Non-Fiction

The suspense rushed through my body like oncoming traffic on the highway. My palms were sweating under my boxing gloves and my knees buckled once or twice. Two lions slowly approaching each other preparing to fight for the last piece of prey. We touched gloves without losing eye contact for a second. Then all of a second the bell rung and the crowd went roaring.

Growing up as the youngest child of eight I was labeled the “problem child” and was the most disciplined by my parents. My mom probably received a phone call home about my bad behavior at least once a week. I was involved in several fights and always got caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to be doing. I used to get so angry over the smallest things and just lashing out at people. My mom put me in anger management to see if there was a solution to my anger. After going several times a week I learned the solution wasn’t getting rid of my anger, it was controlling it.

My anger management counselor gave me several tips on how to control my anger in various situations. It seems like whenever I would get into those situations the tips never helped me in the moment. I remember I got into a heated argument with one of my classmates and it got to the point of insulting each other. My counselor told me to step back and count to ten. I tried to do that but he pushed me and I knocked him out. I mean seriously knocked him out cold with one punch. My fist crashed into his face faster than the speed of light. All my classmates praised me for doing so, but my teachers and parents were disappointed. I was suspended for ten days. My mom made me go back to the counselor for more advice.

The second time I went back to my counselor she told me to just walk away whenever I feel like I’m about to explode. I was sure this would work. One day at my high school and upperclassman confronted me about something I said about him to his friend. He towered over me like the Willis Tower with his fiery red hair and his huge eyes filled with hate. I wanted to punch him in his guts so bad but I decided to just walk away. While walking away he called me out of my name. When I turned around there was a huge crowd surrounding me. I felt like I was in a big arena and I was as small as a cell. I was so angry and I could no longer keep my composure and control. I ran up to him, leaped up a little bit and punched him right in the eye. He was knocked out cold as ice. The arena went quiet and everybody stared at me in amazement. I couldn’t believe I knocked him out either. Then the crowd went wild with excitement. Once again everybody praised me for what I had done. This time the punishment was worse. I was expelled from my school and had to transfer to another school. My mom didn’t know hat to do. So my dad decided to put me in boxing.

The first day I walked into my boxing class it felt as though my trainer already knew who I was personally. He told me he heard I was one of the best, and instructed me to put on gloves and meet him in the boxing ring. The bell rung and every punch I threw he dodged. He didn’t even try to punch me back. He asked me if I was tired and I said no and I told him to fight me back. He didn’t hesitate to hit me and every time he hit me I stumbled down a little bit. I began to get angry, and he could tell. He hit me one more time and I got dizzy. I knew I couldn’t fight anymore. I started to cry because for the first time in my life I felt defeated. He told me that I had great potential but before he could teach me fighting skills, he would teach me control and discipline. He told me I should never get angry in the ring. We trained together for 6 months and I learned control, discipline, and finally some proper fighting skills. He said I was one of his best students and he was ready to let me compete.

The day of my first fight I was confident that I had all the skills mastered to beat my opponent. The bell rung and the crowd went roaring. This was no easy fight, we went round for round and he seemed to meet my every punch. I began to get mad because I started to feel defeated. I started to fight with anger and began to lose control of my focus and skill. He was beating my badly. Then I remembered all the things my trainer taught me. I got focused again and the moment he left his right guard down, I stuck him with all my power. He stumbled and fell and was so dizzy he couldn’t get up. I won the fight, victory was mine again.

I learned so much from boxing. It taught me how to control my anger, discipline, and respect. I learned how to take my gift and use it in a positive setting instead of one that gets me in trouble. I don’t know where I would be without boxing in my life.

Shareef Dillard was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He is now a sophomore in college at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. His major is business marketing with a minor in international business.

“How many of you want to be doctors?” Hands flew up all around me, and looking around the room, I saw that only one other girl and I did not have our hands raised. Upon being asked what she wanted to do, the girl confidently answered, “Neonatal nurse.” Well, never mind, that left just me, as always undecided.

