Photos from the October 14th Teen Reading at the NYPL!

JEFFERSON MARKET BRANCH LIBRARY

Many amazing things happened at the last reading:

1) We changed locations last-minute to the New York Public Library Jefferson Market Branch (from Barnes & Noble West Village) and we started almost on time.



2) As our readers read their prose, memoirs, poetry, and scripts, the audience (of about 55) laughed and gasped at all the right moments.



3) It turns out that our young literati are phenomenal actors, too. It was incredible to hear Lena Beckenstein's script read aloud so... dramatically. :-)

4) The editors of the forthcoming teen anthology of six-word memoirs came and answered all pressing questions, relaying info such as:


a) the book will be published sometime over the next year



b) emails will go out within a couple of months to all those whose memoirs they choose to include



c) and of course, you'll get a free book along with it!



5) The "Six-Word Memoir Blast" inspired the writing of more six-word memoirs... which can still be submitted to the website --and can still be featured and commented upon by others.




Read more!

Fall Reading # 1 at Housing Works Bookstore!!

Seven writers from Writopia Brooklyn and Downtown Manhattan stole the spotlight at Housing Works Bookstore last Tuesday at Writopia's first 2008 fall reading!

All summer writers who completed and polished a short story, memoir, or script have been invited to read their work at a local bookstore in front of an audience of family, friends, teachers, writers, and fans!

Congratulations: William Bauman, Annie Loucka, Alice Markham-Cantor, Olivia Pinney, Amelia Pinney, Vanessa Pinney, Robert Sanchez, and Sandy Vingoe for developing and polishing fabulous pieces, all published in Writopia Lab's Anthology: A New Generation of Writers and Thinkers, Volume III. Read more!

Michael Gellman: Featured Writer of the Week VII!!

Today's Profile: Michael Gellman

Michael has an unusual gift: He can identify and poetically express complex emotions through his music and writing. His first memoir explored the therapeutic role piano has played in his life, and appeared on this blog last year after he won a national gold key for it. In Michael's newest award-winning memoir, he takes the lead in a humorous and poignant dance through the elitest, rigid, girl-dominated world of children's ballet. Please celebrate Michael's wonderful accomplishment by reading:

Tutus, Hormones, and Reality
By Michael Gellman, 14

My father laughed when I asked him recently why I, the only boy in our family, was enrolled in ballet at the age of six. He explained that when I was about five, my sisters took a pre-Ballet class a couple blocks from where we lived on the Upper East Side. My dad and I were out playing catch in the park one day when it was time to pick the girls up with my mom. When we got there, I began imitating the instructor’s steps with precision. My dad was in shock; my mother quickly enrolled me at a serious ballet school downtown.

I will never forget my first lesson.

The winter wind whipped my six-year-old, bright face as my mom and I ran on slippery sidewalks with the futile hope that we wouldn’t be late for my first lesson. Outside, cabs skidded on snowy streets, and passersby walked briskly to various appointments. We were on Thirty-Fourth Street, and, I tried to establish a sense of direction in this unknown realm of Manhattan. As I was already running late, I decided it would be best if I followed my right arm – which was being pulled rather forcefully by my mother – and keep moving.

We walked up to a small brick church, and my mother pressed a button on the intercom outside.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” my mother said uncomfortably.

“Come on up,” the voice quipped with an air of impatience. This was my first signal that this place – wherever it was – was serious. I took a deep breath, and followed my mother, who had already begun ascending the mountain of stairs to what I would realize later was the third floor.

I took a fleeting look around me, and cold stone steps coupled with plain green walls met my gaze. As I ran up the steps for the first time, I felt apprehensive, but why wouldn’t I? After all, I was only six years old. Stomach tightening, face flushing, I slipped my hand into my mother’s, and sharply took in a final breath before she knocked.

A woman probably twenty years my mother’s senior donning a skirt and blouse opened the heavy wooden door. She had closely cropped dark red hair, and green glasses connected to a chain which she wore around her neck. Her red lips were pursed, and she had sharp, angular features. She represented what I thought to be a female-version of the very devil himself. She must be a dancer.

