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APRIL 2009
O U R 20 T H Y E A R
T E E NIN K.COM

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A PRIL 2009
COVER FEATURES
The College Issue
College Planning Timetable.........................17
Facts & Figures..........................................17-24
Articles .......................................................18-24
Essays ..........................................................25-27
College Directory ....................................30-32
Opinion:
Edward Cullen: Gem or Jerk?
“Bella is depicted as an evil temptress trying to
persuade a morally honorable man into evil, while
he attempts to keep their virtues intact. Succinctly,
Edward and Bella are a modern Adam and Eve.”
– “Twilight on Equality,” page 14
Video Game Reviews
“This game shows the struggles the U.S. Marines had
against the Imperial Army of Japan. It makes for a
fresh setting and fresh tactics, as you have to deal with
a severely entrenched Japanese Army that has no
qualms about rushing at you headfirst.”
– “Call of Duty: World at War,” page 41
Cover photo by Hannah Beckwith, Coronado, CA
This issue is dedicated to Bob Kuchnicki, our good
friend and printer. His service over the past 20
years has been invaluable, contributing greatly to
our success. He will be missed by all of us.
Professional
Children�s
School
supporting the arts, celebrating the mind
PCS provides a college preparatory program especially designed for young
people pursuing challenging goals in the performing arts, sports or other
endeavors that may sometimes require time spent away from school.
Founded in 1914, PCS is a fully accredited, independent day school enrolling
185 students in grades 6-12. To learn more, visit our website or call our
Admissions Director, Sherrie Hinkle at 212-582-3116.
132 West 60th Street, New York, New York 10023
www.pcs-nyc.org 212-582-3116
Contents
VOL. 20
NO. 8
12 ART GALLERY
Paintings, drawings & photos
30-32 COLLEGE DIRECTORY
25-27 COLLEGE ESSAYS
28 EDUCATOR OF THEYEAR
13 ENVIRONMENT
4 FEEDBACK
44-47 FICTION
16 HEROES
6-10 NONFICTION
14-15 OPINION
34-35 POETRY
33 PRIDE & PREJUDICE
43 REVIEWS: BOOK
When I Was Puerto Rican • A Thousand Splendid
Suns • Life of Pi • Firestarter • A Walk to Remember
• The Universe in a Nutshell
42 REVIEWS: MOVIE & TV
Revolutionary Road • Confessions of a Shopaholic •
Nights in Rodanthe • The House Bunny
41 REVIEWS: MUSIC
Streetlight Manifesto • Portishead • Judas Priest •
David Archuleta
40 REVIEWS: VIDEO GAME
Call of Duty: World at War • Fallout 3 • Mega
Man 9 • Cave Story
37 SPORTS
38-39 TRAVEL & CULTURE
36 YOU & YOUR HEALTH
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04/09

DUSTY WINDOWS
This piece is a refreshing take on the environment.
While most articles focus on global
warming or recycling, “Dusty Windows”
brought up the subject of urbanization.
Munema Moiz touched on an interesting
topic that most people never think about. I
hadn’t realized that the desert could be
affected, but reading this article helped me
understand.
I live in New York City and find it hard to
imagine that the ground under my home was
once farmland. Decades from now, people
will probably be feeling the same way about
Munema’s town in Saudi Arabia. I could
really feel her loss with every word I read.
Selena Zhou, Brooklyn, NY
DEAR PEERS
“Dear Peers” by Sitav Nabi is a piece
everyone should look to when they’re doubting
themselves. This story summarizes my
experience in elementary school. Now that
I’m older, it gives me comfort to know the
same thing happens to other people.
The story to me is a perfect account of
what the “nerd” has to go through every day;
unlike the author, most people don’t realize
that it’s something to be proud of. I love it
when Sitav uses questions to make her point
– for example, “Did my teachers stop appreciating
having me in their classes? Did I lose
any inspiration?” Then she answers with
three simple words: “Well … I’m waiting.”
Pure gold.
Sitav describes how at first she tried to fit
in and pretended to be something she was
not, and how her classmates rejected her.
They knew that she was a beautiful flower in
a barren desert, and that flower didn’t fit in.
This article shows how many students feel,
and the author summed it up so well. I congratulate
Sitav for being able to tell her story
in a world where few people can express
themselves so well on paper.
Erin Kiser, Thornton, CO
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
E-mail: Editor@TeenInk.com
Website: TeenInk.com
Publishers: Stephanie Meyer
John Meyer
Senior Editor: Stephanie Meyer
Editor: Emily Sperber
Production: Katie Olsen
Special Programs: Brianna Armbruster
Outreach: Elizabeth Cornwell
Advertising: John Meyer
Intern: Emma Halwitz
Volunteer: Barbara Field
04
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
Feedback
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
ISLANDS IN THE STREAM
High school hallways, a raging river,
absolutely! Ariel Dempsey could not have
been more correct in her article in the February
issue.
Attending a high school with only one
floor, two main halls, and about 1,000 students
can truly test your ability to make it to
class on time and alive. Like Ariel, I still see
new people in the halls even by the middle
of the year, and with these “new people”
come a lot of questions. Ariel is correct in
saying that you can learn a lot about people
from hallway observations.
If you are looking for the most current
gossip, turn to the halls; you may hear more
than you really wanted to. In the “real
world,” as adults put it, we should look people
in the eye and firmly shake their hands.
However, just as Ariel looks at the wall to
avoid contact with the other lone student in
the hall, how often do we see teachers doing
the same thing? All the time! Hallway greetings
can be some of the most awkward conversations.
But regardless of the plethora of
obstacles in the hall, we continue to enter
these rapids and come out okay.
Ariel, you hit the nail on the head.
John Vagas, Canfield, OH
MY FAVORITE SHIRT
“My Favorite Shirt” by Kim Christianson
is one of the best uses of analogy I’ve ever
read. It’s absolutely true that in this day and
age, love is treated just like a favorite shirt –
discovered, displayed, shared, cherished …
and if it doesn’t fit, thrown away and forgotten.
People can be just as careless with love
as with a shirt; if there’s a flaw, some just
give it up and pass it along, while others will
try to mend it so it can be treasured again.
There are as many types of love in the world
as shirts: flashy, elegant, decorative, joking
…. One has to wonder what shirt corresponds
to true love.
Rachel Heineman, Brooklyn, NY
CIRCULATION
The magazine reaches over
350,000 teenagers and is
delivered to over 5,500 high
schools and junior highs. In addition,
copies are mailed to all
32,000 high schools and junior
highs in the country.
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FOUNDATION, INC.
The Young Authors Foundation,
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ization by the IRS. The Foundation,
which is organized and
operated exclu sively for charitable
and educational purposes,
provides opportunities for the
education and enrichment of
young people.
NOTICE TO READERS
Teen Ink is not responsible
for the content of any advertisement.
We have not investigated
advertisers and do not
necessarily endorse their products
or services.
EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly journal
de di cated to publishing a variety
of works written by teen agers.
Copyright © 2009 by The
Young Authors Foundation,
Inc. All rights reserved. Publication
of material appearing in
Teen Ink is prohibited unless
written permission is obtained.
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Monthly, September to June.
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PRODUCTION
Teen Ink uses Quark Xpress
to design the magazine.
I thought this piece did an outstanding job
of relating love to an object we all understand.
Everybody has a favorite shirt, and
some share it, just as we all have the ability
to pronounce our love but some choose to
hold it in, waiting for the right moment.
As I read, I thought of how many times I
told someone I cared but somehow it didn’t
mean the same to them as it did to me. The
act of giving away love must be done with
care, and it must be given to someone you
trust. I can say with confidence that nobody
would entrust a favorite shirt to somebody
unreliable. So why would they trust that person
with their love? Kim provided a fresh
approach to the old subject of love.
Rebecca Brown, Canfield, OH
NIÑITAS
I enjoyed reading “Niñitas” by Melissa
Lozada-Oliva. Nowadays, parties seem like
over-the-top, superficial public declarations
of who has more money. Just look at MTV’s
“My Super Sweet Sixteen.” It was refreshing
to see that Melissa felt like she didn’t need a
party to transition from girl to woman.
This well-written article showed me that it
doesn’t matter how poofy your dress is,
what gifts you get, or how long a stretch
limo your parents rented, but at the end of
the day, when you snuggle in your bed, you
go to sleep being you.
Ruby Barraza, Phoenix, AZ
TRUE LOVE, AISLE 2
“True Love, Aisle 2” by Molly Krause
shows how we base our society on unrealistic
movies, magazines, and TV shows. She is
totally right in saying that adolescents act
out the lives of older teens. My peers seem
to strive to be older, acting as they think
someone more mature would.
This article really helped me get a sense
of how my peers (okay, even me) are unable
to have an intelligent conversation. The media
encourages us by giving us the impression
that it is normal for teenagers to have
meaningless and vapid conversations.
This marvelous piece really showed how
easy it is to just follow the crowd. But I’m
going to start an actual conversation today at
lunch, and so should you!
Rebecca Chanmin, Brooklyn, NY
ACTING
I immensely enjoyed reading “Acting” by
Kamryn Harmeling. Her words played off
each other in a very fluid way. I enjoyed the
way she compared acting to the sense of
pretend that’s found in so many high school
relationships. It’s like a battle is raging inside
the poem.
It makes me wonder how it would feel
knowing that someone is lying to your face,
but doing it so well you almost let yourself
believe it. Then in the end you feel like a
fool because you knew all along it was just
an act.
Great, great poem. Magnificent description
of the battle of manipulation in love.
Mathew Stone, Phoenix, AZ
REJECTION
Everyone has experienced rejection.
Inevitably, some of it is deserved and some
of it cannot be prevented. Can you imagine
how thick Teen Ink would be if they published
everything teenagers sent in? Although
being published in this magazine is
not a contest, I believe it is comparable to
one. If you enter a contest, do you get mad
at the person in charge if you don’t win?
I have never been published in Teen Ink,
and although I think it would be cool, I don’t
blame the editors for my not getting in.
Hillary Sward, Dell Rapids, SD
A fall leadership program
for idealistic high school women
who want to change the world
October 1–4, 2009
Nominations due April 10, 2009
For nomination forms and applications visit
www.mtholyoke.edu/takethelead
or call 413-538-3500
Mount Holyoke College, South Hadley, Massachusetts

non•fic•tion
06
Boot Camp Adventures by Laura Reichardt, Dillon, CO
There is a flash. A tremendous
boom. The strike could have
hit the ground ten feet away.
Around me, seven frantic girls search
through soaked, scattered gear under
and around a parachute shelter. The
rain is pouring down; my change of
clothes is already soaked, and my
chilled body is colder than I ever
thought possible.
“I CAN’T FIND MY SHOES!” I
bellow to the wind. Nobody around
me cares, or answers. In
what has rapidly become
a true survival situation,
the teamwork we carefully
cultivated this week
has vanished.
I grab what I can and
start the long trek down
from the girls’ camp and
up the other hill to the
boys’. Midway, my flip-flops betray
me and I end up standing in mud in
my wool socks with everything I was
carrying scattered around me. I’m
cold, wet, and miserable; when I look
up, everything nearby is obscured by
the rain, including my friends.
The path seems to have vanished, I
can no longer tell which way is downhill,
let alone where the boys’ camp is.
Another flash fills the sky and brings
the trees into eerie detail. I stand
Photo by Zachary Cyganek, Arlington, TN
amidst my scattered belongings, cold
mud oozing between my toes, needlelike
rain pelting my skin, and I wonder
if I am going to die.
* * *
I stand, knees locked, eyes staring
straight ahead at a handhold on the
climbing wall 20 feet in front of me.
In times of stress, one of two things
happens to a person’s vision: either it
narrows, obscuring everything but the
danger at hand, or it expands, bringing
the surroundings into extreme and
painful detail.
My field of vision is restricted by
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
When contem -
plating death,
who cares
about shoes?
the requirement of remaining at attention,
but my other senses fill in the
gaps about my environment. I am,
foolishly, in the first rank of cadets. I
hear nervous breathing all around.
Fear has a distinct odor – it is overwhelmingly
present in this group of
pallid teens. My eyes pick out the figure
of an adult instructor climbing the
stairs next to the rock wall. In his hand
is a camera. I wonder if the photos are
meant to make a mockery of us, of
how scared we are, when
this week is finally over.
As butterflies destroy my
stomach, I catch the faint
sound of three pairs of
boots marching to the front
of the formation. An Air
Force Pararescueman and
two SERE (Survival, Evasion,
Resistance, Escape)
instructors stand in front of us. Airman
McGee’s biceps are as big as a runner’s
legs. He’s shorter than I am but
looks as though he could pick me up
and throw me like a javelin without
any effort.
Airman Heath just looks mean. He’s
young, maybe just a few years older
than us, but we can tell he has seen
things beyond our comprehension.
Sergeant Herrera, our lead instructor,
is the most terrifying of the three.
He stands, impassive. His face is
inscrutable. There is the look of an
old man in his eyes. His expression
today, however, is completely devoid
of either compassion for our plight or
the eagerness of Airman Heath.
The three prowl the rows of cadets,
pausing intermittently to perform
uniform inspections.
“You shave this morning?”
“No, Sergeant.” (Later, we found
out that the kid hadn’t gone through
puberty yet.)
More stalking amongst the rows.
“You shine your boots with a
Snickers bar?”
Another short march.
“You shave this morning? Yes? Oh,
I think we got ourselves an integrity
violation here!”
We stand quaking as the angry voices
fall silent in front of us. Amidst all the
palpable terror, a single word cracks
through the ranks, making us shudder.
“DROP!”
* * *
We’re milling around aimlessly in a
parking lot. It is 10 a.m., we’re 8,000
feet above sea level, and it is already
too hot. On my head is a bright orange
helmet, buckled loosely and cockeyed
because I am too busy to fix it. The
gear is supposed to be divided evenly
among 29 people, but there simply
isn’t enough to go around. My team is
languidly removing bags from trucks
and opening them. We divide up
ropes, carabiners, daisy chains, and
harnesses. Too slow.
“DROP!” And we do push-ups. I
have lost my gloves, and so the rubble
in the parking lot digs into the fleshy
parts of my palm. Soon, even that concern
is lost in the agonizing pain of
overworked muscles trying to lift my
body and all the equipment I am carrying.
All around me, my team groans as
they struggle to maintain proper pushup
position.
When we are finally done, two
people drop carabiners, and we’re on
our faces again so in the future we
remember to take care of our gear.
Sergeant Herrera decides we’ve
wasted enough time and can start the
hike up the mountain to the rappelling
wall. Then he hands me a 15-pound
rock and says that because we couldn’t
divide the gear fast enough, he’s giving
us more to carry so everyone gets a
fair share.
I name our rock Sam. Later, we pull
out a Sharpie and give him a face.
* * *
On our way back from rappelling,
we run out of water. Sergeant Herrera
promises that he’ll “hydrate” us when
we get off the mountain.
We drive to the small general store
by the river. We’re told we’re allowed
to buy two things – I think we may be
the only business they get all year.
Most people buy Gatorade or water,
but one kid chooses ice cream. I’m
sure he’ll soon regret it.
I pick up some ramen. Around the
campfire, later, I am the envy of my
friends. You know things are really
rough when ramen is a delicacy.
* * *
We march into the freezing river.
It is either a measure of our complete
exhaustion or of our conditioned
obedience that no one protests or
hangs back.
We follow Sergeant Herrera into the
middle of the river.
“DROP!”
This time, there is some hesitation.
Is he serious? The pause is only momentary,
though, as my team drops
into push-up position
in a ragged line, arms
and legs submerged
underwater. When we
switch to flutter kicks,
I begin to float downstream.
I don’t have
enough mass to stop
the current from carrying
me.
It is glorious. We’ve had a long, hot
day. The water feels amazing. It is my
first bath in four days.
* * *
We’re strung out, 10 in the line,
walking stoically up 1,000 vertical feet
of hill through thick undergrowth.
There is a monotonous pace count
going in my head – the last time one
of us forgot the count, we had to return
to the beginning of the course.
I am struggling, even with the
relatively light weight of my pack. I
You know things
are really rough
when ramen is
a delicacy
fall farther and farther back. We crest
the hill and I am second to last – not
a good place for a leader to be. My
teammate gives me a bit of a push for
a few seconds. It helps, but I’m still
exhausted.
We break for lunch, where the instructors
point out that they’ve been
walking on a trail parallel to our crashing
journey through the undergrowth.
We were so wrapped up in our misery
that we didn’t even notice. Duh. When
we continue up the hill, we use the
path this time. We’re getting close; the
trees are thinning and there’s less
brush.
The cover breaks and we’re standing
on a naked hilltop. A lightningstruck
tree reaches like a colossal spire
from the top of the hill. The grass is
sparse and broken by a massive cairn.
My team poses for a snapshot in
front of the rocks. We’re at 10,800 feet
on the highest mountain around. Behind
us loom huge black clouds: fists
of impending doom. Wind whips the
hilltop and lightning flashes in the
distance, but we don’t care. We are
jubilant; we are young and full of
vigor. We have seen the Promised
Land, and found it good. There is a
triumphant sense of our own abilities
and power.
We share a pack of M&Ms, and
then knock out a set of 25 push-ups,
just for the hell of it.
We are, quite literally, on top of the
world.
* * *
As the hail pounds my helmeted
head, I stand on the bank of the river, a
loose rope extending to a tree on the
other side. I clip my carabiner in and
climb the rope, one foot hooked over
the top and behind me, my other leg
straight out and down for balance.
Sergeant Herrera stands knee-deep
on the other side of the river, wearing a
gray Air Force T-shirt and a feral grin.
It doesn’t take long for me to fall off
– it isn’t easy to stay on top of a loose
rope. I’ve done this be-
fore, though, and know
how to pull myself along
under-handed.
In the center, the
inevitable happens.
Sergeant Herrera grabs
the rope and bounces it,
with the help of Airman
Heath on the other bank.
All 100 pounds of me goes flying into
the air and then plunges a foot or so
underwater.
I will not let go of the rope. Again,
I go flying. My head submerges this
time, then I’m in the air again, gasping
for breath and shocked from the
cold. A third time, water and air.
Will they ever stop? When they do,
I waste no time pulling myself to the
other side.
Three people, all looking like
drowned rats, wait for me. We ➤➤
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM USING THE ADVANCED SEARCH

Slammed by Hanna Telander, Glen Ellyn, IL
The host’s untamed hair bent in time with his
strides as he glided up to the microphone. His
words seemed to drag as he spoke. Distinctly
annunciating every consonant, he announced the
scores of the poets prior to his entry. His free hand
lingered on his waxy dreadlocks. It felt as if he were
purposefully dawdling to build up my growing anxiety.
I knew this was it; there was nothing more that he
could possibly do to put off my moment. My name
left his lips so definitely and so genuinely that it
sounded as if he had known me intimately for years.
His voice was a pistol at the beginning of an Olympic
race; it filled me with relief, eagerness, and fear. Fear
that the words that I had been analyzing so diligently
for the past few months wouldn’t stream out of my
mouth in a fashion identical to the host’s. Fear that
this Chicago crowd wouldn’t be as open-minded as
they looked. Fear that the saying “Don’t let the fear of
striking out keep you from playing the game” was, in
Photo by Jessica Chantler, Corvallis, OR
form a huddle and link arms for
the return crossing. We wade into
the river but suddenly only one
of us is tall enough to stand! The
current pulls us downstream.
Frantically, I kick as hard as I
can to help propel us.
I want out!
* * *
The ride back is
four miles, and we
have the luxury
of vans due to an
approaching thunderstorm.
I’ve never experienced
anything quite as wonderful as
that heater.
We hurry to our tents. The rain
turns from a trickle to a torrent.
A flash. A boom. The girls search
through soaked gear scattered
around our parachute shelter.
The current
pulls us
downstream
The rain is pouring down. I
change into dry clothes only to
be drenched again.
“I CAN’T FIND MY SHOES!”
And this is how I end up standing
in the mud in my wool socks,
with everything I am
carrying scattered
around me. I wonder
if I will survive.
Airman Heath spots
me from across the
Instructors’ Meadow.
“WHERE’S YOUR
BUDDY!” I can hear him only
faintly over the tremendous storm.
“I DON’T KNOW!” I bellow
back, close to tears from cold and
fright.
He scoops up my stuff and
leads me up the hill like a child. I
don’t bother with my flip-flops.
fact, garbage. But then again, if that phrase was
garbage in this lecture hall full of authors, whose fault
would that be?
* * *
“You look a little pale. Are you all right, Hanna?”
She spoke with concern. When I couldn’t answer in a
steady voice, I really started to second-guess the confidence
I had gone to bed with last night. I glanced
out the cab’s window at the snowflakes that resembled
white satin falling from the gray sky. For so early
in the afternoon, it was the darkest gray I had seen in
a long time.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said as convincingly as I could.
“Well, you don’t look fine. It’s okay to be nervous,
love. I would be nervous too if I was reading my poetry
to a room full of college kids.” Aunt Hilary spoke
softly, like she didn’t want the driver to hear. I let my
attention fall on the two names that were carelessly
carved into the pleather seats in a border of a lopsided
heart. I smiled. A sudden jolt quickly
brought me out of my reverie.
“Columbia College, right? Up here on
the left?” The cabbie’s thick city accent
made my shoulders tense up. I got out of
the cab, which drove off even before I
closed the door. I watched my shoes join
and part with the slush until we reached
the opaque double doors.
We entered in silence, but chaos met us with open
arms. Clusters of students wore matching shirts with
their team names, team sponsors scrambled around in
search of a schedule, individual poets stood in a
group, yet each was staring at his or her own markedup
sheet of notes.
It suddenly occurred to me that that’s where I
should be. I nervously stumbled to the front table and
received a “Hello My Name Is” sticker; my hands
trembled so that although my name is only five letters
long, it was completely illegible. I dragged my reluctant
feet to join the rest of the slammers.
Orange plastic chairs scuffed across the linoleum as
friends bunched together, leaving empty scars across
the floor. The florescent lights went out, and hollers
filled the lecture hall, a sign of readiness. Behind the
low stage was a window that was shared with the train
station next door. It allowed little light, and the exposed
pipes rattled and shrieked when the train passed. The
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When contemplating death, who
cares about shoes?
After hours, we reach the top of
the hill. The boys have managed
to start a fire under a parachute
tarp. It is small, with no guarantee
it will survive for two minutes,
but it is a fire.
We huddle in our group of 48,
as close to the fire as we can get.
I stand in the innermost ring,
holding a poncho over the fire
to protect it from any water that
might drip through the smoke
hole in the tarp.
I am freezing, my sleeping bag
will be soaked tonight, I can’t find
my sneakers, I have smoke in my
face, tears in my eyes, and snot
pouring out of my nose. But I am
surrounded by my team. I am
okay. We’ll all be okay. ✎
All that
was left was
me and the
microphone
conversations were uninterrupted by this, and I
observed, as worry waved through my body, I might
be the only newbie in the room.
The first individual poet was introduced and
stepped onto the stage, followed by two teams and
another individual. Suddenly it occurred to me that I
could count those before me on one hand. Just five
left before I had to go up there and spill my heart out
to a room of strangers and their families?
Five: A boy about 17, with dark hair in an unkempt
ponytail at the nape of his neck. His ashen skin awkwardly
combined with a dark T-shirt that clung to his
sickly ribs.
Four: A young woman of 15, with tightly woven,
ornate braids that accented her dark, shadowy skin.
Her torn, fitted sweatshirt said “Stimax,” which I later
learned was her team name. She spoke of peace and
drugs in free-flowing verses that riled up the audience.
Three and Two: Boys who could have passed for
mid-twenties, but were 18, decked out in
matching Nike Premiums splattered with
vivid paint. Their jeans were loose, but
their words streamed out continuously and
tediously for what seemed like hours.
One.
One? Really?
I traced a circle on my knee over and
over as the host ascended the stage holding
a coconut banana smoothie.
The music began again and he announced my name
slowly, which – in comparison with my bolt to the
platform – seemed like an eternity. The music faded,
and so did the crowd noise: the chairs, the train, the
rattling and shrieking of the open piping. All that was
left was me and the microphone.
My nerves surged out along with my words; no
stalls, no stumbles, no stutters. And to be honest, I
had never meant anything I said prior to that moment
like I meant the things on the paper crammed in my
pocket that day.
But I didn’t need the paper as a safety net. I didn’t
need the notes on my hand (as illegible as they now
were), nor did I need the applause and the congratulatory
remarks I received after I descended slowly, chin
up, from the platform.
What I did need was that surge. And that’s all
anyone really needs. ✎
Photo by Julia Edelman, Roslyn, NY
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
non•fic•tion
07

non•fic•tion
08
School for the Blind by Paola Arteaga, Los Angeles, CA
For as long as I can remember, I
have not been very independent.
In a way, it’s not too surprising,
considering I can’t see. The first time I
really did feel independent was at the
California School for the Blind last
summer at a three-week camp called
the Student Transition Education
Program, or STEP for short.
The first day, I was very scared. I
had never been away from home before.
I mean, I’d been to camp, but that
was only an hour away and my parents
visited. This was six hours from home
in a place I had never been. Luckily I
knew some of the kids, including my
friend Louise, who be-
came my roommate.
Our apartment had a
small kitchen with pots
and pans and a stove
and everything. It was
like a little house. We
got food at the cafe teria,
but we could buy groceries
too. Louise and I
just had juice and snacks like cookies.
They even gave us keys to our door,
which was strange and new to me.
Until this point my life had always
been controlled. I hadn’t had to decide
when to go to bed or get up, and I’d
never had to clean up after myself. I
had never felt more scared and abandoned
than when my parents left me
that day. I was suddenly out in the big,
bad world with no one for protection.
I think the hardest thing was walking
on my own. Sure, I walked at school,
but someone was always next to me,
reassuring me. If I went the wrong way,
my teacher would say, “Watch out for
the stairs!” At STEP, it was different.
There were people to look out for us,
but we were eventually expected to
Guavas by Rewa Bush, Mountain View, CA
My aunt is here. She is two hundred or three
hundred or four. I’ll never ask so I’ll never
know, but she is older than my dad, and my
dad is as old as the house, and the house is edging on
ancient.
She is wearing a loud yellow skirt, bright like the
day and the sun and the stars that are so light they are
washed away by the sky. I think she is smiling, but my
hair is in my eyes so I can’t see clearly. She
tells me I should cut it, but her own cascades
down her back in long orange ringlets.
She’s an oxymoron, my aunt. She is as old
as the hills, and probably as wise, yet whimsical
like a child. She always does exactly what
she wants, explores and reaches and teaches.
The day is golden, and it’s glittering off everything:
our hair, the leaves, the clouds. My aunt leads me
through the brambly passage to the side garden, a secret
garden hidden if you’ve lost the child’s knack for finding
lost wonders, like that red sock that never made it
out of last week’s laundry but somehow flew under your
brother’s bed. Dried pomegranates lie on the ground,
round and wrinkly. Past the olive tree – an epiphyllum
with magenta flowers stapled into the fork – is a wall of
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
I think the
hardest thing
was walking on
my own
She is an
oxymoron,
my aunt
learn our way around. I dreaded the day
I would have to know the routes.
The staff was patient with me. They
let me learn one route at my own pace.
Gradually, I realized that I knew how
to get to various places. With just that
one route, I could connect to other
destinations. I started to understand
that if I really paid attention, I could
do it, but I was scared to try because I
didn’t want to get hurt.
The best day of my whole life was
when I realized I could walk on my
own. We were leaving the computer
lab and there were no counselors
available, so the computer teacher
walked with us. Since I
am slower than everyone
else, I quickly fell behind.
At first I was concentrating
so hard on the route
that I didn’t notice. I just
took it for granted that
somebody was there, since
someone had always been
there. But suddenly I noticed
how quiet it was. I stopped,
realizing that I was alone, and started
to panic. What if there were stairs?
What if I fell? What if I got lost? Then
I thought, Am I lost? That’s when I
realized that I knew where I was. And
so I started walking, slowly at first
because I was still scared. But I kept
telling myself that I knew where I was
going and little by little, I started
speeding up until I got back to the
apartments. I was shaking, but I had
managed on my own. And that’s when
I knew that if I tried, I could do it.
Another challenge was going out in
public. We went on a lot of field trips.
We had to talk to store clerks and do
price comparisons before we bought
anything. We learned how to handle
silvery leaves with silvery fruits like frozen raindrops.
We pluck bunches of guavas and eat them, feeling
the cold happiness smearing on our cheeks, as sticky
and sweet as the sunshine. Flecks of pink juice sprinkle
my shirt. My aunt tells me the flowers are edible
too. I don’t believe her until she places one in my
mouth. It’s smooth and perfumy, but it doesn’t want to
go down my throat, so I spit it on the ground.
Down the gravel path lined with yellow
bamboo we arrive at the cactus garden, a circle
of centennials melting in a Dalí-like world
where time drips in the heat. The white labels
at the foot of each giant are curled and blurred,
their names long lost though their bodies still
cast shadows on the dirt.
The soft rush of speeding cars weaves around a row
of bending eucalyptus trees, tall trunks reaching up and
up. Strings of strong-smelling leaves dangle down to the
earth like taffy being pulled in two directions at once. I
wonder, if we stopped pulling at the skies, would they
let go and fly away? I stretch up, but it’s far out of
reach. My aunt reaches up and plucks a pink flower
from the tree, like a star from the sky, and places it in
my hair. It’s not going anywhere for now. ✎
money and write checks, although I
still need practice. We even asked
pedestrians for directions. That was
hard for me because some people
don’t think that blind people should
be in public without help. One clerk
wanted to call security because Louise
and I were on our own. But I realized
that we have to deal with those who
have never interacted with the blind. I
don’t want to say that they’re ignorant,
but in a way they are. But we learned
from them too – we’re not always
going to be with those who know
about us and our needs.
Another completely new activity for
me was cleaning. Occasionally I had
helped Mom with the dishes, but that
was only when I felt like it, which was
rare. At STEP, I had to clean up after
myself or nobody would. I couldn’t
just drop clothes on the floor and
expect someone to pick them up.
Believe me, I tried and I only had a
bigger mess to clean up later. Mom
had always hung up my clothes and
put the outfit I would wear to school
on the bed. She still does, but now I
know how.
I still need practice with eating. I
Peep-Rex
can’t really use a knife and fork properly.
At home, Mom gives me a spoon
for everything, and she even cuts up
my spaghetti. You can imagine what
happened when they served spaghetti
at STEP. I got tomato sauce all over
my hands, face, and hair (not to mention
the table). Don’t even get me
started on pouring; that was worse. I
tried getting myself some juice at
home and ended up spilling the whole
pitcher. When I got to STEP, they had
to help me pour, but I got the idea. I
did put milk on my own cereal, even
though it was a small carton.
We also had fun trips. When we
went sailing, I loved how the boat
went really fast and rocked back and
forth. We even got to drive and the
captain told us which way to steer.
We also went on a kayaking trip.
My time at STEP taught me skills
that I will use forever. I’m not always
going to have someone to hold my
hand. Someday I’ll be alone, and I’m
scared of that day. But still, when that
challenge comes, I’ll be more ready to
face it, and I hope that I’ll be able to
do so with confidence. ✎
Art by Brian McGuffog, Fishers, IN
by Hannah Fronzak,
Oak Ridge, TN
Ithink most of us would agree that the Peeps the Easter Bunny
brings us are pretty nasty. So why do we get them year after
year? It is a question that has plagued children for generations,
and we now have an answer, proven by intense scientific study:
the sole purpose of the Peeps is your parents’ enjoyment.
Take this case: my father is a very funny man. One lovely
Easter morning, while the rest of my family was sitting around
the kitchen table devouring the mountains of candy we had gotten,
my dad sauntered up. A lone Peep was sitting on the edge
of the table, forlorn and abandoned. Once my dad caught sight
of it, his demeanor changed completely. His body stiffened as
he folded his arms up, bringing his hands to his shoulders in an
odd, predatory manner. His strides became tiny, mincing steps
as he approached the table where the oblivious Peep rested.
Now he had the attention of the whole family, and from
seemingly nowhere, we heard a cute but desperate “peep, peep,
peep.” At this noise, my father’s pupils dilated while his steady
breathing turned to feral growls. He crept up to the Peep and
dove at it, grabbing it with his teeth and tossing it into the
gaping cavern of his mouth.
We remained speechless for a few seconds as we observed
him devouring the poor chick. Then, with a frightened face, my
little sister turned to her candy basket and pulled out an entire
package of Peeps, offering them to him wordlessly. ✎
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APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
���� 09
e

