Written by Venice High School students, Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) staff members, and community volunteers in Spring 2025.
This book was written by Venice High School students, Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) staff members, and community volunteers in Spring 2025.
The views expressed in this book are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of 826LA. We support student publishing and are thrilled you picked up this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Este libro fue escrito por estudiantes de la Escuela Secundaria Venice, personal del Distrito Escolar Unificado de Los Ángeles (LAUSD) y voluntarios de la comunidad en la primavera de 2025.
Las opiniones expresadas en este libro son las de los autores y no reflejan necesariamente las de 826LA. Apoyamos la publicación de jóvenes autores y estamos felices que hayan recogido este libro.
Todos los derechos reservados. Prohibida la reproducción total o parcial de este libro sin autorización escrita del editor.
Editors:
Shani Foster
“Ms. KAREN” Prudence DeCosta ROWLEY-BROOKS- LAUSD
Restorative Justice Teacher
Cover Artwork & Book Design: Candace Sanders
Echo Park 1714 Sunset Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90026
Mar Vista 12515 Venice Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90066
Illustration by Loris Lora
In celebration of our 20th Anniversary, 826LA dedicates this publication to all of those who have helped make our community what it is, what it was, and what it will become.
Thank you to the students, volunteers, educators, donors, staff, community partners, and time-travelers who have filled the last 20 years with such creativity, joy, and hope.
We look forward to another 20 years in partnership!
Introduction
Beloved Community, what does our collective future hold?
Look into the eyes and ears of our student writers!
Listen to the hearts and minds of our Los Angeles Unified School District staff contributors and hear from our community members and volunteers!
The Light We Carry: A Mosaic of Voices was written by Venice High School students, Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) staff members and community volunteers.
It contains personal narratives, original essays, and pivotal poems authored by profoundly brave and courageous students, staff members, community leaders, and volunteers.
Ms. Karen Prudence DeCosta Rowley-Brooks, the Restorative Justice Teacher at Venice High School, partnered with Ms. Shani Foster of 826LA in 2024 to create the first Venice High School BLit Crew Publication, a project that continues to nurture the compelling narratives and poems within these pages.We are profoundly grateful for the dedication and passion of every student, staff member, and community volunteer who contributed. Their words have woven a tapestry of resilience and hope, enriching our community immeasurably.
-Karen Prudence DeCosta Rowley-Brooks
-Shani Foster
I would like to extend my sincerest appreciation to the students who contributed to this publication. Your dedication, creativity, and perseverance drove this project. Each of you brought unique perspectives and talents, enriching this collection with diverse stories and poems. We are proud of the effort and passion you invested in crafting your pieces, and we celebrate your growth and development as writers. We are particularly grateful to 826LA for their invaluable partnership and support. Their expertise and resources were pivotal in helping our students develop their writing skills and express themselves with confidence. The Writers’ Room initiative at Venice Senior High School provided a unique space for students to explore their creativity, receive personalized feedback, and grow as writers. We appreciate the commitment of 826LA’s volunteers and staff members, who worked tirelessly to ensure our students received the best possible support. This publication would not have been possible without the collective efforts of everyone involved. We look forward to continuing our collaboration with 826LA and to seeing our students’ future successes.
-Principal Yovanka Hairston-Truitt
Dear Young Authors, Massive congratulations on your published book! What an incredible achievement. You poured your creativity and hard work into this, and it’s truly inspiring. Celebrate this amazing milestone and know you’ve accomplished something remarkable. We’re excited to see what you write next!
-Dr. Travis D. Brandy
Section One: Student Voices
"When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful."
- Malala Yousafzai
Why Don’t I Burn For Perfection
Langston V.
I got a new iPhone in middle school I spend hours in watching youtube
Sometimes enjoying hours of content, Other times falling through oblivion, Just letting time slip by.
Then a cold creeping thought hits me
How was this device made?
Who made it?
Where did it come from?
And even worse
I can learn the answer
I just don’t want to
Why can I ignore what I don’t want to see?
What am I missing when they put their hands over my eyes?
Could I move them,
Bite at their fingers,
Scratch and claw for a chance to glimpse the “real world”?
Some do.
Do I even want to see?
I know it’s horrifying
Who can fix a planet-sized threat?
What threat that large can be moved by one person?
Or even 8 billion?
Is there even a chance?
It feels so much safer to ignore it. Find hope, nothing changes
Make change, change is opposed by people Some people want change
But our nation is ruled by ancients
They are old, the old don’t seem to want to change
How long will they hold on to this non-change
Or even backward change
I was thinking,
The world we live in:
Everything
Bought at the store
Delivered the underpaid
Manufactured in sweatshops
Mine and harvested by slaves
That’s where our luxuries are made
The hideous body of the anglerfish hidden from us
While we stare dumbfounded at the light, scientifically proven to get us addicted
The maw sits waiting to snap up those who could no longer outswim the beast
Already having eaten those who never had a chance
Digesting their years
Anyway I get the iPhone
All packed in a neat little white box
I still keep it
An iPhone box kept deep in my closet for arts and crafts
I forget so easily what it represents
What it used to contain
How quickly I moved on
Safe in my life of relative perfection
All that blood I never get to, or want to see
Why should I get to walk a top a thousand burning,
Their hand riddled with paper cuts
Cuts they are forced to accumulate to feed their families
I see no way of moving the moon by blowing on it.
What can I do?
What have I been fed to think there’s no hope?
What has been done to me to make my instinct apathy?
And who does that benefit?
Why is there no burning rage in my gut
Only a hollow ambivalence to the misery of the world
Why do I look forward to the future
When I see no path to get there
I’m an optimistic person
I think it’ll all be ok
But then why can’t I see how
What can I do but survive
I know…
In spite, I will thrive
And if enough of us survive
We will inherit the earth
Uniquely Different
Izar B.
She is called Izar (meaning ‘star’), Shiara (meaning ‘happiness’ or ‘blossom’), Beerensteyn (my father’s surname), and Losada Martin (my mother’s surname). These names together form who I am today. I’ve always struggled to fully accept myself and my background. Questions like, ‘What am I meant for? Who am I? How can I be seen? How can I achieve success? Am I enough? Why am I perceived differently?’ have plagued me for years.
