Black Joy Parade and My 16th Birthday by Colette Johnson

 In the beginning of the school year, the entire department is together for a few weeks working with an Artist in Residence. Afterward, we split into our respective groups. CW II meets in our seminar room with different Artists and Residents, working on different crafts. CW I works with Heather in the main room. We have a poetry and fiction unit with her. We then all group together for our Playwriting unit.

When we were together we had a unit with Taylor D. Duckett, who is a poet, author, and orator. Her unit was about performance poetry and different ways to bring sound into a poetic work and the messages behind songs. On the first day, she gave us a packet consisting of the songs that we would be looking at. We learned how to clap out the rhythms and identified different poetic devices in them such as slant rhyme, internal rhyme, etc.

I felt that Taylor’s lesson was effective. I tend to forget that songs are forms of poems when I am listening to music. I liked that Taylor had us listen to the songs while reading the lyrics. Reading words on a page and hearing them sung or said are two different things. Heather, our department head, always talks about tone when writing fiction. Tone also applies to poetry. The speaker can perform the piece, indicating the tone of the piece in the way they talk. In this case the speaker would be the singer. Sometimes when reading something before hearing it performed, the tone isn’t always clear. The lyrics mean one thing, but the way the singer sings them means another.

Taylor and I kept contact after her unit finished and we text back and forth. She helps me with my writing if I send her something. Back in January on the seventeenth, Taylor asked me if I wanted to work at her booth during the Black Joy Parade in Oakland. She had her own publishing company, which would be at the parade, selling books and raffle tickets.

I was ecstatic when she asked me and immediately texted my mom to ask for permission. She and I woke up bright and early on February 24th and made our way across the bridge and into downtown Oakland. My call time was noon but I got there around one after extensively circling around to find parking.

It was my first time at the parade and I learned that the parade stretched along for a few blocks. Taylor’s booth was located toward the end of the parade, where most of the other vendors were. We were sandwiched between a company that sold makeup and sunglasses, and another company that sold African print clothes and essence sticks. I helped Taylor and her good friend Angel sell manuscripts, some were manuscripts of Taylor and other artists’ work.

I was there for a couple hours and was able to roam and meet new people. Taylor got hungry a short while after I arrived and so I walked around until I found the food trucks. There were a good many of them with people gathered around in large clumps leaving very little room for people to walk around. Aromas hit me almost instantly. There were corndogs, hotdogs, chicken and waffles, veggie burgers, fried chicken, hot links, desserts, and so much more! I was so overwhelmed with everything and had to call Taylor to ask what she wanted. She couldn’t decide either, so I walked to nearest CVS and picked us up some doughnuts and mini musketeer candies (her choice).

Before I left Taylor introduced me to her mentor Dr. Wright, who teaches classes at Taylor’s college. Both of them made offers for me to sit in on a few classes at San Francisco State University  during my spring break this year. I’ll most definitely be taking them up on their offers.

I was sad to leave the event around four. I really wanted to stay but my mom was freezing and ready to leave. She also did not want to get stuck in even more traffic than expected on the drive home across the Bay Bridge. I’d say that the highlight of that event for me was being able to be around people who looked like me and felt proud to showcase our culture. At school in San Francisco, I don’t see a huge representation of the Black community. SOTA has a small Black Student Union that I am the treasurer of, but other than that, SOTA is not the most diverse school in the district, and San Francisco isn’t the most diverse city either. It was nice to be around people who were just as passionate about our culture as I was and am. It was refreshing to see our community come together and celebrate. The picture below was taken by Taylor upon my arrival.

Aside from the Black Joy Parade, I hit another milestone in February. I turned sixteen on February 26th! My birthday festivities were spectacular. Since my big day fell on a Tuesday, I celebrate that Saturday on March 2nd. On the day of my actual birthday, my mom and grandma woke me up unknowingly bright and early. They were decorating my room with flowers and gifts. When I officially woke up at five in the morning my mom burst into my room, singing “Happy Birthday To You” with her arms spread wide and a smile on her face.