non•fic•tion
10
The Hospital Visit by Catherine O’Donnell, Arlington Heights, IL
It was the day before Rosh Hashanah, but I wasn’t
Jewish. I was heading into the hospital, but I
wasn’t sick.
The lobby was like the starting gate at a racetrack:
a line of wheelchairs filled with former patients,
a group of healed people with their blinders on,
chomping at the bit to go home. Many of them had
balloons, teddy bears, and family members for their
entourage. Lucky ducks.
My back pocket buzzed; I paused in a corner
neatly arranged with cushioned chairs to take the
call. It was Mom: “Honey, she’s not in the best shape
right now. She may be asleep the entire
time you’re there, but, you know, that’s
okay.” After a few sighs and a goodbye,
I managed to move my cinder
block feet toward the elevator.
“Oh, he’s just doing so much better.
It’s unbelievable! I mean, just yesterday
he was practically comatose and
now he’s up and walking,” a young
woman with a colorful paisley scarf
said into her cell phone as she exited the elevator.
Lucky duck.
My fellow elevator riders were an older woman
and two kids, presumably her grandchildren. The
woman pressed the button for the third floor; I was
going to the eleventh. I did the usual routine of
gazing at anything but the other people in the
elevator. Finding nothing terribly interesting about
the certificate of inspection, I threw a quick glance
toward the children. Their eyes glimmered with
excitement. One hugged a teddy bear and the
other grasped a construction paper card, complete
with stick figures that, as children, we thought
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
comparable to “Mona Lisa.” The elevator crept to a
stop, the doors opened, and the kids bolted; the sign
for the floor read “OB-GYN.”
“Let’s go see your baby sister.”
Lucky ducks.
The elevators opened with a ding on the eleventh
floor. I walked to the nurses’ station and asked for
directions to Room 1155, her room. 1151 … 1153 …
1155. I waited outside for a few seconds, becoming
my own coach for a pep talk.
“We have to be strong for her,” my dad had told
me the last time we visited. “She’s going through a
lot right now, so we have to keep smiles
on our faces.”
With a quick exhale, I entered the
room. The woman on the bed had white
hair and wrinkles. Her eyes slowly noted
my presence and then lazily drifted back
to the ceiling. The whiteboard next to her
read, “Smith, Evelyn.” She wasn’t my
grandma.
I stepped to the other side of the curtain.
The woman on the bed was sound asleep, her
mouth agape, her head tilted to the side. The cancer
treatments left a halo of curly hairs on the pillow. Her
nails were manicured, but her hands were swollen.
She was hooked up to a menagerie of machinery and
had a growing collection of bracelets on her left arm.
A picture of the Virgin Mary and a rosary sat on her
bedside table. Her whiteboard read “O’Donnell,
Adonai” with a lopsided smiley face underneath. She
wasn’t my grandma.
My 5'2" grandma had the heart of a lion and the
fight of a tiger. She would tell stories about Boobie
and his sister Boobette, troublemakers in the same
Outgrowing “Titanic” by Isabel, New York, NY
My brother, George, has a
tendency to get obsessed. He
becomes sickly entranced
with people, movies, and even random
things like Crocs. When I was seven,
he became infatuated with the movie
“Titanic,” and this obsession was unlike
any other. He ordered it on Pay
Per View. He watched it nonstop. He
had the shirts, the music, and had
memorized every line of the movie. It
was all he talked about. He became
angry and violent when my mom forbade
him to watch it anymore. Coincidentally,
the Christmas after the movie
came out, my family and I embarked
on a Disney Cruise to the Bahamas.
At first I was in heaven. I was
among gods like Minnie Mouse and
Donald Duck. Life, in my opinion, had
reached its peak. However, on the
third night, something happened that
didn’t fit in with my fairyland dreams.
At dinner George was upset with my
parents because they would not let
him watch “Titanic” in our cabin.
Finally, after yelling, “I hate my life
and I hate you,” he stormed out. My
parents sighed and started whispering
that George was out of control,
George was anxious, George, George,
George. I sullenly picked at my
Mickey Mouse-shaped cake.
We finally finished, to the relief of
My grandma
had the heart of
a lion and the
fight of a tiger
the baffled waiter, and decided to walk
along the deck, hoping to run into
George. As we turned the last windy
corner, I noticed someone climbing
the tall railing at the front of the ship,
head bent back, hair streaming. The
figure was wearing a tie-dyed shirt just
like George’s. The figure had spindly
legs just like George’s. The figure was
George. We ran toward him.
“George! What the
hell are you doing? Get
down right now!” my
parents yelled. I stood
there in shock as my
brother slowly climbed
the railing. I was afraid
to make any sudden
moves because he
might go right over.
Then it would be my fault.
“Stand back! Don’t come any
closer. I’ll let go,” George responded,
quoting “Titanic.”
This wasn’t funny. He wasn’t Rose.
There was no Jack to pull him back. I
suddenly felt ridiculous in my bright
pink Disney shirt. My dad quickly
moved to pull George down, but he
just climbed higher. We were stuck.
Would he really jump? There was no
time to think. My mom ran to get help
while Dad tried to calm him down.
Meanwhile, I started crying.
I stood there
in shock as my
brother slowly
climbed the railing
George suddenly turned back, his
braces flashing in the wind. He saw
me with tears streaming down my
cheeks. I yelled to him, “Georgie,
please don’t jump, please don’t do it,
Georgieeeeee.”
As he stared, I kept crying and
yelling. I even attempted to reason
with him, saying, “Rose didn’t jump.
You shouldn’t either!” I don’t know if
it was seeing me crying
or hearing that, but
either way, George
heard reason. Slowly
he climbed down. He
didn’t jump. He came
back.
My parents said that I
saved him. I was really
afraid this was true. I
didn’t want to be the only one who
made George want to be alive. I didn’t
want that responsibility.
* * *
Since then, George has seen it
all. He’s been on every medication
under the sun. He’s seen doctors
and therapists and everything in
between. We’ve heard the words
OCD, Asperger syndrome, bipolar.
He’s gotten better. He’s gotten older.
He’s more in control of his life. But
I’m still afraid.
Last summer we all went to
league as Dennis the Menace, who always managed
to cook up mischief. My grandma would sit us in
front of her vanity filled with bottles of perfume
and makeup, and brush our hair with her silverhandled
brush, a makeover of sorts. She would run
her manicured nails through our hair and ask my
sisters and me who our boyfriends were. When we
told her we didn’t have any, she would throw out a
few names, her way of “giving” us boyfriends. Mine
was Templeton.
A cough roused me from my daydream. She
wheezed twice and then settled back into her
slumber. I rubbed her swollen, latex-like forearm.
“You lucked out with your room, Grandma. You
got the window seat.”
The only response was a low grumble from her
respirator.
Dad said conversation usually helped her, so I
kept the news coming: Major League Baseball, my
classes and activities, the details of the homecoming
festivities.
Leaving the hospital, I felt slightly reassured.
While I had been there, she hadn’t taken a turn
for the worse, she wasn’t put on more medication,
she didn’t develop further symptoms. She slept.
With each of her breaths, each beep of the heart
monitor, I felt more certain that she would pull
through and be back to her normal storytelling self
in no time.
That Thursday, Grandma’s game of ping-pong
between the hospital and her nursing home added a
new destination: hospice.
It was the day after Yom Kippur, but I wasn’t
Jewish. We were saying good-bye, but I could barely
speak a word. ✎
Art by Jose Hadathy, Marietta, GA
Majorca. One day, we traveled around
some islands on a small, private tour
boat. The hot sun was beating on the
sea. My parents had fallen asleep and
George and I changed into our bathing
suits and decided to take a dip. He
wanted to swim laps; I wanted to float.
“Izzy, let’s jump off the top of the
boat,” he suddenly said excitedly.
My stomach churned at this notion
but I joined him. I told myself, There is
nothing to fear this time. He gave me
his huge, elfish grin as we climbed to
the top. We held hands. I tightened my
fingers. Then we leaped and embraced
the cold, searing water together. ✎
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Office of National Drug Control Policy / Partnership for a Drug-Free America ®
I respect myself
That is, until I saw myself get high
It’s just an ugly side of myself I didn’t recognize
Saying and doing things that were not myself
I barely recognized myself

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Deep Time by
This is a true story. It’s a late winter day in
Plano, Texas. A high school geology class is
walking along a drainage ditch near school.
As the teacher points to the white limestone rock and
lectures, the students are shivering and muttering
amongst themselves. “This is a hands-on lesson,” the
teacher explains. “I want you to look around and see
what you can find.” Then he picks up a thin sheet
of chalk-white limestone and points to the design
inscribed in the rock: a coiled, ribbed shell from a
being that roamed the earth millions of years ago.
The students split up; some kick the rocks over,
uninterested, while others look more carefully. One
or two move methodically, examining the cold limestone.
Here and there they find a clam shell frozen
and lithographed into the stone. Snail shells are
everywhere.
One student walks a little farther from the class,
eyes down, bored. He’s new, having moved recently
from New Orleans. He’s looking halfheartedly at
a bed of fossilized oysters when his eyes fall on
something odd. His interest peaks, and he calls the
teacher over.
It’s a fist-sized vertebra, and it is not alone.
This was three years ago. Four months before, a
storm of near-biblical proportions rolled over the Gulf
Coast, smashing levies and flooding New Orleans,
leaving nearly 2,000 dead and 700 missing. The
student in this story was one of thousands of
displaced people who fled from the
storm, many escaping with just the
clothes on their backs.
For many, Hurricane Katrina was a
disaster on par with the September 11
attacks four years before. Just like 9/11,
it forced us as a nation and as a species
to contemplate our mortality. What will
we leave behind when we disappear
from this world?
Everyone considers this question at some point:
when we are swallowed by oblivion, when we check
out of this life, how will we have shaped our surroundings
and what void will be left by our passing? Will it
be fame or notoriety? Material things or a new idea?
And, most important, how long will it last? A lifetime
is often considered a mere 80 years; empires rise and
fall in 500; civilizations might last a thousand.
This student, so recently arrived, stands at the
threshold of an unimaginable 60 million years of
history, in a place that was once buried under a
shallow sea. And as he’s standing there, just for an
instant, the sea comes back.
The vertebra is one of eight, quickly identified
by the teacher as belonging to Xiphactinus audax, a
15-foot monster of a fish resembling a fanged tarpon.
The following weekend, more than 20 people arrive to
help excavate the remains. Among them are students,
teachers, curious neighbors, and me. That weekend,
we uncover more than two dozen vertebral spines, a
rib, and many unidentifiable fragments of bone and
teeth. Nearby emerge the foot-long skeleton of a
smaller fish, skull fragments of another, and shark
teeth. All around are countless oyster shells and
clams, remnants of the inland sea. It is an exciting
experience for everyone, but it leaves a deep mark on
me. I am a teenager who is crazy about fossils, and
I’m having my first experience with deep time.
Humans’ concept of time is necessarily limited.
Our comprehension begins to dwindle around 500
years, and becomes fuzzy and vague as we approach
the thousands. A hundred thousand years seems an
unimaginably long time; in fact, it would encompass
all of recorded human history and a good bit of recent
Asher Elbein, Atlanta, GA
To walk on
fossils is like
staring into
the night sky
prehistory too. Even today, there are some who draw
the line, claiming the world is a youthful 10,000
years. “Isn’t that long enough?” they ask.
No, it’s not nearly long enough. Once you are
contemplating spans of time that immense, you are
beyond the realm of easy comprehension. You are
swimming in deep time. This is the time it takes a
continent to move, an ocean to advance, a mountain
range to rise, a valley to be cut from rock. In such a
concept, all human history and human achievement is
lost, with no more effect or importance than individual
molecules have on the flow of a stream. In the
words of John Playfair, a mathematician of the Scottish
Enlightenment, “The mind seemed to grow giddy
by looking so far into the abyss of time.”
The concept of deep time was introduced by James
Hutton, a friend and colleague of Mr. Playfair. Hutton
envisioned a world built by uncounted eons of cyclical
geology, shaped by winds and tides, deposition
and uplift and erosion. Most significantly, he realized
that a world like this could not have been formed out
of a recent catastrophe but instead the long processes
of geologic time. In Hutton’s words, “We find no
vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.”
It’s a simple statement, but the implications are
staggering.
The ultimate fate of the Xiphactinus was to be
displayed in a glass case in our high school’s library,
for the interest and edification of students. Once dug
up, it is supposed to remain and no one
imagines it might be lost once again. But
of course the school could burn down,
close, or may be ravaged by a tornado.
The bones could be sold, misplaced, vandalized.
In a mere 20 years, they could be
erased from our knowledge. That this
Xiphactinus has an impact on the world
today is also by mere chance – a fleeting
coincidence of the right conditions, the
right time, the right people. If that particular hurricane-displaced
student hadn’t been there, the creature
might never have been discovered.
What, then, of humanity? When all is said and
done, when we have bowed out of the great game of
life, what will our species leave behind? Artifacts of
one kind or another. Perhaps fossils as well, although
that is by no means a certainty. What is more likely is
that all knowledge of our existence will simply be
erased. Hurricanes will come; fossils will appear
from erosion of the hillsides, unremarked; time will
march on.
Many of us know this, in our heart of hearts, but
we refuse to acknowledge it or in many cases even
consider it. If it’s true, we say, then what purpose does
our existence serve? Must we be rendered meaningless
before deep time?
It is a sentiment we seem to both fear and find
oddly comforting. Percy Bysshe Shelley gloomily
wrote: “‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:/
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’/Nothing
beside remains. Round the decay/Of that colossal
wreck, boundless and bare,/The lone and level sands
stretch far away.”
T.S. Eliot went still further in a famous passage
from “Choruses from the Rock,” composed over half
a century ago and reeking with a self-pitying gloom:
“And the wind shall say: ‘Here were decent godless
people:/Their only monument the asphalt road/And a
thousand lost golf balls.’”
Is that indeed our fate? Perhaps so. In billions of
years, the Sun will die, and the Earth will die with it.
But by then there will have been billions more years
of marching life; it is just as foolhardy to assume we
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Photo by Sophie Burke, Belmont, MA
will have no impact as it is to assume we are the end
result. Along with every other living thing, our actions
help determine the shape of the far-off future, in ways
both subtle and immediate. To walk on fossils is like
staring into the night sky; if nothing else, it forces a
kind of perspective. ✎
Whale Song
I have never heard it, phantom whale calls,
so deep they make one cringe, so shrill they make one cry,
except before I was born.
I know,
before I developed the lips, eyelashes, fingers, brain,
I have now,
I lived in the ocean,
I floated like a little walnut,
I was the simplest creature,
I heard the whale song.
This makes me wonder,
was it only I who received this gift,
or was it you also?
Giant whales, so big, beyond my comprehension,
peaceful beauties,
we have killed you all.
We stabbed and raped and took
for no good reason.
We took our ships,
I take blame somehow, I feel so awful,
we sharpened sticks and killed your
families
peace
your song traveled across the ocean,
you swam together for centuries through the deep,
mystic water.
What were you saying? Were you speaking through god?
Are you god?
I think we should worship you.
You blinked your eyes slowly, and your tears melted
with the ocean
We drank your blood with greedy slurps.
Are we evolution’s mistake?
I want to learn your song.
My race will never learn,
I am so lost with my race.
If I could trade in my clumsy legs and sharp words,
I would gladly accept your fins and godly
demeanor.
by Jaden Gragg, Shawnee, KS
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
environment
13

opin!on
14
Facebook Snoop by Kristine Morgan, Indianapolis, IN
The other day, my friend Alex called me from
hundreds of miles away, saying that she had
something important to tell me. Thanks to
Facebook, though, I was already up on the news.
Facebook (and other social networking websites)
allow people from all over the world not only to
connect with one another but also to snoop on
each other.
Just a few years ago, people relied solely on word
of mouth and landline telephones to
stay informed, but now teenagers often
opt to browse through Facebook pages
that document their friends’ lives. As
with anything, there are positives and
negatives to Facebook. For ideas on
gifts, you can simply check out your
friends’ Interests and Favorites. Top
Friends, the supreme revenge tool,
often stirs up the most drama, especially
when updated or rearranged. Wall-to-Wall is great for
following specific conversations and picking up juicy
gossip. The Photos link usually provides a more animated
view of what people are doing, whom they
hang out with, where they go, and also what mischief
they’ve been up to.
Because people are posting large portions of their
lives on the Internet, I’m beginning to wonder if
privacy has become obsolete. Facebook is powerful,
and when used appropriately, it’s a great communication
and social tool. But, like anything else, too much
of a good thing often has not-so-great results. People
Twilight on Equality
by Catherine Stafford, New Paltz, NY
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that while reading Twilight I was
“dazzled” (pun intended). Almost anyone alive for the past couple of
months is certainly aware of the saga, which has received excited acclaim
not only from teenagers worldwide but also such esteemed reviewers as The
New York Times and Publishers Weekly. So why do I have a problem with it?
Twilight is about Bella Swan, a teen who moves to a new town and is
immediately adored by everyone. She instantly has several men vying for her
attention and a couple of pretty nice friends as well. Her adoration of classic
books would imply that she is at least marginally intelligent. Then she meets
Edward Cullen (who has a unique background that is not relevant here), and
as their relationship grows, so does her obsession, until it consumes her.
Seems harmless, right?
Actually, no. Bella is depicted as an evil temptress trying to persuade a
morally honorable man into evil, while he at-
Edward and
Bella are a
modern Adam
and Eve
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
I’m beginning
to wonder if
privacy has
become obsolete
tempts to keep their virtues intact. Succinctly,
Edward and Bella are a modern Adam and Eve.
But the book goes further in asserting that
women are inferior to men. Every time Bella is
faced with a conflict and has to make a choice,
Edward swoops in to save her, because apparently
she can’t possibly decide on her own. He
goes beyond protective to borderline abusive in
Twilight, but Bella justifies it as “love” every
time. When Edward dumps her for a couple months in New Moon, Bella
becomes seriously depressed and dangerous to herself.
All the female characters in this series eventually portray similar helplessness.
Even the first relationship introduced in the book – that of Bella’s
mother and stepfather – is sexist. Bella expresses concern about leaving her
mother, but then reasons that it’s okay now that Phil is looking after her.
What’s even more ridiculous is that many female readers look up to Bella!
Her situation is idealized. After finding Edward, Bella is happy only when she
is with him. She feels that he is her one true purpose in life. So what are girls
who read the novels left wanting? Their own Edward, of course! Not only do
they want one – they need one. The fact that so many intelligent young men
and women have been sucked into the Twilight series and have swallowed its
sexist manifesto has me worried about the future of gender equality. ✎
don’t normally keep their bedroom doors open while
changing clothes, so why would they post photographs
of themselves nearly naked on the Internet?
Because users can learn so much from a simple
five-minute scan of someone’s profile, it’s important
for teens to be aware of what they post. When browsing
through profiles, I often find myself wondering
whether their owners know the meaning of public
forum. Sure, Facebook allows its users to make their
profiles visible only to friends, but now
the site’s creators are granting access to
other parties because of concerns about
controversial content.
According to The GW Hatchet
(George Washington University’s
student newspaper), students should
be careful about revealing information
on Facebook and other websites because
employers, college admissions officers,
marketers, and parents can use the website too. In
2005, in fact, one GWU freshman’s parents found
Facebook photos of him drinking and threatened
to take him out of school unless he changed his
behavior.
According to The Wall Street Journal, 10 percent
of admissions officers from 500 surveyed colleges
used social networking websites during the application
review process. Of these, 38 percent found
content that negatively affected their view of an
applicant.
So, for several reasons, personal lives should
remain personal. Young people need to realize that
their Facebook pages are public representations of
themselves. Often I hear students complain when
gossip about their personal lives spreads around
school, but when they volunteer this information
online, should they be surprised? People wonder
why they are labeled at school, but what they post
on Facebook often fuels their reputation.
Yes, I am a Facebook snoop. The website is great
when I want to see what someone’s prom dress looks
like, or when I want to read a friend’s thoughts on
politics – but some things just should not be posted.
There’s a difference between acceptable and
excessive. ✎
A Caring Rebellion
by Morgan Tamez, Heath, TX
Vegans can be defined as strict
vegetarians who do not eat
meat, dairy products, and
eggs. This definition, though, only
touches the surface of what a vegan
lifestyle entails.
Vegans not only abstain from consuming
meat or animal byproducts,
but they also do not wear wool, fur,
and leather, and a majority also take a
stand against related issues such as
animal testing, vivisection, sexism,
workers’ rights, and animal equality.
Veganism is a compas-
sionate rebellion in
that the goal is to break
away from culturally
conditioned perceptions
about food and
live a life that minimizes
your harmful
impact on Earth and all
its inhabitants.
Research is accumulating that
meat-eating and mechanized farming
methods are harming the environment,
contributing to world hunger, and
detrimentally affecting the health of
consumers. By avoiding these industries,
vegans build healthier and more
sustainable life habits that benefit our
planet and increase their longevity.
What’s the point, though? Many
critics of veganism claim that one individual
can’t break the institution of
flesh consumption. Every revolution
One vegan can
create dissonance
in a room full
of omnivores
Photo by Chyla Pugh, El Dorado, KS
faces opposition. Yet the very presence
of strong, healthy vegans is a
testament to the success of such a
lifestyle. Hardly a day goes by that
I’m not engaged in a discussion about
my eating habits, and questioned –
even harassed – by curious classmates.
One vegan individual can
create cognitive dissonance in a room
full of omnivores. If one person is
made to reconsider the morality of his
or her actions, if only for a moment,
that is a success for compassion.
A person’s ethics and
motivations are results
of his or her individual
experiences or consciousness,
but it’s safe
to assume that vegans
are unified in their wish
to make a difference in
the world through everyday
choices. Instead of
buying a cosmetic that was tested on
an innocent animal, a thoughtful
vegan opts for products with a crueltyfree
promise. A vegan understands
that the animals the world thoughtlessly
exploits have the capacity for
suffering and enjoyment and wishes to
end the perversion of life that Western
industry calls “nutrition.”
It is my goal as a vegan to be a
living demonstration of my consistent
choices as an individual, and to
encourage others to do the same. ✎
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Teach Your Children Well by Laura Chicoine, Arlington Heights, IL
Ilove running. Some days I struggle
up Mount Everest and other days
I sprint across the Great Plains.
It’s how I learned the names of streets.
It’s how I exercise. It’s how I stay sane,
or at least try to. It’s an endorphin
therapy, my lactic acid antidepressant.
As I ran around Lake Arlington for
what seemed like the five thousandth
time, nearly stepping in yet another
pile of goose poop, the song “The
Pretender” by Jackson Browne blasted
in my headphones. Realizing that I had
grabbed my dad’s MP3 player instead
of mine, I navigate around a pair of
walkers, almost tripping over a stroller
the size of my bed, and begin listening
to the words. “I’m going to be a happy
idiot/And struggle for the legal tender/
Where the ads take aim and lay their
claim/To the heart and the soul of the
spender.” I couldn’t help but wonder,
where have all the pretenders gone?
Although I occasionally played on
the computer (when I could unseat my
older sisters), I spent the majority of
my childhood outside. I was a princess;
the backyard was my kingdom, the
swingset my castle, and the neighbor’s
dog a fire-breathing dragon. Today,
pretending gets cut from the team.
Dress-up clothes, dolls, and building
blocks that served as toys since before
King Tut, have been tossed aside. Zapf,
creator of the pooing-peeing-cryingsleeping-teething
Chou Chou dolls,
states on its website, “Playing with
dolls also addresses and supports social
skills such as loving, caring, empathy,
and accepting responsibility.” Apparently,
parents no longer possess the
ability to teach such lessons.
LeapFrog provides an in-depth and
profound explanation of its products:
“Interactive toys that teach children
basic skills.” My seven-year-old cousin
could supply a more sophisticated
definition! Scientists have discovered
that during the first three years of a
baby’s life, the brain forms many
synapses (intersection points between
neurons). Proper stimulation contributes
to better brain development.
As a result, companies like Leap -
Frog have created learning toys
specifically for children under three.
They include learning laptops, inter -
active puzzles, and lifelike dolls.
Fisher-Price sells the Songs & Smiles
Discovery Gym (when did two pieces
of plastic, a mat, and a few stuffed
animals constitute a gym?), the Laugh
& Learn Learning Home Playset
(saying it twice doesn’t make it more
educational), and the Smart Bounce
& Spin Pony (preparing children for
their first drunken mechanical bull
ride?).
Despite the ridiculous names,
parents sprint toward these toys.
According to Fortune, Americans
spent $2.5 billion on “learning” toys
in 2005. Corporations simply put the
word learn in the name and the toys fly
off shelves. Walmart and Target sell
them at relatively low prices, so even
Joe the Plumber can afford them.
The learning toy producers deserve
a prize for their online advertising
methods. In addition to statistics, diversions,
and testimonials, their websites
include a plethora of information about
the benefits of their products, the
Howard Gardner model of Multiple
Intelligences, reviews, and articles.
Companies convince parents that in
today’s fast-paced society, learning
toys provide the only way for parents
to work, cook, or even relax for a few
minutes. Before parents realize it,
they’re convinced that their child needs
one (or the parent needs a Valium).
Fisher-Price groups
its toys into educational
categories like Laugh &
Learn (infant role-play),
Fun 2 Learn (preschooler
role-play), Smart Cycle
(active learning), and
Computer Cool School
(computer-based learning).
The company
describes the Smart Cycle as “a stationary
bike, a learning center, and an
arcade game system – all rolled into
one!” The child pedals and moves the
handlebars to steer a car onscreen,
stopping at locations such as Math
Mountain, Shape Lake, Number
Fields, and Letter Creek. (Why wait
until 16 when kids can have their first
driving lesson at age three?) The unit
costs $100 (of course, batteries aren’t
included), which might seem like a
good investment if it benefits the child.
No pain, no gain.
However, cheaper and more effective
methods of exercising children’s
brains exist. Parent and child can take
a walk together and count the number
of speed limit signs in the neighborhood,
or point out the colors and
shapes of road signs. This encourages
parent-child interaction and, for the
environmentally aware parents,
doesn’t involve the manufacture of
toys in pollution-producing factories.
I have a confession. I fell for the
marketing ploys of the toy companies
just like those gullible parents. In fifth
grade, I became convinced that the
LeapFrog iQuest would help me with
my schoolwork, improve my grades,
and make me the smartest girl in my
class. The handheld electronic game,
the size of a disposable camera, had
study guides and quizzes for a fifth
grade curriculum. I spent $60 of my
own money to buy the iQuest and an
additional $5 million on cartridges
specific to the textbooks I used at
school. While it initially entertained
me, it didn’t do anything except increase
the amount of time I studied the
information. My test scores didn’t
break any records or even improve.
Me is a happy idiot.
Recent studies show that no lasting
Do electronic
toys short circuit
the learning
process?
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damage occurs if parents neglect to
“properly stimulate” their child’s
brain before the age of three. Sara
Mead, a senior policy analyst with
Education Sector, states there is no
evidence that the first three years “are
a singular window for growth that
slams shut once children turn three.”
A government-funded two-year study
by the University of Stirling found
that electronic learning toys had no
recognizable benefits, inhibited creativity,
and even led to shorter attention
spans. Not really sterling results.
Additionally, children often had trouble
transferring the knowledge gained
in a game to pencil and paper at
school, which led to confusion and
more time spent on basic
concepts. Electronic toys
short-circuited the learning
process.
So why do parents buy
learning toys? They want
their kids to have a successful
future and by
purchasing these toys,
they hope to give them an
advantage. So they spend hundreds of
dollars on Chou Chou dolls, Fisher-
Price Learning Kitchens, and LeapFrog
merchandise. Einstein didn’t have
Baby Einstein tapes but his theories
did relatively well.
But what really motivates parents to
buy learning toys? Maybe they simply
wish to avoid the responsibilities that
parenting entails. A flashing-blinkingsparkling-spinning-beeping-singing
educational toy gives the parent a
break for a cup of coffee, a chat on the
phone, or a date with Jerry Springer.
Do parents hand off the baton to
LeapFrog just as GM, Chrysler, and
Ford want to hand it off to U.S. tax -
payers? Perhaps they secretly desire
Chou Chou doll children with on-off
switches. Maybe these toys assuage
parents’ guilt for not spending time
with their children. An educational toy
compounds the relief of this guilt. But
ultimately the responsibility of teaching
young children lies with parents –
not toys.
The song continues as I round the
final curve of the lake. Browne sings,
“And believe in whatever may lie/In
those things that money can buy.” If
learning toys fail, look for something
else. Maybe a steroid-charged baby
formula that ensures a 36 on the ACT,
or fortified carrot sticks that morph
children into the next Barack Obama.
Are learning toys the PowerBars of
education, or the steroids of parenting?
I’m not sure, but right now this is a
social experiment without a control
group. And we’re running on empty. ✎
Internitwit by Molly Kane, Hull, MA
Irecently read “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” – an article in The Atlantic about
how the Internet has changed the way we think. This got me wondering: is our
increasing dependence on the Internet substantially affecting the way our brains
work? The answer is yes.
In his article, writer Nicholas Carr cites research that shows an alarming trend:
the more we use the Internet, the less apt we are to concentrate and absorb large
amounts of information. The human brain is able to adapt
How is the
Internet
affecting our
brains?
to circumstances, as is the case here. Because the Internet
provides us with the information we are looking for so
quickly, our brains have learned to expect to get what we’re
looking for through skimming or a minimal amount of
actual reading. We are slowly losing the capacity to read,
let alone absorb, lengthy pieces of writing.
But I believe that the Internet is also affecting our brains
in other ways. The way we write online, the slang we use,
is becoming more and more a part of our offline lives. Have you noticed yourself
making more grammatical errors, or having the urge to abbreviate words? You can
thank the Internet for that. Because of the pervasiveness of slang in IM and texting,
our brains now expect it.
The Internet really is changing the way we process information. Is it making us
stupid? Not necessarily, but I don’t like it all the same. ✎
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
opin!on
Photo by Jenna Trottier, Ottawa, ON, Canada
15

heroes
16
Grandmother
Anna Purviance by Barbara Purviance, Bucyrus, OH
Anna married Jerry when he had nothing but
25 cents, an old 1941 Cadillac, and a full
tank of gas. “Now that’s trusting in the
Lord,” Jerry later said. “I had no job, no money, and
no sense, but we were happy.” Anna was a schoolteacher
and Jerry had recently returned from World
War II where he served as a radio operator on a
B-17. Starting a marriage with so little was going
to be difficult, of course, but neither Anna nor Jerry
knew the struggles that lay ahead.
The young couple lived with Jerry’s mother,
Sylvia, until their first son arrived. When 9-pound,
red-headed Steven greeted the world, Jerry was a
student at the University of Tennessee, and Anna
had to take time off from teaching to
care for the newborn. Jerry moved his
family into an inexpensive house that the
young couple shared with mice that
roamed freely in the walls and floors.
When Steven was 18 months old, his
parents were finally able to afford a nice
home in the country. “I don’t know who was hap -
piest the day we made our trip and left ‘the dump,’
as we had called the old house,” Anna later said.
The family spent the next 14 years in that home
before moving to a bigger house. During that time,
Anna went back to teaching until their second son,
Mark, was born.
Anna and Jerry worked hard to raise their boys
properly. Steve was extremely intelligent, but his
parents often pushed him too hard. With Mark, it
was much easier. Anna said that Mark had been “a
cuddly, loving child from birth.” The years passed
blissfully, and eventually the boys headed off to
college. It was during these college years that the
true struggle began.
During Mark’s sophomore year at Asbury
College in Kentucky, he received a letter from his
father that Anna was sick. “I’ve had a bunch of
problems relating to your mother’s health. I’ve not
had much time for anything but existing. It should
When you hear the term
“hero,” you might picture
Superman lifting a bus or
Spiderman spinning webs from his
wrists, battling villains with ultrasuper
powers. But not all heroes are
mythical – some exist, right here,
right now, everywhere on the planet.
It doesn’t take laser eyes or flying
abilities to qualify as a hero. In fact,
there are no specific standards to
meet; it’s about the way people live
life, their accomplishments and
goals, and what they do to impact
others.
With that in mind, knowing the
true meaning of a hero is like seeing
the world in a whole different perspective,
or putting on glasses that
immediately clear the blurriness.
Heroes are all around us. Some risk
their lives every day for our sake, and
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
I never knew
she was a
writer
be no surprise to you that her condition is gradually
worsening,” Jerry wrote. “I don’t see any outward
signs of healing. She has a good appetite, a sweet
disposition and smile, and no pain or discomfort
as yet.”
The letter was dated January 20, 1982. Nine days
later, on Mark’s twenty-first birthday, Anna died.
Mark was so distraught that he attended her funeral
in jeans and a raggedy T-shirt. Jerry hasn’t wished
his son a happy birthday since; he doesn’t think
Mark was ever really happy on that day again.
I never met Grandma Anna, and I only remember
seeing Grandpa Jerry twice. During my freshman
year in high school, I wrote a letter to him in hopes
of learning more about my family. Now,
years later, we still write to each other.
Grandpa Jerry is an outstanding man, a
World War II veteran, and a devoted
Christian. But what about Anna?
One day I was searching for something
in the basement. In an old box filled with
my father’s things from college, I found Grandma
Anna. I never knew that she was a writer, but
there she was, alive in dozens of stories scrawled
in notebooks and published in newspapers and
magazines. Anna’s stories were about life, friends,
family, and God.
One of her stories tells about a trip with Jerry and
her sons to an old house in the woods. Although the
house had been abandoned for years, the excellent
workmanship had left it in perfect condition. On the
walk home Anna wondered, “What legacy am I
leaving? When someone views the work of my life,
what will they see? Will my life be nothing more
than a trash pile of selfishness or will it be a treasure
of love and concern for others?” I wonder if
Anna knew when she wrote that that she would be
leaving her family so soon. However, it is certain
that she left the treasure she hoped to, and I found it
in that box.
While reading through the contents I was amazed
Teen
Rachel Joy Scott by Jessica Huang, Brooklyn, NY
for that we give them our thanks.
Yes, the traffic cop who gave you a
speeding ticket is a hero; it’s his job
to prevent accidents that might lead
to serious injuries and death. Firefighters
and soldiers stationed in Iraq
are heroes, facing constant danger
with bravery and honor.
My hero is Rachel
Joy Scott. I never knew
her, never talked to her,
never laughed, cried, or
joked with her. Her
story, though, is what
makes her unique.
Rachel was a intelligent
young woman full of ambition
and dreams of becoming an actress.
Rachel was anything but selfish,
going out of her way to reach out to
the less fortunate, spreading her kindness
everywhere.
Rachel was
killed in the
Columbine
massacre
When a student was bullied and
tormented for being handicapped, it
was Rachel who stepped up and
shielded him from further harassment.
When a suicidal teenager was
ready to take his life, Rachel was
there to befriend him and prevent a
death. When a stranger
walked into McDonald’s
to find shelter from the
cold, Rachel did not hesitate
to buy a meal for him.
Touched by her sympathy
and love, lives have been
changed by Rachel Joy
Scott.
Unfortunately, on April 20, 1999,
Rachel was one of several victims
gunned down in the infamous
Columbine massacre, a shooting at
a Colorado high school that claimed
12 lives and injured 23. It is truly a
at Anna’s brilliance, eloquence, and complete
devotion to God. In one of her pieces, she wrote
about slowly waking after an operation. As she
“struggled to consciousness,” Anna wrote, “I overheard
the recovery room personnel discussing me. I
learned then of the malignancy. I was stunned, but
God reached down and gave me peace.” Even as
Anna neared the end of her life, her faith never faltered.
“Illness may be the only way we will slow
down long enough to listen to God,” she wrote. “We
can struggle and strain and never know the blessing
that God has in store for us. We have to surrender
all of ourselves and wait on God.”
Nearly everything I know about Grandma Anna I
learned from the contents of that box. Slowly I am
piecing together a picture of my grandmother, using
these letters and stories. Even though I never had
the privilege of meeting her, I know that Anna lived
a life worth remembering; now I can give it the
remembrance it deserves. Anna’s writing has shown
me the kind of person I want to be and the kind of
legacy that I want to leave. ✎
Photo by Quinn Burton, Lubbock, TX
heartbreaking tragedy that the life of
this teenager, who had such a good
heart, ended amid hate and violence,
but Rachel’s legacy of love hasn’t
died. Throughout her life, Rachel’s
actions have helped countless others.
It was her wish to start a chain reaction
that would spread peace and
compassion. If everyone continued
Rachel’s efforts to make a positive
difference, society would definitely
change for the better.
It wasn’t the way Rachel was killed
that found her a place in my heart – it
was the way she lived, her accomplishments
and goals, and what she
did to change others’ lives. She might
not have superpowers, but one thing’s
for sure: Rachel Joy Scott is and
always will be a true hero. Her deeds
will never be forgotten. ✎
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM USING THE ADVANCED SEARCH

