RAMIFICATIONS - The Awty International School

RAMIFICATIONS

RAMIFICATIONSAWTY LITERARY MAGAZINE2011-2012

RAMIFICATIONS STAFFUPPER SCHOOLLucila Bloemendaal, Photography EditorKen BourgeauAlexandra Cadena, Editor-in-ChiefAlexis Castillo, Prose EditorAlexandra HowardAlbin JohnJohn Law, Art EditorDaichi OndaNimrah Saleem, Prose EditorCharlotte Schuff, Prose EditorHannah Smati, Tecnical EditorViviana Stellenwerf, Photography EditorMariam QazilbashAnakha AjayanDaniel AlexanderMIDDLE SCHOOLEleanor Grosvenor 6th gradeAnaelle Lahitte-Crohare 7th gradeSandra Sadek 7th gradeSPONSORSTricia McFarlin, English DepartmentSarasu Zachariah, English Department

TABLE OF CONTENTSHamlet Soliloquy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6Creation of The Mind. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7Fear of the Dark. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8When I Cook. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9Hide Away. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10Assortment of Cats. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Beautiful . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12Chinese Poem. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . 13Jack Sparrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14Fire in My Heart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Stay Gold. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . 16When I Swim. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17A Hole in My Soul. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . 18Orange. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . 19Chinese Speech. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . 21When I Skate. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22Being in the Woods. .....................................................................23-25Macbeth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26A Trip to the Lobotomist’s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27A Cold and Sinister Beauty. ................................. ............................ 28-30The Love of My Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31A Thought. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32Blind Music / Alone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33Teddy Bear / Volcano Rabbit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34When I’m On My Bike. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35To Run. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36Vampire’s Kiss. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37When I Play the Piano. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38Winter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39Where Have All the Children Gone ......................................................... 40-41Morose. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42Nightmare on Briar Hill. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43Boo Hendrey. .........................................................................44-45So Pretty so Alone / Friends. .............................................................. 46An Ode to the Diligent Student / Halloween. ................................................ 47She was the Prettiest when She Laughed ................................................... 48

Waking Up / Looking In. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49Twenty Years Ago. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50Misty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51Physics Haikus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52As Soft Singing Calls. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53Chemistry a La Hamlet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54Last Fright on a Halloween Night .......................................................... 55My Favorite Body Part. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56When I Write. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57The Dog Who Lived on the Clouds ......................................................... 58The Horror House. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59What I Am Best At. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60Society. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . 61Lightning / Mist of Fire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62The Melody Song / Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . 63Solutions for the Child. ................................................................. 64-66The Old Man and the Gods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . 67

Hamlet SoliloquyTo graph, or not to graph? That is the questionShould I use or not use a calculatorWith so much energy at stake to get ’t outOr I could wait for Ryder to yell it outAnd rest my brain. With geometry too—Seeing triangles from different angles:That for sure is the first sine of madness.To sleep—perchance to dream: impossibleIn the forever exciting I.B. world.Instead we have IAs to substituteAnd in case thou hast fall or winter breakIB offers CAS: a desire for allMy heart yearns, like a kid’s for christmas,For the extra hour of math every week.When sorrow crowds thine mind when school ends,‘Tis instantly replaced with delightAs the extra math class comes to thy mind.Better yet, not only is it a classBut instead we get to spend the hour,As excited as a kid with candy,As we immerse ourselves into a quizWeek after week after week after week . . .I dread the day when it comes to an end.Oh calculus! Where hast thou derived.After thy class, I wilt be functionless.Maybe geometry can square me upJust as algebra hast divided meTrig made me view life fr’ another angle.My gracious teacher gives out math homework,At a similar pace as he breathes air.Why so? With sunrise SAT classesDoes the jerk test our knowledge with test. Test!The night before our morning, our mourning,In the standardized home of Satan .Jack HudsonTwelfth GradeDrawing by Georgia Crane6

Creationof theMindImagine,A snowflake,A blank piece of paper,A dream.Let your mind flow,With happy thoughts,And nightmares,Swept under the rug.Passion, angerSadness, joy.All feelings.The mind says.And you pick up the pencil.Photo by Melissa BlottIsabelle JefferisSixth grade7

Photo by Alexandra Howard8

When I CookSizzle-sounds fill my ear,Like wind on a windy afternoon.When I cook my smile is brighter than the sun.The aromas I smell are delicious.When I cook my eyes glow like a night-light.Beautiful sounds and thoughts dance in my mind.My parents say if I keep it up,I might become a real chef one day.Tara PorrasFourth GradePhoto by:Anna Harding9

Photo by Melissa BlottHide awayIce shakesBlades clashThe Wind shrieksThe ground rumblesGhosts Haunt the passagewayscold wrapping steel rattlesmetal boots on bright white marble clinksWails echo around corridorsDead trees groan in the distanceThis Is Hide Awaya place of no returnonly brave fools enter hereand those with nothing loseOnly ghouls live there in the shadowsA place where monsters dwellThis Is Hide AwayA place of no returnThe only time a person should come hereIs when they wish to dieor disappearTheodore AndrewsTenth grade10

An Assortment of Cats! by Cristabella Wolf!Cute KittenVigilant Lion CubMagestic Leopard11

Art by Ellie TamuraIsabelle SmithardEleventh grade13

Art by Lucila Bloemendaal14

A Hole in my SoulWhen I think of what you have done.I feel sad inside.I was so in love.I never looked back.I moved forward with our love.Even to the point of your attack.I don’t know why you kept me in your lies?Your deceitful lying eyesput an end to the way I see love.How can I move on?When you have put a hole in my soul.I am still in loveand I don’t know how to let go.The price of loving you came at a cost.Now I’m drowning in my tearsAnd I am lost.I can’t find my way home.Your lies have left me feeling so alone.I don’t know where to goor what to do.All I know is there is a hole in my soul.Photo by Viviana StellenwerfEleventh GradeAnd it’s because of you.Frank SerratoAwty Security Guard18

OrangePhoto by Viviana StellenwerfThis fruit, on the outside, is a little orange kick-ball.On the inside, though, a fire is burning.It dances a tangy tango in one’s mouth.No one can hear its desperate callingWhen its soul is being poured outTo quench a human’s thirst.It shouts, and cries, and yells for help,But no one can hear itBecause I am imagining all this.Shahrzad RasekhSixth grade19