She gave me cards, money, and some clothes, and dropped me off at my bus stop so that I wouldn’t have to catch another bus. In Creative Writing, Heather assigns everyone Writing Buddies. Writing Buddies are usually an upper classmen paired with a lower classman. They are there to be one’s friend and help one with their writing. In the beginning of the year, the older buddy contacts the younger buddy’s parents and asks for permission to take them on a date. This is an afternoon spent getting to know each other outside of school during art block. Writing buddies are also responsible for bringing a treat to share with the department on their buddy’s birthday.

My buddy, Julieta (2019) texted me on Monday night asked what treat I would want for my birthday. My favorite sugary treat is called “Senorita Bread”. Senorita Bread, also known as Starbread or Spanish Bread in the Philippines, consists of small oblong rolls made of the softest dough decorated with butter and sugar. The dough is rolled, sprinkled with more sugared breadcrumbs, and baked. Caution: they are deliciously addicting!

I knew that this would be hard to get. I only find them in Daly City and this was out of the question. Instead Julieta brought in these scrumptious mini blueberry muffins. They were food allergy free and enjoyed by many.

On March 2nd, at five in the evening, my mom, grandma, and two friends from school, both sophomores, ventured downtown to Espetus Churrascaria. The restaurant was an all-you- can-eat Brazilian Steakhouse located on the corner of Market and Gough. Their food and service was absolutely divine. I highly recommend it. It was not my first time dining there; I made reservations for my mom, grandma, and I two years prior for my mom’s birthday. I fell in love with their tender sirloin steak.

We were seated next to a large window in the corner of the restaurant. My friends and I went to the salad bar to grab plates and see what food they had. I’m afraid to say that I was a little less adventurous with my food choices. I only took the fresh grilled salmon. The servers walk around with large sticks of meat and offer your table pieces. I tried the beef wrapped in bacon, the chicken wrapped in bacon, the filet mignon, the sirloin steak, and so many more things. I even tried the grilled pineapple. I hate pineapple so was surprised to find myself enjoying it.

We ordered dessert before we left and the waiters sang happy birthday to me as they brought our dishes out. We order Key Lime Pie and a sundae type dish. When we arrived home, my two friends stayed for two more hours and we did and impromptu birthday photoshoot outside. The video down below includes the pictures that we took. Overall, February was a good month for me.

Colette Johnson, class of 2021

An Art & Film Intern by Hannah Duane

It would be hard to encapsulate all that San Francisco Art & Film for Teenagers has given me, for it seems much of that will be revealed in the years to come. However, in the last year and a half that Art & Film, Isaiah Dufort and Ronald Chase have been in my life, I have learned so much about art, and also about being a good, engaged person.

My experiences with Art & Film began with Cine Club, as I had to go every six weeks for Creative Writing. The first Friday of freshman year, I journeyed across the city a bit confused to see Moonrise Kingdom, and absolutely loved it. The upperclassmen had warned me that Art & Film movies could be odd or impenetrable, but Moonrise Kingdom was an easy start. The plot was simple enough, and the sheer beauty of Wes Anderson’s filmic style made the entire evening a pastel and sweet memory. On that Saturday morning, I sat down to write an essay about the film (also for class) and marveled at how watching this film and hearing the discussion had engaged me but also lead me to deeper thoughts on the piece. I was commenting on color and camera angles, things I’d never considered when watching films before. Since then, I’ve missed as few films as possible, and only then begrudgingly. The Friday night movies became a ritual, something to motivate me through the school week.

Later in the year, I went to my first Free Ticket event, Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party.  To this day, I can remember numerous scenes, and the joy of standing huddled outside afterwards with Ronald, as he explained to the little group of students how well it had been directed. Watching this play inspired me to read more plays, and then, in turn, try writing them myself. Two years ago, I never would have guessed I would enjoy writing a ten minute play, or even have any idea about how to go about that, but with the guidance of Art and Film, as well as SOTA Creative Writing, I have found myself more confident in attempting to make my own art and exploring my interests.

As a child, my grandmother took me to many art museums, and though I loved seeing the paintings and sculpture, I never analyzed what I saw. Art and Film has taught me to understand how a piece of art creates emotion and how to look for technical mastery while still allowing me to form personal opinions and discuss them with my peers. At the galleries, Ronald makes a habit of appearing behind students and asking for their opinion before explaining to them how that effect was created, be it with use of light, color or line. I distinctly remember my first trip to the Frankel Gallery, to see the work of Sol Lewitt. Ronald described how she created an alphabet of curves, and to this day I often remember the power of Lewitt’s alphabet, how Ronald’s pushing me to see the piece as something deeper than curves on a wall brought this piece life, made me want to decode the alphabet, or explore it myself.  

