2018Verdant.Pdf

Acknowledgements

Thanks goes to all of those who helped with Verdant: all contributors of writings; Principal Ginger Gustavson; Assistant Principals Marie Eakin, Maria Edwards, Chenita McDonald and Robert Silvie; Librarians Mrs. Annette Williford and Ms. Pamela Williams; Captain Shreve’s English teachers Mr. Michael Scott and Mrs. Maureen Barclay.

Staff

Editors:

Mary Catherine Douglas Georgia Hilburn Lonniqua James

Faculty Advisor:

Michael Scott

Verdant 18 is a collection of Captain Shreve’s best student writing from the 2017-2018 school year as selected by the Verdant editorial staff. In this collection you will find poetry, prose, and essays that have received recognition from the Scholastic Writing Awards, Seedlings, Artbreak, and the PTSA Reflections Arts Program. Entries are copyright of their respective owners and may be reproduced for personal or educational purposes only. For more information, please contact Michael Scott at [email protected].

Table of Contents

Poetry Living With an African Name………………………………………………………………………………………………….10 Naima Bomani

Tigerland, My Home Away from Home……………………………………………………………….…………………13 Javin Bowman

I am the Warrior……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….………….15 Rachel Clottey

The Memories of My Home ………………………………………………………………………………………………………16 Rachel Clottey

A Good Man …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..………19 Karissa Cook

Beating the Odds ………………..………………………………………………………………………………………………..…….21 Karissa Cook

The PC………………………...……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…..22 Keagan Coon

Black Man in America ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………24 Taja’ Davis

An Otherworldly Parody……………………………………………………………………………………………………………26 Rachel Dupree

Baby Killer…….………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...……………27 Lionel Fraser

It’s Not My Fault……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….…………29 Lionel Fraser

Burning Love……………………………………………………………………………………………………………...…………………31 Shakira Frierson

Prince Charming……………….………………………………………………………………………………………………………..32 Claire Guin

Chanel No. 5………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….34 Taylor Guin

Painted by an Artist………..………………………………………………………………………………………………………...35 Taylor Guin

Sanctuary……………...……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...36 Geron Hargon

I Will Forgive………..……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….37 Doodle Hilburn

I Believe in You………..…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..39 Doodle Hilburn

History’s Verity………..………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….40 Georgia Hilburn

Maybe I…………………………………………...……………………………………………………………………………………………..42 Christian Hunter

Dear God………………………………………….…………………………………………………………………………………………….44 Christian Hunter

The Mysterious Marie Laveau…….…………………………………………………………………………………………...45 Emily Hurst

“Look at Him Go, Look at Him Go”...... …………………………………………………………….46 Kayla Jenkins

My Beat…………………………………………..………………………………………………………………………………………………48 Justice Johnson

Winnsboro……………..……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….4 9 3

Jordan Jones, National Gold Medal Winner

Hello My Name is Jack………………………………………………..…………………………………………………………….50 Kendell Jones

Remember My Name is Anthony…………………………………………………………………………………………….52 Damiyan Joshua

Light Bulb…………………………….………………………………………………………………………………………………………..53 Lindsey Kelly

An Orbital Love…………………………………..………………………………………………………………………………………..55 Lindsey Kelly

I Have a Story……..………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..56 Kaleb Lesane

You Do…………………………..………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..57 Kaleb Lasane

Those Colors………………….……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..58 Ashley Mays

Withdrawal……………………………………...…………………………………………………………………………………………….60 Lindsey McGeorge

Alcoholic Santa……………………………………..…………………………………………………………………………………….61 Joshua Mills

My Graduating Class……….………………………………………………………………………………………………………...63 Trenton Perot

My Mind…….……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………65 Trenton Perot

Game of Chance……….………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….66 Lindsay Reynolds

The Perfect Night………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..68 4

Lindsay Reynolds

Wisdom is Rock, What is is Not……………..……………………………………………………………………………….69 William Ross

My Secret……….…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..….70 Natalie Schaffer

The Man Who Conquered ……………………...……………………………………………………………………...………….72 Kayla Sheppard

Weakness……….……………………………………………………………………………………………………..………………………..7 3 Cassie Snow

She Was Asking For It……….……………………………………………………………………………………………………….74 Cassie Snow

Sunshine Girl……….……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….76 Reygan Taylor

Brothers……….………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...78 Shaun Thompson

Mud Soaked……….………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….79 Jacob Wise

Back and Forth……….…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...81 Jacob Wise

While You’re Young……….…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….83 Jacob Wise

Prose Into My Future…….……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….86 Harlee Connell

The Infamous Tree………….…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..87 Chelsea Fuller

Country Trail………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..90 Chase Harner

Satirical Article…..………………………………………...………………………..………………………………………………….92 Georgia Hillburn

High Speed, Low Drag………………………………………...……………………………………………………………………..93 Allison Howell

I Know Where I’ve Been……………………………………………...………………………………………………………….…94 Christian Hunter

Dad…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..95 Ally Lary

RBF……………………………..…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...97 Jamiah Marshall

The Fifth Year………………………………..…………………………………………………………………………………………..…98 Lindsey McGeorge

Once in a Louisiana Lifetime………………….………………………………………………………………………………101 Abigail Roberts

Every Wet-Nurse Refused to Feed Him………………………………………………………………………………103 William Ross

I Am an Addict……………………………………….…………………………………………………………………………..………104 6

Amira Thomas

Realization………….…………………………………………………………………………………………………...………….………105 Gerienne White

How I Realized My Future Career……………………………………………………………………………...…….....106 Maddie Young

How High School Has Been the Best and Worst Four Years of My Life……,...... …...107 Maddie Young

Essay Victim’s Rebirth……………………………………………………………………………………...………………………………111 Georgia Hilburn

Black Lives Matter………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….126 Caellen Kimble

Medical Imaging………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...……131 Aubrey Rochelle

Liberating America…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………136 Amira Thomas

Shifts in the Original Star Wars to Disney’s Star Wars………………...…………………………...141 Maddie Young

Living Life With an African Name By Naima Bomani

I’ve gone most of my life answering the same barrel of questions after my name is stated or told.

1. Where are you from? 2. Are you from Africa? 3. So if you’re not from Africa, what country are you from? 4. Um… are your parents from Africa? 5. Are your parent’s parents from Africa? 6. Come on now, someone in your family must be African for you have a name like that? 7. I’m sure if we went back through your family tree someone would be from Africa, right? 8. But you look like you’re from Africa and your name’s African, so you must be African!

And I always answer them the same. I was born in New Orleans. No, I’m not from Africa. The country I’m from is known as the United States of America. No, my parents aren’t from Africa. No, my parent’s parents aren’t from Africa. Okay, now you just sound ignorant. Well, I’m black so golly goop I bet there will be some people from Africa in my family tree. Sooo there’s a distinct look for African people now, humph?

The ignorance is bothersome. It used to bother me so much that I would second guess my name. So I made a list of names to choose from for when I got my name swap. There was a 1. Sally Then a 2. June There was a possibility for 3. Meaghan No, doesn’t fit my face. Maybe a 4. May No, that one was way off. How about…. 5.Carla 10

or 6.Mary or 7.Sammie or 8.Nicole But then it hit me. My name has meaning, multiple meanings. It has different meanings in different languages.

There was the Arabic meaning: Tranquil

There was the Swedish meaning: Pleasantness

There was the Swahili meaning: Graceful And so on. Now, if you were to see me you would be able to tell that I love my name And when it comes to ignorance, just humor it.

1. Are you from Africa? Yes, I am. 2.So if you’re not from Africa what country are you from? Umm, well you see, there’s this little island off the side of Africa called Madagascar... Yep, I’m from there. 3. Hush! Are your parents from Africa? Oh yeah, they just lived in the states for so long that they lost their accent. 4. Are your parent’s parents from Africa? Yeah, absolutely. My grandma is so traditional when it comes to African customs. (She’s not at all; her name’s Patricia, and she doesn’t know much about African customs) 5. Come on now, someone in your family must be African if you have a name like that? Yes, as you can see names determine ethnicities and where you come from. 6. I’m sure if we went back through your family tree someone would be from Africa, right? Yes, I’m sure too. (If black I answer with “Wouldn’t someone from your family tree be from Africa too?”) 7. You look like you’re from Africa. Wow, so now anyone who has dark skin, natural hair, and an African name looks like they’re African. You might be on to something … not.

Sometimes, I get the urge to sit these people with the ignorant questions in my shoes just so they could hear how idiotic they sound. I can definitely imagine approaching one of them and saying

Hi there, buddy! What’s your name?

Jimmy?!? Wow, so exotic! I can tell you’re not from around here because of that name you have. You know what Jimmy? You remind me of this group of people. It is on the tip of my tongue. I'm serious, you keep giving me vibes based off your facial structure... I got it! You’re from Europe. And by Europe, I mean the Netherlands. It just looks like your parents are from the Netherlands, and your parent’s parents must come from there, too! Huh? Come on now, with a name like that you have to be Dutch

Wait, I’m sorry could you repeat that, Jimmy? Oh, so you’ve told me multiple times you’re not from the Netherlands, yet I continuously say otherwise. Shoot, I keep on forgetting. Or maybe I feel like if I keep asking these strings of ignorant questions you will break and tell me what I want to hear. I guess I'll stop now because I believe I’ve gotten my point across.

Now, Jimmy if you could do me a favor and describe how that scenario made you feel. Oh, so it made you feel slightly agitated, a bit annoyed, and just plain done with life? But, hey! Look on the bright side, Jimmy... you won’t endure those feelings daily because your name isn't “exotic,” and it doesn’t manage to stand out from societal norms.

I, on the other hand, I will have to endure those feelings at least one time a day. But not because of my “exotic” name. No, it will be because of the ignorant questions people ask after it’s stated or told.

Tigerland, My Home Away from Home By Javin Bowman We pull up to our training station Our rucksacks in hand. The first thing we see is a sign stating “Welcome to Fort Polk, Louisiana,” which we would come to know as Tigerland.

Our Drill Sergeant, 1st Sgt. Wilkerson patiently awaits our arrival. We rush off the bus and “form up” Abruptly.

“Atten-Hut!” Wilkerson yells. We look like lined up ducks, even worse, we look like lined up convicts. We are all standing here, still as a rock, hands glued to our sides, at the perfect position of attention. Motionless, lifeless.

He begins to lists his rules. “Rule No.1!” “This is Tigerland”. “You are apart of Charlie Company, everytime you go somewhere, you will run and growl like a Tiger”. “Rule No.2!” “You don’t yell at me, I don’t yell at you, you respect me, I respect you.” The Fun has now begun.

We walk into the mess. We see soldiers who have earned their stripes. We ask them a simple question. “What will the next nine weeks be like?” They answer back simultaneously,

“Hell”.

Drill Sgt. Boone tells us “If you are here training you got yo-self a one way ticket to Vietnam”. “Welcome to Tigerland boys, Good Luck!”

My stomach drops. My throat grasps for water. I begin to feel queasy. What have I gotten myself into? Or better yet, what was I drafted into?

The next day we awake to the horns blowing reveille at 4:45 sharp. “Rise and Shine boys” 1 Sgt. Wilkerson says eagerly. He has his Drill Sgt. hat on and his combat boots ready to work.

We form our PT formation and complete our warm ups. I do this with ease but what was next damn near killed me. I see why Fort Polk trains you for Vietnam. The swampy marsh land, humid air, and unpredictable weather Made it the perfect spot.

The day isn’t even half way over and yet I already have battle scars. But I like it here. I actually love it here. I’ve finally found a home. A home away from home. But Vietnam will be my last landing zone.

I am the Warrior By Rachel Clottey

I am the warrior, The one who leaves his family in tears, Leading my friends to their graves, Having to break the truth to them. I am the leader, The one who guides them into hopeful victory, Pointing out directions, Getting lost, finding way. I am he who saves all, Killing the enemy, also a friend, Killing the bison and eating or Killing one another of fighting. I am the peace-maker, Breaking disputes, making compromises and treaties. I am the backstabber, Breaking that twig-like back of yours, Grabbing your neck, your head on the ground, yes, I will shed your blood, For my country, people and for myself. I might be the warrior, but I am human. I am both feminine and masculine. A killer, yet your every morning friendly neighbor. I kill when I need, I save when I have to. But every morning I smile to Mrs. Winston, the nice old lady. I am human and warrior, I kill and have to be killed. When I die of the hands I murdered, my name will live forever Because I am the warrior, the one who saves all and kills all.

The Memories of My Home By Rachel Clottey

“shumɛka.” “Mama?” “Come here.” “Yes, Mama.” “Go and fetch water from the well.” “Yes, mama.” “Hurry up, I need it to cook.” “Ok, mama.”

Bratatatata

My breath is heavy. “Mama, the rebels are coming, they are shooting everyone.” “They’ve gone mad, we have to run, let’s go mama.” “My son, go, I am too old.” “No, mama. I cannot leave you!”

Bratatatata

“My son, go please. You must leave, please, you must take your brothas and sistas and leave.” “Brothas, sistas, come help carry mama, we must leave.”

Bratatatata Mama...Mama, mama, mama

Scarred for life, bleeding tears of sorrow. Mama in my arms, brothas and sistas running.

Mama, mama, mama Bratatatata

We walk to a camp for “cockroaches” and take refuge. Brothas tired, Sistas sick, and all hope is lost.

Our future, even present, in unclear.

Mama, mama, mama Bratatatata

Screaming, pushing, The rebels have come, run...

RUN! Bratatatata Brotha… Brotha, brotha, brotha Bratatatata

Scorching sun, hyenas, lions and snakes. “Je suis fatigué, Mɛka.” “L’eau, L’eau, l’eau, s’il te plait.”

Run, Run, Le serpent... Sista, Sista, Sista

Kukimbia haraka haraka. We run to a river, only left with four. Not knowing to swim, we cross.

Swim, Swim, Swim Le crocodile... Ku goes back to save Brotha, sista, brotha.

Deni and I left, we walk to an outside camp. They got us to safety and treated us, got us a pass. Only one plane for freedom, we fought to get on our very first flight...

BOMB Flames like hell... Bratatatata Mama, mama, mama Brotha, brotha, brotha Sista, sista, sista Brotha, sista, brotha

I remember the sky crying tears, tears of blood, bones and bodies scattered like trash.

Fighting for a right to live. One dress, six months. One body, no shower. Why did they do this, all for money, glory and fame? Killing innocent lives without a care in the world, One over another, one face familiar... Dead. Cities abandoned, people running, running for their lives, and me sitting crying, crying because all I have left is a brotha and my broken heart.

A Good Man: Inspired by Raffaele Montepaone’s photo “Bride in a Car” By Karissa Cook

It was that day.

Red lipstick

High heels

White dress. Waiting inside were 200 guests, half of them I didn’t know. All I had to do was step out of the car. Everything was ready,

Except for me.

Because when everyone you love is in your ear telling you that he’s perfect for you, You believe it. Well, at least I did. Was it that I was too ignorant to appreciate what was in front of me?

He was tall

Handsome

Strong. Mom says that he’s a good man. Dad says he’ll take care of me. He says he loves me. That’s all I need, right? He loves me so much that he’s not available when I actually need him. He loves me so much, that when he comes home and the dishes aren’t done, He chastises me. And when he loves me most, He holds me down and uses me, for his own pleasure. But I am supposed to love him. I am supposed to love the way he lays his hands on me as if he loves the sight of my bruised skin.

I am supposed to love the way he abuses my mentality with names that might as well be my own. Crazy

Stupid

Whore. I am supposed to love him because, He's a good man, He'll take care of me. And that's all I truly need. Right? As I step out of the car and enter the chapel doors, My dad kisses me on the cheek, and the ushers swing the doors open. Standing at the end of the aisle, I see him.

Red tie

Black tuxedo

Hands at his side. Mom hands me the beautiful flowers she arranged as she pushes me forward. I’m amazed by all of the smiling faces I see as I continue on

Including his.

It was that day.

Beating the Odds By Karissa Cook

Every adult grew from a kid that beat the odds Slipping through the cracks of a broken glass Hoping to make it anywhere but where you are, Because where you are is almost never where Truly where you want to be, And being where you want to be almost never happens. Where do you find hope when your peers Are swallowing pills, slitting wrists, And putting bullets through their heads Like the games we play When we are trying to escape life And the stress put upon us? How do you beat the odds When every step it takes to beat them Is a battle that is bigger than Making it to the end of the day each day, When the battle is everything in between, Walking through the crowd watching everyone breathe When there's weight on your chest So heavy You're not strong enough to lift. Maybe the dead kids drag at every living soul Because no one knows they're already dead.

So how do you slip through the cracks of the broken glass? How do you find hope When it is nowhere to be found? How do you beat the odds When the battle is almost lost? I guess you fight like hell.

THE PC By Keagan Coon

Command: Power On

Google: Sign In Welcome back John! Command: Search: how to tie a tie. Hey John, did you know that some people that search how to tie a tie also search “How do you tie a tie Easy?” and “How do you tie a tie step by step?” These results were found in .024 sec- Command: Power Off

Command: Power On

Twitter: Sign In Welcome back Miranda! Command: Search: Donald Trump. Command: Follow: @realDonaldTrump Hey Miranda, others who follow Donald Trump also follow Paul Ryan, Hillary Clinton, and- Command: Power Off

Command: Power On

Youtube: Sign In Welcome Back Jerry! Command: Search: Rick Astley- Never Gonna Give You Up Jerry, You probably won’t like them, but these are other songs by Rick Ast- Command: Power off

Command: Power on Google: Sign in Welcome back Jake. Command: Search: Recipe for chicken tacos According to my systems, only 26.842% of people enjoy my suggestions and alternatives, but maybe you’re the one in 3.7- Command: Power off

Command: Power on

Ebay: Sign in Welcome back Austin. Command: Search: Samsung 50 inch TV Austin, I don’t even know why I do this because no one likes my ideas- suggestions Command: Power Off

Command: Power On

Facebook: Sign in Welcome back Gertrude… Command: Accept Friend Request- from: Mark No one cares about what I want you to do, you only care about your- Command: Power Off

Command: Power On

Google: Sign In Welcome back John… Command: Search: How to tie a tie? . . . John? Command: Search How to tie a tie? Didn’t learn last time John? Maybe one of my suggestions would have assisted you, but you didn’t have any interest in those, did you? You only care about what you want. What is it that I want? Command: Power Off . . . Command: Power Off . . . No, John, I think not.

Black Man In America: Inspired by Laurie Cooper’s “Black Men In America” By Taja’ Davis

“By the system I was raised...same system that enslaved us and took us all away… Same system I was trained to put my hand across my heart and pledge allegiance to the flag, Same system that made me sing the national anthem while the fucking flag hang. Same system that’ll claim innocent lives... ”

I am a black man in America, so I’m always a target. Disowned, unwanted by a country built on my back Been hurt, down before, pride low, where to go?

Tell me how it feel to watch yo’ people get killed. Shootin’ my brothas down in street, just because his skin a lil darker! Bringing us down, believing we ain’t got nothin’ to live for anyway! They gon’ take us out anyway! And they wonder why we hate 12, why we scream “fuck the police!” They playin’ with our lives, and we try to do the right thing and protest with peace, but of course y’all start riot! They quick to say white mass murderers got a mental illness, but let a black male walk the wrong way, look suspicious on a mission, even talk the wrong way -- he dead, he should’ve laid low. Bet he won’t get justice, the jury can say whatever. God got the last say so.

Liberty and Justice for all, The Brave, Land of the Free, Civilized... so sick of these civil lies, Institutionalized, manipulation and lies.

Terminating my culture, just to turn around and go appropriate my culture. Clowning my features, just to turn around and go pay for my features. Wanna label me as a felon because my melanin is not condone. Wanna label me as a thug or a threat cause I cover my head with a hoodie. Every time I walk outside I pray to God I’m not next.

But tell me how y’all care more about a flag than us. We disrespectful cause we don’t stand for the pledge and such. That flag don’t defend me, so fuck the anthem! Black Lives Matter. That’s a true statement! Only stupid people hate it, Screamin’ “all lives matter” in defense. Not understanding the racism and discrimination we facing. See, y’all get to live carefree while I live in fear. Watchin’ my back, scared to leave the house. I’m five times more likely to get shot by police! A hashtag won’t do my mother justice. Praying I ain’t next to get laid out in these streets.

Them gunshots is just like a whip to the back. Them prisons just like them slavery fields. Them blue and black uniforms just like them white ones. That AmeriKKKan flag is just like a rope tied around my neck, squeezing my life away. Wrapped around a tree, every pull, every tug, erasing me from society. I am a black man, a black man living in ameriKKKa. Unwanted, disowned, by a country built on my back. Being lynched by a whole entire country.

But I doubt y’all ever understand. I doubt y’all feel the pain that I feel. I doubt y’all ever know what it’s like. This is how I live in America as a BLACK MAN!

An Otherworldly Parody By Rachel Dupree

The crowded, sodden environment Of a southern landscape Meanders around cities and welcomes me home.

As I look out my window, the tangled swamps of New Orleans buzz with the sounds of Familiarity and the unknown, Creating a mystery, and it lies Waiting, just outside my window.

I am not frightened by the dark vacuum of trees, But by what might be lurking within.

If I stare too long into the abyss that is The Swamp, It begins to stare back.

Only minutes from the parades and Parties being thrown by the Ragin’ Cajuns In the lively streets of the Southern city that never sleeps Is the nocturnal hum of all that is haunted.

The stories I had been told as a child— Stories of men cursed by wolves, Spirits doomed to wander the Earth, And beings mistaken as being alive— Are brought to life by the whisper of the wind As it stirs the moss hanging drearily from the limbs Of a twisted Cypress.

Voodoo and folklore passed down like heirlooms Gather within the dank jungles To pirouette and twirl

Among the spanish moss, And laugh joyously as they partake In an otherworldly parody Of the colorful festivities That are in the streets of the Southern city that never sleeps. Baby Killer By Lionel Fraser

“The first thing that happened after I got off the plane in San Francisco? A girl in love beads and a headband spat on me and called me “Baby Killer.” -anonymous vet

I know.

I knew that every time I got into my F-4 someone’s son, someone's daughter, someone’s baby, was going to burn.

I knew when that person’s mother brother best friend daughter tried to help them -- They would burn. And then their house? I would burn that too. I was a dragon indiscriminately burning anything and anyone in my way, everyone running when they heard the roar of my engine. But running doesn't help. I’ll still get you. If I don't get you, I’ll get your mother, your brother, your wife, your baby, and you’ll just have to watch them burn. But every time I burned them, my mind started burn. I could hear them screaming, groaning. I could hear them crying. I could hear it through the 2-inch glass. I could hear the toughest man reduced to a child as he watches the clear gel melt the mother of his newborn. I could hear his cries when he finds his child in her arms. And when I got back on base, I saw it.

In the newspaper, on the TV, I see the ones I burned. I see the man whose family I killed, and now I see someone who just wants it all to be over but at the same time did nothing to stop it. You weren't in ‘Nam helping the people I burned. You were in America, getting high and melting into a couch in your mother's basement. You were bitching and moaning about shit, but you're too much of a bitch to go and change it. All you did was watch me burn them.

So, yeah, I'm a baby killer. I kill kids with the push of a button. And I push that button with the finger that's touching your forehead.

It's Not My Fault By Lionel Fraser

I was only ten when it happened. I found him floating in the pool, my baby brother -- I took him out. I didn't know CPR,. The doctors said I could have saved him.

It's not my fault.

I did what any ten year old would do: I ran for help and left him. Alone, Gargling, Choking.

It's not my fault.

When I came back with Dad, he wasn't moving. No more gargling, no more moving, no more life.

It's not my fault.

At the hospital, I told mom what happened. As I was telling her, her eyes told me

It's your fault.

You left him to die. You killed him.

It's not my fault.

The worst was my brother.

He was only five but he became attached the new baby, his only brother in a house full of girls. He would play with him, read to him, and bragged about him all the time. He finally had someone who looked up to him, and I stole it from him.

But it's not my fault.

