The Road Home
Poetry and prose by the young writers from Elinor Lincoln Hickey Jr./Sr. High School, Gerber Jr./Sr. High School, and North Area Community School in conjunction with 916 Ink THE ROAD HOME
The Road Home
Poetry and prose by the young writers from Elinor Lincoln Hickey Jr./Sr. High School, Gerber Jr./Sr. High School, and North Area Community School in conjunction with 916 Ink
About 916 Ink 916 Ink is the only arts-based literacy nonprofit in the greater Sacramento region dedicated to providing creative writing workshops for youth, ages 5-25, to transform them into confident writers. We empower students to become the authors of their own lives, one published story at a time. Since 2011, we have served over 3,000 kids in the Sacramento Region, and published more than 100 publications. Our mission is to empower children and youth through creative writing. We envision a Sacramento region where every child and teen is given access to a creative writing program that leads them to believe in themselves and to understand the power of the written word. Learn more about us at www.916ink.org, or send an email to info@916ink.org to learn how to become involved.
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction and poetry. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author and publisher hold exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Copyright 2021.Â
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Dear Reader, What you hold in your hands is the hard work and dedication of a community of youth and adult writers working together to tell stories that inspire, entertain, and heal. At 916 Ink, we teach young people how to write, listen, and support each other in the pursuit of creating literary art. The words in these pages are carefully chosen and crafted to reflect their unique voice. This book is a celebration of “taking the yes,” which is a motto of 916 Ink students. “Taking the yes” means that students are unafraid to collaborate with each other and themselves. It might sound weird—how does one “collaborate” with his or her own self? By shutting down the inner critics in our head that tell us that we aren’t good enough, our stories don’t matter, or what we might say is stupid or unnecessary. Stories are how we create meaning and make sense of the world. What’s better than to teach young people how to tell stories, create meaning out of their lives, and understand the world? Creative writing carves a path to a better life. Writers know this, but maybe the rest of the world doesn’t. A writer is someone who truly gets to live twice—once through their senses and once through the page. Everyone needs writers. Favorite television shows? Go thank a writer. News articles? Thank a writer. Education? Writers wrote the curriculum. Business? Can’t happen without writers creating marketing tools and business plans. Writers make the world go around. By reading this book you’ve supported the growth of a writer. Thanks. Please consider making a donation to this great cause on our website at www.916ink. org if you’d like to further our mission of populating the planet with youth who can “take the yes,” and lead a happy life. Ink-tastically yours,
The 916 Ink staff, the Board of Dreamers, volunteers, and youth writers
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From the Wordslinger Dear Reader,
I could fill this page with a lot of empty words, but my favorite part of working with the Community Schools group is how real the students were and are. They did not embellish. They did not sugarcoat. They did not mince words. They celebrated their truth—their struggles, their triumphs, their growth—by expressing themselves through writing. I am so impressed by these young minds, but particularly blown away by their vulnerability—their ability to foster and maintain a safe space where they could speak their minds. Thank you to all of the teachers: Mr.Cloeter, Mr.Garvey, Mr.Karicas, Dr.Okemiri, and our volunteers: Alec and Dylan. But most of all, special thanks to the students in this group. I can’t wait for you to triumph and conquer. Take care of yourselves, and never let anyone silence you.
