We Are Birds Collecting Sticks to Build a New World

We Are Birds Collecting Sticks to Build a New World

Selected Works from the COMPAS Creative Classroom Program

Edited

by Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre

Cover art by Andrew Young Interior art by Merit Thursday

Please be advised that the writing included in this book comes from a wide range of young voices. Students ages 6 18 are included and some mature themes and language may not be appropriate for every age. COMPAS Teaching Artists do not influence the subject matter, nor censor students’ writing. Writing subjects are the students’ own.

Publication of this book is generously supported by the Lillian Wright and C. Emil Berglund Foundation, dedicated in memory of C. Emil Berglund.

COMPAS programs are made possible in part by grants provided by the Minnesota State Arts Board, through an appropriation by the Minnesota State Legislature. Additional support has been provided by many generous individuals, corporations, and foundations, which can be found at our website: www.compas.org/partners.

As always, we are grateful for the hundreds of excellent teachers and administrators throughout Minnesota who sponsor COMPAS Creative Classroom activities. Without their support and hard work, the writers and artists would not be able to inspire the students we celebrate in this book.

The title for the anthology, We Are Birds Collecting Sticks to Build a New World, is taken from Zeina Al Ramahi’s piece “A Chance” on page 101

Book production: Emma E M Seeley and Julie Strand, COMPAS staff Book design: Emma E M Seeley

ISBN 978 0 927663 82 3

Cover art  2022 by COMPAS Teaching Artist Andrew Young Interior art  2022 by COMPAS Teaching Artist Merit Thursday Music, additional words, arrangements  2022 by COMPAS Teaching Artist Charlie Maguire and Mello Jamin Music Text  2022 COMPAS

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reprinted or reproduced without the prior written permission of COMPAS, except for brief passages cited in reviews.

COMPAS

450 Syndicate Street North, Suite 325 Saint Paul, Minnesota 55104

COMPAS.org

COMPAS is the special place it is because of the community that built it and sustains it. This past year, we said goodbye to Perrin Brown Lilly, one of the people who worked tirelessly to grow COMPAS’ creative capabilities in communities across Minnesota.

Perrin believed that "to whom much was given, much was expected." She lived out her philosophy through community service that included volunteering for COMPAS, serving on its Board of Directors, and sharing her expert opinions when called upon.

She was passionate about education and connecting people with the arts. She asked great questions, was frank, and had a great wit and sense of humor. She made Minnesota into a much better place where all of us can freely live, work, play and study.

Through personal gifts and 40 years of support from the Lilly Foundation, Perrin helped thousands of Minnesota students have the life changing experience of using the arts to discover their own talents and be inspired to do more than they ever thought they could.

COMPAS extends its sympathy to Perrin’s family and our thanks for her steadfast philanthropic support and passion for our mission. Perrin, you will be missed!

My Dog Emmie Rueb 22

Mean Jean Aaron Coburn 23

King LeBron James Larry Davis Jr. 24

Mind in Rest (contrapuntal) Jamie Drevlow 25

May and the Bear Bay Vagle 27

The Boy and the Wolf Braxton Carr 28

Ode to Peace — You Are the One Sam Schwartzentruber 29

The Dream of Peace Benjamin Edward Kunkel 30

Be Proud of Yourself Ms. McCoy’s Class 31

Believer Ms. Gupton’s Class 33

Diamonds in the Dark Ms. Eischen’s Class 34

Ode to Books Elizabeth Desrosier 35

Magnetic Poetry Onya Vandarcia 36

Infinite Worlds Hamilton’s Class 37

If You Don’t Know Me By Now Miles Davenport 38

Peace Yotam Muchtar 39

Spirit Olivia George 40

Youngest Brother Daniel Fenske 41

It’s been an honor and a pleasure to go through the poems, songs, and stories for this year’s COMPAS anthology. I hope every reader understands that this is all just a tiny snapshot of what could be hundreds, thousands of pages of writing. And that matters. Young people writing always matters, but it feels even more critical in 2022.

To expand on that, I will let you in on an industry secret: we don’t study creative writing in school so that everyone can grow up to be a professional poet or novelist.

Of course, for a handful of students, that may indeed be the path that they choose. For them, a residency with a veteran teaching artist might be a pivotal stepping stone on their journey, an opportunity to sharpen their skills, receive encouragement, and simply envision themselves doing creative work for a living.

For most students, however, the creative writing unit, the poet/musician guest speaker, the in class open mic they’re just passing moments, filed away in our memories next to sports, first loves, science projects, afterschool jobs, or whatever else we end up actually remembering from our early years. That is not to say, however, that these arts experiences don’t matter; just the opposite. If anything, my experience as a teaching artist has taught me that these residencies and workshops matter even more to the young people who don’t end up publishing bestsellers or becoming famous writers.

Because while it’s easy to talk about the tangible benefits of studying creative writing in school, and all the ways that it

aligns with and enhances a traditional language arts curriculum, it’s the more intangible elements that stick with us. For example, a teaching artist might break down concepts related to structure and narrative arc—how important it is for a story to have a thoughtful, intentional reason to move from point A to point B—but beyond that specific lesson, there’s the much bigger, more dynamic, more challenging, more generative question: what do you want to write about?

What matters to you? What values do you hold? What is your story? If you were standing up on a stage in front of a bunch of your peers, what would you actually want to share with them?

I don’t remember being asked questions like that very often, when I was a kid.

Yes, creative writing is about deepening our understanding of communication through concepts like metaphor, transitions, clarity, and beyond. But it is also about creating space for young people (not to mention not so young people) to actually think about who they are, where they come from, what they believe, and who they want to be.

Most of us don’t get a whole lot of opportunities to do that. And even for those students who don’t love every moment of the poetry unit, who move on with their lives and never write another poem again, I know from experience that a lot of them hold on to those poems, those songs, those stories— because there is no better souvenir of who we were, and no better tool for figuring out who we are.

The writing collected here represents a broad range of ages, experience levels, and locations. Every student brings their

own stories and perspectives into their writing, and we’re all privileged to be able to witness this snapshot: as young people from all over Minnesota tell their stories, they’re also collectively telling a story about Minnesota, about this specific historical moment, and about what the future might hold. We should listen to them.

Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre, editor

Sec tion 1 : Nature & the World Around Us

Broken Cliffs

Clean up, clean up! Everybody do your share. Here they stand. As one little mess up can break the trust, as one little move could blow all your work down. Clean up, clean up! Everybody do your share.

To protect what we care about. Save us all, let us come together and… Clean up, clean up! Everybody do your share.

Save the crystal blue water. Let it sparkle. Let it shine.

Never once did we quit. Never once did we shine. Clean up, clean up! Help us. This is our world. Help us save it.

Clean up, clean up! Everybody do your share.

Ella Bouska, Grade 4 Bailey Elementary, Woodbury Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Nature

I see along the years: trees dancing with the breeze, the sky filled with clouds and birds; dolphins and sharks and all kinds of fishes swimming in the seas.

I hear along the years: a bumble bee buzzzzing in the park, an owl hooting in the dark night, and a wolf howling tonight; bullfrog croaking in a nearby pond, and the tides in the ocean.

I smell along the years: the dirt after it rains, the flowers when they bloom, the wood burning in the fire, and the grass when you mow the lawn.

Ashley Ramos Guevara, Grade 7 Community of Peace Academy, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

I Am From Mora

I am from Mora.

I am from nature, the country, the river. Plants growing everywhere.

I am from tweeting birds, the whistling wind, the Snake, and the lake.

I am from fish and the feathers of ducks, from the silk of the dirt and the water from the tree, from flowers in the forest, from a loving forest family, from the patch of five great trees in the woods, with the chickens the woods, bigger than the sea.

I am from a bunch of pine trees over a pond that has no water.

I am from the dark forest that never ends.

I am from the rainforest, the R stone, sap in the trees; big tree, tree of love.

I am from the trees that talk to me.

I am from Mora.

I am from picking flowers, building huts, collecting shells, and swinging in the breeze.

I am from my mom’s heart—my mom with beautiful hair and a black spunky cat under her arm; my mom who goes to bed early with her dog.

I’m from a person who loves kids.

I am from my parents and their parents and theirs.

I am from playing with my dad; from my Grandma, who lives with me; and my Grandpa, who owns a farm.

I am from my older brothers, little sister, baby sister, uncle,

from caring parents, my cousin who plays football with me, my friend who is nice.

I am from good hugs, my dog’s brown eyes, and my cat’s soft fur.

I am from a house on the loop. I am from an apartment, the townhomes down by the school, the house by the park, up on the hill, a red farm with a big heart on the front.

I am from a family of eaters: pizza, cake, tacos, mac ‘n cheese, mashed potatoes, and monkey bread.

I am from Mora

I am from winter, from Christmas, playing in the snow, making snowballs, sledding, skiing, elf on the shelf, cookies and milk, opening presents, playing video games, glowing Legos, and dinosaur toys. I am from joy. I care about giving. I am from New Year’s Eve. I am from my dog who just had puppies.

I am from Mora.

I am from a place called Paradise, a place where I can watch rainbows from the sandbox. I am from the sunset to the trees. I am from Earth Day.

I am from third grade.

I am from Mora.

Mora Elementary 3rd Grade Classrooms, Grade 3 Mora Elementary School, Mora

Teaching Artists: Marie Olofsdotter & Lisa Arnold

Ode To Bones

Bones: the structure of the body, a house, or a plan.

The bones of the house crumble when an earthquake unfolds. The bones of yourself that desiccate over time though never disappear.

The plan that crumbles with a person that never out goes. The bones that unfold after the unfortunate.

The bones that sound the snap before the remodel. The running, jumping, sitting, kneeling made possible along with others.

The fascinating structure of the bones: either being hollow with marrow or solid filled with wood; even the imaginary bones.

The structure of your life is the bones of your mind— either the unstable and broken, or the strong and mighty.

The story of your bones is never truly forgotten.

Grace Jauquet, Grade 7 Roseau High School, Roseau Teaching Artist: Desdamona

FireAn angry forest fire: red and orange with blue green eyes. Happy, beautiful trees turned to crusty, hard ashes and smoke.

Kraft’s Classroom, Grade 5 Edgerton Elementary, Roseville

Teaching Artist: SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

I Like Minnesota

I like my state!

I like my place!

It puts a smile on my face.

I like Minnesota: Land of the Loon and the Lakes!