“Hello Michael. I’ve been expecting you.” She talked to me as she would an adult, directing the statement to myself and not my mother. That was the first time in my life that I felt like an individual smart enough to make my own decisions and carry out a conversation on my own. While it was nice to be treated with the respect of an actual grown up, it also shoved me into a limelight I had never before stood in – and in my shock I was rendered speechless. “Why don’t you come in and join the lesson?” She inquired in that soft but icy tone that demands immediate attention as well as a well-delivered, important-sounding reply.

“C-Ca-Can I bring my mom in too?” I sputtered, scolding myself for uttering such juvenile words and sounding so frightened. So what if I was scared to death of this woman. I wasn’t supposed to let it show!

“I’m sorry,” she said curtly, “but if you would like to join this class you must attend it alone.” The finality of her voice reverberated in my ears.

I hesitated.

“Go on,” my mom urged with a quick, little push. And so I did.

I followed this mysterious woman pretty closely, for I was worried I would get lost among the sea of white tights and bright pink leotards. I saw girls… So Many Girls! There were girls of every different shape, height, race, age…

And they were all looking at me.

I blushed, I simply couldn’t help myself. Here I was, confronted by this endless ocean of girls, all doing nothing but staring at me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that Devil Lady had stopped clacking her shoes in that uptight, frightening gait of hers, had joined her kind, and was also staring at me. Although unlike the rest, she favored a facial expression of completely silent rage, eyes like black coals, staring me down. I found myself in the middle of the well-waxed light wooden floorboards, and hastily retreated into the far corner. “Just try to follow along,” she muttered, as though she didn’t expect me to have the prowess necessary but, with mild surprise, would accept it if it turned out that I did.

From that sentence forward, as long as I was in her class, I realized that I would prove to her that I was more than able to imitate and learn every step she had for me. Competitive gears shifting in my head, I undertook the challenge to outdo myself and to outdo the rest: to become a dancer.

After fours years of ballet, my insight into its world, its culture, only grew. Most boys my age thought that ballet was all about the tutus and the pliés. The truth is ballet’s hard-core. We, meaning the girls and me, had to master complex jumping movements, like Tour Jetés and Pas de Bourreés. If you don’t know what those are, just imagine a backwards leap while turning in the air. By the time the class learned this, I had become an exponentially better dancer, and was sometimes even called upon by Ms. Beyer – whom I had previously referred to as the Devil Lady – to demonstrate. This was years after I started, years after my first Ballet at Florence Gould Hall, the company’s performance space, years after I got my first black leggings and black ballet slippers. Slowly, gradually, I had assimilated into the dancers’ culture, and, also slowly, I had grown used to Ms. Beyer.

Ballet wasn’t all work and no fun. In fact when I was nine I met my first love: Helen. And as we twirled toward a working relationship, I learned a pretty important life lesson. Helen and I shared laughs together – real Kodak moments – and she was my first and only dance partner.

One day after class, Helen, my love, came up to me with a bright smile on her face. I was not the same person I had been a year ago, when I had first come to the school, and I didn’t shy away from her. I knew she liked me back. I faced her squarely – I was only a little shorter than she – and took a good long look at her. Her rosy cheeks topping her bright face were adorned with locks of gold down to her collar bone, and her bright blue eyes glistened like sapphires. “I have something I wanna ask you.” Her army of friends surrounded us, eagerly listening to what she was about to say.

“Well?”

“Would you like to join our cheese club?” She inquired breathlessly. I felt my heart beating in my chest, radiating in my throat.

“Did you just say a cheese club?”

“Well…ya, me and my friends really like cheese so…we decided to form a club. It’ll be real’ cool. We’ll get to talk about cheese!” she giggled, her laugh suffocating and paralyzing me at the same time.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Sure.” I whispered, for it was all I could manage. I raced out the heavy wooden door, and was silent all the way home.

A cheese club? They had to be kidding! Who did these people think they were kidding? They didn’t seem like prissy, Park Avenue types. I considered regurgitating my last meal, which had been, like all others prior, sans cheese. I could simply not believe that the girl of my dreams had a passion for cheese to the extent that she deemed it necessary to found a club that’s sole purpose was to celebrate its existence. Don’t get me wrong, I am not picky. In fact, I am sometimes complimented on my adventurous palette. Which does not include cheese.