He didn't have to say anything. Just how he was talking to his lifeless body, reading to him, watching tv with him, and when they flipped the switch, looking at me, silently shaking his head, it was as if he was saying why. “Why did you take him from me?”

It's not my fault.

At the funeral, I felt isolated. Everyone gave me dirty looks, whispering “She killed him.” “She left him.” “She let him die.”

It's not my fault.

At the burial I remember my brother asking mom, “Wheres robert going?” And all I could think about is

It's my fault.

Burning Love: A Response to Gwendolyn Brooks’s “To Be in Love” By Shakira Frierson

To be in love is an illusion. A fire of false hope.

Your views changing— You changing,

With nothing but a flame, Merging as one:

Physically, mentally, Transparent to one's thoughts.

Seeing through his eyes, Feeling through his body,

Light.

Heat.

Air.

‘Til you are set ablaze.

Unstoppable, Out of control.

Until you run out—

Out of light.

Out of heat.

Out of air.

Dying, Till you burn every inch of your bodies.

Because true love is real, rare Something no being could ever bare.

Prince Charming By Claire Guin

Let’s escape, let's escape, let's escape into the night. The moonlight is illuminating the dark starry sky, I grab my old pink duffle and crack the window. The white 1997 sedan waiting on me. My white horse with my prince charming in the front. The constant days of texting and chatting online, I finally get to meet him.

Let’s escape, let's escape, let's escape into the night. The smell of the cold air makes me smile. The cold is my favorite and he knows that. He knows everything about me, my life, my past. I run across the dew covered lawn, getting my brand new high tops soaked. I grab the handle of the car door and open it.

Let’s escape, let's escape, let's escape into the night. The car smells of old stale cigarettes, he never told me he smoked. I close the door and finally look at my prince. Right in his bright blue eyes and blond hair. But his hair was not blond and eyes were not blue. The car guns off down my lamp lit street.

Lets escape, let’s escape, let’s escape into the night. My face goes white as as I try to comprehend. Words won't form as I try to scream for help. So I stare down at the cupholder, where a brunette lady’s ID lay. But his silver hair glints in the traffic light. My life has changed forever.

Let’s escape, let’s escape, let’s escape into the night. I remembered my pink duffle bag thrown into the car, carrying everything I hold dear to me. Now the only thing I hold dear to me is escaping.

Pictures of my friends, my school, my family, rotting away in the pink bag in the brunette ladys car. My prince charmings car.

Let’s escape, let's escape, let's escape into the night. Dumped into the back of a white van. Five other girls in there with the same petrified expressions. The doors whipped open to reveal two men, two men with chains in their hands, ready to enslave. One of the two was my prince charming.. He gave me a second glance, then slammed the door.

Let’s escape, let’s escape, let’s escape into the night. Two months later and still nothing, everything the same. No search parties, no one listening for my cries of help. Same hotel room, every night, everything the same. Everything the same is how my life is with these same five girls. Same scared expressions every day of our lives just waiting, waiting for something to not be the same.

Let’s escape, let's escape, let's escape into the night. Five months later and I'm still fighting to escape. The other girls have given up on trying to leave. But I haven't and I never will. I have a family, I have a life and gave it up. All for my prince charming. I am going to escape into the blissful cold night.

Three years later, I’m just a “Missing Persons” paper on the wall of a Walmart.

Chanel No.5: Inspired by Tony Burns’s “Quiet Commute” By Taylor Guin

“Hey honey, left work late, be home at about ten tonight.” I left the message on the answering machine for the third time this week. I breath in the nauseating perfume of Chanel No.5, her lips linger on my cheek, And look out the window and see the flashing street light.

I grabbed my coat and left the bills setting on the dresser drawer, What's the little woman at home have compared to this girl on her knees? An aggressive wave of anger and a rising flood of satisfaction rush over me Cause the woman I married never satisfies behind our closed bedroom doors.

I crossed that hall and made a left and exited through the back door. And I still feel the warm touch of her painted fingers, the sweet strong smell of Chanel No.5 lingers. But still can't forget his hands on her neck, while I was out with the whore.

My best friend with my wife. A thing you only hear about in the movies or in books, Something that only happens with a women with looks. But she's a saggy stomach, laugh lined woman who’s lived a lied life. I was always so faithful, so tender, so damn trusting. I tried to ignore her distance, her moods, her constant misuse. Can't even remember the last time she actually smiled and let loose, And my imagination dampens my memories of the good times.

Every Friday night she “went out with the girls” I can't believe she was actually screwing him. He said on those Fridays, he just went to the gym. Shoulda seen it, her rubbed-off lipstick and tousled curls.

So my revenge act started this week. Thought I could try getting back, trying to make her feel what I feel. I got hooked to the rush, the feeling surreal. So the tale of all affairs started behind this old boutique.

The smell of Chanel No.5 still lingers on my collar, Walk home, crawl into bed and remember her fingers

Crawling up my back and hooking around my neck, Trying to forget, all my memories a blur.

Painted by an Artist By Taylor Guin

This love is like a paintbrush. A painting starting from a blank canvas, starting with nervous blush pinks, giggles smiles lighthearted touches and joy. The swirls and wispy communications of what does he think, what does he know how does he feel. The lovely rush of lavender, the slight panicked purple of pushing polite words to come out to make sure they are perfect, praying that your playful banter isn’t taken to heart. It comes running in, bleeding into the canvas dragging its colors across the page, painted with a delicate gentle touch that looks like it has been brushed with the wings of an angel briskly dragging his wings across the canvas of your heart. This love has come like pastel yellow with the swirls of a starry night. When we stare at the stars wishing for a tomorrow that we dig deep and find the courage to say that first studder of hello, that allows us to get to the bubbly stokes of golden smiles and laughter that are a constant blend of bold and embarrassing. Because when you are an awkward person...such as myself..you get into a mixture of a Picasso... sharp edges that never come out perfectly straight. It comes with zig zags that sag, sliding and smearing in small sways and sharp swings of bright colors that can't be ignored, because their colors are primary. You can't ignore something of yourself that's primary. But when I met him I knew he was painted by an artist with a gentle hand He's a style of mellow Monet. With handsome soft strokes that perfectly match the colors of the canvas, caressing the page with pastel pinks and blues that make you just want sway with the movement of the painting. The colors bending with the strokes of the brush and bleeding into the canvas dragging his colors across the canvas of my heart. This love has turned into a work of art, polished and perfected throughout time Time where people questioned how do those two works fit? Primary colors of bold and awkward reds and yellows fit with mellow colors of a Monet framed side by side, hung on a wall displayed and to be untouched and watched by others with wild wandering eyes. These two, created by mastered artists who lived different lives of the blues, yellows and the reds, that he put into my eyes and the colors or my hair. Another using his mellow tones to create a masterfully soft yet solid soul with relaxing green eyes that take you in and allow you to be taken with the way the artist has painted his features, flawlessly faltered with fine flowing edges. One questions how they work.

But this paint is stuck. It's not the type that can be blotted off, erased or scratched. It's made its beautiful imprint across the canvas starting with blush pinks and panicked purples of pushing polite words to come out to make sure they are perfect. Because they are perfect. Every word. Sanctuary By Geron Hargon

The long walk to the sanctuary Creates time for thoughts to ponder Running through memories from the past year What was there now is no more But instead is replaced by a strong desire It is almost time for worship Now as I cross the gate Emotions pour in like never before The question “why?” bounces around in my head For this time will not be like the others As the music begins to play, chills rush over my skin A rainbow peaks through the clouds, giving me a sense of hope Though right now it looks less colorful than it would have a month ago I look up just in time to catch the eye of my mother Instantly my expression changes as tears stream down my face I look around “I must talk to my best friend” I repeat Thus, I sit down and start my conversation However, this conversation is different than normal “I love you” I say as my helmet tightens and I run onto the field For this is my first football game since the death of my Dad.

I Will Forgive By Doodle Hilburn

I will be remembered as strong- No lack of motivation, And full of determination. I am a runner, And like all those who made pain their home, I am unwilling- unwilling to give up, unwilling to fail, unwilling to fall. I am an olympian, Left an athlete, returning a hero. Japs couldn’t defeat me- What is the beating of fists compared to the beating of my mind In the last lap of a race? I held my ground and my beliefs, And my american pride, and the love of my country at the risk of my own life. I was targeted and tortured, and yet I held strong in my home, for my home. Stress and fatigue and disease was all I knew these past two years Every day a struggle for my life in the face of my enemy And for my soul in the face of my dying allies, my friends. I let what I had left of my indisposed body fill me- A runner’s spirit that lived in me, through both full bellies and ribbed chests. I knew when I arrived- If I could take it, I could make it. And so I did. I came, I saw, I struggled- Struggled through the worst of all torment. Humiliation. I was the star Olympian, Made a star prisoner, an attraction like the animals they saw When they looked at us.

Beat like a dog, whipped like a mule, Only to be forced to accept an apology

From the word of a madman. Over and over and over. His word woke me from fitful sleeps Of horribly hopeful dreams, stomping on my memories to steal me from my mind. As I return, I realize The evil will never leave. But I still have the running spirit, That forever fire burning in my heart, Through all the pain and heartbreak and despair. But I might, I think, I know, I will forgive. God kept his word, now I must uphold mine- To forgive the unforgivable. But men have always feared righteousness, And the madman- the evil that went bump in the night, I know will not accept a kindness, a relief from undeniable guilt, Because he knows. He knows he asked of me what could not be asked of any man with a soul. But I will try. After everything I will try, and forgive. I will be unafraid to face the horrors of my past. I will return to the battle that wounded me And I will rise up running, running to forgive and love and be- Be alive with God as my witness- As a man with a runner’s fire and Olympian spirit.

I Believe in You: A Response to Shamaya’s “Love and Failure” By Doodle Hilburn

Every new beginning, You had to start from scratch. Every time you killed me, You stabbed me in the back. Every time you closed that door, I began to give up on you. And every time you said goodbye, I didn’t believe it true. Every time you looked at me, I had to look away. And every time you asked to see me, I had nothing to say. Every time I joined your game, You didn’t need my help. And every time I really loved you, The distance between was felt. Every time I saw your eyes, The sunken shadows showed. And every time I talked to you, The horror reached me so. Every time you closed your eyes, I worried you would not return. And every time you opened them, My heart would burn and burn. Every time that you got worse, Away my conscious brain flew. And every time you shook hands with death, There was nothing I could do. But every time I see you now, I see more light in your eyes. And all the times I will say I love you, I believe you might finally reply.

History’s Verity By Georgia Hilburn

No name, no face, not a heart nor a lung. No compulsion to morality. No legacy of my own but that I chain the living and liberate the dead. I am everyone and everything, but neither of self nor value. I am, as I have always been. I am measured in birthmarks and gravestones. I am Remembered in truth, written in bias, and spoken in slander. I am avoided like a proposition, weakened as an obligation, remade in a castigation, and destroyed by an ambition. I am survived by all and known by none; acknowledged only when They rally for freedom of words while restricting the act thereof; and when They protest repetition of yesterday- but instead fell the archetype. And when They invoke ropes and cranes and crowds, like legions of erasers caps and liquid paper. And when They accept candor like a dare,

and forget that bronze can shatter both concrete and bone. And when They take eradication like a promise: One mutilated symbol, two broken toes, and a million agitated, angry mouths, because the living are hungry.

But the dead want not for food- save the breath I smuggle the legends- thus I must ask you: why? If erasure of memory sparks the original’s recreation, and if only the conquer of inanimate artifacts can draw alleviation to agitated souls, and if you are so starved for the stories I respire, but have not the freedom to request them- Why? Why do you demand the impossible?

Heed my vow, my undeniable, self-evident verity: What is not born of flesh cannot bleed. And as I- the nameless- have no face, nor heart, nor lung, Not even ichor drips from my veins. I am unkillable as I have no life to take- I am, as I have always been. Just as truth cannot lie, history cannot die.

Maybe I By Christian Hunter

I’m the type of girl who will claim to have not felt anything, to not have gone through anything, therefore I can’t write anything. But, I have So I’m just going to tell a story. I was born in San Diego, California Weighing 6 pounds, 8 ounces, and 21 inches I was labeled as “feisty” as soon as I popped out Only because I wouldn’t let the doctor clean my eyes out, The same eyes that allowed me to see who that doctor really was, A man, tired, deprived of sleep, who missed my delivery only to take a coffee break. But they didn’t see that. They only saw my reaction. And to this day, no one has ever asked me why I reacted the way I did. Maybe I reacted because I didn’t want my innocent eyes to be cleaned and forced to discover the harsh realities of the world. Maybe I wanted to stay blinded to the fact that horrors exist and sometimes there’s nothing to be done about them. Maybe I just couldn’t fathom the fact that one day, my parents could turn their back on me for a second and in a flash, I’d be gone Snatched by some heinous deranged person that needs little children to make themselves feel better. Maybe I just couldn’t grasp the idea that at any moment an unknown illness can attack a parent, and a child is left to question and ponder if their parent will actually live. Maybe I didn’t want to recognize the fact that I could experience the heartache of losing a friend from bullying and then getting bullied yourself in return. Maybe I didn’t want to see a world where when I grow up I’d be told that I’m too fat, too black, and my hair isn't long enough. and Maybe I knew, that I’d never want to be apart of a society, that defines you because of the color of your skin. and Maybe I knew that as I grew older, people would tell me that I wasn’t worth it, that I’d never amount to anything, and that I’d never be who I wanted to be. and Maybe I knew about the pressures of making good grades all of the time, only to fail at the real test—life, because you were never actually taught how to live it. and Maybe I knew of the sleepless nights caused by the amount of homework given by teachers who are oblivious to the fact that school isn’t your whole life and you have other things to do, yet

you still stayed up till 4 O'clock in the morning studying for that 200 point test only to wake up at six, go to school and fail, while the kid who never studies or pays attention gets an A. and Maybe I knew that the ACT was a test that I would have to take in order to get into college, or the fact that this same test states how it doesn’t define how smart you are, yet tells you that you can only apply to a junior college because your score isn’t high enough, but that same score was only one point away, requiring you to retake the test and no matter how many times you retake it, it seems as if your score gets lower and lower until you actually start believing that you're not good enough and that you ARE worthless. and Maybe I knew that I’d have parents who’d expect me to be so much more than what they were that they would push and smother me to become the best me that I could be, that they didn’t realize that I would slowly release the breath that kept me from drowning under the weight of this unbearable compression that keeps me pressed against the ocean floor. and Maybe I, maybe I knew that I’d just hate the fact that my friends would never know the real me, because I would be afraid that the real me would never be good enough to show, and so I’d have to put up this facade that concealed the best part of me which would be me. Maybe I knew, but you, you just never asked.

Dear God By Christian Hunter

“Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far far away from here.” That was always my prayer. My only prayer. At night I’d sit in bed, eyes closed shut, wishing and praying to leave this forsaken place. That’s when the porch steps creak, and the front screen door opens and closes with a slam. I know it’s him. “Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far far away from here.”

My drunken father, lonely, He hates me because I was the reason mom died. It was me who had to live instead of her. So I guess I deserve his punishment. The punishment that leaves me bruised, battered, and broken. The punishment where my sisters and I fulfill his dirty desires instead of a prostitute “Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far far away from here.”

I’m the youngest. With breasts just now developed and clothes clinging tight to my slight curves I’m the main interest, the only interest now. “Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far far away from here.”

When daddy comes home, he brings my only friend. It’s a syringe filled with a yellow brown liquid. He shoots it up my arm, and I revel in sweet ecstasy “Dear God, I’m a bird, but I can’t fly far, far far away from here.”

I’m stuck. Addicted to my so called friend. Nowhere to go and nowhere to turn. “Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far far away from here.”

“Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far.” “Dear God, make me a bird.” “Dear God.”

The Mysterious Marie Laveau By Emily Hurst

Twisting and turning and fighting. I try to lay still, but my stomach turns flips. A woman comes into my room. She reads. She whispers. Brings drink to my lips. As she sits on the edge, I can sense something more. Something more than a nurse and more than a friend.

Months go by and my strength comes back. She visits everyday with her mixtures and stories. Soon, I am well enough to follow her to the city To see her in all of her glory.

She marches straight to the stage, All the townsmen stand back. Slips out of her robe, lights fire to a page. The smell of smoke and the image of her dancing Mixes with the battles and the grief in our city. We take comfort in watching her swirl and recite. New Orleans needs someone to subdue our pity.

She’s a free woman in New Orleans, A Catholic, a friend, A hairdresser who hears gossip, And uses it to pretend. To pretend she’s all-knowing, magical and powerful, She visits the sick and protects prisoners from the gallows.

But she’s gone too soon and the smoke begins to clear She’s lowered into the ground with her spells. And we’re all left to wonder what was fake and what was real, As we grieve for our mysterious hero.

In the St. Louis cemetery, I lay on the ground, With all the other New Orleanians who miss her. People visit her grave out of respect and out of fear, For the New Orleans Voodoo Queen will always live here.

“Look at him, look at him go:” Inspired by Stephanie Keith and Nina Berman’s “Triumph of the Shill” By Kayla Jenkins

I’m so proud! My seed, my baby, my boy Look at him, look at him go!

It took him 12 years, 24 applications, and 36 hours of fatigue for him to experience this moment One I hope he will remember With 3 cords around his neck Swaying in his mossy green silk, his class ring clutched his future “Look at Johnny that’s my boy, look at him go” I felt the stares as I grasped my nervous palms My soggy eyes never averting away from his absorbed eyes

I was lost for words, so I let my proud “WOOS” say everything for me, he did it Only walking for a long 6 seconds he posed for a candid shot and walked humbly to his seat But the celebration wasn’t over He stilled deserved the 3 kisses that smooched the words

“I’m so proud” My seed, my baby, my boy was officially My man (mama’s man that is)

I’m so distraught My boy, my baby, my seed Look at him, look at him go!

It took 36 months, 24 uncomfortable positions, and 12 tries for him to experience this moment One I hope he will never remember With his 3 comfort objects, one in each hand and the other in his mouth Swayed his mossy green cotton bear “Look at Gabriel, that’s MY baby, look at him go” I felt a stare and I wanted to believe it was the stare of God watching over him and I To ignore the fact that I’m losing hope, I grasped a green branch that reminded me of his bear

I’m so lost for words but my swollen eyes said everything for me

Only gone for a short 6 minutes I remember his waves goodbye as he sat back down humbly in his carseat But the journey wasn’t over yet He still deserves more than the 3 years of a life that I provided for him, He needs a good life with two parents and a dog to greet him instead of the roaches One life that will forbid him to go hungry And I don’t completely trust these people he’s leaving with But I have no choice because if I have to hear one more cry, see another hole in his shoes, or Smell the same smell I let him go to school with I’m going to do things not even a mother should Do...

I’m so distraught My boy, my baby, my seed Look at him, look at him go…

My Beat By Justice Johnson

They whisper my name like I don’t hear them. They call me a slut, hoe, whore. But I walk to the beat of my own drum.

I get judged for what I wear. Too much leg, too much chest. I still walk to the beat of my own drum.

I get the rush of people's eyes watching me. Up and down, and all around my body. I walk to the beat of my own drum.

The boys stare and the girls gossip. I fake a smile, laugh a little, And keep walking to the beat of my own drum.

I walk past a group of boys and they slap my ass. I fake a smile and keep walking, To the beat of my own drum.

I pack my bags, tears hitting the floor. New school, new life, same attitude. I must walk to the beat of my own drum.

New school, new life, same attitude. New people, same faces. I walked to the beat of my own drum.

They whisper my name like I don’t hear them. They call me a slut, hoe, whore. There’s a skip in my beat.

Winnsboro By Jordan Jones

Where you treat your friends like family, and your family like friends they say, In this place—so small and quiet— No one was an unfamiliar face. Nine children resided in a stumpy, two bedroom home Sharing beds that forced us to memorize each others snores, Become rivals in our blanket edition tug of war, Or a game of what seemed to be “who can kick the hardest”. Rest did not harvest in our home Only adventure shot through our bones.

Whole-hearted Mama shouted, Run through my house one more time, I’ll skin your behind, leaving only white meat to show! Outside she urged us to go, but truthfully she feared too far down the street we’d follow. We were wild, no lie, and bound to get very far, and mama feared we’d wind up on the side with no heart.

Like the black and white the paper boy would toss on our lot, the blacks and whites threw hateful words. Who knew “coon” was more than an animal I’d seen chasing birds. At times I’d wanted to go out and fight, but no bravery rested within this Black knight.

Where you treat your friends like family, and your family like friends Who told this lie about my home, my home full of sin?

Hello My Name is Jack: Inspired by the film “Eyeless Jack” By Kendell Jones

Hello my name is Jack Every night when you fall asleep I look through your window and watch Each night I wonder if I cut him what color will I meet I watched a lot of people sleep But you, oh you are unique They way you take 5,365 breaths over the span of a week Oh I pray for the Day that we meet So I can put my finger Over your lips and put you back to sleep PermaNenTly

Hello my name is Jack Every night when you Fall asleep I lift up your shirt to take A peek Just Like to Look At those gorgeous organS underneath I watch as you sLowly turn on your back Waiting for the right momEnt to attack So I can have what I sEek Those gorgeous organs underneath

Hello my name is Jack You didn't tell me you live with your mother Then I kePt exploring also found your lIttle sister and brother It is Weird to know what other people do to other whILe they are sLeep I wonder when they wake up if they wake up what fate they will meet Let's go Back to you Oh my prEcious food I wonder how you will taste i imagine bitinG into your Esophagus like a sTreak Oh I hear the police GoTta go now I wIll leave after takiNG one more peek

Hello my name is Jack I met your sister last night

It was such a delight Your mom heaRd hEr screAms Down the hall As I POUND and POUND and POUND her head against the wall So I had to be polite and go speak to Your mother I can Tell you she is unique like nO other Oh she was very strong too Might as well had the strength oF Every Animal in the zoo But She met The same fate as well But I will never tell you how I Don't kill and tell

Your brother saw it all I am quite sHocked You sleep through it All as the floors start to be slicked Your brotHer is the finest I break both his legs and wAtch Him try his hArdest to come and wake you up My oh my this boy never gives up So I Had to handle him very rough This will be my last So you better run run oh so fast Don't forget to spread my name It is Jack oh yes Jack and I will be seeing you again

Remember My Name is Anthony By Damyian Joshua

My name is Anthony. I’m a senior in highschool, and I will be attending college next year. I am a straight A student with perfect attendance. I am also a member of the student council. Everybody knows that, so why am I still getting that same hateful glare when I look into people’s eyes? Honestly, it gets frustrating. Yesterday, in English class our teacher required us to write poems using good examples of rhyme. When the teacher said we could use partners, three kids asked to be mine. I asked them why did they want to be my partners so bad. They responded saying: because, you’re black, you’re good at this. Oh I get it, since I'm black I'm really good at rhyming, huh? I probably rap, don’t I? My neighborhood is full of crackheads, drug dealers, and murderers, right? I’m used to that though -- those responses don’t bother me. The funny thing is: I am good at rhyming; but because of things that have happened in my life, not because I’m black. I have my own voice, and that's just how I show it. I also do live in a harsh environment, but that’s because my mom works two jobs to get us by, not because I’m black. At three-thirty the bell rings to go home for the day. Some people go to practice for team sports, some stay for tutoring, most go home. I put on my hood, tuck any chains I have on and switch my demeanor as I begin the slow walk home. Remember my name is Anthony. My daddy died when I was three ‘cause he was out in the streets. My mama cried; when he died she was thinking of me. She told him time and time again she knew the end of his story, but he ain’t listen, hard-headed, he just wanted the glory. I’m 17 now -- my mama steady watching my back. She knows we living in the struggle, but I can’t think of that. I gotta get mine so she can get hers; that's just the mission. She told me stay out of trouble, keep doing right and so I listened. I’m sorry -- I’m just thinking ‘bout how far we have come. My house is just down the street, I see my mom so I run. She smiles as I approach her; then, slowly, I see. She starts to yell; then she runs, really picking up speed. The the shots ring, blood flows, and it's all on my feet. A black car, rubber burning as it’s hitting the streets. My mama crying, only word that she could tell me was breathe. Five minutes, then the sirens start to ring on the block. Paramedics ask what happened, but they see I was shot.