I have found myself among an incredible community of young people, unafraid of trying on opinions and engaging themselves absolutely without qualms. As I became more engaged in Art & Film, Isaiah invited me to intern, and one of the primary jobs is standing out front of Cine Club, greeting students. This has allowed me to learn the regular’s names, and feel that I belong in the community. Art & Film has allowed me to meet like minded people from schools across the city, as well as providing engaging events to attend with peers. After each film, my friends and I gather again outside of SFAI to discus the movie further. As I write this, the last film I saw was The Conformist, directed by Bernardo Bertolucci. In the December cold, we attempted to piece together Bertolucci’s non-linear narrative, discussing the use of color palettes that Ronald brought up in the group discussion further, and as always, the bus ride home was tinted with the ecstatic buzz of loving a piece of art.

Isaiah and Ronald too are such incredible people. Apart from being encouraging and inspiring mentors, they have become close friends and people I look up to. Frequently, I find myself seated near Ronald Chase, as he speaks about visual art, film or the symphony, and the wisdom and insight impossible to gain without the experience Ronald has is so valuable to the young artist. And Isaiah counters him beautifully with blunt opinions and determination for perfection. Please help us make Art & Film an opportunity for generations of young people to participate it, there is no grater program for the young mind.

Hannah Duane, class of 2021

Chapbooks by Puck Hartsough

Last unit, Creative Writing was working on poetry, CW 2 with artist-in-residence Lara Coley and CW 1 with both Heather and in mini units led by the sophomores. At the end of the unit, both classes made variations of chapbooks, short paper booklets of the poetry we’ve written this year. Creative Writing 1 made accordion fold books, with a poem in each fold, and Creative Writing 2 bound little books by sewing two large stitches in the middle of a folded packet. CW 2 spent several days on our chapbooks, working together at times and asking each other for help or to pass certain tools and the like over the table. We each made at least three copies of our chapbooks, and some people chose to make each cover different, with different stamps or designs, while others decided to make the covers as similar as possible.

When we had finished our chapbooks, we spent a day making each other bookmarks. We each made eleven, one for each student other than ourselves, as well as one for Lara. We wrote about things we’re grateful for about the others, about how their writing inspires and impresses us, and how we’re so glad to have met each other.

The last day of the unit, we read our poetry out loud to each other. Just before each person stood up to read, another student would read the bio written at the end of their chapbook.

The bios ranged from goofy (discussing how one student would love to be on the beach right now) to impressive (a list of literary journals and websites where a student has been published), but every one matched the author they described perfectly, and every one made each of us so proud of how far we’ve come.

This unit was productive and enjoyable, and I’m glad we were able to work with Lara and each other to make it so.

Puck Hartsough, class of 2019

Sophomore Poetry Lessons by Zai Deriu

During our poetry unit, Creative Writing One spent some time being taught by the sophomores, each of whom had planned and then taught a lesson on poetry surrounding their culture and background. As each of the ten sophomores taught their lessons, the class felt almost purely student directed for a time, as Heather sat watching the lessons progress.

Every person taught a distinctly different lesson, ranging from poetry from Berkeley, to Canadian songwriters such as Joni Mitchell, to British grime rap. Every day a new topic was introduced and some new bit of information about a person and a culture was learned. In some lessons, class discussions continued into break time without anyone noticing, all so interested and eager to contribute.

The lessons required us to write a poem a night as homework. It helped me to explore new literary devices and topics by responding to various poets or styles. Some nights it was more difficult than others, when writer’s block became a large issue, but being forced to push through that and still turning in all my assignments on time made it easier to process my thoughts into poems despite obstacles.

Not only did responding to poetry creatively help to expand my own writing, but simply hearing different poet’s work made me think of all the different ways one may present their art. I had never particularly considered what exactly makes something a poem, and I still wouldn’t attempt to define one, however in quite a few lessons, music was used in collaboration with poetry. Playing music and my writing have always been things which were separate to me, but hearing and reading the range of styles made me curious to incorporate my music into my writing.

