To Remind Myself I Haven't Left Yet

826NYC Books 372 Fifth Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11215 To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet © 2022 by 826NYC and the authors. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

First 826NYC edition June 2022 Manufactured in the United States of Brooklyn 978-1-948644-97-6 The writing in this book was produced in the 2021-2022 school year at 826NYC’s Young Writers Publish project at the New York City Lab School for Collaborative Studies.

The sessions were run by Maryann Aita with the support of Cara Zimmer.

Designed by Ciara Cordasco Edited and proofread by Carly Fisher, Nicholas Martinez, Tiana Moe, and Chloe Rapp.

Printed by Bookmobile This program is supported by 826 National, the Amazon Literary Partnership, The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation, Con Edison, The Find Your Light Foundation, The Hawkins Project, International Paper, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Kettering Family Foundation, The Minerva Foundation, The Resnick Foundation, The Yelp Foundation, and Youth, Inc. This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council.

The program is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature. Additional support comes from the National Endowment for the Arts. To find out more about how National Endowment for the Arts grants impact individuals and communities, visit www.arts.gov.

826NYC is grateful to the many individuals who support our work. To see our full list of supporters or make a donation, please visit https://826nyc.org/donate-us/.

826NYC is a nonprofit organization whose mission is to encourage the exploration of endless possibilities through the power of writing. Undefined by circumstance, our students build the skills to boldly write their own paths forward. We support new and exciting approaches to writing and inspire student engagement. And we foster generations of creative writers and thinkers, who together will define a better future.

C O N T E N T WAR N I N G This book is intended for mature audiences, with some topics, themes, and language, including fictional violence, that may not be suitable for young readers.

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S Prologue · Cara Zimmer........................................................................................................................................ 7 In My Dream · Jared Chin..................................................................................................................................... 11 I. The Stitching Won’t Stop Ripping Out How to Use a School-Issued ID · Sylvie Jane Slotkin.............................................................................. 15 EK 22.......................................................................................................................................................................... 18 Thumbs Up · Himena Yamane......................................................................................................................... 19 Ur Mom · Olivia Harden.................................................................................................................................... 20 MS 22....................................................................................................................................................................... 23 HY 22......................................................................................................................................................................... 24 A Thorough Guide to the Painstaking Process of Examining One’s Wardrobe · Jackson Wilmot.......... 25 EG 22........................................................................................................................................................................ 30 OH 23......................................................................................................................................................................... 31 Milo’s Top Ten Epic Moments at Lab · Milo Seifer................................................................................. 32 AS 23........................................................................................................................................................................ 35 On the C Train This Morning · Sasha Sapon............................................................................................ 36 RLK 22...................................................................................................................................................................... 38 II. Even in the Pictures I Want to Write a Poem for the People Who Get Me · Ellie Krulwich.............................................. 40 Red Bull Gives You Wings · Abby Stone....................................................................................................... 41 MH 22....................................................................................................................................................................... 42 All Eyes on Me · Sophie Dehnert................................................................................................................... 43 RG 22......................................................................................................................................................................... 44 JC 22..........................................................................................................................................................................45 Unable · Justin Chen...........................................................................................................................................46 SS 23......................................................................................................................................................................... 48 A Long Departed Jade · Caleb A. Yamamura............................................................................................49 The Things I’d Like to Forget · Maggie Harte............................................................................................ 51 AS 22........................................................................................................................................................................ 54 JC 22......................................................................................................................................................................... 55 So yeah, this one time I cried on a day I got to skip school · Jacob Goldsmith.......................... 56 SD 22........................................................................................................................................................................ 58 Black Noise · Ryan Garnier.............................................................................................................................. 59

III. My Existence in a Passing Thought Layers and Tree Rings · Eva Gittardi............................................................................................................ 62 CAY 23..................................................................................................................................................................... 63

Epitaphs · Jack Pattarini.................................................................................................................................... 64 GG 22....................................................................................................................................................................... 65 Lost in Time · Gideon Glick............................................................................................................................. 66 JG 22.......................................................................................................................................................................... 67 The Angel Above Me · Eliana Schaer......................................................................................................... 68 JW 23.........................................................................................................................................................................73 SJS 23........................................................................................................................................................................ 74 RLK · Ryan Lee Kaye........................................................................................................................................... 75 ES 22........................................................................................................................................................................ 77 JP 22.......................................................................................................................................................................... 78 A Final Note · Mila Katz......................................................................................................................................79 Calavo Papaya · Arden Sklar.......................................................................................................................... 80 Acknowledgments.............................................................................................................................................. 84

Prologue Reader, I know I should be writing to you. But this year, my fifth year filling this page, I’m going to break with tradition, and instead allow you to read something I’ve written to someone else. You’ll want to imagine us around a large square, mismatched chairs, pale blue walls, soft black notebooks, west-facing windows, sneakers, pencils, city kids.

I’ve gone around the room, starting to my left. · I love those hot pink hightops and all that joy.

I love how your eyes smiled above your mask and your voice calmed me each time you spoke.

I love the quiet laughter that you tried, unsuccessfully, to hide from me.

I love that easy way about you, and how, in your writing, you let us in on what’s underneath.

I love your eyelashes, love the light your whole face takes on when you’re around people who make you happy.

I love the hours we spent here after school sophomore year, and I love how you take care of your friends.

I love the grace of your movements, but even more so, the grace of your kindness.

I love your bouncing knee, love the way you treated all the women around you, the way you called goodbye to me after every class.

I love that you could be neither more cool nor more humble.

I love your kneesocks, love your silliness coupled with intellect.

I love the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you turn a conversation with a new idea, the way you read your work.

I love your jacket over your hoodie, I love this longer hair, love how you walk on your toes—I’ve loved a second chance to get to know you.

I love all that black, that guitar slung over your shoulder on Zoom, the gentleness you can

exude perhaps without even knowing it—what you’ve said about my writing means so much to me.

I love your baggy jeans, your doodles, and the way you so often told me, with such sincerity, I appreciate it, Ms. Zimmer.

I love your sparkly eyeshadow and unassuming brilliance.

I love your winks, love the singularity of every one of your outfits and the tenderness of every one of your hugs—when you told me you’d missed me, I believed it. What a blessing to have spent three years with you.

I love your chunky silver rings, love the way you saw something in every piece we read that I’d never seen before—I love how you’ve grown.

I love your red, your poise, your matter-of-fact fearlessness.

I love how you consistently laid bare for us your vulnerabilities, and in so doing, gave us someone to someday be.

I love your questions and your old soul and your ability to be wonderful without acting as if you have any idea how wonderful you are.

I love your bangs, love that you are quietly, radically bold, and I love that you sat next to me so that most days, I could hear you read what you’d written. · Reader, now I’ll speak to you. May you one day be able to share the fullness of yourself with others the way these twenty-two writers have allowed me to share the fullness of myself with them, what is in me that is beautiful and ugly, what is in me that I love and that I hate. May you one day look forward to something the way I looked forward to the scraping of chairs, the corralling of desks, at ten o’clock in the morning.

May you one day write a love letter, and may that be your legacy.

Cara Zimmer

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

11

In My Dream I’m stuck in my own world— I can’t see anyone,

I can’t hear anyone.

Suddenly, faded pictures of my ancestors float around me.

My hands start to sweat as I scavenge for an escape.

Loud arguments in Cantonese fill my ears as the stench of cigarette smoke fills my nose when I gasp for air.

The vague memories begin to cloud my head: walking into the kitchen, observing the guava trees in the garden through the big window, and the vibrant red of Lunar New Year decorations comes rushing towards me.

I am scared, yet intrigued by everything around me; it feels like my whole world is right there.

My heart’s beating out of my chest.

Suddenly, all the moments fade away, floating out of my reach.

I desperately chase after them.

I jump— I stretch— I still can’t reach them as everything in front me turns dark.

