer camp experiences, and of course, Ethan feels it is absolutely necessary that he interject with an intriguing account of when he and his friends pelted the girls’ bunks with rocks, a tale he later informed us was completely made up.

My dad and I had always been enthusiastic about living room board games, namely Scrabble, and an occasional game of Monopoly. When my brother was younger, my dad and I played alone, but over the past couple of years, when my brother was eight or nine, we’ve tried to included him in our Saturday afternoon Scrabble games, only to be disappointed when his interest in the game is short-lived. When we would play Scrabble about halfway through the game Ethan would say, “I’m bored,” or “I’m tired,” and excuse himself from the table and run to his room. In Monopoly, he lost interest toward the beginning of the game, so my dad would start helping manage his money because Monopoly is no fun with only two people. This prompted me to implement the rule, “No financial advisors in Monopoly.” More often than not, this sent Ethan crying to his room saying, “Leanna, you’re just a sore loser and both of you don’t want me to play.” Ethan grew tired of our games so quickly, which indicated to us that he didn’t have the patience to play.

I had never been interested in the kind of learning disability Ethan had, I guess something about knowing what he had was a little discerning, it was almost as if knowing what he had would make it all more real. But as of lately, I’ve seen some of my parents’ books lying around; titles include Parenting with ADHD, and advice on how to give “positive discipline.” For about a year or so, Ethan has been on a medication that helps him control his impulses and helps him pay attention, usually I wake up when the medicine has already started to kick in, so usually we are together when the medicine gets the best of him.

Recently we vacationed in Vancouver, where Ethan and I shared a room and were spending a lot more time together than usual. On our trip, I witnessed what Ethan was like before the medication kicked in.

It was a nightmare.

Ethan would always wake up so early, and in the midst of rummaging through his backpack to find something to do (which of course he did in the most inconsiderate fashion) he invariably woke me up. I was not very pleased with this early morning jolt, and it didn’t help that Ethan had already started with the noises and was seemingly incapable of responding to the word, “Stop.” He had a retort for every comment I could possibly, and the noises and the comebacks in collaboration with the early hour got me fuming.

I yelled at him.

That got mom and dad’s attention through the connecting door. Dad came in and told Ethan to stop, and of course, with the direction from my dad, he discontinued the sounds. He told Ethan to please leave and get dressed in the other room, and Ethan padded out of the room like the innocent little angel he could feign so well.

I was sitting on the bed, and my dad stood up next to me. Almost like a huge wave about to come crashing down on me, I had nowhere to run to, I knew what was coming. “Lee, you can’t get so angry like that. You have to understand that you can’t get from zero to 60. You need to learn to manage that anger. Do you get that heated up with your friends?”

Well of course I don’t! They never do anything to set me over the edge like that obnoxious little creep. He’s the one with the problem—so instead of understanding what a pain he is, you’re going to try to diagnose me with anger management issues!

But of course I couldn’t say that, unless I wanted a week of allowance dockage, maybe two.

“Okay, I’ll try to control it more next time.”

“It makes me sad to see you two treating each other like that. One day, you guys will need each other, to make grave decisions, to commiserate with each other when me and mom aren’t around anymore, and to share happy occasions, and it’s important that you don’t treat each other like that.”

“Sorry, I said I’d try to control myself next time.”

At that moment I was more than furious. If he was sad that me and Ethan may not be able to make those sorts of grave decisions together one day, then I was devastated. He is my brother, so I’m doing the decision making with him, and not dad.

This is where the memoir ended when I read it at Barnes & Noble in front of my dad and 50 other adults at a reading my writing class sponsored.

As I read I saw my dad grinning in his seat, and occasionally we exchanged nervous smiles. When I took my seat next to him after I came down from the podium, I was most taken aback by his reaction. “It was good. Just it was an overstatement. An exaggeration. At least in some parts. When have I ever rewarded Ethan for getting dressed in the morning?”

I explained that it was a reflection of my experience, and that he was perfectly capable of recording his own perception of what happened in his own memoir. After the reading nothing had changed, except for the occasional texts that my dad sent to my cell phone saying, “Now I’m the poster boy for bad parenting.”

But a month or so later, after my parent teacher conference, my dad left me a message saying how proud he was, and that he took notes to show to my grandparents. During dinner they told me what a privilege it was to have been able to come and hear the teachers at the conferences. That night my parents came home with an iTunes gift card to show me just how proud they were. That weekend my dad ordered me two books, and when I asked him why, he responded with, “No reason.”