I’ll show you the river: The Mississippi River, shore to shore. (Shore to shore!) I’ll show you the fish in the river, and so much more. (Much more!)

I’ll show you the cabin, surrounded with lots of trees. (Lots of trees!) We’ll keep warm by the fire; let’s have marshmallows please. (Yes please!)

I’ll show you the Lady Slipper; they are pink and white. (Pink and white!) Minnesota is “The North Star State,” Shining bright (Shining bright!)

Mr. Terrones' Classroom, Grade K Saint Anthony Park Elementary School, Saint Paul

Teaching Artist: Charlie Maguire

Round & Round Round and round Round and round

The cycle of life goes round and round Round and round Round and round The cycle of life goes round and round

The butterfly lays an egg Out comes a caterpillar with 16 legs It sheds its skin, the chrysalis grows Then out comes a butterfly that you know Start with an egg wait 21 days Then a chick comes out to play They get dry, wait ‘til then You might have a rooster or a hen

In a pond, there’s a frog Laying eggs near a log Out comes a tadpole, to take a swim Turns into a frog and begins again Mrs. Austin's Classroom, Grade K

Saint Anthony Park Elementary School, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: Charlie Maguire

We Affect

We affect the animals we make pets or eat for dinner. We affect those lakes that used to be clear enough to see the fish darting in and out of the reefs. We affect the disappearing, smooth, shiny, slippery ice that used to be everywhere. We affect that air that used to smell fresh and made it smell like the gas and oil we make. We affect the small animals that help make our food. We affect the food chain setting it off balance. We affect those big, beautiful, and beloved forests full of humongous trees, with their branches hanging every which way. We affect that trash on the turtle's head. We affect the smoke coming out the back of our car with the sound of a Puff Puff Puff. We affect the joy we spread to others by the little things like donating a toy. We affect everything in what we do and say.

Penny Knights, Grade 5 Saint Anthony Park Elementary, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

The 5 Key Elements of Trees

When I see trees of green, what do I see? Well, I don’t see what everyone else sees, what I’m supposed to see. What I see is a moving system. I see love, hate, protection, and so much more. I think of the skeletal system: the bones, the joints, the tendons all joined together, moving.

When I see trees of green, what do I see? Well, I don’t see what everyone else sees, what I’m supposed to see. What I see is family. You, me, mother, brother, sister: linked together like little ligaments in your bones. Again, all joined together, moving.

When I see trees of green, what do I see? Well, I don’t see what everyone else sees, what I’m supposed to see. What I see is hurt. Sometimes these trees of green encounter mistakes, like when our branches break off, like our bones can break away until there is nothing left.

Bone cancer:

picking and eating away at you until there is nothing left, no more movement left. But then you think, what are the 5 key elements of those trees of green? Love, hate, protection, family, and hurt. When I see trees of green, what do I see? Well, I don’t see what everyone else sees, what I’m supposed to see. I see you. You are a tree of green.

Cora Freeman, Grade 7 Sanford Middle School, Minneapolis Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

My Joy Is In…

Nature.

Plants, leaves, roots. Perfect imperfection just like body, mind, nerves, neurons, spinal cord: nervous system.

Roots communicate; they keep the earth alive, working with mycelium.

The spinal cord and brain use messages; they keep the body alive with neurons.

Dopamine, serotonin, chlorophyll, oxygen they produce their chemicals and keep the body surviving, keep the earth spinning.

My joy is in nature. Plants, leaves, roots. Perfect imperfection: each leaf unique, but helping and doing their job; each cell unique, but helping and doing their job. Their bark, their skin, you could say; their vertebrae, you could say, protects them.

You walk out the door into the outdoors, and you see EcoSYSTEMS: the roots helping the water,

We Are Birds Collecting Sticks…

the trees helping small fungi. You could say the nervous system helping the endocrine system, the nervous system helping the digestive and excretory systems. Subconscious. You don't feel it. You don't see it. But it’s there. My joy is in nature. Plants, leaves, roots. BOOM! SNAP! CRASH! It’s beautiful; it works together, but it is not perfect. Anthracnose is attacking leaves. Parkinson's disease is attacking cells. Bell's palsy, Alzheimer’s: rust, needle blights. It may go wrong, but it may also go right, and when it does, it is beautiful. My joy is in nature. Plants. Leaves. Roots. Siobhan Ratigan Green, Grade 7 Sanford Middle School, Minneapolis Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

The Sky

The sky

painted with clouds, drenched with sunlight, spotted with glittering luminous stars.

In the daytime, when the clouds fall, a sky so lit with blue you can see Mars.

In the nighttime, after sunset, sit beneath the moon and strum your guitars.

But the beautiful sky is being destroyed, from air pollution, we try to avoid.

Everyday actions like lighting a cigar are really harmful; isn't that bizarre?

How do we help our earth if we are stuck, living our lives striving to make some buck?

People will do anything for money, but not for their home; isn't that funny?

People are dying from air pollution; we can't wait longer for a solution.

Glimmering clear skies turn into a fog; wildfires, fossil fuels, gas from your car.

Who knows if your great great great grandkids will get to see beautiful skies, or the one you have left it to be. Why do we ruin the beauty we get from the Earth? It is ours to live in and we can't forget its worth.

Care for the Earth and save the pretty skies, the skies that rain down to give us some light, the luscious green woods from when the sky cries, the water that glistens in the daylight.

I admire the way that the sky can pour down its beauty on the world, like a colorful spray can dusting the land with a dreamy bright stain.

A sense of peace overcomes any worries while she looked up and twirled.

The misty clouds cleared away the problems of her day just like a drain.

The sky: dripping with color, like heaven on Earth; grasp it while you can before the smog washes in, scrubbing the beautiful color away, ‘til all that you see is blank skies’ decay.

Emily Huggett, Grade 8 South View Middle School, Edina

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

The Sound of Weather

When the sky is dark and gray, and flowers need a drink, you hear dripping on the window. It is rain I think.

Lean your head out of the window, listen for a sound. Weather makes all kinds of noise, all around, all around.

When you hear a sound like a drum, before the rain comes down, and you see the lightning crash! It’s thunder in our town.

When you hear the sound like a whistle: it is the wind. When warm air meets cold air, tornadoes come in.

When the sun reflects on the water in the air: red, orange, yellow, and green makes a rainbow fair.

Mrs. Nehring’s Classroom, Grade 1 Weaver Lake Elementary, Maple Grove Teaching Artist: Charlie Maguire

Sounds of the Seasons

When I sit down (repeat)

And close my eyes (repeat) I hear the sound of the seasons (All together) When I sit down (repeat) And close my eyes (repeat) I hear the sound of the seasons (All together)

When you hear the water splashing (Splashing!) Down by the lake (The Lake!) It sounds like summer (Summer!) Ice Cream and Cake (Cake!)

When I hear the sounds of raking (Raking!) In my backyard (Backyard!) It sounds like autumn (Autumn!) A pile of leaves isn’t hard (Hard!)

When I hear the snow crunching (Crunching!)

On the sledding hill (The Hill!) It sounds like winter (Winter!) You need a lot of skill (Skill!)

When you hear the birds chirping (Chirping!) From their nest (Nest!) Some people say (They say!) That spring ’s the best (The best!)

Mrs. Burke’s Classroom, Grade 1

Weaver Lake Elementary, Maple Grove

Teaching Artist: Charlie Maguire

All the W orld is Falling D own

All the world is falling down, falling down, falling down. Icebergs, forests, cities, towns: people falling to the ground. Earthquakes, twisters, floods that drown.

All the world will fall apart if we don’t do our part. Animals will lose their home if we don’t right our wrongs.

Sally Grace Keillor, Grade 7 Roseville Out of School Time, Roseville Teaching Artist: Desdamona

S ection 2: Joy, Peace, and Community

My Dog

My dog is a sweet and pretty girl. She is strong and has a good grip. She is helpful when in need, like she stays by our side.

She is friendly to people and likes to sniff as she walks around, pretty as can be.

My dog is a lovely, gleaming girl.

Emmie Rueb, Grade 3

Bailey Elementary, Woodbury

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Mean Jean

There once was a bully named Jean, who was so very scary and mean.

And then I said “Enough!” …but I didn’t act so big and tough. I simply said “Please.” And Jean said “Okay.” So these days we call her “nice old Jean.” And that was the end of Mean Jean.

Aaron Coburn, Grade 3

Bailey Elementary, Woodbury

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

King LeBron James

He’s a great basketball player. His name is LeBron James. He dunks over Stephen Curry; in and out, crossover, step back and shoot… That’s his claim to fame. He just made a new movie: Space Jam the New Legacy.

I saw it 5 times; it was so groovy. He’s my favorite player–now you know his name: LeBron James.

Larry Davis Jr., Grade 4 Free Arts of Big Brothers Big Sisters, Minneapolis Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Mind in Rest (contrapuntal)

Part #1 Wide Awake

Wide awake and trying to sleep, my mind is constantly at work and emotions of all sorts hitting me in silence and stillness. Thoughts, filled to the brim of my mind.

Part #2 - Sound Asleep

Sleeping peacefully, without a care in the world, my brain is silent and my thoughts are dreams, head filled with nothingness, and my body in perfect harmony.

Part #3 Mind in Rest

Wide awake and sleeping peacefully, trying to sleep without a care in the world, my mind constantly at work and my brain is silent; emotions of all sorts and my thoughts are hitting me in dreams.

Silence and stillness: head filled with thoughts, filled to the brim of nothingness. My mind and my body in perfect harmony.

Jamie Drevlow, Grade 9

Kennedy Senior High School, Bloomington

Teaching Artist: Desdamona

May and the Bear

May was going to move and she didn’t want to. She was moving next door to a person with a mean dog that barked all day.

Finally, though, it was moving day, and she said, “I don’t want to live in that dump.” But when she got there, the neighbor had an adventure for her.

“Go find some bear fur,” he said, so she went off to find a bear.

When May found the bear, she put watermelon out for it and quickly ran behind a tree. Then the bear came and said, “Ooo, someone left me a treat!” The bear took it and went off.

May put out more watermelon, but hid closer this time. When the bear came back, he said, “Oh, I must be lucky today!” but May jumped out and grabbed some fur.

She ran all the way home. Her new neighbor became her friend. Bay Vagle, Grade 3

Kittson Central Elementary, Hallock

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

The Boy and the Wolf

A nine year old boy just moved. He was playing outside when he heard something in the woods, so he went to see what it was. He saw something that spooked him, and he ran home.