Photo by Megan Mercier, Ocala, FL INSIDE: COLLEGE DIRECTORY, ESSAYS, ARTICLES AND FACTS
COLLEGE ADMISSIONS TIMETABLE
GRADE 9
■ Enroll in college prep courses. Math and
English are essential.
■ Begin to read about admissions and
think about your college financing plan.
GRADE 10
FALL TERM:
■ Contact the guidance counselor to discuss
plans regarding college.
■ In October you may elect to take the PSAT
or PLAN (pre-ACT test) for practice.
WINTER AND SPRING TERM:
■ Con sider taking SAT II for courses you
are completing this year.
GRADE 11
SUMMER BEFORE:
■ Begin preparation for the PSAT/NMSQT
and PLAN. If you feel you could use
help, seek a reliable prep course.
■ Begin exploring college interests and
visit local campuses to get a feel for
vari ous settings.
FALL TERM:
■ Contact your high school counselor to
initiate the college selection process.
■ October: Register and take the PSAT/
NMSQT or PLAN.
WINTER TERM:
■ Attend college fairs to gather information
and speak with college representatives.
■ Visit nearby colleges to help gain a better
understanding of characteristics that
are important to you, for example, location
and size.
■ Attend college information sessions at your
school for additional financial information.
SPRING TERM:
■ Register and take SAT or ACT.
Consider a prep course if you need help.
■ Take SAT II, especially in sub jects in
which you are taking the last course.
GRADE 12
SUMMER BEFORE:
■ Call or write colleges for appoint ments for
interviews and visits. It is usually better to
visit a college when students are on campus
to get a real fla vor of campus life. Talking
with students about college life is helpful.
■ Begin to narrow your list of colleges.
■ Request catalogs and applications.
FALL TERM:
■ Contact your guidance counselor.
■ Develop a final college application list.
■ If previous SAT/ACT scores are low, retake
the tests, and forward scores to colleges
where you are applying.
■ Begin admission applications, especially
the essay. Have a teacher or a counselor
review a draft.
■ Apply for all possible scholarships.
■ Most Early Action/Decision applications
are due November 1-15, so make sure
application materials are forwarded early.
WINTER TERM:
■ Complete applications for regular
admis sions. Include one or two “safeties”
and one “reach.” Pay careful attention to
deadlines! Apply for finan cial aid.
■ Request transcripts, send all recommendations
(teachers and counselors) and other
supporting data to col leges.
■ Complete and send appropriate financial
aid appli cations.
■ Be sure to keep a copy of every docu ment.
It will save you time, money, and aggrava-
tion if an application is lost.
■ In January/February, check with the
col lege registrar to see if your application
is complete and they have received all
necessary data.
SPRING TERM:
■ March/April – Colleges send admission,
rejection, and waiting list letters.
■ Make your choice and, if necessary, visit
colleges again to be sure.
■ April/May – Send an acceptance letter and
deposit to your college of choice and write
polite letters of refusal to the others.
Reprinted with permission from Parents College Advisor, published by College Counsel.
U.S. Statistics
COLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIES
Public 4-year institutions ......................643
Public 2-year institutions ...................1,045
Private 4-year institutions, nonprofit..1,533
Private 4-year institutions, for-profit.....453
Private 2-year institutions, nonprofit.....107
Private 2-year institutions, for-profit.....533
Total 4,314
STUDENTS
Enrollment highlights:
Women ..............................................57.3%
Full-time............................................61.7%
Minority ............................................31.5%
Foreign ................................................3.4%
shout
don’t whisper
Office of Admission
320 South Broad Street
Philadelphia, PA 19102
800-616-ARTS (2787)
Visit www.uarts.edu
TI0409
Residence of new students:
81% of freshmen in fall 2006 who graduated
from high school in the previous year
attended college in their home state.
Graduation rates at 4-year institutions:
All ....................................................56.4%
Men ..................................................53.0%
Women .............................................59.2%
Average tuition and fees:
Public 4-year institutions.................$5,685
Public 2-year institutions.................$2,017
Private 4-year institutions..............$20,492
Test scores: Students averaged 21.1 on the
ACT and 1511 on the SAT.
Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education.
The world needs to hear from you.
To hear how your talent and courage can transform the
way we think and feel.
The UArts College of Art and Design
offers an energizing atmosphere for giving shape
and substance to your talent. Whether you're
a painter, graphic designer, or sculptor, we'll help you
gain the confidence to refine your vision and give voice to
your innermost passions.
Open House
4.4.09
COLLEGE CONNECTION • APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
17

FOCUS
COLLEGE
FOCUS
18
My Childhood Roommate by Marissa, Grand Junction, CO
Eight Years To Go
I was five when I began counting down the
years until my sister would move out. Don’t
get me wrong – I love her. I love her like I love the
winter coat crammed in my closet; it’s great when
the temperature is below freezing and I need it to
keep me warm, but every other day it takes up half
the space in my closet and I’m tempted to slash it
into a million pieces.
Since my sister is four years older, as a child, I
thought she was the wisest person I knew. She took
full advantage of this. Any story she told (like the
one about the cat who gave birth to a
chicken) was 100 percent true: the
boogeyman really would kidnap me if I
didn’t sleep under the covers, and when
we played Scrabble, the word that
scored her 36 points, confuzzled, was
actually in the dictionary (just the newer
edition we didn’t have).
Along with the stories of me being adopted and all
our relatives being able to do magic except me, my
sister convinced me of another reason why I didn’t
belong in the family. I had always been perplexed
why my sister and mom both had striking strawberry
blond hair while mine was dark.
“That’s because Mom had an accident on your
head when you were born,” my lovely sister reasoned.
I washed my hair 100 times that week.
Six Years To Go
As a younger sister, I never once received first
dibs on the chocolate cake batter spoon; I never got
to be teacher when we played school, or be Beauty
when we acted out our favorite Disney movie; riding
I couldn’t wait
for my sister
to move out
shotgun was completely out of the question. Sharing
a room, however, caused the most problems.
My sister must have failed basic math because the
tape that separated our room clearly did not split it in
half. It was more like 90/10. Guess who had the bigger
slice. My “half,” however, included the closet. I
assumed this gave me full reign over the clothes inside.
Wrong.
One day while my sister was gone (most likely torturing
some other innocent person), I decided to try
on her new Old Navy overalls with the rhinestone
straps. I slipped into the two-sizes-too-big outfit and
ran into the bathroom where I admired
myself in the mirror, pretending to be
flirting with Josh, the love of my life (that
week, anyway). Far from my daydreaming
mind, footsteps echoed down the hall.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The words tingled down my spine like a
spider. My heart stopped. My hands trembled.
I had been caught.
Please don’t kill me in my sleep. Dear God, please
don’t let my sister kill me in my sleep.
Four Years To Go
The sounds weren’t unfamiliar; the slamming
doors, the screaming voices, the shattering dishes.
Mom was fighting with the boyfriend again. I had
stopped remembering their names. My sister and I
tiptoed into our room. Ignoring the tape on the floor,
I crawled into bed with her and she handed me her
CD player. Everything we had fought about that day
didn’t matter anymore. She was the warm coat I
needed. And I remembered why I love her.
The next day, when we watched “Aladdin,” she let
me be Princess Jasmine.
Two Years To Go
Tonight was yet another night with my head under
my pillow, attempting to drown out the music that
felt like an earthquake through the walls of our
house. Tonight I hated my sister and her thunderous
parties. I hated her for keeping me up until 3 a.m.
when I told her I had an important test the next day.
It was nights like these that reminded me why I
couldn’t wait for my sister to move out.
I walked downstairs and was disgusted by the
teenagers drinking out of red plastic cups and groping
each other as if they were checking for ticks.
However, the worst sight of all was discovering my
sister in the middle of it. No longer was she the wise,
beautiful girl I had looked up to, but instead just
another person who had let me down.
It’s hard to remember why you love someone when
all you can think about is how much you hate them.
0 Years To Go
I had two Christmases the year my sister left for
college. Finally I was free – no more sharing a room,
no more being harassed, and best of all, no more
nights of only four hours of sleep. After counting
down for nine years, I was finally an only child. I
thought I would be the happiest girl ever. And I was,
at first.
No longer did I have to take a three-minute ice-cold
shower or share an entrée at an expensive restaurant. I
was living the life of an only child and loving it. But
after a few weeks I began to feel lonely. No one was
around to give me advice about boys or fashion. Sure,
my sister and I had our clashes, but we always had
each other when we were in need. Now, separated by
500 miles and a string of mountains, I feel like I am
missing my other half. ✎
College Application Tips by Jessica Abughattas, Corona, CA
With college admissions becoming
increasingly competitive
and deadlines constantly
looming, upperclassmen are always
stressing to ensure that their applications
are up to par. But fret not! The process
can be simplified by following these tips.
Pick your schools. Are you interested
in colleges with fewer than 5,000 students,
or more than 20,000? Public or
private? In-state or out-of-state? Urban,
suburban, or rural setting?
Will cost be an issue?
With these factors in
mind, create a list of six
to eight schools, some
that are a reach for your
top choices, a few schools
that you wouldn’t mind
going to if you got in, and
a couple of safety schools that should
accept you without question. Mark their
deadlines on your calendar and start
planning your applications.
Start thinking about recommendations.
You should find three teachers in
academic subjects who are willing to
brag about you, so get going. Which
ones love you? In which classes did you
excel? And most importantly, who do
you think is going to write a letter about
how qualified and intelligent you are?
Those who know you personally are
Stretch the essay
prompt to paint
a good picture
of yourself
your best bets.
Transcripts. Request your most
recent transcripts at the registrar’s office
to send to colleges based on their deadlines.
Senior year is not an excuse to
slack off!
Alphabet soup. All those tests – SAT,
SAT II, AP, ACT – will finally mean
something! Find out which ones your
colleges require or recommend, and be
sure to report your scores in time. If you
plan ahead, you can take
tests over, if necessary.
The infamous essay.
Your most significant experience,
your favorite book,
what world crisis you
would solve and how … for
some reason, colleges think
that requiring applicants to
compose an essay on these topics will
make them more personable. Well, don’t
let that limit you. Stretch the college’s
prompt as much as you need to paint a
good picture of yourself. That’s the point.
Have your teachers and peers edit
your essay until you have a good draft,
but make sure to ask for help nicely and
in advance. Revisions from teachers who
are unfamiliar with your writing will
likely benefit you the most.
Remember that your essays can be
recycled, shortened, or lengthened as
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09 • COLLEGE CONNECTION
needed to fit a college’s guidelines.
Don’t limit yourself.
Mercy in the Common Application.
In the midst of rigorous college regulations
and requirements, a genius came
up with the common application. Thousands
of universities accept this standard
application in place of their own, so
instead of filling out eight different
applications, you may be able to do only
a couple. The college’s admission website
will usually say whether they accept
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the Common App, but for a complete
list, visit www.commonapp.org. Some
colleges require a supplement, so make
sure you complete this if necessary.
Early action/decision. There are pros
and cons to being an early-action applicant.
You must begin working on your
application(s) very early. Early action is
like having two shots at a school. However,
if you need financial aid, early
action is discouraged.
Those are the basics. Good luck! ✎
Colleges and Universities (by state)
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200 or more
100 to 199
0 to 99
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‘‘The atmosphere ... makes
me feel completely at home
amongst strangers who are
quickly becoming family.’’
Abbi Snee ’12 • Acting/Directing Major
Maybe it’s the friendly
nature of our students, faculty,
and staff of our suburban
campus in Pennsylvania’s
scenic LehighValley. At any
rate, there’s a remarkable
experience to be found.
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu
Top 20 reasons noted as important in selecting college
1. College has a very good academic reputation
2. Graduates get good jobs
3. A visit to campus
4. Offered financial assistance
5. Size of college
6. College has a good reputation for social activities
7. Cost of attendance
8. Graduates gain admission to top graduate/professional schools
9. Wanted to live near home
10. Rankings in national magazines
11. Information from a website
12. My parents wanted me to go there
13. Admitted through an early-action or early-decision program
14. Could not afford first choice
15. High school counselor advised me
16. The athletic department recruited me
17. Religious affiliation/orientation of college
18. Not offered aid by first choice
19. My teacher advised me
20. My relatives wanted me to go there
Activities in the past year
Performed volunteer work...............................................................87%
Attended a religious service ............................................................80%
Socialized with someone of another racial or ethnic group ............68%
Tutored another student ...................................................................58%
Came late to class ............................................................................58%
Played a musical instrument............................................................40%
Was bored in class ...........................................................................40%
Felt overwhelmed by all I had to do................................................37%
Asked teacher for advice after class ................................................28%
Participated in political demonstrations ..........................................22%
SOURCE: The American Freshman: National norms for Fall 2007 published
by University of California at Los Angeles Higher Education Research Institute.
FICTION WRITING &
PLAYWRITING DEGREE
PROGRAMS
Develop your creativity, tell your
stories, and gain skills essential
for personal and professional
development in the FICTION
WRITING DEPARTMENT
AT COLUMBIA COLLEGE
CHICAGO.
UNDERGRADUATE BA/BFA
degrees in FICTION WRITING,
with specializations in Fiction,
Creative Nonfiction, Playwriting,
Electronic Applications, Publishing,
and Story Workshop® Teaching;
and BA/BFA degrees in
PLAYWRITING, interdisciplinary
with the Theater Department.
GRADUATE MFA in
CREATIVE WRITING –
FICTION, with specializations
in Fiction, Creative Nonfiction,
Playwriting, and Teaching; MA in
the TEACHING OF WRITING;
and COMBINED MFA/MA
degrees.
STUDENTS-AT-LARGE
WELCOME.
YOUR STORIES. YOUR FUTURE.
Columbia College Chicago admits students
without regard to age, race, color, creed, sex,
religion, handicap, disability, sexual orientation,
and national or ethnic origin.
Attitudes and Characteristics Student Financial Aid
of Freshmen at 4-Year Colleges Federal Grants/Loans
PHOTOGRAPH BY MARY ELLEN MARK, ACROBATS REHEARSING THEIR ACT AT GREAT
GOLDEN CIRCUS, AHMEDABAD, 1989
Our renowned Story Workshop approach
emphasizes voice, imagery, audience, and
positive reinforcement of your strengths as
a writer. For more information about our
diverse study programs, extensive course
listings, award-winning student anthology
Hair Trigger, and visiting writers series,
check out http://fiction.colum.edu, or
call 312 344 7611.
Pell Grants .......................................................................................$12,881,000,000
Veterans .............................................................................................$3,644,000,000
Military/other grants..........................................................................$1,619,000,000
Federal Work-Study...........................................................................$1,175,000,000
Supplemental Educational Opportunity Grants....................................$771,000,000
Academic Competitiveness Grants.......................................................$340,000,000
Smart Grants.........................................................................................$310,000,000
Leveraging Educational Assistance Partnerships ...................................$74,000,000
Perkins Loans.....................................................................................$1,135,000,000
Subsidized Stafford Student Loans
Ford Direct Student Loan Program..................................................$5,159,000,000
Federal Family Education Loan Program ......................................$19,349,000,000
Unsubsidized Stafford Student Loans
Ford Direct Student Loan Program..................................................$4,417,000,000
Federal Family Education Loan Program ......................................$19,291,000,000
Parent Loans for Undergraduate Students........................................$10,071,000,000
Other loans ............................................................................................$171,000,000
Federal education tax benefits...........................................................$5,880,000,000
Total Federal Grants and Loans ..................................................$86,288,000,000
State grant programs..........................................................................$7,730,000,000
Institutional grants...........................................................................$26,323,000,000
Private and employer grants ............................................................$10,170,000,000
Total Federal, State, and Institutional aid.....................$130,511,000,000
Number of recipients and amount of aid per recipient:
Program Recipients Amount
Pell Grants ..............................................................................5,165,000................$2,494
Supplemental Educational Opportunity Grants......................1,291,000...................$597
Academic Competitiveness Grants............................................400,000...................$850
Smart Grants................................................................................80,000................$3,875
Federal Work-Study...................................................................880,000................$1,335
Education tax benefits ............................................................8,519,000...................$690
Perkins Loans ............................................................................514,000................$2,208
Subsidized Stafford Student Loans ........................................5,135,000................$3,240
Unsubsidized Stafford Student Loans ....................................3,754,000................$3,593
Parent Loans for Undergraduate Students.................................722,000..............$11,179
SOURCE: The College Board, 2006-7. Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education.
COLLEGE CONNECTION • APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
19

FOCUS
COLLEGE
FOCUS
20
Is the SAT Useless? by Caitlin Shea, Smithfield, RI
Fall is a busy and stressful time for many high
school seniors as they complete their college
applications – gathering transcripts, teacher
recommendations, and lists of extracurricular activities
and awards, and sending them to colleges all
over the country. The most nerve-wracking time for
many, though, is waiting for their scores from the
SAT, a test that has a tremendous impact on which
schools will accept them.
SAT stands for Scholastic Aptitude Test. The
majority of colleges require it as part
of their admissions process. More
than two million students each year
take this three-hour standardized test,
which supposedly measures verbal
and mathematical reasoning.
Although colleges look at applicants’
portfolios – including their GPA, class
ranking, and special talents – SAT
scores play a large role too. Many
colleges will only accept students who attain a
certain score for math and reading.
I believe that SAT tests should not be the most
important criteria for acceptance into a school. Studies
have shown that females scored lower on the SAT
than males, but overall women have better grades in
high school and college. This shows that these tests
do not necessarily predict success in college. Most
professionals agree that SAT tests do have some
validity, but there is much debate on whether scores
should be the main factor colleges use to choose
their freshmen.
The SAT does
not necessarily
predict success
in college
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Teen Ink • APRIL ’09 • COLLEGE CONNECTION
Another reason SAT tests are not a convincing
predictor of academic success is that they are biased
against minorities. The National Center for Fair and
Open Testing, or Fair Test, believes that standardized
tests like the SAT assume all test takers have backgrounds
similar to white, middle-class students. This
is certainly not the case. Fair Test seeks to eliminate
the racial, class, gender, and cultural barriers to equal
opportunity.
When applying to the University of Texas, students
in the top 10 percent of their
class do not need to submit
SAT scores. These applicants
had higher college GPAs than
those who were not in the top
10 percent but had SAT scores
200 to 300 points higher. This
demonstrates that these scores
do not necessarily predict
students’ performance.
My aunt received mediocre scores on her
SAT tests. However, she graduated second
in her class from Assumption College, went
on to law school, and graduated in the top
five of her class from Boston College. If the
college had rejected her based on her SAT
scores, they would have undoubtedly
missed out on a superior student.
Most successful students must work very
hard in high school to earn the best grades
they can. Students who get extra help, study,
and try their best are the ones who tend to
get good grades. Their work ethic determines how
well they will do in the future. Therefore, a better
way to predict students’ college performance is by
looking at their previous achievements and grades. If
colleges focus more on the accomplishments of the
four years of high school rather than one test, they
will more accurately determine how well students
will perform in college. ✎
Colleges’ Top Selection Criteria
Private Public
4-year 4-year
institutions institutions
Admissions test scores................................82% 70%
Test of English as a Foreign Language.......79% 70%
High-school record .....................................78% 79%
High-school grades.....................................69% 66%
College-preparatory program .....................48% 25%
High-school class rank................................28% 20%
Open admission ..........................................14% 14%
Recommendations ........................................7% 51%
Formal demonstration of competencies........5% 10%
Number of institutions 595 1,243
SOURCE: U.S. Department of Education
®

Colleges With the Most Freshman
Merit Scholars, 2007
Number
Number sponsored by
of scholars institution
Harvard University ...........................................................285.......................0
University of Texas at Austin ...........................................283...................232
Northwestern University ..................................................249...................186
University of Southern California ....................................231...................195
Washington University in St. Louis..................................204...................154
University of Chicago.......................................................196...................156
Yale University .................................................................183.......................0
Princeton University.........................................................179.......................0
University of Oklahoma ...................................................175...................137
Texas A&M University.....................................................173...................134
Vanderbilt University........................................................172...................116
University of Florida ........................................................168...................132
University of North Carolina............................................166...................127
Stanford University ..........................................................164.......................0
New York University ........................................................159...................137
Rice University.................................................................159.....................95
Arizona State University ..................................................150...................127
MIT...................................................................................138.......................0
Ohio State University .......................................................118.....................93
University of Pennsylvania...............................................115.......................0
Georgia Institute of Technology.......................................100.....................73
University of Minnesota.....................................................96.....................73
Brigham Young University .................................................95.....................70
Duke University..................................................................90.......................0
Purdue University...............................................................87.....................66
Baylor University ...............................................................84.....................70
University of Illinois...........................................................84.....................56
Carleton College.................................................................83.....................64
Brown University ...............................................................80.......................0
SOURCE: Nation Merit Scholarship Corporation
Proportion of College Students
Enrolled at Public Institutions
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SOURCE:
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Education,
Fall 2006
85% and above
75% to 84%
65% to 74%
0% to 64%
Average College Costs, 2007-8
4-year Public Colleges 4-year Private Colleges
Resident Commuter Out of state Resident Commuter
Tuition and fees $6,185 $6,185 $16,640 $23,712 $23,712
Books and supplies $988 $988 $988 $988 $988
Room and board $7,404 $7,419 $7,404 $8,595 $7,499
Transportation $911 $1,284 $911 $768 $1,138
Other $1,848 $2,138 $1,848 $1,311 $1,664
Total * $17,336 $18,014 $27,791 $35,374 $35,001
NOTE: These are enrollment-weighted averages. Weighted tuition and fees are derived by weighting
the price charged by each institution in 2007-8 by the number of full-time undergraduates
enrolled in 2006-7; room-and-board charges are weighted by the number of students residing on
campus. Estimates of other budget items are based on reports of institutional financial-aid offices.
* Average total expenses include room-and-board costs for commuter students, which are average
estimated living expenses for students living off campus but not with parents.
SOURCE: The College Board
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COLLEGE CONNECTION • APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
21

FOCUS
COLLEGE
FOCUS
22
Parting Ways by Nicholas Momeni, Franklin Lakes, NJ
My brother is leaving for college
soon, and my mom has
been pestering him to clean
out his desk and shelves. As we sort
through the junk, we find a pen case
from fourth grade, a souvenir bottle
my dad brought from China when we
were in elementary school, and a crystalline
rock from our trip to the mines.
Most significant of these artifacts is
my brother’s journal, which he has had
since elementary school and has filled
with creative writing. I always made
fun of his ideas, but he was
tough-skinned and persistent,
and now he plans on using
his college education to one
day write books from those
stories.
As I watch my brother
throw out some papers, I notice how
much we have grown up, how far we
I envy
him for
leaving
have come in life, and how much has
changed. My brother looks like a man
with his beard, collared shirt,
and dress pants. I think back to
how he looked in elementary
school – dorky glasses, toothy
grin, and constant optimism as
he wrote in his journal. I can’t
believe he’s going to college.
We are separated by just 13 months,
and he has been my best friend since
bobcatS WANTED. LOCATION, LOCATION,
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ARTs AND SCIENCEs Business Communications Health Sciences Education Law
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09 • COLLEGE CONNECTION
day one. Now it’ll be months until I
see him again.
He was planning a trip for us to go
to California to visit our cousin, but I
have decided he should go without
me. I think it’s best if we part ways
sooner rather than later so he can
come of age on this trip and realize
that he isn’t one of two parts; he is his
own person. “Have fun on your own,”
I say with heavy eyes. Then we hug
and I tell him not to call for advice
while he is away, because it is his
time, not ours.
But his journey won’t be too different
from mine. While he is off without
me, in California and at college, I will
be exploring my own independence.
My experience will help me become
an individual, and so leaving home to
pursue a higher education will be
easier for me.
My brother’s absence will allow me
step out of my home environment and
reach out to a more diverse crowd. I
envy him for leaving, because he is
entering a place I want to experience
too: the world outside my suburban
shelter that allows exposure to deeper
meanings and complexities. This is the
world I sampled while taking an acting
course at Fordham University last
summer. This is the world I am eager
to partake in.
I give my brother a hug and tell him
to be excited for his trips. I know he is
ready for the next four years. I’ll be
heartbroken the day he leaves, but I’ll
use those emotions as motivation to
make the most of my last year in high
school. I hand him his journal and tell
him not to leave his creativity behind.
Now it’s time to get ready for my next
four years, and my new, mature sense
of self will help me through it. ✎
Profile of
Undergraduates
Degree program All Men Women
Bachelor’s degree 47% 50% 45%
Associate degree 37% 34% 38%
Certificate program 7% 6% 8%
Unclassified 10% 10% 10%
Acceptance Rates
Private Public
Less than 10% ....................0% 1%
10.0% to 24.9%..................1% 3%
25.0% to 49.9%................10% 13%
50.0% to 74.9%................38% 37%
75.0% to 89.9%................27% 23%
More than 90%...................9% 10%
Institution has no
application criteria.............14% 14%
SOURCE: U.S. Education Dept., 2006-7

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Univ. of Phoenix online campus .........165,373
Ohio State Univ. main campus..............51,818
Miami Dade College .............................51,329
Arizona State Univ. at Tempe................51,234
Univ. of Florida .....................................50,912
Univ. of Minnesota-Twin Cities ............50,402
Univ. of Texas at Austin ........................49,697
Univ. of Central Florida ........................46,646
Michigan State Univ..............................45,520
Texas A&M Univ., College Station.......45,380
City College of San Francisco...............44,392
Univ. of South Florida...........................43,636
Pennsylvania State Univ., Univ. Park....42,914
Breakthrough programs. Rising
rankings, endowment and academic
credentials. State-of-the-art facilities
that integrate theory and application.
A plan to establish New York’s
newest medical school. Host of
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Everywhere you look, Hofstra is a
university on the rise.
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Campuses with Largest Enrollments
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Univ. of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign....42,738
Houston Community College................42,526
Univ. of Wisconsin at Madison .............41,028
New York Univ. .....................................40,870
No. Harris-Montgomery Comm. Col....40,846
Purdue Univ. main campus ...................40,609
Univ. of Michigan at Ann Arbor ...........40,025
Florida State Univ. ................................39,973
Univ. of Washington..............................39,524
Indiana Univ. at Bloomington ...............38,247
Northern Virginia Comm. College ........38,166
Florida International Univ. ....................37,997
Univ. of Arizona ....................................36,805
Reprinted with permission from The Chronicle of Higher Education, Fall 2006
Proportion of College Students who
are Minority-Group Members
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COLLEGE CONNECTION • APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
@
P R A T T
23