Alexandra HowardEleventh gradeArt by Ryan Bitar20

When I SkateWhen I skateI feel like birds are flyingSoaring across the streetI feel lighter than a featherFloatingThe wind is in my hairFaster than a carMore graceful than a swamI can feel it racing through my skinThis is me and I’m finally . . .FreeJulia Dani 4 th Grade22

Being in the WoodsThe snake had already risen into the tree trunk to our eye level, and now it was on its way down, thetip of its tail just leaving the ground. My sister and I had stopped short when we recognized its slow movementamong the orange flowers of the trumpet vines. Our dread of snakes came first, but after that first caughtbreath, we saw that it wasn’t concerned with us. We knew some of the moods of snakes. Timber rattlers apologeticallyslid away from accidental encounters. Diamondbacks seemed permanently furious. My first vision ofone came to me when I was walking around a bend in the woods, the dogs out in front. Jaw sprung wide andsix feet of thick curving line struck at the dogs again and again. The snake’s maturity saved the dogs. It retainedits poison, only warning, because they were too big to be its preferred prey.Photo by Viviana StellenwerfOn that day something shifted inside. We stood a long time gazing at this snake inching its way amongthe orange blossoms, up and down at once, wrist-thick, moving gracefully under patterned skin, its progress23

almost imperceptible. My eyes found its eyes, jeweled by the sunlight, cat-like, composed.Our father had sent us out into the woods. A hunter had arrow shot a deer and then left it to wanderoff dripping slow blood into the leaves on the forest floor. We knew this task would be impossible, nothingmore than our father’s way of getting us out of the house, away from the Louis L’Amour westerns and thetelevision soap operas of our long summers in the country. Disgusted at the futility of the task, my sister andI planned our day. We carried a blanket for lying out in the sun, our forbidden novels, and lunch so that wecould be gone long enough to worry him.In a clearing in the woods, we had stretched out to nap, letting the light soak into our skin. We had alreadyread as much as the grasshoppers and ants would allow. So we had decided to walk along the back roadof Texaco, a seven-hundred-acre hunting lease next to our family’s land. We regarded all of the land as onepiece, even though our sixty acres sat in the middle of four other plots of land—Dial’s, McCullum, Texaco, andthe Swamp—their No Trespassing signs of as little consequence to us in our experience of the woods as theirfences. We came upon the snake at the end of that long walk, after we had found a road that opened out ofthe forest onto an open view below of yellow fields, a black pond, and emerald oaks.This new sight gave me visions of a future in a land so remote that no one would be part of it but me.Vicki and I planned our futures that day when she was fourteen and I was twelve. Vicki would be an airlinestewardess for two years, traveling the world, walking up and down the aisles of airplanes in blue-tinted hoseand a pillbox hat. Then she would get married to a tall man exactly two years her senior. I would be a hermit,like Mr. Fedders, the only other inhabitant in all the five plots of land we knew. I would have horses and dogsand cats, maybe a goat like Uncle Buddy had on his farm in Mississippi, and maybe a cow. I wouldn’t just staythere on the land. Sometimes, I would cross the country on horseback like the heroes of my novels. My goalwas Washington state, the furthest place from home that I could see on the map that hung on the wall in ourroom.Yes, at twelve I wanted to be a hermit. I think this desire grew out of the way we were living. Our parentsbought the land to fulfill their dreams of country life. In our eagerness to live on the land, we dragged ahouse trailer along our newly cleared road and parked it squarely in front of the plot where we would build ourhouse. We girls were caught up in the novelty of country life, even though we would be crowded in togetherjust as we entered an age when we wished for space more than company.24

The land smelled like trees and clean dirt. Its remoteness and sunny quiet left me room to reflect onmy place in the world. Its different personalities—a creek, woods, and open pastures—contained no onewho would tell me my body wasn’t right yet, no one who would try to push me out of my shyness. I used mymuscles to work the land, clearing trees for the road and building fences alongside my sisters and parents.I daydreamed lying on my horse’s shifting back staring up into the clouds as she munched on grass all slowafternoon. I swam in the warm creek, feeling the muddy bottom with my feet, breathing in the sweet smell ofthe willows that lined its banks. Even so, I was tormented by the close family quarters, the togetherness thatbarred privacy.Mr. Fedders lived on McCullum, the land next to ours, named after the man who owned the land then.He allowed Mr. Fedders to live out his days there when his family sold the land and moved to town. We visitedhim occasionally. He had sweet blue eyes, mottled skin, a shy smile. He and my father would stand talkingquietly, while I stood to the side, peeking past the screened porch into the dimness of his little house. Abootlegger during Prohibition, he had been caught and sent to the penitentiary for ten years. When he got out,he returned to live out his days alone on the quiet land. The peace around his house was palpable. When weentered that clearing, our voices dropped and we became gentler to match his manner.I lived on the land only during the five years of my adolescence, but it colored my imagination for good.My fear of snakes remains but exists alongside a respect for their grace and power. I came awake amidst thesilence of the buzzing trees. I sang my exuberant version of arias as I rode my horse through the green world ofthe pecan grove behind the Swamp. And back home I learned to keep silent on every topic that could garnerthe tender scrutiny my still forming self couldn’t bear.Tricia McFarlinEnglish Department25

[Enter Macbeth holding dagger]Macbeth‘tis true as it was spoken to me.The guards do slumber,In the caress of a sleepWhich upon them designs forever to keep.No fault of theirs has led themTo this blackest of nights.[Looks to Duncan (asleep)]What fell spirit, I wonder,Has in due course led meTo this most foul of ends?Wouldst thou hate me, fair king,If to you my thoughts were known?‘Tis best that that thou remain’st thusUnaware of my direction;For if thy forgiveness would be receivedIt would my resolve replace.And how could’st thou know, heavenly as thou art,The devil-deeds spawnedBy the faithless minds of men.[Listens]All’s quiet.The world holds its breath.Heaven waits to know if this fit of madness be that,Or if my heart be earnest pitch.Nay. My hear is as lead in my bosom,But neither be ‘t simple choler.I hope there beBut a devil in meFor if my soul does act alone,Then mine is the visage of those truly damned.Be it my own shadow’ry desiresShown me by Hecate’s three,Or perhaps now what must be?[Raises dagger]Stay thy hand, Macbeth!He’s not had those ritesOwed the penitent and good.But then, this deed which pulls me t’wards itSpeaks less of Duncan’s soulAnd more my lack.Sleep well now, my saintly kingFor silence this dagger to you shall bring.Photo by Alexandra HowardJonathan SloadTenth grade26