Even though I did not know what gave these mini, Upper East Side snobs, the audacity to create such a club, I knew in my heart of hearts that I would have to deal with… it. It was inevitable if Helen and I were to save our relationship.

We managed. Both in our dance studies and after class, we not only were on good terms, but flashed one another smiles quite frequently. Finally, when Ms. Beyer had the class in pairs, Helen and I somehow ended up together. She whispered to me, “You take the lead… You’re better.” And when Ms. Beyer complimented us on our performance, Helen gave me a shy smile. This was the first time, I think, that Ms. Beyer recognized the natural chemistry between the two of us, and in performances to come we would be partnered, once even for a duet.

Our relationship advanced to the next level: we began to say stuff to each other! Before then, our messages were relayed through Helen’s protective militia of nine-year-old girls. This was annoying, and I was glad when Helen and I could finally speak face to face.

“Hi Michael,” she said softly.

“Hi Helen,” I said back, blushing.

“Hope it’s not too cold outside, I hear there’s a 60% chance of sleet.”

“I heard the same thing!” I blurted.

“Well… Bye!” And she left me there.

Now for the climax of the relationship, our duet: a Pas de Deux. Translation: a girl rests her arms on a guy’s shoulder with her leg bent behind her, while the guy leads her around in a circle, supporting her. Then, the guy takes both of her hands in his as she lifts her leg really high, both facing out towards the audience with the guy behind. Then comes the most romantic part: the guy puts his hands on the girl’s hips/tush, lifts her in the air, places her back down again, and then stands right behind her as she does an arabesque, hands still on her hips. Basically, it was an excuse for me to touch Helen, and I gladly accepted.

It was by far the closest physically I had gotten to any girl before, and was, therefore, a momentous occasion. And it culminated in an incredible performance.

But the event was the last time I ever set foot in that studio. I wanted to take dance to the next level at New York City Ballet by Lincoln Center. But I quickly regretted that decision.

On my first day, I approached a few girls, but I received only hostile glances and sharp words in response. “Oh. You’re in studio A-47, you probably just started here last week!” And it only got worse.

I might have had the patience to take the new challenge on, if I had not become injured. NYCB’s style favored extreme turn out in first position. My turn-out created a “V” shape instead because I am pigeon-toed. I physically couldn’t make the straight line: the more I tried, the worse my knee became.

My instructor Mr. Handenbury laid down the law: “You will not move up in level until you fix your turnout.” I was devastated. For months, I tried to. I tried as hard as anyone has ever tried for anything. But I physically couldn’t accomplish what he – and all of the other mad, cookie-cutter teachers there – wanted.

I had hit my first wall at age 10.

I was under way too much pressure. Even though I got the steps very quickly, I could never perform them with the satisfactory footwork. Soon Mr. Handenbury would stop at my section of the bar, and wait explicitly as I forced by feet into a straight line. He, probably more than anyone else, caused me to leave that class permanently injured.

Just when I was about to quit, I read the Student Message Board's list of students who were chosen to perform in Swan Lake—and my heart almost faltered. I was chosen!

“Just do whatever the scary lady tells you!” my friend Steven whispered as we stepped into a square, brightly lit room. Her Russian stare bored into our chests, and made us quake with fear. She beckoned rudely to the young woman who had escorted us.

“Why are there three?”

“One’ll be the understudy.” The woman nodded curtly and lined us up.

“I want you boys to go into first position, you know what that is?” We nodded. After looking at us for a while, she selected Henry and Steven, quickly telling me I was to be the understudy. My heart panged with disappointment, but I wanted to act professionally and try to learn the part all the same. It was only after I got home that I cried, because then I realized that she had judged us by our turnout. I only told my immediate family about it, but they could only sympathize. No one really understood my pain.

I was at NYCB for only another month afterwards. One day in class it dawned on me that I shouldn’t continue; I couldn’t do the steps the way NYCB wanted; and I was jealous of those who could.