Coming to the United States was a profound eye-opener regarding society, culture, family, friends, and, most importantly, myself. Who would have thought a foreigner would face such challenges in a country that claims to be so diverse and full of opportunity? Initially, I was optimistic and eager to start a new chapter, fully aware of the obstacles ahead. As a young foreign girl from a diverse background, I was ready to conquer the world, but life in the States proved difficult. I struggled to find my place, never quite fitting in: not ‘black enough,’ not ‘Hispanic enough,’ not ‘European enough’ – simply not enough. Being held back a year just to prove my intelligence and English proficiency was exhausting and mentally draining. I repeatedly encountered rejection simply for being different.
Later, I joined the marching band, drawn by my love of music, but that period wasn’t easy either. I was told, ‘It’s not your time’ to perform at basketball games and other events. I was told to cut my hair because it was too big and frizzy, and that my facial features conveyed too much ‘attitude.’ There was a distinct lack of respect for women in that band, especially women of color. I was feared and stereotyped as violent and aggressive based solely on my appearance. My musical abilities and hard work were consistently overlooked.
These experiences fostered a deep resentment towards the country, society, and even myself. I began to despise my background, culture, and everything about my life, leading to depression. I became homesick and lost my appetite. One day, while scrolling through my phone, I came across an old video of my younger self. I was stunned. She was vibrant and carefree, unburdened by negative judgment. She radiated self-love and happiness. I cried, realizing why I had come and what I wanted to achieve. That little girl’s dreams mattered. Not
because of her skin color, hair, facial features, accent, or background, but because she knew and accepted every part of herself. I finally understood: being Black is beautiful, being Hispanic is beautiful, being different is uniquely beautiful.”
“How long can I keep this up?
Writing about myself is challenging, primarily because I struggle to find a story to tell. Sharing personal details is difficult for me. However, for this assignment, I’ll discuss my life in America and my experience as a high school teenager. It began on July 27, 2023, the day I arrived in Los Angeles. As a young girl new to a foreign land, I felt both scared and thrilled. My mind raced with thoughts like, ‘OMG, I can’t believe I’m living in L.A.’ I was excited, but I knew this change would significantly impact me, and I’d have to quickly adapt to the ‘American life’ I’d heard about. It was a completely new and overwhelming environment.
August arrived quickly, marking my first day of school. I bought school supplies and was persuaded by my mother to buy new clothes, which I wasn’t particularly interested in at the time. Finally, it was my first day of school in America (sorry for mentioning it so much, but it was a big deal for me). Entering the school, I saw diverse personalities and people who resembled those in American movies and TV shows. School was an interesting experience until I joined an afterschool activity. The initial members were unwelcoming and treated me poorly. Simultaneously, the school decided to place me a grade behind because I was too advanced and they couldn’t transfer all my credits. At this point, my mental health spiraled. I felt unfairly treated, burdened with extra work, and pressured to prove myself. Everything was crashing down. One day, I broke down in the parking lot, crying uncontrollably in front of my mother. I struggled with depressive thoughts for years, but after leaving home, things became darker, emptier, and eventually numb. I felt like I didn’t belong (and still don’t). People gave me hateful looks and talked behind my back. Their opinions hurt, even if I tried to ignore them.
As months passed, the after-school activity members began to accept me, treating me like an older sister. I grew comfortable with them, but I never revealed my mental struggles. I told myself, ‘Maybe staying another semester wouldn’t hurt.’ I struggled to understand my feelings and felt like I was lying to myself, facing depressive thoughts while masking my true emotions from loved ones.
‘Lord, please forgive me. I’m trying, I’m trying my hardest to stay
controlled and reserved. Don’t shake, don’t break. You’ll be fine.’
This is what I often tell myself. School is less dreadful but still exhausting. Being someone people depend on, confide in, and admire is a lot of pressure. As my high school years dwindle, I feel like my time to ‘figure myself out’ is also running out. It’s like falling into a dark abyss with no light. I’ve been trying to avoid complete despair by staying busy with school, music, the gym, or sleeping.
I’ve always felt like I’m maintaining a persona I don’t recognize. ‘Enough,’ I tell myself. ‘How long can you keep up this smiling, happy facade? You can’t give up. People are cheering you on. You have to make them proud, be the best, even if it mentally destroys you. But at what cost?’ I ask myself. Sometimes I feel inadequate, needing to prove I’m not pathetic or stupid. I’m chasing self-love and validation. ‘Why am I so negative towards myself? Will I ever see myself positively?’”
“To Ms. Karen”
Prudence, the Pandora’s Box
She wakes and shakes the ones around, She sings and dances her heart aloud. She seeks and helps the ones in need, And shows her love when received.
Smart and intelligent is she, But only shows it sparingly.
Many start to wonder, What fills her head beyond others. What lies within, beneath, Are surprises you may seek.
Full of life and creativity, A Pandora’s box, indeed, is she.
Finding Purpose in Chaos
Shyanne F.
As a student, my life was filled with routine and the occasional disruption, but nothing could have prepared me for the day the earthquake drill changed everything. At the time, I hadn’t even considered teaching as a career, despite having dealt with children my whole life in my mother’s daycare. However, that day planted a seed I never expected.
It started like any other school day—usual classes, tests, and whispers about weekend plans. I remember sitting in my second-period class when the loud, unmistakable shrill of the alarm shattered the silence. We all knew it was a drill, yet the abruptness and volume always caught us off guard. Our teacher instructed us to quickly get up and line up in a single file line outside in the hallway. I saw a mixture of nonchalance and annoyance on everyone’s faces as we made our way out to the field, where we’d wait for the all-clear. As we patiently waited, minutes stretched into hours, and our carelessness turned into worry.