A Trip to the Lobotomist’sHands clutch crisp paper like vices,my sweat their grease, their grip un-ceased.—But soft!Heart Pumping, head thumping,A bereaving shallow breathing.I clasp my chest and release a breath abreast—And sighA step forth, then anotherI come across a door, a portal.I push the handleA squeak, a squeal, a strangled cry—I step throughAll along the hall, there theyWatch me, from behind those glazed glass eyes.And these legs, my faithful friends theyUp their drumming tune, so arise!For stares stab like sharp knives.—Another portalThis one in a harsher light than the lastPhoto by Viviana StellenwerfFrom behind his oaken bulwark he sendsMen better than himself to their gloomy (alas!)Utopia. And I make to sit, but—He speaks“No stand, I shan’t be long.”But rest he would not deny me.But yet wish I I were wrong.And I follow, clutching my wools around meThis mortal wind I embrace, like a lover before a voyage.She caresses me and whispers sweetly.And like a sailor snared by the siren’s songAm dragged softly down.John LawEleventh grade27

A Cold and SinisterBeauty“You’re doing it, aren’t you?”I focused on making steady eye contact, my hands positioned neutrally on my lap. “Doing what, Mrs. Watson?”“That thing. What is it you call it, bursting?” Her wrinkled mouth curled into a sneer as she pronounced bursting,as if hurtling it back at me as curse.This was a normal and anticipated response. Reactions like this prompted Marketing to rebrand our service.“You make it sound like I’m a computer, Mrs. Watson. What we do is not programming so much as sharedknowledge. If you’re wondering whether or not I’m relying on shared knowledge, then, yes, I am.”“I wouldn’t call it shared. That’s a callous marketing spin at best and a dangerous euphemism at worst.”“No? How do you perceive it?”“Identity Theft. An abomination. Playing God.”This too was anticipated. I remained calm in the assurance of still being three steps ahead of her. “Is yourmusical talent a God-given ability, or the result of thousands of hours of practice and more callouses than youcan count?”“It can be both. But at least I earned it. What you’re proposing is an abomination.” At this she broke eye contact,looking at her violin case perched upon a stand. A slight tightening of the skin around her eyes showedher reluctance, but she hadn’t asked me to leave yet. She was a faded flower, desperate for recognition.It was time to use her pride against her. “Let me tell you a story. In 1968, a man who is barely rememberedattended a performance in Carnegie Hall. He heard a moving rendition of Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre whichbrought him to tears. Though he didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it, his breath was taken away by thesolo violinist’s use of scordatura. He was haunted by it and went on to write a collection of poetry whosetheme of rebelling against mortality captivated audiences, earning him several literary awards.”She had not yet re-established eye contact, but I sensed the doors of memory open as she made the connections.Her wrinkled features, softened and dulled in her advanced age, resumed a slight frown. Weakly, shelooked at me and admonished, “That was before you were born.”I kept my features suitably neutral, playing the part. “Indeed it was, but through me the memory of your performancelives on. I too have taken inspiration from it.”Her chin lifted subtly. “I was the first woman ever to play that solo piece for the philharmonic. I worked hardto prepare, to show those naysayers that women were just as capable.” Her eyes swept across her composedstudy, glancing across her wall of photographs, passing over her glossy black piano she painstakingly kept dustfree,resting again on her violin. Her fingers flexed achingly.“And that work need not be lost. I cherish the memories of your performance, and thousands could cherishyour skill by sharing it. It would be like teaching many willing students simultaneously. I know I, for one, would28

love to connect my love of classical music to the ability to play the violin, but I’m afraid I can’t play at all.”“And come by it without the thousands of hours of practice and callouses?” A clever move. I had taken herwords earlier and bent them back against her, and she deftly sought to do the same. It was time for anotherdistraction. I stood, slowly, and paced toward her bookcase.“I noticed on my way in that you have a few works of nineteenth-century French literature. You have an exquisitecopy of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal on your bookshelf. Do you read French?” It was a beautifully boundbook, brown leather with gold motifs. Bookman old typeface greeted readers like a memory. A peach-coloredribbon threaded its way between the pages, more ornament than practical.“It was a gift. I’ve never opened it.” A small sigh, nearly wistful, escaped her lips.“It’s a beautiful work. Can I share a poem with you?” I embellished the verb with hidden potential.Her mottled hands cringed. She hesitated in responding, a chink in her armor. Her intake of breath was sharper,betraying underlying excitement. “I don’t understand French.”“But I do. While Euterpe guided your study, Erato guided mine. It would make me happy to share this with you,if you’d like.”This was the fulcrum, and it was not to be rushed. It was to be cultivated and nurtured. She hesitated even longer,weighing her fears against her hopes. “I’m willing to try,” she admitted, trying without success to keep thelonging from her voice. I carried the book across the room and placed it in her hands, open to L’Albatros. “Howdoes it work?” she asked softly, surrender replacing the earlier obstinacy in her eyes.I looked carefully down, keeping the angle low to come across as less imposing. “I’ll ask you to close your eyes,though you can leave them open if you like. Then I’ll simply place my hands on the crown of your head andshare. This shouldn’t take but a moment.” The flesh-covered electrodes in my fingers were ready. Our prototypetransfer designs, resembling thick hairnets with winking lights, proved too intimidating to implement. “Areyou ready?”“It probably doesn’t work anyway,” she chuckled nervously. I slowly skirted my way around her chair. Delicately,I placed my fingers at key points on her scalp, wiggling the fingers lightly to move her gossamer gray hair tothe sides. Verifying the connection, I quickly initiated the burst which would stimulate her synapses to form thepattern desired. The linking took mere seconds, but it would take four to six hours for her synapses to reformcompletely, given her age and the information transmitted. A few extra seconds and a second scan was completed.“You can open your eyes, if you like.” I knew this would come through somewhat garbled, considering herspeech pathways were integrating new knowledge. I rotated back in front of her to ensure she remained conscious—theydidn’t always.She looked up at me, a frown forming on her lips. “I don’t feel anything besides a slight tingling.”“That’s a good sign. Take a look at the poem.”A gasp of surprise escaped her lips. Slowly, haltingly, she mouthed the words as she read silently. After the sixteenshort lines, she began again, then a third time. A trembling giddiness came over her, then a flash of insightbrightened her eyes: “Exilé sur le sol au milieu des hues / Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.”“Your accent is quite good.” It was somewhat hard to concentrate and keep my hands from fidgeting.“And you think you’re so devilishly clever. Playing God, I said, and you pick this poem, with these lines.” Thecorners of her mouth turned up in the beginning of a smirk, though from passed judgment or sudden realizationI couldn’t tell. I’ll give her this: she guarded her expressions better. But she still hadn’t caught up.29