As I left for good, I stopped to watch the older dancers move like clockwork, floating gracefully just above the ground. These were the ones on the level just below professional, this was the final product.

I would never be good enough.

At ballet, that is. Read more!

Gabe Fisher: Featured Writer of the Week V!!

Today's Profile: Gabe Fisher

At first Gabe was not pleased about missing athletic activities at school in order to fit a writing workshop into his schedule. A) It wasn't his idea to join and B) Since he had never taken a creative writing class before he had no idea what to expect. But things changed once the workshop began. Gabe found that he was a natural memoirist with poignant stories to tell. In the end, he won the satisfaction of completing a beautifully written memoir, and a regional gold key from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. He even signed up at will for the spring writing workshop and is at work on a second very powerful memoir. Please celebrate Gabe's accomplishments by reading his memoir:


Saying a Real Goodbye
By Gabe Fisher, 13

If someone walks into my room with my clothes spread all over my floor, and my desk covered with hundreds of papers and textbooks, the one object that would probably catch their attention is the miniature basketball hoop that stands in the middle of my room. No one would even find the little stuffed dog that lies humbly, squeezed in the crease between the bed and the wall.

This little brown dog, with its sagging ears and somber eyes, was given to me by my mom when I was in pre-k. At the time I had a great uncle that we visited frequently, and he used to call me “Butch.” (Only until very recently did I learn that he called almost every one be that name.) When I was given this stuffed animal I decided I wanted to have my very own Butch--so that's how my little brown stuffed dog received its name.

About a month later, we learned during dinner that my great uncle had passed away. We all started thinking to ourselves, but being the little five-year-old that I was, I ran straight to Butch. I remember grabbing him and bringing him back to the dining room and keeping him in my grasp for the rest of the meal.

I mostly forgot about Butch after that until I was 10, when my grandfather died after many years of suffering from Alzheimer’s. For a few days before his death I was informed of his deteriorating health. When I was told he died I was sitting next to my two brothers on the couch, stunned. After a few minutes I went back to my room and grabbed Butch and only then did the tears stream down my face.

A few years later during the last week of summer camp, my brother, a camp counselor, approached me and told me more dreadful news. Since he was a counselor, he was allowed to use his phone and was in constant contact with my parents. He took me aside and told me that my grandmother, who I had known had cancer for a while, was very ill and that she could possibly die before camp ends. I was startled; I had no idea how awful her condition was. For the last few weeks my brother had approached me continuously to ask me to write a letter to Granny, but I kept pushing it aside, giving him different excuses every day: Wait my friends want me to join them in a game of ultimate Frisbee. Maybe tomorrow, today I already have to write a letter. Ariel, I have to shower and then get dressed.

I did find one moment to write her a letter describing—briefly—my activities and my summer, thinking that I could tell her all about it when I got home.

Well a few days after my brother told me about my grandmother there was a special day planned for my bunk. We were going to have a day filled with exciting adventures at every turn: wake up early and pray at the beach; go to the water trampoline; take a trip to go mini-golfing, where we would eat lunch.

Upon our arrival back to camp we were taken to watch a movie in a new building that was open for the first time that year. After being in camp for almost two months, there is nothing better than a nice room with air conditioning and a big T.V. at this point my life was at its acme, sitting around with all my friends watching a hilarious movie. Towards the end of the movie I saw my brother waiting outside through the window. When I saw him I began to fret about what he was here for, and my gut feeling told me that it was probably not for the best reason. The movie ended and I went outside and he pulled me aside and sat me down, this time with worse news. He said that Granny had died and that I had a choice to go with him that night, or to go the next afternoon with our neighbor, who was also a counselor at camp. I decided to cherish my last moments of camp and I told him that I would stay.

All day long I had kept my grandmother in the back of my head, with every stroke of my club during mini-golfing I saw my grandmother. I was worried. I was thinking what I was doing there if granny might have died while I am enjoying myself. I was wondering what will it be like without Granny, how will it affect my life and my family. My father was very close with my Grandmother and would regularly drive or bike out to New Jersey from our home in Manhattan to visit her. I was scared that maybe he would be very upset and would need a lot of comforting.