I could not help but feel inferior in that moment; everyone except me seemed to know what he or she wanted to do in life. My classmates at the STEM summer program I attended last summer had figured out what they wanted to achieve most, finding a passion to make a living out of. I had witnessed their joy when they peered at hydra through microscopes or added herbs to chick embryo and their undeniable eagerness to seek answers to their infinite biology questions. It never felt the same for me, at least I could not see myself doing these things for the rest of my life. Simply put, I had not found my passion, and ironically my pursuit of passion was starting to feel like an obligation.

My classmates were lucky in my eyes; it happened their passion for medicine aligned with society’s views, specifically that of Silicon Valley and many immigrant parents, who saw the medical profession as “practical.” It is undeniable that many of the students in my school feel that same conflict between preserving their passion and meeting their unwritten commitment to their parents and heritage when choosing their career path, and those who do not “honor” this obligation are viewed with envy, awe, and often doubt.

I saw my friend set aside her love for art, because her dad had told her if she ever became an artist, she would become “homeless.” Another friend who dared to choose psychology as her major was immediately viewed by others as incapable of having gotten into the same college if she had specified any other field. She wondered why no one saw that psychology was what she loved and why everyone immediately judged her for having shunned her “duty” to join the masses of students who are accepted into STEM, business, and law fields. She realized she may not be the one every family member bragged about at Thanksgiving dinner, but it was a decision I respected and feared I would be unable to make for myself. Maybe everybody’s condescending judgment toward my friend was because of the natural STEM-geared environment we live in in Silicon Valley, or maybe it was because we all covet her ability to pursue her passions without regret.

Instead of forgoing either my passion or responsibility, I have chosen to find a balance between the two, hence attending that summer program, clearly intended for those who had already decided their path in medicine. I wanted so badly to like medicine or in fact anything that could enable me to finally answer the age-old question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with confidence.

The truth is everyone wants to find the balance, but few achieve it. For most, the search for what brings them joy begins in childhood, dictated by parents. My childhood was littered with ballet, art, swimming, tennis, piano, and cello classes, just to name a few. Every summer was filled to the brim with a new program, whether it was horseback riding or rocketry science, and every hour set in stone. As I grew older, I decided which programs I wanted to attend in the hopes that by some miracle, that would be the program where I could discover my career. My life would be so much easier, I kept thinking, if I just liked computer science, like my dad and sister, but programming classes always were constant battlegrounds for my sanity.

When I first received emails from college counseling programs promising to identify my college major and career, I laughed at the thought of students voluntarily allowing themselves to be packaged and labelled by people who knew so little about them. Now I recognize the allure of having the burden of such an enormous decision placed in someone else’s hands, but this enormous decision is still one I insist on making myself.

In all honesty I know that I could not and would not force myself to commit to something for the rest of my life based on one program I attended as a kid or the personality test results of a college counseling program, but others, often because of financial pressure, are unable to make such an easy statement that they would never abandon their passions. My mom faced this exact situation in college when constrained by her family’s circumstances, she had to decide between medicine and accounting. The latter was a much safer choice, because choosing pre-med and not getting into the competitive medical program after meant, as she once told me, “becoming a pig farmer.” However, her choice, in turn, to major in accounting, forgoing her passion for medicine, has to some degree granted me the means and support to decide my career based on what I love, and I am not going to let it go to waste.

That is why I refuse to quit my school’s newspaper staff. On the surface, people are justified in their assumption that I should not stay. It does not help my GPA, requires extensive dedication outside of school, and the stress ages me ten years every deadline night. But writing is my passion, and unlike my search for that “perfect” career, does not feel like an obligation. Where else but in my school’s newspaper class could I write seven stories about topics I truly want to write about, whether it is my opinion on China’s One-Child Policy or a feature on the STEM gender gap, every three weeks? It is in newspaper that I find myself asking questions to better my reporting, design, and writing skills with the same enthusiasm I envied of my peers at the medical summer program. Looking back, my natural curiosity of the topic and the feeling of fulfillment I gained were indicators that this was my passion. Even if I do not pursue journalism as my major, I know because of that warm, proud feeling it instills in me when I see my work published that I will always make an effort to incorporate it in whatever career I choose.

As I look to the future, my dogma is those who believe it is fine to sacrifice their current passions for their obligations are also believers in delaying happiness in the hopes of achieving it later. It is always happiness for later…but I refuse to believe I am naïve for wanting happiness now.