Then, without warning, things took a turn for the worse. Suddenly, the drill became real. Helicopters filled the sky, and police actively searched the campus, but we still had no answers. What was once routine instantly transformed into chaos. Rumors of a school bombing spread through the crowd like wildfire. My stomach dropped as fear and anxiety set in, flooding me with adrenaline. I scanned the crowd, searching for my siblings to make sure they weren’t as afraid as I was. Some students were already screaming or crying, while others froze in shock. At that moment, something inside me shifted. Instead of giving in to my own panic, I felt a strange sense of responsibility and calmness wash over me.
Nearby, a younger student named Kalie was visibly shaking, her eyes wide with terror as she struggled to catch her breath. She seemed so lost in her fear that my heart broke. I walked over to her, crouching down so we were at eye level. I took her hand, gently reminding her to breathe in and out. “It’s okay,” I said, keeping my voice steady, even though my own heart was pounding. “Just keep breathing with me. We’re safe out here, and everything’s going to be alright.” She nodded,
clutching my hand as if it were a lifeline, and eventually, her breathing
slowed. “What’s your name?” I asked, trying to distract her. “Kalie,” she said, her voice trembling.
As time dragged on, we realized we were stuck outside with no idea when it would end. The hours stretched on, and my initial calm began to fray. I felt my own anxiety creeping in, and waves of regret and anger hit me—I regretted not saying goodbye to my parents that morning, regretted all the little arguments with my siblings, regretted not taking my own safety more seriously. Why hadn’t I prepared for something like this? My stomach churned with uncertainty, and I felt a flicker of anger toward the school and the world in general. Why did we have to be the ones going through this? Why were we stuck here without answers?
But every time I felt my emotions slipping out of control, I saw another student in need of comfort, and somehow, focusing on them helped me steady myself. I found myself going from one group of students to another, offering words of encouragement, sharing my water, and holding hands when the trembling started again. At one point, a close friend confided in me that she felt trapped and on the verge of tears. I told her I understood—I felt that same fear deep down, but we’d get through it together. We all would.
It wasn’t until hours later that we were finally allowed back inside. By then, I was physically and emotionally drained. I was grateful the day was ending, yet a strange weight settled over me. Even though I had helped my classmates, I couldn’t shake the feelings of anxiety, depression, and lingering anger. I didn’t want others to go through this without the support I could offer, and that was when I realized: maybe I wanted to be the one who could make a difference, to help students through tough times like this in the future.
That day left scars, but it also gave me a purpose. That was the moment I decided I wanted to become a teacher—to be the steady presence students could count on in times of fear, to help them through their struggles, to remind them they were not alone. I still feel a pang of regret and fear when I think of that day, but I also feel gratitude. That experience, as terrifying as it was, helped me find my path. And maybe one day, I’ll be able to give my own students the same strength that others gave me in that uncertain, unforgettable time on the field
Be Lit
Jonathan S.
Our lives were built off our backs, built for whites not for blacks. Even after our efforts and strides, a house not meant for black to thrive.
Our pride, like a flame, burns in our lives, we’ve persevered, through the pain, that rest in Our eyes. We’re growing like flowers, on the sides of our streets, fighting with our powers, blooming through concrete.
They think we’re wrong, our ideas hidden from light, not knowing we’re strong, meant to shine so bright.
No matter how tall, able to climb any tower, no fear of the fall, we call it Black Power.
Reflections on Experience
Abisola F.
You asked me to share with you, My experience.
Something hard to do since it is so often altered by the present. What does it mean to be black?
To that question I could respond, with my struggles and pain - the fight to feel beautiful. I could talk about the joy I feel everytime I remember that I won’t turn red with sunburn.
While all of that is my truth, It doesn’t capture my experience.
So what does it mean to black?(to me of course)
My answer is that it means nothing. Everything is meaningless.
By acknowledging this truth I grant myself the power,
To ascribe the experience of blackness whatever meaning best serves me in the moment.
I am not confined to any stereotype or expectation. My existence is independent of all external eyes. Whether or not you see me, I am here. And, I am more than a color, Than skin, Than a body.
I am to be experienced, Not confined by words.
College
Tatum B.
Attending college is significant to me because, as a first-generation student, it would represent a transformative change for my family. Being raised by a single parent who took on significant responsibility at a young age, raising six children alone, instilled in me the perseverance to pursue a career in nursing and care for those in need. Experiences like sleeping on the floor, relying on public transportation, and meticulously saving money to support a family of seven have inspired me to set an example for my younger siblings and be a role model, so they can have the same opportunities and aspirations I do. I envision myself fulfilling the potential my family sees in me and taking pride in my journey. My mother always knew I deserved a better life, and I am determined to achieve that while making her proud.
I want to financially support my family and give back to my community through my education and career by educating others about the challenges we face and promoting healthier lifestyles. Contributing to my community is one of my most important goals.
Helping others and addressing global challenges can create a better future for generations to come. I am committed to making a positive impact.
Working in the nursing field as a minority would be particularly meaningful because minorities are underrepresented in healthcare careers, leading to less diverse and potentially less effective care. Healthcare providers sometimes hold biased opinions and prejudices towards minorities, which compromises the quality of care. Minorities often experience higher rates of illness and death due to inadequate care. By addressing this issue, I hope to foster greater unity and equity. As a young Black woman, I can provide representation and show younger adolescents that they, too, can make a significant difference in the world.
Not My Parents
Jerome B.
Ten-year-old Alexander was no stranger to nightmares, but this one was different. It was the kind of nightmare that felt too real, the kind that lingered even after waking. He had gone to bed like any other night, tucked in by his mom after saying goodnight to his dad. But tonight, something felt off. He had a weird feeling, as if something or someone was in the room with him. He lay in bed, staring up at the familiar patterns on his ceiling, trying to fall asleep. Just as his eyelids grew heavy, a peculiar feeling overtook him. An eerie weight pressed down on his chest, his arms, and his legs, as if an elephant were sitting on him. He couldn’t move. He tried to lift his hand, even just a finger, but his body wouldn’t respond. A wave of panic surged through him, his breathing shallow and trapped in his throat. Alex’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, to tell him this was just a bad dream.