Now for the obligatory sales pitch: “Having seen the ease of sharing and its benefits, would you be willing toadd your musical ability to our repertoire?” I modulated my voice to be suitably beseeching.“No,” she replied firmly. “No. My knowledge of the violin is mine and mine alone. I will not have thousands ofpeople playing it as well as I did in the prime of my life, while I sit alone in my study cursing my arthritic hands.”She glanced down at the leather-bound book and looked up again, softer. “Thank you for the poem. But no, Iwill not do this.”“As I told you,” I said rising, “it made me happy to share it. You’ll soon find your understanding and ability inFrench to be similar to your ability in English.” I gathered my satchel and fished out a card. “Should you changeyour mind, do give me a call.”She didn’t rise with me as she uttered, “I might.” We both understood she wouldn’t.As I let myself out of her apartment into the ebbing afternoon sunlight, a sonata I’d never heard played in mymind. I suddenly recognized Tartini’s Sonata in G minor, and my left hand felt the fingerings while my rightyearned to grip a bow.Lucas AndersonPhoto by Viviana StellenwerfLibrarian30

A ThoughtPhoto by Jeremy JasonIt’s a thoughtJust a thoughtThat may be trueOr may be notI can picture itGrand, spectacular, And fun,Very funBut it’s hard for me to askSince asking could hurt common bondsAnd Cowardice compels me to shushSo let me wait for itBecause I’m frankly tired of askingSuch questions as this or thatRejection became a keystone factor of itSo I am confused that I might just winJust may beBut that’s a thoughtJust a thought.Mexi GremillionTwelfth grade32

Blind MusicSome say that one must love with his heart,Yet I loved with my ears.Strange, perhaps, but it was the start,Of something that I feared.If her voice had a color,it would be orange.It filled you with zest and ardor,but stung if impinged.Don’t ask me what she looked like,Of that I cannot say anything.I never saw her once,But heard her a lifetime singing.Photo By Lucila Houttuijn BloemendaalAlbin JohnTenth gradePhoto By Viviana StellenwerfAloneThe icy wind blowsThe skies darkenRain falls“Oh, Where did you go?”The snow and trees whisperThe stars glitter“Why did she leave?”Ice icicles formThe flowers freezeThe animals disappear“Oh, Where did you go?”“Why did she leave?”“I am still here.”“All alone.”Theodora AndrewsTenth grade33

When I‛m On My BikeWhen I’m on my bike,I fly.Soaring through the sky at night.In the morning I ride, as fast as I wishAs if I’m bouncing on the cement.My feet spin the petals like the wind spins leaves.As light as the air,Imagining the world like I want.All when I’m on my bike!Sophia DoroshenkoFourth gradeDrawing by Sophia Doroshenko35

To RunTo run, or not to run—that is the question:Whether ‘tis better for my leg to sufferThe tweaks and cracks of selfish indulgenceOr to stiffen up by resting musclesAnd later tear the leg when active. To sit, to stand—No more—and by sit to say we endThe leg ache, and the thousand natural needlesThat flesh a-feelish. ‘Tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To rest, to jog—To rest—perchance to heal: no, there’s the flaw,For in that rest the pains of recovery loomWhen we have thought of skill before the strain,Must give us pause. There’s the thoughtThat makes calamity of so long life.For who would bear the pains and tears of time,Th’ activity of athletes, the rip of unfortunate use,The pangs of inability, the healing delay,The frustration of solace, the body’s decay,That merits thoughts of th’ unworthy,When I myself am alone in shame admit,With a grim fiend? Who would fight the sorrow,To limp and sweat above a weakly limb,But that the dread of something after night,The undiscovered status, who all hopeNo injury remains, puzzles the head,And makes us rather happy ‘til the timeTo run comes swiftly forth again.Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all.And thus the native fear of unknownComes po’erfly to our shaking thoughts,And though it can be overcome,The fear of pain and greater stillCommands thy will, and wit outdone.And lose the optimistic mind. —Soft you now,The fine Osloadia! Man, in thy orizons,Be all my skills remembered.Photo by Sarah MekhaRyan van MechelenTwelfth grade36

Kalina MishevSeventh grade37

When I Play the PianoWhen I play the piano,I feel different.As soon as I hear the sounds,My heart starts pounding hard.The air fills with music around me,And I can’t hear anything else!I really love it when I play,It feels like I am free!Though I get embarrassed,When people are around,Music is my favorite sound.It doesn’t matter if you don’t like my sound.I’m still happy with what I play!Gineva FenoglioFourth grade38

Photo byAlexandra HowardWinterAs I feel the snowCrunch under my feetAs I feel the fresh butFreezing cold air surround meAs I see the snow drop toThe ground ever so slowlyCreating a winter wonderlandAs I see the children throwingSnowballs and having funI realize that winterHas come.Anastasia Chajecki Grade six39