Seeing each of the sophomores present their carefully prepared lessons to the class made me think about how in a year, I and the rest of the freshmen class will have to do the same. I began to consider what aspects of my culture I might want to study and teach. I could pull from the Italian side of my family, and research poets from the area where my father was born. Perhaps I would consider researching poetry by LGBTQ+ people, having grown up with gay parents in the Castro, where the streets literally have rainbows on them. It made me excited to share an aspect of my background with next year’s Creative Writing One.

Zai Deriu, class of 2022

Creative Nonfiction in Creative Writing II by Eva Whitney

 

My first semester in Creative Writing II has proved to expand and challenge my writing like never before. Every sentence, thought, or mere word I wrote down was shared with the entire group, something I always struggled with. In our poetry unit, my work progressively got more and more personal as my peers began to feel more like a family, and I came to the realization that writing is a never-ending process, and no one will judge me for presenting a poor first draft, or for writing my truth is the rawest way possible. The result of our poetry unit was a chapbook of eight or so poems. Though I read through it and noticed countless edits I’d like to make, I couldn’t help but pride myself in this small, neat package of Eva.

However, even though I was comfortable with writing about my own experiences, when it came time for our next unit, I dreaded it. Creative Nonfiction sounded like embellished essays, or a heightened version of an English class assignment. I pictured prompts like, “what is the greatest challenge you’ve overcome?” or “what achievement are you most proud of?” I’ve written my fair share of these empty essays for applications, or in the dungeon of my freshman year English class, and I feared that they were following me into the one class I actually had creative freedom in.

I soon learned that Creative Nonfiction does not include essays that are just beefy on imagery, or chock-full of thesaurus synonyms, they are fiction pieces—that are entirely factual. Ploi Pirapokin, our Creative Nonfiction Artist-in-Residence, dished out essays daily—from the acclaimed epic of “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” by Gay Talese to “How Blac Chyna Beat the Kardashians at Their Own Game” from Buzzfeed News. I noticed that Creative Nonfiction was the most ubiquitous of all writing forms—once I began writing it, I saw it in Instagram captions of people wallowing in their insecurities, the newspaper that lives on my kitchen table, or letters from my grandmother describing her backyard.

But how do I make my own, boring life interesting to read? I had to teach myself how to shape my seemingly standard experiences into a narrative, creating characters, a climax, and a resolution, all while sticking to the truth. I began reevaluating memories I once overlooked or labeled as unworthy of sharing. Here is an excerpt from my very first in-class prompt in this unit, detailing the mundane tasks that my family adheres to without ever discussing them:

“What my parents and I don’t talk about is our household tasks. We’ve just sort of fallen into a routine. It is simply a fact that my father takes the trash out and weeds the front garden on Tuesday, my mother makes dinner, and that I do anything in between. Sometimes, after dinner, I find myself floating to the sink almost instinctively to wash the dishes. I’ll wake up abruptly in the middle of the night when the dishwasher completes a cycle, wishing that stacking plates wasn’t as loud as my uncle on NBA finals night. And I’ve been hearing my father open the laundry closet in the middle of the night—the creak of the door is very distinct. It is not often that we run into many issues with our tasks, but when we do, I become aware of the high level of order we are able to maintain without any discussion. When guests come over, my father retreats to the kitchen and my mother entertains. It is always so troubling to see my father emerging with a delicate tray of tea. For a moment, I think, “Gee, Mom looks different!” Or when there is a night that I simply cannot wash the dishes, I find myself unable to concentrate knowing some stranger is doing the rinsing. I’ve been known to burst through the door, prying the sponge out of my replacement dishwasher’s hands, admitting defeat…”

It is easy to take the more dramatic and humorous route in Creative Nonfiction, perhaps to shy away from revealing too much about yourself, or to show nonchalance about a situation. But my classmates have motivated me through their work to explore the memories that are more difficult to share. Slowly, I am approaching larger and larger truths about myself in my work.

Writing poetry in the beginning of the school year taught me how to explore personal topics covertly, but Creative Nonfiction has encouraged me to write about myself overtly, and it is one of the most liberating feelings ever.