Last summer I did not find my passion for medicine, like I had hoped, but I still do not believe a choice must be made between passions and obligations. I will continue in my search for the best of both worlds.

 

Caitlin is a current junior at Saratoga High, a member of the school newspaper the Saratoga Falcon, and an avid reader, artist, and tennis player. As her community holds an alarmingly strict interpretation of success, she felt it necessary to share her story about her own struggle with passion versus obligation.

 

1. If not chosen correctly, the color of your walls will eventually get on your nerves.

“Grey walls are proven to make people feel dreary and depressed,” was something my dad told me as I contemplated what color to paint my bedroom walls two years ago when I first moved in to my new home. “I would know. I had grey walls at one point in time. I would never paint them that color again.”

Sure, I took his advice. Does that mean I made a wise, well thought out, home designer choice at the age of fourteen? No. The color I chose for my walls ended up being on the opposite end of the grey, depressing, spectrum: lime green. And when I say lime green, I mean bright, obnoxious lime green. The type of green that should only exist in any interior design in the carpets of a bowling alley or a movie theater. This sickly green could also be mistaken for the color of a neon green expo marker: the type of marker you’re afraid to draw on yourself with, as you’re afraid somewhere within the hypochondriac center of your brain that it’s going to lead to radiation poisoning of sorts.

If there’s anything to take from this, it’s that if you’re gonna regret the color you choose for your walls, find a way to cope with it. Personally, I don’t mind the walls much, since they add an interesting contrast to having all black furniture. But with black furniture in mind…

2. If you invest in black furniture, be prepared for a dust blizzard.

With all black furniture, dust gathers noticeably. It does this with every color of furniture, but the thing with black furniture is that you just know. It’s visible. Too visible. That bothers some people, understandably. More often than not, I find myself scowling at the dust that gathers itself upon the furniture I’ve just cleaned two days prior to this new dust’s arrival. With that being said, you’ve got to really dig down and ask yourself if you’re willing to put up with black furniture’s nonsense. Personally, I’ve found that I don’t mind.

3. Roommates are annoying.

It’s late on a Saturday night and my room is silent. My parents are away, and it’s my job to watch the dogs; meaning all three of them have to sleep in my room. Tank, the largest of the puppy crew, wakes me up in the early hours of the morning by pressing his cold nose to my face. Even though he didn’t want to go outside when it was raining at eleven o’ clock, he decides five in the morning is the best time to go. Angel, the old and delusional pup, snores so loudly that she’s probably able to wake the dead- which is what it’s like trying to wake me up throughout the night. My dog Louie, who normally sleeps in my room, is sleeping contently on the pillow at my feet. Suddenly, the weight on the pillow at my feet feels light, and next thing I know, a dog’s tail is right beside my head, tickling my nose.

“How were the dogs?” my mom asks the next morning.

“They were fine,” I say, feeling the bags weighing heavily under my eyes. “No problem at all.”

4. Carpets are more comfortable than you think.

I remember the first day I moved in to my new house. Two years ago, about a week or two before Christmas. My new room was filled with new, bare furniture and a mattress with boxes piling the top. I was tired and lacking Internet access: the fatality of an adolescent. As I lay on my new, crème colored carpet, the softness overcame me, and I fell asleep. I woke up to my stepdad knocking on my door, asking if I’d woken yet. He then slid open his iPhone to show me a picture of myself sprawled out on the carpet, sleeping, again, like the dead. “This one’s going on the Internet,” he said, laughing. Luckily for me, it didn’t.

5. Moving a lot isn’t so bad.

You’d get annoyed with moving eight or nine times throughout your life and never having stayed at a school for more than two years, too. It gets tedious. But once you realize where moving so much got you and where you are now: those lime green walls aren’t so bad anymore.

 

 

Ashley Apel is an eleventh grade Literary Arts major attending LPPACS. She lives in Burgettstown, Pennsylvania with her family, three dogs, and two cats.

Please, Corinne pleaded, handing me a small novel with the words “Franny and Zooey: JD Salinger”printed across an otherwise blank cover.