With love & light,
Jay Oatis
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Acknowledgments Jay Oatis
Wordslinger
Dylan Moore
Inspirator
Michael Geminder
Guest Editor
Katie McCleary
Founding Executive Director
Michael Spurgeon
Founding Board President
DJ Waldow
Board of Dreamers, President
Dr. Beatrice Tetteh
Board of Dreamers, Vice President
Shelley Blanton-Stroud Board of Dreamers, Secretary Kathy Flynn
Board of Dreamers, Treasurer
Chris Worden
Board of Dreamers
Daniel Kaufman
Board of Dreamers
Lynn Lizarraga
Board of Dreamers
Rekha Tejpal
Board of Dreamers
Vince Wong
Board of Dreamers
Xenia Schutt
Board of Dreamers
Ian Hadley
Executive Director
Angela Tannehill
Creative Director
Allison Stelly
Director of Development
Nikki Cardoza
Director of Programming
Paulette Greenhouse
Program Manager
Jay Oatis
Program Coordinator
Emma Hoppough
Production Coordinator
Maria Gavia
Office Manager
Christina Nelson
ReadOn! Program Manager
Tory Scott
Bookslinger
Will Evans
Outreach and Development Associate,
AmeriCorps VISTA
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Contents Group Work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 We Are. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Exquisite Corpse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Alaisa Ruiz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Alyas Lacey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Elias Aguirre. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Emilio Treto-Gallegos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Jonathan Finley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 My Gift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Fight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
A Place of Comfort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Advice to My Past Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
If I Had an Unlimited Amount of Money. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
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Nathaniel Lopez. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 The Last Year. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Ray Garcia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Bottom of the Ocean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Inspirators. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 I Kan’t Reed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sergeant No More.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Don’t Print This. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Road Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Man at the Bus Stop. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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vi i i T H E R O A D H O M E
Group Work
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We Are
Group Poem
We are connected and unique We wonder for our future We hear the roar of the past We want to succeed in our social life We are connected and unique We pretend to fake it ‘til we make it We feel extravagant-pretty-good-anxious-SpookySeason-uncertain-contemplative We touch opportunity and injustice We worry about the government—this Rona thing— let me just live my life—the future We cry because we’re tired—because we laugh too hard We are connected and unique We understand gravity—ourselves—English—the way of life—”I just dropped my Chapstick” We say “in God we trust” —“good morning” We believe in respect We dream of being a billionaire—writing a book—owning a business We try to be the best—finish our homework every day—to remember—to become the best version of ourselves We hope our kids will have a better life than us—that the world is still turning—people will have cold, filtered ice water We are connected and unique
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Exquisite Corpse Group Poem
On this fall afternoon, I stare out my window to the yellow leaves. I wonder if I, too, will change with the seasons Seafood shouldn’t smell fishy, that means it’s gone bad I am looking forward to the holidays! I have to pick up the phone real quick and call my dad I want a brand-new dirt bike. I also want money, too I desire happiness, to be so overjoyed by life because of how well it’s treating me. To be still and content with myself I felt a chill run up my shoulder. I hated that feeling, so I got up and walked away slowly I love hamburgers, I went to San Diego this weekend and went on a boat cruise, Life is uncertain, all the workin’ seems a burden ‘cause we’re hurtin’ Tho’ all is worth it, we keep on pushing for a new position The presidential election is something that is currently going on in America It’s basically two old white people arguing about why they’d be a better president and what they have to offer I don’t know about y’all, but I’m hungry as hell. After this, I’m gonna go and get something to eat
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Alaisa Ruiz
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Untitled
Alaisa Ruiz
Music is very important to me. Music can be mysterious, sad, angry, joyful, heartbroken...it can take many forms and can be said or played in many different ways. Music is honestly beautiful.
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My Gift
Alaisa Ruiz
If I were able to give somebody a gift, I would give the border control camps as much food and clothes as possible because the condition that they are forced to be in is terrible and dirty. I would donate clothes of every size I could find and send them fruits, vegetables, meats, and plenty of canned food along with junk food so they can indulge in some foods they’ve never tried before. They go days upon days without eating, and they still have to stay in the same clothes they had on when they were taken in. So, I would give them the best treatment and hospitality I can gift.
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Alyas Lacey
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Untitled
Alyas Lacey
December 11, 1959, 12:19 a.m.. It was freezing, and the streetlights had just turned off. A lonely night, I would call it. There was just one person in this small cottage where our story takes place. Her name was MaryAnn. She was a bit older; however, she was always on her feet. She had read stories about demons and monsters but had never encountered one before. She was by the fireplace in her all-white robe, sitting in her big chair. As she was nodding off, she heard a small creak from the floorboards...She instantly rose and ran to her room upstairs. As she jumped onto her bed, covering herself with the sheets and blankets, a wave of chilly air entered the room. She slowly took off the covers and sheets as she noticed the chilly air was a familiar feeling. She recalled the time her husband passed, and she remembered his cold touch from his hands. Her jaw dropped. She saw her husband...
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Elias Aguirre
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Fight
Elias Aguirre
A battle I’ve watched before was the Conor McGregor and Nate Diaz fight. They’re both great UFC fighters, and when they fight it’s always a good battle. It is a war when they go at it. The first time they fought, McGregor won by unanimous decision. They fought ‘til the last round, and three judges gave them scores, and McGregor scored more points based on performance and skill. They wanted to rematch, so it happened, and a couple months later they had another fight. In the second fight, Nate Diaz was beating him and then choked him out in the second round. They were all beat up and had bloody faces, cuts on their brows, nose, cauliflower ears, and McGregor lost by submission as he tapped out while Nate Diaz was choking the life out of him. After both of the fights, even though they’re like enemies, they hugged and showed good sportsmanship, shaking hands and saying nice things to each other because there is no real loser when you both put up a good fight.