The next day, he was outside and heard something again. He thought it was the wind and kept on playing. Soon, it started raining so he went inside. He looked out the window and saw a wolf! So he went to get his dad, who was a hunter.

His dad said, “What’s wrong, son?”

“I saw a wolf!” the boy said.

His dad went to get his gun. He shot at the wolf but missed. He tried ten more times and missed.

The wolf came closer. The boy realized that the wolf was really their long lost dog! The boy ran outside and hugged the dog. The dog licked his face!

Braxton Carr, Grade 3 Kittson Central Elementary, Hallock

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Ode to Peace You A re the O ne

Oh Peace, the beauty in you

You are a gazelle grazing on the prairie grass in the blazing sunlight. You feel like a sea anemone, still as a rock, yet your beautiful bristles wave in the ocean current. You sound like a garden with bees buzzing and bunnies frolicking in the soft soil, mixing happiness and joy.

You smell like crisp apple pie with the scent of love and passion.

Oh Peace, you are a garden park embracing the nature around you. You are the one that everyone loves.

Oh Peace, you are the one that knows what to do. You are the one, you are the one you are peace.

Sam Schwartzentruber, Grade 4 Meadowbrook Elementary, Golden Valley Teaching Artist: Marie Olofsdotter

The Dream of Peace

Hold on to peace for it is a life lesson.

It is the birds in the flowers.

It is the calm and the quiet. It is the wall blocking the tears. It has more power than the fear of the hurricane. Peace is all the building blocks of earth and the whole of life.

Benjamin Edward Kunkel, Grade 3

Meadowbrook Elementary, Golden Valley

Teaching Artist: Marie Olofsdotter

Be Proud of Yourself

My team has got my back but I’m nervous, heart pumping, goosebumps, waiting for the ball. Holding my breath, giving it my all Shivers down my back Trusting in my gut Giving all I’ve got to make the winning shot.

Keep trying, keep moving forward.

You’re good enough for yourself. Be Proud of Yourself.

If you got health, you have wealth. Be Proud of Yourself (repeat chorus).

You’re the star of your book. It’s your vision; tell your story. It’s a struggle: trying to solve the puzzle. When you get it done, be kind and humble. You might fall and stumble. Following your dreams your heart doubles.

Keep trying, keep moving forward.

You’re good enough for yourself. Be Proud of Yourself.

If you got health, you have wealth. Be Proud of Yourself (repeat chorus).

Trust in your heart. Keep dreaming big. Choose your friends wisely. You will always have family. Someone always believes in you.

You’re good enough for yourself. Be Proud of Yourself. If you got health, you have wealth. Be Proud of Yourself (repeat chorus loudly).

Ms. McCoy's Classroom, Grade 3 Park Elementary, Le Sueur

Teaching Artist: Kashimana Ahua

We Are Birds Collecting Sticks…

Believer

Finding your way when you’re down

When you’re broken into pieces You hurt and you heal Come on just feel

What you believe, you can achieve Get out of your way you can do it

I believe there is hope even when I think hope is gone I believe the divine is real I believe I’m brave I believe in myself I believe in trying something new I’m a believer

Success is not your enemy Hold on to your bravery Be bold and real Strong as steel

Ms. Gupton's Classroom, Grade 3 Park Elementary, Le Sueur Teaching Artist: Kashimana Ahua

Diamonds

in the Dark

Shadows at the door

Don’t fear them anymore I know I’m brave I know I’m strong

Like a diamond in the dark Release your spark

Don’t be afraid to make your mark Be a diamond in the dark Be a diamond in the dark

I’ve been through the shadows I made it to the meadows I know I’m brave I know I’m strong

Like a diamond in the dark Release your spark

Don’t be afraid to make your mark Be a diamond in the dark Be a diamond in the dark

I can do it There’s nothing to it I can do better than ever

Glow like a diamond in the dark Release your spark

Don’t be afraid to make your mark Be a diamond in the dark Be a diamond in the dark Be a diamond in the dark

Ms. Eischen's Classroom, Grade 3 Park Elementary, Le Sueur

Teaching Artist: Kashimana Ahua

Ode to Books

This is an ode to books. The sound of the pages as they turn rapidly in anticipation of what’s next.

The most influential span, from War and Peace to 1984, from J.K. Rowling to Louisa May Alcott. The feeling of reading a brand new book. The genres are all over: fiction and nonfiction, sports to magic, Harry Potter and The Mysterious Benedict Society, Wonder and Walk Two Moons, sci fi and all.

Books help my life. The history in some, the creativity in others, makes me stay up late to know what happens next. A Wrinkle in Time will also do, with fantasy spilling out of it. Normally I would choose to avoid it, but some fantasy books are too good not to read.

I love how some books come in series, such as Chasing Helicity and The Hunger Games. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl and Number the Stars; one is the true story of endurance and bravery; the other, a historical fiction on what it was like to help Jewish people hiding through the eyes of a child.

Both are Jewish or helped the Jewish during World War II. Books help us learn more about history and what the world was like then, or what people thought life would be like in the future.

Books teach us from our mistakes from the past.

Books help us learn what life was like during the Civil War era for women and girls at home, like Little Women. Books help us learn things we didn’t think we knew. This has been an ode to books.

Elizabeth Desrosier, Grade 7 Roseau High School, Roseau Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Magnetic Poetry

Soar above the world. Be courageous and incredible. Love, dream and believe. Know you always have power. Spread peace.

Onya Vandarcia, Grade 7

Roseville Out of School Time, Roseville Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Infinite Worlds

I press the smooth button, and make it glow green.

Take the cold, plastic possibility and the aluminum produces energy that takes us to infinite worlds.

Hamilton’s Classroom, Grade 6 Brimhall Elementary, Roseville Teaching Artist: SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

If You Don’t Know Me By Now

If you don’t know me by now, it’s probably because you didn’t hear when I said I love video games, or when I said how much my brother makes me smile as broad as the rising sun. If you don’t know me by now, it’s probably because you didn’t hear me when I said Dr. Pepper is my favorite soda, or when I said that math is my favorite subject. No, you must not have heard when I said I love music: hip hop or pop, country or rock; it doesn’t matter to me as long as I can listen freely.

If you don’t know me by now, it is probably because you didn’t hear me when I said how much I love my brother as he walks and talks playing on the sidewalk.

If you don’t know me by now, you probably didn’t hear when I said how much I love books: long or short, I’ll read it. If you don’t know me by now, it’s probably because you didn’t hear me when I said how much I love movies: horror or comedy action or sci-fi; I’ll watch it. If you don’t know me by now, it is probably because you didn’t hear me when I said how much I love my family and friends. No, if you don’t know me by now, you probably don’t know just how much I say…

Miles Davenport, Grade 5

Saint Anthony Park Elementary, Saint Paul

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Peace

I’m peace.

When you’re reading a story, and you’re sucked into a magical world, you pull me in with you.

If you’re popping bubblegum or bubble wrap, yes, I’m there, too.

I jump out at you when you’re going to sleep, alone in a room, under the starry night skies. Anything peaceful to calm you down. I, peace, watching from behind.

Yotam Muchtar, Grade 5

Saint Paul Academy Lower School, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: Joyce Sidman

Spirit

I know you by your thick, loud barks flooding the house with your delight. The soft little scrapes at the door, and your little black tail, wagging furiously with speed. I know you by the little holes in the blanket, how you always chewed. And that soft, pale toy you devoured. The word bunny would make you dash to the window. You are the one who taught me to be creative and not let others get in my way. Your spirit still roams the house. Your body may have left, but your spirit has not.

Olivia George, Grade 5 Saint Paul Academy Lower School, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: Joyce Sidman

Youngest Brother

I… am the youngest kid out of three boys. This means I have two older brothers: two brothers that are bigger, bolder, braver than me, two brothers that pin me down and won't set me free, two brothers that use me as a punching bag, two brothers that call me names like it's some sort of a game. It sucks being the youngest.

But one thing I like about having older brothers is that you learn from their mistakes.

Over the years they have broken, lost, stolen things. I’ll come home, and I’ll find out the newest flaw. “Hey honey, your brother lost the dog.” “Hey, your brother crashed the car.”

“Your brother broke the bar.”

“Ugh, your brother can’t find his wallet for the millionth time.” “Your brother crashed the car… again.”

“Your brother got a ticket.” “Your brother left the garage open.”

“Hey… be nice to your brother; his girlfriend dumped him…” This is what I deal with on a day to day basis.

However, being the youngest, you have some responsibilities: ending the family fights, turning off the lights, walking the dog when no one’s home, locking the door when you’re all alone. It's not always easy being the youngest. But it takes us all to hold the family together.

Daniel Fenske, Grade 8

South View Middle School, Edina

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

S ection

3 : We Were Here: Time, Memory, the Past & the Future

Goodbye

When I think of goodbye, I think of pasts. When I think of hello, I think of new.

When I think of goodbye, I think of times. When I think of hello, I think of age.

When I think of goodbye, I think of stories. When I think of hello, I think of happiness.

When I think of goodbye, I think of a clock. When I think of hello, I think of days.

When I think of goodbye, I think of darkness. When I think of hello, I think of colors.

When I think of goodbye, I think of…

Sophie Glass, Grade 4 Bailey Elementary, Woodbury Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Best Friends

There are 4 people in this world that I can call my best friends. We all depend on each other like a child depends on its parents. We somehow managed to find each other in this beautiful, but cruel world, out of the 197 million square miles on earth's surface, 7.7 billion human beings on this planet. There are only 4 people who truly understand me, inside and out, even through suffering, pain, lockdowns, and stress, we remain there for each other, and we always will. All 5 of us have a past— some hard, some not— but we can't erase what happens in the past. We aim to build a better future, filled with smiles and laughs, because you can’t go forward if you keep looking back.

These 4 people—Ash, Avery, Eden and Celia—changed me. They showed me what true friendship is. They never left me when things got hard, and I know in my heart it will stay that way forever. I bet in a couple of years,

we will look back at ourselves and think: How weird we were. I can't wait for endless bike rides and golden memories that we will make together. I will never forget them, because they made me into the person I am today. They gave me something no one else could: a true friendship.

Grace Byboth, Grade 5 Bailey Elementary, Woodbury Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Time

A.M. P.M.

Morning ‘til night.

“Tick tick,” the clock says softly. “It’s time for bed!” the night yells. “Time to wake up!” yells the morning. Yesterday was bad. Tomorrow will be worse. But today?