Jared Chin JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Stitching Won’t Stop Ripping Out

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How to Use a School-Issued ID I. I didn’t wear a skirt to my first day of school I didn’t even wear jean shorts I wore black flowy shorts and the chilly almost autumn air flew up against my thighs and carried me to school and parked me at a table so everyone could see my tank top with stars and my necklace with stars but that isn’t the outfit on my school ID on the first day of school our photos were taken everyone stood and smiled against the walls their irises crawled out of their eyes and scurried across the classroom making sure nobody was judging their smiles my photo was not taken on the first day of school my voice caught at the time when I was supposed to point this out when all I had to do was say “you missed me” my photo was taken a few months later when I was the only freshman still without a student ID I was wearing a blue long sleeve shirt with stars II. I woke You up in the middle of the night Your top bunk was an oasis I liked to pretend that You could see the sky from Your bed the stars Your own personal nightlight a dream compared to my bottom bunk the rough black grip at the top of the stairs was abrasive on my feet You looked at me in disarray and asked why I was crying I handed You Princess JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

16 my soft purple book the one with the tags I’d force my pudgy fingers through I told You I needed You to have her You asked me why told me I wasn’t going anywhere told me I was being dramatic and sent me to bed III. I have two student IDs in a black bag with broken golden hardware that belongs to my mom sitting in my closet they don’t belong to me I took them, my grin expanding so far you’d think my mouth would tear my cheeks nobody stopped me and for a second I thought that was me the student ID thief that when I returned to school in twenty years to tell everyone what I’d been up to to rub elbows with the people I used to envy they’d look at me and ask if I still have their student IDs my collection did not grow IV. the car smelled like chemicals we’d been driving for four hours the sun trailing us hot on our heels the green foliage greeted us a pamphlet come to life upon our arrival, You took out Your wallet and fished out Your college and high school IDs four years existed in the space between the two cards You handed me Your high school ID and I had to accept it because You were actually

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leaving—I couldn’t ask You why I thought back to my freshman year for those first few months when You were a senior and when I was just Your little sister when my fun fact would be that You’re my brother but You’re in college now and Your old ID is in my wallet I guess now I’m just looking for someone to give mine to.

Sylvie Jane Slotkin JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

The train pulls away for the last

time.

One final ride to contemplate the last four years all gone in a moment.

EK 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

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Thumbs Up They announce my name as I stand in front of the first tee box, the rush of adrenaline mixed with anxiety. I try to prepare to hit my first shot, hoping it won’t land at the bottom of the lake. I land a great shot on the fairway and look back at my father standing there with a proud look on his face, giving me a thumbs up. The thumbs up I have seen all my life, beginning when he made me my first customized golf clubs at the age of 3. The thumbs up I saw on the front lawn of a random person’s house when he was trespassing to watch me play in a no-spectator tournament. I knew my dad was always playing, in spirit, right beside me.

We spent our blazing hot summer days playing golf. For four hours, eighteen tee boxes, eighteen holes, and eighteen greens, we committed ourselves to spending time with each other. Rivervale Country Club was where I grew up, where we shared laughs and made fifty-dollar bets, and was the only place where I confided in him and could tell him about the most recent test I failed. He could never show his anger about my test scores. He always told me, “You have to visualize success and only have positive thoughts.” So instead, he’d just tell me to do better next time, trying his hardest not to yell. The golf club was where I was the happiest and what I looked forward to each week.

The joy that he has given me for golf will leave a never-ending imprint on my life. With him, I discovered a passion, and for that, I am exceedingly grateful. The countless hours we spent together are something I will continue to cherish and miss when I go away to college. Next year I will be playing with new faces without my dad alongside me. The absence is terrifying, but the look that my father gives me, as if I am Tiger Woods, will live on in my heart no matter where I am.

Himena Yamane JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Ur Mom What I have left behind is stuck in my stomach I can feel it scraping at my heart Pricking my eyes Not to make me cry but just to tell me it’s there I can’t put it into words I haven’t had a presence that anyone would miss Maybe a strand of hair is stuck on a classroom chair And someone will see it Their face will contort and if they are bold enough they will rip it off and let it fly away Hopefully out the window And the strand will dance, knowing it’s all I left behind but happy to go, loose in the wind In my locker there are Vans stickers Left over from the year before I thought they were ugly so I tried ripping them off But the colorful layering was all I could scrape away Now there’s one white sticker in the shape of a Vans logo stuck to my red locker door For the next owner to try and peel off I got an email from my old English teacher asking if she could read a piece of mine to the class I said, Of course, and genuinely felt cooler walking past students who probably read my piece Maybe hating it, or hating me for being a decent writer I’ve now left a little piece of me in their work and minds Or maybe not, because they missed school that day I can feel what I left behind dancing like a jester Sleeping on my heart Trying to slip across my eyes so I can see it But my mind just reminds me

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet to be remembered For anything

21

You are way too young to have left anything,

In sixth grade, I tripped a boy out of spite He had stolen the ball from me during recess He fell on his face I was shocked that I was capable of such a thing so I walked away He and his group of friends All boys Walked over to the corner where I was hiding and started shouting in my face My false Weak Smile Broke, and I began to cry Sixth grade me would be proud I don’t cry anymore because of Voices laced with spit shouting in my face But that isn’t jaw-dropping character development I will not be remembered as the girl who learned how Not to cry I would rather be remembered as nothing But that’s so sad So tragic So not me but yet exactly who I am In a year if I reread this I may say Girl, What the hell Or maybe Girl, You were onto something Or maybe Just Girl But I can feel it In my fingerprints trying to find letters like one would find on a ouija board In my neck cracking, popping loudly On the island sitting in my skull, maybe with a coconut in hand And if I could reach into my ear canal

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And rip the little biatch out I would So fast And finally see or feel and laugh at what I left behind

Olivia Harden JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

To: mseifer@nyclabschool.org Subject: 1 semester notice before this account is taken down

Pokémon Go account GarlicButterLobster69 is at high risk.

MS 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

We couldn’t check off everything on our bucket list but we have the rest of our lives to figure it all out.

HY 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

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A Thorough Guide to the Painstaking Process of Examining One’s Wardrobe I. Shoes I want new shoes.

I have my dirty Uptowns, The ones from trips to the gym, Summer adventures That last past sunset, And months I can’t remember.

But they’re old And I need to throw them out.

My Dunks are my favorites.

The ones with the perfect coloring, That everyone compliments, And that I wear to dinners, Or parties, or on the Citi Bike to my friend’s house Because they make me invincible And they make me someone new.

I need new basketball shoes.

The soles are wearing out from sprints, The stitching is ripping out from stopping too fast, From hurting my knees, From looking up in disappointment, From locker room chants, Dreams of champagne showers, Clouds of cigar smoke, Gold pinky rings, Banners that hang forever, And from the way it feels To be inside of those 94 feet

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26 That you have loved More than anything or anyone you have known.

People seem to love my Jordans, But they fit me weird.

The sole is too thin, I can feel rocks and pebbles and They make my feet hurt.

They smell like middle school And they don’t fit with the pants I wear now.

They feel off.

They aren’t me.

My Air Maxes feel better, Even though they’re deformed And dirty. They fit me just right.

I love my dad shoes.

The ones that I wear to the movies, On a trip to nowhere, When I don’t care, With my legs cloaked in sweatpants When I go out at night, For protection and safety from Whatever it is I’m running from.

I love my New Balances, The ones I don’t wear during the summer Because I can’t fill them with sand When I walk on the beach, And the suede can’t handle the dew On the grass on the trail to the pier At the edge of the lake. The one the moon Illuminates at twilight. The pier that I will always love Even though I hate it.

Sometimes I like it better when I don’t wear shoes.

I hate when people see my feet, So I walk around in socks.