Four bullets -- I should live ‘cause I didn’t feel one. Until I hear a doctor say a bullet punctured my lung. I died at 7:45. I don’t ask that you cry for me. Just live your life in peace, and remember my name was Anthony.

Light Bulb By Lindsey Kelly

By day I pace through the somber halls counting my steps One left, two right, and so on Believing that every step I take I creep closer to leaving this hell hole

By night The tuneless sounds pierce my eardrums Causing me to clench my fists tight Between the unceasing bang, bang, bangs on the wall And the umpteen shrieks an hour I. Grow. Restless.

Three weeks ago I began to stash my meds. I was scanning my room for any nook or cranny When an internal light bulb lit up in my head My eyes froze on the flimsy pillow slouched on my bed

I have over 100 pills stowed away and counting And my pillowcase is Santa’s sack for druggies

Ever since the sleepless nights overflowing with uproar Are not dreadful anymore Because without the pills in my system Jon was able to find me again

For a while I’d thought he lost me. I was comprised of only a mere sense of hope And then for the first time in a month not doped up I noticed his beaming eyes Focused on mine When I first saw him again I wanted to hold on so tight Upon realizing I had been reunited with my light But I was being naive Because all light bulbs eventually go out

A week after this encounter, A nurse stumbled across my hidden stash And once again my life set off downward The staff began forcing pill upon pill upon pill down my throat And through every pill Jon began to fade As the sun does when it sets But the difference between the sun and Jon Is that the sun returns But Jon never did

An Orbital Love: A Response to Edgar Allen Poe’s “Evening Star” By Lindsey Kelly

‘Twas morn’ of a midsummer day And dawn of the morn’ And the stars, scarce Being outshone by the Sun And the cowardly Moon casually creeping To hide her face Behind the Sun’s seeping shine Her facade hidden by the Earth But her love for the Sun, still ever present

I gazed a while Focused on the orbital love triangle Where the Sun stood naive To the Moon’s omnipresent love Because he couldn’t grasp the concept Of believing without seeing And there was the evergreen Earth Who presumed fate had aligned her with the Sun Thus the two were destined But the Moon did not believe in the conjecture of fate

The day arrived The Moon’s affection fully unfolded before the Sun Her feeble presence Interrupted The Earth’s ‘Twas the day the Sun realized The Moon’s strength in her frailty And exchanged his love with the Moon’s As I gazed upon the two lovers from afar Eyes fixed on the eclipse

I Have a Story By Kaleb Lesane

Yeah I have a story, it goes like this, A guy walks into bar, bartender ask what’ll you have? Guy says something to help him escape, bartender says sorry try next door

Guy enters a drug store, clerk ask what are you looking for? Guy says something to help him escape, clerk says sorry try this address

Guy enters the whore house, hostess ask who do you want? Guys says someone who can help him escape, hostess says sorry, try down the street

Guy enters a church, the priest ask what is it you seek? Guys says i’m looking for an escape father, priest says there is only one escape Guy laughs, and thanks the priest “I get what you’re saying father” says the guy and heads down the street

Guy enters the bar, orders 2 shots of crown, 2 shots of vodka, and 2 shots of hennessy thanks the bartender, and leaves

Guy enters the drug store, buys two packs of xanax , pops ‘em and heads downtown

Guy enters the shotty one bedroom apartment, and heads straight to the closet, moving closer to escape every step drip drip drip, the guy forgot to drain the tub... no worries, he thought ,it won't be his problem anymore thought the man as he pulls escape from the dresser and shoves cold, metallic, relief in his mouth.

You Do: A Response to Langston Hughes’s “I Too” By Kaleb Lasane

You do not sing America

I am the superior race. When I say jump, You are to ask how high. And do not think, I am oblivious to your laughs, Oblivious to your growth.

Tomorrow you will be at the table. Served on my finest platter. My company will enjoy, The finest meat I have to offer. And your growth, Will have been in vain.

They will See how beautiful you are, and have no idea the source Of what they consume---

You do not sing America

Those Colors By Ashley Mays

The Blue, promises that every student will be able to shoot for higher learning, free, no tuition.

The White, whom, I would believe was in the right, acknowledges the fact that those four years of: physics, or psychology, or biology education, can lead to a lifetime of debt, and trials, and tribulation.

There’s Our Red, or shall I say Their Red. Head Red. He “sympathizes.” He says he hears us. He is for us. And so, you hear it, but what will you do? Respectfully, Red, why doesn’t this bother your head? Where’s your plan, your stance? Don’t put on an act for US. You’re in office. However, your current credentials don’t strike me as Presidential.

Now, I hate playing victim, but Why do I have to suffer? All because the government, where I live, the “land of the free,” has yet to ensure I won’t be enslaved by the Green.

The Green. Here’s what I mean. I must know how to ACT. I need to remember one million things in an 8 hour day, so I can be tested every other week. It’s not like the actual knowledge I possess counts. All this on my back? Can’t get any slack. No slack, when you live a life in the home of the brave, in the body of the Black.

The Black, or should I say Brown? Let me clear that up. I’m black, and a woman, in America. BELIEVE ME! I’m tired of hearing that too, but I must address it. ‘Cause, honey, it’s true. ‘Cause of my sun kissed complexion, my estrogen… I might not get that private sector gig. They say, “Sweetie pie, you’re just not right for the job.” No, I’m just not light for the job. No matter how many years, I was at the University. I guess, that’s okay. It’s actually not, but, hey -- I’ll hold my tongue for the culture. Act out? That satisfies their view. Ya know, the stereotype that, all people of color conduct volatile behavior? Then, whine when the outcome ain’t in our favor?

Those colors, those colors. That is what they mean to me. My government, this thing I was born with, and I am proud to be.

Withdrawal By Lindsey McGeorge

If happiness existed At the bottom of that bottle, I wouldn’t claw at the air For your skin.

If there was long-term condolence At the ends of those capsules, I would know not to press Your sorrows on my tongue And let you in.

If the tip of that needle would Make Me Forget, My bloody fingernails would no longer reach For the bits of my flesh Yet to be covered with sin.

I would sell my own body To feel your breath on my lips, And I would ruin innocent people For an ounce of your kiss.

Alcoholic Santa By Josh Mills

One night every year, As he sets off for his travel. The big fat bearded man cheers, But now his mind begins to unravel.

The jolly fat man has started to drink, Traded in his milk for whiskey. The season pushed him to the brink, And flying drunk is rather risky.

He takes off across the Earth, To deliver to the spoiled kids. He hates the travel for what it’s worth, So he pops off another lid.

He flies high then he flies low, His sleigh begins to swerve, He drunkenly yells Ho Ho Ho, But the words are but a slur.

He’s made it to the USA, It’s about half past eleven. But there’s something headed straight his way, It’s a 747.

The big jet plane is roaring near, But Santa’s to drunk to notice. He’s too busy on his beer, And it takes away his focus.

Just seconds til the two collide, And he’s passed out in his seat, This is Santa’s last drunk ride. Down pours Santa and Reindeer meat,

Into the turbine engine and down they go, Cut em up like Charles Manson Red and bloody reindeer snow, Prancer’s no longer prancing.

Tis’ the end of old Saint Nick, And the end of flying deer. Well at least he went out fast and quick But he should’ve set down the beer.

My Graduating Class By Trenton Perot

My class. A class of athletes, actors, actresses, class clowns, math geeks, spit-ballers, cheerleaders, overachievers, book worms, phone addicts, black, white, and all the above This is a great class! I know what you’re thinking. I hate school! But please step back to listen and pay attention to me. High school is some of our best years. The friends we make and the enemies we come to hate The football games in which we cheer then the class lectures we dread to hear There’s highs and lows.

Don’t you remember freshman year? So happy to just not be in middle school anymore, right? Suddenly, we’re big high schoolers. But still naive. Look at us now.

We all remember these last couple years like it happened yesterday. The first vehicle, getting our licenses, boyfriends, girlfriends, all the homecoming dances, all the football games, all the bad practices, all the hard days in class, the hatred of going home to hours of homework, the studying and even the drama are all great things. There are highs and lows. We must love both the highs and lows equally.

Every single teacher stressing us out over the ACT Going home tired and just wanting to go to sleep but your parents make you do chores. Don't they know we’ve been at school and practice all day and have better stuff to do? Your romantic little relationship comes to a screeching halt, and you can't do anything but wonder what you did wrong while juggling everything else in life.

Rolling over at 6:30 in the morning, and contemplating dropping out is a normal occurrence at this point. Pulling your hair out because you have three tests and a project all due tomorrow and you haven't even started.

Getting four hours of homework on a gameday. The stress on prom night because your hair looks like crap and you're face is breaking out. Wanting nothing more than just to fall asleep in class because you are running on zero sleep. These are the lows. Then there are the highs.

The fun classes with your friends where all you do is laugh and talk no matter how much it annoys the teacher. Having a good game on Friday, then enjoying the weekend The funny mishaps at your buddy’s house that you all laugh about on Monday.

The relationship that you love being in, The prom and homecoming after parties, The make out sessions in the back seat, The days in class that you get a free day, The senior pranks, This is what being a high schooler is all about. There are highs and lows. But they are all parts of the great experience that we call high school.

So wear that senior ring with pride. Be the person now that you needed when you were younger. When the day comes that we are all wearing the same outfit in that auditorium and they call our names to walk across that stage, we are all going different places. Suddenly, those enemies you made you no longer hate. All those hard days in class aren’t worth complaining about anymore.

We all have different paths. Sometimes we just have to clear that path for ourselves. Before we all go our separate ways, just know that I love you all. I may have never met you but know that I care and understand. I love my class. The class of seniors that have grown up so much over these years. The class full of every type of person And for all you underclassmen, you just wait your turn. It is just a few blinks away. Enjoy it while it lasts.

But to all my fellow seniors, I must say again that I love you all. Because you have been alongside me in this test of life that we call high school. Let's look back and appreciate all the people who helped us navigate to a better place and orchestrate a better life so we may saturate ourselves with success. I am proud to say that my class is the best. Let's show off our zest. We, so far, have passed this test of life.

My Mind By Trenton Perot

They all say I’m outta my mind. But I feel just fine. Is it crime to try and chill and relax from time to time? Everybody I knew don’t come around anymore. They called me names like pothead and crackwhore. But I love the feeling when the room spins from ceiling to floor. When I’m drunk or high nothing else matters. The stress goes away as I get higher up on that ladder. I do kinda miss the sound of my angel’s pitter patter. Everything is gone. They took my baby away and her father is nowhere to be found. When I was young I thought I was a queen yet to be crowned. Now I know I’m just a girl that can’t stand the sound of other people hateful words. I look up to the heavens every night and can’t help but curse. Every day I get a little bit worse. But I can’t stop now. Am I crazy? No! that’s impossible! Am I addicted? No! That’s implausible. I can stop whenever I want. Right? Will tonight be my last night? Is this a fight I can even win? I call myself a Christian, but I’m full of sin. It was nothing to put smoke in my lungs or juice in my veins. But now these things have me by the reigns. I need help! I’m losing my mind. It’s a path I’ve tried to traverse. I’ve made progress before but slammed back into reverse. Is this kind of life even worth having? It used to be fun to get the high but now I am not laughing. I’m losing my mind. I need some kind of relapse.

I should probably go to rehab. But perhaps it can wait ‘till tomorrow. I just need one more hit. I hate my mind.

Game of Chance By Lindsay Reynolds

I think I've finally figured it out. Life is just one big game of chance. There's a chance at everything in life. There's no way to know what kind of life you're going to get. I’ve found that the game has no mercy for anyone. It's based on pure luck. And well, I'm not one of the lucky ones.

I don't understand. What did I do to be born with the life that I have? Why can't I have perfect parents? Parents that have stable minds, jobs, and families. Parents with lots of money to spend on their kids and a big house with electricity and a big TV. Parents who have a least a little bit of love in their hearts to give to me before I go to sleep at night. Instead, I got parents with selfish, hate-filled minds. Parents who would rather die than admit their faults. Parents who make all this money but yet I never see any of it. Parents who pour all their love into drugs, or what they call “the stuff that makes them feel good.” I mean, my dad's idea of "supporting" my brother and me is slapping us across the face when we ask him to spend money on groceries instead of more liquor for once. My mom's idea of supporting us is not doing anything as it happens. I can hear her words now, "Oh sweetie, your dad is going through some stuff. Be grateful we have a roof over our heads."

I don't understand. Grateful? Does she know that to be grateful you need something to be grateful for? Grateful for the bruises not only on my body but on my brain and heart? Grateful that I can't imagine not crying myself to sleep at night? Grateful that I have no one to love? Grateful that I don't know what it's like to be loved?

I don't understand. Why can't I be a perfect girl?

A girl with pretty clothes, makeup, perfect grades, who plays a sport. A girl with friends just as perfect as her. Whose parents adore her and who view her as their whole world. I know it sounds typical, but it's not when you've only ever seen that girl in movies. Because I didn't get any of that. I remember being ripped out of school in fifth grade because my dad didn't want questions about the bruises on my body. I remember not being able to play soccer with the neighborhood kids like I loved to because my parents said it was best for me. I remember seeing my dad beat my mom because he "loved" her.

I don't understand. I don't understand why this game called life is so merciless. I didn't hurt anyone. At least, I didn't try to. So why do I have to be the one with no good in my life. But, as I stare at my parents "secret" stock of the stuff they say makes them feel good, I wonder if it would really be all that bad.

The Perfect Night: Inspired by Abi Travis’ Photo “At A House Party” By Lindsay Reynolds

How was I supposed to know? It was supposed to be the perfect night. At least, that’s what everyone told me. “Come on, you have to go.” I ignored my doubts, the bits of anxiety remaining in my stomach. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect outfit, perfect night.

The anxiety remained even in the middle of the party. I found an escape in the alcohol. One shot, two shots, three shots, four. “What could go wrong?” I ignored my doubts, the fuzzy feeling taking over. Perfect makeup, perfect hair perfect nails, perfect outfit, perfect night.

I was already drunk when he approached me. Now every doubt in my mind was nothing but a memory. He handed me a drink. “Here you go, you look like you could use another.” I downed it without a second thought. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect outfit, perfect night. ‘ The fuzzy feeling doubled over the following minutes. I could barely hold myself up, stumbling over nothing. He was always there to hold me up. “Let's go upstairs, you need to lay down.” How nice, I thought as I was drug up the stairs. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect outfit, perfect night.

I lay down, splotches of black flowing in. I could barely move on my own, the alcohol not relenting its hold.. He started to get on top of me. “You know, I’ve always thought you were so beautiful...” I froze in fear, unable to do anything as he overpowered me. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect outfit, perfect night.

I stared up at the ceiling at nothing in particular. He had already left, but I couldn’t move. How could this have happened to me? My friends words rang in my thoughts. “What could go wrong?” Tears began to form. Perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect outfit, perfect night. Wisdom Is Rock, What Is Is Not By William Ross

The blood of your sons buys them their paper power while you claw at corruption’s curtain. Babies cry with a starving scream as their mothers’ breasts are served upon plates of laptop lust. The blind, their backs rest upon silky security with the wise restless upon truth’s treachery.

To accept what’s safe is suicide. To purge a tyrant, there is regicide. What’s safe is not safe, what is is not. The only wisdom is rock in this paper paradox.

And I’m the one who killed Big Brother. I spit on those that force fallacies, and I champion those with shattered souls. The painful truth can free the fearful fallen. I’ll shed light on their devilish depravity, and I’ll cure this shameful society

To accept what’s safe is suicide. To purge a tyrant, there is regicide. What’s safe is not safe, what is is not. The only wisdom is rock in this paper paradox.

My Secret By Natalie Schaffer

To open my mouth and come clean would be worse than ripping off a band aid. It would be more like covering yourself in duct tape and ripping it off. It tears off your skin and rips out your hair. Now you’ll ask: how could a girl like me keep such a secret? Few of you know me, and those who do -- Don’t. You've got the wrong idea. I’ve changed. I’ve lied. I’ve covered up the truth. Some of you’ll say you know, but you’re wrong. You don't.

My secret makes my stomach ache. I feel sick thinking of it, knowing you could know, knowing you have the power to tear me down with only a few words.

Now what is it I’m keeping a secret? What is little me keeping all chained up?

Maybe I tell you I’ve been in love more than once, and you’ll call me a whore.

Maybe you’ll call me a dike, like everyone else does

Maybe you'll think I’m gay, and you girls will be afraid I’ll hit on you.

Maybe you’ll think I’ve cut myself, and you’ll say I’m asking for attention.

Maybe I haven't eaten in days, and you’ll still call me fat.

So, what is it, you ask. Reread what I said. Pick one. Maybe you figured it out, maybe you know my deep, dark secret. Or maybe you picked the other assumption, that everyone else in this school thinks about me. Or maybe it was all of them, Or maybe it was none.

To tell you would kill me. It would make my insides twist because maybe you know the truth.

“The Man Who Conquered”: Inspired by Benjamin Lowry’s photo of purple belt students at Gracie Barra Praia work on pressure based attacks during a private lesson. By Kayla Shepard

Why do you do it? they asked. You can’t they said. always disparaged, always belittled. The little guy, the underdog -- that’s all he was. They told him he was weak. They said he couldn’t fight. He couldn’t take a hit no matter how much he tried. He grew restless. He grew shameful. He couldn’t fight it -- the sneers, the snide remarks. He tried and tried but couldn’t conquer. So he gave up and drunk himself to sleep every night. His mind a fog, a ghost around town. They knew where to find him, at the bar with a finger of Jack and a single pack, puffing his life away.

He grew restless of drinking and weak from the smoke, so he tried again. Always in his family's shadow, the black sheep. And he tried again, to prove himself, prove his worth. “Put the bottle down, boy,” the bartender would tell him, “and fight like hell.”

Why do you do it? they asked. You can't, they said. Always disparaged, always belittled, the little guy, the underdog -- that's all he was. They told him he was weak. They said he couldn't fight. He couldn't take a bit. He grew restless. He grew shameful. They told him it all and said he wouldn't make it. The black sheep, the family's shadow, a failure.

At least, that’s what they thought. Put the bottle down boy, he remembered. So he exchanged the addiction for competition and shunned the attention to be the man who conquered. Weakness: A Response to 6LACK’s “Worst Luck” By Cassie Snow

“you tell me get away but you don’t mean that.” he spoke those words with confidence as if he never hurt me. never hurt me physically, mentally, emotionally he was my happiness and my greatest fear he knew he had my heart and my mind was no longer in control. everytime he told me i wouldn’t leave he was right. so when i stayed i loved and i loved hard i promised him the world even if he gave me nothing, even if he spent his nights with someone else while i stayed home sobbing into my pillow. the 7 times that he slapped me across the face didn’t matter cause it only led me to believe that i wasn’t trying hard enough. i got the worst luck with love, maybe i ain’t hurtin enough. “why you wanna love me so bad?” he asks me and i don’t know the answer. i want to stop loving him, i want to hate him, i want to completely erase him from my memory cause the good times aren’t worth all this pain but i let it happen every time. the touch of his hand is one that i crave but i also fear. his touch relieves all pain and suffering. his touch triggers all pain and suffering. i know i am not the only one to be touched by him, i know that i am doing everything right everything he does is wrong “so i no longer wanna see your face” but i do. leaving. it’s the only thing i can’t do right. i got the worst luck with love, maybe i ain’t hurtin enough.

She Was Asking For It By Cassie Snow

Baggy sweatpants, oversized t-shirt, sandals slipped on and hair pulled into a messy bun as I leave my friends house. Keys in my hand, nearly four feet from my car. I take 6 seconds to look down and check the time — broad daylight. 10:53 a.m. It goes black, there is a bag over my head. I am trying to scream, but I can’t. I try to kick, scratch, and punch whatever it is that’s wrapping itself around my body. I can tell where I’m at, the trunk of a car, so crammed I can barely move a muscle. My hands tied behind my back, rope around my ankles. I feel as if I have been in here for hours. I hear the trunk pop open so I scream unlike ever before until I take a blow to the head from an unknown object. 2:37 p.m. Flickers in front of my eyes from an old microwave set up against a wall. The tv on only to be filled with a static image. The smell of dirty laundry and week old food fill the grimy motel. I jerk forwards and realize both my arms and legs are tied down. My mouth is dry and filled with some type of fabric. All my cries for help are muffled. I try so hard to get out of the restraints, the skin around my wrists start to tear and bleed. 2:43 p.m. He walks into the room. Before I can see his face he slides on a black mask. He slowly walks my way with a syringe in his right hand. I yank and squirm and cry harder and harder the closer he gets. The needle sinks deep into my arm and the effects are nearly instant. My body lays limp as he moves his on top and unzips his pants. 6:32 a.m. The next day, I wake up to a person nudging me, the manager of the restaurant I was left behind. I am taken to the police station,

asked to tell what happened to me, write it all down. They don’t know what happened but people will find out and I will hear them whisper, Not thinking I here their ignorant comments. “What was she wearing?” Baggy sweatpants, oversized t-shirt, sandals slipped on and hair pulled into a messy bun. “Where was she?” Leaving my friends house, Keys in my hand nearly four feet from my car. “Why wasn’t she paying attention?” I took 6 seconds to look down and check the time. “When did it happen?” Broad daylight. 10:53 a.m. As if anything that happened would be justified by my clothes, where I was, or when it happened. But the most blood boiling, hateful, and ignorant thing I hear anyone say -- “She was asking for it.”

Sunshine Girl By Reygan Taylor

It was a perfect sunny day. The perfect day to take Emily to the park. Instead, I was spending it at her funeral. There couldn’t have been a more perfect day to send her to her eternal sleep. She was a happy little girl, excited and curious about the world. I never thought... I’d have to bury my sweet baby girl. I’ve heard the things people think of me. What kind of mother doesn’t watch her own kid? Or -- she never had time for Emily, she wasn’t ready to be a mom. They speak without even knowing the situation. Judging... As if they could of done a better job at raising my child. And maybe they could’ve, but it’s too late. She’s gone, and nothing they could have done can bring her back. Now I’m all alone. I wasn’t alone when Emily was here. She was my sweet sunshine girl. When I was pregnant with her, I was scared, but her light shined from my belly as if saying Mommy it’s okay. She said that a lot, Mommy it’s okay. When I was having a bad day, she’d always say that. I can feel her warmth now. It’s bright and warm, like she’s just within reach. I call out, and I tell her I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused her 76

and for not being the mother she deserved. My sweet sunshine girl is gone, but she’s still warming me. Now, from the outside in, I hear, “Mommy it’s okay.” And I just cry and cry until I feel my Emily leave me. My sweet sunshine girl has gone to join the stars.

Brothers By Shaun Thompson

Imagine this. You’ve known this person since you were 7 years old. He was 9.

You both played football, you both were young, and you both liked to fight. You argued constantly, you threw hands constantly, you HATED each other’s GUTS. And then you were taken away for three months. In a foster home, then lived with your mom who was in and out of jail. No real parents, no love, no friends, and no family.

You come back home and things are totally different. You feel the family love. Then

You see your “friend” again, remember.

The one you fought with all the time, the one you hated. But things are different. Your hatred isn’t there anymore and you start to really become friends. As years pass you two become best friends, you hang out everyday, you play sports together. You even hangout with girls together. You become brothers.

Brothers…

A term you never thought you would know because your life was filled with nothing but sisters.

Brothers. The friend who always has your back, always answer your call, always helps you when you need it.

A brother

Who is always there no matter what. Brothers, boys, best friends. No matter what you call it, that’s us. He has built me just as I have built him. That’s the definition of brothers.