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Untitled
Elias Aguirre
One time, when I was a little kid, it was Christmas Eve, and we were all at my grandma’s. I had an uncle who used to live there, and he’d always ask me to go get him tamales and coffee. One Christmas Eve, I was in the living room with everyone, and I was talking to my uncle even though he was dead. I remember he asked me to go get him tamales and coffee, and it felt like it was real. Like he was really there. So it didn’t even cross my mind that he was dead. I told my grandma and family what my uncle asked for that, and she said, “Are you sure?” I told her, “Yeah,” and she told me to turn around because he’s dead. I turned around, and it turns out I was talking to a wall, the corner where two walls meet together.
Untitled
Elias Aguirre
In two years, I see myself either working in a construction yard or working in a factory. In five years, I see myself moving up in whichever field I choose, and in ten years, I see myself being the supervisor or boss.
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Emilio Treto-Gallegos
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A Place of Comfort Emilio Treto-Gallegos
A place that I feel most comfortable to be myself is on my own or around people who also can be themselves without the thought of judgement crossing their mind. There are not many “DMZs” (de-mentalized zones), which makes it hard for people to be themselves, especially in areas of criticism. It’s best to be a leader and dismiss any judgement you feel around you. Be the thermostat, not the thermometer. Spread love, not hate. Let people know it’s OK to be themselves no matter what. People who remain themselves stand out like a flower in a field of weeds and have this radiant aura around them. If someone does not like who you are, they might decide to bully you mentally or physically. This brings about walls or barriers that keep us from letting loose out of fear for our safety. The less of these walls we have, the more ourselves we become because we’re not scared to be who we are. Sometimes being a thermostat threatens the people who live life as a thermometer. The thermometer will be cast aside if the room adjusts with the thermostat and starts being themselves. The thermometer becomes useless and his fire dies down due to being surrounded by good vibes that cancel out negativity.
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Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood Emilio Treto-Gallegos
I am more than some disrespectful, troublesome juvenile with no bright future. People get awkward when I come around. People’s minds may be clouded by judgement from the baggage in their lives. They don’t know whether to forbid me or recognize my peace. I am me, and ultimately that will not change. I can appear frightful, insightful, joyful, mysterious, or even furious at any given moment and not feel agitated nor frustrated. I am more than a gangbanger; in fact, I am the byproduct of the realest, most ruthless, yet biggest “family first” representing role models. When I moved to Cali, some foos thought I banged, but I was actually past the banging. I sought the move as an opportunity to leave that mindset behind. I was there to get my school credits and graduate, yet problems arose out of thin air. Accusations and assumptions led them to dislike me. My road was made rockier, and I learned how to slide by without causing fights and pain.
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Life
Emilio Treto-Gallegos
To me, it’s the block parties, the spray-painted Ed Hardy Sprained ankle and blood clotting Trouble talking, stitch lip, feds watchin’ Pancake flippin’, biscuit diggin’, grass cuttin’, bad*** cousin that ain’t nothing Tell my dad something, he won’t love it. I was a bad*** jit hopped up out the oven Cooked on the burner, call me intelligent or somethin’ Wasn’t always this, but I’m the big brother, I teach you right from wrong How to live undercover I reach the sky and beyond No more time for slumber Get from under them covers I rain hatred in my gazes I kept the nine somewhere, tummy tucked Blue laces, it was a blind summer Followin’ someone, I needed a come up Squabblin’ for crumbs and guns That was fun ‘til sum’ led to another Assumptions, I got plucked like a stray hair I was young and dumb, but I’m still here Off the map, ‘nother state, I just ain’t there I remember takin’ the Greyhound here and there With my Grandma onna one-way fare, “Look at the river,” “Are we almost there?” Time keeps passing, but I ain’t scared Death a lil’ closer? Well that’s my flare, I move around so often, mobbin’ thru life, 385/801-916/209 Messed up inside, I gotta survive Fightin’ for a future, fightin’ for a life
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Advice to My Past Self Emilio Treto-Gallegos
Be dedicated and ambitious, Motivated, relentless Forget outside impressions, stay true and get it, That education I’m fending for restoration An excavation’s what you’re building, stop what you’re doin’ It’s not hurting now, but in the future you surge out If it’s sum’ to get used to, then keep on livin’ how You used to. Make a change for the best Get on YouTube, learn how to cope with stress Do you, dude, don’t let depression get the best You’re strong inside, and nothing less Keep pushing, carry on lookin’, don’t let my words be mistooken. Leave your life and mind open.