It’ll be unknown. It’s summer. It’s fall. It’s spring. It’s winter. “What time is it?”

“Do you know the time?”

“Can you tell the clock for me?”

“Do you have a watch?”

Time is so important, but nobody knows what it is. Is it 11:00? Is it 11:35?

Why is it that when it says A.M. it’s dark. A.M. is meant for daytime, right?

Who said it was supposed to be daytime? Who said the numbers on the clock were right?

Time is confusing.

Time is ticking. Sometimes, 5 minutes can feel like 5 hours. Sometimes an hour can feel like 5 minutes. The long hand is the minute hand. The short one is the hour hand. Look at that clock. Look at the red hand.

It looks like a man who's running late for work. Time runs like a dog trying to catch its tail. Who says the hands on those clocks were right? Who says that the numbers were supposed to be 1-12?

Time is so important to everybody. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“It was due yesterday!” they would say.

If I could choose a superpower, it would be controlling time. I could go to the future. Maybe see my fate. Maybe see everybody’s fate. I could go to the past.

I can meet my parents. But I would probably be disappointed fast.

I can stop time. It would make homework easier. Work takes time.

Everything takes time. Time is confusing. Time is ticking. A year seems short. But it takes a while at the same time. Time is confusing. Time is ticking.

Celia Xiong, Grade 5

Bailey Elementary, Woodbury

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Playgrounds

Playgrounds:

where you spend your time swinging, the thrill filling your stomach as you reach higher to the sky, almost reaching it, but it's always just out of grasp. What about sliding and feeling the electricity surrounding your body?

Or the feeling of going down the slide head first, going again and again and again?

What makes a playground great?

It has to be the feeling of flying when you make it on top of the monkey bars, the weight of the world off your shoulders. The swings are the best the time you spend, looking up at the stars, counting each individual cloud in the sky. When you're above everyone and can see the things you never thought before, your mind empty of thoughts, only the world above you.

Swinging and swinging, your mind starts to wander above and beyond the very sense of sanity, while going down the slide your mind travels to a different place; you can hear yourself breathing in fear or screaming am I the only one who likes slides? No, that can't be right. Swings—they take you up, into the sky, above the worries and troubles of life; it is the most ecstatic feeling, swooshing from bar to bar, your feet dangling from your body. These are the wood chips that we walk on. Meaning that there are splinters in our skin. We are told that we are filled with responsibility, having no room for play.

“You had all the time when you were young and now it’s time to decay.”

Decay into the social expectations of youth.

Decay into the idea that adolescence is the worst portion of existence.

Decay. Decay. Decay. Resentment from adults telling you you’re supposed to get used to being sad, the advocates of life telling us to enjoy our childhood and become an adult in the same breath. Being told to “hurry up and grow up,” But if you grow up too fast you miss all the fun you’re supposed to have. “Grow up,” they say. Time to start another day filled with the glorification of childhood. “You'll miss your youth.”

But weren't we supposed to be adults? There is no middle ground. Once you reach a certain age, you become aware of the wood chips that litter the ground. You might want to go on the playground, but you’ll be judged, called childish and made fun of.

I think it's time for a change. How about sand rather than wood, where we can be who we would like, get treated how we want to be, and live in a world where kids can be kids.

8

Oak Hill Montessori, Shoreview

Teaching Artists: Desdamona, Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre, Frank Sentwali, and SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

50 We Are Birds Collecting Sticks…

Brielle Reynolds, Jubilee Novitsky, & Carson Hoffmeyer, Grade

The Bad Day

One day, I was walking home from school with my friend, Bill. Then we saw someone driving Bill's dad's car. He told me he had a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. I told him there was nothing to worry about.

When we got to my house, I went to my room to get my tackle box and my fishing pole. Then I met Bill back outside. Bill said to me, “George, my dad and his car aren’t here and he was done with work an hour ago.” And then he said, “When we were going home I saw them with my dad’s car at the docks.”

“So?” I said in a mad voice.

Bill responded, “So we should ride our bikes over there to see what’s going on.”

I said, “Fine. But we might have some time to fish right?”

“Right,” he said.

When we went to the docks, we saw the car. Bill whispered, “They're making a deal for the car.” And that was when they saw us.

The guy in the black shouted, “Get them!” We ran. Then Bill tripped and scraped his knee. I stopped to help him, but it was too late. And then they got me and Bill. The other guy in the red said, “Take them to the van.”

They put bags on our heads. We heard someone say, “This isn’t right.”

Then another voice said, “Yeah, but they're going to tell someone.”

“I know, but no one is going to believe them.”

“True, but they're obviously going to get the police involved,” said the driver.

“Stop the car,” said the other guy.

“No, are you crazy?” said the driver.

“Yeah, I guess I am crazy,” said the other guy.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to pull us over.”

Then we fell in a ditch. I heard Bill say, “Let's get out of here.”

Then I said to Bill, “A little part of my head is bleeding.”

“Ok,” he said. That’s when I heard footsteps coming towards us. I started to feel like my heart was about to pop out of my chest. Then I heard someone say, “Let's get the two of you home.”

We walked all the way home. Bill's dad was home, but his car was stolen. When I went home, I opened the door and my mom came up to me, started crying, and said, “My poor baby!” After that happened, I went to my room, lied down on my bed, and said to myself, “Well, that was a bad day.”

Isaac Erickson, Grade 4

Roseau Elementary School, Roseau

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

My Friend and the Weird House

My name is Jessie. When I was 6 years old, I was walking home from school and I saw this weird house. It looked creepy to me. It almost looked like an over flowed dumpster. It was a mess. I finished walking home.

Later, I walked back to that house. First, I knocked on the door to see if anyone lived there. No answer. So I walked in because it was unlocked. As I walked in, it smelled like my 50-year-old dad's breath. It was bad. I thought in my head that it wasn’t going to smell that bad, but it did. In the house, there was a table. On the table there sat bills. On the bills there was a name. I think they were the owner’s bills. The bills were old and brown, so I thought the owner died. The name was Jack Lown.

I just kept walking into the house. I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge thinking that there was only going to be old, rotten food. Instead, there were a couple open and a couple closed cans of Coca Cola. But some of them had exploded, so it smelled like if you mixed cherry Coca Cola and hot sauce. Not good. I went to the freezer to see what was in there, and right then I heard a weird creaky noise from one of the bedrooms. I didn’t really think anything of it, so I opened door to the freezer and there were Eggo waffles. I put them back in the freezer and closed it.

I kept walking. I actually walked into the bedroom where I heard that creaky noise. I looked all around for that object, person, or creature that made that noise. I didn’t find a single movement or thing. I kept walking. I walked into the bathroom and as I was walking, I heard a knock. The knock sounded like the FBI banging on your front door. It was loud.

I thought it was a cop knocking at the door telling me that I'm not supposed to be here, but it wasn’t. It was my best friend. I was relieved, so thankful that it wasn’t anyone else besides my bestie.

‘’Liz?’’ I asked.

To Be Continued…

Lyvia Johnson, Grade 4 Roseau Elementary School, Roseau

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Happy Holidays

The wind blows softly on the autumn leaves, pumpkins lit, costumes on kids in the streets with Halloween treats. Be ready to see some weird things; you might even see a werewolf. Have a friend ready, mask ready, bag in hand get it as full as possible.

The lights lit on houses; get to the door: trick or treat. Now to Thanksgiving: get the turkey, the boiler, the mashed potatoes, gravy, pumpkin pie, apple pie. Now thank the lord for all things, and enjoy family and friends.

Now to Christmas: send Santa down the chimney, tree, set cookies and milk, mistletoe hung above the fireplace, elves on the shelves, reindeers on the roof maybe.

You will hear the jingle bells ringing. Ready presents, set stockings full, wake up in the morning, wake mom and dad, and open, then put your coat on and go sing carols to bring joy.

Now to Valentines: hearts ready, love notes to the mail, red cheeks on faces, arrow ready, Cupid soaring. Now to Easter: eggs boiled, get the dye, eggs ready and dip.

Set the eggs outside, get some friends 3, 2, 1 find the good times in the year for my grandma Betty who lived a long life. The end.

Luke Miller, Grade 5 Roseau Elementary School, Roseau Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

I Remember When

Remember in Kindergarten, when you learned how to tie your shoe?

Now you're doing geometry, but you don’t have a clue. When you used to play with hand me down toys, but now you want to hang out with boys. And everything was so easy when you were two, but now you have chores, practice, and homework that’s already due.

Remember when you could sit at home and watch TV? Now you go to school at eight, and come home a little after three.

When you didn’t care if your hair was all messy, but now you have to dress all dressy, as if you would be rejected if you didn’t, and you used to run and play, but now you’re sitting at the big kids’ table on Christmas day.

Remember when you grew out of your first pair of skates? And now you’re going on your first actual date. When you first learned about God, and now you’re getting confirmed.

From training wheels to driving automobiles; when you used to go to bed at eight, and now you stay up way too late— Take a trip down memory lane: from your first 6u shift to your last youth hockey game.

Remember when recess time was a break from reality?

Now we don’t get a rest, but we have to finish that project; what do you expect?

From your little crib, to your big girl bed; when you were so excited to go and play, but you can’t now, because you have to study to get that A.

Remember when your mom would wake you up? But now you wake up to the charm of your annoying alarm, like birds that just keep chirping. And finally, on graduation day when you confidently march across the stage, but suddenly you disengage and reminisce on all the memories you had with your friends.

You start to tear up, because you’re all going your separate ways… Remember in Kindergarten when you learned how to tie your shoe? I wish my remembrances could turn back to my resemblances... Summer Byfuglien, Grade 9 Roseau High School, Roseau Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Goodbye Hello

Goodbye, sunny rays of sun. Hello, fall breeze bursting with life. Goodbye, green life. Hello, autumn breeze. Goodbye to summer life. Hello to a school year. Goodbye to my 4th year. Hello to a new year. Goodbye from here. Hello to there.

Harlem Graves, Grade 5 Roseville Out of School Time, Roseville Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Future

I don't know about you, but I see my future.

I just don't see it clearly.

I see myself going to Bemidji State University and playing basketball ‘til I'm old enough to be a coach. But what about after coaching? Do I go to bingo with my friends and family?

Do I sit in my chair and be angry at the world, or do something great like start a basketball team for older people?

I could spend the rest of my life with my soul mate?