They get soaked And disgusting, But when my socks are wet,

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet Everything is perfect, When my socks are wet, We are briefly immortal under the stars As we stand on my roof, And feel the culmination of everything That took us there.

II. Clothes Sometimes I want new clothes.

I miss my old hoodies and shirts, The ones that displayed Perfectly constructed portraits And text worthy of a golden frame Adorned with floral embellishments, Because I miss how they looked on me And how they fit me just so.

But I’ve outgrown them And I probably wouldn’t wear them anyways.

I miss when I would walk around When I was 7, Shirtless with plaid cargo shorts, Because I was unstoppable And you couldn’t tell me otherwise.

Sometimes when I see other people, Who have clothes I want, Clothes I need, Clothes that I own, I’m pissed because they styled them Better than me And I hate that they are sitting in my seat And at my table.

The one I can’t get out of my mind, The one where I dream to have a place.

I have clothes I want But I can’t find them Or I can’t afford them, So I just make them instead,

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28 Because I can’t waste any more time Thinking they will find me.

Sometimes they do.

And when they do I never forget, Because it’s those perfect songs And sensational car rides, Or movies you have to pause Because you don’t want to waste the rest, That are everything you wish for.

But they don’t come often And most of those clothes Haven’t found me yet, So I can’t wait for them.

III. Jewelry Around my neck I wear a necklace.

I keep it hidden.

It is not for you, It’s for me.

A gift from my homeland To remember where I come from, To keep me safe in my travels, To bring me luck and promise For the future Even when there seems to be none Where it came from.

I love my grandfather’s watch.

The gold one with the name I can’t pronounce.

I have tried it on, But I have never worn it, I won’t for a long time.

I can’t wear it until I can make the hands move, Until something within the watch knows Who I have been, Who I became, That I never strayed from the fearlessness Held by that unstoppable seven-year-old And never let down

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The people who made sure He could stand so unafraid.

That watch won’t let me wear it.

Not until I’ve earned it, Only then will the hands move again.

Until then, I need some new shoes.

Jackson Wilmot JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

Do we have fewer words

because we have less

time?

Soon we graduate Four more months This is our curtain call Go

EG · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

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Every year later No matter how fabulous I think I am I will always cringe at old me Hair Fits Makeup Literally vomit

OH · 23 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Milo’s Top Ten Epic Moments at Lab How do I write a piece about my time at Lab, A school where I should have spent four years, But a school where I spent a year and a half instead?

A relatively normal school experience, An even frustrating school experience sometimes, But how do I write a story about one I’m so disconnected from?

I can talk about the mark I made on my peers.

The time I spent helping friends with various problems and assignments, How I was a nice kid to the people around me, I helped some teachers move stuff around every now and again, Stayed late many times to wait for friends who had a schedule that ran after mine, But that feels mundane.

A bare minimum even.

It’s true though, I had no major role in any events, I never even joined a club.

I had no epic failures Or crazy moments, Like falling and breaking my leg in front of everyone in gym class, Or hitting the game-winning three at the buzzer.

I just went here, And I’ll probably be forgotten forever after I leave.

Who knows though— Everyone in the office knows my name, For better or worse.

So I went through freshman year.

I met new people, I ended up leaving behind many old friends, Some in a rough fashion.

That doesn’t taint my story though,

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It just gives it more compelling details for the reader.

Anyway, I moved on to sophomore year, And I definitely gained a confidence that comes with high school kids moving up a rank, If that makes sense.

But then we hear about a virus making its way through the world and boom, I’m sitting in bed scrolling through TikTok with my camera turned off all day While my poor teachers attempt to teach me a new subject, And the healthcare workers run around hospital basements because the ICU is full Of patients dying of Covid.

It feels important to mention all the tough workers in a piece about my story, Because without them I might never have gotten back to school to write this, Or the piece would be boring, Since it would just be me scrolling all day everyday for the entirety of high school.

In truth though, I believe that part of what’s so special about telling my story Is telling the moments that stand out to me.

It’s not just about my interesting moments that people will think about after I leave, It’s the parts I will continue to think about, Like my conversations with the person at Xi’an’s who complimented my different sets of rings And now we exchange information on the comics we’ve been reading every time I go back.

Or how Ms. O’Keeffe let me read to her sister’s kid during a spike in Covid That left us all at home for three weeks.

Or when I talk to Mr. T every Monday about the Attack on Titan episodes that come out on Sunday.

To me moments like these make up the real stories we tell others after we leave this place.

Or the stories we tell while we are still here.

Moments and stories that make you smile while you tell them And moments that make the person you’re telling them about feel like

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34 they were there Because they’re so special to you.

I like telling the story of my time here in that way.

And this makes it so the people who read this every year in Creative Writing once I’m in college Can hopefully chat up the same friendly workers I used to.

Milo Seifer JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

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12 years of English class, I still can’t use semicolons.

3 rules keep slipping away, teach me how not to end a sentence;

AS · 23 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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On the C Train This Morning I sat facing the left side of the car and noticed something mounted straight across from me. There are plenty of advertisements that cover the subway walls. They cling to the car’s interior, always seeming to avoid the standard map that is created to guide visiting tourists who only end up more lost than before. Like most subway ads, this one was sealed in the rigid plastic held together by some loose screws, enclosed in a bent metal frame and located alongside the door of the train car. Ordinarily, this placement would cause my view to be quite obscured each time the train would open its doors for people to exit and new passengers to board.

This advertisement, however, stuck out like a sore thumb. No matter how hard I tried to tear my attention from the 18 x 36 piece of paper, I couldn’t get myself to do so. In the photograph, there was a father and daughter reading a book on a couch, and it became evident that this was promoting a fertility clinic. The sage green couch matched the color of the large bold text right above that read, “Everyone has a Legacy to pass on, What is Yours?” My eyes traveled to the upper left-hand corner of the ad as the train slowly pulled into the 50th Street station. Again, people stepped off the car and more people filled in the missing space and yet through this shift of passengers, this ad hung clear as could be. Legacy was the name of the company that paid to have this poster advertised to the population of New York City subway commuters. The fine print of the ad read something like, Make your legacy last by talking to your local doctor about switching to the best fertility treatment for you. All of a sudden, the concept of legacy was now being presented to me as this process of a parent biologically passing something down to their child. I stared at this ad, not knowing what to think other than what if this version of legacy was the truth?

All of a sudden, a sense of dismay quilted my mind as I rocked to the movement of the C train. This precious cargo that seems to be delivered naturally through a family that brings a biological child to earth was absent between my mother and I. I always struggle with feeling as though there will never be an answer as to where certain aspects of myself stem from.

I wind up lost in a maze of my identity whenever I question which parent I share attributes with. Do I share my almond-shaped eyes with one or both of my biological parents? For the most part, was I lucky enough to

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be spared of depression or anxiety due to my genes? Whose nose does mine resemble? Just recently my mother found a collection of old photos and she could look back on generations of her family and know exactly where they all originated from. I never thought I could be so envious of a pile of old papers. And yet I dip into sunken holes sometimes of getting so lost within my own existence because I don’t have anything with which to answer any of my questions other than my birth certificate, which happens to reveal nothing more than my birth mother’s name in Kazakh.

I never knew that I could deeply resent a person who I quite literally know nothing about. I think of my birth mother as extremely selfish. She didn’t even consider leaving behind a single photograph for her child to find comfort in years later. Especially when that child reaches the age of 16 and wonders who she truly looks like and then specifically blames that parent when none of the boys at school like her. I would have to argue that legacy lies in more than what is biologically handed down. It lies in the aspects of a person that are not nature but rather nurtured. This is proven to me day after day when I feel like the luckiest daughter in the world and that is something I would never second-guess. That daughter on the poster would be reading that same book in the exact same manner because in what world does DNA determine the bond between a loving parent and cherished child? Pulling into the last stop on the train, I jolted to a halt along with the rest of the passengers. The 15-minute ride finally came to an end as I gathered my bags, and I walked off that car thinking, Wow, what a shitty way to advertise a fertility clinic.