My writing teacher asked how it felt, to receive a reward in the same way my brother did. “I dunno…” I said. “It felt weird.” The gifts wouldn’t help me do better in school, I thought to myself. I wasn’t going to work harder because I knew that in the end my parents would have a present for me. It’s weird, rather, that this sort of thing works for Ethan, that an inanimate object could provide an incentive and represent the pride of my parents after an accomplishment. But on the other hand, I guess it was always nice for him to know that someone would buy him something just because they were proud.

“Weird?” She asked.

“Yeah. Like good-weird. Kinda like I didn’t deserve it.”

The Child Of Condemnation

This is a short period piece written by Nico Grant. It is told in the voice of a young girl, an English servant and reveals just some of the hardships of the working-class in England during Feudalism.

I sat in a gazebo, before the impending stagnantly placid pond. This particular body of water held a murky dark stain, and the sheer simplicity of it made it seem melancholy to no end. I sat in the blisteringly cold British winter while wearing nothing more than the simple dress of a handmaiden: a long layered dual entity that had come to define my life. In my hands, I held the headpiece that I usually wore to signify my painfully low social status, but I recently tore the covering off of my forehead. My fingers grew numb because of the shivering cold, however I budged not a bit. I began to gently rub the material of the headpiece with my appendages. It was made of linen, and it was I who had to hand-stitch it. I supposed that would forever be the tale of my dismally dreary existence: Prudence Lynette Mitchell, passive handmaiden with little opportunity and even less respect. The plain and pale young English girl who would always be, “but a serf”.
My focus shifted from the filthy opaque water of the pond, to the general surroundings of the wooden structure that I sat in. In the far north corner, visible were hundreds of acres of barren farmland that was always abandoned in bleak British weather. However this was the Lancaster Manor, in Yorkshire; often, I wondered if winters were this depressing in other parts of the Kingdom, such as Wales. I learned all about the region from my love, William. When I was meant to be cleaning Lord Lancaster's study, I dreamt of one day fleeing to places like Wales. I, as a low social status-bearing female during the “fin de siecle” was oppressed, besmirched, and disregarded as a person worthy of happiness. Though, after nineteen years, I probably should have been used to it, I loathed the truth that I was incessantly discarded by society. My cheeks became flushed cum my sudden tone of animosity, for all of those thoughts began to make my skin crawl.
I continued to stare at my surroundings. I witnessed as countless mistreated serfs walked from the manor's small village to the vile inhabitable locations that were called their 'homes', while lugging around large sacks that I presumed to hold potatoes. They walked along a dirt path near the manor's seven-meter stone wall, meant to keep rebels out and them in. I say 'them' because though we were more or less in the same boat, I couldn't help but feel superior to them. I quickly acknowledged that I shouldn't be on a high horse, not to them, but as people, we find it much easier to state the consequences of our own lives as paled, in comparison to others. My role in the manor was much less tedious than theirs. They lived life around one another, so they couldn't disrespect each other, but the disrespect that was doled out to me was much more blatant. I was far past feeling inadequate; often, I merely didn't feel like a person.
Men, women and children, alike, possessed an earnest countenance that showed they knew that they were just pawns in a meaningless game; they knew they were just fodder in the scheme of others' lives; I saw that they knew that their life wouldn't amount to more than servitude. They knew that respect would never be a prerequisite in their lives, and no one would ever look at them as a true person. It saddened me to see such an expression, from any person. The numbness bestowed by the passing winds faded, as pain filled my interior.
It was so heart-breaking to see large degrees of sorrow masked by nonchalance because not too long beforehand, I was one of those little girls: dragging a sack of potatoes and holding on for dear life. When Lord Lancaster ascended me to be a handmaiden of his estate, I was more than happy to leave the drudgery behind at the farming land in which both my parents, my three sisters, and the love of my life, William Biden worked, in lieu of a warm and ornate small palace, but I didn't know that this decadent home would strip me of the little confidence that I had.
It would be here where I would learn that I could never amount to anything and not a bit of cheer could ever be mine. It was a concept drilled into my mind by the very walls of Lancaster Palace. Every candle, every torch, told me that the only respect that would ever be given to me was Lord Lancaster asking me to shut the door before using my body without my consent.
The first time it happened, I tried to resist; I wanted to be angelic for the day I would marry my true love, William, who had taught me how to love and how to want more from life. He had told me stories of the rest of the world: how things worked and looked, much like Lord Lancaster, except the Lord's always seemed to be negative toward "my kind". I occasionally wondered whose world stayed true to the real world outside of Yorkshire; perhaps it was a combination of the two, or perhaps the world simply differed from both tales. I asked William how he knew all of that information, but he would become very coy, and never tell me, labeling it as a "secret". It's disheartening to know that I can ask him no longer.
William came to the Manor during our impending adulthood started to approach steadfastly. My father allowed him to stay with the Mitchell family if he would work on our parcel of land. William and I started out as friends, but our relationship evolved into so much more. It was a mutual mad love that we both wanted to seal with marriage. On that day, I wanted to give myself to William as my first and only, but Lord Lancaster was a very powerful man, and he assured me that he would tap into such powers if I were to resist to what he called, "the inevitable". I began to feel sick, but there was absolutely nothing I could do. Afterwards, I loathed him. I thought of him as being vile and disgusting. Though he may have been of the noble, upper-crust, held much respect throughout the land, and was even close acquaintances with Duke Philip of Yorkshire and Prince Frederick of Suffolk, Lord Lancaster behaved like low-class rubbish ¾ refuse that should quickly be disposed of. And that was exactly what I did.
After the most recent manor-raid, I was never the same. On the morning of the fateful day, I distinctly remember what I said to William.
"William, my love," I started tenderly. "When will you finally make me your bride?"
"Darling," he appeased. "When the time is right, we will both know. I must first develop a better life for the both of us."
Though I sometimes found him to be painfully enigmatic and withholding information, I loved him. This forced me to be satisfied with his reply. I said, "You speak the truth, but do not wait too long. I fancy the sound of 'Prudence Lynette Biden'."
"As do I. However, I fancy you even more than the confines of my heart can hold."
"You have forever captured my heart, William Elliot Biden."
We commenced our sentiments with a brief embrace, before William had to return to the farmland. After seeing William run off, I turned around to see Lord Lancaster, with a devilish fire in his eyes. The Lord was a plump man clad in frilly purple and white material that symbolized his status. He possessed robust red cheeks, a demonic mustache, and small beady eyes. After my stomach churned, I looked toward the grassy grounds on which I stood. At that moment, I was sure that I could never fully comprehend how menacing he truly was. My hatred was barely contained, and it could never fully be described in words, so I decided not to. I didn't know what to do, but I knew that a sign would come to me. And one did.
After that raid, I never saw William again. Some serfs claimed to have witness William be dragged off by the rebels; others say that he was killed directly inside the Manor, but either way, I knew that I would never look into his brown eyes again. The feasibility level was just so low, that I felt little pain. I was merely numb, like how I felt sitting in the disgustingly frigid gazebo.