That’s when he noticed his door slowly creaking open. It was his parents, but something was wrong. He saw his mother’s silhouette in the doorway, but the silhouette was long and lanky, her face shadowed in the dim glow from the hall light. Behind her stood another figure, towering and still. He made out the face; it was his dad, with the same unsettling look as his mother. They stood sideby-side, staring at him with expressions he couldn’t decipher, but felt deeply in his gut—wrong.
“Mom? Dad?” Alexander tried to say, but his mouth wouldn’t move. His voice was locked inside him, trapped behind frozen lips. Then his mother took a step forward, her movements slow and jerky, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. As she came closer, Alex noticed her limbs were… off. Her arms were too thin, too long, her fingers stretching past her knees and curling into claw-like shapes that didn’t belong to any human. Her skin seemed pale and stretched tight over her bones, her face gaunt and hollow, her eyes gleaming with an unnatural darkness that made his stomach twist. Behind her, his dad tilted his head slowly, almost curiously, but entirely alien. The darkness around his face deepened, swallowing what little light crept in from the hall, casting him in a shadow so thick it seemed to pulse.
“Alex…” his mother’s voice finally spoke, thin and raspy, like wind rattling through broken glass. “Are you awake, sweetie?” Alex’s heart
pounded, screaming to run, to get away, but his body wouldn’t obey. His skin prickled with dread as his mother’s mouth twisted into a smile—unnatural and far too wide, stretching nearly ear to ear. Her teeth glistened, sharp and needle-like, rows of them, far more than any human should have. She leaned closer, her fingers twitching and curling in unnatural ways. “Alex,” she whispered, her voice both his mother’s and something entirely alien. “We just wanted to check on you.”
His dad stepped into the room, his shoulders hunched at odd angles, his eyes empty and dark like pits in his face. His head tilted back slowly, impossibly, until he was looking straight up at the ceiling, his mouth hanging open wider and wider, far past what should have been humanly possible. From that gaping maw, a horrible noise escaped—a low, guttural hum that made Alex’s bones tremble. It was like the groaning of an old house, of wood splintering under pressure, as if something ancient and hungry lay within him, ready to crawl out. “Come with us, Alex,” his dad’s voice rasped, twisting into a tone that was both his father’s and something monstrously wrong, as if his voice box had been torn apart. “You don’t want to be here all alone, do you?”
His mother’s bony fingers reached out, long and claw-like, stretching across the bed, stopping just an inch from his face. Alex’s mind screamed, but he could only watch, helpless as she leaned even closer, her dark, hollow eyes locked onto his own. “You’ve been so good at pretending, haven’t you?” she murmured, her breath cold and sour against his skin. “Pretending that we’re your parents. But now you know.” She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. She just stared, a thin smile carved onto her face, as if waiting for him to finally understand. And he did. With a cold, creeping realization, he saw it wasn’t his mom. It wasn’t his dad. These things weren’t people. They were just shadows draped in familiar shapes, hiding something terrible within.
At that moment, his heart thundered so hard he thought it might burst. His eyes stung, burning with terror, willing his body to move, to scream. And finally—like a dam breaking—he wrenched himself free, bolting upright in bed, gasping for breath. The room was empty, silent but for the distant hum of the house settling.
But something felt unnatural, as if there was a supernatural presence in the room. He turned slowly towards the door, half-expecting his parents to rush in and tell him it was all just a nightmare. But the door was closed, and the hall was dark. Alex’s breath caught in his throat
when he saw something—a single, scratchy handprint on the inside of his door, too thin, too long to belong to anyone he knew. And then he heard it—a faint whisper from the shadows outside his room, low and echoing, just as thin and cold as before: “Goodnight, Alex…”
Black Stone
Malicka T.
Black.
The absence of light
The darkest of days. Black.
Quite the opposite.
Smiling through the pain to remain beautiful Black.
Pushing through to be seen to be bright.
Being a light in a world of darkness Black.
Having to prove your worthiness on God’s green earth. Black.
Everything against you, pushed in your corner Black.
Having to fight. to stay afloat. to stay alive. Black.
Not wanted, always last, being afraid of Black.
Resilience, love, compassion Black.
Anger, hatred, resentment, hurt, so much hurt. Black
Being ripped away from what you know, and brought into a place that never you wanted there Black.
How can you leave when your whole family is there?
Black.
How can you grieve when there is no one there? Black.
How can you move on if it goes unnoticed? If its existence is denied and “you made it up”...? Black.
Black America is America’s real name, they just erased what they didn’t like
Black life is real life
Black hurt is real hurt
Blackness is not the absence, it’s the presence...
Sable’s Glory
Logan B.
Chapter 1: Admiration
A little girl, about five years old, with silver hair, pale skin, mint-green eyes, a garish pink sundress, and sandals, ran down the maze-like streets of Jester. She couldn’t wait to see the knights of Jester, the strong and powerful protectors of her city. Pushing her way to the front of the crowd, her heart raced with joy as she finally saw them. Knights of all kinds, wielding unimaginable power, marched to fight against the treacherous nation of Sapphire. One knight, Phiv, stood out from the rest. She had gorgeous red hair and wore platinum armor lined with diamonds, bearing the Jester emblem on its shoulder. The little girl couldn’t help but admire their powerful grace and the roaring of the crowd, which screamed admiring praise. “Glory!” they shouted. With a smile on her little face, she echoed, “Glory!”
Sable, a sixteen-year-old wearing a mint-green sweater dress, walked down the streets of Jester, the capital of the smallest yet most powerful nation in the world. Jester was a maze, designed to make invasion difficult. Because of this, Sable often felt lost, even when she knew where she was. The city’s twists and turns made navigation complicated, even with a map, and always left her dizzy. But this also allowed her to admire the city’s beauty. Jester was covered in polished sandstone and runes, with flower beds and water fountains at every corner. She might see children running around or the elderly knitting.