Note: I did not read much at all while growing up, whereas my currently begging best friend had consumed entire libraries by the time puberty hit. Her house was lined with shelves of literature and, needless to say, I had heard similar pleas before; too many books tossed my way to count.

I cannot tell you exactly why, whether out of best-friendship or boredom I am unsure, but there was something about this time that made me listen. And I listened as I read, not only hearing but finally feeling as if there was somebody else who was not one for emptying [their] face of expression, who was sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody, and who wondered whether they could continue running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight—someone who, not to be overly cheesy or banal, also felt lost and alone. After this I read everything Corinne suggested. Since then she has patched me with pages upon pages of literature, always sure to shower me in Salinger and Rumi whenever I am spilling sad energy everywhere.

When I was little, I spent much of my time alone. At any given moment I had two places to live— Mom’s and Dad’s—though throughout my childhood the total racked up to nine: a condo, a townhome, two apartments, and five houses. Having two working parents and a brother who found his escape elsewhere made one thing, throughout all the moving, all the change, consistent: both houses were often empty.

Each morning I would wake to the ringing of my bright red old-school alarm, popping out of bed to prepare myself a breakfast consisting of sugary cereal or waffles doused in syrup. I would walk to and from school, afterwards peering into the fridge and pulling out soda after soda, gulping them down as I watched TV for hours on end. On the rare occasions in which my parents came home before bed, my mom would lay down in her room as voices of strangers on the TV filled the silence. My dad, wiped out from work, would sit with a cigar in one hand and remote in the other, persistently and methodically puffing, covering his own loneliness in a cloud of smoke. And in the room over my brother would be busy bringing bong and bottle to mouth, creating a rhythm, which combined with the chatter of his friends, served to drown out the steady, underlying beat of his anxiety. Food. TV. Movies. Drugs. We ‘entertained’ ourselves to escape.

But as I explored Corinne’s home racked with reading my world widened. It was in this home-library on Sunnyglen Drive that I found a way to engage and explore, seeking shelter and solace in words of faceless strangers, making a home out of the pale pages, loneliness lessening. I am full of holes, of inconsistencies and missing pieces—one day an introvert and the next an extrovert, sometimes simple while at other times dutifully dynamic, always up and down. Though no matter the moment I have found there is always a book to lose myself in so much so that I resultantly find myself. No matter my mood, I read. And because I read, I write.

We are constructs of our environments and our choices, and while it was in my houses growing up that I recognized we model ourselves after our surroundings, it was in books—in my homes—that I learned how to choose what around me to model myself after. I may not be able to avoid the fact that I in part mimic my mother: unsteady, unstable, unsure, and at times all too insecure. And my dad: dependable, determined, increasingly independent yet alone. What I can choose is whether or not I want to mimic my parent’s mentality and momentarily escape feelings of loneliness, anxiety, and the like through mindless entertainment or, rather, actively engage my mind and combat these emotions. As an avid reader I have chosen the latter, and as an aspiring writer I hope to help others do the same.

Throughout the years I have made similar pleas to my parents and brother that Corinne made to me, begging them, Books. Books. Books. For birthdays and holidays I buy them books, hoping they will open them and find the same comfort that I do. If there is one thing I want to make clear it is that I do not blame my family for my loneliness. Sure, my empty houses growing up made me feel empty, but it also taught me that while being alone may not always be a choice being lonely often is.

It was during the days I spent sprawled out on the floor of the Sunnyglen house, reading for hours on end, that I realized this. Not only did I realize that I have control over certain aspects of myself but also that through writing I may be able to pass this realization along. You see, when I was little, I always imagined that there was a factory up in heaven where angels patched us together from an assembly line of parts and pieces; and while I still like to imagine this to be more or less true, I now see that the angels are in fact all around us. Life itself is an incessant assembly line. All of the friends, family, teachers, and authors who have helped piece me together are angels working the assembly line and Corinne is my archangel. So I want to work, to build up as many as people as possible through writing and otherwise.

I do not think my story or my motives for writing to be novel. There are undoubtedly others experiencing the near exact emotions I have and likely countless individuals with experiences similar to mine—our holes aligning and overlapping. And I proudly own this ordinariness. While others may wish for extraordinary, I sit with standard. When your life is just barely outside of banal, the simple solution is to silence yourself, to think you have nothing new to say, nothing to add to this already complicated world. But I’d readily counter that you do.