* * * * *
"I would like you to know that I do not boast of what I did, but I didn't have a choice in the matter, and in retrospect, it is better than the alternative," I found myself saying to the gentle man, while sitting in his sanctuary of warmth.
"Prudence...why?" he asked. When I didn't immediately respond, he continued, "What exactly was your reasoning?"
"Respect ¾ it didn't exist there, and that killed me more than anything else," I replied while staring up at the ornate ceiling, with chandeliers and murals. I could only imagine how many serfs were ill-treated for the detail of a single ceiling. It was sheer levity. "I was being slaughtered by the lack of it. A dagger was thrust into my bosom every moment I was there." There was a long pause before I earnestly uttered, "He didn't pretend to even fancy my company, and yet he used me. He used me!" I screamed with fury. "I was not treated as a person, but merely an object. A substitute for a warm body. I used to be loved by all my family and the other serfs I knew, but in that scathing house, there wasn't an acknowledgment of my existence. You must take me for mad, but I realized that I would never be important while standing in those halls, which spoiled attempts to live vicariously through the nobility that strutted through the thresholds. It became too much for me to comprehend, and yet, I distinctly knew that I was a child of condemnation." In the latter part of my speech, my voice became less piqued with animosity, as it became quavering and quiet.
I realized that I needed to leave, so I told him as much. "What have you done?" inquired the man who wore a collar.
I left; I simply ran out, aggressively pushing all of the daunting doors that stood in my path. Tears streamed down my face as I once again entered the exterior world of disrespect and coldness. My breath became exaggerated as I ran down all of the Gothic-styled steps, and I was once again before the pond of filth and squalor, where I knew, as factual, no life flourished, but perhaps something undeserving of air was finally in it's rightful place. I began to grin as I wondered if the Welsh understood the word "respect" ¾ something beautiful in all contexts.