Sasha Sapon JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

When your time is up

Your impact has been made Its effect always changing Who knows what it might become— Not You

RLK · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

Even in the Pictures

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40

I Want to Write a Poem for the People Who Get Me I see the world through the peephole in the door, though the view is distorted and far too slim.

Occasionally the door is opened by an erratic movement, but it is most often closed, shut quickly as my social battery expires, before too much is exposed to those who have not yet seen my flaws.

My comfort lies behind the door, in a room sitting with the friends who understand me the most.

Sitting in silence or in laughter.

Listening to the intricacies of their days as they would listen to mine.

Or like I could say nothing at all, and they would still get me.

They wouldn’t judge me for my silence the way someone new would, someone who’d knock on the door— and I could only smile, my mind far too exhausted to pour out all I truly wanted to say.

Wanting to let this new person in but too scared to be vulnerable.

Looking back, I can’t tell if I’m scared of change or if I’m desperately yearning for something different, yearning to be comfortable in my own discomfort and give myself to the unknown.

But for now I just want to be content with what I can give and write a poem for the people who get me.

Ellie Krulwich JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

Red Bull Gives You Wings I’m Abby. My legacy is Red Bull. It started off as a ruse, a $3.50 daily investment that left me feeling mature and confident striding out of the CVS two blocks south of my middle school. I clenched the carbonated beverage with pride, still glowing from the glory of making the purchase.

From algebra to social studies, through the crowded hallways, a neverending spotlight followed me and I knew exactly what everyone was thinking: “She is the coolest, awesomest, most attractive person I have ever laid eyes on. I want to be her so badly.” The drink in my hand lit me up, set me apart, made my whole existence meaningful.

Nothing could top my desire to be seen, to be a girl who had a “thing.”

The pathetic truth was, I could hardly keep down two sips of the suspicious piss-colored toxic liquid without my heart pulsating and head pounding. But that didn’t matter to me. I could feel the physical side effects of the stimulants taking a serious toll on my body. I was jittery, excited, nervous, energetic, and it was hard to grapple with all of these emotions at once. It was so easy to fall behind, to take a break from the symbol of my day, to hang a few rungs lower on the social ladder, so my sips turned into gulps as I tried to catch up.

Soon, the Red Bull started to taste a lot better. Soon, I didn’t just deal with it to fit in, I needed it. Even as I found myself becoming more in the loop, finally in with the kids I used to try to impress, I still couldn’t stop drinking it. Red Bull was my crutch, and I wasn’t convinced I could transform into the girl I idolized without it.

In high school, I started keeping Red Bull in my locker. Cases upon cases started piling up. The more I thought I was fitting in, the more I choked down the syrupy drink. My teachers started to take notice of my obsession, my friends took concern with my abundant artificial energy.

What started as a ploy for attention became the primary thing people would think of when they thought of me.

I guess this is what I wanted.

Abby Stone JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

42

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

In the hall

I would have said hi

but I could barely see you

in my peripheral vision

So I pretended I didn’t

MH · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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All Eyes on Me I’m about to approach The outdoor stage At Southampton Fresh Air Home.

Ready.

Set. Sing.

Ariana Grande’s “One Last Time.”

The nighttime summer breeze On my face.

Stage lights glowing.

Excitement in the air.

All eyes on me as my excitement builds.

I’m smiling.

A sense of joy in this moment.

The clapping, The cheering From my friends and counselors.

I feel so special.

They know singing is my thing.

I look forward to being on that stage, Singing my heart out every summer.

All eyes on me.

Remember me this way.

Sophie Dehnert JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

hands swallowed by sleeves; my arms locked with his; I stare blankly into the flood of kids who I have never known.

RG · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Unknown are the flowers That have been crushed.

Birds screech in pain as they long for the wind.

The world is harsh.

JC · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

46

Unable The idea of legacy frightened me. Perhaps it’s because of how romanticized it is or the fact that I’m really just a plain person.

Am I funny?

Am I quirky?

Am I boring?

No matter how much thought I put into it, I couldn’t pinpoint what made me stand out. If I can’t think about anything that makes me special, how the hell can I sit here and write about my legacy?

Then, I started moving past the traits just a little bit and began pondering the moments in high school that I can vividly remember. I began to let my thoughts drift as memories came back to me. Spending time with my friends outside of Lab, eating hot dogs and burgers from Shake Shack.

Cramming outside the Living Environment room two minutes before the exam.

In all these years of high school, while nothing really meaningful about me stood out, I was still able to remember these pages of memories that I can always count on to make myself laugh. But with these precious memories comes the question of whether or not these are my legacy.

There are key differences that exist between memories and legacy. While memories exist as just thoughts that you can recall, legacy is represented by the impact your choices had, not only on yourself, but also on others.

I mean, no one is going to remember me for studying outside the Living Environment room, and it seems to be nothing more than just a slip of life.

I can recall it for its humor, but can I recall these moments as something meaningful? Aren’t the things we leave behind what lead people to receive a standing ovation?

No. Legacy isn’t some sacred, unachievable thing that people spend lifetimes

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trying to accomplish. We all hold a legacy because in the simplest terms, legacy is really just our impact.

Justin Chen JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

48

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

My bedroom Supposed to be my mother’s Was stolen by A new baby Me Sixteen years ago The room is still My Own

SS · 23 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

A Long Departed Jade I’m sorry I lost it.

Such a finely crafted piece, a gentle pale jade, splotches of dark and light, a smoothly carved monkey the center piece, an ode to my zodiac year.

I remember running my finger along the rounded edges— they were smooth, though if I pressed harder, my finger would stutter and stop.

Often cold on the carved face, but the flat side always warm because it was always there, hanging around my neck.

I imagine you arguing for what seemed like hours over the price, because I remember that moment in the bazaar when you brought down that toy knife from 25 to 15 MADs— Dad said you were always good at haggling.

All that matters is that you got those jade pieces, one way or another, for Auryn and I. I took mine everywhere we went for luck.

It’s even in the pictures from when Auryn and I were young,

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49

50 even Auryn’s is in the photo— both are long gone.

So I’m sorry I lost it, Mom. I miss it, it would’ve meant so much to me.

I miss you even more.

I hope I’ll not lose your memory too.

Caleb A. Yamamura JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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The Things I’d Like to Forget In middle school, I knew most people found me strange. No one told me outright, but there were always whispers I overheard and glares I felt when I laughed at jokes I wasn’t supposed to hear. Every little action of mine, like the stupid captions I posted on Instagram and the incessant questions I asked in math, resulted in a remark. I showed too much of myself, and it gave people the power to read me for who I was, for better or worse. No matter how small I made myself, there was always a way to single me out.

I never expected that I would become a target when I first started sixth grade. I made friends with almost everyone in my class because I was very talkative even when I shouldn’t have been. Even in those moments, the teachers laughed. I loved to dance through the empty halls, I didn’t even care if I was caught. I was always distracted in my class, and no one in 611 cared. But I guess everyone else cared.

When seventh grade began, I was no one’s friend. People whom I’d only ever seen in the halls picked up on the anxiety and tension that always took over my body when I was around them. They liked to see me squirm as they pointed out everything that I tried to conceal: the irritated acne, the thick eyebrows, and the personality that I once embraced. They figured me out and simplified my whole being to fit their assumptions. I was convinced that I was who they said I was.

I remember the nicknames they created that I didn’t even understand until later on, when I felt a pit of shame that I didn’t say anything. I remember the times I thought they were flirting with me, but they were playing with my feelings and laughing it off with friends. There were things that happened right in front of me that I was so oblivious to, which added to their amusement. I hate that I always processed the things they said a second too late. I would have said something because I was never shy, just out of place.