Eva Whitney, class of 2020

My Burgeoning Love For Creative Non-Fiction Through A Bon Appetit Op-Ed by max chu

AS OF writing this blog post, Creative Writing Two is in the third week of our creative non-fiction unit. Ploi Pirapokin has returned for her second year as an artist-in-residence to lead us through what it means to write non-fiction, as many of the CW-2ers are out of their depth.

LIKE MOST people, I was raised on fiction. My mother was a massive supporter of children’s books, and classics like Goodnight Moon and Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type were nightly adieus to dreamland for my sister and I. In second grade, my sister brought in the family collection of Berenstain Bears for her 100 days 100 objects project. From there, we moved to early readers like Geronimo Stilton and Animorphs, and finally to the gatekeeper of children’s literature, Harry Potter. With such a strong (yet typical) fiction reading base, the path to writing, and then to SOTA, is one that many in the department surely share. Due to these similarities, this is why I believe that the move to a creative non-fiction mindset has been such a trial.

MY FIRST encounter with creative non-fiction, and yours as well, is with advertising. Day one, your first step out of the hospital, you’re suddenly berated upon by shop lights and big colorful billboards and even names of stores, asking you, baby, to spit up your hard-earned capital to stimulate the economy–a stark contrast to the conservationist lifestyle you were living before in the womb. The second run-in with creative non-fiction I had was with local news. My mother’s a devotee to the regional local news wherever we go. Over the winter at my grandparent’s condo in Florida, my mother was ecstatic that she could reach both the Tampa local news as well as New York One, despite the fact that we were hundreds of miles from New York City. Naturally progressing forward, there were SSAT essays, and a news unit in eighth grade, and finally there was House Meal.

AN OP-ED written by n in the winter of 2017, I did have to read the piece a couple of times before I really fell in love, but once I did, I fell hard. Tamar Adler’s Everyone Should Have A House Meal describes the most baseline part of a relationship: food. This is not the Valentine’s Day gaudy supper, but every single other night. The house meal “is a meal that one automatically falls back on whenever there is no other plan.” This concept resonated so vigorously within me, as relatable, poignant, and introspective, that I had to find more like it! Books of essays began creeping their way into my to-read pile, and I began to pay more attention to the local news every morning. I began to read the news on my phone, or at least take it past just glancing at headlines, and what I found shocked me!

What constitutes as creative is broader than I could have ever imagined, and I love it! To describe mundae events as intriguing is as much as of an art as to create them out of thin air! We’ve only just begun, but I know I’m going to love Ploi’s creative non-fiction unit!

 

Max Chu, class of 2020

A Poem to Remember by Nadja Goldberg

Over the summer, I hiked for three and a half weeks through the Sierra mountains with an enormous backpack and a group of friends. Our boots trekked over beds of crisp pine needles, on trails of sheer, jagged rock, and along muddy meadow paths. As I breathed the open air and felt a flood of sunlight on my cheeks, I longed to capture the feeling of being so deeply immersed in nature.

One evening, after we set up camp on a floor of rock beside a river and ate rehydrated rice for dinner, I slipped a notebook and pen into my jacket pocket and started to climb a nearby hill. I clambered over heaps of boulders, continuing up and up. When I turned around, the rest of my group, huddled around a chess board, appeared as a small, brightly colored patch in the valley. Behind them, a row of immense granite mountains towered toward the sky. For miles in every direction was the untouched beauty of Earth. I have never felt so simply like an animal connected to the wild. I tried to write about this expansive feeling but each word that I scrawled on the page seemed to carry meaning too limited for what I craved to express. I descended the mountain with pages full of pen strokes covering phrases that I deemed inadequate.

As I climbed Bear Mountain one afternoon some days later, I began to form a poem in my head. When it became too detailed to retain in my mind, I sat on a rock next to the trail and fished my notebook and pen out of my backpack. The poem was addressed to my future self. I planned to read it once I returned to the city in order not to forget the pure, blissful world that had absorbed me:

 

Remember the Sky

Remember the river?
Your toes curl over slippery rocks,
soft gush
twists through the valley
bound by sprouted grass,
thin strokes shivering in the breeze.