Tell them how your childhood friend was taken too soon, you too far away to attend her funeral. Tell them of the shock, the guilt. Tell them how your brother fell to drug addiction, years later slowly recovering. Tell them of the relief, of the pride. Tell them how your best friend, your angel, is bipolar, nearly three thousand miles away, struggling, suicidal. Tell them of the frustration and sadness, the anger. Tell them you know how lonely life can be—I’m sure they know too.

 

 

Danielle is a rising junior at the University of Michigan, where she is majoring in Philosophy and minoring in Writing. As an avid yogi and aspiring rock-climber, Danielle loves all things active and outdoorsy. Her educational aspirations are primarily centered on enhancing literacy in low SES areas, hoping to enter the nonprofit sector of such upon graduation.

I sat in my imaginary sandbox underneath the twin orange slides on the school playground. Last Saturday was my first time seeing Harry Potter, and I was trying to recreate the scene where Harry writes himself a happy birthday message in the dust. I watched as the other first graders laughed their way through a seventh game of hopscotch. I spent every recess in my imaginary sandbox counting everyone else’s hopscotch rounds. My friends Rose and Leyna sat inside the grey, donut-shaped wall that surrounded the playground. Bored of watching other people enjoy themselves, I decided to go talk to them. But as I got closer, I noticed that they had a book in their hands.

“What are you doing?” I pointed to the book.

Leyna glowered at me and hid the book from me. “None of your business. Only Rose and I can read this book.”

I crossed my arms and snapped, “Who made you the ultimate ruler of books?”

“It’s not like we don’t want you to see it,” Rose said. “But, you don’t even know how to read, so you can’t see it.” Rose shared a look with Leyna and they both giggled.

“I can read!” I stomped my foot, and they both started laughing.

“Then prove it,” Leyna handed me the book.

I looked at the first page of the book, but all of the letters jumped around the page and rearranged themselves until they no longer looked like individual letters, but rather a jumbled blob of my fears.

“L-L-I-O,” I stuttered, hot tears falling down my cheeks while Rose and Leyna cackled like a pair of drunken hyenas.

“I can’t believe you don’t know how to read?” Leyna asked, not even attempting to control her own laughter.

“S-s-stop it,” I stammered.

“Look, she doesn’t know how to talk either,” Rose howled.

“You’re stupid,” Leyna said.

I turned to walk away, but Rose said, “Luna, come back. We were only joking. You’re my bestest friend.”

How innocent her face looked when she said it, her big doe eyes staring at me, a sweet smile plastered onto her face. Part of me wanted to stop Leyna from stealing my “friend,” but before I could respond, the two of them laughed again. I used all of the strength in my legs to run away from them as fast as I could. I swung open the bathroom door, ran into a bathroom stall, and stayed there until recess was over.

That day I told myself that a kingdom of ladybugs inside my body had frozen my throat, and that’s why no words would come out when I tried to read. I wish I still believed that. From what I remember, Rose and I were close in first grade. What confused me was that Rose was always nice to me–except when Leyna was around. When she stared at me with her big, brown eyes that day, I figured she was about to stand up for me. I secretly hoped that she would push Leyna into the road and let her get run over by a massive truck.

Almost a year later, I sat in Mrs. Sontag’s second-grade classroom during the first week of school.

“Luna, can you read the next paragraph?” Mrs. Sontag asked. The whole class swiveled around to face me; they were a sea of small, voracious creatures, eager to hear the rest of the story.

“Why would you ask her? She can’t even read!” my classmate Bryce said. Oh, Bryce. Little did he know that reading had suddenly “clicked” with me during the summer. Thanks to this new development, and with the help of my mom, I was now quite precocious for my age.

“Give her a chance,” Mrs. Sontag said. She smiled at me.

I imagined the ladybugs trying to freeze my throat, but this time I wouldn’t let them stop me. I opened my mouth, and the words spilled out of me like the pounding waves of the ocean. The whole class looked at me, stunned. I was so caught up in the action of the story that I didn’t realize I had read two pages when all Mrs. Sontag had asked for was a paragraph.