I still get worked up when I think about everything that happened and what everyone said. It’s unfair that they can move on from it all, but a part

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52 of me is still holding onto it. How could they be happy ruining my mood, ruining my self-confidence, and ruining other people? Well, I’m pretty sure they’re not happy, but it just wounds me that when I was at my absolute worst, they were thriving, probably at their peak. I let their comments sink deeper and deeper as I overthought every little thing I did until I started to believe that I was the problem—If only I wasn’t so annoying, maybe they’d like me.

The control I felt I once had over my identity skidded into other people’s hands—people who were taller and older and prettier and mostly arrogant.

Even when I started to become quiet, people still found a way to get under my skin and dig up vulnerabilities that I didn’t even know I had. I had to face that I couldn’t control how people perceived me, but I could control what I let affect me. Going into high school, I could start to live for myself instead of self-destructing for insignificant approval that never made me feel any better about myself.

On the first day of high school, I had no ties to who I once was and where I’d last been. I knew almost no one, which was the best way for me to move forward. I eagerly sat next to girls whose expressions matched mine, the lingering yearning for friends. Friends that maybe would last a day or a week. I just wanted a hint of familiarity to keep myself at bay.

The feelings must have been mutual because the girls became my best friends, at least for that year. As time has moved on, I have had friends grow both close and distant, and I’ve continued to make new friends in class. I feel comfortable with the people in my school and regardless of the fights and drama I have had, I always felt like I had somewhere and someone to be with.

But for as many friends I have made now, I’m still subject to judgment not only from others, but even more so, from myself. There have been times when I’ve heard people judge my outfits and my presence, and I’m sure there’s been much more. But half of the judgment I feel is out of pure speculation and self-criticism. There’s a fear that creeps up on me everytime I slip up. I’ve accepted that I will always feel self-doubt, but I know I can get through it because I’m where I want to be right now and I have people who will reassure me. I’ve worked to find the people who are truly healthy for me.

I don’t like pondering over who I was because all I see are regrets and fears that I haven’t changed enough. I don’t like delving into the ways I was

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questioned by people and even pushed to question myself. I like making friends everyday and I like changing along the way—I hate thinking about how everyone will remember one version of me and the moments that I am constantly trying to forget. Judgment only exists when I allow it to, so I try my best to let it all go. I just want to be who I am right now and try to focus on the things that bring me joy.

I can’t grow or love myself if I let my mistakes determine who I can become. I can’t and shouldn’t contain my breakdowns and mistakes just because I’m worried about what people will think when they see me in their yearbook. My growth is raw and ugly and hard, but it’s essential, and fretting over the ways I’ll appear won’t do my mind any good. Rather than leave high school with some sort of reputation, a mark of who I was and what I set out to do, I’ll leave with what I’ve gained and try my best to forget the rest.

Maggie Harte JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

I wish I started off freshman year motivated.

Now I am stuck inside a person who has to pretend they don’t try.

AS · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

4 hours Of Long studying Long sleepless nights Sweat Tears

Monster Drink Black coffee

Opened up my email POW grade 34

Crap

JC · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

56

So yeah, this one time I cried on a day I got to skip school Weird right Let me explain I don’t cry much but umm…

Anyway Getting up that day felt weird That’s the best way to describe it There was one thing on my mind But somehow it got lost between my dopamine receptors Being happy and sad at the same time is just depressing Life is better when emotions are raw But at least— NO SCHOOL I didn’t have to rush like I usually do I didn’t want to go I didn’t want to stay I took my time I got ready quicker It was time to go After a quick pep talk I built up the confidence to leave my house You’ve got this But I couldn’t take my muddled mind— So I chose to be sad Brooklyn Bridge station here I come You’d think I’d be happy on the day of my road test It wasn’t because I was scared I would fail

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet Trust me— I’m a safe driver I almost failed my road test for driving too slow— Seriously— But because if I passed the test I would be able to drive alone Without Don my driving instructor Or my mom Or my dad And the thought of that terrified me I have been fighting to be independent my entire life One time I confiscated my mother’s phone for turning off the wifi at 6 But this was a whole other level This was a huge deal It was exciting But life had just started to get back to normal It was all going to change so soon It’s fascinating how much you can change without realizing it You never notice until you really take a good hard look at it On the way to the train station I walked through an empty park It all hit me I sat down Watching the dead leaves tumble in the wind I needed a second Tears Jumbled thoughts I needed to breathe I was one step closer to becoming an adult But I didn’t want to be there I just wanted to feel that childhood magic one more time I took a couple of deep breaths I wiped my eyes Cleared my head And kept going I hopped on the 4 train to Union Square But never got off

Jacob Goldsmith JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

LTC Shows, Exciting!

Musicals, Happy!

Minerva in The Addams Family.

Charlotte in Willy Wonka.

My hope for tomorrow.

LTC Holiday Show.

Theresa.

SD · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Black Noise Misled by her interpretation of teenage years, she imagined she’d be a young woman dripping in ecstasy.

The kind of girl who’d leave a tender kiss on his cheek, or the girl who’d perspire lust, sensuality, supple desire.

Instead, she’d become far from sultry— she was insecure.

The kind of girl who could only dream of touching another person’s soul.

Too closed off to be vulnerable, and too hesitant to be trusting.

A woman who wasn’t put together enough to be considered mysterious— yet was far from figured out.

In public, she concealed her uncertainties. Played off a version of herself that was seemingly sonorous with confidence that spilled out of her -almost- apathetic eyes; but her poise was nothing but a deception.

Once the days would come to their end, and the facade no longer needed to be maintained, true loneliness took over, creeping into her bones, and she’d shatter.

So afraid to be consumed by a life of mistakes, to be crossed by the people she could have potentially loved, she avoided sincere connection, allowed herself to become familiar with isolation— and let all of her thoughts become engrossed in worry.

Excitement was something she’d decided was only reserved for her future self, and she’d make the change whenever she was “ready.”

But in waiting for that day to come, thoughts of death, of how it scared her, locked her mind in the sickening silence of space.

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60 She’d dwell on how one day, her body would deteriorate. The only tangible evidence of her existence—gone.

And she’d be forgotten.

“I’m afraid to die,” she’d exclaim, having never allowed herself to live.

Ryan Garnier JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

My Existence in a Passing Thought

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Layers and Tree Rings I twist my hair into slim, crackly strands. At the ends sit microscopic knots, balls of reddish electricity with their own small strands stabbing through.

I twist and I pull. It’s a nervous habit I have, to destroy this hair that I love. I sometimes wonder if it’s something deeper. A statement. A cry. A scream.

An effort to pull myself away from something I care so much about. Is it really that deep, I ask myself. Probably not, I respond. I’m just nervous. Or bored. Or another familiar emotion. So I stop. I stop and begin to brush, to comb, to soothe the lion’s mane. It roars and claws at curling irons, you see. It just falls flat.

Hairstylists and friends say I have a lot of hair. I always ask for layers because it evens out the countless levels of locks. They remind me of rings in tree stumps. Rings that mark years and decades and generations. Hairstylists and friends say I’m lucky to have such a beautiful natural color. I say thanks and I feel lucky because this hair comes from two generations back. Fifty rings. Fifty twists I’ve twisted today. I hope to cut it down to twenty-five tomorrow.

When I twist, the smallest and weakest of the strands fall to the ground like maple leaves in autumn, falling down smoothly, syrupy. They fall, they dry, they probably die. But what I love about autumn, about my lion’s mane, is that when I tear myself away from twisting at the leaves, something peaceful, beautiful, and maple-colored will grow back on the branches of my scalp.

I play with the idea that ten years from now, when a high school reunion brings everyone flocking back to this tiny nostalgic space in the city, they’ll look my way and immediately know it’s me because of my maple hair.