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Jonathan Finley
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If I Had an Unlimited Amount of Money Jonathan Finley
I’d buy a big apartment complex for myself and give all my family a place to stay with low-income rent for them but high rent for everyone else so my apartment complex wouldn’t turn ghetto. I chose this because it is a smart investment and not just a gift to someone else but me, too, and I can profit off of it.
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Nathaniel Lopez
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The Last Year Nathaniel Lopez
MC cleared out the last of the mob to see his love dead on the floor, possibly of an OD. He took a needle out of her arm and began to cry and cradle her and began to say, “NOOO, PLEASE GOD, NO, DON’T TAKE HER. NOT YET, PLEASE,” but then he was grabbed by more mobsters. One of the mobsters said, “Prayers aren’t going to save you.” He was tied and beaten by the boss. “You kill my men—destroy my lab—free my girls—and for a junkie whore? Oh, don’t worry, we’ll all have a turn with her.” The MC became fueled with rage. He started shaking, then proceeded to kill every single one of them in gory ways. Then he spotted his love interest awake and alive but noticed that she was on top of the balcony ready to jump. He ran and stumbled, but he found the strength to push farther, making it to the balcony just in time before she jumped to her death. The MC grabbed her arm, throwing her out of harm’s way, but in the process he fell to his death. The girl sat there crying, wondering why a classmate would do something so dumb and heroic for some “junkie” high school girl. Sirens began to wail. As the police began to enter the hotel, they found the bodies of mobsters all dead. They cleared each floor, body after body. They reached the penthouse’s door to hear sobbing. They busted through the door to find the mobsters all massacred. The boss’s eyes had been gouged out. Then they saw the girl. They comforted the girl. As she was brought out with only a blanket covering her, her abused body passed all the bodies that her hero sacrificed in order to save her. One of the officers told her, “Don’t look at them.” As they walked outside, the night neon lights shone as a crowd formed. There was a flashing from the cameras of news reporters as the chief walked up to the deputy. A body was on top of a car. The deputy lifted the cloth covering the body.
The MC was parked outside of a suspected drug den, thinking about going through with his plan to secure intel and the whereabouts of his missing
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classmate. He opened the glove box, then proceeded to pull out a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. He spun the chamber with murderous intent. He pulled the strength and said, “Time to rock and roll,” pulling his balaclava over his head. He got out of his car, running up to the house. He took a breath, then proceeded to slam on the door. Hearing footsteps, he cocked the hammer of his gun. As the door swung open, a face appeared. A tall brute answered. As soon as the door was halfway open, without hesitation, the MC pulled the trigger. BANG. A loud thump as the giant of a man fell on the floor, lifeless. He walked over the body, blood on his sneakers. A scrawny, skeleton-like man ran out of the hallway with a knife. The MC, full of adrenaline, hip shot the crazed man, but the man didn’t go down. He then aimed for the head, striking him in the eye. As the MC walked through the hallway, he picked up the knife of the corpse of the crazed man. He opened the door to find a bloody corpse of a woman. He walked in and was ATTACKED BY A MAN WITH A MOTHERF***ING SWORD. He dodged the sword strike. He pistol-whipped the man that was hiding behind the door. He held the man at gunpoint, ordering him to tell him where his boss was. The man didn’t say a word. The MC put the gun right beside the man’s head. The man shook with fear. The man got on his knees and begged the MC not to shoot him. “I won’t shoot you,” the MC replied smugly. “I’ll stab you over and over again if you don’t tell me where he is,” the MC told the man. The crazed man finally gave in and told him, “OK, OK, he’s at the Ocean Springs Motel. Now please, let me go,” the man said to the MC. The MC said, “Nah, f*** that,” then jammed the knife into his abdomen because he didn’t want anyone to survive because of what they’d done.