Photo by Viviana StellenwerfWhere have all the children gone?Jackson Robbinson had just joined Yarle Middle School.“Be safe hone!” His mother called as he walked onto the school campus. Immediately people began staring athim. Some people pointed. Some laughed. Jackson was mortified. He wanted people to accept him for whohe was. It was the scars on his face that made everyone afraid, or just disgusted by him. When he was sevenyears old, he burned down his house by accident. He too was burned.“This is Jackson Robbinson!” Ms. Coover smiled. She pushed Jackson gently into a chair next to a big kid, withblonde hair and a buzz cut. “Hey Freak show.” The big kid nudged him. Jackson looked at him without sayinga word. The big kid spat a spitball at his cheek and laughed as hard as he could. “Idiot! I’m Spike.” He grinned,gnashing his teeth together.“Jackie Blackie burned his home! Now he sits in a corner alone!” Everyone chanted during break. Jacksonstared at them out of the corner of his eye. Not even one of them offered to be his friend. The song kept goingon, and on and on. Jackson heard it so many times that he bubbled with rage. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUTUP!´ He yelled, grabbing a big rock from the ground. “Oooh! He’s agitated!” A little girl with glasses giggled.“Yeah!” A dark skinned boy stuck his tongue out. “That’s all you got? A ROCK?” Spike rolled on the floor withhis mouth so wide open that you could see into his throat. Jackson slowly breathed in and out. He wipedaway the tears streaming down his eyes. “CRY BABY! CRY BABY!”Jackson had been bullied for months, and no on ever offered to be his friend. He just sat there, every recesssitting down on one of the benches. The referred to him as Jackie Balckie.40

One day, Jackson plopped on his bed, sighing to himself. It was 6:30AM and school started at 8:00AM.He thought to himself, “Why . . . Why am I living? Nothing good has happened in my life.” Suddenly, hegrabbed his old polaroid camera and sighed. “And those . . . Bullies . . . They don’t have a soul, do they?!”He grew angry. Harshly, he threw the camera into his bag and zipped it up.“Jackson?” His mother called, grabbing her car keys. She walked into his room to find his window open. Hewas gone.“HEY, THE JACKIE BLACKIE’S GOT A CAMERA! He wants to take a picture of all of us!” Spike called all theother kids to surround him. Jackson smiled politely. He gripped the camera until his palms began sweating.“No . . . Separate pictures.” He muttered. One by one, students lined up to take their picture. “Email it tome!” One of the kids laughed, nudging him.The next day, school was silent. Jackson slowly approached his classroom door. A sign on the door read,“MISSING STUDENTS.”A long line of students’ names filled the paper and two papers had to be used up to write ALL their names!Right at the top, in bold letters was, “Alexander Reynolde.” In brackets, it read, ‘A.K.A. Spike”A big grin appeared across Jackson’s face.“Where have all the children gone?” Teachers cried, burying their faces in their palms. Police officers ranthrough classes carrying flashlights and guns. Jackson just looked at them from afar. He watched as everyoneon campus went crazy as they worried about the students. He could feel the fear rushing throughthem.He slowly walked home with his hands in his pockets. School had been cancelled due to the absence of allthe students. He threw the camera onto his bed, walked over to the bathroom and washed his hands. Hemoaned softly, but suddenly got quiet. He listened to soft cries and screams. Carefully, he picked up thecamera and held it close to his ear. “HELLPPP!” He heard a quiet voice yelling.He broke open the camera, and blood rushed out of it, staining his bed and carpet. The pictures rolled out,bloodstained and torn. He glanced at them for a second and noticed the same thing about all of them. Allof them were pictures of the students he had taken pictures of earlier, but something very strange was seenin all of them . . . All of their hands were pressed against the photo, as if they were banging on it to be setfree. He grabbed the photos and walked over to his closet. Filled with excitement, he opened the cupboarddoors and taped the pictures on the inside of it. He stepped back and glared at the hundreds and thousandsof bloodstained pictures he had collected in the past few years. “Perfect.” He whispered. “I’ll neverbe bullied again.”Zoey WilloughbySixth grade41

MoroseThe slumbering calculator nestlesIn its warm backpack, snoring, cuddlingThe overabused insomniac math:Book, notes, and homework sleeping, side-by-side.Why wake the overworked calculator,Why force the book to open its broken pages?Let them be, and let me; let us stay inA rest well deserved from the pressuresAnd pains of daily, dull, never-ending workA rest I deserve as much as they. Yes!The great sea of work looms over me, essaysCrashing and breaking on drowned, overfilled shores:Infinite essay on Infinite Jest,College A demanding attention, butPromising rejection. There are options:Take a Holden-esque trip to New York,Follow Kerouac’s path to Mexico,Retreat back home, á la Esther Greenwood.Halt: Let us not brood, multiply monstersOf minor modern menaces, makingMolehills into mountains, mutter mundaneMalignments, morph minutae to macabre,Melancholic misery, mimic Hamlet’sMake-believe madness. Many mouthing May;Marvels may migrate them to May, awayFrom morbid mundane messages, mumbled.To music, miracles, mountains, morningsIn bed; No mothers or multi-ethnic,Multi-cultural, multi-linguistic,Nonsense. May we misjudge, misinterpret,Be mortal? Yes, once misfortune ends, curseSelf-bestowed by the desire for THE—Capital letters only—college,Needed college. Perhaps, perhaps, with lessNeeding, we would not be needy; needyOf sleep and smiles and laughs. If one couldJust accept—so hard, how dare you acceptSomething less than the utter best—one couldFinally, perfectly, blessedly, rest.Sumaya BouadiTwelfth gradePhoto by Anonymous42

Boo Hend ryOne Halloween night my friends and I were going trick-or-treating in our neighborhood. Down thestreet from us was an old deserted house that everyone thought was haunted.“Don’t you dare go near that house!” my mother said.Naturally, her warning made us even more curious. We went to the house and rang the bell. There wasno answer.We tried the door. It was unlocked, so we entered the house. The door slammed behind us and we allshrieked! There was a shiver working its way down my spine.“Your mom was right, we should not be in here,” Natile suggested.this.Mia replied, “I agree, it is the law of our nation.” She is always funny like that, even in a situation likeThe light started to flicker upstairs.“What’s that?” Natile and Mia both whispered.“Stop copying me.”“I am not copying you! You are copying me,” they muttered.“Shhh” I cried.We heard someone take a step. But nobody would move a muscle. It was dead silent for a second.Then we heard two more steps.“Can we go now because I think my mom is—““Stop it might get you,” Mia exclaimed spookily.“Who is breathing on me?” Natile asked in fright.“Not me. Why would I breath on you?” we whispered with fright.“I don’t know. I just want to know who is breathing on me, “ Natile said.We stood in silence for about five seconds. But then we heard a long squeal. It went right into Natile’sear. She screamed and ran up the creaky stair so we followed her.The monster ran after us. Every step we heard a loud screech. When we got upstairs, we saw a bedroom,a bathroom, and a kitchen.“What? That was not right. Kitchens are always downstairs,” I said.A deep voice muttered, “Some people or monsters like to have kitchens upstairs, not down stairs.”We all froze. Before I know it, Mia had fake fainted. When something scares her, she tries to faint butshe can’t, so she fakes faints.“The monster has a name,” it told us. “And it is not Monster, “he said. “My name is . . . Well, I don’t reallyhave a name,” it said.“Can my name be Larry?” Larry said.44