FOCUS
COLLEGE
FOCUS
24
How Public Schools Fail by Owen, Nahant, MA
OPINION
Random House defines education
as “the act or process of
imparting or acquiring general
knowledge, developing the powers of
reasoning and judgment, and generally
of preparing oneself or others intellectually
for mature life.” This seems like
a basic foundation for what the U.S.
public education system should be. It
certainly would be nice if our public
schools taught us general knowledge,
helped us develop the powers of reasoning
and judgment, and prepared us
intellectually for a mature life. Unfortunately,
they do none of these things.
Currently, the U.S. education
system accomplishes three things:
teaching us irrelevant information,
preparing us for the bureaucracy of
the college system, and destroying
our intellectual curiosity.
The saying “All I really need to
know I learned in kindergarten” is not
far off. As students approach high
school, the information they learn
goes from necessary, like addition, to
slightly applicable, like intermediate
geometry (while I may use the
Pythagorean theorem sometime in my
life, I have yet to encounter that time),
to just plain unnecessary. For example,
sophomore year we were taught the
law of cosines, which allows us to find
the length of one side of a triangle
when we are given the degree of the
opposite angle and the length of the
other two sides. This is as useless as it
sounds, unless you plan on going into
mathematics or engineering, and it’s
only one of many useless facts today’s
high school students are forced to
learn.
It’s sad but true that many students
are more focused on getting into
college than on their academic development.
College graduates make
substantially more money than those
with only a high school diploma, and
though there is no direct correlation
between money and happiness, a college
degree also increases your chance
of having an enjoyable job, financial
security (different from wealth), and
the respect of your peers. This is all
well and good, but our public school
system has been so focused on getting
students into college that it has completely
screwed them over.
For one thing,
schools now place
more emphasis on
preparing students for
standardized tests like
the SAT and ACT.
Only recently have
colleges begun to
realize that these tests
don’t actually measure intelligence,
and it’s common knowledge that these
tests only determine students’ ability
to take standardized tests. This is bad
for both the students who do well and
those who don’t. Bad for those who do
well, because their hard work preparing
for the test is an investment that
won’t help them in the future; bad for
the students who do poorly, because
most receive a low score simply for
not being good at taking these tests.
The college application process also
skews students’ priorities when it
comes to extracurricular activities.
The concept of selfish giving has
already been discussed in the Teen Ink
article “Acts of (Selfish) Kindness”
Profile of Undergraduates
Fields of study of those with a declared major
All Men Women
Arts and humanities 13% 13% 13%
Business 20% 21% 19%
Computer/information science 6% 11% 3%
Education 9% 4% 12%
Engineering 5% 11% 1%
Health professions 16% 7% 23%
Life sciences 5% 6% 4%
Mathematics 1% 1% 1%
Physical sciences 1% 1% 1%
Social/behavioral sciences 9% 8% 10%
Vocational/technical 6% 9% 3%
Other 10% 9% 11%
Most popular activities of those who performed community service
All Men Women
Neighborhood improvement 13% 9% 7%
Work with children 12% 11% 12%
Church service 10% 12% 13%
Tutoring 8% 9% 12%
Health/nursing home 8% 6% 8%
Homeless shelter/soup kitchen 7% 5% 6%
Fund raising 6% 7% 9%
SOURCE: U.S. Department of Education
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09 • COLLEGE CONNECTION
Elective classes
help students
develop academic
curiosity
(www.TeenInk.com/Opinion/article/987
7/Acts-of-Selfish-Kindness/). To sum
it up, author Daniel R. claims that
many students are motivated to do
volunteer work and community service
only because of their desire to get
into a good college.
As I was growing up, I struggled to
come to terms both with my gender
identity and my mild Asperger syndrome.
As a result, I didn’t get involved
in activities like church groups
and community service until I was 15.
By then, it was too late to develop a
track record. Of course, that doesn’t
mean that I didn’t do any extra curricular
activities. I did
karate for seven years, I
was involved in Webelos,
I was the vice
treasurer of my middle
school’s Rotary Interact
Club, and I am currently
the president of my
school’s Anime Club
and an active member in its Gay-
Straight Alliance. I even have a parttime
job. Still, I was denied initiation
into the National Honor Society
(NHS) because of “lack of service.”
I wouldn’t tell you that personal
anecdote if there wasn’t a point. Our
school’s NHS advisor said that many
applicants were rejected because of
lack of service and if we did more we
might be admitted next year. The NHS
considers service important because
they believe it shows selflessness. But
if I did more service between my
rejection and the next initiation, I
would only demonstrate that I wanted
to get into the NHS, not that I had
suddenly become a better person.
Colleges have also messed up high
school education by turning it into a
competition. Your chances of getting
into a good college often depend on
your class rank, regardless of how
smart or dumb your class is. Or it may
depend on your GPA, regardless of
how hard or unfair your teachers were.
These two statistics merely provide
a glimpse into the complexity of the
college applicant. Luckily for some of
us, the better colleges emphasize students’
essays, but even that can be
risky. Some people just aren’t that
good at writing, even though they may
excel at other things, so their essay
could decrease their chances of getting
into a good school.
The final failure of American public
education is the destruction of students’
intellectual curiosity. When we
are in elementary school, we look forward
to school because what we are
learning is relevant and practical. This
fades as we enter middle school, and
by high school the subject matter is
both uninteresting and impractical.
This combination makes high school
students view school as something that
they have to trudge through every day
until the final bell rings and they can
Photo by Ana De la Torre, Worcester, MA
“have fun again.”
Where did it all go wrong? When
we started focusing on the competitive
aspects of education and how well our
students did compared to other countries,
we forgot about the people who
really matter: the students. How can
we fix it? It may be too late for our
generation, but the next one could be
improved with a few adjustments.
First, we need less emphasis on the
“core classes” like science, math, and
social studies. We all need basic backgrounds
in these subjects, but by the
time students reach high school, they
know what they like and should be
allowed to choose which classes to
take. This will allow students to learn
what they enjoy while still preparing
them for life.
Secondly, we need more emphasis
on elective classes since they help
develop academic curiosity. While
some teens view electives as easy
ways to fill up their schedule, they
actually help students grow as people
while teaching them practical skills
for life. And since students choose
these classes, they will not lose their
academic curiosity.
In the end, the biggest change needed
in the U.S. public school system is
listening to students. While some
psychologists would have you believe
that teenagers shouldn’t be in charge
of their education, our input is critical
if we are to flourish in high school.
Many students are surprisingly knowledgeable
about their educational
needs, and if our voices are heard,
then the education system could get
back on its feet and accomplish its
purpose: to impart general knowledge,
develop the powers of reasoning and
judgment, and generally prepare us
intellectually for mature life. ✎

Tall Chai by Meredith Swim, Lexington, KY
Cappuccino!” “Venti Caramel
Mocha!” Caught in the coffee chaos at
“Grande
Starbucks, I stand impatiently in line
waiting to order my chai latte. As I wait, I glance at
the piles of low-fat blueberry muffins and stretch my
neck to steal a glimpse at The New York Times. A dark
green book catches my eye. I lean over to pick it up
and my mundane morning coffee run is interrupted.
An African boy around 10, eyes downcast, flip flops
hanging off his feet, and an AK-47 slung across his
back, is pictured on the cover. Memoirs of a Boy
Soldier – the words linger in the drifting
smell of coffee and paint a different light
on this casual Starbucks trip. Memoirs of a
Boy Soldier. The title spins in my head.
The book resonates with my spirit, and
I am reminded of a quote I heard on a
BBC radio interview. The man being
interviewed was Andrew Harvey, and he
encouraged young people not to follow their “bliss”
(as Joseph Campbell suggested) but to follow their
“heartache.” Discovering Memoirs of a Boy Soldier in
Starbucks that day reminded me of this quote, of my
bliss and my heartache.
My bliss is writing creative stories about goblins
who suffer from dry skin. My bliss is exploring French
history and then telling the story of the French revolution
from the perspective of a pink French poodle.
When I’m in the creative process of writing a story,
I want to wake up at dawn and get the day started.
Focusing on the world of imagination is a secret
passion, one I can slip into during pre-calculus class
and when I feel alone in a crowd.
Expressing my feelings in the present moment is
Last summer, I found myself
sitting on a couch opposite a
38-year-old Filipino man named
Peter who smelled like stale tuna, dirt,
and a dream deferred.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Here.”
“What made you homeless?”
“I need my green card.”
“Where do you stay and get food?”
“I need my green card. I need … my
green card. I go clean the mall. I make
plans for the future.”
I later discovered, by talking with
the soup kitchen staff, that Peter is
mentally handicapped. He moved to
the U.S. when he was five, but he still
had an accent. He probably already had
his citizenship.
This was an unconventional way to
explore a social topic. My best friend’s
mother was the manager at a homeless
shelter, and their fund-raising event
was coming up. My friend was a film
major at our school, and I was a theater
major, so we pooled our talents and
made a documentary about the causes
of homelessness and how the shelter
had helped many find counseling,
food, shelter, and showers. I interviewed;
she filmed.
It quickly became apparent that
Peter wasn’t the only homeless person
The boy on
the cover
haunts me
difficult due to my introverted personality and the fear
of how my words will affect others. Therefore, I take
the unspoken words and put them into stories. Writing
gives me the opportunity to express my inner world of
imagination and feelings. Writing serves as an escape
from harsh realities.
But the book I am holding in this line will not be an
escape; this book will awaken me to the horrors of
war and reveal the cruelties of human nature. I realize
I could easily put it down, buy my tea, and return to
my world of ACT prep and the latest text message
from a friend. This book could be forgotten.
But the boy on the cover haunts me. I pretend
I have the power to reach into the photograph
and pull him into Starbucks with me
so I can buy him a peppermint hot chocolate
and see childhood reborn in his eyes.
Since the world of imagination is my bliss,
then my heartache is children who are robbed
of their chance to experience the world of imagination.
As the coffee line moves, I am now one customer
away from the counter. I realize the author, Ishmael
Beah, and I both write to reveal our inner journeys – a
form of therapy through the written word. Reading his
book will break my heart but at the same time feed the
fire that burns within me, that grows stronger and
more vibrant with each story about cruelty toward
children. This fire hisses and demands change for the
forgotten children of the world.
If I follow my bliss, I could be writing for myself,
to show the world my wisps of imaginings. By following
my heartache I could contribute to the greater
good. I could use my writing to help others, to share
the stories of people who have been pushed to the side
Waiting for the Bus by Rose Brannen, Savannah, GA
with seemingly insurmountable problems.
There was Don, a 58-year-old
professional drunk who had been in
and out of rehab and jail most of his
life. He was a colorful storyteller –
he recalled in vivid detail being there
the first time Ozzy Osbourne bit off a
bat’s head. A marijuana stem was tattooed
on his arm. When he was 15, his
friend started to ink the tattoo, but Don
decided to stop halfway through the
process – an appropriate
metaphor for
his life. Every time
he went into rehab,
every time it looked
as if he had found
steady employment,
he quit halfway
through.
Then there was
the woman simply
known as the Bag Lady. A paranoid
schizophrenic, she had amassed a
collection of detritus and kept it in a
grocery cart, never letting it out of her
sight. She spent her days waiting for a
bus that never came; she would scrutinize
each one that passed her stop, invariably
deciding it was the wrong one.
She kept all her clothes layered on her
body, even during the oppressively hot
and humid Georgia summers. One day,
she uncharacteristically tried to remove
They are not welfare
leeches, drug
abusers, or society’s
cross to bear
her clothes to take a shower at the
shelter. She couldn’t. Sweat and dirt
had plastered them to her body, and my
friend’s mother had to rip them off her.
She became hysterical when we asked
to interview her.
As I helped set up the camera in the
cafeteria to pan across the room, I became
overwhelmed watching everyone.
Peter prayed for his green card. Don
displayed the tattoo that was never
completed. The Bag
Lady stared out the
window at her stop in
hopes that her bus
would finally arrive. I
could only think of
that dream deferred.
My studies in homelessness
continued
long after the camera
stopped rolling. I
conducted more interviews, this time
for myself. Most of these people were
thrown onto the streets because an
unexpected debt had upended their
already volatile paycheck-to-paycheck
existence, or because they were addicts
who had never found adequate rehabilitation,
or because they had a mental
illness. Realizing the fragility of the
line that separates “person” from
“homeless person” has helped me treat
everyone with compassion.
and cannot speak out themselves. My heartache is the
abuse of innocent children, and through writing I can
help their voices be heard. I place Memoirs of a Boy
Soldier on the counter and order my drink.
Like the author, I want my inner voice to speak
powerful words that will in some way, however small,
evoke change and bring peace in our world. ✎
Photo by Hyunwoo Kim, Charlottesville, VA
Instead of lecturing the homeless on
not using welfare to buy drugs or hugging
my purse as I speed by a park
bench, I take time to listen to them.
This experience also helped when I
worked for the Obama campaign. I
registered more people to vote in one
day than most interns did in a week,
because I approached the people lying
on park benches, the ex-felons and
homeless people who didn’t know that
they could vote in Georgia. One man
cried as he filled out the registration
form; the State of Georgia had taken
his vote from him 20 years ago. After
that, the Savannah campaign held
drives at all the homeless shelters.
Learning about the plight of homeless
people has made my world a little
more beautiful. I learned the difference
between a mandolin and a guitar from
a street musician named Guitar Bob.
I learned about the history of metal
music from Don. Al taught me how to
weave a rose out of palm tree leaves.
Most importantly, I learned that these
people are not welfare leeches, drug
abusers, or society’s cross to bear.
Homeless people have specific problems
that aren’t impossible to manage,
and with a modicum of effort and
ingenuity, perhaps one day their bus
will finally come. ✎
COLLEGE CONNECTION • APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
college essays
25

college essays
26
Failing Successfully by Candace Moberly, Berea, KY
My day in the sun had arrived – my magnum
opus would be revealed. I had just delivered
a memorized speech that I had labored over
for weeks, and I was about to learn how the panel
judged my performance. The polite but sparse audience
leaned forward in their folding chairs. A hush
fell across the room. The drum rolled (in my mind,
anyway).
The contest organizer announced the third-place
winner. Alas, the name was not mine. Then he read
the second-place winner, and once again it was
not me. At last, the moment of truth came.
Either I was about to bask in the warmth of
victory or rue the last several months spent
preparing. While neither of these came to
pass, my heart felt closer to the latter.
Losing is a part of life, and I have dealt
with the emotional baggage that travels
shotgun with it on more than one occasion. However,
it was an indescribably underwhelming feeling to
drive 200 miles round trip, get up obscenely early on
a freezing Saturday morning, and yet still finish
fourth out of four contestants. After Lincoln lost the
1858 Illinois Senate race, he reportedly said, “I felt
like the 12-year-old boy who stubbed his toe. I was
too big to cry and it hurt too bad to laugh.” Oh yeah,
I could relate.
I had spent many hours in front of a computer and
in libraries doing research for the Lincoln Bicentennial
Speech Contest. As I pored over several biographies,
one notion stood out: Lincoln was handed
My Last Lecture by Kristine, Indianapolis, IN
Each day in my World Literature
class, we read a chapter or two
aloud from The Last Lecture by
Randy Pausch. As we read, I think
about my life and try to decide what
points I would make if I had to give a
last lecture. This may sound silly,
because I am so young – my life has
been small compared to the lives of
brilliant college professors – but I do
it anyway.
I think I would talk about my family
and their impact on me. My parents
have alcohol problems, so I guess that
would be the most significant topic I
could speak about, but it’s not exactly
about me. I could also talk about my
position as the managing editor of
my high school newspaper and how
important that is to me, how I spend
hours in the journalism room coaching
writers and trying to perfect the publication.
That sounds a bit arrogant,
though. I could mention the sports I
used to play and how my passion
faded as I became older, but that
might sound like I was just trying to
make excuses. By the time the bell
rings, I always feel frustrated. I am so
glad that I am not a college professor
who is ready to retire. I wouldn’t
know what to say.
As I speculate, I get stuck on the
idea that most people my age have at
least something to talk about. I know
someone who went to Africa to help
children with AIDS, and another who
Losing is
a part
of life
took a month off school to go on a
mission trip to Guatemala. Then
there’s my friend Duncan, who is in a
band that is currently producing its
first album. That really impresses me;
plus, the band is extraordinary. I go to
concerts and come away feeling like a
different person.
I just haven’t done anything that
huge. I have only been out of the
country once, to Australia on a People
to People Student Ambassadors trip,
and I didn’t really do
anything charitable
there. I’m not in a band
either, although Duncan
did try to teach me the
piano.
The truth is, I just
love to learn about life
and people and then find a way to put
it into words. It’s the most incredible
feeling in the world stringing words
together that sound right, that feel
beautiful as they collect in the brain
and flow through the fingers onto the
page. But that’s not monumental
enough to inspire people.
This weekend, my dad and I drove
five hours to visit a college. This really
is impressive if you know my dad. He
is 5'5" and weighs about 115 pounds.
Nobody is sure of his exact weight
since it is constantly decreasing. He
doesn’t drive or go places anymore,
but he made this trip with me. My
family fights a lot, but this weekend
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09 • COLLEGE CONNECTION
many sound defeats, but he never allowed them to
(permanently) hinder his spirit or ambition. While I
believe many history lessons can be applied to modern
life, I hadn’t considered “the agony of defeat” as
a historically valuable learning experience. I never
dreamed I could relate to Lincoln! A president no
less, and the greatest at that. I thought “failing
successfully” was a very appropriate topic, given
the many letdowns Lincoln experienced, and so this
became the title of my speech.
After not placing in the first year of the speech
contest, I really wanted to compete again.
Lincoln had been the epitome of persistence,
so I was not going to give up on a contest
about a historic individual who did not give
up! I reworked my speech for the following
year, and while I did not come in last, again
I did not place. Some days you’re the dog,
and some days you’re the hydrant, and this was
definitely a hydrant day that brought me down for
a while.
I couldn’t accept the fact that I had failed twice
in something that I had worked so hard on, until I
contemplated the individual whom I’d spent so
much time learning about. Never mind the lost
prize money (ouch, major) and praise (ouch, minor)
– I had learned, really learned, about a great man
who had experienced failure and disappointment,
and had many chances to give up. We remember
Lincoln because he didn’t take this route; he didn’t
throw lavish pity-parties, and he persevered to
My dad’s
weakness broke
my heart
my dad and I only had one short-lived
argument.
I cried three times during the trip.
Once was when my dad fell asleep
really early. I looked over at him, and
he reminded me of a child curled up
with the blankets pulled around his
chin; he’s cold all the time. He looked
so fragile and tiny. Sometimes I can be
sarcastic or even mean, but I’m not a
true pessimist. As I looked at my dad,
I was overwhelmed with compassion.
It just made me so sad.
Once my dad beamed
with joy and laughter,
but now he hides within
himself, even in his sleep.
I know there is evil in
humanity, but each time I
think about hating anyone,
I remember my dad – his addictions
and his anger, but mostly his sadness.
The next time I cried was on the
actual tour. About halfway through,
my dad began to fall behind the group.
I noticed and turned back.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, breathing heavily.
“Don’t worry about me. If I knew
where I was going, I’d just meet you at
the car. Go ahead.”
My dad’s weakness broke my heart.
He’s 51, but looks 70. Instead of going
ahead as he asked, I waited.
The third time I cried was on the
way home. A car was merging into my
lane, and the driver didn’t see me. I
become, according to many, the greatest American
president.
While I did not earn monetary awards as a result of
this contest, I did gain a new perspective. Through
learning about Lincoln, I discovered that I can fail
successfully, and that it is possible to glean applicable
wisdom from the lives of those who have come
before us. Now, whenever I’m faced with a setback, I
remember what Lincoln said after his unsuccessful
1854 Senate race: “The path was worn and slippery.
My foot slipped from under me, knocking the other
out of the way, but I recovered and said to myself,
‘It’s a slip and not a fall.’” ✎
Photo by Hailey Jones, Lake Oswego, OR
swear we almost died. This was the
most memorable moment of my life.
I began shaking and crying, and I
looked at my dad. His face was blank;
he wasn’t scared. Suddenly I thought
of courage and The Things They Carried
by Tim O’Brien, which we read
in class. In the chapter entitled “On
the Rainy River,” a boy my age was
drafted to fight in the Vietnam War. He
ran away, heading to Canada. When he
got there, he stopped, cried, turned
around, and went to war.
In that moment with my dad, I didn’t
really need courage; I only needed the
common sense to get out of the way.
My dad, though, needed courage more
than anything. Like the boy wavering
between the United States and Canada,
he faced either life or death. I’m not
sure which one he wanted at that
moment. He told me to stop crying
and watch the road. Finally I forced
myself to stop, and my dad opened
another can of beer.
As great a story as this is, at least
to me, I’m not sure if it’s last lecture
material. I guess I obsess over this
way too much. Besides, I’m tired, and
I can still remember how peaceful my
dad looked sitting in the car next to
me as we zoomed down the interstate.
Perhaps that’s enough for now. I may
or may not see a smile like that on
his face again. Maybe that’s my last
lecture, my strongest desire; I want to
keep my dad forever. ✎

Perfect Chemistry
by Sminu Bose, New City, NY
Ahigh-pitched squeal pierced my
eardrums. Of all places, I was in Fort
Detrick – 20 minutes from the nation’s
capital. Fragments of thought collided in my
mind as I stared at the light dancing on the
conical tube shaking in my hand. Is this a
terrorist attack? Definitely.
And then my mentor, the docile scientist
whom I had met two days before, began
laughing maniacally. Was this some kind of
joke? Could he really be behind it? He was
looking past his brand-new intern, who was on
the verge of hyperventilating, and staring at
the -20˚C freezer.
I was not at all relieved to
discover that my ears were
throbbing not from a terrorist
attack but because of the
freezer’s alarm. My mentor
had, in fact, been scheming as
I innocently gathered the necessary
enzymes to complete
the digestion reaction assigned
to me. It was my third day at
the National Cancer Institute (NCI) Cell and
Developmental Signaling Laboratory, and I
was completely focused on executing my
task perfectly. Little did I know that my 20 or
so expeditions to the freezer would induce
mechanized screaming. My mentor had been
waiting mischievously as the freezer’s temperature
rose to -7˚C. Ever since then, I have
been wary of that banshee freezer.
I found my first days as a Summer Cancer
Research Training Award Fellow filled with
many wild experiences. The first time I heard
about CERT protein, my head spun, but by the
end of the summer I had cloned it multiple
times and studied the protein-protein inter -
actions of its specific domains using S2 cell
models. This summer I did so many things
that I never could have imagined. I woke up
I loved this
world – a world
saturated with
science
many times fearing that it was all a dream. I
loved this new world that I was experiencing –
a world saturated with science.
Of course, I faced challenges during my
eight weeks at NCI. My second week, my
mentor announced that we would be dissecting
pregnant mice in our attempts to generate
a CERT knockout mouse. My pinky toe quivered
enthusiastically, as it usually does when I
am overexcited. In what looked like an ice
cream carton with holes was a swollen female
mouse with slick black fur. The pungent smell
of food pellets filled the lab. As my fingers
encroached into her space, her black-marble
eyes locked with mine. I immedi-
ately snatched my fingers back –
was it compassion, fear, regret?
My mentor motioned for me to
pick her up, and my hand slowly
descended into the box again. As
I lifted her by the tail, she struggled
fiercely, but I did not loosen
my grip. The hardest part was
dropping her into the CO2 box
and watching her chest heave as she took her
last breaths. It may have been silly, but I
prayed for that mouse. But as I was doing the
dissection and removed the linked chain of
embryos, I understood that in order to advance
science and save thousands of lives in the
future, sometimes sacrifices must be made.
Leaving the lab left me hungry for more
science. I still find my thumb in a pipetting
position and retain the ability to unscrew
bottles and tubes with my left hand. And I
sometimes wake up thinking that I was just
doing a dissection or an experiment until I
realize that it was a dream. In search of a
continued experience, I am already looking
for internship opportunities at research laboratories,
and I absolutely cannot wait to get back
to that environment! ✎
How I Became an “Old Man” by Hao Wu, Culver, IN
name and rank‚ sir.”
That was my most frequently used phrase
“Sir‚
during my first month in the United States at
the Culver Military Academy. I was a second-class man
(junior) but also a new cadet.
As a Chinese student who had never been to America
before, it was painstaking to memorize the names and ranks
of the “old men” (branch-qualified cadets).
“Sir, good morning, uh – uh – First Ser – Ser, uh,
Sergeant uh – Puc, uh, Puccia, sir.” It took me
forever to greet them in the hallway.
Feeling embarrassed, I wrote down the
names and ranks of all 47 “old men” in my unit
and sat on my bed for hours each day, reading
my list and whispering, “Lance Corporal
Turner, Color Corporal Weber ….”
“Tuck in your shirt! Don’t talk in the hallway!
Square your corners when you march!”
they would always bark at me.
Waking at 5:30 each morning, I put on my uniform,
shined my shoes, swept the floor, and made my bed so
there were absolutely no wrinkles. Then I stood outside my
room, waiting for inspection. That was the reality of my
career as a new cadet.
Because of my superior performance, I was the first
cadet invited to Boards, the rigorous testing and inspection
This was the
reality of my
career as a
new cadet
for a new cadet to become a branch-qualified “old man.”
The most important part of the process was the room
preparation, so I needed to thoroughly clean my room and
make sure every nook and cranny was spotless. I woke up
at 6 a.m. that Saturday and got to work. To eliminate the
dust bunnies hiding in the corners, I bought two bottles of
Lemon Pledge. I pulled out the drawers of my desk and
crawled underneath. Lying on my back, I sprayed and
wiped every inch of the desk, including the underside, the
drawer slides, and the legs. I did the same to my
wardrobe, bed, and lamp; I even polished my
room key.
The hardest part of the preparation was the
floor. Dragging, pulling, hauling, pushing, I
moved everything out of my room and into the
hallway. Piles of dust hidden for years lay where
my desk, bed, and wardrobe had stood.
After I had swept up the dust and mopped the
floor twice, I opened my second bottle of Pledge. On my
hands and knees, I polished the floor one section at a time.
By the time I had backed into the hallway, my shirt was
wet, my knees were numb, and sweat dripped down my
cheeks faster than I could wipe it away. But the floor shone,
almost too much. I soon realized how smooth, even slippery,
my floor was – I had cleaned it with furniture polish.
“Hey, what’s up, Wu?” a friend asked as he stepped into
The Jungle
by Amy Zheng, New York, NY
Istood in front of the classroom like a specimen under the
scrutiny of 23 pairs of eyes. The children were hunters on
high alert, ready to pounce on any mistake I made. I began
stuttering and gave wrong answers for simple math problems,
only to be instantly corrected by several smirking students.
The rest started murmuring in the background. Yes, they were
skillful hunters.
In the summer of 2008, I worked as an assistant teacher at a
children’s day camp. I struggled to create weekly lesson plans,
pulled apart kids who were clawing at each other, and taught
Chinese to students who were novices to the language. Amidst
their incessant chattering, the rare moments of silence came only
after the teacher’s booming calls for attention. The classroom
was a hectic sea of kids running around playing tag, shouting
insults at each other, and arguing about who should go first in a
game. Every day was a battle between
I had become
their terrified
subordinate
me and these wild little creatures.
What had I become? I was supposed
to teach them, and yet I had
become their terrified subordinate. I
had an epiphany one day and realized
it was time to do something about
this. I was older, more knowledge-
able, and most importantly, I had more authority. The next day,
I walked into the classroom and stood in the front firmly and
calmly. The students curiously studied me, but I did not flinch
or stutter. From that day on, they gradually started to pay attention.
Some even started calling me “Ms. Amy.”
Seeing a hint of respect in their wild eyes was like getting
recognition for my achievements. I was finally acting as an
authority figure, someone they could look up to. The respect I
received also marked a crescendo in my self-confidence. It
made me believe that I had the ability to overcome obstacles
and command respect. It was a confirmation of my skills and
abilities.
One month after my summer job ended, I went back to visit
the students. I saw the same hectic room full of kids running
around and shouting at each other. However, their playful insults
were a different kind of music to my ears now. Instead of
the cacophony I heard that first day, this was a unique harmony
– the song that played during my march to self-confidence and
belief in myself. ✎
COLLEGE CONNECTION • APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
college essays
my room. “When are you– aagh!” His feet flew out and
he fell flat on his back. I can hardly remember how many
other boys fell. In a while, my room was filled with cadets
in socks spinning like ice skaters.
I lay on my back in the hallway outside my room. “One‚
two‚ three … Go!” Jason pushed my feet and I glided into
the room, staring up as the ceiling sped by. Wham! My
head slammed into the heater.
Back to work, I shined my shoes until I could see my
teeth in them. I folded shirts for five hours, kneeling on the
floor with a steel straight-edge: “No, it’s still not exactly 8
by 10 inches.” I folded them, unfolded them, folded them
again.
I spent 17 hours cleaning my room. I passed Boards.
I keep two empty bottles of Pledge and a steel straightedge
on my desk to remind me of that day. When I face
huge academic and emotional pressures, the sight of the
bottles keeps me motivated; when I feel contented and
sated, I turn to the steel straight-edge, which inspires me to
seek perfection. I bring this motivation and perfectionism
with me as a member of Squadron Staff, supervising 138
cadets, leading my unit to be the best in the regiment, and
getting straight A’s.
I keep two empty bottles of Pledge and a steel straightedge
in my room to remind me that I can accomplish great
feats. ✎
27