Although Sable admired her city, she couldn’t focus on it. “Today’s the day,” she thought, a mix of excitement and nervousness on her face. “I’m going to become a knight of Jester.” As she navigated the maze-like streets, she began to run faster, eager to become like her childhood heroes. Her grin turned into a full-blown smile as she arrived at Jester’s Royal Cathedral, where knights were inaugurated by King Julius Von Schweets III Jr. Sable almost fell to her knees, overwhelmed by the emotions as she gazed at the Royal Cathedral. The steps were massive, seemingly five hundred of them, each inscribed with the Jester symbol and lined with gold on what appeared to be marble. As she walked towards her future, only one word was on her mind: “Glory.”
Reaching the top of the steps, Sable finally saw the full extent of the Royal Cathedral. It was made of beautiful quartz lined with aquamarine sea stone, contrasting with the city’s dry, yellow beauty. The floor was marble. Admiring her surroundings, she noticed a man in military uniform. He must have been high-ranking, as he wore a mix of light armor and formal wear bearing the nation’s emblem. The man wore a black and white blazer, a white t-shirt, and black pants, all with Jester’s emblem. He had short black hair and pure white eyes, as if he had no pupils. “Hey there, little lady, here to see your parents get inaugurated?” he asked with a smile.
Sable stood up straight, placed her left hand over her heart, and said, “No, sir. I am here to become a knight of Jester.” The man looked at Sable, a young girl who stood at five-foot-one, with long silver hair, dressed like a schoolgirl, and looked young enough to be his preteen daughter’s best friend. He laughed. “Rich, they’re allowing little kids to become knights now?” His smile faded, but a grin remained. “I guess you passed the trial, so you must have unreal power, huh, little lady?”
Sable smiled, looked at the floor, and said, “I have no powers.” The man erupted in laughter, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “No powers? You must be kidding!” He sat on the ground, palmed his face, and yelled, “What the hell do you think you can achieve? How did you even get here? It’s pathetic to think we’re letting people like you
in!” Sable kept her smile and looked at the man with admiration. “I’m here to support the wounded and help fight smaller battles. I will not be on the front lines, sir.” “Of course, I should have known,” he replied with a smile. “You’re nothing more than a lackey for the knights.” Sable’s smile wavered, but she marched forward. “Thank you for your input, sir.”
Tears fell down Sable’s face as she walked away, noticing the stares. The grand Royal Cathedral suddenly felt suffocating. The pillars of hope no longer seemed meant for her. Shadows deepened as she sat alone. Then, she heard a voice call out, “Sable, no last name, come get your uniform.” She smiled and marched forward.
Chapter.2: Brand New Knight
Everything changed the moment Sable received her cadet uniform. It symbolized that she had what it took. Suddenly, people stopped looking at her with pity, replacing it with bitterness and repulsion. They felt she brought them down.
As Sable sat down, she observed the other new cadets, the people she would depend on for survival. The cathedral was filled with a mix of joy and despair. Some screamed in joy, while others looked defeated. Not everyone had a choice in joining.
A tall girl with orange hair and a thick accent threw an arm over Sable’s shoulder. “Hey, you’re the talk of the town,” she said, smiling. “Heard you scored a whopping one on the power test back in school at that old orphanage.” Sable huffed and rolled her eyes, but laughed. “Yep, that’s me.” Her laugh faded, and she said determinedly, “I bet the military evaluation will change that.” Amused, the orange-haired girl said, “Good luck. Oh, and my name’s McClair, Andy McClair.” Andy removed her arm and leaned back on the bench. She told Sable about how she loved seeing her father deployed and how she felt when he didn’t return. Andy’s eyes glistened. “I’m going to be strong like my father.” Her head fell, and her smile faded. “I just don’t know if I have what it takes.”
Sable didn’t know what to say, so they sat in silence in the grand cathedral, a place for worship and a place to send the strong to their deaths. Some knew this, others didn’t.
After a while, Andy fidgeted, touching the metal handles and the wooden bench. Then, her name was called over the intercom. “That’s me, Sable,” she said, smiling and hopping off the bench. As she walked through the bright halls, her head ached, and her eyes felt strained. She thought about her father and how he died in the war, about honoring him, and about failing. Her ears perked up at Sable’s voice, “Knock ‘em dead, McClair.” Andy winked and cleared her mind of negative thoughts.
The girls walked to the mirrors at the back of the cathedral, checking their cadet uniforms. The uniforms consisted of elegant chainmail armor under light iron armor and a shoulder cape with black and gold accents, all bearing the Jester emblem. Sable’s eyes lit up. She felt happy, nervous, terrified, and mischievous. She twirled, deciding how to customize her pants. Andy jumped up and down, squealing. Officers asked her to calm down.
They heard a call for cadets to the front of the cathedral. As they walked through the crowds, Sable overheard a conversation about a new cadet who had passed all tests flawlessly, rumored to be trained by royal guards and the son of Phiv, the princess of war. Everyone referred to him as “kid,” never mentioning his name. The
conversations were filled with sadness and admiration, almost pity. Sable looked at Andy, tilting her head. Andy sighed, “Why are you so worried? It’s nothing.” As they walked through the archway, they saw columns of cadets. At the first column, they saw the words “Quadrion Assignment.” They chatted as they walked into the line, discussing childhood experiences and hopes for the army.
After waiting for half an hour, they reached the front. The desk person asked, “Name?” Sable stood straight and gave her name. She received a card that read…
Sable
squad: #333
Officer #1983
Magic/Enhancements: none
Power level: 0.87
Rank: Cadet
Intelligence: 500
Looking at the card, Sable couldn’t help but smile.
Lost Family
Malicka T.
There is no inbetween
You either act White. or you act Black. That’s it.
Your skin could be dark as the night sky, but if your actions don’t match
You’re not Black.
Black is rap, slang, and riff raff
But it could also be, orchestra, proper and high class
But noo nooo noo, God forbid a Black person acts that way and wants to claim to be Black nuh uh.
That’s something y’all don’t do (with judgemental finger point)
You stay in your lane or lose your identity
You stay in your lane or you’re now an Oreo, not Black
You stay in your lane or you’re left on the side of the road
Abandoned
No one wants you anymore
You act to White to be Black and you’re obviously too Black to be White
So where do you go?
Alone
On your own road to self-acceptance
Realizing that you don’t need to fit in anywhere to accept yourself
Saturday Mornings: A Love Poem
Hermela A.