Pick of the Week - Independence Day!!

Eli will be entering the 7th grade in September and is 12 years old.

by Eli R.

I lay weary at eight in the morning, pondering if I should get up. I realize that this is an important day for my company, and I am forced to sit up in my bed. Today I have a lucrative opportunity: to promote my insurance company in a lecture to possible customers. I groaned and got out of bed, staggering towards the drawer. I got dressed and made my way to the kitchen to gather a Propel from the refrigerator. The blinding sun shone in my eyes as I flagged down a taxi. The summer was unusually hot and my perspiration already soaked my shirt. A taxi came by and I was relieved to be in its shade.

“Hi, if you would please take me to 29th and Broadway that would be great.” I greeted him.

“Yes sir”, he answered automatically with an Indian accent. He was a man with a dark complexion and large white turban surrounded his head. My eyes wandered over to his profile and name.

“That’s and interesting name, where are you from?”

“I am from India, Bombay.”

“That’s interesting I just traveled there for a business trip. Wish I could have stayed longer. Here we are, at the near corner.” The fare was $3.25 and I handed him a five-dollar bill. I opened the cab door and once again felt the searing sunrays stinging my neck. I grabbed my Propel in haste and the refreshing fluid calmed me.
I stiffened as I entered the serious domain of business. My legs became locked as I advanced with my jaw clenched and my muscles flexing, onto the podium. My now firm and raspy voice traveled through the audience, their pupils growing and boring into mine. Following the monotonous lecture I discussed our inadequate policy with probable clients, and stormed out of the tense atmosphere into the atrium of the building. Flushed, I rushed to the private garage where my car waited and lounged for a moment in profound thought. I then steamed out of the garage with the hope of a relaxing drive on the highway.

After an hour gliding over the concrete I felt powerful and accelerated until I was averaging the speed of 80 miles per hour. I was unstoppable, and again increased the speed until a man flashed across my bumper. Through my window I saw him twitch and lay motionless. I hit the breaks and watched the blood seep from his chest; his button down shirt was smeared, as was my window shield. A wave of shock covered my face but I merely turned the windshield wipers on and the blood was washed onto the ground. I continued to drive.

In my apartment I lounged on my bed and watched the blood coursing through my veins and pulsing into my forearm’s. I sat, staring throughout the night, thinking, and sipping my Propel as the moonlight shone into my eyes. As the sun rose I sat weary and realized I had had work today; I disregarded that thought and sulked towards the mirror. My reflection was pale, drained, and frail. For the next week I abandoned my occupation, along with my happiness, but I wasn’t noticed.

The next morning I ambled towards 35th where the police station awaited me and I admitted my sin. The following week I sat in a dank jail cell, happy for the first time in my life.

Pick of the Week 6/28/07

Selected by Sara
This memoir is immensely moving and very, very real to the reader. The author uses the everyday object of a piano to reflect not just his changes in mood, but the way he grows and progresses. As his family and friends change, so does he, and the piano is a clear and reliable anchor and source of pride that connects him to his past and the people in it. The writer uses imagery and vibrant dialogue to relay the events retold in this memoir, and having been written by a 13 year old, this is pretty much brilliant.

