Give it a chanceJackie McElroyIʼm a junior in high school, and just a little side note:Iʼm not the greatest student. never really like teachersvery much at all—it seemed like every teacher was justthere to do their job. They never went the extra mile andgot to know the students they taught, or tried to learnanything in return.Well, when I was a freshman just starting my highschool experience, I found myself in the hardest English9 class ever. The teacherʼs name was Ms. Klusendorf,and I didnʼt really like her all that much. She made uswrite a lot, even in the first week. Iʼm talking about timedessays every day, and what seemed to be a lot of busywork, and I didnʼt want anything to do with writing. Iwas all about science, you know, chemical equations andall that good stuff. Pretty much the thought of even readinga book made me sick. I donʼt remember exactly whatit was that made me second guess myself. Maybe it wasthe day I got my first paper back with a smiley face andvarious goods and exclamation points on it, or perhapsit was the way she understood everything that I set infront of her, but all I remember thinking was, “Wow, thisteacherʼs not that bad.” She thought I was a good writer,that I had insight, and that I was smart, and hey, I wasnʼtgonnaʼ argue. Not only that, but she cared about me. Shelooked past my bad grades and my horrible attitude, andshe got to know me. She gave me a chance. Which issomething none of the teachers before her had ever triedto do.Slowly my writing got better, and she began to makeme look at things differently. I noticed the color of things,and the smells, and the sights, and when I turned to thesun, I felt something besides hot on my face. She mademe think more than anyone I had ever met, and I loved it.I found myself writing poems in my journal, instead ofgossip and trash talk. And when I wrote papers for her, Igot really into them. I put my heart and soul into it. Shemade me into a completely new person. I remember thelast day of my freshman year I made a promise to myself.The promise was that no matter what English teacher Igot my sophomore year, I would not let my love for writingever leave my soul. And I didnʼt.So here I am. The new person that I came to be. Andevery day second hour I find myself walking into thatsame classroom for college writing, smiling at a teacher—aperson I know I used to look down on, but now Ican call somewhat of a hero. It turns out that giving theteacher I really didnʼt like, a chance, was the best thingI had ever done for myself. Now, I know that when Igo to college, I want to major in creative writing, andmaybe even one day, change someoneʼs life the way shechanged mine.So hereʼs my challenge: Give your teachers a chance.Okay, I admit, theyʼre not all cool, but you might justfind one that will change your life. And if youʼre lucky,maybe even your future.Time BombMelissa GollidayYelling. Screaming. Sharp voices, abrasive words pierceand scrape like claws at my ears. Sitting in my bedroom, I am ahelpless witness. Tightening her mouth, my mother cocks her headto the side--brown eyes open wider-waiting for a retort from theenemy. My fatherʼs wrinkled forehead is his shield, shooting anddeflecting each deadly blow. This battle is never ending.My stomach lurches every time a shameful word is used.Shooting out of their mouths like cannons, these words bounceoff the walls of the open dining room-battlefield. I yearn to lashout. Growling, grumbling, my mouth curses the pillow under myhead. I feel like a time bomb that will soon explode. I CAN MAKEMORE NOISE THAN YOU CAN. I mock my parents. I let out ashout.The camouflage of my room is no longer effective. I am theirnew target.They pretend as if they are no longer enemies As if they areallies. <strong>St</strong>anding in my doorway, they demand to know why I amcrying-why I am wounded. But my snappy remarks donʼt gainme any ground. Drilling into my forehead, their gazes trigger mydefenses: more tears. Itʼs two against one. I cannot win.People are ClocksDale WilletTheyʼre always moving, but never stoppingSome are tall, some are shortSome stand alone, some are supported by a wallSome break when they fallSome fall and donʼt get harmed at allSome wake me when they call.Some donʼt make noise at all.Some work for a long time.Some donʼt work at all.Hotman Misane, SJHS ‘0518 Spring 2007
Just the MomentCaitlin Claytondonʼt wantit to enddonʼt wantyou to gostay here forever singingjust usjust the momentno talkingjust singingletting the music findthe words we cannotNothing between usno planeor thousands of milesto keep us apartjust usjust this momentinfiniteunendingneeding onlythe airand each otherAngie WilliamsIʼm a JournalChelle SkinnerEasy to write on,willing to travel,able to keep secrets.Used for many things:lists,memories,reminders.Black and white on the outside,true colors known by the ones who study it well.Identity formed deep within the pagesbound tightly together by each individual stitch.Often takes time to adjust,while many pages are still unwritten.Corners folded on memories to remember,Xʼs crossing out the things to forget.The longer you see it,the more familiar it becomes.Letting GoAshley ConklinAs you tell me of your lies,I gather the gifts you gave mePlacing them in a boxTelling myself I will forget you.The last tear falls,I take my last truthful glanceAt the pictures of us.I fold your shirt and place it in the boxBreathing in the smell of you.I desperately reach for truth,Feeling my heart shattered-A million piecesPatiently lying there, waiting to be put back together.As I think about the lies you kept,Somehow I still couldnʼt pull myself apart.Realizing that the hardest part isLetting go.afterglow 19
Change language