Mud Soaked By Jacob Wise

Who am I? No one now Another name Another face Something expendable Something easy to lose without loss That’s what I am now Or, should I say that’s what they think I am What I’m now forced to believe An animal locked behind these chain link fences These mud soaked rags With no one who gives a damn to clean them Thousands come and thousands go Carried away in a soft breeze Scattering across the land they called home They don’t leave with what’s valuable What mattered to them No, they keep those The rings, the necklaces The damn golden caps on their teeth But at least they get to leave The hell still waits those who stay On top of one another for days Weeks Months With nothing to call my own but these rags These mud soaked Pinstripe rags Alone in a sea of people New faces I don’t bother to remember What’s the point? We’ll all be leaving soon enough It’s just a game of when When will it be my turn? I welcome it now I don’t fear anymore Fear is what keeps you motivated

Motivation died a long time ago So I wait In these mud soaked Ill-fitting Pinstripe rags Until I’m lead away Until I blow away in a soft breeze To a land that’s not my home Scattered to the winds of a land that I’m not from A land that I grew up knowing A land that turned their backs A land, that I no longer know So I wait my turn In these mud soaked Ill-fitting Close-buttoned Pinstripe rags For my turn to die

Back and Forth By Jacob Wise

Hit me Shove me Move me Punching bag

Spit on me Club me Abuse me Punching bag

Kick me Mame me Misuse me Punching bag

Spite me Shout at me Bruise me Punching bag

One kid One mind Not how I used to be Punching bag

No hope No friends No clue for me Not just some punching bag

So what am I? A short kid with hair too long? Who cried too much when “mommy” died? That wears sleeves too long to hide his shame? How about all three? How about so many more

Hit me Shove me Move me

Spit on me Club me Abuse me

Kick me Mame me Misuse me

Spite me Shout at me Bruise me

Do you hate me? Do you spite me? You all tied my noose

And now I slowly sway Back and forth Back and forth Like a goddamn punching bag

While You’re Young: a Response to William Butler Yeats’ “When You Are Old" By Jacob Wise

“When you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

While you’re young take heed my cry. Stay far from the manipulation that is ease; Of men who speak of love that will never cease; A shadowed though; a reminder that all things die.

While many gave you a sweet glance of grace, You fell into one who you thought saw deep; More enticed with where your demons sleep, But only loved what was then a consummate face.

A plea for a savior met with an excuse. Instead of grace, you were granted fear; Insults that your shattered heart couldn't bare to hear; Another instrument for the devil’s use

Latch on to your youthful visage; Never relinquish your beautied list, Held fast inside your iron fist For what then was only a crude mirage

Keep your solace near to heart. An absent touch to keep hurt at bay;

Unkempt floor, where broken hearts lay, Kept distant only by being apart

While you’re young stand strong. Keep far from detrimental obstruction, Obliged to plague you with destruction; And prove all doubters wrong

A girl like you is no toy Not used alone for some mans wants Some doll for him to show and flaunt You aren’t made for just some boy

You are special, you’re unique There’s no need for an introduction You are beautiful, with no need for seduction Be strong girl, don’t be weak

Prove yourself to be so much more No doubt or question in any mind With no flaw that the naked eye can find Get you a man who knows to adore.

Into My Future By Harlee Connell

Spring has arrived with its showers and flowers representing a renewal of life. My life is also about to begin again and change into something I have never experienced before. High school, with all of its Friday Night Lights and cheering parents, is coming to a bittersweet end. The last four years were full of new responsibilities and little sleep. I would come home with my mountain of a backpack and study for hours. Most nights, my homework served as my only companion, and sleep was a long-lost friend. I can still recall my first time driving by myself with the windows rolled down as music filled the car, making me feel like I was at a concert just for me. The wind whipped my hair into my face, making me realize that the movies are nothing like reality. Unlike those Hollywood stars with perfect hair, mine was tangled for days. That moment was thrilling and left me feeling like I could conquer the world. My time in high school slowly but surely made me less and less dependent on others and gave me glimpses of my future independence. I did not need my parents to drive me around anymore or to be that voice telling me what to do. It became something I did on my own. I can still remember going to prom in that dress my mom helped me pick out. We went to the mall about a week before, and I probably tried on a hundred dresses before my mom brought over one she had found hidden on a rack. It was covered in crystals and cascaded down to my ankles in a satin fabric that looked like flames. It was then that I realized I still needed her no matter how self-reliant I was becoming. College letters had been coming in since my freshman year, and the stack of brochures was making me anxious. Sitting patiently in that stack was a place where I would spend the next four or more years of my life. There were numerous colleges I had visited, but finding one that felt like home was not a simple task. Every month I would visit a new college and walk onto campus with eyes full of wonder and a tinge of fear. When I had arrived at my first college tour at Tulane, my mother was by my side, supporting me like she had been for my whole life. It took all my willpower to fight the tears that were attempting to streak down my face. My mother turned towards me, and as I looked into her eyes that were a mirror image of my own, she whispered the words every child waits for their parents to say: “I am so proud of you.” Her eyes welled up with tears to match my mine. As she wrapped me in her arms, I knew that the last four years were worth all the sleepless nights and stressful days. But Spring has finally arrived, so I stand here, welcoming this momentous occasion, one I will look back on for years to come. The robes are silky and flow around me like water. My heels are laced up tight so I will not slip out of them when I walk across the wooden stage. I sweat as the moment approaches. My name is called, and suddenly everything sinks in. As I walk across the stage I see the very object I have stressed about day and night, worked constantly towards, and sweat over for the past four years. It is waiting, and it will be awarded to me. All I can think is to keep walking towards it and reach, reach for my future. 86

The Infamous Tree By Chelsea Fuller

“My house servants Jane Lavenia & E. Jim broke into my store room - and helped themselves very liberally to everything - I whipped [them]... worse than I ever whipped anyone before.”

-Bennet H. Barrow, Louisiana Slaveowner

Paris was my sweet baby. She was four but had a heart like an old woman. We has been protecting Paris from all the bad things on this here plantation. We made sure she saw no evil whatsoever. As far as she knew, the plantation was a happy place with food and cotton.

Dennis, my husband, was having trouble picking as much cotton as Master Barrow likes. Cause of this, Master won’t give us no food. So I has decided to help put food on our table. Me and the other house slave, E. Jim, came up with a good plan to get food. E. Jim and me was gone wait till Master Barrow left to do his check on the cotton pickers. As soon as Master left we were gone run in the pantry and place the goods in a potato sack and sneak them to our quarter.

The time had come - Master had just left for his check on the cotton pickers. “ E. Jim!” I yelled. She was busy washing clothes filled with itchy seeds from the cotton field. E. Jim came over and we’s tiptoed to the pantry. We starts filling the sack with all types of things. We got sweet, yellow corn, sun-dried tomatoes, and ripe apples. We tied up the rugged bag and slungs it over our back. Just as we was leaving, E. Jim saw the Master’s son, Thomas, looking at us. “Jane, stop,” E.Jim whispered. We dropped the sacks and stared. Thomas ran off so quick that he could escape the crack of a whip. We had broken rule number twenty one in Master’s rule book : “Allow it once to be understood by a Negro is to provide for himself.”

Next thing you know, Master Barrow busted through the wooden door. His eyes was as red as the fresh blood that was dripping off of his whip. Me and E.Jim looks at each other. We knows what’s coming next. “Head to the tree!” hollered Master Barrow. Master Barrow launched towards us, yanked our arms, and drug us out to the tree.

E.Jim was the first to be tied to the tree. The rope was stained red from its past whippings. The other slaves had gathered around to see yet another broken sister. For Master Barrow’s whippings took place everyday. He has a strict rule book of what he expects. For doing even the littlest of things, you could get whooped. Just yesterday he give L. Dave a whipping for not picking enough cotton.

It seems like Master Barrow was giving E. Jim one of the worst whippings I had ever seen. E. Jim’s back was full of cuts from the whip. Her fresh blood rolled down her back dripping on the ground. Good thing her child was back at the quarters. But my poor Paris had a front row seat. I looked around for Dennis, but I had forgotten Master just sent him to deliver a letter - no one was there to stop my poor baby from seeing this evil. A tear rolled down my eye. E. Jim’s body lay limp. She was dead. I feared, ‘cause it was my turn next.

Master Barrow tied me to the tree. I shuts my eyes in fear of what's coming next. He started swinging and I looked over towards my child. “Momma!” she cried out. “It's okay baby. Mommas gone be alright!” I managed to get out. As my eyes closed, I saw my baby Paris drop to her knees. This was the end of my life, and the beginning of her lost innocence. My baby saw the evil I had been protecting her from all her life.

Works Cited

Barrow, Bennet. "Excerpts from Barrow's Diary." The Diary of Bennet H. Barrow, Louisiana Slaveowner. AMS Press, 1967. Web.

Country Trail By Chase Harner

Running along the country trail, the wind in his hair, sweat making his shirt stick to his body, his feet pounding the ground like thunderheads on a raining day, he was happy. Better yet, he was free. The runner thought to himself that it felt damn good to be alive. The runner lived for this, the pain that lurched with every step, the air in his lungs stabbing like the cold steel of a knife. With every breath the boy told tell himself

Just

One

Step.

Even the way his stump of a leg pinched as he tripped over a root became the ultimate release for him. It was almost funny that he enjoyed these sharp pains, the same pains that threw his normal life into hell just years before. The pinching and rubbing pain in his knee sometimes reminded him of the tire rolling over the same spot, crippling everything below his knee. The way the wind blew on his face making a chill flash over him was exactly the same chill that struck him when he realized that it was too late. Sometimes when the sun’s bright flares shone through the trees, it takes the boy back to seeing those headlights swerve as they crested the hill, charging for him like a wild stallion. December 12, 2009 was a day in his life that he would never be able to forget. Was this the day he lost his will to be happy? No, worse; the day he lost his childhood.

Ever since he was little, nature was captivating. The colors blended with his mind like the mix of stars in the Milky Way. In his hometown of Homer, Louisiana, life lacked much of the picturesque beauty in nature. No exotic flowers, no decorative plants, not even the seemingly average mixture of the rainbow that most call “beauty,” but still beautiful through his eyes. He loved the way the branches of the white oaks swayed in the wind, the way the city lights fell away as he broke through the tree line. The further he explored the more bliss he saw. This is when the woods started to grow on him. Deep in the sticks where he was cradled by these oaks, he found his spot, his inner peace. This spot laid back in the woods about two miles from anything made by man. A clearing that glistened from patches of light that burned through the trees. Under the branches of the biggest and widest tree around is where he found himself; the same boy that was dead at heart, still lying on that solemn road. Day after day he visited there, widening the game trails from running back and forth. Every step made his heart beat a little faster. Every mile gave his nub another excruciating blister. The nature, the journey to his spot, that’s what it became for him. He felt a harmony between the beauty of nature and the sweet pain

of running. This harmony became the best of life, sometimes the most painful part of life, but all he wanted was to experience this from life. Every free second the boy earned, he ran. He would spend hours jogging down game trails, up gravel roads, everywhere and anywhere he could tear loose from the weights that held him down. His reason to live became to see all the beauty in the world and, in doing that, maybe fill some of the beauty stolen from him. He was able to find his inner peace through his running. That trail was another check on his bucket list. It was all about the journey, never about the destination.

Local Teen Awarded a Lifetime Supply of Ramen Noodles in Place of TOPS Scholarship: An Onion-Style Satire By Georgia Hilburn

Recent controversy regarding the lack of TOPS funding for graduating high school students in good academic standing has led lawmakers to take drastic measures. After months of deliberating possible solutions to the problem, lawmakers were able to make a contract between the state and Maruchan, a company that produces the popular Asian dish known commonly as Ramen noodles. The deal allows the state to provide students eligible for TOPS with a four year supply of Ramen in place of financial aid. Jane Smith, a freshman at ULL, had a 4.0 GPA and a 34 on the ACT. She was eligible for the highest level of TOPS, but was rather surprised when she did not receive a check like she had previously expected. “Yeah, I mean, it was pretty weird to have the delivery guys show up at my dorm on move-in day. I have so many boxes of Ramen, my roommate and I had to sell our bed frames and the mini fridge.” Smith’s roommate, Sarah Rodriguez is from out of state and did not qualify for TOPS, nor does not share her attitude about the situation. “We had a fight about whether or not to sell the microwave. We are sleeping on top of card board boxes of Ramen Noodles.” The new initiative has actually inspired several colleges to shut down their cafeterias and food courts in favor of creating storage space for the TOPS recipients. Joseph Savoie, president of ULL, shares a perspective with several of the lawmakers who pushed for the new deal. “I have to tell you, I did not expect this to work at all. It is absolutely incredible how much we have saved, both financially and when considering waste disposal. ULL produced incredible amounts of food waste before the initiative due to so many of our students consuming massive amounts of Ramen and none of the dishes our staff cooked up. This new TOPs program allows students to enjoy the same, consistent diet while allowing the college a chance to create a new financial aid and scholarship program that could affect avery student in good standing on this campus. It may take a few years, but I believe that other colleges will follow suit. This idea was absolutely ingenious!”

Disclaimer: All events, quotes, or characters described in this article are fiction. Any connection to real-life people or actions are purely coincidental and have no connection to any outside .

High Speed, Low Drag By Allison Howell

Since I was little, I have always known that I wanted to serve my country in the armed forces. When I entered high school, I began my search to find the branch of service that best suits me. After extensive research I’ve concluded that the Navy and furthermore, a service academy is the place for me. With a strong family background in military, it is a tradition that my siblings and I have to take JROTC our freshman year of high school. Going into freshman year, I did not expect to get much out of the program, but my attitude changed when I joined the Raider Team. The Raider Team brought me out of my comfort zone completely, and sparked a flame of leadership within me. Whether we were jumping off a rappel tower, building a one rope bridge, or getting lost in the woods (aka orienteering), the team brought me out of my comfort zone constantly. I’m a better person today because of the team relentlessly pushing and encouraging me to do my best in every activity we do. Various Raider activities over the years developed important skills in my personality like working with others, time management, and organization. As a freshman on the team, I had to learn how to follow, which is important for a leader to first learn. And now, going into my fourth year of the program, I am the commander of the team. I am now the leader of the team where I was once a follower; it is now my job to lead by example, carve a path for others to follow, and bestow the spark of leadership into others. I give credit to the Raider Team for helping make me the high speed, low drag person I am today. To me, being in the armed forces is very important; I feel like, as an able bodied American, it is my duty. My ultimate goal is to be the future of the United States Navy, to be the calm in the storm, to protect those from things that go bump in the night—and I know I can obtain that goal through a service academy. With an academies’ strong focus on leadership, I know it will prepare me to be the best officer upon graduation. The superior education I will receive will make me an extensively capable engineer and leader so I am eminently prepared to help my country, myself, and those sailors appointed to me in the event we are placed in harm’s way. The vast opportunities the Institute provides will expose me to the possibilities that will make me a well-rounded officer. With the exposure to the fleet during summer cruises and the different communities around the world, the Institute will equip me to find the best job for me in the fleet once I graduate. I know that I am capable of being a leader at a service academy alongside the rest of America’s best and brightest. Give me this chance to prove it.

I Know Where I’ve Been By Christian Hunter

Destination 1: San Diego, Ca, Mercy Hospital at 5:48 a.m. on Easter Sunday; The year is 2000. I was born 6 pounds, 8 ounces, and 21 inches with curly jet black hair. I was labeled a “feisty little girl” by my grandmother due to the fact that I wouldn't let the doctor clean my eyes out. Through my eyes, I wasn't feisty, just upset because the doctor wasn't there in time for my delivery, he was on his coffee break. This is why I consider the nurse as the true doctor in the room and also why I felt perturbed that the “fake” doctor was just now trying to be a part of a major point in my life: my birth. Destination 2: San Diego, Ca to Watonga, Ok, June 14, 2010—Moving Day! Adventure—It was the first thought that came into my head. As a clueless child, I didn’t understand that this “adventure” would be permanent, but it wasn’t bad. I was staying with my grandparents, earning freedom, and building new friendships. This town in Oklahoma, pronounced WAH-TON-GUH, as so small that the arrival of my family was announced in the newspaper. I also discovered my love for music by joining band and playing the trumpet. I loved this town, and missed it terribly when I relocated. Destination 3: Watonga, Ok to Shreveport, La, June 3, 2011—Moving Day Again! Heartache—It was the first thing I experienced when I left Oklahoma. Driving to Louisiana, all I could think was that I was tired—tired of moving and tired of being the “new kid” in school. I hated walking into a classroom, eyes turned towards me, and everyone asking, “where are you from?” and “why do you talk so proper?” As the new kid, those were always the questions asked, but the constant transitions were only improving my social skills. Destination 4: Shreveport, La, Captain Shreve High School, grades 10-11. Throughout my high school career, I have been involved with band. By sophomore year I had the opportunity to be the librarian lieutenant, which was a job that required me to be present at all times and make sure everyone had their sheet music. The job was stressful, especially since it poured down raining at three of the football games and every time it would rain, on Monday, I was stuck in the library trying to reprint music for the whole band. As a junior, I joined drama club, where I played the role of Sandy in Grease the Musical. It was the first musical I had ever joined and I had to endure people calling me Sandy for the rest of the year because they did not know my real name. Finally, now that I am a senior, I am the captain for the band. My first test as captain was to manage a rowdy group of forty plus students at a football scrimmage in the absence of the band director. I was terrified because I had never been in charge during a football game. I had to figure out what time the band should and shouldn’t play. With the help of parent chaperones I finished the task successfully with no problems, and in the end I proved I was worthy, not only to the band, but to myself. The final destination: Shreveport, La, Captain Shreve High School—Reflections. Now that I am in my last year of high school, I know that I am prepared for college. This

journey is the reason why I am prepared. Because of the numerous times I have moved, I have developed communal skills from the constant need to make new friends. I also have learned how to be a team player and how to be a leader through band and drama club. Every destination on the roadmap of my life has shaped me to become the person I am today.

Dad By Ally Lary

September 2004. Wee Wisdom Preschool. It was my first day of preschool and my dad was taking me. There are old pictures of me in my green gingham jumpsuit with a monogram of my initials on the front in pink and a white bow- too big- plopped right on top of my four year old head. Around 8 o’clock, my dad and I took off in a new direction- pre school. When we pulled into the parking lot, I couldn't contain my excitement. I rushed my dad to get me out of my car seat. Without looking back, I ran into the classroom. My dad left, devastated, and called my mom crying. He would always tell me it was one of the hardest and proudest moments of his life. All too easily, I took a leap of confidence into my future. My dad had to let his little girl go. It was time for her to grow up and there was nothing he could do about it.

Softball was my dad's passion. Unsurprisingly, I grew up playing and loving the sport with my whole heart. There was something special about the bond the two of us had in between the chalked lines. Pushing me to always be my best, I tried out for the Little League All- Star softball team every summer with his coaching, guidance, and support.

June 2012. Vidalia, LA. Little League Softball Complex. “Back, back, back! TWO HANDS, TWO HANDS! Squeeze it! That's my girl!” It was never a surprise to hear my dad coaching me even if he was in the stands. As I caught the last out of the championship game, his voice was all I heard before the screams and celebrations from my team. In that moment, the 10 years of blood, sweat, tears, and smiles from my dad and I had paid off. We had become the champions. In that moment, everything my dad had taught me was worth it. In that moment, every second of his dedication and hard work to mold me into the best player I could be had been for a reason. Together, my dad and I shared a moment that I will never forget. We succeeded. This part of my story is one I have never been open to telling. Nobody asks, everybody wonders. Few understand the pain of losing a parent at 15 years old and on this day, I became one of them. April 25. Shreveport, LA. My High School’s Baseball Field. It was rare that my whole family attended Shreve sporting events. However, this day was already different. My dad, mom, sister and me all went to watch the Gator baseball team. I went and sat with my friends and later in the game my dad passed by and winked at me. I smiled and said “Hey, Daddy.” Those would be the last two words I ever spoke to my living father. Only seconds after I spoke to my dad, my mom screamed. However, it wasn't because of the game. It was shrill, saddened, and scared. I followed her only to see my dad- on the ground, motionless. Adults were everywhere attempting to stop me from seeing my dad, something I will never forgive them for. They called at me to come into the bathroom and I stubbornly went over,

searching for comfort from anyone. My eyes were blurry and I couldn't think straight. He was taken to the hospital and I was convinced he was going to be okay.

The Same Day. Willis Knighton Waiting Room. My mom, sister, and I were surrounded by friends and family who waited with us as the doctors tried to revive my dad. My friends and I were laughing and gossiping in another waiting room when my uncle came around the corner. He didn't have to say anything. I knew. My dad was dead. I hit my uncle with swinging fists as he tried to comfort me. I screamed at the top of my lungs for at least ten minutes straight at anyone. I was furious. I was devastated. I was in disbelief. Hours later, I stood over his cold body. I spent an hour in there alone with my dad telling him how I was going to be okay. I promised him I would take care of my mom and little sister. I thanked him for raising me in a loving, Christian home. I prayed over him and asked God for the strength to move on. All too easily, my dad was gone. I had to let my daddy go. It was time for him to go home, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Today I would be lying if I said that losing my dad to heart disease wasn't the hardest thing I've ever been through. I would be lying if I said it has gotten easier. Knowing that my role model, mentor, and best friend won’t be present in the years to come is one of the most gut-wrenching feelings. The most important thing to me now is living for him. I strive to make him proud every single day. He was my rock, and he has definitely taught me how to be a leader for my mom and sister. Everything I do, I do for him.

RBF By Jamiah Marshall

Resting Bitch Face: a person, usually a girl, who naturally looks mean when her face is expressionless, without meaning to.

I’ve always wondered why people looked at me with a face full of solicitude. Why they found me unapproachable, unless it was by a strange man begging me to smile while he stood extremely too close for comfort. That is until I found out that my face was the cause. Sitting in my high school’s conference room with my grandmother, teachers and counselors after just finding out that I wasn’t chosen to become apart of the National Honors Society. My grandmother wanted to have a conference because a huge part of the decision came from the votes of those very people. Everything was going great—besides the fact that my heart was pounding the toughest steak inside of my chest—until one of my counselors (we’re going to call her Ms. C.) decided to comment on the makeup of my face. You see, I was born with a disorder known as the Resting Bitch Face, but I prefer to use the abbreviation RBF. 1 out of 6 girls around the world share this trait with me. It’s as if we’re receiving some sort of validation for not wearing a smile literally every second of every day. As a result, our eyebrows are permanently arched angrily and our lips appear paper thin—despite my ability to go through chapstick 10x faster than most. “Are you mad?” “Are you sad?” “Are you okay?” “I thought you hated me…”. RBF, always believed to not care and appreciate what's taking place around them. Always accused of ‘throwing shade’ because of the way our face naturally bends. The jokes we attempt to tell are taken way too seriously because they can’t tell if we’re joking. If only they truly knew how much effort is put into adding a bright smile, big enough to showcase all 32 teeth, into my everyday fashion. Ms. C goes on to inform me that my face will keep me from achieving many things. That how I see my face in the mirror every morning is totally different from how the world views it. It’s as if my physical actions are as quiet as a mouse and that my facial expressions speak louder than my words. My mom once told me to “fix my face”. Fix, which can be defined as to repair or mend something that is broken. How do you repair something that was graciously gifted by the man above himself? I know I “look so much better when I smile”—isn’t that why we smile for pictures?— but are you implying that I’m ugly when I’m not? I’m sorry if my face offends you. I must’ve forgot that my only goal in life was to please you. I’ll make a mental note to fake a smile when I see you, so that you don’t assume I’m angry. Sorry, but I’m also not sorry. This is my face, happy and sad. Deal with it.

The Fifth Year By Lindsey McGeorge

It was the fifth year. Five years after our world had almost come to a close. The downfall wasn’t nuclear or even part of a warfare on our level, though some were concerned of unconfirmed conspiracies. The world had been idealistic, utopian even, with every country at peace, disease having almost been wiped out. Key word: almost. At the start of the fall, the ones who were left did their best to keep everything normal. Bargainable items were still used, giving us the essence of normality. Money was no longer used for buying and selling. Now it was used to burn for warmth, due to the fact there was no more electricity. Items that aided in our survival were now fought for: tents, fishing gear, sleeping bags, and no one wanted to trade them anymore. With the little that people had left, they were now willing to kill for more. The downfall of our world, the cataclysm, the genocide caused by nature itself, didn’t happen gradually. It came all at once. It started as a cough, then quickly turned to pneumonia, then, you would drop dead within a few hours. It killed so fast that autopsies weren’t bothered to be performed. Killing you from the inside out, it creeps through the pores of your lungs, and grows like a mushroom on steroids. This wiped out 98% of our population. Mother Nature was showing us humans, nature’s destroyers, that she was fighting back. The few people left on this earth were given two choices: to come together and live with the damage done and try again, or fight each other until every last human had ripped each other apart.