“Yes it can,” Mia uttered.“Then my name is Larry,” Larry told us.“Hey, Larry. Do you want to go trick or treating with us?” I said.“Yes,” Larry yelled.We all lived happily ever after!Mirren HendryFourth grade45

So Pretty, So AlonePeople say I’m pretty,That’s something I don’t believe.I feel so unpretty.Beauty is something I’ll never achieve.They say my hair is like gold.I say it looks like hay.They say my eyes are big, blue and bold.I think they look like sewage, that’s what I say.When you look at my ribs,You see every bone.Photo by Viviana StellenwerfNow I go to my roomAnd cry alone.Jordan OakleySixth gradeThey tell each other secrets, FriendsThey help each other through hard times, FriendsThey laugh, sing, and dance like no one is watching, FriendsTogether Forever no matter what, FriendsWe are FRIENDSSadie GreenwoodSixth gradeFriendsPhoto By Viviana Stellenwerf46

Twenty Years AgoI remember nearly twenty years ago.Life was difficult.But I knew I would never let you go.I wasn’t sure of what exactly I needed to do.But I knew I would always love you.You were growingright before my eyes.You were amazing.So beautiful.You were mine.Many years have past.Photo by Viviana StellenwerfAnd a lot of things have changed.Some for the better,Some for the worse.But nothing takes away from you being first.You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman.I am proud to have you as my daughter.And now that I see your kids grow.I see you, in them.Like I did nearly twenty years ago.Frank SerratoAwty Security Guard50

MistyYou never come when I callUnless for food that is,You lazy furball.Now get off my bed Miz!Gèrard BeckSixth gradePhoto by Daniel Jason51

Physics in CanadaKetchup covered chipsOh so very deliciousSecret KryptoniteApple PiFalls from a big treeRecipe for the futureThe dinner is servedLabsTime ticks mercilessMy heart is in my throat...ow.The moment of truthPhoto by Alexandra HowardAs a Rocking ChairTicking left and rightAs curved supports rock to, froSay, what time is T?Gospel of John (Wheeler)Bible of PhysicsWhen you fancy tsunamisI am lost at seaKen Bourgeau and Zack Willoughby52Eleventh grade

As Soft Singing CallsThe snow fallsFrom the night skyAs the wind gently blowsThe leaves rustleAs soft singing calls(Through the forest)“Winter is here”“Come out and play”“The moon is shining”“The stars were twinkling”“Like diamonds”“Come out and play”Theodora AndrewsTenth gradePhoto by Alexandra Howard53

Chemistry à la HamletTo Chem, or not to Chem, talk to Dr. Case;Whether it is better to take Envi-Sci,Unless thou art partial to humanities,Is not a real question: you must go to Chem.Physics is all right, and commands some respectBut is really merely applied Chemistry.As for Biology, well, ahem, nuff-said.Oh IB! Why hast thou not made this study,Better than all others, mandatory?All around I see, everywhere I go,Poor, ignorant souls, wishing they could knowEverything I learn in my science class.From calculating molecular massTo making endothermic reactionsDoing stoichiometry with fractions,Or even preparing my design labs—All more relevant, than dissecting crabs.Oh snap for such a burn, Bio needs ice.No worries, though, for we chemists are nice,H2O undergoes a change of stateOnce at zero degrees, that’s a known trait.That Chemistry class taught by Anton Truong,Is a course in which everyone belongs.A&M grad with his students at heart,Chem is to him as Math is to Descartes.Rockin’ that sweater vest like a G6It’s hard to escape the clamoring chicks.A n00b just last year, new to IB,Working hard to become part of Awty,Truong slaved so hard you’d‘ve thought he’d be dead:Somehow, instead, he’s the new science head.Rising through the rungs, working like a muleHe made himself royalty at our school.For every king there need be a queen bee—The queen of sciences is Chemistry.Drawing by Tara PorrasWill EldridgeTwelfth grade54

Last Fright on Halloween NightOne Halloween night my friends and I were going trick-or-treating in our neighborhood. Down thestreet from us was an old deserted house that everyone thought was haunted. My mother said, “Don’t youdare go near that house!” Naturally, her warning made us even more curious. We went ti the house andrang the bell. There was no answer. We tried the door. It was unlocked, so we entered the house. The doorslammed behind us and we heard a petrified scream.It was coming from up the creepy stairs. I asked Daphne and Ariel, “What was that and who made thatfrightening and horrible scream?” Both of them answered, “I don’t know.” I whispered, “Come on, let’s findout,” So we crept quietly up the creaky stairs to find a little girl, no younger than a seven year old, tied up inthe middle of the room. She looked like she was shaking her head no to someone invisible. When we triedto get through we were pushed backward as if there was an invisible force field. We tried again, but we werepushed back. We tried and tried, but we couldn’t get through. We stopped trying and went to the rest of thehouse.First, we discovered this creepy bedroom. The wallpaper was tearing off, the ground was creaking as westepped on it and the curtains on the four-poster bed moved. Now we were scared to the bone. I whispered,“Who is going to look?” Ariel whispered back, “Fine, I will.” As she crept to the bed, the floor boards creaked.When she pulled the curtain back, the floor under the bed moved apart to reveal a hidden staircase. We staredat it for what felt like hours ‘till one of us spoke. Daphne asked, “Can we go now?” We all agreed to go back tothe girl. When we found our way to the room, there was nothing but an empty chair with cut ropes. The girlwasn’t there. I commented, “I think this is the wrong room.” After I said that Ariel answered quickly, “I don’tthink so because I still can’t get in.” we found out she was right. When we looked out the window, we saw thegirl, laughing. Finally I remembered who that was and her name was Millicent Bulstroode from second gradeat West U. We got out side and noticed a man. He was our janitor. We had been pranked. I asked them if theywanted to trick-or-treat with us and they answered, “Sure.” Along the way I asked them how they did thehidden staircase. They told me they didn’t know anything about a hidden staircase, but that’s a story for nexttime.Mevsim DentkasFourth grade55