educatorof year the
Kathy Nelson
LANGUAGE ARTS ⋆ ARROWHEAD UNION HIGH
by Adam Melka, Pewaukee, WI
Over the course of my 12 years of school, I have had many teachers – hard
teachers, funny teachers, and some who were out of their minds. The one
who has had the greatest influence on me is Mrs. Nelson. She is funny,
has great energy, and loves teaching. She shows devotion to her students and will
go out of her way to help them when they are struggling. She is, by far, one of the
best teachers I have ever had.
On September 2, 2005, I underwent emergency brain surgery and spent six
weeks in the hospital. This was a really bad time in my life. I was close to dying
and the outcome of my recovery was unknown. When
After my brain
injury, she
helped me
catch up
Detention, detention, write-up, suspension.
That was the behavioral pattern I had followed,
undeterred, from kindergarten to
seventh grade – that is, until I met my match. I was
never one to go looking for trouble (okay, maybe once
or twice), but somehow, trouble and I always found
ourselves entangled, as Conrad Middle School’s Dean
of Discipline quickly discovered.
“It’s a brand-new year at a brand-new
school. The whole ‘teacher doesn’t like
me’ excuse won’t work here, Maurice,”
my mother said before my first day at
Conrad. Deep inside, I knew she was
right. That excuse wouldn’t fly anymore.
So it was time to come up with a new one.
It wasn’t even a full week into the school year when
I was sent out of class for arguing with another student
over something I had probably instigated. “Take this
and report to the dean’s office,” my teacher barked as
she handed me the behavior referral I had become all
too familiar with in years past. Since I didn’t know
where the dean’s office was (and didn’t care to find
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
Jesse Wakeman
STUDENT ADVISOR ⋆ CONRAD MIDDLE SCHOOL
by Maurice Gattis, Wilmington, DE
I came back to school after my brain injury, Mrs. Nelson
helped me catch up on assignments for all of my
classes. At first, I was forgetful about assignments and
couldn’t remember the material I learned. She showed,
most importantly, great patience with me.
Mrs. Nelson has been teaching for a long time and is
one of the most experienced teachers at Arrowhead
Union High School. She is respected by all the faculty
and is a mentor for teachers just starting their careers.
Mrs. Nelson is so easy to talk to and is a great listener. When students go to her
for help, she listens to what they have to say and puts all of her effort into helping
them. She treats all her students like they are her children, which is nice because
that shows she’s passionate about giving them the best education possible.
Mrs. Nelson is one of the coolest teachers ever. She has touched my life as she
has so many others’. I don’t think she will ever know how truly grateful I am. She
is simply the best teacher I have ever had. ✎
Nominate your favorite junior and senior
high school educators:
Online: www.TeenInk.com
Mail to: Educator of the Year • Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
Email to: Educator@TeenInk.com
Be sure to include your teacher’s first and last name.
28
of Educator theYear
Contest
Last month to nominate a
special educator!
I was afraid
to disappoint
him
Deadline:
May 1
out), I decided this was the perfect opportunity to tour
the building. After a few minutes, I rounded a corner
and ran into a tall guy in a suit and a funny haircut.
“Are you Maurice? Follow me,” he said, before I
could even reply. We must have passed 50 classrooms
full of enthusiastic, well-behaved students on the way
to his office. Once there, we both took a seat, and he
stared at me for a full two minutes. “Is this
your idea of a good first impression?” he
asked, in a way that demanded a response
but almost made me afraid to answer.
“Uh … not really,” I mumbled. From
what I remember, Mr. Wakeman lectured
me for 45 minutes. All the while I stared at
his haircut. Upon hearing the word suspension
my attention snapped back and I began to sweat
(tough guys don’t get scared, I think the thermostat
was busted). “Huh?!” I squealed (puberty sucks).
“The code of conduct states that roaming the halls
constitutes being in an unauthorized area. That’s a
three-day vacation,” he said. By the books – that is
Mr. Wakeman. That visit was my first, but it certainly
Tim Kipp
SOCIAL STUDIES ⋆ BRATTLEBORO UNION HIGH
by Maya von Wodtke, Guilford, VT
He sits in the back of the room, hands interlaced
over his stomach, feet propped
up on the antique desk. Although he
appears relaxed, his pleased expression and
enthusiastic nods as he observes our seminar indicate
anything but inattentiveness. Like an old,
wise owl he watches us discuss, observing our
thought processes through the steel-rimmed
glasses perched on his freckled nose. A genuine
smile reveals his teeth, which contrast with the
silvery beard that adorns his jolly face. The walls
are plastered with posters, photos, bumper stickers,
newspaper clippings, buttons, banners, and
figurines. I could stare at this sea
for hours and still find something
new. On this particular afternoon,
I find myself repeatedly glancing
at a banner that reads, “Knowledge
is not enough.”
An excerpt from Paul
Hawken’s Blessed Unrest adorns
my binder, illegible black markings
filling every inch of the
margin. “And although we may not recognize it,
we are part of the biggest social movement on
earth,” I assert. “According to Hawken, change
comes from the bottom up, and that’s what this
movement is.” I turn to make eye contact with
Tim Kipp, looking for feedback, approval or
disagreement. But his knowing smile conveys a
certain stubbornness; this is our discussion.
After the bell, Mr. Kipp stands in the doorway,
his weathered briefcase reflecting his character
– the leather tearing at the seams, knowledge
ready to pour out the sides. Students scurry,
borrowing markers and tape, and seeking his
advice.
Even after he leaves, Room 132 is still
vibrant with a palpable sense of community.
Fifteen teenagers arrange chairs in a lopsided
circle, each one’s eccentricity adding to the
“hippie” appearance of this group of activists.
wouldn’t be my last. I’d be lying if I told you I knew
how many times I sat in his office awaiting my punishment,
just like I’d be lying if I told you that he
was my favorite guy for my first two years at Conrad.
But by the time eighth grade rolled around, I
had shaped up considerably and grown to like Mr.
Wakeman. Eventually I feared getting in trouble not
because of the repercussions but because I was
afraid to disappoint him.
Sadly, it is only in retrospect that I realize what a
powerful impression he made on me. He was strict,
but I knew he genuinely wanted to see me succeed. He
has this sarcastic humor that I couldn’t help but laugh
at, but he knew when it was business time and consequently
so did his students. The thought never crossed
my mind that someone who had cost me weeks upon
weeks of punishment and extra chores would be a person
whom I’d admire so much just a few years later.
I honestly believe that because of Mr. Wakeman
and his firm but concerned tactics, I am undoubtedly
a better student today. But above that, I am a better
person, which I still thank him for to this day. ✎
The knowledge
that Tim Kipp
bestows transforms
into action
Clad in thrift-store flannels and jewelry from
faraway places, they brainstorm ways to share
their ideas with the world. Like a budding tulip,
the knowledge that Tim Kipp has bestowed
transforms into action. They are aware; they are
empowered.
One ever-present question hangs in the air: how
can we use our voices to create change? Dancing
around it like leaves on a fall morning, plans
of fundraisers, presentations, bills in the state
legislature, and Friday night bake sales swirl.
Each day this group takes small steps toward
its goal of eradicating exploitative labor. To
these teens, it is a known fact that
“all you need to change the world
is some markers and a roll of
masking tape.” Armed with the
necessary supplies, students raise
their hands to indicate their willingness
to give presentations to
freshmen later in the week. “Hold
on, I can’t write your names fast
enough,” exclaims one girl as she
squeezes a list of volunteers into the margins of
the whiteboard.
A rosy-cheeked blonde glances at the lengthy
agenda scrawled on the board as she leads the
meeting. She expresses her excitement, saying,
“I met with students at Twin Valley and Leland
and Gray, and they really want to start groups
too.” New members watch, still unaware of the
enormity of the movement they have joined.
“… And anyone who can should come to Tuesday’s
meeting with Leland and Gray.” Her eyes
sparkle as she glances at the banner that she
noted earlier that morning, and satisfaction fills
her body. Self-conscious about talking too
much, she hands over the floor to a lanky junior,
whose unusual bracelets jingle softly as she
scribbles notes.
And above their heads Tim Kipp’s message
rings true: “Knowledge is not enough.” ✎
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UA has a rich tradition of excellence in
academics, sports, and student life.
Consistently named a top-50 public
university by U.S. News & World Report,
11 degree-granting schools and colleges,
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• Small New England College founded in 1784
• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends
• Every incoming fulltime student receives a
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• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job
• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon
graduation
Office of Admissions
61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
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Hawaii’s only Catholic university provides
an excellent education in the liberal
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(e.g. Early Childhood Education,
Forensic Sciences, Interior Design)
and generous merit scholarships.
3140 Waialae Avenue
Honolulu, HI 96816-1578
800-735-4733
www.chaminade.edu
CCH is the film school with focus.
You learn the whole art and the
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For info, text 6484cch to 64842
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• Quality and affordable private
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• Safe and historic campus near the
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• Choose from over 30 majors
• Residential Women’s College
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• Coeducational University College
900 Lakewood Avenue • Lakewood, NJ 08701-2697
800.458.8422, ext. 2760 • www.georgian.edu
Personal attention.
Engaged learning.
Explore the world.
Visit www.alma.edu to learn more about
the Alma College experience and the
students and faculty who embrace it.
www.alma.edu • 1-800-321-ALMA
The City College
of New York
Find your future in more than
90 specializations in architecture,
biomedicine, education,
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science at CCNY.
Convent Avenue @ 138th Street
New York, NY 10003
212-650-6981
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Earn a BA in Global Studies
while studying at our centers in
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www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 • globalcollege@liu.edu
For info, text 64gcliu to 64842
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs
� 3D Modeling and Animation
� Multimedia/Web Design
� Design
� Illustration
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American Academy of Art
332 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
A religiously-affiliated liberal arts
college located just outside of
Philadelphia offering an outstanding
and truly personalized academic
experience grounded in an
environment of faith.
2895 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA, 19009
267-502-2511
www.brynathyn.edu
Liberal arts college with an emphasis
on preparing leaders in business,
government and the professions.
Best of both worlds as a member of
The Claremont Colleges. Suburban
location near Los Angeles.
CORNELL
U N I V E R S I T Y
Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a
land-grant college, combines two great
traditions. A truly American institution,
Cornell was founded in 1895 and remains
a place where “any person can
find instruction in any study.”
410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
www.cornell.edu
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
140 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: admissions@duq.edu
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
Hamilton College is a national
leader for teaching students
to write effectively,
learn from each other
and think for themselves.
Writing resources from a writing college:
www.hamilton.edu/teenink
An independent, accredited,
four-year college of art and design
located in Cincinnati.
BFA degrees for fine artists and designers.
Our nurturing environment embraces
your uniqueness.
www.artacademy.edu • 800-323-5692
1212 Jackson Street • Cincinnati, OH 45202
Dartmouth
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate
program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit
of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
Small seminar-based classroom setting
�� Interdisciplinary curriculum focusing
��
on social sciences, humanities, arts and
��
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BURLINGTON
COLLEGE
arn a B.A. on or
Earn Ea B.A. on or off-campus,
off-campus, develop
develop your your own own major, major,
attend attend classes classes at at The Film
Film School, become
School, become a civically
a civically engaged
engaged citizen, citizen, and and much much more. more.
burlington.edu�
burlington.edu�
800/862-9616
For info, text 6burcol to 64842
CVA is a private, accredited, four-year college
of art and design offering Bachelor of Fine Arts
degrees in graphic design/interactive, illustration,
photography, drawing/painting, sculpture, and
interdisciplinary art and design studies.
sciences
Located in the historic Greenwich Village
neighborhood of New York City.
880 students from 43 states and 13
countries
www.newschool.edu/lang
Fostering creativity and academic
excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
College of
Visual Arts
344 Summit Avenue
Saint Paul, Minnesota
55102
651.224.3416
890 Columbia Ave.
C V A Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
www.cva.edu
Teen Ink • April ’09 • Page 30
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
Since 1904
• Academic Excellence in the rich,
Catholic intellectual tradition
World Class Faculty in Small Classes
averaging 20 students
Quality of Life in a 90%
Residential Community
���
500 Salisbury 500 St., Salisbury Worcester, Street MA 01609
1-866-477-7776
Worcester, MA 01609
1-866-477-7776
www.assumption.edu
For www.assumption.edu
info, text 648acma to 64842
Carleton
College
A national liberal arts college of
1700 students, located 35 miles
south of Minneapolis/St. Paul.
Distinguished in humanities and
science education, 60 percent of
students study abroad.
Admissions Office
Carleton College
Northfield, Minnesota 55057
1-800-995-2275
www.carleton.edu
Columbia College
Chicago
Learn to Write: Fiction Writing Department
Learn skills to help you
publish fiction, creative nonfiction
and scripts and to succeed in a
wide range of jobs – at one of
America’s premier writing programs
600 S. Michigan Chicago, IL 60605
admissions@popmail.colum.edu
www.colum.edu
Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
99 Main Street www.dean.edu
Franklin, MA 02038 877-TRY DEAN
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
by inquiry excellent and teaching, care of the intellectual whole
student, inquiry in and the capital care of of the the whole world.
student, www.fordham.edu/tink
in the capital of the world.
For info, text 6FRDHAM to 64842
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu

A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where You
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
For info, text 64HPU4U to 64842
A leading liberal arts college,
where writers thrive (together with
artistis, scientists, and other
lovers of learning).
Office of Admissions
Ransom Hall, Kenyon College
Gambier, Ohio 43022-9623
1-800-848-2468
admissions@kenyon.edu
www.kenyon.edu
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
degrees that work.
BACHELOR � ASSOCIATE � CERTIFICATE
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
A culturally diverse urban, studentcentered,
Catholic university, dedicated
to educating leaders who contribute to
the economic and cultural vitality.
16401 NW 37th Avenue
Miami Gardens, FL 33054
800-367-9010
www.stu.edu
For info, text 6484stu to 64842
Hofstra University can help you
get where you want to go, with
small classes, dedicated faculty
and an energized campus.
hofstra.edu • 1-800-HOFSTRA
admitme@hofstra.edu
��A
faculty consisting of 70+ worldrenowned
jazz artists.
��Strong
emphasis on small group
performance.
��
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
Priceless experience in clubs,
performance halls, and recording studios
in New York City.
www.newschool.edu/jazz
Pace University offers talented and
ambitious students the opportunity to
discover their potential and realize their
dreams. Campuses in New York City and
Pleasantville, NY.
Experience the Power of Pace.
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email infoctr@pace.edu
www.pace.edu
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential
campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: jaaron@pratt.edu
www.pratt.edu
Develop your creative mind in BFA
and BA programs emphasizing
independence, experimentation, and
the development of personal vision.
The interdisciplinary environment
combines studio and liberal arts.
800 Chestnut Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
800.345.SFAI
www.sfai.edu
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences,
and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
World-renowned faculty
�� Small classes
��Personal attention
��International student body
��New York City
�� location
www.newschool.edu/mannes
Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
Arts & Sciences, Business Administration,
Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.
Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
� Palmer College is where
chiropractic began
� Three campuses to choose from –
Iowa, California, Florida
� Natural, drug-free,
non-surgical health care
� Graduate-level program leading
to a Doctor of Chiropractic degree
www.palmer.edu
Princeton
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college
in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
SlipperyRock
University
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh,
the University is ranked number
five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic
quality at an affordable price.
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
For info text 64srupa to 64842
Degree programs in business, culinary arts,
hospitality and technology
Hands-on learning from industry-experienced
faculty
Co-ops and internships built into the curriculum
Johnson & Wales plans to award $105 million in
financial aid in the 2008-2009 acdemic year
Four campuses: R.I., Fla., Colo. and N.C.
Johnson & Wales University
8 Abbott Park Place
Providence, RI 02903
1-800-DIAL-JWU www.jwu.edu
· Over 40 undergraduate programs
offered with Dual Admissions into
graduate and professional schools
· Located in Fort Lauderdale, FL
· New state-of-the-art Performing
and Visual Arts facilities
www.nova.edu/admissions
(800) 338-4723
Located in New York City,
Parsons’ rigorous programs
and distinguished faculty
embrace curricular innovation
and global perspectives in
design. Programs in all art
and design disciplines.
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
MyMarywood.com
www.newschool.edu/parsons
A picturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
Communications, Health, Liberal Arts,
Education and Law. Located
mid-way between New York City
and Boston with Division I athletics.
Consistently rated among the top
Master’s level Colleges in the North
in U.S. News and World Report.
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT 06518
1.800.462.1944
www.quinnipiac.edu
75 years of keeping Hands-on in Higher Education
Training Pilots and Technicians for
aviation and related industries since
1928. Call or log on today and begin
your flight to a successful career!
Licensed by:
OBPVS
8820 East Pine St.
Tulsa, OK, 74115
800-331-1204
www.spartan.edu
Teen Ink • April ’09 • Page 31
Excellent Programs.
Outstanding Facility. Faculty.
Affordable Cost.
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
A visual arts college north of Boston
where creativity and independence
thrive through choice, connection
and community. BFA and Diploma
programs. Founded by artists to
educate artists.
www.montserrat.edu • 800.836.0487
admissions@montserrat.edu
For info, text 6484mca to 64842
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
• 100+ campus organizations
• 23 NCAA Division III sports
• A tradition of service-learning
61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu
For info, text 6484owu to 64842
Central Pennsylvania’s only
professional art college, offering
BFA programs in fine arts, graphic
design, illustration, and
photography.
Where art becomes opportunity
2o4 North Prince Street
Lancaster, PA 176o8-oo59
1-8oo-689-o379 • www.pcad.edu
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu

Suffolk University, located in vibrant
downtown Boston, offers over 80 areas
of study, providing students with the
skills and experience they need to
achieve lasting success.
www.suffolk.edu
Undergruate Admission 800-6SUFFOLK
8 ASHBURTON PLACE, BOSTON, MA 02108
A medium-sized university, the
University of Rhode Island offers both the
resources of a larger research institution and
the friendly, comfortable atmosphere of a
traditional New England college.
Newman Hall
Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100 • www.uri.edu
For info, text 6484uri to 64842
SWARTHMORE
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused
college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
THE UNIVERSITY OF THE ARTS
Located on the vibrant Avenue
of the Arts in Philadelphia,
The University of the Arts is
devoted exclusively to the study
of the visual, performing, and
media arts.
®
The University of the Arts ®
320 South Broad Street
Philadelphia, PA 19102
800-616-ARTS (2787)
www.uarts.edu
Teen Ink Introduces Text Messaging!
We hope you take advantage of the new texting options to get information
from colleges.
While most texting promotions use your phone number to send additional
advertisements, we don’t. We won’t sell your number or send you any
unrequested information, so you are in complete control.
So many options for college...
…the choice is clear.
Hawai‘i Pacific University
• Ranked a “Best in the West” college by Princeton Review
• Receive personal attention in classes under 25 students
• Learn alongside students from more than 100 countries
• Choose from more than 50 acclaimed programs
1-866-CALL-HPU • www.hpu.edu/teen
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential –
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
Teen Ink
Wants
Your
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
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Teen Ink • April ’09 • Page 32
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
www.upb.pitt.edu
you can
• 1-800-872-1787
go
Bradford, beyond PA 16701
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
For info, text 6upittb to 64842
Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
Attention Students!
Join the Teen Ink
Student Advisory Board
FEEDBACK TeenInk.com/StudentBoard
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Stargirl by Rasheeda Smith, Balch Springs, TX
Dear Jerry Spinelli,
I’m not your typical teenage girl. I
am homeschooled by my wonderful
mom. I have eight siblings who can be irritating
at times, though I still love them. I love creating
art from reusable items like cans, plastic, and
newspapers. I blog. I use photography to
express myself, and I can’t go a day without
reading one of my favorite adventure books.
Not long ago, I was what some people would
call a wallflower. I was very self-conscious and
would never raise my hand when the teacher
asked a question. My list of friends was as
blank as a sheet of white paper.
And I would have rather eaten
raw fish than socialize with others
my age. But reading your book
Stargirl inspired me to embrace
my individuality.
When I first picked up your
book, Mr. Spinelli, the title struck
me as a bit odd, but as I began
reading, I started to comprehend why you chose
it. Stargirl gave me a better perspective on how
both children and adults resolve situations when
coming in contact with new people. I think the
reason some people don’t treat others with
respect is because they don’t respect and love
themselves.
I learned this firsthand at a school I attended.
My first year there was third grade. The student
body was 99.9 percent Christian, and I stood out
because I wore a headscarf like many Muslim
females do in public. In a school where all the
other girls wore their hair uncovered, I was
somewhat uncomfortable. My headscarf made
Almost every
day I faced
verbal abuse
from peers
Commercials. We all hate them, some more than
others. Many of us try to avoid them as much
as possible. But for those who watch them, I
have a reason why commercials may be a lot worse
for us than we think (besides the fact that they make
us wait five minutes for our favorite show to come
back on).
We may not even realize it, but much of what we
see on TV affects how we think and act. Television
shows and commercials often put images in our heads
that we instantly believe. For exam-
ple, when we see someone who has a
mental disability, such as Down
syndrome, what do we think? Idiot?
Charity case? We’ve all seen actors
on TV call others “retards” if they are
acting foolish. We’ve seen ads for
charities to help research mental
handicaps. Watching this, someone
may conclude that these people are
helpless charity cases. This is wrong – dead wrong.
Two people who are very important to me have
mental disabilities. My 10-year-old brother was born
with autism. People with autism don’t look different,
but they exhibit strange behaviors. It also affects
their ability to communicate with others. He has
more trouble with some things than other people do,
but he manages to work through these challenges
and succeed. He is now in fifth grade, near the top
of his class, and serves as student council president.
He is one of the funniest, most lovable kids you will
ever meet, and most people can’t tell he has autism.
me stick out as though someone had written a
big red X on my forehead. Everyone would
snicker and stare; even the teachers treated me
differently. In my opinion, people like that
shouldn’t be allowed to work with children.
Almost every day I faced verbal abuse from
peers. Some would say “You’re ugly” or “You
smell” or “Boys will never like you.” The list of
insults went on and on.
It was very degrading to my self-esteem,
which reminds me of what Stargirl had to deal
with. Nevertheless, she rebelled against the
negativity of others by remaining herself,
serenading her peers on their
birthdays, and giving out candy
and notes on special occasions.
That is something I would have
liked to do, but I wasn’t bold
enough at the time.
Stargirl and I are alike in other
ways too. We both have beautiful
spirits, we’re creative, smart, and
have the same perspective on the world. Cool,
huh? Sometimes I imagine if Stargirl were to
pop out of your book, I’m sure we would be
great friends. But thinking about it now, there
probably is a girl somewhere out there just like
me, looking for a friend like me. And one day I
hope we will meet.
In conclusion, before I read your book,
Mr. Spinelli, I hadn’t found my path in the
world. But reading it helped me understand
that every girl, including me, no matter what
race or religion, is a Stargirl at heart.
Thank you for writing this inspirational book.
Your biggest fan, R.M.S. ✎
Change the Channel by Patrick, Franklin, MA
Nothing good
can come from
believing what
commercials tell us
I often forget myself.
In addition, my uncle, who is 35, was born with
Down syndrome. This condition affects people both
physically and mentally. Common physical characteristics
are upward slanting eyes, small ears, and a large
tongue. Down syndrome also affects a person’s ability
to learn. Although it may be at a slower rate, they do
learn, contrary to some beliefs.
Uncle John has challenges, but, like my brother,
he manages to work through them and succeed.
He lives independently with a
roommate who also has Down
syndrome, and he has a job. John
is loved by almost everyone he
meets. He is also rolling-on-thefloor-not-being-able-to-breathe
funny, especially when he tells
stories from his childhood. For
example, when John was young he
convinced his sister (my aunt) to put
him in the dryer. He was hilarious then and continues
to tickle everyone’s funny bone. I cannot be near
him for more than 30 seconds without bursting into
laughter. He can easily make anyone’s day a bit
better. As I have hopefully shown with these
examples, those with mental disabilities are more
than our televisions make them out to be.
“Try Proactiv and you too can be beautiful!” Yet
another miracle beauty product advertised on your
TV, this one claims it can clear up acne in just days.
As realistic as some of these ads seem, they are very
unreliable. Do we ever see a person on one of those
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Why Not?
by Anthony, Wilmington, DE
Do you want to go to the boys club where the
testosterone lingers like garlic chicken leftovers?
Do you want to go to McDonald’s where dreams
and futures are ground up like the beef in the freezer?
How about outside, where the “ghetto” is friendly to
natives and hostile to outsiders like an unseen but alwayspresent
spirit?
Why not? I ask as I shuffle my feet, a million problems
in my mind but smiling as if I couldn’t care less. I wave to
the “gangsters,” “thugs,” and “hustlers” of the neighborhood.
Why not?
I need to relax. I’ll have a stroke if I worry – brother is
in jail and sister is pregnant yet
This is the
other side
of success
again. So why not? I deserve it. I
never knew there could be pressure
to succeed at 14. It sucks when you
have to be the first in your family to
attend college.
Broken bottles lie forsaken and
battered on the street, a bag lady
curses out pigeons in the distance. This is the other side of
success, the not-so-glamorous world that many experience.
For some, it leads to ruin and despair. College is my
only hope. I lost my best friend to this ugly yet beautiful
world; I owe it to him.
Everyone is counting on me, my cousins on the corner,
my friends who may not have the opportunity, and my
late friend. I am determined not to let them down, and my
ambition will drive me through others’ expectations and
propel me in a successful jump into life after college.
So when I ask myself in the mirror, Do you want to
go down in history as the first person in your family to
excel, despite widespread inner-city clichés that make
this journey seem trite? I say to this prominent ultimatum
in my life, Why not? ✎
commercials who is ugly after they try the product, or
someone for whom the product didn’t work? Never,
right? These ads try to put ideas in our heads that we
will be beautiful if we buy the product, and many
viewers buy products because they believe these
commercials.
Nothing good can come from believing what
commercials tell us – except disappointment and
bad judgments. When your favorite TV show cuts
to a commercial break, change the channel. Or try
ignoring the commercials or finding something to
do during the break. Then maybe we will all make
fewer bad judgments about people and products. ✎
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
pride & prejudice
Photo by Garrett McMahon, Port Angeles, WA
33

Poetry
34
I Got the Joy!
I got the joy
to pop the corn
side the walk
swing the set
mock the bird
glow the worm
gas the light
To
break the fast
ice the box
stair the well
school the boys
bubble the gum
french the kiss
To
yellow the fever
treasure the chest
miracle the grow
marry the gold
night the mare
To
jump the jack and back again
I believe
I believe I got it … that joy!
by Lydia Hynson, Thiensville, WI
There’s Plenty of Fish in the Sea, But
Who Wants to Go Out With a Fish?
My face is breaking out
red boils on my forehead
black craters in my nose
and Momma has her door locked.
I got a 72 on my math test
what if I don’t get into college
will I be homeless in six years?
and Momma has her door locked.
Boys ignore me
I bite my tongue ’til it bleeds
did I wear my shirt backwards on Monday?
and Momma has her door locked.
The scale says I gained five pounds
I’m heavier than all my friends
my pants are too short
and Momma has her door locked.
I feel 15 thousand years older than yesterday
my joints are all stiff
will I die before I get to be as old as Grandma?
and Momma has her door locked.
by Molly Livingston, Jamesville, NY
when i am dead
When I am dead, my dearest, don’t stick my bones
together with Scotch tape. Do not try to fit them
underneath a frame. Use them, one by one,
as a weapon, a gavel. My bones,
they can be good back scratchers, honey mixers,
and hands of clocks.
You can toss them across space
and see how far they’ll glide until another hand
slips across it. When I am dead, dearest,
thread my bones to the top of a mountain.
The next time you arrive at a glass sea,
spill it boldly. Spell your life in two parts,
watch them float until they descend
like a weight down into that container.
by Hannah Wright, W. Des Moines, IA
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
Secret Swan
You.
Gossamer swan
bathed in moonlight
shed of speech
edge of the lake
you are my most precious secret.
Yours.
Glances I tuck away
into the front of my shirts
to examine in class.
Yours are the glances I relish.
You.
Floating on water feet trailing behind
walking like Jesus
I pluck feathers braid into my hair
smells like mud and water
secret swan
thin, fat string of calls I don’t understand.
by Jaden Gragg, Shawnee, KS
Photo by Richard Foland, League City, TX
Thanatopsis
In the midst of autumn
Mr. Bowne takes us out
To the old, white and brown wooden gazebo
Outside the 400 hallway
There is a cold, brisk breeze
Blowing around the dead fallen leaves
You see the yellow and orange leaves at the
roots of trees
As you walk along the red bricks with moss in between
The awkward, confusing weather tricks the daffodils
Into coming out of the fertile ground to die soon
Looking to the bright blue sky
You see the sun shine through the white, gray clouds
One takes a glance around
To see naked limbs of poor little trees
I sit in the gazebo
And take a moment of silence for those who lived and
left behind such beauties
I look up and find names such as Bob Hendricks, Mike
Goode, and Linda Chinski
Student or faculty member who contributed to the
sensation of autumn
Bowne says it’s time to go in
I take a last look at the area
I see an everlasting evergreen that tells me
Life goes on
by Naseef Tafader, Voorhees, NJ
Violin in Childhood
The vibration of the string resonates
against my neck –
tightening the band around
that untraceable organ I
strive to avoid feeling. The sound
of it is a sour, broken melody,
and soaks the band in a
lazy acid, not burning,
but irritating the soft skin
just enough to stop my bow.
My muscles tense beneath
my brow, frustrated. The band slackens
in relief. But an unrelenting
fear threatens to resurface –
fear of forming a habit. Laziness.
I pair it with the looming conscience
of the warden, listening from
across the hall,
and I anticipate another familiar
ache as I repeat my last cadenza.
by Jade James-Gist, Jackson, TN
Home Sweet Home
A thousand miles from
a place that’s supposed to be a “home”
when it’s just a house
sheltering four people
that have nothing in common
except some DNA.
by Haley Nolan, No. Barrington, IL
Anti-Hero
Saved by a fingertip
holding on
it could never be wrong
to trust you.
Watch me sleep
headphones, face-smush
legs curled, two-handed sleeping face palm.
Silent guardian
playing
Pearl Jam
reading
Camus
“… break his nose
if he comes any closer …”
Might have been
nothing to you,
but it carefully
flipped my world.
by Jaime Maxwell, Winnabow, NC
Traveler
I have traveled the spine of the coast
cracked
rough
curved like a turtle’s shell
Trekked over mountains
like sharp incisors
and then across the soft bulge of the prairie’s belly
swollen with disease
Walked through canyons’
cracks on the massive skull of the desert
by Alexander Pollak, San Francisco, CA
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Birthdays
I met you at Jessica’s fourteenth birthday party,
where we stayed up all night on the couch.
I don’t remember a word of what we talked about
but I can still see you there, with the blanket
on your lap,
and you were laughing. Always laughing.
I’m glad we became best friends.
I was there for your fifteenth birthday –
we watched “Flushed Away” at the Grand.
We laughed about it as we ate cake
in the glass party room where everyone could see us.
I’m sure that if they noticed you, what they saw was that
you were so alive.
You were there when I turned fifteen,
and we ate at Friday’s.
I took a picture of you there.
Your dad has it now, he keeps it with him.
And I haven’t eaten there since.
Jessica didn’t celebrate her fifteenth birthday
the same –
by then, you were gone.
For your sixteenth birthday, all your friends gathered
at your grave, and we wrote you notes.
We rolled them up tight and put them in balloons.
We sent the balloons away and pretended
you would get them.
I turned sixteen.
I lit a candle; I wished you were there.
Saturday is your seventeenth birthday.
And it’s hard to believe.
This year, I think we will try to forget.
But your impact, it’s still here.
It’s like tiny craters in my skin.
And I will always remember you,
through all the years.
Through all the
birthdays.
by Jillian Bush, Prentiss, MS
Letter to Individuality
Individuality, dearest one,
What has become of you?
You are a flower so rare in this “modern” world.
Pray tell, were you hiding from the world again,
With Chivalry and Dignity, your secret friends?
It’s sad, the world without you.
Did you hear Hope is lost,
And Purity was taken?
What has happened to Forgiveness, you ask?
You’d best not know.
Chaos bullies Innocence,
And Sin rules supreme.
And poor Love and Romance,
The sisters are no more.
My dearest neighbors went away,
And Lust has moved next door.
And Imagination
Was run over by the band wagon.
And Faith, her fate worse than death –
The world believes her irrelevant.
Please, before more are taken,
Save the world, for it is shaken,
Teach us to think for ourselves,
So the Virtues may return.
Always yours,
Emily
by Emily Roldan, Bettendorf, IA
Remnants on the Mantle
I am not you,
just the remnants from
the mantle
of a deteriorating family,
whisked away by the man with
a crowbar and a blackening handle.
When we used to be a
threefold troupe,
and you stomped all over it
to crush the picture with your dirty foot.
It’s about time I rise up from
who you are.
I am so much more
than your deafening
resounds.
Bravery and risk taking
is who I am
and you are nothing
but the woman on the floor
crying over your spilled milk.
I am so much more.
by Ellen Frank, Noblesville, IN
Writer’s Block
Writer’s block …
fingers waxen, halting
typing out a repetitive, ugly pattern
the words like burns across the page.
Hesitantly, I gingerly attempt to grasp hold of my
unusually absent river of creativity
tapping the flow
guiding it to where it is needed, an irrigation system for
the drought in my head
and am met with empty hands and slapped wrists.
by Jasmine Pesold, Park City, UT
Photo by Demetrius Anderson, Ft. Meade, MD
A Cannibal in Love
I want to make a feast out of you
your fat swollen chops would be great
nourishment for my lovesick mind
your savory lips pack the flaky crunch
that goes
perfectly with crimson molasses like my
dear honey bear draining the life out of its belly
oh yes! the belly!
my tongue yearns for medium rare sausages …
your tubular will do perfectly
fillets off your midsection
still fresh and perfect for sushi
won’t you say?
I can’t wait to get a bite out of you and
won’t you want a piece of me too?
by ZiXiang Zhang, Ridgewood, NY
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Teen Ink
RAW
Reader’s
Choice
Lazy bounds of stadium light
flicker on our boys
but we are tearing
up the night
cutting open nebulas
ravaging the moon
inky black guts slide
i hear them scrambling over barbed wires
attempted lust in the trees
fumbling with skeleton hips
adolescent lips digging into sharpened necks
leaving their burrow to inhale sweeter highs
someone’s china-glass tears are heard
below the idle roar
we are only allowed to scream
when rubber balls are involved
pounding car ride far away
a cotton moon glares at the windshield
these earthly nights
never felt so real.
by Yasmin Majeed, Cupertino, CA
The Empty Streets
I watched the traffic lights change
from green to yellow to red,
from behind my steering wheel,
from the other side of the glass.
And I drove the empty streets
that reminded me so much of
the empty hallways of your heart;
I guess I knew you weren’t coming back.
So I circled the block once more
hoping maybe we would pass
and I nearly thought we did,
but those weren’t your headlights
that I was staring at.
The slow and steady pulsing
of the biggest small town,
cars passing through lights
like my blood through valves;
missing you is like background noise,
like traffic outside my window at night.
And when I press my head to your chest
to hear the slow and steady pulsing
of your blood circling the block again,
the stars spread out before me
like city lights from atop a hill.
by Jessica Brenn, Wayne, NJ
Youngest Daughter
In the night, sweat glued my thighs to my jeans; the moths
melted like nodes of fat on the window screens while the
creek perused, a sluggish intestine of hot water; I looked
to see, in a corona of fireflies, my youngest
daughter. They stuck, lighting jewelry to her umber
throat. They were gemstones pulsing on her
soft grass-stained toes; they rippled
down her cheeks in tears of
joy that say, “Mother …
last night … I
met a
boy.”
by Rita Feinstein, Glorieta, NM
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
Poetry
35