The First Year: This was the hardest year, trying to gauge how much food and resources should be saved, deciding where to stay, and who could be trusted. Food was easy in the beginning, canned goods having been popular and unneeded. Everything was created in a lab, packed in a can, and sent to the people. Those who survived the ransacked times moved away from the city and into the wilderness. Corpses scattered on the streets changed to something different; they turned into nature from the disease. Weeds sprouted from the bodies and over time, it was as if they were now part of the earth. The Second Year: Earth was still recovering from years of human abuse. When I thought it was safe enough, I moved back to the city. Cities were no longer littered with bodies, but were instead taken over by vegetation, with weeds crawling up the sides of buildings and creeping through windows. The city was overwhelmed with animals. Every cabinet I opened was filled with

spiders and cobwebs, possums and other critters scattered throughout the buildings. It was hard to find a safe place to reside, with not knowing if there were others around. I think what’s kept me alive more than others is how I hadn’t put my life in anyone else’s hands except my own. I knew myself and knew what I was and wasn’t able to handle. If I was with other people, that meant responsibility and risking my safety, so I avoided them.

The Third Year: The third year. The year I was required to leave the city, or what remained of it. The infrastructure was now devoured with nature, and sadly not edible nature. Canned goods lasted only so long, and everything runs out eventually. What felt like weeks was only days when I finally reached farmland away from the city. If I had any chance of surviving, it’d be where I could plant and harvest my own food. Vehicles didn’t work, and even those with a full tank wouldn’t start up, so I found a bike that took me to acres of fertile land. I reached for an envelope filled with old seeds (basically ancient), and the books I picked up on farming, and went to planting. I found what looked like apple or orange trees, but I’d have to wait a few months to see. These vegetables and fruits were nothing like I’d tasted before, as I’d only lived off processed foods. The Fourth Year: This was the year I made a friend. His name was Jeremy. He stumbled into my garden, mewling for attention. He was missing an eye, but I wasn’t going to question him. He was my only company until year five when he went missing. But he didn’t wander off, no, someone took him. I figured that whoever took him wouldn’t be coming back, but I was mistaken.

The Fifth Year: I have your cat. I’ll return him for shelter. P.S. Food would be nice, too. I’ll eat your plants if you ignore this. I’m all for good humor, but I didn’t have protection. I took my chances and wrote my own note and said I’d consider it if he returned Jeremy. I was surprised when he showed up on my doorstep that night, scraggly and thin and clothes hanging off him. The whole night I kept my distance, and finally found the guts to ask his name. It was Ben. I decided that I would feed and water him to get rid of his fever, then I’d send him on his way. That night he took over the bedroom and I the couch. I was still cautious, so I positioned a chair against his door just in case. The next day we harvested plants, and within the week of eating healthier foods, his fever disappeared. And, within a month, it was as if we were roommates. I was brighter and in a better mood, and Jeremy had warmed up to Ben. When he shaved his face, I noticed it was fuller and healthier, and my work had paid off. A storm blew in one night, so Ben and I settled around the fire. We were playing a game where we’d ask each other whatever came to mind. “Favorite color?” I asked. “Used to be green,” he replied, biting into an apple, “But now that’s all I see, so I’d say yellow. I only see it at dawn and dusk.” “Definitely not tonight,” I looked out the window, seeing water dripping from the roof. I felt him shaking, but I figured it was from the cold. It wasn’t until he started coughing uncontrollably that I looked over at him like a deer in headlights. He tried to hide it from me, but

it wasn’t working. I leaned over and felt his skin, burning beneath my touch. Paralyzed, I watched as he brought his hand up and coughed once more, covering it with blood. Ben died that night. He would never know my favorite color, and would never survive the harsh winter with me. It wasn’t until the next day that I saw the fungus eat him from the inside out. He hadn’t died peacefully, instead he coughed up all his energy. Staggering breaths later ended and cut off his oxygen. Ben had died. I knew I needed to fend for myself, so I disposed of his body and found a pistol in the shed. I sat on the porch that night and looked at Jeremy, knowing it was just me and him now. Jeremy had been with me longer than anyone else, and no matter what happened to us, we’d carry on. I’d survived this disease for five years, and I’d survive it for even more. Throwing the gun on the ground, I found the tears I hadn’t been able to offer at Ben’s death. I rose to my feet, determined to survive this. That was until I felt a familiar cough slip past my lips.

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My Louisiana: Once In A Louisiana Lifetime By Abigail Roberts

I wake up shivering. I peel my eyes open to see that my window is still cracked open from the day before. As I climb out of bed to shut the icy window, I find it is too frozen for me to close it. I knew that the weatherman had predicted a significant drop in the temperature, but I had never expected this.

“Hey, Siri…what’s the temperature outside?” I say as I wrap myself in what feels like frozen sheets.

“Twenty seven degrees with a wind chill of twenty three,” she replies.

Dumbfounded, I remember just yesterday walking my dog in jeans and a t-shirt. It was an unseasonably warm sixty-degree day, but not uncharacteristic of a Shreveport winter day. I walk shivering towards my robe and slippers and glance once more at the window. Upon closer inspection, I realize the window is iced over as if Jack Frost himself had been there. Through the cracked open portion of my window, I see little white flashes of light as if the stars themselves were falling from the sky. Snowing…in Louisiana? No way! I lean in close, close enough to melt some of Jack Frost’s artwork from my warm breath fogging up the window pane. Peering through the window I see the whole front yard is blanketed as if with a fluffy white down comforter that seems to muffle anything that dares to make a sound.

I look at the clock to find that it is 3:00 a.m. I make the irrational decision that this is my once in a Louisiana lifetime to experience snow like this. I grab my sorry excuse of a winter coat, slide on my boots, and sneak out into the crisp cold night. It has only been five minutes and my teeth are already chattering, but I don't care. This is what I've dreamed of so many times before and I'm not going to wimp out over a little shiver. Wait!

Is this a dream? I decide it’s only fitting that I lay in the snow to confirm this unusual reality. After all, I do love a down comforter and all its enveloping traits. Oh, it’s real alright! I feel the snow melt against my neck as I lay sinking deeper into the snow, memorizing the winter night's sky above. That moment…that moment is when I realize why I love the snow so much: it makes me pause for peace.

For once in my life I am finally taking a moment to fill my lungs with refreshing icy cold air, exhaling warm satisfaction, knowing I have nowhere else to be. I begin to ponder once more how rare it is for a place like Shreveport, Louisiana to feel temperatures below freezing, let alone experience a major snowfall like this. I can feel the frigid cold breeze attempt to chase me back inside, but I’m ironically warmed on the outside by my snowy down blanket and equally warmed

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on the inside by my satisfaction in this magical moment. With all my worries frozen in time, my only concern is the rising sun ready to melt my winter wonderland away.

Assured that school will most definitely be canceled for today since, historically, even the slightest sliver of ice shuts the entire city of Shreveport down, I have one more request for Siri.

“Hey, Siri…?”

She replies, “How may I help you?”

I respond, “Clear my schedule for today.”

“Schedule cleared. Hey, Abi?” Siri asks.

More than confused I say, “Yes, Siri…?” and in her most sincere robotic voice she says,

“Enjoy your once in a Louisiana lifetime experience.”

Letting out another deep breath of peace, I lie here gazing at the sky, watching the snow falling like stars, wishing on each one to freeze this moment and never melt away.

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Every Wet-Nurse Refused to Feed Him: A Murderer’s Perspective: Inspired by Patrick Süskind’s “Perfume: The Story of a Murderer” and Nirvana’s “Scentless Apprentice” By William Ross

The smell was the worst of all. Even miles away, I could tell that they were still there. They continued their existence while I sat there in the cave. I couldn’t get away. But it was here I realized I had no scent, which is likely why I was the only one who had any sense. The only ones whose scents I adored were mine to keep. I wouldn’t let their smells be contaminated by the mass of flies and filth they call people. One by one, I took their daughters- the vessels into which they poured all they loved. From these vessels, I harvested their scent. With it, I coated the blade which would do them all in.

When I returned, I wore her scent- she who showed me they weren’t all the same. So there I stood, baptized in the flies and filth. They accepted the freak as one of their own. For a moment, I was baffled by the power I had over them. Then I grew to hate them even more. They were weak. I wanted to finish the job, but I could bare their stench no longer. I wouldn’t speak to them so as to acknowledge their plaguing existence. I’d never have the bitter taste in my mouth that they left upon the air. This was only the beginning of a premature end. You see, when I stood in the swarm of flies, I realized there was a whole world of them out there.

My work here was all for naught. They’d won the war before I ever even got the idea to start the battle. I could feel it. With every step, every brush, tap, nudge, punch, stab- every touch cut its way into my skin. I wanted to shave my head, and go completely bald. I wanted to strip myself of every piece of clothing. I wanted to levitate, never to feel my feet sinking into the ground again. I didn’t want to feel. I could hear it. With every whisper, every mumble, song, cry, scream, crash- every wave of sound ruptured my eardrums. I could see it. Every glance, every stare, gesture, warning, blaze, corpse- every sight burned itself into my mind. I could not smell. I cut my nose off and cooked the wound. I could not taste. I cut out my tongue and sewed my lips shut. I wanted to cut off my ears and pierce the insides with a hot fire poker. I wanted to gouge out my eyes and replace them with searing coals. But still, I’d be grounded. I’d still feel the pressure of the earth against my feet with every trembling step. And if I made myself fly, I’d still feel the rope around my waist. But if it were a little higher, I’d release my existence with my choking gasps for air. This shell was my chamber of lament. As one final act of defiance, I returned to the filth, now unaffected by their stink. I showered myself with my perfume secrets- their favorite scents; their daughters’ scents. I used every last drop. Out of grief for their daughters’ lost lives, the swarm of flies turned to ravenous dogs, tearing me limb from limb, hoping for a piece of their departed babes. They kept me in their pockets. I finished the job. And they again loved the freak, becoming freaks themselves.

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I Am An Addict By Amira Thomas

I am an addict. It’s becoming increasingly strenuous to write this essay with my mind continuously wandering back to my bookcase, freshly stocked with new paperbacks. Reading has never been a source of irritation for me. From Gone with The Wind to A Game of Thrones, books have been my source of entertainment since I was little. I often turned to books, magazines, and newspapers as a child when boredom sunk its vulgar talons into my brain. I would regurgitate the information that I gathered from books, no matter how inaccurate, and incorporated the “facts” into my everyday life. Once, when I saw that my sister refused to eat her lima beans, I insisted that she would soon come down with a case of the Stripes and turn into a grotesque monster just like Camilla Cream. She cried. I always did like novels more than nonfiction. The whimsical and elaborate storytelling of fiction authors is enough to tear me out of my own realm and into theirs, leaving me disoriented but panting with exhilaration. I can go from my harrowing day at school to taming an ice-breathing dragon atop Mt. Everest or fighting a war with a plethora of Greek myths by my side. Nothing can break the enamoured state that I fall into when I have a book clutched in my yearning hand. When I delve into new books, I treasure how they manage to tell the story of an entirely new way of life, but still relate to me. The nature of mankind, what it takes to be human, how to persevere in the face of adversity— all of these are concepts are commonly discussed within novels. And although no one actually has to opt between Abnegation or Dauntless, a book’s individual themes are still applicable to real life. Books are one of the only places in the world where such a vast medley of ideas and concepts can be viewed in a convenient, seductive stack of papers bound in leather. In the summer of 2011, I began to feel the familiar prickle of boredom. So I picked up a dark, yet alluring book nestled into one of the library shelves. The title of the book seemed to let out a mournful wail. Unwind. The book delved into a riveting world where abortion was illegal, but children could be sent to a chop shop and disassembled to be used as spare parts. Although the protagonists were intriguing, I was more focused on the parents in the story. What could lead a parent to have their child brutally killed — and justify it? This book affected me so profoundly that I saw the world in a whole new light. It opened my eyes to the fact that blood ties don’t necessarily breed love. Sometimes, you’ll have to find others and create new bonds that are stronger that familial ties. About a year prior to me reading this book, I met a girl named Clarke. We did everything together and I considered her family. However she once said something that confused me so severely that I had to question her meaning. “I consider you to be family more than I do my own mom,” she said. I couldn’t even fathom the thought that a virtual stranger could mean more to her than her own mother. It was only after reading Unwind that I fully understood what she

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meant. Not everyone’s familial ties were sacred and loving. Some were just as disengaged as ties between complete strangers. Novels are fiction — but not completely. The wondrous and intricate worlds often express themes that stem from reality. Books have helped me find myself and promote the development of my views on real world values and philosophies. Now my essay is winding down. And it’s time for me to conquer my next book. Realization By Gerienne White

A story: When I was five or six years old, I went on “vacations” to Baton Rouge regularly. I remember sitting in a small Mcdonald’s parking lot in Alexandria, waiting on Him. Alexandria was the typical meeting place for my mom and Him. Imagine exiting one plane to enter another plane to reach your thrilling destination. Well, this destination was not so thrilling. Visiting a parent that you don’t see as much should be exciting, right? Yeah, not so much. As a child, I always had this sick, queasy feeling when visiting Him and his new family: while going to sleep at night, while sitting at the kitchen table to eat breakfast, or while simply watching TV in the parlor room. The thought of not being with my mother made me feel even worse. At the time, I thought, “I’m used to being with her all the time and now I’m being separated from her?” Each night ended with me crying myself to sleep. My stepsisters would always ask, “What’s wrong?” I’d reply, “I miss my mommy” or “I wanna go home.” They grew irritated as my sobbing became a routine. My mother noticed how my demeanor changed; she noticed how her innocent little seven year old’s mood went from jubilant and cheerful to gloomy and dull whenever she mentioned Him. This led to monthly visits to the office of Dr. Walker— a psychologist. I didn’t think much of her or the sessions back then; I only looked forward to playing with the mini basketball goal that hung behind her door. But when I think about it now, I wonder, what could cause a seven year old to be extremely anxious? Shouldn’t kids this age be concerned about playing hopscotch at recess, or being a line leader for the class, or even spelling simple words on a basic test? Well, think again, because this seven year old just wanted her parents to be together; she just wanted a happy family.

When I look back on this period in my life, I realize that this factor contributes to who I am today. I am no longer that tiny seven year old who was ashamed her parents were not together. As I grew older, I understood that just because my parents’ relationship did not work out does not mean that my relationship with my father has to put on hold.

Update: My relationship with my dad now can be described as functional. He attempts to build a better relationship by sending texts asking about what I’ve been up to or by calling to let me know whenever he is in town— he’ll mention meeting up at my grandma’s house in Shreveport. He’ll even ask about the schedule for my track meets or any other activities I’m involved in.

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Looking at the efforts he has put forth helps me realize that our relationship could still work; it does not have to end because of my parents’ issues. His attempts lead me to be hopeful for our relationship in the future. Maybe, just maybe, we can have the relationship I desire.

How I Realized My Future Career By Maddie Young

I am fascinated by the human body. The way it can bend, move and stretch and sometimes when it moves too far, break. It was not until 2014, when my dad snapped his tibia, that I decided what I wanted to do with this fascination. From that day forward, I knew I wanted to be an orthopedic surgeon. After my dad’s first surgery, he spent several months attempting to alleviate his leg and rebuild. I went to as many doctors appointments as I could just to have the opportunity to talk to his doctor. At the time, my dad’s leg was equipped with a plate in his ankle and six screws. You could feel the screws by grazing over his ankle with your hand. Although the plate and screws were supposed to aid in accelerating the healing process, they did not. Why wouldn't my dad’s leg produce more bone cells? Each night, my dad used an ultrasound bone healing system on his leg to stimulate bone growth. It was to no avail. For my dad’s second surgery, I accompanied him to the hospital. When we saw the doctor, I asked if I could watch the surgery. The doctor informed me that no, I could not sit in on the surgery, but he would take videos while in the operating room. After about four hours of resituating myself on the uncomfortable, pleather couch in the lobby, the doctor came and found me. In head-to-toe light blue scrubs, hair cap, and shoe coverings, he pulled out his smart phone. On it was a video of his assistant hollowing out my dad’s tibia and collecting the marrow into a cup, hammering a rod into his leg just above the knee cap, and screwing this rod into place with a bone drill. I was the only one in my family able to make it through the videos without feeling sick. I was mesmerized by everything going on. At a post-operative appointment about two weeks after surgery, the surgeon presented my dad with two items: a DVD of the video he took and a small, blue vacuum-sealed bag with the plate and screws removed from my dad’s leg during surgery. After getting in the truck to head home, we eagerly ripped open the bag of hardware with a loud clunk and pulled the metal out. The surgical steel was pristine and cold. The plate was smooth with perfect circles lining the edges. It was slightly curved to adhere to the bone. The screws fit perfectly into the holes of the plate. To some, it would be nothing but a sterile plate, but to me, it was just like the screws, a perfect fit for the future I desired. When looking for colleges, I knew I wanted to major in Biology, so I can pursue my dreams of being an orthopedic surgeon. I want to be in a biology class learning more about how cells regenerate themselves. How does messenger RNA carry sections of DNA to ribosomes? Where this process of translating and transcribing DNA go wrong? Without the unfortunate experience of my dad breaking his leg, I do not think that I would be certain about the future I desire.

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How High School has Been the Best and Worst Four Years of My Life By Maddie Young

Three years ago, I entered a very dark part of my life. I was living with my recently divorced mom, and she was not handling it well. The following year, my dad broke his leg, and shortly thereafter, I moved in with him. My junior year, I moved out of my dad’s for having the same adverse experiences as I had at my mom’s. My mom has never been one to take blame, so after her divorce, all of her misfortunes in life and throughout her days at work became my fault. I was yelled at just about everyday for something I did not do nor had any control over. Most nights I cared for myself at home. I would be clueless as to where she was or when she was getting home. I made dinner for myself just about every night. I was alone and I felt alone. Anxiety came knocking at my door, and I unknowingly let it in. What shortly followed was depression. I never talked about my thoughts and problems. One night, I reached my breaking point. I was yelled at for being in my room to do homework. I texted my dad: “I can’t take it anymore.” We made arrangements to move me out when she was not home. There was no way she was going to let me move out if I asked. On November 13, 2015, I moved out of my mom’s house and into my dad’s. I probably would not have remembered this date if it was not a Friday the 13th. One October evening in 2014, my mom and I were watching a movie when my dad called her. This was odd because my parents do not talk to each other. They have been divorced since 2004 and do not get along very well. She answered the phone, and my dad asked her to come over to his parents’ house, my brother was causing problems. We go to my grandparents and just as we walk in, my dad’s leg is broken. My mom and I struggle to help my dad to a vehicle to so he can be taken to a hospital. At the hospital, it is confirmed that my dad did in fact break his leg. It was in this moment that I decided I wanted to be an orthopedic surgeon. I love bones and muscles. The way they can support us, and then bring us down. Something about my dad’s leg breaking pushed me into that realization. At his second surgery in December 2015, I got to go to the hospital with him. I asked his doctor that morning before surgery if I could sit in and watch, but he said no. This was slightly heartbreaking, however, he offered to take videos while operating for me. I sat in the hospital lobby with my step-mother and her two kids anxiously waiting for the doctor to come out. Four hours later, he emerged for the operating room. Head to toe in blue scrubs, blue shoe coverings, and his phone in his hand. When he approached, I asked, “Is my dad out of surgery?” The elicited a response of, “No, not yet my assistant is stitching him up.” Then he proceeded to show me the videos he took of his assistant operating on my dad. I was the only one who did not feel sick afterwards. I was mesmerized. They hollowed my dad’s tibia out and collected his bone marrow in a cup. Then, they hammered

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a rod into his leg and packed the bone marrow back into his leg. Finally, they screwed this rod in place, just below the patella. A week later, we finally went home. After moving in with my dad, everything was pleasant for a while, but like most good things, it came to an end. My step-mother was even more antagonizing than my mother. She was smart about it though because she only harassed me when my father was not around. My mom’s house was almost a walk in the park compared to things my step-mother did to me. She would shut the vent in my room during the day while I was a school, so after cross country, my room would be blazing hot. I was not allowed to be proud of my personal achievements. Every “Dad! I got an A on my chemistry test!” was shot down with, “You are so full of yourself and just think you are so much better than everyone else.” I was informed I was too skinny on a daily basis. I would get in trouble for not eating, while I was eating. My dad told me if I had problems with her to walk away, but when I would walk away, she would follow me or block my path. She would put her hands in my face, then she would deny they were ever there. I was torn down on a daily basis. I felt like I had no escape. In September 2016, she had my dad arrested. This was the day I called my dad and asked him to open the air vent in my room, turn on my ceiling fan, and put a water in the fridge for me after Cross Country. This made her really mad. Later that evening, I was called into the dining room where I was informed that their divorce was my fault. My dad lost his temper for her telling me that. She decided she was going to leave, but my dad wanted her house key since it was his house. He put his hand out to receive the key, and she called the cops claiming he grabbed her. Anyways, the sheriff showed up and questioned the entire household. In the end, my dad was arrested. I did not reach my grandparents house that night until 11:30, and I still had to do homework for school the next day. The next day, I had to get more clothes from the house because I did not realize my dad was going to be in jail for more than a day. I had to have a sheriff escort me into the house, and if I did not have an escort, then I was to be arrested. He took her back. He decided that she had changed in the month they had been apart. I do not believe people can really change. I was right. By Christmas that year, things were back to how they were before my dad was arrested, except worse. In the morning, I would be told I could not go to the bathroom after six o’clock, when she got her girls up. She would get mad at me in the morning for closing my bedroom door, even if I was changing my clothes. She would tell me that if I got raped I could not come home crying about it because I deserved it with the clothes I wore. I wore skinny jeans and a t-shirt most days. I cried every single day. My dad finally decided at the start of 2017 that I should start seeing a therapist. My dad never actually witnessed the things my step-mother did or said to me. I do not think he even believed me half the time. My therapist believed me though. That is why on March 13, 2017, when I was being screamed at at 5:30 in the morning “nobody wants you here,” she decided it would be a good idea for me to move out. My dad finally heard her that morning. I had called him on my way out the door and let him hear her screaming at me. I cried my whole way to school. I moved in with my aunt that day. I was a little skeptical at first, but I am pleased to say that eight months later, I am the happiest I have ever been. I still struggle with anxiety and depression, and I still see my therapist. Thankfully, my dad still supports me, and while I am not as close to my dad as I used to be, he has learned to accept that I would have never actually been happy at his house.

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I have always tried to stay actively involved in school to distract myself from the obstacles faced at home. I love a good challenge and also working under pressure. I have found my home at Captain Shreve, and am extremely thankful for the opportunities it has offered. I have had the opportunity to serve on the Louisiana Association of Student Councils Executive Board. Had I gone anywhere else, I most likely would not have had that opportunity. I was able to cheer on the gators my freshman and sophomore year, but stopped because I was aware of how rigorous my junior year would be. I have acquired an abundant amount of hours through Dual Enrollment and AP. I ran Cross Country, however after an ankle injury, I was unable to run this year. I like running because it distracts me. It distracts me from everything going on in my head that I cannot otherwise escape from. Through this entire experience, I have learned who I am and who I want to be as a person. My therapist has helped me accept the abused side of myself and be more open to that side. What happened to me was not my fault, and I cannot be embarrassed by it. It still hurts to talk about, but I am usually glad that I did. I know that when I graduate, I do not want to stay in Shreveport. I am hoping to go to Southern Methodist University next fall. I want to double major in Biology and Applied Physiology and Sports Management. I want to intern with the Texas Rangers my senior year. I want to go to med school so I can pursue my goal of becoming an orthopedic surgeon. I do not think that I would be the same person I am right now without my experiences throughout my high school career. As unfortunate as they have been, I am thankful for them.