My Favorite Body PartThey help me play so many sports. What kind, youAsk? All kinds of sports. They help me run, jog, andkick in soccer. They just make a total rocker. Theyhelp me balance on a surfboard and help me swim,so that I don’t even have to go to a gym. They arespecial ones. Their color is like a peach color. They arenot so big, but not so small. I love my feet!Sarah MekhaFifth gradePhoto by Viviana Stellenwerf56

When I WriteWhen I writeI feel the words inside meIt’s like the words flyWhen I writeThings feel differentIt’s like words jiggle aroundWhen I writeI feel freeMartina AdrianzaFourth Grade57

Photo by Viviana StellenwerfThe Dog who Lived on the CloudsOnce upon a time there was a brown and white dog called Rocky who lived in the sky on top of the dark clouds.The cloud that Rocky lived on was Stavanger Town. Rocky was very friendly but lonely. He had no friends at all. Then ,one hot and sunny day Rocky found a nice friend. Rocky’s friend has black and brown fur and he is a rabbit. Rocky andFluffy were playing jump rope, but suddenly Rocky accidently went backwards and fell from the cloud.Rocky landed on a place that no dog has ever been. The weird and dark planet was called Earth. Rocky lookedaround like wild because there were unusual creatures that looked strange. Rocky thinks that they were monsters but,really, who knows? There are a lot of strange things that Rocky has never seen before. One of the monsters was namedOrely. He looked very angry because Rocky was on Orely’s property. Orely threw Rocky up into the dirty air.Once Rocky landed on the ground, he looked around very scared. Then, suddenly something strange caught hisright eye. There were sparkles in the air and everything lit up. Rocky looked up really joyful. He thought that somethinghad come for him. Rocky went closer to look at what it was. It was a wizard. His name was Slave. Rocky asked Slave if hecould ride on the wooden broom. Slave said, “Well, of course you could, but where do you want to go?” Rocky answeredin an excited voice, “I want to go to the clouds.” “Sure you may,” said Slave. Everybody lived happily ever after!Catalina KeuserSecond grade58

What I Am Best AtWhen I am reading I open my imaginationWhether I’m reading something made up or something real.I go from sunny warm beach to dark eerie cave with a turn of a page.Chapter after chapter I read with suspense of what will happen next.The words printed in black and white have an amazing way of telling a story.Reading can be boring to people because they haven’t chosen the right book.I’ve always had a way with books as people do with wordsReading is a joyful way to learn.Tara AmineFifth GradePhoto by Anonymous60

SocietySociety, I know, has poisoned the heartIt pains me so much; I’m not sure where to startSociety, you see, has told me a lotTough, many of the rules, I refuse to be taughtCan anybody at all remember a time,When pretty did not have any guidelines?Is it skinny with make-up and the smallest of clothes?Is outer beauty important but only when ore shows?Boys are as scared to be just as perfectThe pain burns inside but no one’s alertedA dirty little secret we all keep insideBecause no one will know we’ve started to tryDrawing by AnonymousTo make the cover of our books look so much more stunningLike actors in movies in which are continuously runningLook in the mirror, past all the flaws that you hateAnd start to love your face, height, and weightBecause tears can blur the image of oneselfRemember you’re not a book on the shelfBecause the chapters are yours and yours to make upWhen things are hard, please, don’t let upBecause Society is wrong, you are all so prettyWhether you’re tall, short, gay, straight, fat or skinnyBecause for beauty you are your only beholderBecause behold, Society will only get colder.Margaret SchroederSeventh grade61

LightningThe lightning StruckThe Bell TolledAll Hell to Earth was broughtAnd Ready was my bellicose self to flightOnly to be met by a flash of lightThomas BerruetaEleventh gradeMist of FireMother Nature’s LoveAs aggressive it may beSoftness lies withinSorrowful SquidClashing ListWorking hard to liveWith treachery and supportDismally RottedAfraid to stand outWith much confidence and prideStayed quiet and loneKen BourgeauEleventh grade62

The Melody SongThe Honey Festival is days away and Honeyland has a problem. The bees who live in Honeylandcan’t make honey because the queen bee is sick.Song is the blue bird that is small. She finds a sad bee named Buzzy. He is a bee and is yellow andblack, and small, and he is sad. Buzzy sat on a rose. Song, the bird, flies down and asks, “Why are yousad on a lovely day?” Then Song teaches Buzzy a song called “Melody” and it makes him happy.Then Song and Buzzy fly to the hive and teach the Melody to everyone. And the bees make honeyagain. Then they feed the queen some honey and help her feel much better.Chatham GriffithsSecond gradeTimeYou can spend it and save itAnd lose it and waste it,But it’s always passing by,Couldn’t stop it if you tried.Eleanor CrosvenorSixth grade63