Waking to the gentle call of “ሜለ,” and the intruding scent of itan, that fills my room.
The faint sound of mezmur playing on the television.
I am reminded of how deeply I love my culture
Solange Changed My Life
Hermela A.
I eat Solange’s music for breakfast
A cup full of ‘My Skin My Logo’ And a side of ‘Don’t Touch My Hair” Consuming words that uplift
I lift my head up to embrace
My personalized afrocentric features
Are not to be ashamed of, But to be protected
Your First Pair of Sneakers
Keira S.
I have seen it all. Every scuff mark, every dirt smear, Every piece of gum stuck beneath me.
I have seen it all.
I tell a story no one else knows, I am Unique. Your first steps, I was there for you. Even your first day of school. All of your first were accompanied by me The one and only, me.
But as you grew older, as all people do, You replaced me, but I was fine with leaving you. After I was worn and torn with ketchup on my laces, Scuffs and smears of dirt all over.
I was fine with it, not because I was ready to leave you But because I leave these memories with you.
I was fine with my replacement, they deserve time with you too. Your first graduation, your first presentation, Even your first job interview.
I was okay with it because I will always be with you
Yours Truly, Your first pair of shoes
Section Two: Staff Voices
“I think the teaching profession contributes more to our society than any other single profession.”
-John Wooden
BLACK STUDENT
ACHIEVEMENT
PLAN (BSAP)
B S A
c u l t u r a l l y r e s p o n s i v e
c u r r i c u l u m a n d i n s t r u c t i o n a s
t
p
s
What We Do...
Academic Monitoring / Advising
Restorative Justice Circles
Parent-Teacher Conference Support
Conflict Mediation
Educational Field Trips
Black Student Union (BSU) Meetings
Black History Month Programming
Mentorship & Connections With Resources and much more!
The Tangled Tango
Evelyn Knox
This is a marked year for reconstruction. An emerging from a war we thought was peace; progress. Like every tangled Tango before, we dance our way through. With haste. In darkness and in haze. The kids are alright. The kids are all light <3
ThanksGiving to BSAP
Hazel Kight Witham
Dedicated to the each and the every: Ms. Karen, Ms. Cienna, Ms. Asjia, Ms. Taylor, Ms. Brittany, Ms. Shameeka, Ms. Knox, Mrs. Charly, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Fordham, Mrs. Y. H-T, and our B2G Crew,
all the names we’ll one day know. For all you’ve done, for all you’ve helped us grow.
“Never forget that Justice is what Love looks like in Public”
~Dr. Cornel West
“Make the Struggle Beautiful”
~Dr. Melina Abdullah
“We are each other’s harvest: We are each other’s business: We are each other’s magnitude and bond.” ~Gwendolyn Brooks in “Paul Robeson”
They arrived: August, 2021
All these warm folks alighting on our our shivering campuses bringing huge hearts and hard-won homeruns
At first, making a space where there had not been one: physical, yes: Room 145, Room 30, BSAP Den, but more importantly: in our hearts, our minds, our imaginations.
In this country we have no formal Truth and Reconciliation no brass stumbling stones no Fambul Tok
We have not, as a whole, reckoned with the wreckage of the past.
But we do have luminous leaders who have breadcrumbed the way forward through all manner of brutality all flavor of injustice.
We have the words, the songs the stories, the dances the model of leading with love and integrity.
We have so many who have shown us modeled for us–the all of Us carved a path through the wreckage of the past BSAP: one such Map.
Here is how you see. Here is how you hold. Here is how you uplift. Center, circle, listen, love.
Here is a way to make good on all those wise words of our elders: justice, love, public harvest, magnitude, bond.
And when They (which is to say, some of Us, still the all of Us) come for the good work, try to sully it with distraction diminish it with short-sighted cynicism.
We say–OK, Yep, Seen it before, Deep Breath Just more good work to be done. We just show how inclusive how wide-armed and open-hearted all these luminaries have taught us to be.
~With Love and Gratitude~
My Ghetto Butterfly
Taylor Thomas
My ghetto butterfly, Thug life etched on your trigger finger, Holding the gun by your side... You weren’t born to live, So you learned how to survive.
My ghetto butterfly, Sitting outside, Anticipating when the bullets will fly, Passing you like a normal breeze. I guess that’s when the streets gave you wings.
My ghetto butterfly, They saw you... They gave you a name, They told you that without you, It wouldn’t be the same. So you became a pawn in their game.
My ghetto butterfly, You danced upon concrete jungles, You sang songs so loud, It made lions tremble...
My ghetto butterfly, I’m sorry...
I’m sorry that you had to grow up in pain, Learning that when you heard shots fired... You had to take aim.
I’m sorry...
My Return: Mentoring with Purpose
Jazz B2G
I am Black and I am Back! As a B2G mentor and leader, because I want to help young men and young women discover their own greatness, not just follow in my footsteps. I wish we had this support. So I am giving what I did not have! I am giving support that encourages everyone to strive for their best, to never give up, and to always demand more from themselves. Remember, you are capable of anything you believe you are.
the weight we carry
Stacie Sheffie
i see you— the fire in your eyes flickering, waiting for the right wind to rise. they told you to work twice as hard, but you are already unstoppable. you rise— you dare— you step forward, even when the path is unclear. i walk beside you— through every closed door, past every roadblock, toward a future that is yours to claim. you belong. not because they say so, but because you always have. and one day— you will open doors so wide others will walk through with ease. you will build tables overflowing with possibility, set fires so bright the whole world will glow in your light.
When Black Minds Matter
Valencia Blue Boston
When Black minds matter, the world will see, The power in thought, the strength to be free. No voices to silent, no walls to confine, The brilliance that rises, the stars that shine.
When black minds matter, dreams take flight, Stories untold come into the light. From ancient kings and queens to scholars today, Wisdom unbroken will lead the way.
When black minds matter, justice will ring, Not just in whispers, but songs that we sing. A future reshaped, a world made new, Built on the voices both bold and true.