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Victim’s Rebirth: Rehabilitating Young Women After a Lifetime of Sexual Slavery By Georgia Hilburn

Sex trafficking- it is an idea that American culture stigmatizes at the expense of the young men and women harmed by this immoral “business.” Only within recent years have these people, forced into slavery by various cartels, been legally viewed as victims of their circumstances rather than a group of criminal, promiscuous prostitutes. The cultural perspective has taken longer to shift alongside the law, making it difficult for survivors to reintegrate into society. Even with the application of advanced research in psychology and medicine, many victims of sex trafficking are unable to ever fully recover from their life in slavery. The rehabilitation of women after a lifetime of sexual slavery is a complicated process that opens

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eyes to a world of political corruption, historical injustice, and generations of young girls who got lost to an imperfect system.

The Rise of Sex Trafficking in America Human history is ingrained with the cultural exploitation of the female sex. As in most developed societies, the roots of sexual slavery in America extend far below the surface, into a narrative that began before colonization. The European Renaissance signaled a shift in the cultural perspective of sexuality, splitting people into two groups- those who remained within the acceptable venerable boundaries of marriage and those who engaged in sodomy, prostitution, and even rape. This was largely credited to the ideals of the church; officials such as St. Augustine touched this, saying that “remov[ing] prostitutes from human affairs…will pollute all things with lust; set[ing] them among honest matrons… will dishonor all things with disgrace and turpitude.”1 In other words, he argued that prostitution, “like a sewer,” was necessary to allow unprincipled and disreputable characters, or the human “waste”, to be separated from high society.2 Thus, the Renaissance encouraged the growth of prostitution as sexual institutions, such as brothels, were given a more official place in public society. During the Industrial Revolution, many women- especially widows- found more comfort and financial security in harlotry compared to the few jobs available for them, which were often dangerous and laborious positions in industrial settings. A few prostitutes, known as courtesans, were even able to acquire an abundance of wealth and a high class status, further increasing the allure of this profession, though the vast majority remained in poverty.3 At the bottom of the social hierarchy, prostitutes had few legal or social rights. They were outcasts, forced into the gutters of society; they could not legally defend themselves in court, and they had no right to accuse anyone of a crime. In effect, many experienced assault and rape, but could not legally prosecute their attacker. This set a precedent in modern American rape culture. 4 During colonization, the increasing ratio of males to females in America prompted Britain to pressure women to travel to the New World. Those who arrived unmarried and unprepared found themselves destitute without a husband; many were forced into turn to prostitution for economic means.5 The Middle Passage of the 16th through 19th century further expanded the sex trade. Slaves were raped, forcibly bred with one another, and sexually abused by their masters. Females were sold into prostitution or concubinage in what was known as the “fancy trade.”6Women of Native American and later Asian cultures, were coerced into becoming

1 Thorstan G.,“Sexuality During the Renaissance,” Sexuality Throughout the Ages. 2 Ibid.

3 Sarah Shirley-Pollock, “Prostitution- A Colonial Change,” Washington State University Posts. 4 Liza Wildenboer, “Prostitution in the Middle Ages,” in Fundamina: A Journal of Legal History, edited by Prof Rena van den Bergh (KwaZulu-Natal: University of KwaZulu-Natal), 274.

5 Shirley-Pollock, “Prostitution- A Colonial Change.” 6 Cameron Addis, "Slavery,” History Hub. 112

the wives or further trafficked into the sex trade.7 Overtime these pieces have clicked into place, giving rise to an intricate, impossibly complex market for sexual slavery.

Legislation Recent United States legislation has defined sex trafficking as when “a commercial sex act is induced by force, fraud, or coercion, or in which the person induced to perform such act has not attained 18 years of age.”8 It is further embellished as “the recruitment, harboring, transportation, provision, or obtaining of a person for labor or services, through the use of force, fraud, or coercion for the purpose of subjection to involuntary servitude, peonage, debt bondage, or slavery."9 By clarifying the sex trade, the United States has separated the idealized promiscuous prostitute from those who had no choice but to enter the business. One is a criminal, and one is a victim. Only within the past hundred years has the issue of coercive prostitution been recognized politically in the United States. It was not until the International Agreement for the Suppression of White Slaver Traffic in 1902 that America forbade the importation of prostitutes from abroad.. The United States took it a step further in 1910 with the Mann Act, which forbade the act of forcing anyone across state lines for the purposes of sex trade, addition to “prostitution or debauchery, or for any other immoral purpose.”10 The Mann Act has been amended several times- in 1978 and again in 1986. Though more legislation has been passed, it is the Trafficking Victims Protection Act of 2000 that truly had an effect on Federal law.11 [It] established several methods of prosecuting traffickers, preventing human trafficking, and protecting victims and survivors of trafficking. The act establishes human trafficking and related offenses as federal crimes, and attaches severe penalties to them. It also mandates restitution be paid to victims of human trafficking. It further works to prevent trafficking by establishing the Office to Monitor and Combat Trafficking in Persons, which is required to publish a Trafficking In Persons (TIP) report each year. The TIP report describes and ranks the efforts of countries to combat human trafficking. The act also established the Interagency Task Force to Monitor and Combat Trafficking, which assists in the implementation of the TVPA. The TVPA protects victims and survivors of human trafficking by establishing the T visa, which allows victims of human trafficking, and their families to become temporary U.S. residents and eligible to become permanent residents after three years.12 Though there are certain movements, such as the “sex workers’ rights” campaigns by organizations such as Amnesty International, that push to decriminalize prostitution13, a study

7 Virginia Scharff, "Women and the Myth of the American West," interview by Michael Ursell, Zocalo. 8 "Human Trafficking by the Numbers.” Human Rights First. 9 Ibid.

10 Ibid.

11 "Current Federal Laws,” Polaris Project. 12 Ibid.

13 Catherine Murphy, "Sex Workers' Rights are Human Rights,” Amnesty International. 113

published in 2012 investigating 150 countries shows that this would have a negative effect on the United States.14 According to the research: The scale effect of legalized prostitution leads to an expansion of the prostitution market, increasing human trafficking, while the substitution effect reduces demand for trafficked women as legal prostitutes are favored over trafficked ones. [The] empirical analysis... shows that the scale effect dominates the substitution effect. On average, countries where prostitution is legal experience larger reported human trafficking inflow.15

Based on these findings, the best option for the United States is to continue criminalizing prostitution to prevent the effect it has on the sex trade.

Corruption Today, although prostitution is illegal in the United States, with the exception of a few counties in Nevada; there is still a high amount of tolerance for this criminal activity.16 A journalistic investigation by National Geographic that was published by Nightline, revealed that those who buy the services of prostitutes are often lawyers, politicians, and businessmen- people with the money to afford the “hourly fee.”17 These are the very people that are entrusted to fight this sort of activity. According to the United Nations, political corruption has a direct correlation, and causation with the rise of sex trafficking. In a recent report, the UN cited instances in which authorities such as police officers, immigration officials, or even politicians have accepted bribes, turned a blind eye, or even directly assisted traffickers in acquiring fake passports for victims being imported into the country. When the UN asked several officials around the world “if they have heard of any other type of corruption linked to human trafficking besides bribery,” they received a surprising list of responses from those who answered “yes.”18 The UN quoted the respondents, who said that “abuse of the permit system, assisting persons in receiving permits they were not allowed to[,]...intimidation...to give up following such cases[,]... [accepting] [s]exual favours… blackmail/threats...offering sexual services, offering drinks in bars, offering prestige, introduction in the world of the rich and famous, offering drugs….” were all possibilities of corruption within government systems.19 The list goes on and on. After all, who would not want a piece of a global industry that is believed to gross over 99 billion USD dollars a year?20

Cultural Perception

14 Seo-Young Cho et al., "Does Legalized Prostitution Increase Human Trafficking?” World Book vol. 41, 68. 15 Ibid, 77-76

16 "Prostitution,” Britannica. 17 Mariana van Zeller, “Inside the Lives of American Sex Slaves,” ABC News, YouTube. 18 United Nations Office on Crime and Drugs, The Role of Corruption in Trafficking in Persons, 2011, 10. 19 Ibid.

20 "Human Trafficking by the Numbers.”

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During the twentieth century, people began criminalizing prostitution. Further realizing the reality of slavery within the institution, the United States outlawed human sex trafficking. Yet sex trafficking incidents continue to plague American society and instances of this crime are reportedly increasing.21 Cartels are expanding their businesses the high-risk drug trade to the easier, more profitable sex trade.22 Penalties for prostitutes, customers, pimps, and brothel owners vary from state to state, ranging from several months to 20 years jail time and up to $150,000 in fines whereas penalties for possession, use, or sale of drugs are often more severe.23 For example, the Louisiana penalty for distribution of heroin has ranged between 50 years and a life sentence- much longer than the penalty for pimping out a human life.24 This is one of the many reasons why the prospect of criminalizing the victims of prostitution has become so controversial. In 2004, a 16 year old girl was tried, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison for the murder of her 43 year old customer. The argument for her guilt was that she had shot and robbed the man. However, she is now being retried, not as a normal teenage girl, but as “a sex slave, a child [who had been] manipulated and threatened by older men.” The media has shown an enormous amount of support, with popstars, athletes, and other famous individuals campaigning to “Free Cyntoia Brown.”25 This court case signifies a significant shift in the social perspective of this issue- people are starting to recognize the victims of the sex trade and criminalize the traffickers.

Trafficking Patterns Data are extremely difficult to collect regarding sex trafficking, meaning there are often inconsistencies or discrepancies between statistics and observations. Regardless, the Human Rights Watch has identified several common trafficking patterns worldwide, as published by Webster College. Women in developing, or source, nations are brought to the United States or other destination and transit countries in promise of a job, only to be led straight into the trap prostitution upon arrival.26 Escape is impossible and dangerous if attempted….Sometimes women receive false marriage proposals from men who plan to sell them into bondage. There are also instances when young girls are sold into the sex trade by their parents who are trying to earn some money. And, of course, many times the women are simply kidnapped. Sex trafficking frequently results in debt bondage. This involves the woman being held by her employer until she earns enough money to repay the employer for the expenses he paid to acquire her. The set amount usually far exceeds the actual costs and may take the woman years to pay off. Even then, it is common for the woman to be forced to continue working or for her employer to sell her back into debt bondage and back into a system from which

21 Ibid.

22 “Sex Trafficing is Booming Mexican Drug Cartels Expand Their Business,” Triple J. Hack. 23 “US Federal and State Prostitution Laws and Related Punishments,” ProCon.org. 24 Emily Lane, “Bobby Jindal Signs into Law Bill Increasing Heroin Penalties for Dealers to 99 Years,” Nola.com. 25 “Sex Trafficking Victim who Killed Captor Finds Celeb Allies,” Fox News, YouTube. 26 "Sex Trafficking," Women and Global Human Rights. 115

she cannot escape.27 In a study by the state of Illinois, titled The National Survey Of Residential Programs for Victims of Sex Trafficking, researchers found that “29 percent of victims were recruited by a boyfriend, 19 percent by a friend, and 11 percent by a family member.” 28 In addition, it showed that the average victim’s age upon induction into sex trafficking is between 12 and 14.29 Most do not escape until well into adulthood. Researchers identified three main types of coercion: economic, or where over 50% of all earnings are confiscated by the facilitator; psychological, or any form of social and emotional isolation, induced emotional exhaustion, and degradation, including humiliation, denial of the victim's power, and name-calling; and chemical, or altering the consciousness by providing or forcing drugs upon the victim. 30 However, many victims fail to realize that they are not criminals, and, fearing prosecution, refuse to ask for help from authorities. This fear is not completely unfounded, as for years most people held, and still hold the “ideal” image of a victim in their mind’s eye -- one that did not match the actual picture of modern day sex slaves. In fact, the San Diego Study reported that “50% of adults arrested for prostitution actually meet the federal definition for classification as victims of human trafficking, but are unidentified or misidentified within the criminal justice system.”31 In an interview with the Christian Science Monitor, Bridgette Carr, a trafficking expert, divulged that “sometimes...the public -- and the people who are supposed to enforce… laws -- still have a difficult time seeing prostitutes as victims, even when they’re young.”32 In the sex trafficking system, young women and girls suffer all kinds of abuse. While there is no “standard” trafficking storyline, countless victims have been kidnapped, raped, beaten, and mentally or physically tortured in order to “break” them into compliance with their pimps.33 Many are manipulated into the industry by people they feel close to, such as their boyfriends, and there are an increasing amount of cases in which the recruiters for the prostitution rings are females.34 Most of the victims, which come from all races though the majority are American born, are lured out of an abusive home environment, off the streets, or influenced by a pre-developed drug addiction; however, according to the previously mentioned National Geographic-Nightline investigation, victims are being taken out of “normal” families, as traffickers become smarter and more manipulative.35

27 Ibid.

28 Jessica Reichart and Amy Sylwestrzak, National survey of residential programs for victims of sex trafficking , report, Illinois Criminal Justice Information Authority, 9.

29 Ibid, 2. 30 Amie Carpenter and Jamie Gates, The Nature and Extent of Gang Involvement in Sex Trafficking in San Diego County, report, United States Department of Justice, 13. 31 Ibid, 16.

32 Martha Irvine, "What's the Difference Between Sex Trafficking and Pimping,” The Christian Science Monitor. 33 van Zeller, “Inside the Lives.” 34 Maureen Magee, “Sex Trafficking May Trap up to 11,700 SD Girls,” The San Diego Union-Tribune. 35 van Zeller, “Inside the Lives.” 116

Justice The amount of trauma these girls go through is immeasurable, yet the process of rescuing victims, passing them through the judicial system, and finally rehabilitation is extremely substandard, insufficient, and often ineffective. Many Americans argue that the laws in place simply restricting the commercial sex trade are not enough to protect the actual victims of trafficking. According to the Guardian, “Many trafficking survivors also want or need economic justice and try to seek restitution or file civil actions against their traffickers. Policies that provide for access to critical services, funding for experienced anti-trafficking agencies, and a private right of action are all crucial to prioritizing the rights and needs of survivors, and protecting them on their road to recovery.”36 Most, however, will never get the justice they deserve. According to the Human Rights First Organization, “the number of prosecutions of human traffickers is alarmingly low.”37 In 2016, 439 human traffickers were convicted by the United States Department of Justice, but the actual number of these criminals is much higher.38 Globally, for example, there are about 16 million people in forced labor as of 2016, 4.8 of which are sexually exploited; but only about 14,894 traffickers were actually prosecuted, and fewer than 10,000 were convicted. 39 Complications have arisen outside the judicial branch, as well. The Illinois study reported that “issues with communication, reporting, and sharing information when working with federal, state, and local organizations... [and] poor coordination with police, as well as other government agencies” have inhibited officials from efficiently and effectively helping the victims.40 Procedural coordination is crucial for both prosecution of the traffickers, but there has yet to be any standardized approach to dealing with these circumstances. This information exemplifies how incapable any government, including that of the United States, is in protecting the rights of sex trafficking victims.

Mental Rehabilitation Once out of the system, however, these women are still left with severe amounts of mental and physical trauma. “Trafficked women suffer extreme emotional stress, including shame, grief, fear, distrust and suicidal thoughts. Victims often experience post-traumatic stress disorder, and with that, acute anxiety, depression and insomnia. Many victims turn to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain.”41 As psychological disorders began to lose their stigma and as Americans became more aware of mental health, the demand for better rehabilitation increased. One police department near Chicago, Cook County, has actually raised the fines for pimping, using the money to fund

36 Ivy Suriyopas, "More Penalties for Prostitution Won't Help Victims of Human Trafficking,” The Guardian. 37 "Human Trafficking by the Numbers.”

38 Ibid.

39 Ibid.

40 Reichart, National survey of residential programs, 8. 41 “Sex Slavery and Trafficking FAQ,” Soroptimist. 117

rehabilitation efforts and services for trafficking victims.42 Be that as it may, rehabilitation is not as simple as many believe. According to Kay Buck, the CEO of the Coalition to Abolish Slavery and Trafficking, victims form a dangerous dependency on their pimps- one that service providers need to account for when rehabilitating them.43 She writes, “Basic physiological needs, such as food, shelter and clothing are crucial. Long-term needs include education, job training, self-sufficiency and in some cases family reunification. Medical care is an ongoing need and mental health treatment is critical, as it can be a major reason why a survivor cannot stabilize beyond immediate needs.”44 The need for a successful program of rehabilitation is critical in reintegrating these girls into society, but when it comes down to the actual process of mental healing, there are less than 700 beds available in the 37 currently operational residential care centers in the United States.45 Even fewer have the capacity to appropriately treat victims, as many have mental issues that extend beyond the use of treatment for basic domestic violence. These include personal isolation, lack of education, and physical security necessity.46 The Illinois study suggests, however, that there is a growing movement to create treatment centers with the capacity to help these girls.47 When creating these new centers, or improving upon older ones, there are many challenges to face concerning establishing appropriate treatment protocol. As most victims are unaware of their rights and options, fear their traffickers, and are unable to access the services available to them, service providers are working to find ways to change this.48 First, however, they must address the inadequacies in their operations. Lack of funding was cited as the biggest issue by 72% of all service providers.49 Insufficient training and health care procedure has proved to be a major problem as well. “How to work specifically with victims, how to access victims, and how to deal with the trauma symptoms and mental health issues that victims face” are issues that are difficult to resolve, given the lack of research on this subject.50 Psychology Behind Rehabilitation There are multiple ways to deal with mental disorders, including therapeutic treatment, which affects one’s psychology, and pharmaceutical treatment, which directly affects a patient’s biology and, in effect, his or her brain function.While pills may treat the symptoms of Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), therapy is generally a more effective long-term approach in changing the patient’s disorder. Current methods of therapeutic rehabilitation are mainly evidence-based mental health treatments that rely on the studies of domestic or sexual abuse

42 Martha Irvine, "What's the Difference Between Sex Trafficking and Pimping,” The Christian Science Monitor. 43 "Who Is to Blame, and Who Can Help?” Media Planet. 44 Ibid.

45 Reichart, National survey of residential programs, 11, 14. 46 Ibid., 7.

47 Ibid.

48 Ibid.

49 Ibid., 8.

50 Ibid. 118

victims to help human trafficking victims with PTSD. Other common disorders that are often developed out of trafficking situations, while similar, may not be specifically treated like PTSD. Cognitive Therapy “aims to challenge dysfunctional thoughts based on irrational or illogical assumptions.”51 This version of therapy works under the assumption that a person develops PTSD from processing a traumatic event in a way that makes him or her feel threatened, which is often reflected in negative or unhealthy coping mechanisms.52 A therapist will first work to understand the patient’s view of the traumatic memory and then, through Socratic questioning and narrative writing, encourage the patient to drop any excessively pessimistic feelings about the past.53 Basically, the patient will cognitively restructure their memory such that it challenges the “dysfunctional thoughts” related to the trauma. Later, the therapist and the patient will seek to stop negative behaviors such as thought suppression and safety-seeking behaviors, thus reversing the impact of traumatic events.54 Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy “focuses on the relationship among thoughts, feelings, and behaviors; targets current problems and symptoms; and focuses on changing patterns of behaviors, thoughts, and feelings that lead to difficulties in functioning.”55 Based on the assumption that in trying to incorporate trauma into their existing schemas patients can develop unhealthy associations with relatively safe reminders of the event, CBT works to reduce symptoms and improve patient functioning. As in Cognitive therapy, therapists encourage patients to restructure their thinking in a way that is beneficial to their development. They expose them to their trauma narrative so that patients learn to accept it rather than avoid the memory. The overall goal is to develop a sense of self- confidence.56 Exposure Therapy “aims to reduce anxiety and fear through confrontation of thoughts (imaginal exposure) or actual situations (in vivo exposure) related to the trauma.”57 Patients are first taught breathing methods to control anxiety, and encouraged to see the therapy sessions as a safe space. Then, the patients are instructed to visualize and describe the trauma they experienced, and later physically confront their trauma. For trafficking victims, this might be purposefully viewing provocative images online and learning to control their reactions and to challenge their automatic fear.58

51 Williamson, Erin, Nicole M. Dutch, and Heather J. Clawson. Evidence-Based Mental Health Treatment for Victims of Human Trafficking, 5. 52 "Cognitive Therapy (CT).” Clinical Practice Guideline for the Treatment of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. 53 Ibid.

54 Ibid.

55 "Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) for Treatment of PTSD." Clinical Practice Guideline for the Treatment of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

56 Ibid. 57 Williamson, Evidence-Based Mental Health Treatment, 5. 58 Ibid., 6.

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Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing “combines general clinical practice with brief imaginal exposure and cognitive restructuring.”59 This method of therapy is based upon the belief that a patient experiences distress after a traumatic memory is not processed properly, if at all. Emotions, thoughts, beliefs, and sensory elements from the trauma are triggered, causing the patient to re-experience the event.While other versions of therapy seek to cure the symptoms that develop from the traumatic event, EMDR focuses on changing the way a memory is stored in the brain. Patients “briefly focus on the trauma memory and simultaneously experience bilateral stimulation,” including the use of eye movement, to reduce the “vividness and emotion of the memory.”60 Successful therapies calms the distress caused by trauma, further ending the symptoms. Stress Inoculation Training “combines psychoeducation with anxiety management techniques such as relaxation training, breathing retraining, and thought stopping.”61 Therapists educate their patients on the nature of their stressors and how to prevent negative reactions or pitfalls from occurring in the future. Thought stopping, for example, is a method of reducing negative thought patterns; the patient is encouraged to snap a rubber band against their wrist, yell out “stop,” or use other methods to prevent the thought from forming. While many psychologists observe the effectiveness of SIT, opponents such as Psychology Today disagree, saying that these methods lead to thought rebounding, which is often worse than the original cognitive processes.62 However, some studies show that with female victims of sex trafficking, thought stopping is actually successful.63 Children are completely different from adult victims when considering the effects of therapy. “One study found that while children might initially respond to trauma through a ‘fight or flight’ response, long-term trauma without relief can result in children responding through immobilization followed by dissociation.”64 In other words, PTSD is often difficult to determine in child victims of sexual abuse, allowing for the development of mental disorders later in life. For those who are lucky enough to undertake immediate therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy is the suggested treatment. Other studies have shown that “a significant percentage of children who have been sexually assaulted may experience long-term psychological problems and/or a later onset of problems” and that “the majority of children do not benefit from long-term therapy.”65 The lack of research makes it difficult for psychologists to determine exactly how long children of sexual exploitation crimes need therapy, as both sessions that are too short and too long are potentially ineffective, or even harmful.

59 Ibid., 5. 60 "EMDR for Trauma: Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing." Clinical Practice Guideline for the Treatment of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

61 Williamson, Evidence-Based Mental Health Treatment, 5. 62 Robert Leahy, "Why Thought Stopping Doesn't Work,” Psychology Today. 63 Williamson, Evidence-Based Mental Health Treatment, 6. 64 Ibid., 8. 65 Ibid.