you&your health
36
Pipe Dreams
by Daniel Madatovian, Glendale, CA
These days teens face a monumental amount of peer pressure. Trends in the
methods of using harmful products such as tobacco and alcohol change frequently.
The latest troubling fad is smoking hookah. The flavored tobacco
smoked in a hookah is more palatable to teenagers than cigarettes. There are many
myths about hookah smoking. For example, some teens believe that the water reservoir
filters dangerous chemicals out of the tobacco, making it a healthy alternative to cigarettes.
Although this sounds plausible, it is not true. Hookah smoking is as dangerous
as cigarettes, contains the same harmful chemicals, and does, in fact, involve tobacco.
For those who are unfamiliar with the term, a hookah is an intricately designed
water pipe for smoking flavored tobacco. Hookahs have been used in the Middle
East since the 16th century. Tobacco dipped in molasses or honey with other natural
flavorings produces smoke that smells and tastes
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
sweet. A hookah consists of a bowl, body, vase, and
hose. The bowl is packed with flavored tobacco and
covered in foil, which is perforated and covered with
hot coals. Sucking on the hose produces smoke from
the tobacco that has traveled down the shaft and
through the water. Because the smoke passes
through water, many erroneously believe that a
hookah filters out the harmful chemicals.
However, hookah smoking contains the same harmful chemicals as cigarette
smoking, including tar, PAH, chrysene (a tumor initiator), and phenanthrene (a
carcinogen). All of these have been known to cause cancer and are also found in
cigarettes. One hookah smoking session has about double the tar of a cigarette.
Smoking hookah can lead to lung cancer and cancers of the mouth and throat. In
addition, it involves sharing a mouthpiece, which increases transmissions of infections
like herpes. Hookah smoking is also a gateway to marijuana use since a hookah
can be packed with pot instead of tobacco. When someone begins smoking, it is not
very difficult to cross into marijuana smoking, or unknowingly smoke a hookah
laced with marijuana.
Regardless of whether smoking a hookah is better for you than cigarettes, all
forms of tobacco use can cause cancer. So when faced with the choice to try hookah,
listen to the facts, not the rationalizations. ✎
My Prison by Hannah, St. Louis, MO
The fan clicks unevenly. My pencil is
off-center on the desk. My neighbor’s
notebook is touching my arm. Breathe.
Don’t get overwhelmed. Focus.
As the teacher lectures, my mind wanders to a
million other imperfections (my
bags aren’t touching). Seemingly
insignificant placements, noises,
and sensations plague my mind,
consuming my thoughts and
trapping me in a prison of my
own creation.
OCD. The letters roll softly off
my tongue now, not like their original excruciating
sharpness. Obsessive-compulsive disorder –
these words are so commonly thrown around, a
diagnosis often misused to describe Type-A
personalities. Just the sound of these
three words can bring anxiety and
fear to a true sufferer, yet most people
are unaware of the reality of this
disorder.
I was officially diagnosed with
OCD/panic disorder sophomore
year. While others fretted over
homework, taking notes, and
Friday night plans, my biggest
struggle was to stay in class. I
fought to control my body
from showing outwardly the
battle I was fighting within.
My main concern was
staying me – staying
“normal” – through all
Hookah smoking
is as dangerous
as cigarettes
Most people
are unaware
of the reality
of OCD
Photo by Susannah Benjamin, Greenwich, CT
the medications and countless hours of cognitive
therapy.
I would like to say that I conquered my battle,
that I again became the good student I once was.
However, junior year was one of the toughest of
my life. Meds changed – upped more
and more until the only thing I could
feel was anxiety and anger.
Mistake number one: I gave up.
Changing a thought process is hard. I
did not want to. Avoidance became my
top priority. I thought if I could avoid a
trigger, I wouldn’t have a panic attack.
Mistake number two: I gave in. I succumbed to
the idea that my disorder defined and controlled
me, rather than realize I had the strength to control
it and define myself. Finally my house of
cards crashed down on me, revealing
my laziness and self-deceit.
Accomplishment number one: I
took back control of my mind and
my emotions. No longer would
my “issues” define who I was or
excuse my actions. My challenges
are still real and painful,
but I have realized I have tools
to control most of my anxiety
and can learn more. Though
I still feel those compulsions
every day, the effect they
have on me is almost
obsolete.
Accomplishment number
two: I became me again. ✎
Ripples
My own hands are betraying
me. I watch the water
in my glass ripple, and I
know it is happening again. I grip
the glass a little tighter, trying to
stop the movement, but it’s no use.
I place it on the counter and sink to
the floor.
The shaking spreads. It goes up
my arms until it reaches the rest of
my body. I hug my knees to my
chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I
do not cry out when I accidentally
bite my tongue.
I rifle through my mind, trying to
figure out why this is happening.
I’ve done everything I’m supposed
to. It’s the Friday before an empty
weekend, so I shouldn’t be stressed.
Zombie
I ran today like I always do. I’ve
been good and haven’t had any
caffeine. Why now?
I’m still shaking too hard to
move. Little red crescents rise up
on my skin where my nails cleave
my palms. No one calls. The doorbell
does not ring. All I can do is
hold on and wait.
Eventually, the shaking subsides
enough for me to stand. I keep one
hand firmly on the countertop while
I straighten my shirt and push back
my hair. I pick up my glass and
take a long, slow sip. It’s over.
There is no one here but me. ✎
Writer’s note: We don’t know what
causes my shaking, but my doctor
thinks it might be anxiety.
Photo by Sadra Lemons, Buckeye, AZ
I’ll never forget those glassy mahogany eyes. How could I
forget the hollow glare they pitched my way and the sight of
their owner arising from a deathly slumber?
“Mom?” my sister called, breaking the stillness of the house.
“Mom?” And my mom came running.
“What is it, Adrianna?” My sister didn’t respond. “Are you
awake?” Mom asked. At the time I thought it was a dumb question.
“I don’t know,” Adrianna answered. Mom instinctively knew the
right questions to ask. My sister was sleepwalking.
Sleepwalking is fairly common in children; however, it also
occurs in adults. But if sleepwalking is so common, why does the
average person know so little about it?
Sleepwalking, also known as som-
How can you
tell if someone
is sleepwalking?
by Amanda Sternklar,
Glenmont, NY
by Christian DiMare,
Uxbridge, MA
nambulism, causes people to get up,
walk, run, and even talk in the third and
fourth stages of non-rapid eye movement
(NREM) sleep. In NREM sleep, a
person usually is not dreaming and has
slow breathing and heart rate. People
who sleepwalk are not aware of what is going on. They are not
conscious and won’t remember what they did while sleepwalking.
How can you tell if someone is sleepwalking? People are different,
and so are sleepwalkers. Some quietly amble about, while
others run in an attempt to “escape.” Sleepwalkers are often slow
to answer or don’t respond at all.
Sleepwalking has many causes, ranging from genetics to environmental
factors. If someone in your family sleepwalks, it’s more likely
that you will too. Stress, alcohol, and drugs are factors, along with a
lack of sleep. Some psychiatric conditions, like post-traumatic stress
disorder and multiple personality disorder, cause sleepwalking too.
It is a little unnerving knowing that my sister wanders the house
in a subconscious state. Even though I’ve only witnessed it once,
that image remains etched in my mind. I’ll never forget her glassy
mahogany eyes. ✎
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Ping-Pong by Rachel Brockhage, Daredevil Mason, OH
by Victoria Phillips, Laurel, MD
Ping-pong is a sport that has the reputation for being nerdy and pointless,
but if that’s your impression of it, you have a lot to learn. Let
me explain.
Playing a match is like taking a test: you have to calculate angles and
probabilities under time pressure. If you don’t determine the right force
and acceleration, you might completely miss the ball. Professional table
tennis players do not become great overnight, as with any sport. Instead,
they dedicate long hours (perhaps spent more productively elsewhere)
learning.
It’s inevitable: the more you play, the more types of players you’ll
encounter. The Ping-Pong Dork is the worst kind of challenger. He brings
his own signature paddle to the match, insists on using his regulationstandardized
ball, will argue for hours about 40 mm versus 38 mm, and
actually knows the names of the greatest players in the world. The most
pathetic part is he’s beaten mercilessly every time.
Then there are the cautious folk, the fear of defeat causing them to play
conservatively. A more liberal style, on the other hand, suggests control.
You won’t try to slam when the game is moving at
Ping-pong
is the art
of cool
a fast pace, and you won’t attempt a cut serve when
the score is 19-20. But when you can exploit the
other player’s weakness and jump ahead, you’re
free to miss all the slices and smashes you want.
Don’t think for a second this game isn’t cutthroat.
Ping-pong teaches character. You can win,
even if you’re down by 10, if you persevere with
tenacity. You learn to work against anxiety, sometimes caused by the other
player’s trick shots, sometimes by spectators, and sometimes by your own
psyched-out self.
I remember one match against my dad, an opponent with over 30 years
of experience. He quickly grabbed the lead, and the score stood at 17 to 10.
It was my turn to serve. Boom! Boom! Boom! Three points off the return.
Dad was starting to lose momentum, and he had broken into a sweat. BAM!
I floated one. Can’t be doing that at this point, I thought. Nothing is worse
than the ball not even hitting the other side of the table (floating). The
score was 18 to 13, creating a psychological crossroads: was it time to pull
out my killer move – the Slam Slice Supreme – risking everything? Or
should I wait the momentum shift out, hoping Dad doesn’t regain his
rhythm? I chose the latter and won. Why? Dad lost his mental game, causing
him to lose the match.
Ping-pong is the art of cool – cool calculation, cool consideration, cool
delivery. The most successful players know when to go in for the kill and
when to sit back and let the opponents kill themselves. Next time you have
the opportunity, play a game or two. You just might learn something. ✎
Photo by Sophie McCormick, Wolfforth, TX
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Dare-dev-il (noun): a recklessly daring person
No one believes me when I say I’m not a daredevil. It doesn’t help that I routinely
hang by a rope several hundred feet in the air, supporting my body weight with
my fingertips on ledges barely the width of a fingernail, with my life in the
hands of my climbing partner. Still, if you can get past those little details and hear me
out, I promise you’ll see that I’m really not a daredevil.
I can’t blame people for the assumption. After all, pop culture insists that “rock
climber” is synonymous with “daredevil.” How can it not
In rock climbing,
nothing is done
on impulse
be, with countless action flicks showcasing a half-naked
Adonis breaking every rule in the climbing book and almost
getting himself killed in the process? Since this is the only
exposure most people ever have to the sport, they assume
Hollywood’s version is typical. Why viewers would think
that this particular movie detail is real while they laugh at
the absurdity of the hero’s secret gadgets, I’ll never know,
but the fact is they do. The not-so-cinematically-exciting truth is that a good rock climber
always thinks, plans, and maintains control. We have to; our lives depend on it.
In rock climbing, nothing is done on impulse. If I wake up one morning and decide
on a whim to go climbing, chances are a search-and-rescue team will pick me up days
later, dehydrated and
hypothermic, after I’ve
been stranded by a storm.
Before I even lace up my
climbing shoes, I check
and re-check the weather.
I also inspect my gear,
pack food and water, and
go over a list of other
safety precautions.
Even on the rock itself,
nothing I do is sudden.
Every move of my body
is controlled and thought
out. If I jump, I waste
energy that is in short
supply on a vertical landscape
of barren rock. So I
think, go slowly, move
pur posefully, and climb
successfully.
Now tell me, does that
sound like a daredevil
to you? ✎
Winter Run by Ben Bugher, Newark, DE
He sat in front of the computer screen and
stared, but he saw nothing. The YouTube
videos became a blur as he lost interest. He
had to get out. Everything was dull; he felt lost and
lifeless. So he laced up his Nikes.
He stepped out into the crisp winter air, the kind
that burns your lungs and freezes your throat. He
stepped off the porch and took off. He didn’t know
where he was going, but he had to go;
there was nothing for him here.
He ran at a brisk pace, his strides
slowly coming into step with the beating
of his heart. Each stride took him farther
from home into the cold, but he felt
warm. He ran through grass, on sidewalks
and roads, across driveways,
through neighborhoods and woods. He
ran up and down hills, across bridges and streams.
The cold pierced him like frozen needles, but he felt
nothing. It began to snow, and the white crystals
stung his cheeks. He could have, and should have,
turned back, but he ran on toward some unknown
destination.
His legs burned like fire, but he welcomed the heat;
it brought him strength. He burned and burned until
the fire began to dwindle away. Then he turned back.
Each stride
took him
farther from
home
Photo by Garrett Cherry, Schenectady, NY
Each step brought him closer to home, toward
warmth, out of the cold. He ran through grass, on
sidewalks and roads, across driveways, through
neighborhoods and woods. He ran up and down
hills, across bridges and streams. The cold bit into
him like a wolf devouring its prey, and he ached.
The snow had stopped, but he still felt the sting
of the tiny white flakes. His strength diminished as
the cold dug deeper and deeper into him,
trying to reach his fiery heart, but the coals
of the fire kept him going, fighting back
the chill. As the last glowing ember was
losing its life, he arrived home.
His whole body ached. His calves
were stone, his thighs lead. He sat down
without any hope of getting back up. It
was amazing, though, how he felt. He was
rejuvenated, and the world had regained its color.
For that short time, he had been free – away from
people and computers and television. It liberated
him, and once again he was full of life. He was
proud of what he had done, though no one else
took notice.
It is amazing what going for a run can do. It
revitalizes the spirit, mind, and body, and provides
an escape from life’s burdens. ✎
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
sports
37

Travel&Culture
38
A Summer of Excess by Taylor Wear, Kearneysville, WV
The Explorer of the Seas is a name that brings to
mind not string quartets and velvet-backed
chairs, but rather bearded, yellow-slicker-wearing
Ishmaels in last-resort lifeboats, sailing right to the
edges of maps (eyes to telescopes) into the uncertain
parts that fearful cartographers used to label “here be
dragons.” It’s an unusual moniker for a cruise ship.
She is swanky and upscale, with the prepackaged
elegance of painted Egyptian gold and Las Vegas
pink. At times she is so ludicrously extravagant that
she is almost comical, with midnight buffets adorned
with ridiculous swans carved out of ice and mountains
of food for passengers who really weren’t that
hungry anyway. Every attraction is
aimed at our desire to keep up with
the Joneses. Twenty-four hours a day
passengers can sample fluted glasses
of the world’s finest champagne while
admiring a handful of diamonds on
her royal promenade. In the dining
room, floor-to-ceiling windows display
an absolutely breathtaking view
of the sapphire waters steadily lapping at the rudders
– ignored by most for the flashing lights and chiming
bells of the casino below. Who cares about the view
when you’re on a floating shopping mall?
On the fifth day, she docks at St. Martin, the Dutch
half of a small tropical island in the northwest
Caribbean. Mountainous and arid, the secluded
beaches and picturesque scenery bring about a new
kind of luxury, one that is innocent and undisturbed.
The ocean here is a different shade of blue. It is not the
dark foreboding navy that swallows up naive ships and
sailors, but a brilliant azure that makes the sea almost
indistinguishable from the sky. The water is clear
enough for us to see the white sand trenches getting
steeper and steeper beneath, like steps in a swimming
Bad Gamble by Kate Huh, Fullerton, CA
As everyone knows, ours is a fast-paced society.
In a world of instant messaging and
lightning-quick jets, busy vacationers looking
to make the most of their time flock to the one
place where they can experience Rome, Paris, New
York, and Luxor in a single night:
notorious Las Vegas, Nevada. With
dizzying lights and hilarious faux
architecture, the city is mind-numbing
and superficially entertaining.
When imagining the heart of the
city, most picture “the strip,” a
grandiose four-mile section of Las
Vegas Boulevard South that features
dozens of themed hotels like the Venetian, the
Imperial Palace, and the Sahara. Tourists with
cameras are often seen shooting from car windows
Photo by Mike Bailey-Gates, Harrisville, RI
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
Las Vegas is
mind-numbing
and superficially
entertaining
The sky and
sea and air are
your own private
kingdom
pool. The overpowering briny odor associated with
most North American beaches isn’t found here. Rather
there is simply the fresh, clean scent of unadulterated
air, and something else you can’t quite put your finger
on, perhaps cotton or the damp flowery smell of an
oncoming downpour. The vegetation is a shade of
emerald so bright it’s almost painful to look at. There
are smiling women with warm, welcoming belly
laughs and faint Eastern European accents sitting on
woven blankets in the sand, braiding their daughters’
jet-black hair into thick ropes. You get the feeling that
you are floating in a fishbowl; the sky and sea and air
are your own private kingdom, foreign and exhilarating,
but familiar and therefore safe.
* * *
The detour is an accident. Like
forgetting to carry the one when adding
or washing a red sock with a load of
white shirts, it seems small and inconsequential
at first but nevertheless causes
change. The fishbowl is turned over and
everything perfect disappears, leaving
you gasping for air and fumbling for the map. You
find yourself in the outskirts of town, the sky now an
ominous gray. The white sandy beaches and cerulean
waves are replaced by gravel roads, dusty sidewalks,
and crumbling stucco buildings with broken windows.
You aren’t sure where you are; all you know is
that it feels vacant and hollow, much like the shattered
glass bottles scattered about or the empty shells
of businesses in this ghost town in paradise.
Then, a girl about your age steps out of a laundromat
carrying a baby. Her coarse dark hair is twisted
behind her head, there are dark bags circling her eyes
like bruises, and her sandals are too big. For a terrifying
second, you think she is looking at you, and you
jerk your head away.
as drivers pass the lights and neon signs, eyes wide
and mouths gaping.
To Las Vegas newcomers, the city is the ultimate
get-more-for-your-buck experience. Where else,
they ask, can one see Elvis Presley, the Eiffel
Tower, Roman statues, and Egyptian
pyramids in the span of 15 minutes?
But to the discerning eye and seasoned
Las Vegas frequenter – like me
– Elvis is just a redhead with a beer
belly, the tower is a pitiful replica, the
statues are obviously painted plastic,
and the pyramid is a big glass hoax.
The themed hotels make no attempt
to capture the true essence of the locations
they represent. The Luxor, for example, features
mummies and pyramids, but where is the authentic
Egyptian cuisine and indigenous music? Egyptian
culture does not end at King Tut.
Though the City that Never Sleeps is, true to its
nickname, wildly entertaining – each hotel offers
decadent buffets and endless slot machines and
arcade games – the cigarette haze eventually becomes
stifling, the clinking of coins rings annoyingly
in the ear, and the artificiality becomes
mind-numbing.
To visitors looking to sip margaritas and play
blackjack until dawn, Las Vegas is paradise. But to
vacationers looking to experience cultural depth
and history, Las Vegas – for all its hilarious
grandeur and cultured airs – is a hopelessly bad
gamble. ✎
Five Senses
by Zainab Vasi, Plainview, NY
Ismell India before I see it: the mingled odors of street vendors
selling chapati and puri and coconut water, along with delicious
cooking aromas wafting from houses. The bazaar smells
of ripe, freshly picked fruits and vegetables, some grown only in
India. Coastal cities like Mumbai have the scent of the ocean and
just-caught fish.
Next comes sight. There is so much to see, I could not glimpse
it all even if I lived my entire life in India. Vendors are selling all
sorts of food. The poor are begging and smiling and selling trinkets.
I see big railroad stations and taxis and cars in the large
cities. In the small towns, rickshaws speed along the narrow roads,
full to overflowing with schoolchildren or
I smell
India before
I see it
You have seen poverty before. When you were
seven, your parents took you to visit your grandparents
in Nogales, a small border town in Mexico. You were
standing near a vibrant rainbow of a mural when a boy
your age scurried up. His face was dirty and his heaving
chest bare, and hand-beaded necklaces were strung
on his thin right arm like Christmas tree garlands. He
offered you one, catching you off-guard. The necklaces
were pretty, but you didn’t have any money, and
you reached for your cousin’s hand – why, you’re not
sure. You remembered the four words your father had
taught you, “Lo siento, no gracias,” and you smiled
awkwardly, ashamed and uncertain. But before you
were even on the second syllable, the boy turned and
ran off to find his next customer. You were shaken.
Now, at 15, you see a difference between Mexico
and what you find here. The living conditions are
just as bleak; it is the people who are different. In
Nogales, they were impoverished yet determined,
survival of the fittest. They did what they had to to
get by. Here, though, it feels more desperate, hopeless.
There is a sense of having given up and letting
nature run its course. At 15, you know what irony is.
You look up and see rows of million-dollar summer
villas owned by white people who are rarely here,
carved into the rock cliffs above these slums.
Evening is falling; it is time to get back on board
the Sunset-Strip-with-rudders and take your place in
the dining room. Your friendly Trinidadian waitress,
who works 11 months each year to pay her son’s
education back home, serves you. Suddenly the lobster
bisque and strawberry napoleon seem less appetizing.
You look out the window – you’re the only
one doing so – and watch the island, the beaches, the
young mother and her too-big shoes, grow smaller
and smaller until they’re a tiny speck on the horizon.
And you think, Never again. ✎
elderly parents. Small shops are spread out
all over town, mostly within walking distance.
The ocean sparkles and glimmers
invitingly. In some areas, the Himalayan
mountains make a beautiful backdrop.
And then there is the sense of touch. The
fruits and vegetables are crisp and cool. The air is almost tangible.
The taste of India is the taste of the air and chapatis, puris, and
samosas right off the stove. Sweet candies and marzipans fresh
out of the oven. Hand-picked vegetables and fruits are crisp and
sweet. The naan is amazingly soft and fluffy.
Noise is a word for sounds that are loud, uncoordinated, and
unharmonious. However, this does not describe India. The sound
of India is more like music made up of common sounds. People
chattering on the street, vendors hawking their wares: these things
are the melody, the high notes. The bass is the rickshaws’ engines
roaring and animals roaming the streets, their hooves thudding
against gravel, adding their voices. This is a melody that everyone
enjoys, a melody that completes the five senses of India. ✎
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A South African Song by Quinn Nichols, Hopkinton, NH
An array of color cast by the flurry of 24 skirts
strolled down the street in the chilly morning.
My footsteps were deliberate and purposeful.
In anticipation of our visit, we had prepared a short
clap dance routine and clumsily rehearsed our singing
over dinners at our hostel. I was not nervous about
visiting the township high school. Armed with the
mentality that we were here to make a difference,
I figured we would enter the school grounds and
bestow upon the poverty-stricken students a little bit
of hope, just as their principal had requested of us.
Waterval Boven lies within the province of
Mpumalanga in eastern South Africa. Representing
The Traveling School, my 18 classmates and our six
teachers were staying in a hostel a few blocks from
Main Street. The effects of apartheid are evident here.
A resident from the surrounding suburbs with a pocketful
of rand can hit uptown for basic necessities
(grocery stores, gas stations, post-offices, and banks).
In the opposite direction is the township, which encompasses
dirt paths and meager homes constructed
from any materials inhabitants can scrounge up. We
witnessed this poverty from the point of view of
Art by Margaret Gilroy, Hillsborough, NJ
sheltered outsiders. We watched mothers clutching the
dirty hands of their children by the dancing flames of
their cook fires. Clotheslines swayed beneath the
weight of drying garments. Countless dogs with unruly
coats and eyes glowing with hunger scavenged
for food among squealing pigs that scampered
through the dirt. Seeing a colorful township garden or
a tin roof weighed down by rocks, some might say,
“How cute.” But our principal emphasized that township
life “is not something to be romanticized.” She
was right, of course. Why else would the principal of
Imemeza High School wish for us to bring hope into
the classrooms of students who know no other life?
Journeying through the mist on that
early South African morning toward
the township of Waterval Boven, we
held that purpose in mind. We walked
with a subtle bounce in our steps, eager
to transplant something positive into
the school atmosphere, to leave something
intangible and significant behind
in remembrance of our visit. The cheerful
exclamations of the younger children
as we passed the primary school buoyed our
confidence. They called out to us through toothy grins
and burst through upper story windows to blow kisses
in our direction. Our anticipation increased; we could
not wait to arrive at the high school and spread our
American hope.
When we entered the looming iron gate of Imemeza
High School, my confidence was shattered. I felt as
though the students regarded us with disdain. They
certainly were not blowing kisses. I wanted to back out
of the gate and scuttle back to the primary school. My
classmate Mallory motioned toward a group of boys;
one had decorated his backpack with the words, “Don’t
label me a criminal.” Needless to say, I was intimidated
by the unfamiliarity. I don’t belong here, I thought
desperately, with my fancy camera and colorful skirt.
Surely I was far too naive, far too American to enter
Spiritual Shock by Alison Gerver, Wyckoff, NJ
God, please let my greatgrandmother
be healthy …,”
“Dear
my pen scrawls. Sitting on
the empty steps, I write a prayer in the
Old City of Jerusalem. There is silence
around me as others prepare prayers to be
placed into the Kotel. I have never prayed
before, I think, as my eyes scan the shops
filled with Judaic art and jewelry.
I finish my prayer and the hairs on my
arms stand up. Thoughts of my deceased
grandfather stir in my head; I am in a state
of spiritual shock. As much as I try not to
cry, I can’t help myself. My close friends
look worried, and I cannot find the words
to reassure them, so I get up and walk.
As my sneakers pound the pavement to
the Kotel, I think, Could this be a sign that
I am connecting with my religion? I push
through the crowd of Hassidic women to
slip my prayer as high as I can reach into a
small crevice of the wall to the right of a
shrub growing out of this sacred space. I
startle myself in my call to God. I lay my
hand gently on the wall as if I am going to
break it and I lean my head on it too. I recite
my prayer and listen to the blessings
being chanted around me. My feeling of
isolation in this crowd bonds me to my
faith and my family. I know that I will
never be alone, for spirituality ties me to
my family and God.
It has been four days since my encounter
at the Kotel and I’m volunteering
in Haifa with six teens from my trip.
After a few hours at the day camp, I meet
Israeli and Palestinian teens who are part
of a peace program. Behind Yael’s thick
eyelashes is a 16-year-old
girl who would do anything
for peace and loves her
Palestinian friends. “I am
pro-Israel,” Aseel says as we
drink iced coffee. It never
occurred to me before that
there are Palestinians who
are pro-Israel.
While discussing our
common interests in peace, travel, music,
movies, art, and nature, we form a unbreakable
bond. Saying farewell isn’t
really a good-bye because we have made
a promise to see each other again. I will
never forget meeting these Palestinian
and Israeli teenagers. It is a once-in-alifetime
experience that has left me more
open-minded, with a desire to spread
friendship, hope for our generation, and
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Could this be a
sign that I am
connecting with
my religion?
Suddenly, everyone
in the room was
united in a
clapping rhythm
understanding of our cultures.
As I fly home from Israel and consider
what I have learned, my experience in
Morocco is in the forefront of my mind.
While I was there, my eyes were opened
to Arab culture. While my long skirt
swept along the dirty, overcrowded medina,
I realized the importance of valuing
the freedoms I have as an American
woman. The majority of
Arab Moroccan women are
not permitted to obtain an
education, must cover their
bodies from head to toe, and
are not allowed to make
their own decisions. Experiencing
life in Morocco as
an American Jewish teen
challenged my values, my
assumptions, and my ideals.
Before this trip, my religion did not
have that much of an influence on me nor
was I very interested in it. During my trip
I realized how blessed I am. While experiencing
new cultures with teens my age
and forming incredible lifelong friendships,
my priorities changed. I am more
connected to my religion and my family.
I learned that teens around the world in
these grounds on the grand pretense that I was here to
make a difference in anyone’s life.
I no longer knew what our mission was when we
finally found ourselves at the front of a classroom,
subject to all those expectant eyes. Hesitantly we
facilitated a game of Pictionary on the chalkboard,
secretly cowering within. To our grateful surprise,
the room sprang to life. Team members approached
the board to demonstrate their artistic skills (or lack
thereof), and the room erupted in a cacophony of
laughter, cheering, and encouragement. Absorbing the
students’ energy, we performed our clap dance. Suddenly,
everyone in the room was united in a clapping
rhythm. It was a profound moment of
connection, a cultural merging that
words cannot do justice.
Afterward, the students burst into a
breathless symphony of buttery voices.
When they performed their national anthem,
I felt that I could touch the spirit
of this country’s past seeping through
the melody if I reached my hand into
the air before me. One boy stood on a
table and sang with his eyes closed, his fist clenched
passionately in the air. “I am South African,” said one
girl, as though that said it all.
In the end, I had not the slightest idea whether our
mission was a success. We might pretend we stimu -
lated something within them, but I think the energy
was already there, a gift passed down from mother to
daughter and father to son. Through their music and
heavily accented English, the students communicated
their soaring strength and pride despite the poverty
that surrounds them. They are teenagers like us with
dreams of becoming psychologists, financial analysts,
and entrepreneurs. Although we came to make a difference
in their lives, we were the ones who walked
away changed, emerging from the school gate with
an increased cultural awareness and strands of their
music interwoven into our hearts. ✎
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
Travel&Culture
Photo by Juliana Marín, Medellín, Colombia
different cultures are more alike than I
thought.
Seeing and experiencing how people in
other countries live and the way they are
treated taught me a lot. I cherish my family
and my education more than ever. Now,
my curiosity is piqued. What else can I
discover about the world and myself? I will
never forget how this trip changed my
life, leading me down a path of questions
rather than quick answers. ✎
39