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Ray Garcia
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Bottom of the Ocean Ray Garcia
Right now, I feel like a pocket of air trapped in a very old, sunken ship at the bottom of the ocean. It’s serene and muted at the bottom, but it’s lonely and daunting as well. Somehow the ship is my brain, filled with old pretty things like memories and dreams—while the unexpected, mysterious beauty from the ocean fills my mind. But I don’t know what the ocean is yet...it may be life. Or my budding ambition? Maybe it’s doubts and confusion. I don’t know, but until I figure it out, I’ll wait at the bottom of the ocean.
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Inspirators
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I Kan’t Reed Ricky Karicas
If I saw him standing there, young man proud but slightly scared That he can’t read and has not dared to open worlds of light If I saw him with a light that burned, yet dim because of fright, then I would teach with all my might this young man to be strong Strong in head and strong in heart, strong to in spirit, strong apart, strong to just try, strong to start, I’d watch him grow one day And one day, he would dare to say that he can read and loves to play in worlds of kings and fools and thinks the universe is his....
To those who struggled like me
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Sergeant No More... Ricky Karicas
In five years, it will be 25 years 25 years as Sgt. Karicas 25 years having served in over 35 countries I was 20 when I joined. A young man and unsure of who he was or what he stood for. Who will I be when Sgt Karicas is no more? When there is no uniform to wear...no fight for me to fight, no war for me to win? Does a warrior need a war to be a hero? Can a person define themselves beyond their profession? What is in a title, Sgt Karicas? Who are you...? When I am no longer Sgt Karicas, Mr. K, or Dad; when I am no longer K-Street, Son, or Babe; when the time comes for all that I am identified with to fall away, I will be left to answer: Who is Rick...?
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Don’t Print This Bill Garvey
The insane driver of a double-decker bus studied his possible prey with a pair of binoculars as he revved the engine. The bus’s rusted upper deck, now only attached with Band-Aids, rattled in response. Up ahead, an aging hippie played a tired folk song on his guitar. Another man could be seen cheating friends at cards. A third man was trolling YouTubers to let them know their sacred cows sucked. A fourth man was pulling a Boris Johnson billboard on a wagon behind his bicycle. Whom should he flatten under the gargantuan wheels of his bus? A lightbulb and a decision. Suddenly the bus burst forward, and the internet troll was crushed beneath the flat bus tires. The human bump knocked the upper desk loose from its Band-Aid moorings.
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A Road Home Philip Cloeter
If I could give a gift to anyone? I would give my father an elixir that would allow him to feel young again for one more year. He is 95, and his body is growing tired‌but his mind is alive. He still sees the world through the eyes of a young man. I would love to take an extended road trip and share with him many of the sights that he shared with me in my youth. I would love for us experience this adventure rather than recalling it from our past. When his eyes close with his final breath, I would know he is on another road trip. One that we will travel together again someday.
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The Man at the Bus Stop Dylan Moore
“Ouch!” I yelped out dramatically. The strap of my guitar case had gotten caught on the emergency handle as I stepped off the bus. I had been sent catapulting out the doorway onto the sidewalk below. No one seemed phased by my mishap, and the crowd stayed staring aimlessly at the screens of their phones. It appeared that no one had noticed my fall, and certainly no one had offered a hand to help me up. The exposed lightbulb at the bus stop lit the area around me. I heard the chime of the bus doors as they closed, and the bus sped off to its next destination. I reached around for the bench and hoisted myself up onto it. I was alone at the stop, my knee bleeding lightly. I looked around, and across the street, I noticed that tucked behind some broken blinds on a fourth-floor window was a man with binoculars staring in my direction. Perhaps someone had witnessed my misfortune after all. Ignoring the man in the window, I decided that it would be worth heading to the pharmacy to grab some Band-Aids before catching my connecting bus. I walked down the block and entered under the glowing red W. The store was quiet, and I made my way to the first aid aisle. Despite my earnest search between boxes of aspirin and gauze, I couldn’t find a box of Band-Aids. Suddenly, I heard a rustling behind me. I turned, and a few feet away from me was a man with a box of Band-Aids in his hand, outstretched and offering them to me. He looked familiar. In his other hand...a pair of binoculars.
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THIS BOOK WAS PRODUCED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH
WITH MAJOR SUPPORT FROM
AND FUNDED IN PART BY
The Albert and Elaine Borchard Foundation
The Sacramento Office of Arts and Culture, with support from the City of Sacramento.
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