When black minds matter, not just in speech, But in every book, in the lessons we teach, Hope is not distant, nor justice denied A promise fulfilled, a place to thrive.
So let black minds matter, not just today, But in every moment, in every way. For genius is boundless, a flame burning bright— When black minds matter, the world finds its light. ��
Make it Make Sense
Troy Jones
Make it make sense and be sure to encourage all students, staff, and stakeholders to always uphold the Good Gondo Spirit!
“I made it and it makes sense”
When I received a call from the district to Go to Venice High School, I knew it was from God for me to walk in my purpose to guide these amazing students in doing the right thing at all times.
!Diamonds are Divine!
Ms.Karen Prudence DeCosta Rowley-Brooks
Inspired by the following:
Leonard Theus Sr., Linda DeCosta Theus, Somer Nehe-Miah Brooks, Joyauna Majors
Journey Khamari Brooks, Khalil Hasaan Brooks, Tahj Malik Brooks, Willie Ray Brooks Sr., and Beverly Beavers Brooks
I am “Diamond Divine”, And, Yes,
I am ready to share my story of Lasting
Love
Lost, and Lessons on Loving Again…
My story is your story, Your story is my story, and our story begins with loss!
But what is left, Is
Love of Self, Love of Family,
Love of Community, and Love of Culture!
Messages of my mighty people still rising, And still we rise with Hope, Love, Peace, and Soul Stirring Testimonies.
Our Name is Diamond and we are Divine, because it is Done!
In loving memory of my ancestral family: Willie Ray Brooks Jr. Brian LaWayne Brooks Barbara Jean Davis Brooks
Section Three: Community Voices
“Our responsibility is to make the world a better place for all people, wherever they may be.”
-Rosa Parks
Words of Truth for Mahogany Offspring
Danette Martin
Like the mahogany, rich and rare, You stand alone, beyond compare. A beauty in your quiet grace, No other like you in this place.
Irreplaceable, you shine so bright, In your own way, you light the night. A purpose carved, a role to fill, Only you can climb that hill.
Though times are tough and skies are gray, Remember, storms will fade away. For mahogany, though aged and strong, Is crafted into art all along.
And just like that, your spirit too, God’s masterpiece—forever true. Like the finest wood, your soul will grow, A work of beauty, all aglow.
We Are the Echoes of Africa
Marlene Vaughn
We are the children of the sun, wrapped in red, black, and green— red for the blood that was spilled, black for the skin kissed by dusk, green for the land, both lost and longed for.
We walk with Africa in our veins, her rivers run through us, her songs hum beneath our tongues. Her whispers live in the tight coils of our hair, stretching toward the sky, defying gravity, a crown we wear without apology. Our roots are thick, unbreakable, spreading beyond borders, past oceans that tried to swallow us whole.
The drums of our ancestors still beat beneath our feet, steady and strong, a rhythm no whip could silence, no chain could unmake.
We are the fight and the fire, marching through generations with our fists high, with our backs unbowed, our voices rising against every name they tried to give us, every box they tried to shape us into. We have loved ourselves in secret, whispered our worth behind closed doors, held onto our history even as they tried to rewrite it. Now we stand in the light, in the open, our natural hair twisting toward the heavens, our melanin gleaming in the sun’s embrace, wearing our pride like armor.
We carry the weight and the wisdom of those who came before us,
who dreamed of days where we could love ourselves loudly, laugh in spaces they once called forbidden, exist without fear.
We are here and Africa is always within us.
!SEEK and BE STRONG!
Van Netty
Be Strong And Prosper—seek opportunities to grow, and develop the sustenance needed to prosper.
YOU have the potential to do GREAT things! “BSAP, CLAP, CLAP, CLAP!”
Just Be Yourself
Larita Dixon
In a world filled with everlasting messages that tell you that you are not good enough, be brave enough to be the person that God created you to be.
In his infinite Wisdom, Power, and Love, He was intelligent enough to make you in the way He wanted you to be.
Take a look at nature.
Have you ever seen a Magnolia Tree change into a Lemon Tree? What about a rose turning into a Tulip? Has a whale fought to become a jellyfish? How about a German Shepherd morphing to become a Pit Bull?
Of course not, because these living things live their lives being WHAT they ARE, instead of wishing they were something else.
Human beings are oftentimes ungrateful for the gifts that were created and placed inside of them. No two human beings are alike because God wants us to be authentically His. He put treasures in us that no one has, so that we can share what no one else has to offer this world.
Instead of trying to fit in the crowd, examine who you are.
Pay close attention to what brings you joy, and what brings you pain. Make adjustments that bring you comfort and peace. Eliminate anything or anyone who refuses to accept your truth, and be brave enough to follow your joy!
Being you, will bring you joy that flows like a mighty river
Brenda Shaw-Pirtle
To be young
To be gifted
And,
To be Black; ALL AT THE SAME TIME?
Yes—That’s what Sister Nina proclaimed. That’s what the Our Father said, First!
Beautiful Dark
Comely
And, Wonderfully Made! He knew the plans He had for us—
Prosperity
Well-Being
Hope
And a Future. Have her dreams been deferred? Are His plans not preferred?
I I wrote them on the walls, I taught it to them all
But tell me, you YBG
What happened to her dream, to his dream
To His plans, Y’all?
Stole from our land
So they could steal OUR land
Hmmmm
Sounds like somebody else’s plan.
From boats to fields without a proper days rest
To lashes and gashes on backs over-stressed.
I know they did wonder Just what had gone asunder
From a life well-crest, full of fest and jest And always well-dressed
To a life of strife
Treated worse than wildlife.
When I look back to where we started Seems to me you have departed
From the dream
From the Land
From The Plan.