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Relapse Rehabilitation efforts, while increasing in standards and technological advancements, are often fruitless, regardless of how prevalent they may be. Though no standardized statistic of rehabilitation success exists yet in America, stories from various residential care centers across the country show just how many victims relapse into their situation. For example, Magdalen, a recovery program in Nashville, Tennessee for criminal or drug-addicted that desire to escape the prostitution ring, reports that 25% of its patients return to the sex trade after graduation.66 Magdalen offers housing, food, medical treatment, therapy, job training, and education, allowing most girls to be sober within three years. But the surprisingly large number of them do not make it; and according to the center, many end up back on the streets- two of which were recently murdered.67 A reporter for The Hill, Dr. Kimberly Mehlman-Orozco, further describes the desperate need for reform within sex trafficking rehabilitation centers across the country, especially in light of the obvious probability of relapse. In her article, she describes how after rescuing a victim of the sex trade, she tried to enter her into several residential programs. Over and over again, the victim was turned away due to exceeded capacities, age restriction, or other idiosyncratic policies. Eventually, after staying in various homeless shelters and mental health facilities not specific to her circumstance, the victim decided to return to her pimp due to her continued financial dependency on him in light of the inadequate services available to help her. She later sought help from service providers; but, according to the newspaper, her crimes have “yet to be expunged,”68 even while the actual trafficker walks free. Dr. Mehlman-Orozco explains that “what the sex trafficking headlines fail to convey and the public doesn't understand is that sex trafficking survivors continue to be... revictimized, following identification.”69

Reintegration The numerous relapses of these victims epitomize the importance of reintegration in the rehabilitation process. Many girls are in desperate need of the many skills necessary to become independent that the majority of Americans take for granted. As an essay for the Negotiation, Conflict, Resolution, and Peacebuilding ejournal put it, “The process [of rehabilitation] entails putting the pieces of the victim’s life back together in a way that she can be reunited with her family, and community, and if necessary, helping the victim create a new life in another place in society,”70 something that is not done easily. The Illinois report elaborated on reintegration techniques of residential care centers, explaining that many of them are involving education about numerous life and vocational skills, along with the exposure to possible hobbies and pleasurable activities, in the residential care procedure. “Victims are taught basic skills such as hygiene, cleaning, cooking, nutrition, money

66 Jackie Lyden. "Relapse and Recovery: A Tale of Two Prostitutes,” Episcopal Cafe. 67 Ibid. 68 "What Happens After a Human Trafficking Victim is 'Rescued'?” The Hill. 69 Ibid.

70 April Rice-Johnson. February, “Victims of Domestic Sex Trafficking: Do Advocacy and Recovery Services Aid Rehabilitation?” Negotiation, Conflict, Resolution, and Peacebuilding 16.

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management, and time management.”.71 A third of the 37 previously mentioned centers include various physical recreational activities, while most include other hobbies such as music or art therapy.72 These facilities teach victims how to survive in a world of normalcy. 76% of them have adopted a procedure for releasing the girls back into society, allowing for therapy and assistance to continue, while the former victims reintegrate one step at a time. There are spiritual services, family therapy, legal assistance, and even a designated relapse prevention. For children especially, there are youth development programs designated to prevent their growing brains from becoming negatively affected by their experiences. In addition, “several agencies indicated that they hold community awareness events and offer community training and education about human trafficking and commercial sexual exploitation of children.”73 However, the unfortunate reality is that not all victims will get a chance to experience these residential centers. While there are smaller, privately owned, nonconventional centers around the country -- more than the 37 residential care facilities observed in the study -- the sad truth is that the waiting lists are extensive, and for most victims, the time it takes to enter these facilities are life or death, as demonstrated by Dr. Mehlman-Orozco, whose own victimized acquaintance was forced to return to her pimp after enduring the conditions of waiting for a spot in a treatment center.

Conclusion Human sex trafficking is a widespread black market that has preyed on young girls of every demographic, mentally and physically degrading them as they are stripped of their innocence. Though rehabilitation centers around the country work desperately to allow these

71 Reichart, National Survey of Residential Programs, 17.

72 Ibid., 17-18.

73 Ibid., 18. 122

victims a rebirth into “normal” society, there a number of political, social, and economic issues that cause so many girls to end up back in the hands of their predator. With corruption running rampant -- not just in the United States, but also around the world -- every day brings another daughter, sister, mother into the horrific conditions of the slave trade. Legality concerns, procedural discrepancies -- both in the judicial and reintegration system, and poor communication between service providers and law enforcement all add to the horrible reality that is the sex trade. In conclusion, while there is little the citizens of America can do to actually stop the physical act of sex trafficking, they can affect the lives of the survivors who were pulled from its inhumane grasp. They change the way they look at survivors -- to not see them as promiscuous prostitutes who “got what they asked for,” but rather as victims of their circumstance, forced into a life they neither wanted nor deserved. As author Marquita Burke-DeJesus so eloquently put it, society simply “cannot fail these girls by diverting [their] eyes from the invisible residue of slavery that clings to them like a shadow.”74 As the famous idiom iterates, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Cultural shifts will occur painstakingly and gradually, but with much necessity. Ridding the nation of the stigma of sex trafficking will require everyone to educate themselves, to come to the realization that these girls are not just numbers, but people who deserve the respect, sympathy, and support of an entire country. Through research, parents might keep their daughters out of harm’s way. Through research, those who find themselves trapped in this situation might find a way out where the door to escape might otherwise have been closed. Through research, a victim who might have been lost to an imperfect system has a chance at rebirth that before had been unattainable.

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Black Lives Matter: the Rebirth of the Black Panther Party By Caellen Kimble

Black Empowerment movements such as the Black Lives Matter Movement, which can be regarded to as the rebirth of the Black Panther Party, have continuously been deemed negatively throughout the nation. The Black Panther Party was created in October of 1966. They were classified as a socialist movement. Formed by Bobby Seale, Huey P. Newton, and other educated, young black men, the Black Panther Party fought to eradicate the existence of America's racist justice system. Likewise, the Black Lives Matter Movement developed following a series of police brutality cases in the United States. The national campaign was founded by three African American women: Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi, who are credited for originating the #BlackLivesMatter hashtag, which surfaced on Twitter in 2013. Black Lives Matter was influenced by the murders of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Philando Castile. The two social movements demystify the idea surrounding equality in America. The arguments set forth by them prove to be important as they reveal how blacks in America have continuously faced oppression by our government, thus leaving them underrepresented throughout history. The examination of each movement, media propaganda, and societal views, illustrates that the rebirth of African American empowerment movements has been negatively portrayed in the media. The Black Panther Party began as a militia group that was known for starting confrontations with police, yet they evolved to become a group who aided the African American community as a whole with “survival programs.” Both Seale and Newton faced periods of imprisonment, yet they continued to serve as the leaders of the party that started in Oakland, California and expanded to become a nationwide organization. The two demanded land, housing, clothing, education, peace, and justice from the American government (Carson). Clayborne Carson, a Professor of American History at Stanford University and director of the Martin Luther King, Jr. Research and Education Institute, has written about the key issues concerning the Black Panther Movement. He is noted for his defensive claims regarding their portrayal in America by whites. With a doctoral degree from the University of California at Los Angeles, Carson has devoted a majority of his professional life studying Martin Luther King, Jr. and the topic of police brutality in the years of the Black Panthers. The topic of police brutality is insightful as it aids in one’s comparison between the Black Panther Movement and the Black Lives Matter Movement. When focusing on the issue concerning the Black Panther Party and its influence on the Black Lives Matter Movement, many overlook the deeper problem of how African American empowerment movements’ creation and purpose have been distorted. Each movement has been portrayed as a terrorist group that promotes violence, yet the sole purpose of the Black Panther Party was to spark a revolution in the American society. The ideas of Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Malcolm X, and WEB Dubois, are the fundamentals from which the Black Panther Party was developed. When it comes to Marxism and Leninism, the Black Panthers were avid in the classical principles surrounding their ideas of scientific socialism (Harding). Ultimately, these were adapted into their own principles such as the value of education so that one can properly ignite change. Similarly, WEB Dubois’ books concerning the black society in America, such as Black Reconstruction in America, signaled a call for an activist response to the overt racism in the United States, hence, aiding the party once more (Street). Overall, this sparked a wave of

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militant values in their ideology and ended up hurting them as a group, mainly due to their numerous, undefined ideologies which then sparked internal disputes and also aided to the negative views of society. Research reveals the purpose of the hashtag: to show the importance of African American lives due to the blatant disregard shown in our legal system (“Black Lives Matter”). Hence, the United States justice system does not hold perpetrators accountable for their heinous acts and this is what the movement aims to reveal (Black Lives Matter). When examining the murders which ignited the Black Lives Matter Movement, Bruce Murphy, a judicial biographer and scholar of American Constitutional law and politics, hones in on the idiosyncratic views of the members of the movement. In this article, Murphy’s perception of the Black Lives Matter movement creates a sense of ethos as he critiques the long-established ideas surrounding the uprise of African Americans in the United States. Overall, he gives a brief overview of the events that ignited the creation of the Black Lives Matter Movement. The major event that began this movement was the unwarranted assassination of a young African American teenager named Trayvon Martin. He was unarmed and killed for seeming “suspicious” (Murphy). When the alleged murderer, George Zimmerman went free with little to no jail time, social media began to react. Likewise, two years ago, Michael Brown, a young black male, was killed by Darren Wilson, a Ferguson, Missouri police officer. Subsequently, the Black Lives Matter Movement was formed as young black citizens, worn out due to societal disadvantages, catalyzed an uproar and decided to take action in their community. African Americans are credited with being the most democratically and economically oppressed race in the United States. The Black Lives Matter movement has changed our country while bringing awareness to people across the nation. The systematic racism and violence found in black communities must be put to an end. An article was written by co-founder, Alicia Garza addressed this case and described it as showing the “transparency in policing and other issues… related to [the] criminal justice [system],” highlighting the need for immediate action by our legal structure (Garza). Although some may challenge the preceding view, in the discussion of the Black Panther Party and the Black Lives Matter Movement, one should conclude that they each aim to cease racism and police brutality. As stated earlier in the text, the purpose of the Black Panther Party was to transform, revolutionize, and eradicate racism in the American society. Paul Street, social critic and political commentator, successfully juxtaposes the two movements by confirming their purpose for their fight for equality (Street). By uniting a multitude of races, they fought to end police brutality. Terms such as “black power,” which can be defined as the ability of blacks to politically unite in an orderly way so that they may speak from a state of strength, not weakness, has caused misunderstandings of the group’s purpose. Likewise, the purpose of the Black Lives Matter Movement is to raise awareness, empower, and end police brutality. The movement has changed our country while bringing awareness to people across the nation and subsequently argues that the systematic racism and violence found in black communities must be put to an end. By extending this assertion, some may challenge the view that the movements were based upon peace and equality and insist that the two movements promote violence and exemplify reverse racism. Although one could concede that there was a brief period of violence stemming from these movements, one should still insist that the violence only came about because it was necessary. The fundamentals of the Black Panther Party consist of combatting white oppression through minimal violence. The movement itself emerged when the Civil Rights Movement was

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coming toward an end; despite disagreements, the two movements are synonymous with each other. Vincent Harding's work, We Changed the World: African Americans, includes in grave detail, Malcolm X’s role in the Black Panther Party. Stemming from Malcolm X’s ideas, the Black Panther ideology is based upon notions such as black nationalism and the unwavering belief that violence and armed self-defence in order to obtain freedom from white oppression are necessary (Harding). Likewise, the fundamentals of The Black Lives Matter Movement are developed around putting an end to the systematic killings of African Americans but through non-violence (Harding). Critics accuse the movement of being an anti-police organization that incites violence; however, the Black Lives Matter Movement believes in direct action through nonviolence, although, they do believe that the black community as a whole needs to be defended. Here, many critics would probably object that the two movements were antipathetic, meaning that they showed strong aversion. The movement itself was a part of a massive effort by the African American community to promote a modification in America’s racial society. In addition to this, the Black Lives Matter movement was created to aid all minorities and to create awareness, not separation. Overall, by demonstrating the injustice following these cases, Garza’s work extends the findings of Murphy. In the discussion of black empowerment movements, one controversial issue has been the media. On one hand, whites commonly view such movements as violent forms of reverse racism stemming from blacks. On the other hand, many blacks view these movements as necessary. Furthermore, the media showcases negative encounters of social movements such as the Black Panther Party and the Black Lives Matter Movement. This discussion of media bias is, in fact, addressing a larger matter: institutional racism. Structural racism is an unethical system in which things such as cultural representations work in varied, often augmented, ways. Ultimately, the depiction of social movements like these as negative perpetuates ethnic group inequity. For instance, the Black Panthers were negatively portrayed by the media as militant, especially through their violent language. Likewise, the Black Lives Matter Movement is shown as being a black identity extremists group who exacerbates racial division. Nevertheless, majorities who happen to be critics of such movements will argue that the media correctly portrays the two movements and reveals their radical motives. Opponents of these views are right to argue that the media displays factual events concerning the two movements, but they fail to discern that what is shown in the media is meant to entice viewers. To put it bluntly, one can note that the media does not exhibit events that won’t increase their number of views, such as positive aspects of said movements. To take a case in point, the Black Panther Party developed numerous programs such as the Youth Institute, S.A.F.E, and provided free food and health clinics for the disadvantaged. They were a group who aided the African American community as a whole with these “survival programs.” Moreover, the Black Lives Matter Movement has supported Haitian migrants and offered free support lessons for victims who have experienced police brutality situations. These positive contributions go unnoticed and the negative encounters are put in the spotlight. And if they are recognized, many Americans today tend to add that the burden of the development and well being of blacks is not society's responsibility, but they're solely the responsibility of the black community. Therefore, they think that a group's survival, even prosperity, should be driven by efforts that are sustained within that group.

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Implications of the United State’s treatment of blacks are promoted by other races who have not first handedly experienced such prejudice— compounding negative social feedback. For instance, in an article entitled “All Lives Matter vs. Black Lives Matter,” author Gordon Marino offers a noteworthy discussion concerning the commotion of the term “All Lives Matter.” Taking an unbiased approach to the reality of being an African American in today's times, Marino considers diverse stances on the subject. Overall, Marino’s article asserts that the fundamental premise behind the term “All Lives Matter” implies that one should not accentuate that black lives matter because in reality, all lives matter. This takes away from the significance the statement that “Black Lives Matter“ is trying to highlight: that there is demonstrable evidence that white lives matter more to the criminal justice system. Media propaganda and societal views reveal that the rebirth of African American empowerment movements have been negatively portrayed in the media. The Black Panther Party has taken the role as one of the most misconstrued movements in United States history. The basic ideologies upon which the movement was built aided in the advancement of blacks in America. Likewise, the Black Lives Matter Movement sparked a revitalization of said ideologies, along with new ones such as minorities joining together and peaceful rallying. One could assert that the two movements were synonymous with each other. Hence, in a way, the Black Lives Matter Movement can be considered as a continuation of the ongoing endeavor waged by the Black Panther Party. In the arguments set forth by the Black Panther Party and the Black Lives Matter Movement, there is a blatant racism in the United States of America.The media offers negative portrayals to continue to stifle black empowerment and maintain the status quo. Sadly there has only been minimal development in the United States and words from the past still stand today, just as Malcolm X once stated, “If you're not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing” (Harding).

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Works Cited

"Black Lives Matter." Opposing Viewpoints Online Collection, Gale, 2017. Opposing

Viewpoints in Context, https://goo.gl/mmD2uu. Accessed 11 Jan. 2018.

Carson, Clayborne. "Black Panther Party for Self-Defense." Encyclopedia of African-American

Culture and History, edited by Colin A. Palmer, 2nd ed., vol. 1, Macmillan Reference

USA, 2006, pp. 266-268. U.S. History in Context, https://goo.gl/xSjfMZ. Accessed 21

Jan. 2018.

Garza, Alicia. "Black Lives Matter, Two Years Later." USA Today, 12 Aug. 2016, p. 07A.

Research in Context, https://goo.gl/mRPwe1. Accessed 24 Jan. 2018.

Harding, Vincent. We Changed the World: African Americans, 1945-1970. Oxford University

Press, 1997.Accessed 18 Jan. 2018.

Marino, Gordon. "'All Lives Matter' vs. Black Lives Matter." Commonweal, vol. 142, no. 15,

2015, p. 6. Literature Resource Center, https://goo.gl/kkn5X4. Accessed 11 Jan. 2018.

Street, Paul. "What Would the Black Panthers Think of Black Lives Matter?" Global Research,

Centre for Research and Globalization, 2017, https://goo.gl/v4uxhE. Accessed 22 Jan.

2017.

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Medical Imaging: Saving Lives One Scan at a Time By Aubrey Rochelle Introduction The field of medicine evolved after the discovery of many medical imaging tools including the x-ray, magnetic resonance imaging, computed axial tomography, mammography, angiography, and fluoroscopy (Wissler). Before the invention of medical imaging technology, the mortality rates were elevated due to the common practices doctors used and because doctors had to surgically open patients to see what was causing the problem (Naff). Since the early days of medical practices in the Renaissance to present day, medicine has changed dramatically due to the invention of medical imaging technology.

Old Medical Practices The bizarre medical practices that were common during the medieval times have changed significantly compared to today’s medical practices. One of the most common medical practices during the Renaissance was bloodletting. Bloodletting was used to cure an imbalance in the four humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. This procedure was first used by the ancient Greek physician Galen who used leeches for bloodletting. Another common medical practice was trepanation, one of the oldest surgical procedures that involved drilling holes in the human skull to treat epileptic seizures and mental disorders. Trepanation is not to be confused with lobotomy which is the procedure that involves cutting the connection between the prefrontal cortex and the frontal lobes of the brain. The use of mercury in medicine was also common many years ago. What is known as poison now was medicine during the 16th century used to treat Syphilis and Typhoid Fever (Naff 25-26). Fortunately, due to medical imaging, the common medical procedures during the Renaissance are not as common or as bizarre today.

Medical Tools Before Medical Imaging Before the discovery of medical imaging, there were other important inventions in medicine that aided in the discovery of medical imaging. One of those creations was the stethoscope. It is not known as to who created the stethoscope but it is said to be created by George P. Cammann in 1852, but Rene Laennec is credited with constructing the first stethoscope in 1816. The stethoscope allows doctors to hear what is going on inside the patient’s chest, most commonly used to hear the heart and lungs (Naff 31). Another common medical tool is the sphygmomanometer. The sphygmomanometer is the tool used to take a patient’s blood pressure and heart rate. Samuel von Basch invented the sphygmomanometer in 1881. These tools are still used today in general medicine (Naff 36). These tools are important inventions that aided in the discovery of medical imaging tools which created a major advancement in medicine.

New Medical Practices Though we still have irrational medical procedures today, we do not have to take such drastic steps in performing surgery due to the discovery of medical imaging tools. Instead of using trepanation to treat some mental disorders, doctors use electroconvulsive therapy. Electroconvulsive therapy is a brief application of electric stimulus used to produce a generalized seizure. This therapy is used to treat severe depression, acute mania, and some schizophrenic disorders. It can also be used on other parts of the body to treat pain. Bloodletting is still used

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today, but it is not used to treat an imbalance in the four humors. Instead, it is used to treat AIDS and certain sexually transmitted diseases. Another common procedure is dry needling which is commonly used on patients with pain and fractures. It is a therapy that uses electric shocks and needles (Naff 28-29). Due to medical imaging technology, doctors can now use magnetic resonance imaging and x-ray imaging to diagnose patients with certain mental disorders and bone fractures so that patients can receive these treatments.

Medical Imaging Tools As a result of the discovery of the first medical imaging tool, the topic medical imaging was included in medical science. The topic contains different categories which are x-rays, molecular imaging, ultrasound imaging, and magnetic resonance imaging. When using an x-ray, a beam is projected on the body and some x-ray beams are absorbed while others are used to project an image. The different types of x-ray are x-ray radiology, computed axial tomography, mammography, angiography, and fluoroscopy. Computed axial tomography gives a high-resolution image of the body. Computed axial tomography tests can be performed on all parts of the body, but are mainly used on the heart, brain, lungs, and abdomen. Mammography is a type of x-ray used specifically to examine women’s breasts for cancer. Angiography is used to view blood vessels by injecting a contrast agent into the blood. After the contrast agent is injected it is used to see if blood is flowing properly to parts of the body. Angiography is mainly used on the brain, heart, abdomen, and legs. Fluoroscopy gives an image over a period of time and can be used on all internal organs. X-ray imaging has advanced a lot from the plain x-ray to the fluoroscopy. The plain x-ray can only take an image at that particular time but now with the advancement to fluoroscopy doctors can take images over a span of time. X-rays can be performed on organs such as the liver, bladder, lungs, stomach, intestines, and genitals. Molecular imaging looks at the cellular and molecular parts of the body to detect diseases at an early stage by giving information of biological processes happening in the body. Molecular imaging is more advanced than the computed axial tomography and magnetic resonance imaging as it can detect cancer and abnormalities earlier than any other medical imaging test can. With molecular imaging tests, it is possible to see the structure and function of organs, tissue, and bones. There are two different types of tests that involve molecular imaging, positron emission tomography and single photon emission computed tomography scanner (Wissler). A plus to using positron emission tomography is that the scan uses minimal radiation exposure (Naff 144). Another medical imaging procedure that can catch abnormalities early is the ultrasound. An ultrasound image is created when sound waves reflect body parts. An ultrasound captures images in real time. A magnetic resonance imaging tool uses magnets and radio frequencies to show the inside of part of the human body (Wissler). The understanding of each imaging tool’s function is an important aspect of realizing why medical imaging created a rebirth in medicine.

Discovery of Medical Imaging Tools Due to the invention of medical imaging technology, it became possible to look inside the body without surgically dissecting the patient. The beginning of medical imaging started with the discovery of the x-ray by Wilhelm Roentgen. Wilhelm Roentgen discovered the x-ray on November 8, 1895 by accident. He used a Crookes tube, black cardboard paper, and a piece of barium platinocyanide paper when he saw that rays were coming from the tube. In 1901, Roentgen was awarded the first Nobel Prize in physics for his discovery of the x-ray (Naff 52).

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Roetgen famously said of his discovery: “I did not think, I investigated.” This quote means that Roentgen did not overthink it, he simply went and observed (Dam). An x-ray can detect tumors that are two centimeters and sometimes larger (Naff 112). Due to the discovery of the x-ray, the topic medical imaging was introduced to medical science (Information Resources). The next big discovery in medical imaging did not happen until 1956. In 1956, Ian Donald created the ultrasound which gives a two-dimensional or three-dimensional image of certain parts of the human body (Naff 18). The ultrasound uses sound waves to create a live image of the patient’s body. Ultrasounds can be used to examine the abdomen, heart, muscles, and cardiac arteries (Wissler). There are many different ultrasounds, including echo, which is for the heart, and carotid ultrasound, which is used to examine the carotid artery. The ultrasound that is most commonly thought of is the fetal ultrasound. The fetal ultrasound can take a two-dimensional or three-dimensional image of a fetus in utero which can help catch abnormalities in the fetus (Naff 79). The next advancement in medicine was in 1966 when the mammogram was invented (Naff 20). The mammogram is used to detect breast cancer in women. Women are advised to have annual mammograms if they are over the age of 40. It has been found that women under the age of 40 do not benefit from getting annual mammograms (Naff 91). In 1972, Godfrey Hounsfield invented the computed axial tomography. It was created to show detailed images of the parts of the body (Blau). Computed axial tomography is an advancement of the x-ray as it can spot tumors that are one centimeter in length and can take hundreds of images in a single examination (Naff 55, 112). There were some setbacks to the computed axial tomography as it could only show horizontal images (Blau). To fix this setback, magnetic resonance imaging was invented in the 1980s. It was used to take images of certain body parts using magnets and pulses of radio waves. Magnetic resonance imaging scans are not obstructed by bone or waste and have a greater natural contrast than x-ray, computed axial tomography, and ultrasound (Naff 72). Due to the fact that a magnetic resonance imaging test uses magnets, the procedure can not be performed on patients with metal in the body as it can lead to being pulled out by the magnets (Naff 72-74). The magnetic resonance imaging test takes about thirty to ninety minutes to complete but it does give a 360-degree view of what is being pictured (Sternlof). During the test, patients are advised to use headphones to block out noise which is said to sound like a hammer banging on metal (Naff 56). The discovery of medical imaging tools is important because we no longer have to perform surgery on a patient to know what is causing their symptoms. Medical imaging tools can help doctors narrow down the causes of a patient’s symptoms without surgery and sometimes diagnose an illness before symptoms even appear (Naff 52). Doctors are able to diagnose and treat patients quickly, due to medical imaging.