One time earlier that year, with much convincing from my Mother and Father, I decided to bike out with my Father to my Grandmother’s house. It was a Sunday afternoon and we decided to take our time. Since I am an amateur biker, we decided to bike there and leave the bikes there and drive back. My Grandmother and Aunt were already planning on coming into the city that night to eat dinner with us, they were going to drive us back. The way there was tough. We rode over the George Washington Bridge and then through traffic all the way into the uncivilized suburbs of New Jersey. Although it was a long and strenuous ride, I felt that it was all worth it to spend quality time with my Grandmother and aunt. When we arrived my Grandmother and Aunt where relaxing in the kitchen of the house watching the national spelling bee on the small TV. I sat down and began to watch with them.

“aesculapian, aesculapian”, the moderator would say, in his crystal clear, mechanical sounding voice.

Then we would hear an unconfident whispered question from the contestant, “definition, please?”

Immediately we would start spelling the word in a thousand different ways,
mostly wrong, and then laugh when we saw how many different vowels we left out of the word.

A few months later, my grandmother approached me and asked if I wanted to go see this movie about a spelling bee with her. She told me that the movie was called “Akeelah and the Bee” and that it got great reviews. I replied, “I will try sometime soon, but right now I have a lot of homework, so when there is a weekend that I’m free I would love to see it with you.

Well the homework just kept coming and so did my weekly reply to my grandmother’s question.

These were the thoughts swirling in my head torturing me with every hole in one I shot. Memories that I felt would haunt me forever. Nothing could be changed now, as hopeless as the golf ball being hit by the aluminum club.

Right after I found out that my Grandmother had passed away, I had a long Frisbee catch with my brother and this boy in my bunk. When I finally entered my bun, all my friends had been informed by my counselors and they quietly tried to comfort me while I packed my bags. When I gave my bags to my brother, who was taking them home that night, I went out to the big field a where a bunch of girls were jokingly playing with a Frisbee. I ran on to the field and grabbed it in mid-air and started playing keep-away with them. They ran around, to no avail, trying to steal the Frisbee from me. I had told them when I entered what had happened and they tried to act normal but
I sensed that they were struggling to find a proper way to treat me. They said their condolences but after that they tried to find a balance between treating me with sorrows, or acting as if nothing had happened except the latest gossip. When we were called for dinner we stopped what we were doing and we slowly went to the other side of camp for the weekly Wednesday night barbecue. While waiting in line to receive hamburgers, I found myself waiting on line with my good friend. I told her what happened and I was greeted with a laugh. She didn’t believe me. When I went to get ketchup, her mother, a guidance counselor, approached me to find out how I was doing. Still on my side, my friend stood with her mouth dropped and apologized and gave me a hug.

Later that night my friends decided to throw a party for my last night in camp and a lot of kids were sitting on the beds surrounding my area. One of my best friends was joking around with people and refused to give anyone a Twizzler unless they read every word written on the cover of the bag. “Elan, may I please have a Twizzler, artificially flavored, net worth…” suddenly out of anger I reached out and grabbed one. He covered it up by saying “he can have one because it’s his last night.”

The next day I was sitting around with my friends when I was told I was leaving. I had been keeping track of time because I knew I would have to go soon. I stood up and everyone told me they would follow me to the front office to say their final good-byes. They all gave me a group hug and then I was herded into a massive van. When I reached the station with our friend who was taking me home we quickly boarded the train and soon after she was fast asleep. I sat on the train for two hours struggling to finish a book.

I finally got home late that night and felt very uncomfortable in the unfamiliar environment. My mother was the only one home because my siblings and my father were at my grandmother’s house. I sat on their bed as my mother explained to me, “your father is very upset and when he comes home you should give him a hug and ask him how he is doing.” I promised her I would and walked back to my room. My eye caught Butch hidden in the corner and I grabbed him and I looked out the window. I started to remember stories about my grandmother when suddenly I remembered the last time I saw her.