What brought me back to reality was Mrs. Sontag’s soothing voice. “Sweetie, why don’t we give someone else a turn?”

I looked up from the book and saw the other kids whispering to each other. There is no way to describe the overwhelming joy that surged through me in that moment. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was an intelligent and important person. The wonderful world of books was finally accessible to me, not just to kids like Rose and Leyna. I soon became the most avid reader in the class, and at sixteen, I now read at the level of a college graduate. If only Leyna could see me now. After first grade, Leyna moved to Germany and could no longer torture me. Rose and her family took a one-year trip to France, and she came back a different person. She apologized for being mean and became a true friend. Maybe she learned how it felt to struggle to be good at something, being surrounded by people who spoke French so much better than she did.

But I’ve never forgotten how I struggled to read that year and what that taught me.

Sometimes, even now, when I’m standing in front of the class, all eyes upon me as I’m about to read something I wrote myself, I feel that kingdom of ladybugs threatening to seize my throat again. But I swallow hard, remember what it felt like to read that day in Mrs. Sontag’s class, to know I had joined that secret club of imaginary worlds and boundless journeys–and my voice comes.

 

Luna is a high school sophomore in Southern California. She has also been published in Literally Stories. Luna has been writing since she was nine and she hula hoops to relieve stress.

 

 

“If the freedom of speech is taken away then the dumb and silent we may be led, like sheep to slaughter.”¹ George Washington recognized how crucial free speech is to a successful democracy. Our contemporary society has no defined limitations on the freedom of speech; however, there is an insidious undertow threatening to erode this sacred principle: political correctness.

To comprehend how political correctness is shaping the privilege of free speech, one must first understand several major aspects of this concept. The basic premise is that if the pundits and intellectuals can influence how individuals think and act, then they can also influence what is socially “acceptable” language. By imposing their political views on any subject, they create a pressure to conform to these standards. But these standards begin to limit the freedom of speech and expression. Generally, people do not want be labeled as an objector of popular opinion, thereby forcing them to subject their own ideas to the prevailing ideology. The very definition of political correctness stands as, “conforming to a belief that language and practices which could offend political sensibilities (as in matters of sex or race) should be eliminated”². But in reality, this term has almost nothing to do with politics.

Instead, political correctness has everything to do with the encouragement of group thinking and the pursuit of conformity. Through social intimidation, a diverse body of ideas and expressions no longer flourishes in the diminishing world of American free speech. In addition, a growing aspect of multiculturalism in our society only further contributes to this problem. Proponents of political correctness obsess over their belief that language should not be injurious to any ethnicity, race, gender, religion or other social group. They attempt to eliminate what they consider to be offensive remarks and actions and replace them with harmless substitutes that come at the expense of free expression. For example, a school in California, in an effort to maintain political correctness, sent five students home after they refused to remove their American flag t-shirts on Cinco de Mayo³. The school officials clearly regarded the actions of the five students as offensive. These unnatural filters on free language and expression constrict social exchanges by defining certain views as out of place. This acts as a direct suppression of free speech.

Political correctness is also used to discredit opponents of various ideologies by labeling them as violators of this code of conduct. For instance, my father is making a film about the early colonialists and their interactions with American Indians. But every time he speaks with an academic, he becomes uncomfortable with what defining terms are politically correct. Should he call them Indians, Native Americans, Americans Indians, or Natives? As a result, my father tries avoiding directly labeling these people because he is nervous about offending one group or another. Consequently, this narrows his potential range of conversation. This is a simple demonstration of how political correctness can put boundaries on free expression.

Declaring that some thoughts and phrases are “correct” while others are not is creating an ever-tightening noose around the freedom of speech. No matter how uncomfortable we are with particularly strident points of view, it’s crucial to recognize that this is a small price to pay to maintain a democratic system that promotes free speech as a basic pillar of society. While I am certainly not promoting inflammatory language, I believe that the channels of communication should remain unfettered from the burdens and limitations of political correctness.

 

(This essay was previously published on HuffPostTeen)

 

Kai Sherwin is a junior at a high school in Connecticut. He is very passionate about history and creative writing. In his spare time, Kai enjoys sailing and playing basketball.