They’ll do more than register my existence in a passing thought. They’ll look past the windows and doorways and see me facing somewhere, talking to someone, and go up to me and say, “I know who you are.”

Eva Gittardi JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

I oft wish To come across as

a perspicacious

articulate

individual.

Thus, to my chagrin,

I barely understand

half of what I’ve said.

CAY · 23 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Epitaphs What do you want to be remembered for?

Probably the most loaded-full-of-shit question to end all loaded-full-ofshit questions, looming over every facet of life, unwanted yet festering in your mind as you try to sleep. There are very few universal truths: we all eat, drink, and sleep, but we’ll all be gone someday too; and you’re drawn to this existential dilemma because you’re a living caricature of the class contrarian, the pseudo-intellectual who never listens but patiently waits to talk. The well-spoken guy who says nothing type. More so, the question seems to be the only thing that transcends and undermines functions of time, obligation, and the impermanence of humanity.

We only leave bits behind, little things to be remembered by: money, jewelry, maybe furniture, a house if you’re lucky, and an epitaph if you’re witty. I can assure you that you are not dead, but your grandpa is, he didn’t get an epitaph. I mean he wasn’t somebody but he was still your grandpa, and that’s all you care about. Caroline read his eulogy before an empty synagogue, she said he was an honorable man, the rock in her life. You watched the ceremony in a Google Photos album because you couldn’t be there, but you resent your dad for recording it. He should’ve been there in the moment, less concerned with losing the memory, more so with actually making it.

You dread the thought of being forgotten, despite how much you might wish for it at times; that all of that air and food and money was wasted on you—you lazy selfish bastard—or that your only proof of life will exist in a Google Photos folder. An existence relegated to the cloud, a cosmic redundancy trapped in a maze of servers sandwiched between someone else’s family photos and another’s porn collection like synapses firing into cerebrospinal fluid and gelatinizing memories to be cataloged in an ever abyssal sludge. This was not in the plan. At the very least people will probably know you’re gone when the time comes. You’ll have somebody.

You won’t be one of those poor guys they find half-decomposed in their lonely apartment, who’s only noticed when the smell becomes unbearable and the knocks at their door grow louder, their response a pristine silence.

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Some day you will leave this world behind So live a life you will remember These are the days you’ll never forget

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Lost in Time It’s funny how time works It speeds up— Slows down And just when you think you have a handle on it It leaves you in the dust Somehow Some place I got stuck in between time At least that’s what it feels like I have no idea how Maybe it was that day-old locker Chipotle I ate Or maybe I’m in a dream Because two minutes ago I was learning how to read in kindergarten And now I’m about to graduate high school I look at my childhood pictures And I don’t recognize the boy trapped in between the frame But I am envious of his pure adolescent joy Envious of his freedom from time When time had no meaning When each hour counted down until the next When each minute was simply an excuse to procrastinate When each second felt arbitrary But now I am bound by the chains of time— I can’t wait to be free I don’t like time If time was a person They’d definitely be a jerk

Gideon Glick JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Sometimes I forget I’m smart.

Somehow I’ve convinced myself I’m not.

I think I’ll be fine.

I’m amazed by my own thoughts.

JG · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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The Angel Above Me 3:33 am Hidden behind the translucent curtains, I sit in bed, focused not on the stars that repeatedly rotate across my ceiling or the muted red lights that seep through my window, but on the vandalized white page that glares at me through my dirty computer screen. It hates me, and I am the only one who knows why.

It knows that I’m a liar.

My legacy is a game— a game of pretend mixed with tug of war.

To be honest with myself would be to say that once I leave this school, I will probably be forgotten.

To lie to myself would be to say that there are so many experiences that people will remember me by.

I choose the latter.

11:11 am “Where is your hat?”

Some people might get annoyed by the repetition of a phrase in their everyday life, but it honestly doesn’t bother me too much. It brought me to a life-changing realization.

Now hear me out: Hats are the bridge to the other side.

This revelation arrived when I noticed my friend’s Donald Duck earmuffs.

When you squeeze the ends, the ears move up and it quacks.

I hadn’t been in love before, but I definitely fell in love.

What was funny was that weeks before, another friend was asking me what I wanted for Christmas. I sent her the link to a bright pink hat with a pig’s face and the same type of moving ears.

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Clearly my heart had a calling.

So, now I own my very own pig hat and Donald Duck earmuffs.

When I am not wearing them, my teachers nag me, asking where my hat is.

When I am wearing them, I can’t walk down the hallway or out of a classroom without someone asking if they can squeeze the ears.

I know it is a weird way to feel connected to people, but it is truly shocking to see how one cheap accessory can transform the dynamic of my day.

Every time someone stops me, I watch a little door open, just a crack. But that is all I need.

Those brief 30 seconds, I stand there in the hallway, laughing about the joy that surrounds me, and I am overcome with the urge to speak. To say everything.

But that is so out of character for me.

I have always considered myself “a speaker on the surface.” I’ve never been able to open up my mind to anyone. To be at the mercy of others is not an idea I entertain. The way I see it, just because I speak to them doesn’t mean they actually listen, and just because they actually listen doesn’t mean they understand, and if they don’t understand, at least a tiny bit, I will never want to speak again.

So, although I consider myself adventurous, I know life is so much easier when you just play it safe. But it is unfair of me to expect people to remember me through what I have written for them when I haven’t given enough of myself to prove it. Sometimes I wish I spoke a little more. Actually, I wish I spoke a lot more. Maybe my hats are the way to do that.

I hope, at the very least, people remember me for the eccentric accessories that live on my head. Or, even better, for the conversations we have because of them.

2:22 pm I alternate between the sad fate of a loss in Chinese poker and a focused, careful observation of a game of dots and boxes. I grab a water bottle cap, which was not my own, and pass it around the room until it meets its doom, lost in a sea of dust, wedged between the door and a bookshelf. I rip a hole in a pair of fishnets converted into a t-shirt. Time passes, and from the soft whisper and laughter exchanged nearby, I know what time

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70 it is. I slide my chair back, never failing to hit the person sitting behind me.

I hope I am forever remembered as a strong contender in small class games of Chinese poker, even if I am remembered for losing.

I hope my initials scribbled into the dots and boxes forever hold on tight to the name behind them, even if they are overwhelmingly surrounded by others.

I hope the water bottle cap is forever marked with remnants of my fingerprints, even if someone has to wipe away loads of filth to uncover them.

I hope the hole I made in the fishnets will forever be able to hold its own, even if it is unidentifiable among the vast amount of holes.

I hope that at 2:22 pm, the kid I ran into will always think of me, even if it is because he resents me for his back problems.

I hope that at 2:22 pm, they remember the way they laughed and crossed their arms and stared creepily into the eye of the camera with a look telling me they were over it, but they posed every time. I hope they remember it even if they don’t remember why they put up with it.

4:44 pm Snippets of quotes I hear from people litter my writing and weave their way into my head throughout every second of my existence. Through the unsettling sound of the ergs and the light breeze from the wheels that grasp onto my skin, I am always brought back to one in particular.

“Remember how you would get nosebleeds every Friday on relay day?”

If my unnatural degree of suffering due to blood loss is how I am to be remembered, I can live with that. If to them I am the girl with small capillaries and bad luck, I can live with that.

And to me, I am that girl.

But to me, I am also that girl who would cry in the second bathroom stall, hiding behind her distorted reflection through the shiny, worn metal doors, dreading Friday relays. The girl who might have caused her own nose to bleed once . . . maybe twice.

I am also that girl who rowed for two years. In her final stretch, she rolled

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out of bed every summer morning, rain or shine, and spent two hours rowing in a double with her best friend. Trying to catch her breath in a panic in a double with her best friend. Pushing every ounce of her strength into a stroke through tears in a double with her best friend.