My Mirror, by Michael Gellman
Its sleek black wood shines like a midnight sky. Its graceful curving arms stretch to the floor, in a relaxed posture, almost resting. The headboard atop its integrated ivory and ebony keys read Steinway and Sons. It is a piano, the kindest in the world.
It’s a precious family heirloom, and has traveled through many different homes and was played by many hands; especially my grandma’s hands. It was my grandma’s piano. She was a music teacher, and she played me songs on the piano before… well, before she died.
I remember the night very well. It was almost my bed time, and Grandma Marcie was upstairs in her room. My sisters, Lily and Abby, and I wrote nice cards for her, hoping she would get better. I understood that she was sick but that was the extent of my knowledge. (Because we were triplets at the age of 4 and a half, we were naive and didn’t fully know what was happening.)
“If you give me your cards I will take them upstairs to her,” said Dad softly.
“Can we?” we asked.
“No, I’m sorry,” Dad said as he shook his head with his eyes searching my face for signs of emotions. “But don’t worry, I will.” My parents didn’t want my two sisters and I going up the carpeted stairs to her. We didn’t know why. For us, she was already out of reach, slowly becoming a distant memory. Much later, I knew that she had died that night, after my dad had read his mom, our grandma, our letters.
After she died, my family took the piano because I was already expressing interest in playing, as was my sister Abby. Because of that, the piano became ours, and I began to take lessons.
Almost immediately after I got the piano, I started taking lessons with Atsuko, a petite Japanese woman who looked to be in her 50’s. Over the course of three or four years, she was a constant presence. Even though I was young, we developed a warm relationship of smiles and laughter. Our relationship ended suddenly when she died of cancer. I was upset, but mostly shocked. I didn’t realize she was dying. I still remembered the last piano lesson I had, and wanted to complete my assignment so I could play for her. But she was gone as quickly as an unpracticed piece of music, just a vague memory of an occasional hug.
It was also impossibly similar to a third tragedy in my life: my parents’ divorce. I was only ten years old when it happened.
“Everybody gather round the breakfast table,” dad said as Abigail, Lily and I were laughing and teasing each other. “I have some bad news.”
“I know what it is!” I said with my mind meandering somewhere else entirely. I didn’t notice until looking back that at these words, that my father and mother looked worried. “Great Grandma Edna died, right?” She had been sick awhile and my dad was a little anxious, but she was ninety-five and I only saw her on occasional visits.
“No,” said dad in a hushed voice, his eyes downcast. “Mommy and I are getting divorced.”
Those words rang in my head for many sleepless nights to follow. The memory will always be there, will always be a part of me in a way. I remember I was more than really upset. I felt devastated.
“This can’t be happening!” Lily said with defiance as she stood up and pounded her little fist on the table.
“Ya!” Abby and I chorused behind her. Then I remembered a car ride we had six months before. The subject of divorce had sprung up, and my dad and mom promised us that would never happen to our family. I believed them. How foolish I was.
“You said you guys would never get divorced!” I said with a giant lump in my throat. Tears started to trickle down my cheeks. Small, sad tears rolling down my face. We all got on the couch and started crying. Mom, Dad, Abby, Lily, and me: the last time we would all be together.
Within a few hours, I found myself at the piano channeling my bad feelings. I don’t think I really realized that at the time, but the piano was there for me. My friends would ask me if I was upset about my parents’ divorce. When I told them I was okay about it, they were surprised. I had an unlikely friend to help me. Now, looking back on it, I can see that. The divorce was followed by several moves and the disposal of many things, including, in fact, the couch. The truth is, I haven’t cared much about throwing things away, and I don’t often have the need to keep something. But that is probably because the piano has always been there for me. In a way it has comforted me over the years, a constant figure among everything else.
But life went on and so did the world. I went to school, and I practiced piano. I got a new teacher, Kirsten. Over these last few years I’ve known her, she’s come to make a big impression on my life; she has a caring loving heart, a good sense of humor, and is always easy to talk to.
I remember one day when I went to her house for a piano lesson. I knocked on the door and immediately Conner, her loving friendly dog, ran out and started barking happily. I pet him for a while and then went inside her apartment.
“Hey Kirsten!” I said smiling. “I practiced well this week.”
“Oh good,” she said and started eating something that smelled and looked fantastic.
“Can I have some of that?” I asked sort of sheepishly. “It looks really good.”
“Sure.” She handed me a fork. One thing that blows me away about Kirsten is her food. It is always incredible and this definitely kept up the standards. “Come on. show me what you’ve been working on.” As we went to her bedroom to play on her piano I was very happy.
“Okay, so here it is!” I turned on the metronome and started to play the keys of Kirsten’s piano. Suddenly I felt something warm and furry by my legs, under the piano. “Conner,” I laughed. “You’re distracting me.” Kirsten tried to help by telling him to go—but he wouldn’t. It was okay. I really liked Conner.
Two years ago, doctors found a tumor in Conner’s liver and he went in for surgery. I could see the symptoms: He started slipping this way and that on the tiles of the floor. He couldn’t even walk up the stairs to get to the sidewalk. He only lived one more year. Even though I knew… it was sad. So I wrote a song on the piano. Kirsten loved it.
The piano has stood in my house for as long as I can remember, reminding me of the past. It reminds me of Atsuko, my parents’ divorce, and now Kirsten’s loss. When I am angry I play loudly. When sad, I play a piece in a minor key.
As I’m playing, it is usually Grandma Marcie that comes to mind, even more than Otsiko or Conner. When I play the grand piano’s ivory keys, I am reminded subconsciously of her and I draw strength from that. Sometimes I think about how she played it, too. I thought of her when I won a piano scholarship. I thought of her when I won an award just recently for my piano playing. I knew that she was watching me; watching my progress and my setbacks, watching my struggles and victories. Helping me through…
But most importantly, my piano is like my mirror, my reflection. It keeps me in check because whenever I look at it, I know how I’m feeling. My piano… it shows me an honest version of myself, not altered or edited by me, my family, or my friends. That helps me more than anything else in the world.