Video Game reviews
Read
more
video
game
reviews
and
share
your
own at
TeenInk.
com
J
40
XBOX 360/COMPUTER/
PS3
Fallout 3
The name Bethesda Softworks
makes many think
of “Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion.”
This is about to change since
the company released “Fallout
3,” which was voted best roleplaying
game (RPG) of 2008 at
the Spike Video Game Awards.
This has quickly become my
favorite game.
The story begins with the
main character’s birth in an
underground vault. Many of
these vaults are located around
Washington, D.C., to protect
people from the nuclear holocaust
that occurred 200 years
before the game’s setting of
2277.
The player chooses his or
her abilities and is thrown into
some challenges to learn the
controls. Soon the main character’s
father leaves the vault, and
you must find him. You venture
into a wasteland where multiple
quests await you.
This game may turn some
people off because it is an
RPG, but it has as much action
and speed as any other shooting
or first-person game. I bought
“Fallout 3” thinking I wouldn’t
like it since I’ve never been a
fan of the RPG gaming style,
but after
Connects five minutes
you to the of play, I
real history knew it was
special.
The quests never become
tedious, and for shooter fans,
there are guns. “Fallout 3”
uses VATS (Vault-Tec Assisted
Targeting System), which
freezes everything around you,
allowing you to choose exactly
how you would like to attack
your enemy. You can watch in
slow motion as the bullets fly
or a knife or fistfight plays out.
The idea of watching the action
again and again in slow motion
may sound boring, but actually,
it’s the complete opposite. You
are excited to see how the battle
will go next time with a
different enemy. Or, conversely,
you can just aim your weapon
and fire it like any other game.
Now, a look at the problems.
Honestly, there are few. While
playing, at times the game
would stop for a second. Another
problem I had was the
partner AI. The main character
can have followers, but sometimes
they become more of a
hassle than an aid. The partner
might run off and attack an
enemy out of your sight, and
they always have to take the
long way around since they
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
cannot jump down or over
obstacles.
These problems are easy to
overlook considering how
much work was put into the
game and how massive the
whole playing experience is.
I give “Fallout 3” five out of
five stars. ✎
by Fernando Perez,
Glendale, AZ
COMPUTER/XBOX 360/
NINTENDO DS/WII/PS2/
PS3/MOBILE
Call of Duty:
World at War
Hoping to expand on the
success of Infinity Ward’s
“Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare,”
Treyarch has continued
the series with “Call of Duty:
World at War.” The WWII
shooter game setting is overused,
but somehow Treyarch
made it fresh. They accomplished
this through refining
Infinity Ward’s features, such
as the online ranking system
and multiplayer, moving the
theatre of the battles, and
introducing some amazing
new features.
What I Loved
Detail: Every room you enter
in the campaign has something
new to look at, without any that
are empty or repeated. This
shows the effort the creators put
into making this game realistic
and how much they respect the
series and the gamers.
Scale: Certain battles are
huge; for example, the Blood
and Iron level will blow you
away with its size and the number
of people shooting at you.
This complexity takes time and
effort to develop, not like simply
placing 42 troopers throughout a
level and letting them go. They
programmed each individual
trooper’s interactions with his
environment and the player as
he progresses through the game.
New Settings: The past Call
of Duty games (except “Modern
Warfare”) were set during
World War II. Once again, the
series travels back in time but
introduces a new setting: the
Pacific Theatre. This game
shows the struggles the U.S.
Marines had against the Imper -
ial Army of Japan. It makes for
a fresh setting and fresh tactics,
as you have to deal with a
severely entrenched Japanese
Army that has no qualms about
rushing at you headfirst.
Cut Scenes: These scenes
between missions are amazing,
showing a beautiful version of
the experiences of troops, and
how the mission is progressing.
Actual video of the war is
included, which is sometimes
gruesome but connects you to
the real history.
Realistic Deaths: When it
comes to video games, I’m all
about realism, and this game delivers.
The gory effects make it
even more jarring and realistic.
Multiplayer: Once again
“Call of Duty” delivers with
multiplayer. All Treyarch really
did was update Infinity Ward’s
version, but it’s still amazing. It
encourages players to improve
in order to unlock better guns.
Treyarch added a plethora of
new perks, weapons, and great
game maps.
What I Hated
Enemy AI: AI, or artificial
intelligence, is a major selling
point in games today, and although
Treyarch throws a lot of
bad guys at you, they are about
the stupidest bunch I’ve ever
seen. The Banzai troops’ sole
job is to run right at you, even
though you can’t be attacked by
more than one.
Best RPG
of 2008
So there are
times when
they’ll run
past all of the
troops in front of you and when
they get to you, one will attack
and the rest just keep running.
Also some enemy soldiers
don’t even shoot you when
you get close to them.
Storytelling: Despite the
scale, detail, and cut scenes, the
story isn’t all there. The character
you play is never given a
face or a personality, perhaps in
the hope that you’ll see yourself
as him, but that doesn’t happen.
The story is also very scripted,
and parts are predictable if you
have played a Call of Duty
game before. Despite Trey -
arch’s attempts to realistically
represent this horrible war that
taxed all nations, you don’t
fully connect to it.
I rate it 8.5 out of 10.
by Evan Witham,
McDonough, GA
PS3/XBOX 360/WII
Mega Man 9
“M
ega Man 9” looks like
a game from the ’80s.
While most might dismiss it
because of this, the gaming
community knows exactly why
this game looks and plays the
way it does. The reason is simple:
newer is not always better.
Over the past 10 years, Mega
Man has been through many
changes both in appearance and
gameplay. After the release of
“Mega Man ZX,” the blue
bomber had produced four
game series. Mega Man is now
the gaming franchise with the
largest number of games in the
world, but when it comes to
fun and quality, it’s always the
original Mega Man that gamers
turn to.
Capcom, the creators of the
series, apparently took note of
this; after 10 years, they’ve
created a true sequel to “Mega
Man 8.” This release marks the
beginning of Mega Man’s
downgrade to a better series.
Mega Man isn’t the only
character to be downgraded,
Wario, Mario’s popular nemesis,
has returned to his 2-D
roots with “Wario Land: Shake
It!” the fifth installment of that
series. Using an incredibly
detailed animation style, the
second-party developer Good-
Newer is
not always
better
Feel Games
has created
what is essentially
a play -
able cartoon.
The visual style, merged with
the motion controls of the popular
Wii gaming console, make
for a great combination of new
and old technology.
A third, more unsettling title
has caught the attention of the
gaming community. “Silent
Hill: Homecoming,” the sixth in
the series (eighth counting the
arcade and cell phone versions),
remains true to the previous
entries, even though it is now
developed by American com -
pany Double Helix. To this day,
the Silent Hill series remains
largely untouched (with minor
changes to the more problematic
areas), and we can expect the
series to deliver trademark symbolic
and disturbing imagery
along with the occasional scare.
Though we live in a world
of quickly progressing tech -
nology, there is still a demand
to return to simpler methods
and styles. As long as this feeling
exists within the gaming
community, we can expect
old to become new again in
video games. ✎
by Brandon Turley,
Akron, OH
COMPUTER/PSP/XBOX/
WII/GP2X
Cave Story
Lately I have been searching
for a good game. Many
gamers believe this comes
down to graphics. Techno -
logical advancements continue
to raise the bar, but even after
playing games with spectacular
graphics, I felt starved. Sure,
games continue to evolve to
more closely resemble reality,
but graphics weren’t what I was
hungry for. No, I needed story
line and gameplay, which many
games lack.
“Cave Story,” by Daisuke
Amaya (who goes by “Pixel”)
and the company StudioPixel,
is a free, downloadable sci-fi/
fantasy computer game that follows
a mysterious cyborg boy
suffering from amnesia. After a
bit of adventuring, he finds a
town inhabited by rabbit-like
creatures called Mimigas.
When the main character arrives,
the town’s population has
Free to
download
and play
dwindled to
six. As the
story progresses,
you
uncover in-
formation about their history
and find out why you are there.
You befriend Sue, and the mysteries
start to build.
Although the game is in
Japanese, fans have made an
English patch to translate it.
Five years of work has resulted
in a side-scrolling, 8-bit slice of
nostalgia that reminds me of
the old NES games. The gameplay
is a mix of old-school
Megaman and Metroid sidescrollers
– basically, a 2-D
world. The keyboard controls
are easy to get used to.
Since this game is freeware,
it’s absolutely free to download
and play. A run-through of
“Cave Story” would take at
least seven hours, which can
triple (or even quadruple) when
exploring the many secrets and
different endings.
The graphics are not topnotch
and have been criticized.
What many forget, though, is
that Daisuke never intended
them to be the best. Although
the graphics aren’t wonderful,
they serve the purpose. The
soundtrack is also old-fashioned,
resembling that of an
arcade game. Even so, the composer
made each song unique
and catchy. The plus side is that
since the graphics and sound
quality are both quite low, most
computers should be able to
run “Cave Story.”
This game isn’t famous for
its graphics or music, but for its
story. The game itself isn’t very
hard, but it isn’t a stroll on the
beach either. The quests are
easy, and the comfortable controls
won’t leave you frustrated.
Once you submerge yourself in
the plot, you will want to tear
past levels and decimate monsters
so you can learn more
about the story.
So what are you waiting for?
Grab the Deluxe Package from
www.miraigamer.net/cavestory.
You are only a download away! ✎
by Derek Zhang,
New York, NY
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SKA
Streetlight
Manifesto
Somewhere in the
Between
This album has been a long
time coming. Streetlight
Manifesto is known for its
perfectionism, which explains
why this 10-track disk took
four years to make. While a
bit on the short side, it’s one
of the best albums ever made,
certainly the best that ska fans
have heard in years.
Ska bands are known to be
generic; 90 percent of them
sound almost identical, with
The horns
are the
driving force
offbeat
guitar parts
(similar to
those of
reggae), fast
tempos, and horn sections with
short interjections.
Streetlight Manifesto transcends
this mold with a rare
combination of ska/punk and
Eastern European genres like
nothing listeners have heard
before. The only features that
tie this band to the ska scene
are its fan base and horn section.
Featuring Matt Stewart on
trumpet, Mike Soprano on
trombone, and Jim Conti on
alto and tenor saxophone, the
group is one of the best ever
assembled in a non-jazz environment.
And these guys can
play; the horns are the driving
force.
Much of the credit also belongs
to Tomas Kalnoky, the
madman at the controls of this
musical freight train. He writes
the lyrics and composes the
majority of the instrumentation
on an acoustic guitar at odd
hours of the night. As Kalnoky
has said in album liner notes
and interviews, he writes a
chord progression on the guitar
and hums a melody, which he
then gives to the horn section to
flesh out. While this may seem
like a strange way to write
music, it certainly is effective.
There is never a dull moment
on this album.
I have noticed that the average
musician struggles with the
art of transition. When changing
tempo, key, or dynamic (or
all three at once), most musicians
tend to run astray. This is
not the case with Streetlight
Manifesto. Their tightness can
be attributed to the band’s four
years of touring. On “Somewhere
in the Between,” every
transition is executed perfectly.
In fact, most listeners barely
notice the changes. Even more
impressive, their transitions are
just as perfect live, a feat that
few bands can boast.
While every track is strong,
the highlights are “Would You
Be Impressed?” and “What a
Wicked Gang Are We.” The
hypnotic breakdown in the
former keeps the listener
entranced as the tension builds
from barely audible guitar riffs
and quiet vocals to wailing
horn lines and screaming
vocals that declare, “I looked
around, I stood alone, I knew
what I had to say, I said it’s all
my fault!” In the other song,
the contemplative lyrics inspired
by Shakespeare and
soulful melodies of the horn
section draw the album to a
beautiful conclusion, leaving
listeners wanting more.
This is one of the most
talented groups out there. It
is nearly impossible to find a
weakness in this album. It is
the modern equivalent of Pink
Floyd’s “Dark Side of the
Moon,” a masterpiece filled
with subtle intricacies that
become more apparent with
each listen.
The best word to describe
this music is “intense.” It is by
no means easy listening, and it
may seem loud and annoying at
first, but I promise, once you
get into Streetlight Manifesto,
you will never get out. ✎
by Christos Schrader,
Wyckoff, NJ
POP
Portishead
Third
After a 10-year hiatus,
Portishead is back with
the release of “Third.” The
band combines jazz, hip-hop,
and experimental music to
produce a unique sound. This
album definitely is not their
best, but that doesn’t stop me
from loving it.
Portishead picked up exactly
where they left off and came
back as strong as before.
Beth Gibbons’ vocals seem
Haunting
and mesmerizing
part of the
instrumentals
at times,
with her
English ac-
cent tinged with a bluesy feel.
But often there is an obvious
concentration on vocals, which
illustrates her great imagery.
The perfection of lyrics is
ripped apart by electronic beats
and trippy riffs. Gibbons’ voice
tells a story like no other, becoming
a part of it and you.
As someone who spends
most of her time paying attention
to the instrumentals, I was
surprised by the lyrics. Gibbons
grabbed my attention with her
riveting tone.
The songs are spooky but
inviting, with influences from
Radiohead, Hendrix, Joy Division,
and Howlin Wolf. The
riffs provide a labyrinth for
your mind to spiral into. Songs
like “We Carry On” have methodic,
sinking beats and guitar
riffs that remind me of Sonic
Youth’s prime.
Portishead can go from beautiful
melodies to gut-wrenching
riffs instantly – not the stuff
you can dance to. “Machine
Gun” features hard-hitting
electronic beats that stay with
you, and are both haunting and
mesmerizing. This interesting
blend allows for short break
from the intensity with “Deep
Water,” which brings you back
to reality.
You’ll be compelled to give
“Third” a second listen. No
wonder website last.fm proclaimed
it the second-best
album of the year. ✎
by Emily McKinstry,
New City, NY
METAL
Judas Priest
Painkiller
Imagine my utter shock and
dismay when I took a stroll
through the archives of Teen
Ink to find a disappointing lack
of reviews of British heavy
metal band Judas Priest. “Pain -
killer,” acclaimed as one of the
band’s most prodigious offerings
(and my personal favorite)
was Judas Priest’s twelfth
studio album.
Despite its having been
released in 1990, this album
remains one of the greatest
“complete” metal albums. You
can hit play on any track and
be thunderstruck by the simple
yet hard-hitting lyrics, electrifying
riffs, and of course the
breakneck finger-melting,
mind-numbing solos that metal
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fans crave.
Things kick off from the getgo
on the title track. Lead
singer Rob Halford’s octavedefying
vocal range gets you
fired up for the impending
march of the Painkiller (a fictional
creation of Judas Priest
that the song revolves around).
Even though it’s doubtful any-
Top of the
heavy metal
regime
body could
replicate
Halford’s
astounding
vocals
(somewhat akin to King
Diamond), you can’t stop
yourself from singing along
to the chorus: “He … is … the
PAIN-KILL-ER! This … is …
the PAIN-KILL-ER!”
And did I mention the drum
solos? Scott Travis, following
the departure of Dave Holland,
takes his craft to a whole new
level. He sets the groundwork
for what makes this album a
true classic.
Guitarists K.K. Downing and
Glenn Tipton are bloody madmen
(I had to squeeze in a bit
of British lingo). If you don’t
believe me, go check out the
tunes “Metal Meltdown” and
“Hell Patrol.” To see these guys
playing live must be a real
treat, as I’ve ascertained from
watching a few of their scarce
concert videos.
However, don’t assume their
songs are all expeditious for the
sake of speed; they slow things
down at the album’s end with
the oft-underrated “Living
Bad Dreams,” which brings a
smooth rhythmic close to this
breathtaking album. In my
opinion, “Painkiller” takes its
place at the top of the heavy
metal regime alongside such
greats as Metallica’s “Master
of Puppets,” Iron Maiden’s
“The Number of the Beast,”
and Megadeth’s “Peace Sells –
But Who’s Buying?”
Unfortunately, I can only
recommend this album to those
Photo by Bianca Azcuy, Damascus, MD
who have delved into metal’s
roots, as I have found that
Halford’s vocal styling can be
off-putting to those unaccustomed
to the genre. That said,
if this album has somehow
slipped by you, take a moment
and give some serious thought
to purchasing this unsung hero
of heavy metal.
After nearly two decades,
“Painkiller” is still the favorite
of many a metalhead, and I
can almost guarantee you’ll
find yourself unable to part
with it. ✎
by Corey Patton, Kamuela, HI
POP
David
Archuleta
David Archuleta
David Archuleta’s self-titled
debut album is one of
those discs that never get old.
If you are a fan of pop, soft
ballads, or just good music to
rock around your bedroom to,
you will be starstruck.
The album opens with the
chart-topping song “Crush.” If
Archuleta’s voice hasn’t captivated
you after that number, the
next few will most certainly
leave you wanting more.
Archuleta really brings “teen
life” to his songs and speaks to
Brings
“teen life”
to his songs
his listeners
about falling
in love, the
confusion
of breaking
up and, of course, “crushing,”
which any teen can understand.
Archuleta closes with the phenomenal
“Angels,” originally
sung by Robbie Williams.
Slower tracks on the album
(“You Can” and “To Be With
You”) fit perfectly with the
faster, more upbeat “Touch
My Hand,” “Running,” and
“Don’t Let Go.”
What makes us fall headover-heels
in love with this
17-year-old rising star? Is it his
voice? His talent? His charm?
Normally, I listen to classic
rock radio stations; I grew up
with the music my dad played
in the car. I love bands like
America and The Rolling
Stones, so I never imagined I
would love a pop singer like
Archuleta. But his fantastic
voice, upbeat attitude, and
conservative values really draw
teens – and their parents – to
this sensational new album.
It doesn’t matter whether
you are eight or 78: you will be
able to relate to any song on the
album. It’s worth your while to
pick up a copy today. ✎
by Jillian Langford,
E. Grand Rapids, MI
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
Music reviews
41

Movie &TV reviews
42
DRAMA
Revolutionary
Road
Leonardo DiCaprio and
Kate Winslet star as Frank
and April Wheeler, a young
couple unfulfilled by their
mundane life in the suburbs.
When they settle down on
Revolutionary Road, they
realize that their dream of
marital bliss is quickly fading.
April wants to move the family
to Paris, a city Frank always
felt was “alive.” Despite their
neighbors’ disapproval, April
and Frank pursue their goal to
lead interesting
lives.
Grim realism
The physi-
wrapped in a
cal and
1950s sheen emotional
challenges
that follow hinder the couple’s
happiness as they struggle to
keep their dreams alive.
Based on the novel by
Richard Yates, “Revolutionary
Road” explores the realities of
a crumbling marriage and apathy.
Set in the 1950s, the glamorous,
wholesome setting juxtaposes
with the couple’s bleak
prospects. The impeccable set
and costume design help suspend
a modern-day audience’s
disbelief and bring us into a
new world. Grim realism
wrapped in a 1950s sheen is
what gives this film its impact.
Background music appears
and disappears at the perfect
moments. Silence adds to the
tension during arguments, and
music brings an unreal aura to
other scenes. In the club, when
April dances with her neighbor,
the music creates an emotion -
ally numb atmosphere. Music
only appears where it would in
real life – another element that
many movies lack.
Winslet, DiCaprio, Michael
Shannon, and Kathy Bates
all give extraordinary performances
that bring the story alive.
The leads’ previous work on
“Titanic” produce a high level
of comfort, allowing them to
push even further. The emotional
intensity is believable
and entertaining, as is the
fuming banter between the
characters.
Two complaints: Winslet’s
American accent sounds unnatural,
and DiCaprio’s violent
scenes often feel melodramatic.
Despite this, the film definitely
deserved more Oscar nominations
than it received. Shannon’s
portrayal of the Wheelers’ mentally
ill neighbor garnered him
a well-deserved supportingactor
nomination.
Although the depressing
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
subject matter couldn’t have
come at a worse time – with our
economic crisis, food shortages,
environmental issues, and so on
– it’s still a must-see. Even
though the main characters both
“play the victim,” “Revolutionary
Road” brings insight into
the human experience. Unlike
other films with similar story
lines, the Wheelers’ arguments
are free of unrealistic wit, and
the ending is grim (but not
without a surprise).
Overall, this movie’s stellar
writing, gut-wrenching acting,
and remarkable directing make
it an invigorating film. Although
weak in spots, the gripping
story line and talented cast
carry it through. ✎
by Naomi Desai,
Richmond Hill, ON, Canada
This movie is rated R.
COMEDY
Confessions of
a Shopaholic
“C
onfessions of a Shopaholic,”
a romantic
comedy based on the novel by
Sophie Kinsella, will touch
your heart and tickle your
funny bone. Don’t let the title
fool you – this is more than
your average chick flick. The
unique characters and witty
dialogue make it entertaining
for both genders.
“Shopaholic” follows the
story of Rebecca (Isla Fisher),
a shopaholic who lives for
Gucci, Prada, and Chanel. Life
is good until Rebecca finds
herself under a mountain of
debt without
a job. Be-
Quirky and lieving she is
charming applying for
chemistry her dream
job at a fashion
magazine, Rebecca somehow
lands a gig at a finance
publication instead. Nevertheless,
her column is instantly
popular, catapulting her to
fame and gaining the attention
of her boss, Luke (Hugh
Dancy). Luke and Rebecca
share a quirky and charming
chemistry, adding to the film’s
humor. The actors play off
one each other’s personalities,
creating an adorable romance
that audiences will invest in
and root for as it grows
throughout the film.
Although the movie has
over-the-top fashion, it isn’t
overdone or too far-fetched.
Audiences can relate to Re -
becca’s vivacious and energetic
personality, which Fisher
portrays with charisma, but
they can also understand her
struggle to turn her life around.
The movie’s balance of humor
and heartwarming moments
will leave viewers with a message
about friendship, family,
and living life to the fullest.
With well-chosen music, fantastic
fashion, and hysterical moments,
this movie will entertain
and leave you ready to shop! ✎
by Vicky Atzl, New City, NY
DRAMA
Nights in
Rodanthe
Based on the best-selling
novel by Nicholas Sparks,
“Nights in Rodanthe” manages
a few tear-jerking moments,
while squandering in unrealistic
events and flat suspense.
Diane Lane plays Adrienne,
who is soon to be divorced
from her clingy husband, Jack
(Christopher Meloni). Adrienne
has just about had it with life;
she’s over-stressed, overworked,
and exhausted from
raising two kids. A weekend
away at her friend’s beachside
inn in Rodanthe seems the perfect
getaway. At the same time,
Paul (Richard Gere), a onceprominent
surgeon in Raleigh,
is still tormenting himself for a
mistake he made during a surgery
a year
before. He
Unrealistic
uses Rodan-
events and the as a time
flat suspense to reconcile
with the
ghosts of his past. Adrienne
and Paul spend a turbulent
weekend together that ends
with passion and sparks of
hope for both.
In the beginning, Lane and
Gere’s chemistry seems awkward
and forced, resulting in
their characters seeming as
fictitious as fairy tales. Yet as
the weekend progresses, they
come alive as though awakened
from the dead. They truly
begin to interact and portray
their characters’ romance in a
believable way.
However, no dose of reality
can save viewers from the
over-stretched emotions that
sap most of the movie. Lane
clearly wants to make her
presence felt, and thus, she
overplays many of Adrienne’s
emotions – laughing too hard
at her friend’s jokes and reveling
in passion when she reads
Paul’s letters.
Along with the unrealistic
acting, “Nights in Rodanthe”
has several technical errors. For
one, the beachside inn’s location
on the waterfront is obviously
too close to the water. If
the tide was lapping at its steps
normally, it would have sustained
major damage from the
hurricane that blows in. In the
same scene, Paul’s car is shown
parked outside, completely unharmed,
which is very unlikely
considering the storm.
The screenwriters have also
altered several details from the
book. In the novel, Adrienne
recounts her weekend with Paul
to her 30-year-old daughter,
who recently lost her husband.
The movie shows the scene
with Adrienne and her daughter,
but the daughter is a teen -
ager upset over her parents’
pending divorce. However, only
those who have read the novel
will notice the change.
Aside from its clear technical
and acting flaws, “Nights in
Rodanthe” is a beautiful example
of Southern culture and
scenery, from the sandy beaches
and multicolored houses to the
crab festival and classic Dixie
music. If you love Diane Lane
or Richard Gere or insanely
romantic, cliché plots with a
traditional Southern backdrop,
“Nights in Rodanthe” should
be worth renting. ✎
by Emma Rainear,
Charlotte, NC
COMEDY
The House
Bunny
My limited experience with
Happy Madison, Adam
Sandler’s production company,
has not been pleasant. For
example, “Click,” with its
juvenile humor and manipulative
plot, tops my list of worst
films of all time. So when my
friends dragged me to Happy
Madison’s latest feature, “The
House Bunny,” my instincts
told me to bail.
I should have listened to my
instincts.
“The House Bunny” follows
Shelley (Anna Faris), a Playboy
Bunny who has just been
kicked out of the mansion. In
search of a new home, she finds
a pair of college sororities:
Zeta, a small group of unattractive
misfits looking for enough
pledges to keep their house;
and Phi Iota Mu, a large, pop -
ular sorority whose house
mother and leader seek to destroy
Zeta because its members
are … unattractive misfits.
After she is rejected by Phi
Iota Mu, Shelley agrees to help
the Zeta girls become more
attractive and popular so they
can gain pledges. By the end of
the movie, Shelley and the girls
learn that appearances aren’t
everything and you should be
who you are.
Where do I begin?
First, let’s examine the main
problem with the plot: the antagonists.
In order for a story to
be plausible or intriguing, both
the protagonist and antagonist
must have a reasonable motivation.
Here the protagonists’
motivation makes sense, but it’s
not clear why the members of
Phi Iota Mu want to demolish
Zeta. Sure, they might not look
like … well, like Playboy Bunnies,
but
Clichéd,
hypocritical,
chauvinistic
that makes
them less
threatening.
Phi Iota Mu
has nothing
to gain from Zeta’s downfall
and nothing to lose from its uprising,
so how are we supposed
to believe these characters?
The most insulting aspect of
the film is its message. Besides
being cliched, it’s hypocritical;
the film exploits the heck out of
the same chauvinist views it
condemns. By the time Shelley
proclaims that appearances
don’t matter, dozens of impossibly
“attractive” characters and
walk-ons have already pranced
around in skimpy outfits onscreen
for 90 minutes. In addition,
the only characters who
don’t look like Playboy Bunnies
are automatically typecast
as hideous wildebeest until
Shelley makes them over to
look like every other plastic
runway model in the movie.
I kept asking myself, “Is
there anyone in this movie who
looks normal?” The attempt at
a message almost seemed more
like an excuse for the filmmakers
to say, “We didn’t just make
a piece of superficial garbage
filled with unrealistic swimsuit
models! We think brains and
personality are important too!”
Don’t believe it for a second.
Now, you may be thinking,
This is a comedy. It’s just supposed
to be funny! And you’re
right – but this movie isn’t funny.
All the jokes were written
only to confirm either that Shelley
is as vain and stupid as Paris
Hilton and Jessica Simpson
combined (imagine an entire
movie of “I don’t eat buffalo”
jokes), or that the girls of Zeta
are hideous and unpopular. Believe
me when I say that these
jokes are not funny. Clichéd?
Sure. Superficial? Definitely.
Stereotypical? You bet. But not
funny.
Happy Madison pictures just
keep getting worse and worse.
You definitely won’t see me at
the next one. ✎
by Jake Oakley,
Bloomington, IL
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FICTION
Life of Pi
by Yann Martel
Pi Patel is a 16-year-old boy
who takes a ship with his
family and their zoo animals
from India across the Pacific
Ocean. Before they reach
Canada the boat sinks, and Pi
is thrown overboard and onto
a lifeboat. He soon realizes he
is not alone; with him are a
hyena, an injured zebra, an
orangutan, and a 450-pound
tiger named Richard Parker. Pi
must use all his knowledge and
courage to survive.
When the book begins, Pi is
Stuck in a
lifeboat
with a
deadly tiger
already an
adult, settled
in Canada,
reliving his
childhood.
He describes
that he was born into Hinduism
but discovered Christianity and
Islam during a family vacation.
He also spends time at his family’s
zoo and the swimming
pool. And then his family
decides to sell some of their
animals and move to Canada.
And this is how the ship
sinks and Pi is stuck in a
lifeboat with a deadly tiger.
As the tiger kills and eats the
others, Pi uses his knowledge
from working at the zoo to try
to tame him.
I really enjoyed Life of Pi. I
especially liked Pi’s point of
view and how the book began
when he was already an adult.
Yann Martel really made Pi
come to life. Even though the
plot seems far-fetched, Martel’s
writing makes it seem plausible
and real. I also liked how he
developed Pi’s character. It
was interesting how Pi was
religious and scientific. These
characteristics usually don’t
mix well, but Martel pulls it
off. I really liked the book
because it was exciting and
very different. ✎
by Alison Rossini,
Whitmore Lake, MI
MEMOIR
When I Was
Puerto Rican
by Esmeralda
Santiago
You are probably wondering
why in the world you
should read this book. Plain
and simple, it shows you the
trials that immigrants face when
they move to the United States,
including the many differences
in language and culture. For
example, when Esmeralda was
growing up in Puerto Rico she
would hear baladas, and when
she got to New York, the music
was rock and roll. In addition,
the book shows what it’s like to
have parents who are constantly
fighting.
This book was great to read
because I can relate to it; I am
The trials
immigrants
face
from Puerto
Rico and
know the
whole jibaro
lifestyle.
However, the book is about a
girl and what she has to live
with: her parents never get married
and her dad has a daughter
with a different woman.
This novel also shows the
customs of Puerto Rican people,
like their small shops and traditional
foods. Author Esmeralda
Santiago was raised in Puerto
Rico and when her mom gets a
job, they move to New York,
leaving their old life behind. Her
life there is difficult because she
is responsible for her younger
siblings and herself.
When I Was Puerto Rican
is perfect for those who like
books that have real meaning.
Sometimes it will make you
sad and other times it will make
you laugh. I highly recommend
it to everyone. ✎
by Luar Orriola,
New Castle, DE
FICTION
A Thousand
Splendid Suns
by Khaled
Hosseini
You might not realize how
lucky you are to live in the
United States, a land of freedom,
until you read A Thousand
Splendid Suns. This book
excellently portrays a saga of
Middle Eastern families. It’s
like Khaled Hosseini is telling
his own experience and remembering
every moment, even
though he isn’t.
Hosseini easily details the
inhuman
Makes you
appreciate
being an
American
character -
istics of
Rasheed,
Mariam’s
and Laila’s
husband. I
liked this book because the
author gives you background
on the characters and makes
you wonder about them.
Toward the end it all begins
to make total sense.
The book is so unpredict able;
you think you know what will
happen next, but you never do.
The characters don’t have the
opportunity, like Americans, to
live in peace and freedom, and
every day Laila and Mariam
face a world of tragedy and the
fear of being beaten to death by
the husband they once trusted.
I enjoyed this book very
much and strongly recommend
it to anyone who likes dramatic,
well-thought-out stories with
plot twists. Hosseini makes you
appreciate being an American,
especially for women, but the
best part is really the way he
writes – it is simply heartstopping.
✎
by Anastasia Pleasant,
Bethel, AK
THRILLER
Firestarter
by Stephen King
Never get on the bad side of
eight-year-old Charlie
McGee. Sure, she has tantrums
like any other child with
screaming and crying, but getting
stuck in the middle of one
of Charlie’s fits could leave you
a little crispier than before.
Charlie has a talent, and her
A game of
cat and
mouse …
and fire
powers are
envied by the
organization
responsible
for them.
Now it’s a
game of cat and mouse … and
fire.
Firestarter has a unique way
of dropping a plot line and then
picking it up later. Also, the
story develops every character
so you learn what makes them
tick – what they think about,
what they worry about in a way
that directly applies to the plot.
Firestarter is a story like no
other with an ending that could
have you in tears, making it the
perfect book for anyone with a
taste for irony, action, rebellion,
science, and a life-or-death
battle for what is right. ✎
by Bradi Heaberlin,
Greenwood, IN
FICTION
A Walk to
Remember
by Nicholas Sparks
Set in Beaufort, North Carolina,
in the 1950s, A Walk to
Remember tells the story of 17year-old
Landon Carter, who
learns to live life differently after
meeting Jamie Sullivan. Initially,
Landon is the kind of guy
who cares too much about what
people think of him. But when
Jamie comes into the picture, he
VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLES ON TEENINK.COM AND TEEN INK RAW
only cares about being with her.
Things are looking up for
Landon, until Jamie drops a
bomb that changes their lives
forever.
In A Walk to Remember, the
characters take time to get to
Sparks
emotionally
engages the
reader
know each
other and
end up
falling in
love. Like
other novel-
ists of realistic fiction, Nicholas
Sparks emotionally engages the
reader. A Walk to Remember
reminded me of all of Lurlene
McDaniel’s novels, because
both authors use themes of love
and death.
A Walk to Remember is a
book that you will not want to
put down until you’ve reached
the last page, because Sparks
draws the reader in with emotions,
descriptions, love, and
death. For those who enjoy
novels that touch your heart
and make you think about real
life, A Walk to Remember is
perfect for you. ✎
by Stephanie Sanchez,
Prosser, WA
SCIENCE
The Universe
in a Nutshell
by Stephen
Hawking
Ifound Stephen Hawking’s
The Universe in a Nutshell
very disturbing. Before I read
it, I had considered logic the
rule of the world. Through logical
reasoning we can learn our
past, predict the future, interpret
every phenomena, and find
the right way to do anything.
Hawking’s book made me
doubt my confidence in logic.
He introduced me to Heisenberg’s
uncertainty principle and
Gödel’s first incompleteness
theorem.
The uncertainty principle
states that we cannot learn,
precisely, a particle’s position
and momentum at the same
time. Gödel’s first incompleteness
theorem states that in any
mathematical system, there
always exists at least one statement
that can neither be proved
nor disproved.
I was shocked to learn this!
Even things as simple as the
natural number couldn’t be
perfectly defined by our logic.
How could this be the general
rule of the intricate world? The
impact that these concepts had
on me was comparable to a
Roman Catholic losing his
belief in God.
As a rationalist, I believe in
nothing except science and
logic, and Heisenberg and
Gödel crushed my entire belief
system. For a few weeks, whenever
I was learning anything
about math, I would always
think, There is a Gödel statement
in this system. And then
I’d feel depressed and not want
to learn any more. I had similar
feelings when I was learning
physics. I was lost and didn’t
know what to believe. It was the
end of the world for me.
After a period of depression,
I realized that logic is not an
Made me
doubt my
confidence
in logic
absolute
objective
rule but a
way that
humans
comprehend
the world. It is based on the
thought of an individual. It is
the limitation of rationality, and
I had been naive not to realize
it until then. Comparing this
new realization to literature,
I now understand why some
people prefer Agatha Christie
to Arthur Conan Doyle; she
realized the limitation of rationality
and invented Miss Marple,
who investigates cases based
on her perception of people’s
nature and emotions as well as
logical reasoning.
In summary, my new
acquaintance with Hawking,
Heisenberg, and Gödel has
caused me to look at the world
in an entirely new way. I have
gained a greater appreciation
of its complexity, and I realize
there is no general rule to
explain it. To perceive the
fullness of reality, we need not
only logic but abundant knowledge
and experience of history,
humanity, and science. They
are essential to advance our
understanding. ✎
by Yongzuan Wu,
Culver, IN
Photo by Isabelle Ingato, Toms River, NJ
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
Book reviews
43

