YOUNG MEMORY

Y O U N G M E M O R Y
A N T H O L O G Y
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O U R M I S S I O N
We are obligated as citizens to understand the diverse perspectives of our nation. Our
Shared Memory will bring young Americans together, recognize their perseverance and
initiative, and present a unified narrative of hope for the public.
COVID-19 is the first pandemic that our generation has had to confront as young adults.
We are caught in a relentless whirlwind of changing circumstances and have little
headspace to consider the experiences of others. That is fine and understandable. But
when it comes time to reflect and consider how we can use this shared experience to
improve health policies, social policies, and etc., we are obligated as citizens to
understand the diverse perspectives of our nation.
To quote a Scientific American piece by Wilson Center associate Alex Long, “...when it
comes time to commiserate on the shared memory of COVID-19 and create stronger
and more flexible structures for pandemic preparedness, we may find that there are
divergent narratives running on geographic and partisan lines.”
The Young Memory Anthology will contribute to the construction of a national sense of
community by presenting a unified and empathetic narrative out of the diverse
experiences of young thinkers and movers. The Young Memory Fellowship will unite a
cohort of young leaders, inspire other American youth, and produce an object of some
historic significance. We hope that the Our Shared Memory project will assist the
development of national unity.
Other publications are already writing their human interest pieces. Our Shared Memory
deliberately intersperses the profiles of young social entrepreneurs with creative pieces
that express grief, anger, and resiliency. There is much that each can gain from
understanding the other, be it hope, perspective, or inspiration. We aspire to bring
together the voice of a generation, as best as we can, to foster national unity across
disciplines and experiences.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Poetry
"Sonnet for the Road..." by Jacob Baker ............................................... 8
"Embracing you..." by Madelyn Chen ................................................... 9
"in the red-violet dust..." by Michelle Dashevsky ................................. 10
"men waking" by Grace Gay ................................................................. 11
"Leaning" by Nora Geffen ..................................................................... 12
"Slaughterhouse 901" by Gabriella Graceffo ......................................... 13
"Bipolar / Pandemic" by Kaitlyn Graham .............................................. 14
"poem w/ no ghosts in it" by Sarah Harder ............................................ 15
"Reflections On Covid-19" by Graham Parsons .................................... 16
'Mall" by Emily Ponce De Leon ............................................................. 17
Prose
"Back Into the Closet" by Grace Adams ................................................. 22
"Wait Where the Story Meets You" by Timilehin Alake ........................ 23
"Good Men" by Eli Elster ........................................................................ 25
"I Get Drunk, We Stay Sober" by George Hardy .................................... 27
"Rise and Repeat" by Rikki Li ................................................................. 28
"More Song than Scream..." by Kelsey Day Marlett ............................... 29
"Pans, Woks, Accordians" by Julie Pike .................................................. 31
"A Note to Gen Z" by Alexis Sanchez ..................................................... 32
"My First Real Fear" by Cain Schmitz ..................................................... 34
"Eyes" by Emma Tolliver ......................................................................... 35
Social Innovation
Westside Farmers Market by Karlin Li .................................................... 40
Project PUSO by Trishabelle Manzano .................................................... 41
Static Arts Collective by Ise Henriques Sharp .......................................... 42
Acknowledgements ................................................................................... 44

P O E T R Y
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Nora Geffen
Northwestern University
Newton, MA
Leaning
Most of today I am thinking about ventilators.
Most of today I am thinking about empty beds and empty retirement funds and my grandparents
alone at the breakfast table.
Most of today I am thinking about bruising on cheekbones.
But for twenty minutes of today, in the sterile brightness of early afternoon in my kitchen, I am
thinking about leaning against someone’s chest.
Something I’ve done more times than I knew to count— trusting just a little of my weight to
someone just a little taller than me with just slightly wider shoulders in a soft cotton t-shirt.
Not even talking to him, just leaning against him as I talked to someone else or took a sip or
simply breathed and watched as the room spun softly around us like couples dancing on a sticky
floor.
How many places of contact are there in that type of lean?
My shoulder blade against his chest, the back of my head resting lightly on his shoulder.
My ass, inevitably, against one of his legs.
Sometimes there was an arm, one of his, around my waist.
Fingers, maybe, in my hair.
I don’t remember.
I didn’t number these places of contact while they were happening, didn’t catalogue each one
precisely, medically, to return to later, to assess as a tiny, unbelievable miracle.
Sometimes there must have been lips pressed quickly, gently, against the top of my head. They
must have been precious, those few seconds of contact. I don’t remember them.
There must have been, on some occasions, breath against my ear.
And then in thinking about leaning I’m really thinking about all of it— about the gentle pressure
of a hand in yours, about the orderly row of high-fives at the end of a little league game, about
waltzing. Waltzing, and the feeling of your hand in his and your hand on his shoulder and your
noses close together but mostly the feeling of his hand on the small of your back.
About fingers brushing when passing the salt and shoulders touching in a packed train and hair
braided on the playground. About laughing after bumping feet under the table and about how
intimate it is to touch someone’s cheek.
And in thinking about all of it I find I am praying.
Praying, softly, futile, insistently, to lean once more against someone’s chest.
In the mostly-dark of 3am, to inaudible music, in a crowded room with a steady, pulsing,
collective heart beat, to lean against someone’s chest and for it not to be a miracle.
To feel a hand in mine without thinking to call it sacred.
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Kaitlyn Graham
University of Virginia
Woodbridge, VA
Bipolar / Pandemic
In March the pharmacy closed. I emptied my lithium
bottles onto the bed to order my pills, groups of three,
counting down the days I had left of stability.
Sit on a dune and watch the sandcastles you built
crumble at high tide. The ocean never stops coming.
March floods your moat defense and your castle
is now a handful of shells scattered in wet sand.
I told my psychiatrist two lies over the course of our
tele-visits. One was a lie of omission. I didn’t tell her
I bit the doorframe in a manic episode I couldn’t feel
coming. I screamed until it gagged me. Spit the paint scraped
between my teeth in a saliva puddle on the carpet.
I told her I’m not too low, the castles we spent three years
building were not in vain. I haven’t even seen the ocean.
I’m managing. I’m handling! I’m handling everything.
When we hang up the call I’m relieved we won’t speak
for another three weeks. She’s not worried. I don’t like
lying to her but I am terrified of the truth.
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Sarah Harder
University of South Florida
Tampa, FL
w/ no ghosts in it
poem
Claire Wahmanholm
after
instead, this poem is full
of mangoes, ripened past soft
into slop, skin uncoupled from its own
shrunken body. mango that hangs
heavy off branches
slips its stalk, slams
concrete, ruptured star
-like on molded sidewalk
and a child will paint their arms
yellow with its stringed goop.
mango held in palms, mango
shredded from pit, mango plump, peelless.
no one is dying and no
one is dead because you can’t have dead
people in poems without ghosts
so instead everyone swallows mango slices,
holds their silence like stones
sucked against their tongues. of course
there are mangos in this poem
because it’s summer and i
can’t not write about mangos in summer.
there are mangos in this poem and no one
is sick. no one mourns.
and there are no ghosts.
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P R O S E
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S O C I A L
I N N O V A T I O N
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Fellowship Speakers
Nomita Divi
Ending Pandemics
Rachel Galvin
University of Chicago
E.J. Reedy
Polsky Center
Dr. John Wilkinson
University of Chicago
Dr. Taylor Winkelman
NextGen
Advisors
Rachel Galvin
University of Chicago
Alex Long
Wilson Center
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2020
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