Remember the mountains?
Enormous bodies
of stagnant power,
draped in a pine robe.

You sit on a rock at the top,
take full breaths
and recall when this spot
was a distant rift
in the serrated ridge.

Remember the bird?
Chirping faint and sweet
on a springy aspen branch,
Canvas tree trunk etched with eyes,
a flurry of leaves.

Remember the lake?
Sun-glazed surface drifts slowly,
reflects blurred cliffs and trees.

You leap from a rock
plunge
into soothing depths.

Remember the sky?
An unhampered sheet,
wisps of clouds unfurl
in peachy morning hues
behind hilltops.

At night,
you are focused on stars and planets
radiant dust across darkness,
and you are a part of it.

Nadja Goldberg, class of 2021

Humor! by Kaia Hobson

As per Creative Writing custom, after the first show of the year, the department invites an artist in residence to teach a week long unit before we begin studying poetry. This year, Daniel Handler came in and taught a mini unit on humor. We had a similar lesson last year, taught by Sam Hamm, though it was much shorter, consisting of only two days. Handler taught us how to create the basis of a comedic piece of writing, as well as how connect seemingly unrelated works through the use of a grounding narrator or topic.

Handler began the lesson by distinguishing “boring” sentences from ones with comedic potential. All 30 creative writers were instructed to come up with a boring sentence. Some examples included: “I don’t want to go go outside because it is raining,” or “I have no energy.” We then came up with “funny” words that either had comedic connotations, or that produced funny sounds. We then added these words to our boring sentences to make them slightly more intriguing: “I don’t want to go outside because it is raining falafels.” While not intended to evoke a outburst of laughter, the simple addition of “falafel” not only grabs the reader by surprise, but provides an opportunity to expand on the sentence in a comedic fashion, if one so desires.

Part of the unit was to write a 2-3 page culminating project that uses a specific narrator, or connecting subject to create a cohesive piece of comic writing. I decided to write a collection of a short articles that lack any significance in today’s world.

Here is an excerpt of one, titled “Three Designers Make Yet Another Whale Out Of Trash.”

The unraveling ceremony of the sculpture took place yesterday in Boca Raton, Florida. It is said to stand at an impressive 5 feet, and is reported to have taken almost 3 days to complete. One of the creators, Melanie Tumford stated: “I think this is something people are going to see and go, ‘Wow. That’s really big.’”

Another one of the designers, Ian Mousk described the process of making the sculpture, calling it, “A really cool behind the scenes experience.” He spoke to the hungry crowd of at least 3 reporters: “We all kind of just sat down and wanted to create something that was so unique, people would see it and go: “Wow. That’s really tall.”

Throughout the unit, I learned the importance of having a grounding subject for the audience to come back to, as simple as a specific collection title, in order to give the comedy found in the piece meaning. I hope to learn more on the craft of comedy as my high school career progresses.

Kaia Hobson, Class of 2021

 

Freeze by Kenzo Fukuda

Back in October 2018, Creative Writing held our annual show where each of us recites a piece on stage, whether that be poetry, prose, or a short story. We also have skits in between parts of our show and our show’s title “La Cro-Ink” was for that. If you went to this past show you might know what is coming next.  

Getting past the basics, I had my poem detailed and planned out to the finest detail. I had adjusted the poem to fit a stage performance, found a clip of Tupac Shakur that meshed with my poem, had red lighting for my entrance and “Spanish Harlem” by Aretha Franklin for my exit. I rehearsed and memorized my poem “We the People” to the point where hyperbole would be appropriate. I was going to kill it! I was supposed to kill it. So when I walked onto the platform in the center of the stage, in front of the whole theater, I opened my mouth and froze.

That Eminem song “Lose Yourself” has more meaning to me now than before that moment. My palms were sweaty, my knees were weak, the whole shabang. My guess to why the words would not come out (sorry last Eminem reference) is because I had been on stage for 30 seconds leading up to the reciting. I could see them because the red backlight was shining on their faces and not mine. So when the spotlight dropped, my subconscious started freaking out because now everyone could see me. My brain just shut off and left me flapping in the wind. I had “forgotten” the first lines. When I say forgotten I don’t feel like I actually forgot the words. They were there, somewhere, it was just that my voice and brain could not connect. Like along the way, the words got into a car accident but forgot to call and tell me that they would not make it. I stood on the stand alone and empty.  