fic•tion
44
Her, Him and the Receptionist
Our daily jog together. At least I like to think
of it as our jog. It’s not like we actually run
together, but in close proximity in separate
universes.
It is hard to remember the days when we did not
run together. My elliptical jogs right behind his
treadmill and always keeps up. It would have been so
easy to say hi the first time. But with each passing
day, it has gotten harder and harder, and now impossible.
We have had occasional looks back and forth,
but those were probably coincidences. Of course I
always look at him. As for the times his glance met
mine, perhaps something else called his gaze. And
I’m way too shy to budge from my routine to approach
confirmed rejection. Why can’t he just make
the move? I know, that’s a funny one. Look at him
and then look at me – especially without makeup!
I don’t turn red from exercising, but I do blush
when I’m nervous or embarrassed. So my cover story
would be that my redness is from my heavy-duty
workouts. After all, I am at the gym. I’m struggling
to keep up with myself. My mind is going faster than
the elliptical. My fervent fears, my neurotic nerves,
my taxing trepidations, my angry anxieties whirling
through my brain. Now I’m really dizzy.
Even he has flaws. It’s not like I think he’s perfect
or anything. How could he be perfect with shoes that
smell like that? He comes close to perfection. And
his feet come close to me as he lifts them on the
treadmill upwind of my elliptical. Just as my iPod
advances to the next song, a wave of toxic air per -
meates my nostrils. “Tell me how I’m supposed to
breathe with no air? Can’t live, can’t breathe with no
air … If you ain’t here I just can’t breathe. There’s no
air, no air,” sings Jordin Sparks. Whew, how can I
breathe in this air? Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Ahh. How can toxic air be refreshing? But amid
these toxins, there is some sweetness. I can just sense
it; I have that tingling feeling in my nostrils.
It’s hard for me to hold back a little smile. I can’t
get away from it this time. It draws me closer. The
occasional silent connection I have with him is worth
the foul air I endure. I must be high on
either the stench or endorphins, because
I don’t believe in drugs. I am exercising
longer than usual. I am pumped. I am
not getting tired. Exercise is a healthy
form of procrastination for what I might
do next.
The elliptical bars are sandwiched
between my palms and my fingers. I am
pushing on them with all my strength. Just as I alternately
push and pull on the levers – left, right, left,
right – my strength to contact him alternates with my
fear of rejection. Our closeness has been on a meta -
phorical treadmill – no matter how hard I try, no
matter how fast I run, we don’t get any closer. The
counteracting forces of acceptance and rejection are
pulling on me equally. I am in equilibrium. I am moving
at a constant velocity on the elliptical, but I can’t
get myself to move toward him. Physics. Echhh!
I try to look cute in my gym clothes, but it’s hard.
The mirror tells me I look fat and ugly. Those are the
only things the mirror ever tells me, besides red hair,
freckles, Raggedy Anne.
My pink good-luck sweatband hasn’t brought me
any luck. I’m going to go buy some new colored ones.
I’m getting kind of sick of pink. People must think I
wear the same sweaty headband every day, but I have
dozens of them from that sale at Costco. I know that’s
what he’s thinking when he turns around: freak, loser.
Droplets of sweat drip down my face, ravaging my
pores and burning the roots of my confidence. But he
gives me a feeling all over my body just by looking
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
I’m not a
stalker, just
shy. I want to
talk to her
at him. So I know it’s worth it.
The odor burns my nostrils, but I can’t resist. I tiptoe
into the hallway outside the men’s locker room;
one hand holding the heart-shaped Post-It, the other
plugging my nose. I see them resting on the wooden
bench, right where he left them after “our” jog, laces
untied and tongues forming obtuse angles. Why are
they here? My hands are shaking and my legs are
trembling, but I bite the corner of my lip and stick
the note face up in the heel of his right shoe.
I am leaving the gym and I can’t stop
thinking about him. Still. I hope he
feels the same. But he won’t. I hope he
will call. But he won’t. It’s been seven
minutes since I put my note in his shoe
and put my heart on the waiting list for
rejection.
I enter my apartment and begin pacing.
It’s been an hour and three minutes.
I shouldn’t have done it. He doesn’t like me. It’s
going to be awkward. No way. I’m not giving in. I’m
not going to change my workout routine. But it will
be hard to look at him tomorrow. I hope he saw the
note before he put his shoes on. If not, I hope the ink
doesn’t smear.
* * *
There she is. I could set my watch by her if I had
one. Same gym. Same time. Same workout. Same as
me. She never misses a day. I don’t think I ever will
either. My mom and dad are both kind of, I don’t
want to say chubby, but yeah, they are. I can’t let that
happen to me. But I have another reason too.
Crack. Crack. My neck always cracks when I turn
my head swiftly to check the clock behind me. At
first this was a pain, but then I saw her. When I realized
I got to look at her every
time I turned to check the
time, my neck strain didn’t
bother me. I must be discreet.
I love looking at her, but I
don’t want her to know that
her beauty keeps me staring.
At least not quite
yet. I’m not a
stalker, just shy. I
want to talk to her.
I want to go up to
her. But what if
she thinks I’m just
hitting on her? I’m
really interested in
knowing her. How is she supposed
to tell the difference?
What a cutie. She’s just my
type: tall, slender, and I can
tell her skin is smooth. The
cutest freckles. Milk chocolate
eyes. Her gorgeous, wavy red
hair is tied is back in a ponytail and she wears a pink
headband. She must love pink. She should, it’s her color.
Her hair sways with every step. Thank you, pink
headband – not a hair is blocking my view of her face.
What I like most is that she doesn’t act like she is
beautiful. She doesn’t know how nervous she makes
me. She doesn’t know the grace she exudes. She has
a story to tell. I want to hear it. But I’m afraid to ask
her. Wimpy, maybe. Intimidated, definitely. I feel like
I’ve watched the same Candid Camera episode 5,500
times. My failed attempt keeps replaying in my head.
With every day that I say nothing, she’s more and
more likely to think I’m either gay or I need a watch.
I want to know her name. Seeing her every day for
weeks, I refer to her as Pink Headband. How pathetic.
I have to know her name. At least for now, it would be
easier to ask the receptionist for Pink Headband’s
No matter
how fast I run,
we don’t get
any closer
by Samantha Schmidt,
Encino, CA
name than to ask her. At least if she refuses, it won’t
be as humiliating as a no from Pink Headband.
So I make my way to the desk. I say excuse me to
the nerdy girl behind the counter. I have caught her
staring at me in the past, but the one time I actually
want her attention, she’s preoccupied. I’m the only
person here. The phone is resting comfortably on its
hook. But she is talking to someone or something
nonetheless. I sigh. I’m getting impatient. I feel like
I’m hailing a taxi. Waving and waving, and they just
drive by. Same with her. I’m waving and
that freak seems to be talking to her stapler.
Finally I get her attention. I ask. She
answers. I write “Molly” on the envelope
containing my note to the woman I used
to know as Pink Headband. I ask the
receptionist to please give it to her.
As I sit on the bench outside the men’s
locker room, I fight my urge to chicken
out and retrieve the envelope. I bolt into the locker
room to take a shower. The hot water is soothing.
Shoot! I left my shoes on the bench. Not to worry.
Who would want to steal those smelly old things?
Realizing I must have left my cell phone in my car,
I get dressed quickly, jump into my shoes, and leave.
I don’t want to miss her call.
* * *
I hate working at this place. Why do I work here? I
need out. I need a work out. I’m so funny. I always
laugh at my own jokes. Ha ha ha, snort, snort.
All day I inhale air tainted with the smell of sweat.
And no, it’s not me doing the sweating. Oh, here
comes Mr. “I’m so much better than you that I won’t
respond when you greet me.” I scrunch my nose to
push up my glasses, the way I always do when my
hands are busy. He’s headed
right toward me. It seems
like he needs to ask me something.
This will be a first.
How will he do this and still
keep his perfect record of
never saying a word to me?
Of course, it must be so hard
to say “good evening” to
someone who has just said it
to you.
I can feel my nervous
twitch starting up again. My
top lip is moving diagonally;
my invisible enemy has strung
a thread through my lip with
his needle. I try to yank it in
the other direction, back into
place, but it won’t budge.
The name of the girl in the
pink headband? Uhhh. The
Photo by Michelle Long, Syosset, NY girl in the pink headband!
If she’s wearing her pink
one today, it must be either Sunday, Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.
Gross. But apparently he either doesn’t notice or
doesn’t care. How sweet. For once he is nice and it is
hard to hate him. He writes “Molly” on the envelope
and hands it to me. Sure I’ll give it to Molly, all right.
He heads for the locker room; he is out of sight,
but he sure isn’t out of my mind. Neither is the favor
he asked of me. He wants me to give the envelope to
Molly. Sure I will. I’ll be as good at giving this to
Molly as he is at responding when I say hello. Actually,
better because now my paper shredder’s name is
Molly. Molly loves envelopes. She’ll fall bin over
wheels!
* * *
Is there something in my shoe? ✎
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Purple Sands by Kat Ahl, Cave Junction, OR
The stars blazed with a brilliance
never seen on Earth. Their glow
lit up the violet sands of the alien
planet’s smallest moon, the only inhabitable
area in the solar system. The air
was thin, too thin for most people to
survive in comfort, so the moon was
given a number recognition in the
League of Worlds database and left to
those foolish enough – or desperate
enough – to seek the red diamonds that
could be found there. The moon’s diamonds
were rare and prized on other
planets, for their beauty was unlike that
of any other stone. Desire drove many
to the moon’s surface, but this place
was not kind to those who would steal
its stones. Few who ar-
rived in search of profit
ever left; the moon’s vast
deserts held dangers for
humans seeking wealth.
Those who survived,
who adapted to the harsh
climate of the planet’s
moon, were a mixed
group of fortune’s fools,
those willing to risk their lives in the
pursuit of riches, and those who had no
other choice. They came from all parts
of the galaxy, surviving by sheer will or
an unwillingness to give in to outside
force. These prospectors were few but
enduring, seen infrequently in the small
spaceports scattered sporadically across
the landscape. Dangerous people, it
was said. Inhabitants trying to scrape
out a safer, if more meager, living in the
tiny towns avoided the fortunehunters
who roamed the purple deserts.
Jet was one such prospector, a fierce
woman, rangy and fit from too long in
the deserts. She was descended from
the tribes native to the American continents
of Earth, but her heritage was far
removed, weakened by time and disregarded
in a time when only personal
gain mattered anymore. Some of her
ancestors had come from another land,
giving her eyes as cold and hard as
frozen emeralds. Tall and lean, made
hard from life in the galaxy’s worst
places, she kept to herself mostly and
stayed in the desert as long as she
could, preferring the company of the
stars and her desert-runner to that of
others of her kind.
* * *
In the dark, under the brilliant stars,
she gave the draconic desert-runner its
head and let it run as it would. She
clung easily to the heavy saddle. The
runner would find its own food, eliminating
the need to feed it from her
supplies. Jet was headed for the Spine,
the low, sprawling mountain that ran
between the moon’s poles. It was there
that the greatest number of red diamonds
had been found recently, but
she was in no hurry. Her supplies
would last through a side trip to feed
the hungry runner.
Jet knew what it was that the desertrunner
smelled, since only the scent of
Those who lived
in the moondesert
had their
own code
death could get this reaction from the
normally placid reptilian beast. It had
smelled another creature’s demise and
wished to feed. Jet wondered idly what
had been caught out in the arid desert.
Perhaps it was human.
Her lips curled, baring her teeth in a
cruel, predatory expression. She had no
great love for interlopers.
* * *
It was no prospector who lay in the
desert, breathing in the fine-grained
purple sand. It was a K’han woman,
one of the natives of the small moon.
She lay in a pool of blood, but she was
still alive.
Jet pulled the desert- runner to a halt
and sat watching. The
woman raised her head and
stared at Jet with strange,
pale blue eyes. Her purple
skin was stained with gold,
signaling both dehydration
and pain. A large gash in
her right leg bled golden
fluid, staining the sand
black.
She met Jet’s eyes with a proud arrogance
that spoke of her unbending will,
in spite of her situation. Jet could see
the sunken, cracked skin of her face,
showing that she had been too long
without water in the harsh climate. Her
bones stood out in sharp relief, making
her look like a living skeleton. Only
her pale eyes looked alive, staring out
with a wounded predator’s last, hopeless
pride.
For a long moment, Jet considered
the K’han woman. The moon’s natives
had no love for the race that had come
to their world to rob them of the bloodred
stones so sacred in K’han culture.
The humans were there for the jewels
alone, and many would do anything to
get them, including desecrating K’han
temples and tombs.
Had their positions been reversed, Jet
had no doubt that the K’han woman
would leave a human to wait for the
desert’s predators to finish the job. But
Jet had no argument with the K’han.
She may have been an offworlder, but
she respected their right to the diamonds,
and sought only the stones that
could be taken from the ground. The
K’han were welcome to what they had;
she wouldn’t debate their claim.
Jet let out a soft breath, then drew in a
lungful of the dry, thin, almost painful
air of the desert night. Those who lived
in the harsh conditions of the moondesert
had their own code, beyond that
of races and cultures. Though invaders,
interlopers, could be chased off or
killed, a wounded traveler would not
be left unaided. Jet could not leave the
K’han woman any more than she could
leave a wounded human, or other living
creature, in the same situation.
She swung her leg over the saddle
and slid down, landing softly in the
ankle-deep sand. The K’han woman
watched with wary eyes from her prone
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position. Jet raised both hands, showing
that she was unarmed, and slowly
pulled the waterskin from her belt. Pale
eyes followed the human’s motions.
Noticing the dagger that the native had
hidden in the waves of dark blue hair
that spilled around her body, Jet set the
canteen on the ground within reach of
the other woman.
“This help is given without ties,” she
said in the K’han tongue. “I give it
freely and without bindings. Anyone
who wishes may receive it and owe me
nothing.”
The giving of help was a ritual
of family in K’han culture, akin to
becoming sisters in blood. Help
could only be accepted if it came
from one who would be family, or
one who formally renounced the ties
that would otherwise be formed.
The K’han weakly reached out and
took the canteen, struggling with the
stopper. She drank a few quick sips
and held them in her mouth for a long
moment. To drink as deeply as she
wished, after so long without liquid,
would be a death sentence.
Jet pulled a medical kit from the
saddlebag. Her green eyes scanned the
surroundings, but she could see no hint
of why the other woman was here,
alone, when her people’s closest outpost
was several hundred miles away.
There were cases when the K’han
would cast out one of their own, leaving
them to die in the desert, but such
occasions were rare. Jet didn’t know
enough about their rituals to hazard a
guess. It could have been a simple attack
too: the desert was far from safe.
Jet turned back to find the other
woman watching her with those pale
eyes, so at odds with the intense colors
around them.
“Why help?” the K’han
queried in her whispering,
fluty voice. She coughed
painfully. “Why do you
help me, human? What do
you wish to gain from
this?”
Jet shrugged, setting the
kit down within reach, as
she had with the water. She was careful
not to look the K’han in the eyes,
which would have been a direct challenge.
“Not everything is for profit,” she
said evenly. Many a fight had been
averted by Jet speaking a single word,
as anything uttered in her flat, deceptively
sweet voice could have been
either threat or simple statement; one
was never sure.
“No matter what you might think, a
few humans have honor too.”
The K’han snorted, a strangely
human sound that made Jet’s mouth
curl up. The prospector riffled through
the pack, pulling out a roll of bandage
and a bottle of pills to destroy infection,
which she handed to the K’han. The
woman looked down at herself for a
“Long have my
people hated
yours”
moment, then back at the human.
Though Jet didn’t know it, thoughts
flashed behind the native’s pale eyes,
too quickly to speak aloud.
She helps me, though she is an offworlder,
the K’han woman thought.
She has no reason to; she could have
turned her desert-runner away and
left when she saw what I was. The
K’han looked up at Jet again, facing
the truth. That is what I would have
done, and we both know it. And yet
she aids me despite this. Perhaps ….
Carefully, she handed the medical
supplies back to the human, keeping
her face blank. Jet hadn’t expected
her help to be rejected, since it was
freely given.
“You have shared water with me,”
the K’han said slowly, “and helped
me without provocation. But as of yet
I am too weak to tend to my own
wound. I ask for your aid.”
Jet’s eyes widened in surprise. In
K’han culture, this was the equivalent
of asking someone into your family,
to become sisters in full. No K’han
would give such an invitation to an
offworlder, especially a human.
She shook her head, trying not to
offend the other woman. “I have helped
you freely, and I do not ask for repayment.
You do not have to do this.”
“I wish to,” the K’han said simply,
still holding out her offering, though Jet
could see that her arm was beginning to
tire. “Long have my people hated yours
for the cruelty shown to us, but we are
as much at fault as you. Accept this
bond as an offering of peace.”
Jet let out a slow breath. In one gesture
of kindness, she had broken down
more barriers than any other cultural
envoy. She could see the sincerity in the
other’s gaze and knew that the offer
was not made lightly. Humans
and K’han were not
friends and would not forge
those bonds easily, but Jet
could see that they would
be worth the effort – and
not simply for the riches to
be gained in the process.
Taking the medicines
from the K’han woman’s grip, she set
them in the sand and clasped the other’s
hand. Light seemed to flare between
their palms, sealing their pact. The
vows they gave were silent, unspoken,
but all the more powerful for the lack
of words.
After a moment, Jet smiled truly for
the first time in years. The K’han
matched her expression, a trace of
wonder in her eyes that Jet had no
doubt was reflected in her own.
“I believe,” the K’han said slowly,
“that we are more alike than I thought.”
Jet laughed – a rich and bell-like
sound. She tilted her head back to take
in the blazing stars above.
“I think you are right,” she agreed.
“And fools will be those who do not
see it.” ✎
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
fic•tion
45

fic•tion
46
Improvising by Onjuli Datta, Hastings, England
Hi, I’m bored. What are you doing?
I read a pretty book today. No, not just
today. I’ve been reading it for three weeks
because I read slowly. I’m not stupid, though. I
just don’t like missing things. If I think I haven’t
completely gotten something, I have to re-read,
re-read. Shall I re-read you?
The book was pretty. I said that already, sorry.
You said, “Hey, I love that book. Cool.” I’m sure it
was a flippant comment, because you’re made of
those – you radiate them – but it made me want to
cry big fat attention-seeking tears.
You read fast. Whenever I give you anything,
you whizz through it. You think whizz is a funny
word, it makes you laugh when I use words like
whizz.
I want to go to sleep and wake up and find that
you’ve called me, but instead I just pick up another
pretty book and read it all night and prove to myself
more and more that you’re wrong. You call me
and say, “You read too much,” and I smile and say,
“Yes, I do.”
I listen to bad music sometimes and you tsk and say,
“No, listen to this.” Music is your passion. I think you
worry you’ve offended me when you’re nasty about my
bad music, which is nice. When I turn off the bad music
and play one of your “more than just noise, this means
something” songs, you say, “You’re kind of cool,” and
my heart turns into a hot air balloon. Float, float, whizz.
I thought about you saying that over and over. Can
we run away together? You have a lovely way with
words.
Your music is so much prettier than mine, and it
makes me smile big, so I worry you’ll think I have ugly
teeth. I don’t have ugly teeth. I want you to tell me that.
Will you tell me that?
I’m sorry, but I wish your teeth were ugly. Your teeth
are so, so perfect. I’m so, so sorry.
Do you remember our meeting? That sounds like it
was a pre-planned corporate event, like it was a thing. It
wasn’t a thing. You said, wasn’t I a friend of a friend?
And I said, “Maybe of a friend.” You laughed. The truth
is, I doubt I was even a friend of a friend of a friend.
We were vague and unconnected and hopeful. You said
I was funny. I made you laugh.
I re-re-re-re-recorded my answer phone message –
that means I did it five times – after you left me a
message, the premiere, the number one (“Hello. What’s
up?”). You left the first message on my answer phone
and I thought my voice was wrong.
I want to record the sound of your voice when you
laugh and print it on a T-shirt, paint it on a wall, etch it
in my brain.
Your second voice message ever said, “I liked your
old answer phone ….”
I’m so, so sorry. I tried to re-re-re-re-record it like
how it used to be, but it wouldn’t play right, it wasn’t
the same. It was just wrong.
You told me your dog died and it made you sad. I
want to buy you a dog that won’t ever, ever die. An
immortal dog. I hate dogs; they’re smelly and ugly and
they bite and they’re similar to people, but I would give
Teen Ink • APRIL ’09
Photo by Megan Bonini, Cincinnati, OH
you an indestructible dog. Completely in-vin-ci-ble. If
I couldn’t find one, I’d build you one. I’d put my hair
into a ponytail to get it out the way and then I’d build
you one out of coloring pencils and the grass we sat on
this afternoon and the screen of my phone when it says
ONE VOICE MESSAGE.
And I said to you the other day, “I have a secret” –
because I wanted to be interesting and you looked tired
of me. Were you tired of me and the stupid things I was
saying? I wanted to say, “Are you listening? Can I keep
talking? Do you just let me bore you?”
“… And then someone said we couldn’t take the A
train because it didn’t stop close enough and we’d be
too cold to walk, and did you know I
have a secret?”
I said it like that.
You said, “Do you?”
Do I? I nodded and bit my lip and
you bit your lip and smiled, but I didn’t
take any teeth away from my lips. I
thought, Ugly teeth! but I still didn’t
stop biting my lip until you said, “What
happened with the train?”
You wanted to know what happened with the train.
And then I blinked like I’d been hit, but I’ve never
been hit – you know that, I think. I might have told you
that. You can’t tell – you don’t understand that flinch.
It cannot be pinpointed. Still. I told you my boring,
boring story and you asked more questions and I
blinked more and more and more.
My lip hurts this morning because I woke up and
there were NO MESSAGES and I chewed and chewed
and blamed it on the trains and my inane rambling and
secrets and other girls you prefer.
My secret is that sometimes I wonder about your
lips, because I don’t really know anything about them.
No, I know a little about them. For instance, the border
between the lips and the surrounding skin is referred to
– by whom, I don’t know – as the vermilion border. The
vertical groove on the upper lip is the philtrum. The
skin between the upper lip and the nose is the ergotrid.
Ergotrid – you’d like that word.
But that I could read in a book. What I just cannot
pick up from a passage of writing is what your lips feel
like. I can only wonder. I think they’re like the paper
birds I used to make with my friends when I was small
enough to believe in fairies and dreams and nightmares.
And your lips are like the red flowers spilled on the
floor of my apartment. And they’re like a thunderstorm
that reverberates, making more-than-just-noise music,
and the lightning spells out our names across the sky.
That’s what I think. People make me crazy sometimes,
and I want to kiss you.
There’s a party this evening that I might not go to.
You don’t call me sometimes. I know I have to come
to terms with that. That makes me laugh, coming to
terms. Terms aren’t really a thing you can come to,
arrive at. If you dissect it, it doesn’t make sense.
At this party they had fries, so I ate some because
parties make me tired, and I licked all the salt off my
fingers in case someone saw and thought I never
washed my hands, that I was disgusting. I am disgusting.
I couldn’t wash my hands right then, because you
said, “Have you drunk anything?” And I said no and
drove you home, and you said I was too skinny in the
same way you said I read too much.
I drove you home and my car felt warmer when we
talked about bees and stars and Traumatic Childhood
Events. Your breath came out white and misty, exhaling
phantoms to prove you weren’t a ghost.
We are both connoisseurs of road safety, or at least
we like to think we are. So you only grabbed my hand
and squeezed it when my car was parked nice and safe
outside your building. You had such a strong grip,
People make me
crazy sometimes,
and I want to
kiss you
super-human strength. You’re my hero – can I kiss
you? You grabbed my hand and squeezed, and I said,
“What,” because I couldn’t analyze the situation and I
was hoping you could shed some light. Like a butterfly
shedding its cocoon.
After seven lifetimes you replied, “Nothing,” and oh,
you have a lovely way with words and you’re so polite
but you need to stop lying when people ask you questions,
because then they try to dissect you and it doesn’t
make sense, and after a while you let go and leave.
The next morning I was awake when you called
because there are some nights when I just don’t sleep.
You said you read something you liked. You wanted me
to read it. We chatted on the phone and
didn’t talk about it and didn’t talk about it
and didn’t talk about it.
My car felt cold this morning. It just
doesn’t make sense.
You said my music isn’t good enough
for me, and you gave me these CDs. Lots
of the songs are love songs, but then, lots
of the songs in the world are love songs,
so it doesn’t mean anything.
The songs you sent me catch in my throat a little, and
one of them says “Don’t let go,” and it hurts that you
think you have to tell me that, hurts like my lip when
you don’t call.
I said to you, I liked the song, the “Don’t let go” one.
And you said you liked that one because of the instrumental
between the lyrics. And you never held my hand
again, and I never even thought about it. But that’s okay,
because I still listen to it lots and lots and lots and I
don’t. I don’t let go.
I was ill today and tomorrow and the day after that. I
floated around in fragments, thump-head, achy teeth,
and chapped lips. My eyes felt warm and open and
blurred. Resting in a bed felt like resting inside my own
mouth outside my own skin and ah, my head. My skin
felt like flannel and I remembered the cough syrup I
should have taken.
You sent me a note to say get well soon but didn’t
visit. This – this whole you-not-visiting isolation television
imagination situation – this was expected. I was
ready for your casual negligence; I always am. Back in
my fever, my throat burns and it’s setting fire to my
mind. I’ve been staying up too late. Three whole days
in bed with too much sleep, and you don’t even visit. In
my head, to pass time, I relive things. We dance. You
grab my hand.
And then I’m better, I’ve gotten well soon like you
said. I don’t smell like vomit and I’m good as new.
You say, “Oh, you’re so pale.”
I say, “I was ill,” and you nod sympathetically and
you mean it, I think.
The next time my hands touched yours, you came
to hang out with me for an hour or so and I wasn’t
nervous but I managed to drop a plant because I’m so
clumsy. On the floor was this plant, snapped and earthy
and its pot was broken. We danced around it and the
soil between my toes felt golden and bright, like a
sunset.
After about an hour or so, you went to see another
person, and all I know about her is she doesn’t have a
silly secret about you. And she’s not pale. That’s all I
know. She’s your friend. I’m the person who accidentally
dropped a plant with red flowers, red flowers like my
stupid secret, and it made you laugh and you said, “Let’s
dance,” and I thought, Oh, so this is hanging out?
You are a catalyst, I decided. Catalysts are chemical;
they are unchanged by reactions and they make things
happen. They can work together with heat, or oxygen,
or continuous stirring, but sometimes they will kickstart
the buzzing fizzing all on their own. They don’t kill
people, catalysts. Catalysts speed things up. Come
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➤➤

Monsoon by Kate Fisher, Fountain Hills, AZ
Iwas surprised when Ali called and
invited me to the movies. We
weren’t very good friends, though
we orbited in the same social solar
system. But Harkins had given her
some free tickets to a prescreening of
“The Island,” and she had to go with
someone. It was mid-July, and our rich
friends had ditched the white hot Arizona
sun for islands with delicious
names. Barbados. St. Bart’s. Turks and
Caicos.
Anyway, I was convenient leftovers,
and I wouldn’t say no to a free movie,
especially if it contained Ewan McGregor
kicking major clone booty astride a
futuristic motorbike. It was the summer
before high school, so my parents had
to drive us. We picked her up at her
place. I remember that we accidentally
wore the exact same shade of green, and
that she looked better in it than I did.
“So, Ali, how are your parents?”
That was my dad.
“Oh they’re great, Mr. Ramos! We’re
all having a great summer!” Her normal
modus operandi is so determinedly
cheerful that it seems pharmaceutically
enhanced, but she is really just that
happy. I remembered why we weren’t
better friends.
“And are you looking forward to
high school as much as my daughter?”
on, let’s go. Let’s start. You have a lovely way with words,
and you probably held your friend’s hand much tighter
than mine.
You’re a catalyst.
You’re a scientist.
You’re a newly discovered vitamin pill.
You’re a start-whistle but less shrill.
You’re a solemn warrior in the dark, saying, “It begins.”
You like that movie, maybe just because I don’t, and I’m
grateful for that. For disagreements, and for movies, and
for vitamin C and omega-3, self-improvement programs.
I’m grateful for my vitamin and mineral friends, their
laughing and therapeutic conversation and,
“Hey, listen to this,” like dangling by a
thick, sturdy thread.
You give me a slice of cake one day, and
we watch a movie and wittily disagree and
don’t talk about the girl with no secrets about
you. I see her again with someone else. It
makes me feel refreshed and revitalized like
someone in an ad with low-cholesterol and
decreased heart problems. Omega-3 and vitamin C.
Health food.
Even before you held my hand and then didn’t talk
about it, I used a notepad and a pen to call you. I have to
write down what I’ll say, how I’ll start, word for word.
Hello, you. Want to know something funny?
When I get the guts to call you, I read off a script that
I’ve written, and I know you think I’m a bad actor, but
that’s only because I told you I was. I said, “I’m a bad
actor,” and you said, “So?” But it’s easier when I’ve
written my own script. And you think how I write is pretty,
so do you think what I say is pretty?
It’s quiet so I tell you I’m not cut out for this. You might
not be a catalyst, sometimes my metaphors don’t translate
to anything. I don’t say that last bit, so you ask, “Not cut
out for what?” And I say, “Oh, sorry. Ignore me. It’s not
At this one Ali and I exchanged a
glance.
“Um‚ I don’t know.”
Maybe she wasn’t so bad.
“You should be jumping up and
down. It’s the best time of your life,
you know.”
Another glance. “I suppose.”
With their duty as inquisitors
fulfilled, my parents turned up the
music, leaving us free to indulge in
real conversation – a.k.a. talk-
ing about guys.
Both of us were madly in
love with upperclassmen‚
Cole and Brandt, respectively.
It was just about the only
thing we had in common, the
might of our crushes. They
left battle scars: Ali’s narrow shoulders
sunburnt from hours spent watching
Cole from her roof, my fingertips
callused from learning jazz guitar to
impress Brandt.
But even the minutiae of our potential
love lives weren’t enough to last
the whole drive. Casting around for a
topic, I landed on high school.
“So, you’re about as thrilled as me
about being a freshman, huh?”
Ali laughed. “You have no idea how
many parents I’ve had tell me it’ll be the
best time of my life … and how many
I was ready
for your casual
negligence
“I wish
it would
rain”
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high-schoolers tell me it’ll be the worst.”
“I know, right! I’m totally terrified.
It’s like, you have to get a job, get a
car, get a boyfriend, get involved, get
great grades so you can get into a great
college so you can get a great job.”
“Exactly. What happens if you don’t
get it all?”
There followed a nervous silence,
but it was mercifully cut short by our
arrival at the theater. In all the bustle of
finding seats, we could almost
forget about it. Almost.
The movie wasn’t very
memorable, a standard summer
orgy of explosions and
chiseled actors. Afterwards
there was about a half hour
before my parents’ movie got
out, so we needed to find a way to
waste time.
We walked out of the theater to wait
in the thick, hot night under the dim
orange lights by the wall of upcoming
movie posters with the clusters of other
middle school kids. All of us were
trying to look as though we weren’t
being picked up by our parents, like
we didn’t even know such things as
parents existed – we just popped out
of test tubes and were spared all that
embarrassment. It was awkward.
Ali and I had run out of safe,
important. Forget it.” I meant, Oh, please. Notice me.
It’s important. Remember it.
Next morning, there’s ONE NEW MESSAGE and
you’re saying, “Hi, how are you? Let’s meet up later.” You
say that, not me. You’re a bad actor too, and you’ve never
mentioned writing. Complete improvisation.
How am I? I’m fine. I’m fantastic. I’m wonder-kid with
a bright red cape, with an air balloon heart and chapped
lips and super-duper love, and I think a lot about words
you like, whizz and November and syrup, and your grin
carries me all along the phone line.
One of my orange-juice kind-face friends says I seem
happier. Bubbly. I laugh because I can, and
ask her if she means like froth, and she says
yeah. I buy a hot coffee with lots and lots of
froth and it’s warm and sweet and I called you
two days ago without writing down a single
thing, not a word.
I’m following your lead and improvising
more and more, and we’re spending less time
blinking and more time smiling, and my ugly
teeth stay away from my lips; and I dare myself to give
you nicknames. You say, “Hey, remember that time we
danced around your red plant?”
It’s great to be your friend.
Your message this morning didn’t scare me. Nothing
scares me. I’m Sonic, I’m Jonny Bravo, I’m Superman,
I’m not scared of anything. You said you wanted to talk,
when you know I’ll only start rambling something stupid.
Do you want to hear that? You’ve heard it before. You say
you just want to talk.
The sunrise this morning was so elaborate it made the
sky strange and green, but it only reminded me of envy.
And if the sunrise can morph itself today, then what?
I think maybe you want to tell me you’re moving away.
Or you just don’t want to talk to me anymore. Or you’ve
found someone; you’ve fallen in love. You just remembered
superficial things to talk about before
the movie. I mentioned the already
thoroughly dissected subject of our
high school expectations, and we found
five minutes worth of material, talking
too happily and too loudly in our relief.
All too soon we were quiet again, and
in my desperation I said, “I wish …,”
and could not think what for.
I looked around for inspiration, hoping
that it lurked somewhere in the stifling,
aching night. What could I say? I
wish for everything? It was true, but not
right. Sweat trickled in that hideously
unpleasant way down the small of my
back, and suddenly I knew.
“I wish it would rain.”
Unbelievably, impossibly, miraculously,
out of the blank black sky a
solid wall of water whumped down on
us. Heat lightning fractured the horizon,
and thunder came so loud it pulled
at our ribs. The heat that had smothered
the sienna desert pulled away, and
that wet dirt mineral smell filled the
air. For a moment Ali and I merely
goggled at each other, matching green
shirts and matching expressions of
wonder. Then we screamed and danced
like dervishes in the warm rain, shouting
all our other wishes to the sky,
more than half believing that they
would come true too. ✎
Photo by Amanda Barrows, Brookline, MA
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
fic•tion
that we held hands once and you’re asking me to please not
tell anyone. I never ever know.
If you want to talk, I’ll buy you coffee with vanilla in it.
If you like. You say you don’t want coffee, you want to talk.
You want to go and buy me a scarf because I always look
cold. And I blink at you and say, “I always look cold on my
neck?” But what I mean is, I thought you wanted to talk?
You hold up a dark blue scarf. I like it in your hands –
it looks soft, and you tell me I need to eat more. I say, “I
know, I know.” You remember the time when you held my
hand, and ask if I minded that. Did I mind?
And then – oh. Oh, I see.
As it happens, kissing feels like kissing, you feel like
you, this feels like home.
We’re still in the scarf shop, surrounded by patchwork
fabrics, and everything is suddenly easy and sweet. You’re
stroking my knuckles like there’s a treasure buried just
beneath them. There isn’t, but I don’t mind if you want to
keep looking. Just in case.
You buy me the dark blue soft warm scarf and I wear it
all day. ✎
47