Solutions for the ChildBy Albin John“I brought children into this dark world because it needed the light that only a child can bring,” said LizArmbruster. The world of today is a grim and dark world. It is a world filled with hate masquerading as love.Children are oblivious to this hatred. Their naiveté protects them from the world. However, these children’s fallfrom innocence is terrible; therefore, it is imperative that as members of a moral society, we become, as J.D.Salinger calls it, Catchers in the Rye. I will focus on three main subjects: child neglect and abuse, child poverty,and child soldiers: childhood neglect and abuse create endless cycle; childood poverty causes childhoodhunger; and the use of children in military is the cruelest form of child labor. Therefore, I will take you throughthree challenges faced by children of today which will make you realize that only by creating solutions to childabuse, child hunger, and the use of children in militaries, can we assure a bright tomorrow follows from a darktoday.I. Child Neglect and AbuseAs Herbert Ward said, “Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.” According to the NationalChildren’s Alliance, in 2011, more than 141,000 children were abused in America alone. As an important issuein today’s society, it must be looked at. One may think that all abuse is physical, but that is not the whole truth.Emotional abuse is just as destructive to a child’s upbringing as physical violence. Lack of concern, abusivelanguage, and belittlement all can impair the psychological growth of a child. Subjected to emotional abuse,a child becomes a slave. The child constantly tries to please the parent in an attempt to be acknowledged.The child’s character reaches extremes: either very docile or extremely aggressive. This kind of child abuseis not solely from a parent, but rather, from any adult figure that influences the child. But are the parentsreally to blame? Studies show that parents susceptible to abusing their children have too much stress in theirlives and cannot handle it. However, when it all boils down, there is no excuse for child abuse. A parent whocannot parent, should not be a parent. For the parent, the relish of having released stress, or a higher senseof domination, is short lived. They fall back into the same cycle; it becomes a routine. For the child, however,they become pariahs in their society. They have to deal with depression, estrangement, anxiety, and a host ofother wounds that they hide from society. There is a likelihood of these children becoming the next generationof abusers. Sexual abuse of children is also a rising issue of child abuse. Over 95,120 children were sexuallyabused in just the first half of 2011. Girls are three times more likely to be sexually abused than boys. It occursin all populations, both rural and urban, in different socioeconomic and educational levels, and across differentraces and cultures. These children become cocooned in fear. They feel embarrassed to tell anyone and findit hard to explain various bruises on their bodies. Physically they face a number of issues; emotionally, theybecome shells of what they used to be.One may see this grim situation and wonder, how can I, a moral advocate, help these children? For atrue human being who has humanity and is bound by the moral codes of society, the answer is simply to takeinitiative. One must take action the moment one finds evidence of abuse within the child’s home or elsewherein the community. In the case of sexual abuse, it is a criminal offense not to report even suspicions. The childprotection agency must be alerted to this issue, after which they will carry out an investigation. Children whoare sexually abused must receive medical attention. The most important idea is to stop the abuse in its earlystages. By doing so, one not only saves the child, but also saves the future. To prevent these children fromabusing their children, and for the benefit of these children themselves, as moral agents we have to take theinitiative and alert the authorities of abuse in a family. Concerned individuals and health care professionalsneed to increase awareness of the hazards of child abuse amongst their community and peers. There has to becounseling for the parents who are undergoing great stress or tension. Every school must make it mandatory64

check up on the children. Even if we can save one child, we have accomplished something great. As CheGuevara, the Cuban freedom fighter said, “The life of a single human being is worth a million times more thanall the property of the richest man on earth.”II. Child PovertyEvery three and a half seconds, a child dies from hunger due to extreme poverty. One in every fivechildren die from hunger. For the fortunate few who are able to look on this global issue from the outside,these are just numbers. Yet every three seconds, one of us death was preventable will die. Assisting thepeople in poverty is not only a moral obligation, but a violation of morality if denied. Women Aid Internationalstates that, if divided equally, there is enough food to feed everyone in the world with some to spare. Theorganization states that food distribution is a corrupt system built on profit and focused on wealthy countries.This fact shows that even though we have that ability to provide an equal distribution of food to countries,we don’t. But how can we truly help these people in need? Money seems to be the obvious answer. However,as evidenced by Women Aid International, it is not a matter of how much money is put forth, but where themoney goes. Therefore, to make sure that the money reaches the people in need, the government must createa special group of people to monitor this transaction. There are many other ways to help end world childhunger. The introduction of a “Food for Education” program will be the “Two Birds with One Stone” solutionto end child hunger. If schools provided these hungry children with food according to their class attendance,not only will these children have a filled stomach, but also they will be able to better themselves and rise outof poverty. Ultimately, children die from the lack of food. Even if every child in America who was fortunateenough to have one dollar, donated that one dollar, we could raise over USD $266,694,079. Imagine that ideafor the next three and a half seconds. Just a dollar from your pocket and you could have saved a life.III. Child SoldiersThe eyes of a child wildly search for cover as bullets bounce off the ground behind him. Sweat from hisforehead blurs his vision and stings his eyes. Adrenaline kicks in and he runs across the clearing towards theforest. One shot rings in his ears that day. One shot that echoes forever. One shot that takes his life. This wouldbe the story of most children who are forced into the most extreme form of labor: the military. Ishmael Beahin his novel, A Long Way Gone, tells his story of being part of war. He says, “The first time that I was touchedby war I was twelve” (6). Over 250,000 children under the age of eighteen are either recruited by armed rebelsor are forced into the military. They fight an adult’s war with little bloody hands. Children are directly involvedin conflicts in over fifty countries. Olara Otunnu, UN Representative for Children in Armed Conflict, said, “Inthe last decade alone we have seen two million children killed, over one million orphaned, six million seriouslyinjured or permanently disabled, twelve million made homeless, and ten million left with serious psychologicaltrauma.” Saidu, one of Ishmael Beah’s friends, attests to the psychological impact war has on a child: “Everytime people come at us with the intention of killing us, I close my eyes and wait for death. Even though I amstill alive, I feel like each time I accept death, part of me dies. Very soon I will completely die and all that willbe left is my empty body walking with you. It will be quieter than I am” (70). Children who should be playingfootball in the fields wield AK-47. Children who should be laughing with their friends are crying beside theirfallen friends. The use of children in war is the epitome of the villainy of human kind. Children become guineapigs of war, agents of a war that they neither started, nor the want to continue. Children become physicallydisabled and desensitized to the world. Ishmael Beah was once put in a situation in which he had to kill aperson. He recalls, “There were five prisoners and many eager participants. So the corporal chose a few ofus. . . . We were supposed to slice their throats on the corporal’s command. The person whose prisoner diedquickest would win the contest” (124). This is the cruelest form of humanity. These children have become sodesensitized that killing becomes a game to them. They soon come to thirst for blood. They are exposed todrugs under the excuse of “coping with trauma.” Is this a world we truly want? Only by stopping the use of65

we become bystanders in the death of the innocent. There is only one solution to this issue: stop the use ofchildren in war. At the launching of the International Coalition, Stephen Lewis said “The use of children inwaging war violates every existing standard of civilized human behavior. The international community can dillydallyno longer: we must take action. The starting point is clearly a universal ban on military recruitment of anykind—voluntary or obligatory—under the age of eighteen.”Clearly, today’s children have to face abuse, hunger, and war, all inherited from the earlier generation.The solutions are plenty; the advocates are few. One is no better than a monster if one does not help solvethese issues. I agree with Nelson Mandela who said, “Safety and security don’t just happen, they are theresult of collective consensus and public investment. We owe our children, the most vulnerable citizens in oursociety, a life free of violence and fear.” I am an advocate of change. Will you join me?Drawing by Anakha Ajayan66