I started stuttering and ummming and whispering, “No, no…” the one thing we are told not to do when your forget a line. My body felt like rigamortis, paralyzed by fear but still experiencing every ounce of pain from it. I had to step back from the mic for a moment. I heard people shouting from the audience, “You got this Kenzo!” Even Heather, our department head, was screaming, “Just relax! Go!” But when I stepped back towards the mic and opened my mouth, nothing. I realized I had to skip the entire first stanza and start with the second. I ended up jumbling a lot of the stanzas around to make the piece make sense without the intro, which I didn’t even realize until I watch the video my parents took. I got through the piece and walked off stage.

As soon as I stepped off stage, a rush of Creative Writers swarmed me. They started comforting me, patting my shoulder, and said things like, “You did so well,” “You were amazing”, “At least you finished your piece!” I appreciated everything they said, and it goes to show how close knit this department is, but I was in a fog. Their voices were echoing and I could barely hear them. All I heard the voice in my head, “That could not have just happened, that didn’t happen, right?” It was a surreal moment where I could not process what just happened, like denial was making me forget the experience. But suddenly it hit me and I had to get out of there, had to get some fresh air. I went outside into the parking lot and started screaming.

I was throwing rocks, cursing, kicking the wall, punching the wall, grabbing my head and just sobbing. It was that feeling of let down. It’s such a terrible feeling when you work so hard to make something perfect but in the end it all comes crashing down into rubble. Several people came and gave me their own pep talk. I love each and everyone of them for it. They worked but what snapped me out of my funk and self loathing was my family. They said, and I quote, “Get over it! Stop with this self pity. What’s done is done.” You really do need your family to say something so blunt and honest. I also learned that half of the audience thought my freeze up was intentional. So that was a consolation. That night was full of ups and downs but in the end I’m grateful that I had this experience. If I had to do it all over again, I would rather not choke, who would honestly want to experience that again?  But I’ll try to focus on the positives rather than the negatives and hopefully learn from it.

Kenzo Fukuda, class of 2020

Sophomore Year by Lauren Ainslie

Early in the semester we were given an article titled, “Is Literature Dead?” We then analyzed and discussed the points it brought up, which mostly centered around the rise of technology and the decline of literacy. It was old news, but I still became depressed when it mentioned cell phone addiction and the decrease of recreational reading, as I am afflicted with both. But just as I thought my mood would be ruined permanently, I remembered something that happened a few weeks before.

This was my first year with Mr. Slayton, a freshman/sophomore English teacher. Something he does as a warm up before starting class is pass out poetry, and then ask us to discuss and write about it. I won’t get too much into how I loathe the way he goes about this, but it usually doesn’t inspire much response from the class. We usually doodle until he tells us the answer and then we write it down and turn it in. This process is quite disheartening as a Creative Writing student, seeing the wonder of poetry be permanently corrupted in the eyes of my peers, but I learned to accept it.

This was true until the day we were given “Meeting at Night” by Robert Browning. It was one of the few poems he gave us that I actually liked, and I was happy to write about it. It was light and romantic, and used wonderful concise imagery. The discussion was livelier than usual, students giving personal opinions and guessing at the true meaning of the poem, especially one student, named Ben (His name was changed for privacy). I knew Ben was smart, we had physics together the year before, and he was quite outspoken. But in English he didn’t seem to possess the same passion or drive to participate, until now. When called on he spoke for a number of minutes on how perfect the language was, how he didn’t usually like poetry, but this was “crazy.” I watched him stare at his paper with uncharacteristic focus, hear him mutter “Wow,” and even shake his head in disbelief. “Meeting at Night” by Robert Browning had touched him, moved him, as cliché as it sounds, and it he looked astonished at his own reaction… Ben, the person I least expected, appreciated poetry, and it was wonderful to watch, funny, even.

So when asked the question “Is Literature Dead?” I say no. It’s lethargic, a little worn, but not dead. Ordinary people like me or Ben can be moved by it at any day and at any capacity, and from that experience, I know literature will live forever.  

Lauren Ainslie, class of 2021