I see my future; think of your future.

Maria Bilotta, Grade 8

Roseville Out of School Time, Roseville

Teaching Artist: Kashimana Ahua

The Waves of COVID

Waves are unexpected, unpredictable.

They come crashing down when you least expect, washing over the sandy beach.

Like waves, COVID is a rollercoaster: sometimes calm, but sometimes wild. When a thunderstorm comes,

waves can be big and crazy like a tsunami, crushing buildings, swallowing up people.

Sometimes though, they disappear. We relax, and relief enters the air. We don’t know that another one will hit soon, out of nowhere.

We’re all riding on the waves of this virus. In just one swift moment, we could get caught under it, trying to keep our heads above the sharp, cold water.

Some of us lifelessly drift deeper into the ocean, but most are able to swim back to shore.

Those who make it back to the beach look out into the water, and dream of a better time.

Dream of what used to be “normal.”

Dream of things that seem impossible now, but could be possible in the future. Dream that all this will go away.

Ariella Kim, Grade 6

Saint Paul Academy Upper School, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: May Lee Yang

Covid Sucks

Everyone has a body. Everyone has a home. Everyone has a world to live in.

But sometimes, that world to live in isn't safe. Sometimes things are dangerous.

Because in 2020, when Covid-19 came, Covid 19 changed things.

Even if Covid didn't get inside of you, It still hurt you. And it still hurt the body you live in, the home you live in, and the world we live in together.

Because in 2020, Covid changed everything.

Your family: stuck in your home with nowhere to go, with nothing to see, and even if there was somewhere to go, something to see would that place to go be new? Would that thing to see be beautiful?

Covid destroyed our body, our home, and our world to live in, just like those diseases that get inside our bodies.

But our immune system stops them. Our immune system creates white blood cells, T lymphocytes, B lymphocytes, Neutrophils, Monocytes all with the purpose of attacking and destroying the bad things that get into our bodies.

And now that Covid has come, it will never really leave.

When Covid came, Covid came. When Covid came, Covid stayed.

Covid stayed like that one stuffy nose that won't go away, that one headache that just keeps bothering you, that one cold that your white blood cells, T, and B lymphocytes just can't get out of you.

Covid kept you sitting there, day and night, over and over and over thinking: When will it end?

Covid kept you sitting there, lying dormant in that eternal traffic jam that just won't end. But luckily, even while you sat in that traffic jam, deep deep down inside of you, way down inside your bones, inside the things that make up your bones, your body is creating new white blood cells, new neutrophils, new T and B lymphocytes, all with the purpose of protecting you; all with the purpose of saving you; All with the purpose of stopping Covid.

Niles Fast, Grade 7

Sanford Middle School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

The Last Road Trip

Sitting in my car, driving for prolonged hours; the forest of elders grown to heights only the giants are familiar with. They soar above me, their love shining through the beams of sunlight that lighten the hairs on my arm. The bustle of a city excites me, like a cave of wild bats, all flying around, flooding the pavement with the scrapes of their heels.

This trip was about me. This trip was about us: my sister, my mother, and I. A watery film over my eyes. Their oceans sharing the joy my brain emulates.

The last road trip: the last commemoration of the childhood I was fostered in.

Tiny toes feel the wet dew of malleable grass. She spends her summers dancing in the woods, the trees nurturing her bare feet, protecting them from the nettles just waiting to embrace themselves in her soft flesh. Lying in the rivers with the water right over her nose, so she could see the sunlight as it pressed its way into the droplets, making a moving mosaic above her eyelids, she sees the world from the mountains, watching the earth from a god’s perspective, looking out for what to play with next.

She is embraced by the warmth of Mother Nature’s bosom. Her arms slip around her golden locks; her feet leading me down all of her luscious paths.

I stand here, tiptoeing away from the idea of this ending.

My feet becoming numb from the light, inches away; I stand on the line: blurry darkness holding its presence behind me, the light shining its sweet glow in front of me. The sooner the scar is cut, the sooner the pink blood with cease from running out of my swollen vein.

I try to escape it all. I beg to go home. Tik tok tik tok

I calculate days: numbers, hours. Tik tok tik tok Each minute stretched until it bursts: a pop of colorless molecules floats between the air. Tik tok tik tok Seconds longer than the next. Tik tok tik tok

I make excuses. I convince myself of my reasons. My childhood home: a doll house waiting to be played with, or gathering dust between the days.

The last time, the last minutes, the last road trip with my mother and sister: I spent it wanting to leave.

Tona Ratigan Green, Grade 12 South Senior High School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

Slow Down

Slow down! That’s what my mom told me when I flew around the driveway corner on my pink bike. Freedom: to ride the sidewalks of Silver Bay whenever I wanted. No matter where I needed to go, I had my pink bike. But that bike could only go so far; that pink bike wasn’t enough. I wanted more.

Slow down! That’s what my dad told me as I backed my grandpa’s 7.3 out of the driveway. That truck could take me further than my pink bike. With a full tank of gas, I could go as far as I wanted, as long as I was home by 10:30. So soon, being able to drive wasn’t enough. I wanted more.

Slow down! That’s what people say when I tell them I’m graduating next year. Slow down! Wow, graduation, walking across the stage in blue gown; something that used to be so far away is now right around the corner. Slow down! One more year. One more year until we pull out of our driveway for the last time, leaving our family, friends, and our childhood behind. Slow down! One more year. One more year until we are deciding what path of life to walk down. Slow down! One more year. One more year until we get the freedom we have been begging for our whole lives. Slow down! Looking back, I wish I would’ve listened; I wish I could just make everything slow down.

Hope Ernest, Grade 11

William Kelley High School, Silver Bay

Teaching Artist: Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre

Why Do You Fear Me?

Why do you fear me?

I turn on my tv and the first thing that I see on my screen are the tears of a mother, flowing down her face like the blood of her son spilling onto the pavement.

Your eyes turn Skittles into pistols and water guns into threatening ones.

You shoot, suffocate and steal lives with knees on necks, holes in hearts serving death sentences for the crime of being black in America. I once was told in the back of my elementary school bus that I should have no pride because I was black.

Not only was I black, but I was 8. Not only was the boy who said it to me white, but he was 8.

You kill black children and you birth ignorance in the white ones.

You send them out thinking f the blacks is a joke, picking cotton is a punchline, using the N word is humor.

Yet the only funny thing is how, despite all this hate for our skin, you love to steal our music, our styles, and our dignity. Little Infants are getting hate that is growing to f us all. But apparently, that is the only “thug’s life” that doesn’t deserve to end. My people are owned, hosed, degraded, segregated, humiliated, decimated, confiscated, emancipated, but still enslaved to the hearts filled with hate.

Hate is no safer than a gun.

It makes people blind. It causes all you see to be: Black people are lazy; black people are ghetto; black people are thugs; black people are… People.

Black people are people you owned, people you hosed, people you segregated, confiscated, humiliated, DECIMATE…

Decimate: Kill, destroy or remove a large percentage or portion of…

You look at a black child and you see a danger; I look at a black child and I see….

Tamir Rice: a 12 year old who lost the fight in toy gun vs. Real one.

Trayvon Martin: a 17 year old who died with Skittles in his pockets and bullets in his chest.

Antwon Rose Jr.

Jordan Edwards

Laquan McDonald

Emmett Till George Stinney Jr.

SAY THEIR NAMES.

Today, as a white child is sent out to play, a black one is kept inside to hear the same message that is a tradition in black households: Use “yes officer” and “no officer.” Keep your hands visible at all times. Never give them a reason. And pray they don’t find one anyway. We are prepped on a subject that should not concern us yet as young children, but needing to be taught this lesson is proof of no real progression as we’re still stuck in the oppression that sends young black children to heaven with gunshots that deafen leaving me with the question:

Why do YOU fear ME?

Fodaylin Hayes, Grade 8 Anoka Middle School for the Arts, Anoka Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Asian American

I’m surrounded by smiles and arms that reach out, wrapping me in their warmth; with soft voices that ring out like bells, and claims of knowing what it feels like. But how… how could you possibly know?

If I’m with people that feel so much like me, why does loneliness lock around my throat like a choker I can’t get off and threaten to suffocate me? What makes me so different?

Is it the shape of my face, the language I can barely speak, the food I never mention, the cat and dog jokes that follow me like a shadow that light can’t fight away, or maybe… maybe, it’s the Where are you really from?s.

And as I tiptoe on the tightrope of cultures, two lives sit on my shoulders; the weight forming bruises that spread like ink, that threaten to tip my balance and throw me down to the ground, one side or the other.

Face after face swirls by, pulling me to the right, pushing me to the left.

Will I be Asian or American today? Which will please you more?

Maybe one day, I’ll be able to fall… fall, down to the middle, that is Asian American.

Levi Vo, Grade 8 Anoka Middle School for the Arts, Anoka Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Racism

My culture is not a thing to fe ti shize.

When you compare me, it's not a compliment, nor is it an accomplishment, and when I try to say this, it's always an argument. I don't need you to compare me because I don't need to bear these in-se-cur-i-ties.

Now hear me out.

I do not look like every asian. I do not act like every asian. I don’t need to start an argument if you would just lis-ten. You choose to ignore my words and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

I say: it's not a compliment, and I will start this argument.

You have no right to tell me what I am. You don't need to assume my race, but you can stay in your place.

I say my culture is not a thing to fe-ti-shize; it's not a “trend” and it won't end.

Because it's not a fad, now I don't need to act like your dad. My food and culture is not your aes-the-tic; it's not for your pro fit so show it some respect. You don't listen, but you repeat.

I say: these stereotypes; we’re very unalike, so don't you squint your eyes and pull them back,

and don’t call me names. It makes me go insane. But you don't lis-ten; you just rinse and repeat.

It makes me mad getting ignored. Yet some of you are speaking for me, when I can speak for myself; you’ve got nothing to say if you’re not in the same place. But you still choose to ignore me because you’ve got the privilege to do so.

Every single day my people get attacked when they are just trying to interact. So why do you speak for me if you’re just gonna critique? It's quite funny. You critique me, but you still speak for me; you ignore my words because I'm not as privileged as you? Why do you speak and critique, if you’ve never experienced what we have? You consume our culture on a daily basis, but you think you can assume, presume? Man, the audacity I say. So don't speak and critique. If you won’t listen and learn.

Suab Ncu Vang (Aether), Grade 7 Community of Peace Academy, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

What Happened To You?