I am also that girl who, after all she had been through those two years, after extensive thoughts about giving it all up, became a coxswain. She didn’t get how she could do that. She’s never been the loudest. How was she supposed to encourage others if, for two years, she couldn’t manage to do that for herself?

At the end of the day, she loved the sport. Somehow.

So, I am also that girl who writes this knowing that there she stands, day 1 out of 6, hour 2 out of 2, committing herself to all of it. Despite doubting herself at every command, every lift, every encouragement, she knows the power she possesses. She knows her words hold weight there and so she comes back to stand in the same spot on days 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6, keeping her phone within arms reach to capture the good moments at 4:44 pm.

I hope that they remember me as the girl who led excellent workouts or the girl who pushed them just enough to hit their goals. And if not, I hope they see me for the story behind why I do that for them now, and I don’t have to feel like I am pretending anymore.

5:55 pm I am no longer an athlete, I am an actress.

Although let’s be real, I am always an actress.

I stumble into the theater, quickly pulling myself together. I am a role model. I am a role model. I am happy to be here.

Recently, it has been getting harder and harder for me to commit to “the job.” I find myself embarrassed, even though we are all there to do the same thing: act.

There are such stereotypes around “theater kids,” which is why I am a “kid in theater.” I go to great lengths to explain that I have been doing it since I was young and I am bound to it until I graduate.

“I don’t even like it.”

“My theater is different from a normal theater.”

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72 But I hate the feeling of needing to give that justification and explain these things to people who will never really get it.

The truth is, I love the theater, which is hard for me to admit. Which is why I normally don’t.

It is just so freeing to be another person for a little while. It is just so heartwarming to grow an unbreakable smile at the sound of uproarious applause.

And sometimes, stories just make a lot more sense through song.

I love it. I hate it. I love it. I hate it.

I arrive there and am immediately punched in the gut with a wave of irony. I am putting on an act to be able to put on an act.

I hope people remember me as a girl in theater. A girl with good reason to be doing what she is doing. I hope that the people will remember me as a girl who knows what she is doing, even though I feel completely lost.

1:11 am I journal every night, wanting to remember the specifics of my day, trying to romanticize the little things. The ones that I hope people will remember, and the ones I know I will remember.

As I spot an angel number, I do believe there is one thing the universe is trying to tell me.

I just don’t know what it is.

Eliana Schaer JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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This is draft eleven.

I have no words left to write.

I’m wearing someone else’s sunglasses And yelling ’80s songs.

This is bad.

JW · 23 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

Mr. Rubel always says it’s not all about me.

Try all you want, Shawn.

Sylvie Jane Slotkin cannot and will not be humbled.

SJS · 23 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

RLK It was me— Was it really though?

Diving into the darkness I didn’t know where to go Feeling lost, hope fading into the night I had to find my light Though it Was Not There I had to envision it Had to see it myself They can’t see the vision if you can’t You look at the past and simply wonder, who was I? I was the kid with the dry skin The one with his lips bleeding The one whose mom has cancer Sure, that might be true But I was also the one who just made you laugh The one who just spent the whole period talking to you The one who listens to you rant I was the one who gave You a smile when you saw my math test Not anymore Not with the light emerging The blinding light shining upon my ascension This was only the beginning It is not me anymore

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75

76

I have advanced myself past that

No longer am I your joke

Ryan Lee Kaye JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Yes, sometimes I sit in the bathroom, But I have the bladder of a postpartum woman. Usually, I just have to pee.

ES · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

78

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

Static air with no oxygen And the occasional invisible visitor

That presses his many hands Down my spine.

Strangely cold exhalations.

JP · 22 JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet

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A Final Note From my slow beginning to this quickly approaching end, the warm entrance which leads to an icy plummet, I have barely lived. The BINGO! I have been looking for will not come, the bucket list of childhood doesn’t exist, and our collective experience teaches my soul nothing. This has merely been an acting opportunity, a test of my emotions, building my ability to satisfy others in balance with keeping my sanity. We must tell ourselves that this is merely our external exploration, the internal search and reward is coming, and this will all be over soon.

However, I liked a lot of you. I even love some of you.

This makes our time worth it.

Mila Katz JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Calavo Papaya I’m ready to write a love poem for all of the parts of myself I’ve left behind A poem for the moments I have kept— Pink light traces my silhouette as I point to a moon that’s just coming up and clouds that dance through a geometric sky Words like soft fingers through brushed hair Backs leaned against shiny plastic chairs Steaming pizza that slides apart at the first bite A message mouthed across the room but never spoken aloud Feeling trapped behind push vs pull vs sliding doors but never truly being stuck My camera roll displays fragments of embraces with people I’ve just met Confidence wrapped in bandana tops and strawberry lips Smiles saved in perfect first impressions and limitless dancing Faces lit up with deli store glow I recognize the pink that used to be my favorite color on a Calavo papaya sticker The construction paper blue that took over I forget about favorite colors Remember olive green and marigold yellow and burnt orange The first pair of pants I loved finally need to go into storage Embroidered music notes bongos pianos and patch hearts have slowly faded in color Thick blue denim now thinned with time No one hates these pants Everyone remembers these pants JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet I mechanically release a Hey as I pass another person I’ll never really get to know I wait until I’m one minute late to Spanish Use a free period to search up legacy Shut my computer to 801 million responses In 10 years can you still hear the squeak of my rubber-soled footsteps reverberating through the hallways Are records of my name signed out a hundred times on the bathroom sheet and never signed back in locked in the basement somewhere begging to be released from stacks of cardboard boxes I tap my fingers to awkward moments trapped in the corners of a conversation Trace spider webs across the desks I wanted to say something profound To know all of the lyrics to the songs on your phone and bob my head at the right moment If I could just remember the things I’ve written in the shower The couplets made from letters drawn in the foggy glass I would know exactly who I was I listen to my parents’ overlapping voices echo through my house I smell the space between waking up and falling asleep My mind stumbles onto premonitions of celestial moments yet to come— A hundred people who lay their head on my shoulder An eyelash wish that finally comes true Snapchat memories of a person I don’t regret I listen to my parents’ overlapping voices echo through my house

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82 I smell the space between waking up and falling asleep I can’t help but wonder about all the final impressions For now I write my name over and over on the glass just to remind myself I haven’t left yet.

Arden Sklar JUMP TO TABLE OF CONTENTS

AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S The authors would like to offer their heartfelt thanks and gratitude to: 826NYC, The New York City Lab School for Collaborative Studies, Maryann Aita, Amayda Arroyo, La Bruja, Ryan Bucci, Grace Cabrera, Jonathan Carey, Wai Chan, Glenn Chin, Ciara Cordasco, Scotty Crowe, David Sr., Tyrell Davis, Theresa Della Valle, Donny, Ronald & Patricia Francis & every one of their grandkids, Preston Frankel, Scott & Dylan Garnier, Claire Giannosa, Anna, Bowie (the dog), Diana, & Ivan Gittardi, Joanna, Mark, & Scout Goldsmith, Grandpa Joel, Nina Granger, Bobby, Camilla, & Pia-Camilla Harden, Maggie Harte, Marie & Martin Harte, Lily Hirsch, Brooke Jackson, Kenny Jeannot, Catie Kirk, Koro, Ellie Krulwich, Sandy & Steve Krulwich, The lady from Denny’s who sold me my shirts with stars, Casey Lamb, Linda Lee, Ed Lozada, Dwight Milford, Ayelet Morris, Mohamed Nabil, Grace O’Keeffe, Period 8 AP Literature, Pied Piper Children’s Theater, Poppy, Steve Ramkissoon, Justin Rodriguez, Shaya Roth, Row New York, Shawn J. Rubel, Jan Santos, Lila & Sari Sapon, Iris, Eric, & Ari Schaer, Wally Seifer, David & Finlay Sklar, Asher, Lisa, & Seth Slotkin, Corrigan Smith, Lesley Solinger, Naomi Solomon, Kari Steeves, Joan Stein, John & Sammy Stone, Abraham Teitelbaum, Genevieve & Adrian Carter Wilmot, Alan, Sylvia, & Auryn Yamamura, Cara Zimmer, and Norma & Harry Zimmer.