“Gabriel, Granny and Aunty Em are gonna be visiting soon. When they come, say 'hello,'” my dad yelled to me.

While simultaneously talking to my friends online, I assured him that I would.
Gabef33:yeah I am so excited for camp!
Ekfootball49: but I haven’t started packing yet and my mom is always screaming at me to start.

Within 30 seconds, and I heard Granny and Aunty Em at the door. I decided to make my appearance two minutes later.
Gabef33:BRB

I came in coughing from my developing cold. As soon as I walked in my Aunt told me not to touch my grandmother. “You really shouldn’t be spreading those germs on her.” I said my hellos and went back to my room. I was surprised by their strong reaction, but didn't take it personally. I didn't want to get anyone sick.

It was a short visit and my father told me to come back to say, 'goodbye.' I stuck my head out the door and yelled my goodbyes. Before I turned my back, my father asked me to go down to the lobby to say a real goodbye: “You’re probably not going to see granny until after camp.”

“No, it’s OK,” I responded. I figured that since I was sick I wasn’t allowed to touch her so what's the point of going downstairs to say, 'goodbye.' My wave will mean the same upstairs on the 8th floor as it does in the lobby.

I walked back into my room as I heard the door slam shut.

I stood in my room trying to remember my grandmother. Trying to stop my grandmother from leaving. Trying to put my foot out in front of the door and grab my grandmother and hug her for one last time. But all I could do was tighten my grip on little Butch. Read more!

Lily Gellman: Featured Writer of the Week!

Today's Profile: Lily Gellman

The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards just informed us that Birthday Girl Lily Gellman has won three National Gold Awards this year for her Humor writing, Science Fiction, and Poetry!

Please celebrate with us today by reading Lily's poignant, original, and deeply moving prose: "The Existential Lottery."

Five other Writopia writers won national awards also including 10th grader Peter Cohen, 9th grader Milana Meytes, 8th grader Emma Goldberg, 8th grader Leanna Smith, and 7th grader Visala Alagappan. Beginning today, every few days you will find a new piece of theirs featured on the blog. Enjoy! (I will also be posting some of my favorites that did not win national awards!)

Existential Lottery
By Lily S. Gellman
8th Grade, Birthday Girl

Greetings, the likes of whom I will pretend are my dear friends. I have struggled long to say the word “I,” for, like the other Nonentities around me, I lack an identity. There is no I, and I cannot be, because frankly I don’t exist. I apologize awfully for my seemingly melodramatic air, but all of this is true…paradoxically, it is very difficult to depict nothing. I also beg forgiveness for being obscure as to what and who I am, for in weaving this pretense of something I thread a tapestry of plain illusion.

I have not yet been conceived. It is bizarre then, that I voice my own ideas when not a cell of my potential embryonic body has developed. It must be clarified that I am not completely nothing, for nothing is something in itself. (Yes, I am aware of the irony there…here…whatever.)

I am one of trillions of Nonentities. For each conceivable pair of Earthlets that could produce a mutual child is a Nonentity, each with two bases. One is female and one male, and we call them a quiescent mom and a quiescent dad. My mom, who very likely shan’t be my mom, is Leah Cohen. My dad would be Barlow Moriarty. An unlikely combination from what I “know” of religion and status quo. See, while mom is a successful business executive, dad’s jobless. Even though they both reside in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, they have yet to even notice each other.

There are trillions of Nonentities because there are trillions of Earthlet quiescent pairs. With only one existential winner per pair and an exceedingly low birth success rate, I call this arbitrary process the lottery. The unlikely combo of my “mom” and “dad” is the only way for “me” to be. Each Nonentity in relatively similar “proximity” vies with all of the others for their livelihood as an Earthlet. If they are not chosen, they are only the fading bonds of subconscious musings no more likely to find reality than an angry outburst in the midst of laughter.

This is a problem.

I do not wish to be a fading bond of a subconscious musing. I do not wish to be dead to the universe, to shift no gears in the bicycle of existence. With every ounce of passion that I imagine I am capable of ever experiencing I desire to be an Earthlet, and so I emulate Earthity (a word for the Earthlet planet and species). Hugs and colors and music and the smell of frigid pine trees I want desperately to experience, but can no more do so than a corpse. I need my mom and dad to unite, and I must compass these sensations I hear but only Earthlets have the power to listen to. I can hear anything—this is no issue—but none of it is met with profound understanding.