What happened to the old you?

You know, that young little girl, bubbly and cheerful, like sunshine and rainbows, wishing upon stars and dandelions, and birthday candles

You didn’t have a care in the world. Oh how you was bright, earning the praise of your teachers and parents.

“What an intelligent young girl! You’re so very smart for your age.”

You were even part of a group for kids just like you, for “gifted kids,” being told for years, “you know who you are for such a young age.”

It gave you a sense of security, maturity, you was too young to be around, to be exposed to. And now, who are you? What happened to you? The old you?

You sleep all day, it being your only escape from the world. One hour, three, eight. You wake with dread, a nauseating feeling of a new day, another day you have to live through. You isolate yourself, hiding away from the gaze of others. “They’re always looking, talking about me, judging my every movement,” you say.

Look back at yourself; you’re failing.

Going from a straight-A student, to now lower than a B; A , B, D+, but hey, it’s better than an F, right? No, it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Do you still know who you are? Or was that all a lie?

“I know who I am,” you say, with quivering lips and a hesitant voice.

Yet here you are, standing in front of me: You hide behind a smile, baggy hoodies, and dirty clothes— unwashed, reused, the rest sitting in a pile in your room.

Your hair: raggedy and short, self-cut and unstyled. Your chest: hidden as best as you can, and your posture all slouched.

Your eyebags tell a compelling story; you don’t look well. You’re struggling? But who can see it? You look fine, do better.

You were their little girl. Now, what are you? A boy, you claim, you imagine yourself with simple imagery of an ideal world, something you can only imagine, a dream you can only be a part of in sleep. Keep dreaming. You’ll never be real. Look down at your feminine figure; thank all of your curves, hips, chest, waist, just say thanks. Instead of shaming it, damaging it, for a missed opportunity. Thank you, I say to the mirror, a pained face looking back, and walk off.

Altez Aguilar, Grade 9 Kennedy Senior High School, Bloomington Teaching Artist: Desdamona

TogetherI wake up one morning and see my mom stressed and wearing her Union Blue Shirt.

I can't help but wonder Why? I ask her what's wrong and she says "It's week three of our work strike and I worry it's going to waste." But I'm hopeful anyway.

I'm hopeful. I'm hopeful that we'll get through this tough time. I'm hopeful this strike is something we have to do as a unit, a community, a Union; she is absolutely right! The strike ended with a difficult vote, a vote that was given to purposely divide them and rip them apart like dividing a school of fish. But there was a way, a way to stay together, together as a unit. But it would take sacrifice, a big sacrifice. It was very difficult, but in the end, the sacrifice kept them

TOGETHER!

Together was the word. Together making that choice. Together taking that sacrifice. As Students we can learn. As this next generation we can learn. As a community, a country, a world even!

My friends, these last few years I’ve noticed a theme. Division. Hatred. And it’s so much easier said than done, I know!

All my past and current teachers are right. Not just teachers, but parents, family. Being kind is so important. And if we want to be together, if we want to be a community The next generation! That is the bare minimum, folks! The bare minimum. Just like my mom, I stay hopeful! Hopeful. So I ask every one of you: Just be kind and respectful because it really, really goes a long way. My Friends, this is just the beginning! Zander Bloden, Grade 8

Northeast Middle School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

A Rising Phoenix

This morning I woke up with a lot on my mind. I rose out of bed— all these problems I can’t solve consuming my thoughts , like flashcards flipping through my mind. Will my generation really solve any of these problems? Maybe they'll just stay scared to be themselves, drink or smoke something just to numb themselves. As I looked in the mirror and started brushing my teeth, I got scared as I looked in my eyes.

I had a vivid image of a homeless man on the street, a woman with fury in her eyes telling him to get away, like he's a filthy animal. I stopped and had a sickening thought: What if I'd turned cold? I hadn't given money to a homeless person since I was, but a few years old. I used to carry my wallet with the few dollars I had, handing money out the window; finding meaning when I saw a smile on their face. I took the toothbrush out of my mouth, spat out the toothpaste. Often, I get caught up in burdens that aren't mine, wondering how many years it is time before we're left with barely anything on this earth. We could put in our best effort but really, how much is it worth? Ah

I ate a few bites of breakfast, but didn't have much of an appetite. I open the curtain and take a look outside; I know that my future is bright. I’ve got a fiery passion in me, but it doesn't always ignite. It's 7:50 as I step outside. I take a few steps and shiver inside. I don't feel this way often, but today feels just a little hopeless. Tonight, I'd probably hear about another shooting. The republicans won't hesitate to blame it on black people. We'll all sit in our houses brooding, and the cop will be let off another unfair prosecuting. But as I kick a rock down the sidewalk, I see some children run by; something about the joy in their voice, and the leap in their poise I'm given hope like a wave crashing against a rocky shore. Even though we have a long way to go, I know my friends have got some ideas to show. I raise my head up. You should too. Take off your hood; stand apart from the crowd. Now, as my bus stop is in sight, I've got a new image in my mind. Me and my people: a rising phoenix.

No matter the challenge, I know we can beat it. We'll raise our fists, plant our feet, and demand more. I know in my heart.

Rio Mississippi, Grade 8 Northeast Middle School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Pine Cones

Have you ever walked through a forest in the fragrant fall, and noticed how many pinecones are lying on the ground? Since prehistoric times, gymnosperms have produced these cones as a way to protect their seeds as they wait for an opening, for the warmth and love of the sun, for ways to spread their roots, to sprout into new growth.

How does a pinecone keep from getting crushed by a hiker’s boots, as it lies there, helpless?

Standing in front of the mirror, watching themselves mature into a grotesque form, it looks beautiful on anyone except themselves.

Pinching and pulling, trying to reshape their skin, as if it were something they could change with their small chubby hands

A body will never be perfect enough. A person will never be good enough.

What if a pinecone can communicate, but we can’t understand their voice?

Screaming for help to someone who won’t listen, surrounded by the smell of regret because the world wasn't ready to care.

Do they feel abandoned because the god they were taught to love betrayed them, left them for dead, let them fall unprotected to lie upon the Earth?

No matter how many times they went to sleep wishing that they would wake up to find they were someone else, they wake up, still a pinecone: forgotten, quiet, waiting.

Their hearts shatter, becoming a simple crunch crunch crunch under the feet, unsuspecting words like hiking boots unconcerned with stepping lightly, giant daggers designed to puncture your heart enough to make you dream of another world, an escape too enticing to allow.

Do pinecones dream of the future?

Do they wish they could somehow discover a laboratory to heal their broken minds, free them from the tyranny of an imperfect body?

Do they imagine a world where all pinecones, not just the luckiest bunch, get a chance to bury themselves deep into the ground?

Do they dream of growing into a sturdy tree, not able to be swayed by the strong winds of looks so fierce they could crumble a building; tumbling, tripping to try to find a way out of the hole they were born into?

Does a pinecone worry about what the other pinecones think?

Do they worry, in the long winter, that the icicles hanging above may crack and fall over them?

Constantly worrying, wondering what they've done wrong; because in a pine cone’s mind, nothing will ever be right enough. People are fragile like icicles; they didn't know they could break.

I have worries I'm too worried to share, because what if no one worries about me?

The troubled turmoil rages in my mind at every waking moment, trying to find the answers to the questions I can't answer.

Why can't the sadness dissipate into a cloud, washed away by the sunlight?

Why can't I have the answer to every question I've ever asked myself?

Does a pinecone ever despair in the dark? Does it ever wonder if spring will ever arrive? When a pinecone feels the summer sunshine, does it wonder why it took so long?

Or does it arch its back to reach for the light and forget the icy blackness?

Nurtured to life into a giant, sturdy tree, ready to grow new pinecones, creating a soft bed of pine needles below so that they won't hit the ground too hard, I hope they will love themselves beyond compare. Because they were nurtured, cared for, taught to express every thought and emotion that crosses their beautiful mind, sprouting buds of curiosity, discovery never once stepping on a fellow pinecone, helping to create room for their growth, together.

How does a pinecone keep from getting crushed if it is helpless?

Kell Lewen, Grade 8

Oak Hill Montessori, Shoreview

Teaching Artists: Desdamona, Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre, Frank Sentwali, and SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

People Like Me

“In the world, my people have no place to call home, we...” are unseen as people and told to leave.

When we fought side by side with this place, that. Outcasts: people like me not seeing how much that.

We too are people. “We are people!”

People that felt grief from all those years ago fighting by this side. To have a place to go with peace and less violence.

Where kids like me aren’t getting trafficked somewhere. That makes me feel at ease; things like this keep me at ease, but with the change it also has changed me, attacked.

On the streets ‘cause of this disease. People like me kept the keys in a place so they wouldn’t be seen, being blamed for these things are the wrong thing, just

like getting told to go back to where you came from when people like me don’t have a place to call home in this distant world. We need to be accepted, no matter our race.

Zoe Vang, Grade 9

Patrick Henry High School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

More Than Just a Woman

Women in society today are seen as weak, catty, feisty but I say women are more than just that. I see women as hard-working, talented, smart, beautiful, and we

come in all different shapes and sizes. They aren’t just some object you can treat however you would treat a piece of paper when done using, NO!

Think about your moms, sisters, aunts and grandmas. You wouldn’t want them to get hurt in any way, or be called a derogatory name. Women by society are to appear more skinny, girly but not too girly, to dress appropriately but not too provocative, as if spaghetti straps or tank tops are gonna hurt anyone or be too “distracting.”

It starts with “you’re bossy,” to “He picks on you because he likes you.” It’s like the older we get the more harassment, insults and criticism we will receive. It’s like I can’t be myself because of my dress; the choice we make affects society in some sort of way, as if it were their lives.

They put us in different categories, whether we are too short, too tall, to skinny, too fat— we are more than just that. It's like wherever we go it’s always “don’t be a slut,” but “don’t be a prude;” you have to choose your family over your career, but don’t be a stay at home mom either.

Why does it always seem like we get the same comments over, over, and over again?

Who knows? Some might be subtle, but if we sum it all up it would really show how worn out sexism can be.

As a Hispanic woman in today’s society, I shouldn’t be afraid to walk in the dark or suddenly be cat called by some random grown ass man on the street, like dude: I’m just trying to get to school. I am more than just a woman.

Kelly Quizhpi, Grade 9

Patrick Henry High School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

I Am a Woman

I am a woman. And I wish I could say this doesn't cause me fear, although let's make it very clear: I am not weary of my body or what it's been through. Or what “they” might do.