Pick of the Week 6/26/07

Selected by Sara
Calypso is the first story to be posted on the Writopia blog because it is a perfect reflection of what this blog stands for. While intense and moving, it is a wonderfully written and very readable story for tweens and teens alike. The poetic sentences flow with an emotional energy that everyone can relate to and appreciate, and the plot combines boldly expressive scenes with lines of highly evocative description. Calypso is an excellent representation of writing by a New York City teen, and I'm honored to have it as the first post on our blog.

Calypso


by Clio C.


I can see him now, a tall, beautiful man, tossed by the waves. His black hair and beard tangled and his body bruised, but his fierce grey eyes reflected none of the trials and pain he had been through, no sign of a broken spirit. They were mesmerizing as the sun shone down on his brow and lightened their color. Those two identical gleams were all I saw as he lifted his exhausted body and the waves slid away from him.

I loved him.
Whatever you may hear, that is true. And it is all that matters. They may tell you I imprisoned him. That I kept him from his wife for seven years. But what claim had she on his life? What right that was more than mine?
What love could she have for him greater than the love I bore him? I, who lost him. Who lost everything when a solitary raft disappeared into the horizon, leaving Calypso alone to weep and wish for the day her life would end, and she and misery would be parted forever.
But that day is never to come, for I have the curse of the immortal life. My immortality, which I would have shared with him! There is not one day when I do not curse the Olympians for what they took from me.
Before he came, I was content to live my life with no companions but the wind and waves. But he taught me to care for the company of one other, to enjoy the sound of a voice other than my own.
Now I am alone again, and though I still sing to the air, my voice is hollow in my hollow ears. The Olympians are to blame.
For how can I blame him? What was he to do but go on loving his wife and child? And do everything in his power to get back to them?
And yet, we could have been so happy together! She would have died in time, and he would have forgotten about her in time.

I stood, letting the threads from my loom slip from my fingers.
The wind caught my hair, obscuring my view of him, but I gathered it at the nape of my neck. He swayed, and his shoulders sagged. My feet lifted, and left barely any traces of footprints in the sand as I ran to his side just as his strength gave way and his body collapsed into my arms.
I knelt, cradling his head against me. The water foamed around us, soaking my gown, but I closed my eyes and held him close to me, not feeling the chill that was seeping into me through the water.

That was my one moment of full happiness, holding his unconscious body to my chest, not knowing who he was, or where he came from, or how he would come to hate me when he woke. I only knew I loved him and held him in my arms. I could want nothing else. I never wondered if he had a wife.

I laid him in my bed, his head on my own pillow. I had no guest's room to give to him, for who visited me on my island but the wind and the waves? Who did Calypso see year after year but her own reflection looking back at her from the mirror, untouched by time?
But he was here now.


He did not wake for three days. I dressed his wounds, applying salve to his parched skin, and fed him water, which he swallowed without waking.
For hours at a time, I would sit on the edge of the bed, by his side, simply looking at his face, or stroking his black curls away from his forehead. We were in this position when he awoke, my hand still upon his brow.
As he stirred, I pulled my hand back toward my lap, but the expression on his face halted its flight. He smiled at me. How can I describe what filled my heart when those brilliant grey eyes softened, even lit up, as they beheld my face? I must have looked at him then with all the love I felt radiating from my face.
But there was no return of such affection. How was I to know, in my brief second of overwhelming joy, that his confused eyes had taken me for Penelope?
How could I know that his smile was for her, a woman so far away, whom I had no chance of replacing in his heart?

As he recognized me as a stranger, his eyes hardened, and he frowned at me, suspiciously. I was surprised as I felt my breath catch in my throat as this dreadful expression took over his face.
What did his opinion matter to me? I was a goddess, and he a human. But against my reasoning, I felt my chest tighten.
He demanded to know where he was.

"You are on my Island," I told him, my voice strong despite the pain I felt. "I am Calypso, the nymph who owns this Island. You were washed ashore here, and I took you into my home, and have cared for you these past three days as you lay unconscious."