This is actually the irony of the Earthlet what-is-the-meaning-of-life question: Nonentities have the answer in front of them but cannot comprehend, while Earthlets can exist but cannot find the answer.

On occasion, a “window” overlooking the universe of Earthity opens, and Nonentities are able to see short “vignettes” of one of their quiescent parents—treasured glimpses of the wider world from a vacuum of nothingness. The “window” opens now, and as an invisible mist clears, a “vignette” showing my quiescent mom spreads before me.

***

“What is the meaning of life?” Leah Cohen directed her question at the idle man in front of her on the Starbucks queue.

“Huh?” The man wheeled around from awaiting his order, attentive.

“You know: Why we’re here, what our purpose is.”

“Why’re you so philosophical? If you think about anything too much, and have time to contemplate your utter insignificance, you’re gonna get really depressed.”

“Thanks,” she replied wryly. She watched as, upon receiving his Grande Gingerbread Latte, he peeled off the lid and tapped some nutmeg in with the foam. Steamy tendrils from the drink interspersed with the tabletops, weaving under orange-specked florescent lights.

He didn’t know that she really was on anti-depressants, and that her more-mild-end-of-the-spectrum case of bipolar disorder forced her to ponder that question—that conclusion—a lot. But far from being insulted by his frank mien, Leah was charmed. Living with her condition was inevitable, and besides, she could drown her depression in plastic bottles of Prozac from the Duane Reade adjacent. What she needed was someone to cast away her chronic austerity that she so despised, someone to make her happy without the aid of little tablets.

I too have wishes, Leah, though you cannot hear me. I am only the shadow of an unborn child who can obsess over nothing but who she aspires to be. I’m depressed occasionally too, mom, maybe it’s hereditary.

“Well, then what’s your solution?” Leah asked.

“Simple.” The man replied. “Live in the moment.”

“Easier said than done,” she retorted, and waited as the man took a generous swig of his scalding holiday special. Somehow, she was drawn to him without even knowing his name; she wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Are you doing anything Thursday evening?” The man inquired.

“Nothing, really,” Leah answered glumly.

Bother! This is quite the Earthlet misconception; they are always doing something, whether it is a dramatic sprint towards the M15 bus or just sleeping. And there is no “just” because one something is just as existent as another.

“Want to go to that Italian place—Aqua is it—down the street for dinner with me?” he asked; the epitome of blasé. Leah, whose unordered coffee left her with nothing to choke on, staged a coughing fit into her checkered scarf.

“Is that the line you always use with the dates you pick up at Starbucks?” she gasped finally.

“You have a knack for answering a question with a question. (Aha! I am not the only one who seems only able to utter aphorism after aphorism.) But my answer’s definitely no. You see, I pride myself in originality, and that would be wrong if I couldn’t think up anything unique for you.”

Leah laughed for the first time in weeks, full and throaty, her smile unfurling tentatively like an antique fan. “OK. What time should we meet?”
The man’s responding grin blurred as the “window” slammed shut—a slap to my nonexistent face that left me with a nonexistent headache.

***

If I were able to shudder, or even sob, that is what I would do. How I wish I could perceive emotion! Alas, just as one cannot know the color green without seeing it, this too is impossible. I have not seen green, and I probably won’t ever, because my “view” just clouded. This happens to a Nonentity when her parents grow further and steadily further from union. As my mom purchased a novelty called coffee, an expensive, sugary beverage that Earthlets enjoy sipping, she was flirting with a strange man.

I am outraged and suffocated. If I had physical features, I could show you how desperate I am in reddening cheeks, and fists balled so tightly the knuckles turn white. But to no avail. At least my “window” has again opened, this time upon my quiescent dad…a tragic answer to my inconspicuous prayer.