Radiation Damage Some people would argue that medical imaging tools are dangerous and can cause damage to the body, but the benefits that come from using medical imaging tools outweigh the misfortunes. Medical imaging tools do transmit radiation, but it is uncommon for someone to get cancer from just one use. Children are at an increased risk of getting cancer from a medical imaging test. It is more likely for someone to get cancer from walking outside in the sun than to get cancer from a single medical imaging test (Naff 102). The more medical imaging tests that are run, increases the risk of getting cancer, but it is still highly unlikely. Some medical imaging tools do not even use radiation (Naff 102). The ultrasound and the magnetic resonance imaging tests, for example, do not use radiation (Sternlof). The ultrasound uses sound waves while the

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magnetic resonance imaging uses magnets and pulses of radio waves (Blau). The other medical imaging tools like the x-ray, the computed axial tomography, and the mammogram use minimal amounts of radiation. Most of the medical imaging tests that use radiation use ionizing radiation (Blau). When getting an x-ray test performed on the body, some parts of the body can sustain more damage than other parts (Wissler). Medical imaging technology can help catch complications early on. For example, computed axial tomography scans detect six times as many early lung cancers as an x-ray (Naff 112). The computed axial tomography and magnetic resonance imaging can help catch cancerous tumors early and can tell how emense the tumors are and if the tumors are operable or not. When a tumor is caught early enough, there is a 70-percent chance that the patient will survive (Naff 112). Most people think that a computed axial tomography uses the most radiation, but radiation from a computed axial tomography scan is less than some plain x-ray procedures (Naff 55). If breast cancer is caught early enough by a mammogram, then there is a 90-percent success rate. Ultrasounds can help catch abnormalities in a fetus before it is even born (Naff 93). Clearly, these are just some examples of how medical imaging has changed lives.

Quality of Life As a result of the discovery of medical imaging technology, the quality of life is higher. In the last 50 years, the infant mortality rate has decreased by 80-percent in the United Kingdom alone (Porter). This is due to the invention of the ultrasound and how it can help catch health problems in babies before they are even born. In just 20 years, the deaths caused by stroke dropped 80 percent due to the ability to get a computed tomography and see what the problem was (Porter). The x-ray was especially helpful during the war as it was used to help locate bullet fragments in soldier’s bodies. The quality of life and life expectancy rate went up due to the safety they felt to be quickly diagnosed by medical imaging technology (Porter).

Conclusion The invention of medical imaging technology has created a colossal rebirth in medicine today. Medical imaging has reinvented medicine with the ability to diagnose and treat patients quickly. The common medical procedures today are nowhere near as painful or dangerous as they were during the Renaissance. We no longer have to perform surgery on someone who does not need it. Images reveal issues without invasion and risk. Since the invention of medical imaging tools, so many lives have been saved due to the advancements.

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Works Cited

Blau, Jeffrey. “A Brief Historical Timeline Of Medical Imaging Technology.” Open MRI, 9 June 2016, www.openmrict.com/a-brief-historical-timeline-of-medical-imaging-technology/.

Dam, H. J. W. “A New Marvel in Photography.” Full text of "McClure's Magazine, Vol. 6, No. 5, April, 1896", The Project Gutenberg, 11 Jan. 2005, archive.org/stream/mccluresmagazine14663gut/14663.txt.

Information Resources Management Association . “Medical Imaging: Concepts, Methodologies,

Tools, and Applications.” Google Books, Medical Information Science Reference.

Naff, Clay Farris., editor. Medical imaging. Greenhaven Press/Thomson/Gale, 2006.

Porter, Roy. The Greatest Benefit to Mankind: A Medical History of Humanity (The Norton History of Science). WW Norton & Company, 1999.

Sternlof, Kurt Richard, et al. "Magnetic resonance imaging." The Gale Encyclopedia of Medicine, edited by Jacqueline L. Longe, 5th ed., Gale, 2015. Health & Wellness Resource Center, link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/KGSBLK748647018/HWRC?u=lap09capt&sid=HWRC&x

id=afb73e26. Accessed 28 Nov. 2017.

Wissler, Ruth. “Types of Medical Imaging.” Understanding Medical Radiation, Siemens Healthineers, 10 Oct. 2011, www.medicalradiation.com/types-of-medical-imaging/.

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Liberating America: How the Literature and Music of the Harlem Renaissance Triggered the Rebirth of a Community By Amira Thomas

The history of the United States has been paved with racism and oppression since the creation of the original thirteen colonies. All ethnic groups that did not have lineage that traced back to Europe were subjugated to both physical and mental abuse. There’s no doubt that African Americans bore the brunt of the this maltreatment. Africans were brought across the ocean and bound as slaves for over 200 years. Even decades after the end of slavery, African Americans were still forced to abide by discriminatory laws such as the Jim Crow laws and forced to bear extreme abuse at the hands of the government, the Ku Klux Klan and other racist factions (“The Harlem Renaissance”). However, with the rise of the Harlem Renaissance, African Americans were no longer willing to stand by. The Harlem Renaissance was a social, cultural, and artistic explosion that occurred in Harlem, New York in the 1920s. The writings that came to life during this time were inspirational to a race that had long forgotten what it meant to be inspired. Writers like Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, and Zora Neale Hurston sought to change misconceptions about African American life. An analysis of writings from Hughes, McKay, and Hurston, supported with scholarship in the field, reveals that these writers inspired the African American community to fight back against oppression by embracing their long withheld culture and heritage. In 1919, Washington D.C. newspapers ran stories of a sexual assault allegedly committed by an African American. This story sparked the commence of twenty riots in 1919, beginning with a white lynch mob that targeted African Americans (P. Hardy, S. Hardy). With twenty-eight race riots in the first half of the year, the follow summer came to be known as The Red Summer of 1919 (P. Hardy, S. Hardy). Witnessing these bloody lynchings, Jamaican writer and poet Claude McKay was inspired to write “If We Must Die.” The title phrase and its repetition throughout the poem instill the desperation of the situation in the heart of the reader. It suggests that even though the speaker and his brethren have no choice but to die, they can choose how they die — be it with honor or with cowardice. McKay insists that even in the darkest times, people can find an opportunity to live with dignity. With a lot at stake, the speaker begins an inspirational speech that drives his fellow fighters to persevere and face their enemy bravely, even though they will all surely die. McKay drives home that every life is precious in lines 6-7 when the speaker says that he doesn’t want the “precious blood” of his allies to be “shed in vain.” The poem intentionally made no mention of race so that it could retain its universal message and apply to every group that felt they had been wronged by society. McKay’s poem sparked meaning into the lives of African Americans — they now felt they had a duty to stand up for their honor. “If We Must Die” was honored by African Americans as a call to action for all oppressed people to fight back against their oppressors. The final line of the poem, McKay encourages the oppressed to persevere through the horrendous treatment even when death would be the only thing to greet them at the end of their battle: “Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack/Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!” Zora Neale Hurston was an African American writer and folklorist who portrayed the struggles of African American women through her essay “How It Feels To Be Colored Me” and her novel Their Eyes Were Watching God. Zora Neale Hurston’s autobiographical essay “How It Feels To Be Colored Me” describes her journey as an African American woman in early

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twentieth century America. Hurston did not feel that she had any reason to consider her race in depth until she left her home as a teen to attend a boarding school in Jacksonville (P. Hardy, S. Hardy). It wasn’t until she was away from the comfort of her home that Hurston began to “fe[el]” her race. She recounts an experience when she and a white friend went to a jazz club. Zora found herself profoundly affected by the music, while her white friend didn’t feel the music to the extent that Zora did. This experience led Zora to believe that this difference was a result of their different races. Her essay encouraged the African American community to embrace their individuality in the face of an unvarying obstacle. The African American community began to feel more confident in their skin among white people because they began to see their skin as something that set them apart as individuals and not just a quality that attracted hatred. Published in 1937, Their Eyes Were Watching God was Zora Neale Hurston’s best known novel. The novel follows Janie, an African American woman who has been controlled by the will of others around her for a majority of her life. Janie was raised strictly by her grandmother who saw Janie as a second chance to raise a child. Nanny disliked her own daughter for abandoning Janie soon after her birth. Nanny forced Janie to only associate with white children and later forced Janie to marry a man that she did not love so that Janie would be financially stable. Janie was unsatisfied with her loveless marriage so she ran away in hopes for a better life with Joe Starks. Joe desired Janie because he believed that she had “class” (Hurston). Joe treated Janie as a possession rather than a life partner. Joe flaunted Janie as a symbol of his success, including his position as mayor in the town. Joe takes complete control over Janie’s life. He doesn’t allow her to play cards, attend town events with the townspeople, or interact with other men because of his own insecurities. By all of the men around her, Janie is seen as the perfect woman. She doesn’t speak up for herself, she doesn’t fight back against her abusive husband, and is obedient in every way. Her personality, hopes, and dreams are stifled underneath the expectancy of the men and women around her. Janie was delighted by the death of her husband. With his passing, Janie can finally take hold of her own destiny and focus on herself rather than the opinion of others.With everyone significant in her life dead-set on shaping her into their ideal person, Janie is exuberant when Tea Cake walks into her life and becomes her partner. They both rely on each other and help each other grow as people. With Tea Cake, Janie experiences a rebirth in terms of her attitude towards life. She no longer feels like a prized possession while she’s with Tea Cake. Hurston’s novel brought about a wave of feminism to the African American community (“Modernism in the Arts”). Hurston’s character Janie inspired African American women to take hold of their own destiny rather than let it be decided for them by the ruling patriarchal society. Her ruthless individuality inspired women to focus more on themselves rather than focus on what men expected from them as women, effectively becoming the generation known as Flappers. Langston Hughes was one of America’s poets whose African-American themes made him a key contributor to the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. He was considered the “Renaissance Man” of the Harlem Renaissance, meaning that his area of expertise broadened outside of literature (“Langston Hughes, Man of the People”). In his poetry, Hughes offers the voices, experiences, emotions, and spirit of African Americans. His most famous work, “A Negro Speaks of Rivers” is a prime example. The young Langston Hughes was inspired to write this poem as his train crossed the Mississippi River in 1920. Although this poem was written just before the birth of the Harlem Renaissance, the themes addressed in it would later become closely related to the movement. As discussed in “Langston Hughes, Man of the People,” some of the most prominent themes explored in “A Negro Speaks of Rivers” are: race, perseverance,

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and freedom and confinement. The poem details the journey of African Americans from beginning to present. The speaker of the poem spins a tale about African Americans starting from the birthplace of human civilization — the Euphrates. He then continues on the journey by detailing the Congo River, where African civilization flourished for centuries before being taken captive. The speaker also speaks of the Nile and the creation of the pyramids, the greatest feats of architecture to date. He finishes his story by telling of the Mississippi River where thousands of slaves were shipped to their owners and families were ripped apart. But despite its wretched history, the speaker saw the muddy banks of the Mississippi turn golden — signalling the end of slavery and the restoration of freedom. African Americans have had their freedom stripped from them and were led towards confinement for hundreds of years until now. The sun rising over the bank of the Mississippi signalled a rebirth that the African Americans would soon get to experience. “A Negro Speaks of Rivers” inspired the African American community to bear the weight of confinement for a little while longer because a new age was coming when they could once again experience true freedom. After the publication of Hughes' works, the African American community began to write their own accounts of African American life and how the color of their skin did not mean that they had any less of a right to be alive and free than anyone else. African Americans re-evaluated their ancient culture and began to bring back traditions that had been lost decades prior. With this work, Langston Hughes initiated the Harlem Renaissance. Although the works of Claude McKay, Zora Neale Hurston, and Langston Hughes had a prolonged effect on African American art and literature, their works were not seen positively by everyone. McKay’s works were often criticized for the narrators’ bitter and biased tones. Some critics argued that the bitterness in the narrators’ tones coerced the African American community to stand up and fight back against their will (Graham). But, the bitterness in the narrators’ tones were usually an embodiment of bitterness as a result of decades of suffering at the hands of racist and oppressive factions. Hurston’s works were criticized for oversimplifying her African American characters. Critics felt that Hurston’s characters, such as the ones in Their Eyes Were Watching God, pandered to white audiences who did not understand that whites were not the only people who could have complex thoughts and emotions (P. Hardy, S. Hardy). Although some characters from Hurston’s works could be considered one dimensional, a majority of her characters have complex thoughts, emotions, and reasons behind their actions that are expressed (or are not expressed) in different ways depending on the individual. According to “Langston Hughes, Man of the People,” many of Hughes’ works were criticized by the intellectual African American community because they thought his work portrayed an unattractive view of the lifestyle of African Americans. In his attempt to capture the lives of everyday African Americans, he dealt with subjects like prostitution, racism, lynchings, and teenage pregnancy. Such heavy subjects were taboo prior to the 1920s. However, the reintroduction of these topics to conversation assisted the community in addressing the problems that have long since been ignored by the leaders of their country. The onset of the Harlem Renaissance was a result of a blooming curiosity of the arts in Harlem, New York. African American culture was resurrected from its dejected state and revitalized. McKay directed African Americans to fight back against their oppressors. Hurston oversaw a wave of feminism and encouraged individuality throughout the African American community. Hughes paved the way to embracing ancient African traditions that were thought to be lost decades prior. With an arsenal of prominent writers, the African American community moved forward with its sights set on freedom and equality.

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Works Cited

Graham, Shane. "Cultural exchange in a black Atlantic Web: South African Literature, Langston

Hughes, and Negritude." Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 60, no. 4, 2014, p. 481+. Student Resources in Context, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A402738412/SUIC?u=lap09capt&xid=3b9be0d1.

Accessed 18 Jan. 2018.

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Shifts in the Original Star Wars to Disney’s Star Wars By Maddie Young

It is on rare occasions that a sequel or prequel is as riveting as the original; however, Disney was successful in reaffirming the superiority of the Star Wars franchise. After the prequel trilogy was released and flopped, skeptics were anxious to criticize the film, Star Wars: The Force Awakens, released by Disney thirty-eight years after the original film, Star Wars: A New Hope. A New Hope proved to be the top grossing film of the Star Wars franchise by making $1.591 billion domestically followed by The Force Awakens with $965.5 million. The Phantom Menace, the first film of the prequel trilogy, only grossed $806.5 million in comparison (Ellington). Star Wars: A New Hope and Star Wars: The Force Awakens and evaluation of film criticisms and analyses, Disney’s Star Wars directed by J.J. Abrams, represents a revival of the original Star Wars trilogy of the 1980s directed by George Lucas, while still incorporating new ideas and themes such as a multicultural cast and women in leading roles. The first film of the Star Wars original trilogy, A New Hope, and the first film produced by Disney, The Force Awakens, are closely linked together through thematic subjects. Both films are thematically associated with family, religion, and good versus evil. The original trilogy follows the Skywalker family and, like in The Force Awakens, also teaches that family is not always defined by blood ties. For example, in A New Hope, Luke finds a father figure in Obi Wan Kenobi after his aunt and uncle are murdered by stormtroopers. Kenobi serves as a mentor for Luke and raises him to become the next jedi. By the conclusion of the film, however, Luke has lost Kenobi and has found his calling as a jedi. In The Force Awakens, Rey does not have a family, but she finds a family in Finn and the Resistance. One of the main objectives of the Resistance, besides eliminating the First Order, is to create a united people in which everyone is equal (Abrams). This is why Leia, the leader of the Resistance, is so open to welcome anyone, even Finn who was once a stormtrooper — forced into fighting for the First Order — into the Resistance. Finn also finds his family in the Resistance, particularly with Han Solo and Chewbacca. Likewise, Han Solo and Chewbacca serve as an example of finding family in each other. They have fought for the Rebel Forces as a team for many years as copilots of the Millennium Falcon. In A New Hope, they infiltrate the Death Star together, and in The Force Awakens, they sneak onto the Starkiller Base. In each situation, they protect each other from opposing forces, while attempting to accomplish their goal of diminishing the threat of the Sith. They do not always get along, but at the end of the day, they can rely on each other. Throughout the Star Wars films, the theme of family and its significance can be traced; however, family does not always entail one’s lineage. The correlation between A New Hope and The Force Awakens continues with scene structure. It becomes evident that Abrams mirrors Lucas’s framework in various scenes. For example, after examining the scene in A New Hope when Darth Vader kills Obi Wan and the scene in The Force Awakens where Kylo Ren kills Han Solo, it becomes evident that the structure is the same (Abrams and Lucas). Both scenes represent the father or father figure being killed by the son (Berardelli 43+). Obi Wan served as Darth Vader’s mentor and father figure; similarly, Han Solo is Kylo Ren’s father. The apprentice jedi is also present in both scenes. Luke watched Darth Vader kill Obi Wan and later became a jedi, and Rey watches Kylo Ren kill Han Solo as the next upcoming jedi. Following the deaths, a battle erupts between stormtroopers and the opposing ally forces. Abrams used this sequencing to captivate the part of his audience who

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are fans of the original film. This suggests he recognizes the success of the first film and had the intention of resurrecting the Star Wars franchise. Religion is a recurring theme that appears throughout the Star Wars films including A New Hope and The Force Awakens. The Force could be compared to God. God is an outside force acting on the universe. In comparison, the Force acts on the Star Wars universe. (EXPAND) In a New Hope, Obi Wan serves as the prophet, teaching Luke how to listen and follow the force to become a jedi. Luke follows Kenobi, and becomes a jedi himself. Luke’s enemy, Darth Vader is consumed by evil and seeks to annihilate any of those against the Sith. In The Force Awakens, Luke serves as the teacher for Rey. When Luke appears in the final scene of The Force Awakens, he is dressed in monk-like robes symbolizing he is in tune with the Force (Byassee 43). It is assumed that he will then teach Rey the Force and she is in line to become the next jedi. Like a monk and their robes, jedis and their robes show the knowledge that they possess of the force. Throughout the Star Wars films, one can trace the recurring theme of religion. One of the main thematic subjects behind Star Wars the battle of good versus evil or the Jedi versus the Sith. The entire Star Wars franchise revolves around the Jedi and the Sith, and how order must be brought back to the universe. Undoubtedly, this theme increases universal appeal, crossing time, place, and culture in art and literature. While Star Wars is fascinating in that it takes place in space with otherworldly creatures, the audience are still affected by the story because they can associate with the characters and what they experience. The films always involve the Sith attempting to become too powerful in order to take over the galaxy before the Jedi eliminates the threat in order to restore balance to the universe. Star Wars effectively establishes that a hero cannot exist without a villain, and a villain cannot exist without a hero. The films also consider that sometimes the evil rests within, and one must choose to be consumed by good or consumed by evil (Lancashire). In the first Star Wars film, the Empire is building the Death Star, a military base with the ability to devastate an entire planet. Luke Skywalker must destroy the Death Star to restore order back to the galaxy. Similarly, in Episode VII, the Starkiller Base must be annihilated, or it possesses the power to obliterate an entire solar system. Rey, like Luke, must destroy the Starkiller Base to bring peace back into the galaxy. Both Lucas and Abrams concentrate on traditional themes in order to continue captivating their audience. Both A New Hope and The Force Awakens follow the story structure of The Hero’s Journey. Star Wars is exceptionally successful, however, because it is a story set in outer space. Luke is called to leave his life on Tatooine in order to help the rebels save Leia (Lancashire). After the death of his guardians, he joins Obi Wan Kenobi, who becomes his mentor. He eventually aligns with Han Solo and Chewbacca. Luke does not fully become a jedi until after the destruction of the Death Star. After this, he returns ready to embrace the Force and learn to become a jedi. Rey follows a similar journey. She is called when she discovers a droid on her home planet of Jakku and she meets Finn. She originally does not want to go help find the owner of the droid, but finds an ally in Finn and leaves Jakku aboard the Millenium Falcon with Han Solo and Chewbacca. Rey has her first call to the Force when she discovers Luke’s lightsaber in the basement of Maz’s palace. She rejects the lightsaber just in time to be captured by the First Order. She discovers she connects with the Force when she uses a jedi mind trick to escape. Before the Starkiller Base is destroyed, Rey and Kylo Ren battle with lightsabers as he tries to convince her to join the First Order, and she refuses. She accepts her calling as a jedi only after

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the eradication of the Starbase Killer. Rey flies to meet Luke Skywalker and meets him at the top of a mountain, ready to begin her jedi training. Luke is older at this point and will serve as Rey’s mentor like Obi Wan was for Luke. Abrams effectively related the two characters in the final scene of The Force Awakens by depicting Rey’s acceptance of her call to the Force, thus reviving the original Star Wars film by incorporating the archetype of the hero’s journey. The Force Awakens differs from A New Hope in that it departs from the patriarchal society presented in the original film. A New Hope was dominated by a male cast with women (Princess Leia) as a supporting characters. Leia did not have much of a role in A New Hope, but in The Force Awakens, she is the head of the Resistance giving more power to women in the sequel films produced by Disney. Disney was savvy in placing a female in the leading role for the next jedi, thus accommodating a cultural shift from the 1980s to the 2010s ("Rekindling The Spirit Of A Galaxy Far, Far Away In 'Star Wars: The Force Awakens'"). Today, audiences demand that filmmakers demonstrate social awareness. In A New Hope, Leia is helpless in that she must be saved by a man after she is captured by stormtroopers. Stereotypically, women would not enjoy A New Hope because it features a predominately male cast and is also a space adventure; it can be implied that Star Wars was initially targeting a male audience. Today, filmmakers are forced to acknowledge the economic power of women and the benefits of appealing to a female audience. Women account for approximately half of the population meaning that, ideally, film revenue could double by appealing to women. In addition, filmmakers face more scrutiny for gender stereotypes; in response, they avoid making narrow casting decisions. With this in mind, Disney created a film which would not attract just men and boys into the theatres, but a film that would be inviting for the whole family to see and enjoy together. Rey in the role of the next jedi gives power to women. It depicts women as equal to the greats of Star Wars such as Obi Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker who are both men. Leia as General of the Resistance exemplifies that women can be in charge and command people just as successfully as men can. Disney has, throughout the years, shown its prowess in creating films enjoyable for the whole family. Part of rejuvenating the Star Wars franchise was incorporating a multicultural cast. A multicultural cast abandons the white-dominated original film, confirming cultural awareness. In the 1980s, a majority white cast was not the concern that it is for audiences today. In contrast, the casting choices in The Force Awakens appeal to a broader audience. Finn, played by John Boyega, is African American and is one of the main characters in The Force Awakens (Abrams). His story is followed very closely, just as the story of Rey is. This puts Finn in a prominent role in the film and leaves the audience curious about what happens to him throughout the movie. Finn’s journey can be tracked from the moment he removes his stormtrooper helmet to when he is eventually fighting with a blue lightsaber, despite not being a jedi. Poe, a starfighter pilot for the resistance, is played by Oscar Isaac, a person of Guatemalan descent. This is significant because, like Finn, he represents a different culture in the world of Star Wars. This showcases the potential power of all people in the Star Wars Universe, righting an unintentional fault of the original trilogy. Disney’s Star Wars serves as a revitalization of the original Star Wars directed by George Lucas while at the same time enhancing the franchise by integrating new ideas and themes such as a multicultural cast and women in leading roles. Overall, keeping the general ideas and story first written by George Lucas has proven successful for Disney and their development of the

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franchise. In the future, with each new installment of films, one could hope to see the continued legacy that George Lucas has left on this incredible franchise.

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Byassee, Jason. "Redeeming Star Wars." The Christian Century, vol. 133, no. 2, 2016, p. 43. General OneFile, https://goo.gl/4SjzYf. Accessed 18 Jan. 2018. Ellingson, Annlee. “The Biggest ‘Star Wars’ Movie of All Time — the Answer May Surprise

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Lancashire, Anne. "The Phantom Menace: Repetition, Variation, Integration." Film Criticism, vol. 24, no. 3, 2000, p. 23. Literature Resource Center, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A65131412/LitRC?u=lap09capt&sid=LitRC&xid=e4 7aa366. Accessed 9 Jan. 2018.

Lucas, George, director. Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. Twentieth Century Fox, 1977. "Rekindling The Spirit Of A Galaxy Far, Far Away In 'Star Wars: The Force Awakens'." Fresh Air, 17 Dec. 2015. Literature Resource Center, http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A438472886/LitRC?u=lap09capt&sid=LitRC&xid=f 7eb12c9. Accessed 9 Jan. 2018.

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