"I am very grateful to you, Nymph." His voice was sincere. Though gratitude was not what I wanted from him, it eased some of my pain. "But I must leave this island."
All the relief that I had from his thanks was gone. A hole greater than Tartarus itself opened inside me. "I have to get home. To my wife."
His wife. That one word killed whatever hope had been left struggling inside me. But I could not let him go.

"No!" I cried as he stood. I fell at his feet, begging him to stay with me.

"I am sorry," he replied. "But I have been away from my country too long already."

An idea came to me.


"At least tell me your story," I pleaded. "That is the least you owe me, after all I have done for you."

"It is a long one, and full of sorrows. There is nothing in it that you could wish to hear."

"But I do! Every word! Anything that speaks of you must be divine ambrosia to me.
I beg of you, tell me how you came here. Omit nothing, for I will drink your words up as if I had been parched from thirst for years.
Tell me!"

"Very well," he submitted. "But then you must promise to help me off this island, and to my home."

"That will come when you have finished your story," I said, hating myself for the Hermes-like trick I was playing on him. He must have believed I would help him, but since I had not lied directly, nothing bound me to do so.

And so he told me of the Trojan War. That he was King of Ithaca, and had been called to win back the beautiful Helen and capture the great city of Illion.
He spoke of the deeds of all his comrades and foes. I took joy in his every word and smiled in wonder as I saw him building the Trojan horse with the Greek army. I felt his rage of battle and desire for death course through my veins as he told me of the fall of Troy.
And, though I was glad in his accomplishments, I felt sorrow at the death of so wondrous a city.
He told me how he had left Troy after ten years of fighting. Of how he met hardship after hardship, losing men from his crew to deaths more horrible than I could imagine.
I only loved him more as I heard how he had survived. He concluded, saying he had despaired of ever reaching his beautiful home again.

"But I must go! I have delayed here far too long."
It had taken him days to tell me his story, and now he grew restless, anxious to get away from me and on his way again. I was desperate to keep him.

"Oh, but think of what your journey will be!
Did not Polyphemus ask that you would never return home? How can you think that Poseidon will be lenient and only bring you to your beloved shore after long suffering?
Noble Odysseus, you will wander around the world for the rest of your life. Or you could stay here with me.
We will be happy together. I have the power to make you immortal like myself, and we will live without cares until the end of the world!
I can give you as much love, more even, than Penelope can, for what can the passions of a mortal be in comparison to mine? My love will grow through the ages, never ceasing.
Which would you rather, a life of uncertainty and pain, ending in a lonely death, or an everlasting one of pleasure and love with me?"

I could see the indecision in his eyes. However powerful his desire for home was, my attractions held some little power over him.
I prayed that he would give in to the temptation.

"I must choose the uncertain path," he replied at length, and though I heard the regret in his voice, I knew his decision was final. "Whatever you feel for me, Nymph, I cannot return it. My wife has my love; and my son, though he was only an infant when I left him. He is growing into a man now, and I have missed his growth. I must resume my journey back to them. However it ends, I have no choice but to follow that path."

How could he speak so coldly, when I had formed my words with such love? How could he look at me and not change his purpose? What attractions had Penelope that I did not? I must have surpassed her in beauty; her mind could have been no equal to mine, mine that had grown over centuries rather than mere mortal decades.
What did he want? My loyalty to him would have been that of a dog to his master. My love for him would always grow.
I had so much to give; so much more than her. And yet he spurned me. What right had he to turn me away?

"Gracious Nymph," he said, and the unloving tone with which he said 'Nymph' went like a spear to my heart.
He refused to use my name, while my tongue had caressed his. "Help me to leave this island. I need a boat of some sort, or anything that will float."
He moved to go, and I stepped in front of him.

"Move aside," he asked. "I do not want to have to hurt you." Hurt me? I could have laughed. As if he hadn't already hurt me more deeply than I could have imagined.
I had no fear of him now; even my love had vanished in the heat of my anger.

"You think to hurt me, Odysseus? None of your rough handling can hurt me any more than your harsh words already have.
Though you hate me and seek to leave, I will not let you. You cannot leave this island without my permission!"

He reached out and took hold of my arm. His grip tightened on my arm like a vice and I could not break free. He pulled me around and I swung behind him.

"You shall not leave, Odysseus!" I screamed. "No man can leave the Isle of Ogygia against my will!"