***

“Help the homeless! Help the homeless, sir? Ma’am? Won’t you show some of your God-given kindness this morning?” Barlow Moriarty pleaded from his hunched post atop a dirty splintered crate, his murky eyes wide, etched deep in his haggard face. He didn’t remember what he’d had for dinner the day before yesterday, probably because he hadn’t had a proper meal since then; the rest of the money he drank, just more crumpled singles to fuel his alcoholism.

How long the days must seem to him; wiling the hours away on lusty addiction. I’m addicted to the idea of living, dad, like you’re addicted to your vodka. But I am also sickened to see you like this, and where I live, time does not pass. Time, to Earthlets, is but a single estimation of the length of things done. Most Earthlets do not realize that there are myriad ways to measure “time” and that they are all painfully imprecise.

“One dollar is all I ask, less than a minute of your time. A penny even, I will be grateful for. Would you leave me to starve?” Barlow was now specifically addressing two adults around his age in their thirties. He wasn’t going to be happy with a cent, anyone who gave him that small an amount was worse then the pretentious that “didn’t notice” him as they passed. And Barlow wasn’t about to get himself any nutrition, either, not when a perfectly decent bar was beckoning with its neon “Happy Hour” right down the street. It was always happy hour there.

I hate that my dad is a guttersnipe and drunkard—but who am I to be judgmental? (No, don’t answer that.) Despite myself, I’m excited by the many places here; I mourn the loss of prepositions that I often can’t use as I’m not situated anywhere.
The woman wearing the checkered scarf that he had called to stopped, and the man also halted to wait for her. She dug around in a lime-colored, leather purse bedecked with rhinestones that spelled “Leah” and to Barlow’s dismay, surfaced with a turkey sandwich from Starbucks. He had been so close to downing a screwdriver, maybe changing things up with electric lemonade, and this woman pulls out a sandwich. All of a sudden the plastic-wrapped morsel was in his hands, and his face contorted with rage.

“I don’t want your damn bread! Get away and don’t come back, I asked for money!” He hurled the turkey on rye into the street, and spat venomously upon the nearby ground. Muttered another array of profane remarks, only feeling remorse once Leah and the man had left. Shock was creased in the corners of their eyes. And only then did Barlow cry, his gaunt frame wracked with silent sobs.
This time the “window” closed slowly, gloating; but I was too upset to comment. Not that the comment would matter.

***

The winner of the lotto hasn’t been “announced,” but my ticket’s as good as invalidated. No, not my ticket; me. But there never was a me. Earthlet social classifications, with their darkened abyss betwixt the homeless and the rich Upper West Sider preordained as much; how stupid I was to hope in vain; how I cannot register an inkling of reaction to the event that’s eradicated “anything”. I am so painfully like an Earthlet, right down to my naivety prevailing over common sense, and ever so more painfully alien. Far more than my eternal nothingness, I pine losing the sight of my mom—even if fraternizing with the enemy—and the sight of my dad—even if tipsy and enraged—forevermore.

If I ask an Earthlet who she is, she could say this: A sister, a daughter, a wife, an aunt, a Catholic, a New Yorker, and a Mets fan. These are all parts of her identity. Funny though, how all of who she is, is a reflection of all of the important stuff around her. If the mirror broke, so would she who gazed into it. Earthlets hoist each other up and create themselves by incorporating bits of others, simultaneously becoming a part of another’s self. I have never had that option; it is what I will most miss. My mom was never anything more to my dad than a would-be benefactor of his substance abuse. My dad was never anything more to my mom than an object of disgust and of pity.

Furling fog closes quickly and thickly about my “view”. There are no tears to be had. No evidence of any shattered dreams upon the ground. Not a sound of grief can escape the conundrum that perpetuates my nonexistence. I “have said” that I do not wish to be a fading bond of a subconscious musing. An Earthlet would say to me that you can’t always get what you want. But I can’t get anything I want simply because I’m not. Nobody will ever know “my” sorrow, mirrored in the tear-streaked concaves of Barlow’s cheeks, or the barely perceptible but rankling hurt of Leah in her rejection. I take after what has been. No one will take after that which isn’t. Read more!

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.” Read more!

Invitation to Barnes & Noble Reading

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