W I T H T H AN K S FROM 82 6 N YC In our Young Writers Publish program, 826NYC develops creative writing projects with classes of students and teachers in schools throughout New York City. Creative writing students at the New York City Lab School for Collaborative Studies created the beautiful legacy pieces—a little something to leave behind as they look to graduation and beyond— and mini-memoirs in this book. To Remind Myself I Haven’t Left Yet is a compilation of the original work of these students.

A huge thank you to the 826NYC teaching artist, Maryann Aita, for joining these students on the final leg of their writing journey and helping them lovingly prepare their work for publication. Your support, encouragement, and ingenuity helped these young writers take the last lap with this moving work.

We are particularly grateful to Cara Zimmer for leading the way with this project.

Thank you for inviting us into your classroom and facilitating such a smooth collaboration.

Your hard work and steadfast dedication to your students’ voices and creativity allows them to flourish as young writers and thinkers.

At 826NYC we depend on the dedicated volunteer editing and design cohort that make our publications a reality. Absolutely enormous thanks to Ciara Cordasco for your close collaboration with these students, and the immense care you’ve taken to translate their vision into the book in our hands today. To copy editors and proofreaders Carly Fisher, Nicholas Martinez, Tiana Moe, and Chloe Rapp for their careful attention to each of the student’s pieces, thank you.

For their ongoing support of 826NYC’s school-based programs, huge thanks to 826 National, the Amazon Literary Partnership, The Jane Friedman Anspach Family Foundation, Con Edison, The Find Your Light Foundation, The Hawkins Project, International Paper, The Rona Jaffe Foundation, The Kettering Family Foundation, The Minerva Foundation, The Resnick Foundation, The Yelp Foundation, and Youth, Inc. This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council. The program is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature.

Additional support comes from the National Endowment for the Arts. To find out more about how National Endowment for the Arts grants impact individuals and communities, visit www. arts.gov. 826NYC is grateful to the many individuals who support our work. To see our full list of supporters or make a donation, please visit https://826nyc.org/donate-us/.

Thank you especially to the 826NYC staff for their behind-the-scenes support of this project, from curriculum development and the book-making process to volunteer recruitment.

Finally, thank you to the students at the Lab School for taking risks with your writing and sharing your words with us. Your understanding of yourselves, your vision for the future, and your dedication to your craft, and your incredible creative vision all shine through in these pieces. We are all excited to see what you’ll write in the future!

8 2 6 N Y C L O C AT I O N A N D L E A D E R S H I P

826NYC and The Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. 372 Fifth Ave Brooklyn, NY 11215 718.499.9884 www.826nyc.org Staff Joshua Mandelbaum, Executive Director Jesusdaniel Barba, Programs Coordinator Janna Cisterino, Development & Communications Manager Rico Denard, Store Associate Chris Eckert, Store & Operations Manager Vanessa Friedman, Publications Associate Julianna Lee Merino, Programs Coordinator Summer Medina, Volunteer & Programs Coordinator Stella Raffle-Wax, Store Associate Mandy Seiner, Volunteer & Programs Manager Naomi Solomon, Director of Education Teaching Artists J’miah Baird David Ewalt Willie Filkowski Daniel Goulden Varud Gupta Daniel Jackson Jaydra Johnson

Board of Directors Michelle McGovern, President Ted Wolff, Vice President Ray Carpenter, Treasurer Kathryn Yontef, Secretary Michael Colagiovanni Jen D’Ambroise Liza Demby Jamal Edwards Amir Mokari Sheila Peluso Katie Schwab Danielle Sinay Andrew Sparkler Alyson Stone Maura Tierney Thom Unterburger Sam Valenti

82 6 N YC P RO G R A M S Write After School Reading and writing go together like peanut butter and jelly. Write After School students work alongside 826NYC staff and volunteers to build their reading, writing, social-emotional skills and unleash their imagination as they play and learn about the power of language.

Three times a year, students revise their creative writing for publications that are printed in English and Spanish and shared with families, volunteers, and community members at celebratory readings.

Write Away Workshops Young writers come together in Write Away Workshops to explore a multitude of genres and subjects and to develop their voices. Groups write freely and participate in imaginative writing activities and lessons. Whether it’s a song, a piece of climate justice sci-fi, or a nature guide, young writers leave the workshop with a piece to be proud of, as well as a newfound understanding of the topic, and new friends.

Write All About It In Write All About It, reporters from grades 5-8 learn how to conduct a great interview, how to write a classic news story, and more importantly, how to sniff out where the great untold stories of Brooklyn are hiding. We focus on hyper-local news to see how it connects to what’s going on across the country and around the world. Student work is published regularly in The 826NYC Post on 826NYC’s Medium page.

Young Writers Publish Turn your classroom into a creative writing lab. During Young Writers Publish residencies, 826NYC teaching artists collaborate with educators on creative, impactful, curriculumaligned projects that transform students into published authors. Residencies run from six weeks to a full year, depending on the project. Each Young Writers Publish culminates in a book, newspaper, zine, podcast, film, or performance featuring your students.

Write Together 826NYC hosts classes across New York City for Write Together: an interactive writing experience that encourages creative expression, explores the elements of storytelling, and strengthens writing skills. Elementary-aged classes collaborate on illustrated children’s books, middle schoolers choose their own adventure, and high schoolers learn the art of memoir writing during a fast- paced and whimsical 90 minute narrative program.

Teen Writers Collective Teens are the next generation of literary leaders. That’s why we launched the Teen Writers’ Collective. The collective brings together young writers from around the city to explore the art of writing and literary citizenship. They are a community of passionate and creative peers, serve as 826NYC youth leaders, and inspire younger students and peers across the network.

Dungeons & Dragons & Writers Dungeons & Dragons, the epic fantasy role-playing game where players craft characters to take on magical quests that can change with the roll of the dice, has a home at 826NYC. A band of adventurous authors in grades 5-8 play out an entirely original tale and chronicle their fantastical deeds in character point-of-view journals, histories, and scene writing.

Sometimes the greatest gift is the friends we make — and make up — along the way.

Student Publications Through our programs, our volunteers work with students to help them create stories, poems, and ’zines. Because we believe that the quality of students’ work is greatly enhanced when they are given the chance to share it with an authentic audience, we are committed to publishing student works. By encouraging their work and by guiding them through the process of publication, we make abundantly clear that their ideas are valued.

Original works on legacy by Creative Writing students in the graduating class of 2022 & 2023 at The New York City Lab School. The lines from this poem are taken from selections you’ll find inside— The vague memories begin to cloud my head, moments and stories that make you smile while you tell them.

You handed me your high school ID— Remember me this way.

I was never shy, just out of place.

I hadn’t been in love before, but I definitely fell in love.

It seems to be nothing more than just a slip of life, so I’m sorry I lost it.

The absence is terrifying.

I can feel it scraping at my heart.

Diving into the darkness I didn’t know where to go— I got stuck in between time.

I wind up lost in a maze of my identity, yearning to be comfortable in my own discomfort and give myself to the unknown.

Being happy and sad at the same time is just depressing.

I guess this is what I wanted, confidence wrapped in bandana tops and strawberry lips, an effort to pull myself away from something I care so much about, to build my ability to satisfy others in balance with keeping my sanity because I can’t waste any more time thinking they will find me.

He should’ve been there in the moment.

I’m afraid to die, she’d exclaim, having never allowed herself to live.

ISBN 978-1-948644-97-6

9 781948 644976