He whirled around to look at me. I laughed.
"Yes, you cannot leave unless I will it. Even if you could, where would you go? You have no ship, no provisions, and you do not know in which direction your beloved Ithaca lies."

I watched as the truth of my words sank into him.
Pain filled his beautiful eyes, and the face that had borne up under so much suddenly showed the marks of his suffering. Pity for him filled me and I remembered my love for him.

"I am sorry," I said, turning away from him.

"Do not think on it. I will stay with you until the rains cease."

I felt joy and did not think of when he would leave, only the time he would be with me.
For the rainy season was just beginning, and it would be many months before the first signs of spring peeked through the gloom.

He stayed with me through the fall and the winter, eating at my table, sleeping in my bed, and most precious of all, talking to me throughout the days.
As I sat at my loom, weaving beautiful clothing for him to wear, he told me stories of his many adventures after the fall of Troy. I was filled with adoration of his bravery and intelligence, and sorrow for all he had endured. When he had exhausted these tales, he spoke to me of his wife and son in Ithaca.
Though I was jealous of them for the life they had shared with him, these tales caused me little pain, for he spoke without regret. He expected to see them as soon as the seas were safe again, and in the meantime was content to stay with me.
I saw that he cared for me, and I rejoiced. I saw, too, that I could not compare with Penelope in his eyes, but I did not dwell on that.

I was forced to, though, when winter reached its end, and he talked of setting out upon his journey once more.
He had enjoyed his stay with me, but the time had come for him to go where he belonged. I begged him to stay longer, but, although he pitied me, he remained firm.
He protested that his love for me, though real, was nothing compared to his love for them.

"You have no consideration for me!" I sobbed ungraciously. "As soon as you came here you wanted to leave.
You have never cared for me. All your thoughts have been on getting away from me."

"Dear Nymph, you know that is not true." I looked away, for I did. "I have stayed on this Island with you for many months, and have enjoyed it all.
But now I must ask you to let me go. Will you?" He spoke softly.

I did not reply.

That night, as he lay sleeping, I stood over him, and though I hated myself for practicing such deceit on him, I wove a magic over his eyes so that when he woke he would love me and forget his homeland.
For years, I kept him with me in this way. Each night, I renewed the magic, but as I held him in my arms, I wept. The love he showed for me gave me happiness greater than a mortal woman could have felt.
But I knew if I neglected to renew the magic, he would push me away, all his love for her returned in an instant. My guilt tormented me. I knew that he would be happier away from me, for though he loved me now, some part of him knew something was wrong.
I wanted desperately to set him free. Perhaps it was the sympathy a caged bird feels for another bird in the same situation.
Being entrapped by him myself, I knew his desire to be free, but could not grant him this freedom, and so I wept, for my own unrequited love, and for my weakness in keeping him prisoner.

While he stayed, Athena, Odysseus's friend and protector, became anxious for him to return home.
She begged the other Olympians to compel me to release him, and at last, Hermes was sent. He came to me one night as I sat at my loom.
I was waiting for him, and submitted to his will, and that of the Olympians. I promised to set Odysseus free, and Hermes was gone, leaping into the air and dancing away on his winged sandals.

The next morning, with a numb heart, I went to where Odysseus slept.
I stood watching him for as long as I could bear it. Then I woke him.

"Odysseus," I said. "Cast away your sorrows, for the time has come for you to return to your home.
Come quickly and I will show you how to get off this island."

His eyes brimmed with tears of joy, and he laughed aloud. In the midst of my misery, I felt a prick of happiness for him. I let it grow, filling me with better feeling than I had had for seven long years.
The selfishness of my love fell away, and I was glad to release him, glad that after so much cruelty, I was at last the cause of his joy.

I took him to a place where trees grew, and had him cut the wood he needed to build a boat.
I helped him with my magic, and we both worked with so much desire to see the task finished, that the boat was completed within a week. I filled it with provisions and warm clothing to protect him from the harsh winds of the sea.
We set it upon the waves. At last, the time for his departure was upon us. He took my face between his hands.

"Though you kept me here against my will for seven long years, I forgive you. You have set me free, and helped me on my way.
Thank you, Calypso."

I stared at him in astonishment.
He had called me 'Calypso.' I opened my mouth, but he was gone, sailing away into his uncertain future.
I stood alone on the beach, the water lapping at my toes as the wind whipped around me, tearing the tears from my eyes and blowing them after him.