I am a woman.

Who's trying to deal with the random men on the street who contradict me, who ask, “where's my smile at baby?” or “You got that hug for me?” I hold my chin up with a grin for him and walk in for his hug, as slow as cold molasses, with the fear I'm gonna end up in a casket, and if I try to run I can't be beaten because men are naturally bigger, stronger and faster. But it doesn't matter if you’re a thug on the street or a white man who works on wall street you all want one thing from me because— I am a woman.

Who has her unique styles and preferences? I want to be able to go out wearing what I love without fearing the consequences of a man's peering eyes, and they make dress codes to protect our children from being sexualized. LIES. Our shoulders are out, and our chest is bare, and we get the consequences.

How is that fair? Being a gender I didn't pick, and dealing with the discrimination because—

I am a woman.

Why do you shame me for that? Being a woman doesn't make you less of a person, nor does it make me your “prey.” I have the right to feel safe walking around regardless of what I may not or may be wearing, or what I may or may not say, or what I may or may not do. No means No. I don't want you to control whether or not I have children, or what I do as a career, or what I can handle, or who I LOVE; it's my choice simply because

I AM A WOMAN. Yes I am.

BUT I'm also HUMAN. JUST like YOU.

And all women deserve to be treated with the same respect that men do too. Because regardless of gender or race, each and every one of us has the right to… feel safe.

Rihana Said, Grade 10 Rochester STEM Academy, Rochester

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Dear Mr. President

What will you do to help us gain our voices? What will you do to help us gain our choices?

How long must women wait for liberty?

Dear Mr. President, May you humble men so they don’t feel superior, just because of our “weak” exterior? Why do they think we’re so inferior? Little do they know: we have a very strong interior.

How long must women wait for liberty?

Dear Mr. President, Why do we belong in the kitchen? Why is that the long-time tradition?

How long must women wait for liberty?

Dear Mr. President, Why are we trapped in the metal frame of our skirt? Seeing the risk of burns, and bruises. While all they have to do is dust off their shirts?

How long must women wait for liberty?

Dear Mr. President, Why can men get higher education, while we get the bare minimum of information?

How long must women wait for liberty?

Dear Mr. President, Why are we out protesting outside the cavern, while all they do is linger at the tavern?

How long must women wait for liberty?

Dear Mr. President, Our dreams are finally coming alive! Women filling the lines to the ballot booths, filling in each circle on the inside. This represents a newly opened door, and so much more, to the room of Equality.

Delaynna Mortvedt, Grade 5 Roseau Elementary School, Roseau Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Racism Is Real

In my community, we always get stereotyped. We get criticized for how we look, but then they want to look like us.

Can't go to the store without being followed or accused; so crazy because some people say racism is gone.

If racism is gone, then why are black people getting killed? Like Breonna, George Floyd and Daunte Wright the list goes on and on.

Black people. You can tell someone who isn't black that racism is real, and they say it is just a coincidence. How? Because it keeps happening again and again. I don't call that a coincidence. I call that murder.

A. M., Grade 8 Roseville Out of School Time, Roseville Teaching Artist: Kashimana Ahua

Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder

Yucca, Sage, Mushrooms, Dirt, Arugula—

A young girl plants in the garden. A young girl gets dirty and messy and it's ok because she’s a young girl.

A young girl takes dirt from her garden and plants a terrarium in an old mason jar.

A young girl doesn’t know if she’s a girl. She’s not a boy, but she thinks she’s too young to think about that.

Because young girls aren’t supposed to think about that.

That's what mom and dad say.

A young not girl takes out weeds in their garden. They rip the weeds out, one by one. They don’t belong in the garden.

Just like how little girls aren’t supposed to play pretend as little boys.

A young child squeezes their terrarium and cries.

A young boy can’t be a boy unless he’s in his garden, growing and changing.

A young boy has changed out the seeds in his terrarium.

Growing and changing, a young girl, who has to be a girl, because that’s what mom and dad say.

Mom and dad are always right, because

“We bathed you and clothed you for you to turn out like this; we accept this but our daughter?”

A boy plays with the seeds in his garden. He isn’t young any more. There is no excuse for knowing who he is.

A boy is himself. A boy who plays with seeds in his garden. A boy who is himself.

Carnations, Peony, Lilac Hydrangea, Orchid

Beauty changes.

IzzyGail Jo Middlebrook, Grade 6

Saint Paul Academy Upper School, Saint Paul Teaching Artist: May Lee Yang

Circulatory System

Your heart is a rhythm that you can't get rid of, always with you, keeping up no matter how fast you go, reminding you in its quiet, comforting way that we are all people: connected through that silent beat.

And I do not understand those who do not understand that I still have a heart, the same as them. I still have a heart pumping life through my veins and arteries.

I do not understand those who do not understand that though I was assigned something else at birth, my gender identity is who I am. And though they try to dehumanize me disrespectful, disregarding my personal history and that of those like me—

I don't understand it. Because we are not separated by a septum; the only thing dividing us is the hate for something different, something not what they are used to, something they'd call “out of hand.”

And I do not understand those who do not accept me for who I am. Their hate is like coronary artery disease,

blocking up creativity and personality, as the sickness closes arteries.

I do not understand those who refuse the fact I’m trans only because they can’t understand me. They can’t understand my identity. They can’t understand that we all have the same heartbeat.

They hate me because of who I am. It's as if my identity doesn't matter to them, only because it's different. Because I am different.

And so they try to separate me from their lives, from their society.

But they don't realize how difficult that will be, because we are an army of kaleidoscopic diversity, marching through hostility, like red and white blood cells through the vessels connecting all of us, disrupting the infection that is hate, reminding those who have forgotten to listen to their heartbeat. Because it knows that we, despite our diversity, deserve to be loved.

Caden Yanz, Grade 7

Sanford Middle School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Because the heart is a rhythm That you can't get rid of.

Digestive System

Walk a mile in my shoes. You may find it’s easier unless you’re like me. I don’t understand Society’s standards because you are the same as me; or why anyone who doesn’t look like me is treated differently.

Little white boys are always rambunctious; “They need more leniency.” No thanks. Donate it to the other kids instead of me. It makes my life easier than it has to be. I rarely use my ADHD as an excuse, but others seem to do it for me automatically. And I hear my sister complaining about standards for women, when she has to act upright and perfect; whereas I can essentially do whatever I want, and if I walk down the sidewalk or enter a grocery store, I'm not the one getting “cat-called” or “side-eyed.”

It’s the opposite of humbling: the standards for white men are bare.

It’s hard to digest all the things I’ve listed I’m thankful for. I’m saying this shouldn’t be only for me. It’s like a cake that I want to share, but the people who made the cake won’t let me share. And I filter and take all the things I need out if it and I have to give you what comes out of my large intestine.

I’m a veteran to leniency, but staying humble is more important to me.

Torbin Ackerman, Grade 7

Sanford Middle School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

A Chance

Women can do it too. Women can work too.

Women can inspire too. Women can feel safe too. Women can be strong too.

We recite these words in our heads, so it is easier as we stand there, watching our hard work go by. Our souls fly, and tiredness lingers in the air.

As people underestimate how far we can last, we revive and wish for a chance. Chances are given to all men, but women don't count. We sit there wishing that someday it will be she instead of he. Our hopes get lost, but not for long.

We get up and fight for a chance. Our bodies free and seeking, we rise up and start talking. Strong word after strong word: we strongly try to fight. Our voices get washed away like an ocean's tide, but we don't stop. Our message needs to be heard.

Women can be leaders too. Women can be recognized too. Women can be independent too. Women can take care of themselves too. Women can be strong too.

We were always told to be wives and to not thrive, and we can't be something more, but our burning passion seeks for adventure and to push the stereotypes off the broken bridge that's keeping us from crossing to our next path.

Society says men are good boys, but tell us we should have known better.

We are told to be appealing to guys, but too much or too little will not be committable.

Women can be smart too. Women can be confident too. Women can be powerful too. Women can express themselves too. Women can be strong too.

The expectations people have for us are a high mountain waiting to be climbed. We try to meet the standards, but our odds of doing everything becomes less and less.

Why is it that she is not as powerful as he? After all, we are birds collecting sticks to build a new world.

Zeina Al-Ramahi, Grade 8 South View Middle School, Edina Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

We Got a Lot to Talk About

We have a lot to talk about. The world's falling out, without a doubt. When it comes to goodness, there's a kindness drought. Yeah, I think we got a lot to talk about.

“Finally! We did it,” Black America cried, but only half of the camel is through the needle's eye. While we were able to smoke out racism in the police, there's still a lot left in our neighborhood streets.

We got a pandemic going on, it's the third one to date. And the only thing we're saying is #Vaccinate!

Politics got us crazy: "Who has the better recovery plan?" Stop supporting an uncaring, soulless, old white man!"

Be precise, take my advice, don't wanna tell you twice. Child obesity is rising and so is the gas price. We already got a bad leader, we don't need one called vice. Now, help the country out before we all get diced!

Yeah, I think we got a lot to talk about.

These days, people sing crap; they call it rap. Lil Yachty, Tyler, Travis, Drake: they’re all fake.

Ghetto! Women! Guns, guns, guns! The only thing they're doing is misleading our sons!

The economy's crashing; blood on the streets! And the cycle of war just repeats and repeats!

Mothers giving their husbands the boot, and when a cop pulls a black guy over, he raises his gun and shoots.

Yeah, I think we got a lot to talk about.

When it comes to this country, the mindset isn't complete, considering we are just puppets to the 1% elite!

The CIA sprinkling you know what, Rockefeller, Lehman Brothers, tut tut tut!

The most expensive thing? American healthcare. Our woods, our streams, our air is vile. And since white people got privilege, they always smile.

Just put a copper in jail, there's no need to hoot. But we haven't talked about racism in the family root.

Oh, yeah, no, we definitely have a lot to talk about.

So let's sit ourselves down, and have a looooong talk. "How do we fix this up?" And then, we walk the walk.

‘Cause if we want to have happiness, we can't have it with without peace and joy, so come on! We have a lot to talk about!

A. S., Grade 8

South View Middle School, Edina

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

I Am More Than What They See

Let me say this again:

I am more than what they see. White, Black, but what are we? These terms, these words: stretched and overused with no regulations. We all feel pain we might not see. We all hurt, just like you and me. There is always more to see. I am the Rainbow for Pride, the bearers of the Holocaust, the beaten for their origin. I am all these things deep inside which I try never to hide. I am more than the word upon my skin. My privilege, yes, is worn and used, but I am the survivors, the lost, and all the ones that bore the true cost.