When they look down with Him on us, I wonder who they see
Yavonka Hairston-Truitt, Venice High School Principal
Monique Fordham-Jackson, Venice High School Assistant Principal
Taylor Thomas, BSAP School Climate Advocate
Evelyn Knox, BSAP Academic Counselor
Candice Flournoy, BSAP Community Parent Representative
Asjia Hasberry, BSAP School Climate Advocate
Troy Jones, Venice High School Lead Campus Aide
Dr. Renysha Scott, Venice High School College Counselor
Sarah Carrillo-Sarr, Venice High School College Counselor
Stacie Sheffie, Venice High School Academic Counselor
Eva Carpenter, BSAP Administrator of Instruction
Valencia Blue Boston, BSAP Administrator of Instruction
Charly Paap, BSAP Psychiatric Social Worker
Eli Davidow, Venice High School Teacher
Mary Greene, Venice High School Teacher
Jennifer Lisowski, Venice High School Teacher
Gloria Gonzales, Venice High School Teacher
Samantha Cline,Venice High School Teacher
Marcos Sandoval,Venice High School Teacher
Mark Gudani, Venice High School Teacher
Stanley Johnson, Venice High School Teacher
Bryant Odega, Venice High School Teacher
Hazel Kight Witham, Venice High School Teacher
Christine Tachiki, Venice High School Teacher
Patricia Nieto, Venice High School Teacher
Candace Sanders, for the beautiful design of the book.
All of our authors, for their creative courage, and to friends and family for supporting them unconditionally.
About 826LA
Vision: 826LA envisions a Los Angeles where every child has access to quality writing education and is empowered to express themselves creatively through writing. We envision a Los Angeles where every teacher is supported in their writing-based educational objectives.
Mission: 826LA is dedicated to unlocking and cultivating the creative power of writing for students ages 6 to 18, and to helping teachers inspire their students to write.
How we advance our mission: A nonprofit organization, our services are structured around our understanding that great leaps in learning can happen with one-on-one attention, and that strong writing skills are fundamental to future success.
With this in mind, we provide after-school tutoring in all subjects, evening and weekend workshops, in-school programs, field trips, college access, help for English language learners, and assistance with student publications.
All of our programs are challenging and enjoyable, and ultimately strengthen each student’s ability to express ideas effectively, creatively, confidently, and in their own voice.
Core Values:
826LA values joy in the service of achieving educational goals. Our community norms value diversity, equity, inclusion, and access. We therefore prioritize partnerships with Title 1 Schools, engagement with historically marginalized populations, and training and deploying communitybased volunteers in support of our mission. As a teaching approach, we value creativity, authenticity, empathy, and lively, rigorous, and studentcentered writing education. As an educational enrichment organization, we value supporting teachers, principals, and other school staff in the pursuit of excellence.
Programs
After-School Writing Programs
Mondays through Thursdays, students attend 826LA for after-school writing programs. Students participate in community building activities, work on homework or reading with trained tutors, and of course, write! Students submit their writing for inclusion in chapbooks, which 826LA publishes twice a year. To celebrate students’ hard work, 826LA unveils these chapbooks at book release parties, where students read their work to thunderous applause from their volunteers, families, and peers.
Field Trips
During the week, 826LA invites teachers and their students to our writing labs to participate in a morning of collaboration, creativity, and writing. Whether Storytelling & Bookmaking, Well-Wishing & Poetry, Choose Your Own Adventure, or Memoir, field trips at 826LA support teacher curriculum and student learning by offering a safe space for students to be their most imaginative and to work on their writing skills. In a few short hours, students brainstorm, write, edit their work, and leave with something tangible—a bound book—as well as a renewed confidence in their ability to tell their stories.
In-Schools Programs & Writers’ Rooms
Because not all students can come to us, 826LA brings specially trained volunteer tutors into classrooms throughout Los Angeles. There, volunteers provide one-on-one or small group assistance with writing projects. 826LA works with teachers to craft all projects, which are designed to engage students while targeting curricular needs. In addition to visiting twenty schools in the Los Angeles Unified School District each year, 826LA has additional sites within Manual Arts High School, Roosevelt High School, and Venice High School called The 826LA Writers’ Rooms.
Workshops
826LA’s workshops bring students together with artists, writers, and professionals for creative collaboration. Whether the subject is journalism or preparing for the zombie apocalypse, our workshops foster student creativity while strengthening writing skills. This program includes two long running partnerships with Paramount Pictures and the Hammer Museum.
Staff
Jaime Balboa
Executive Director
Diego Quevedo Chief of Staff
Shani Foster Director of Education
Christie Thomas Director of Development
Pedro Estrada
Programs & Operations Manager, Echo Park
Mike Dunbar
Programs & Operations Manager, Mar Vista
Mateo Acosta
Associate Director of Community Engagement
Carinne Mangold
Store and General
Operations Manager
Time Travel Marts in Echo Park & Mar Vista
Alma Carrillo
Senior Manager of Strategic Partnerships and Communications
Trevor Crown
Senior Manager of Volunteer Innovation and Assessment
Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo
Senior Volunteer Coordinator
Katie Feige
Institutional Giving Manager
Maddie Silva Manager of Special Initiatives
Arisdeysi Cruz
Tutoring Program Coordinator
Marco Beltran
Writers’ Room Program Coordinator
Manual Arts High School
Wendy Beltran
Senior Writers’ Room Program
Coordinator, Roosevelt High School
Cole Montgomery
Senior Development Coordinator
Ariana Ponce Olivares
Senior Civic Engagement Coordinator
Wilson Swain
Creative Engagement Specialist
Julia Malinow
In-Schools and Tutoring Program Coordinator
Board
Karen Van Kirk
Board President
Customer Experience & Operations
Sarah Rosenwald Varet
Board Vice President
Governance Committee Chair
Attorney
David Ullendorff
Board Treasurer
Finance Committee Chair
Co-Founder, Mathnasium
Cisca Brouwer
Development Committee Chair Attorney/Writer
Ben Au
Litigation Partner, Orrick
Jeff Boos
Brokerage Operations & Services, Side
Scott Boxenbaum Comedian & Real Estate
Iman Farrior
Business Affairs Executive, Creative Artists Agency
Joe Ferencz CEO/Founder, GameFam
Scott A. Ginsburg Real Estate, Boulevard Partners
Susan Ko Clinical Psychology & Executive Leadership
Hon. Holly A. Thomas Circuit Judge, United States Court of Appeals Ninth Circuit