I am tired of being excused from the conversations of equity and that is that; your skin does not tell the full story. We are all our wounded animals just trying to fly. Why can't we see this?

I ask you why? I am not trying to be rude; sorry if this offends: I just wish to say we are all people and friends. We all come from the same place, all brothers and sisters under the sky. But why?

Why are these derogatory words used, the ones stretched and used to cut and wound like knives. White, Black, and all in between why have we become so mean?

We say we can move forward, but where is forward, if that is today? We must move forward, so pave the way. We are the now, the past, and the future. We create the bed we wish to lie in, and the ground that we will die in. So why?

Why do we create these sick words instead of seeing them as people, people with pain, hurt, and beauty?

We can move forward, so let’s begin the journey.

Harrison Eyngorn, Grade 8 South View Middle School, Edina Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

I Am From

I am from a long line of Native people, from my glistening regalia and fancy footwork.

I am from the small house with my big family. I am from the sound of a beating drum. I am from my great grandma Little Wolf, who had a great life.

From my strong mother who has held me through the years.

I am from broken family, but it is still good. I am from a huge family, with fry bread and big egg rolls. From the story of Gesagocaura, I’m still here.

Niya Briggs, Grade 9 Richfield Senior High School, Richfield Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Flower in a Storm

There a flower stands: petals fanned like reaching hands stretching towards the sun, running a race it has already won. Vibrant purple, lively green: a pop of color in a tossing sea. Life whirls by, full of joy, full of surprise and endless blue skies.

Droplets of water start to form clouds, like people congregating in a crowd, throwing shadows over the ground. Still the flower stands with its outward reaching hands vigorously holding its place, determined to never slow its pace.

All the while, a storm builds overhead, swatching the sky in gray and strokes of fiery red. Wind picks up, howling a banshee’s scream. The flower gets tossed and whipped around. The pounding rain now a deafening sound. Too much weight to bare the flower rips right up from the ground where it once stood so tall and proud.

Lost in the screaming gusts; slipping, falling, and drowning all at once; learning that there is nothing it can trust. Shoved and pushed down, buried deep into a hole in the cold frozen ground where its internal screams are muffled. Shivering, everything goes numb.

Dull thudding, ever and ever faster Can’t enough just be enough?

The flower lays there crushed, beat from the trauma come from above. All will for life has been given up.

With the sky so dark, no sun to spark inspiration, fascination, and child like curiosity, the flower shrivels up. Curled into a protective ball, trembling from its fall, brown and frail, not the one to prevail, torrents of hail and waves of hurt rain down with the intent to drown, the flower gives up, defeated and lost.

The storm fades away, having given all it had to give. But the puddles remain; only time will evaporate those wells of tears and pain.

The sky opens up, showing a hesitant, faded blue. The flower looks up, a spark of hope renewed. The sun shines brighter, a diamond under pressure. The flower gains assurance that everything will be okay. This will all be okay. You are okay.

The flower revives, excited to live its life, excited to see all it can see, excited to bloom and to grow.

There the flower stands: petals fanned like reaching hands, drinking in the warmth of the sun ready, for a new day has begun.

Rachel Mattson, Grade 8

Anoka Middle School for the Arts, Anoka Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Spoken W ord

Success and working hard are two key words, because working hard will bring you success: success to enjoy, like sweet vanilla ice cream. Success to bask in, like lying in the hot rays of the sun along the beach. But mostly to remember the obstacles you’ve defeated while trying to succeed.

As Booker T. Washington once said, Success is to be measured not so much by the position one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome while trying to succeed.

Meaning: whether it’s a mountain you’ve climbed, or a jungle you’ve swung through, like a monkey on a vine, or even the little things you do (like picking up three pieces of litter from the earth each day), or the heavy hard work to earn the success and the skills of perseverance; work hard to be known for great things. Persevere through the tough challenges. Work hard to be known for something, and to leave an impact. Whether it's the game changing events

that took place on the court or the field because of you. So work hard to be known for great things. Most importantly, for the obstacles you beat to earn the luxuries of success you have (or have yet to have). Work hard to reach your state of success. Work hard and try, try to achieve your goals to succeed. Focus in school. Try hard in school. Study hard. Get good grades to receive a good education and to reach your satisfaction of success. Doctors, Nurses, Biologists: they all go through training and a lot of studying to reach the knowledge they need to be successful. So try hard to one day reach your goals.

Jeremy Asiedu, Grade 5 Bailey Elementary, Woodbury Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

All It Takes is One Man

I know that things can be hard. I know your feelings are bottled up and jarred; you think you will be judged for opening up.

But for me, a man came in, saying what’s up? Others soon stood before me, pouring their emotions out in a way I thought impossible. In a way I wish I could…

I thought, why not, who cares? As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a wave of relief; this wave triggered an effect that opened me up to everyone.

For the last day the man was here, I finally felt my fear disappear, Like a ghost leaving my body.

And others showing their true emotions touched me in a way I thought impossible. For the first time in public, I wasn’t scared. For the first time, I wasn’t ashamed to shed a tear. Now I know that everyone has complex emotions and there is nothing to fear, for I now know: the end of suffering is near.

Jack Schloesser, Grade 11 Cleveland Public School, Cleveland Teaching Artist: SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

If My Heart Was a House

If my heart was a house, the basement is empty, with a dirt floor, dark and damp.

The first floor is in ruin: windows are shattered, carpets are dull and torn; the furniture is broken. The door is without locks. The hearth would be cold and empty. The walls are dull gray, and covered with scribbles. The second floor is empty and dimly lit. There are no windows; all the doors are splintered. Empty and with an air of pain, the attic is musty with the scent of regret… and only one window, unbroken with hope, looking out and seeing the good and the bad, the suffering and the fear, but always with hope, but still empty.

Corbin Thompson, Grade 10 Cleveland Public School, Cleveland

Teaching Artist: SEE MORE PERSPECTIVE

The Real

There’s a challenge every day, but you do it. Times get hard, but you get through it. Expected to be the best, so you go and prove it.

Sure, you do some things that may be stupid, but the real isn’t perfect.

The real isn’t to sugarcoat how you feel, so today we will become what’s real.

Kendall Davis, Grade 6

Free Arts of Big Brothers Big Sisters, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

From Rags to Riches

Shaq was walking home from school. He had a lot on his mind. His dad couldn’t afford a car after his mom died in the car accident. His family lived in a poor neighborhood. It was just him, his dad, and his older brother, Juan. They were very close and helped each other all the time, until Juan broke his neck while skateboarding. His dad couldn’t pay the medical bills so he put him in a homemade cast. It was raining as he walked, and he didn’t have an umbrella. When he got home he was wet as a sink.

His dad was cooking dinner and all the sudden dropped his wallet on the stove’s burner. “That was the rest of our money!” Shaq’s dad shouted.

“Oof,” said Juan.

“I think I have a few bucks in my piggy bank,” Shaq replied. When they started eating, there was a knock at the door. It was just some random guy asking for a cup of sugar. “Really? This late?” Shaq told him that they didn’t have any and he strolled off.

Shaq went to bed very tired that night. “Ahhh,” he sighed with relief as he got into the cozy bed and drifted off to sleep like a sleepy puppy. In the morning, he was getting ready for school he found a very good note in the mail. It said, “Join Now to Win One Million Dollars in Cash! All you have to do is eat 10 burgers in 5 minutes!”

“Dad!” Shaq yelled. His dad came running quickly. “We gotta join now!”

Suddenly the random guy who wanted sugar showed up.

“You joining, too?” he said in the rudest voice. “You know, everything I’ve ever joined I won. Oh! It’s right now!

Goodbye!”

Shaq was worried. He ran all the way to the mall to compete in the contest.

“3 2 1 GO!” The contest was tough! Someone was almost done! Shaq used water to make the burgers go down faster.

He and the random guy were tied, 8 to 8!

By that time his dad was there to cheer him on. “Go, Shaq!” he cheered.

Shaq took one last bite…AND HE WON!

The money was in two duffle bags. They got home, went to sleep, woke up, and went on a shopping spree!

Ulises Olvera, Grade 4

Hilltop Elementary School, Henderson

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Skipping Homework

Jamie was walking home from school with her friend Beth. They both hated homework, but Beth knew doing her homework was better than not doing it. On the other hand, Jamie thought it would be fine to not do it. After her parents got home from work, she asked her mom to send Mr. Smith, her teacher, an email saying that Jamie’s homework got eaten by the dog.

“Now, Jamie,” said her mother, “did that really happen?”

“Of course, Mom! Why would I lie to you?” said Jamie.

“Because I check your backpack every day to see if you have homework,” replied her mom.

Jamie could tell that her mom wasn’t buying her lie, so she went to her dad. “Hey, Dad, can you email Mr. Smith saying that our dog ate my homework?”

Her father knew that Jamie was lying because her mom had told her dad that Jamie was upset. No was the answer, but she still didn’t do the homework. And even the next day she didn’t do her homework.

She started getting in trouble at school for not doing her work, but she also started gaining popularity for it with her classmates.

After a couple of days, she saw Beth doing her homework and marched right up to her and said, “Beth, you are such a nerd! Why do you even do homework! It won’t make you popular!”

“I know,” said Beth, “but I prefer good grades more than bad grades.”

After Jamie left the room, she went to her class. Her teacher announced that there would be a school spelling bee.

“Everyone in this class will vote for who will be selected to be in the spelling bee,” said Mr. Smith.

Since Jamie had become so popular, she was nominated to be the one in the spelling bee. Jamie screeched in terror!

“W—What do you mean I’ve been nominated!?”

“75 percent of the class voted for you,” said Mr. Smith.

“NO NO NO NO! I can’t be in the spelling bee! I I don’t even know how to spell INFORMATION!” said Jamie.

Mr. Smith replied, “Well, most of the class voted for you, and besides it’s not our fault that you chose to never do your homework.”

Jamie was super frustrated that on her way to practice with some flashcards she knocked over a trash can and made a huge mess. After school when she got home she told her mom that she had been nominated for the school spelling bee. Her mom was happy for her. “Do you know who else got nominated?” She asked.

“No,” said Jamie, “but I will find out tomorrow.”

The next day at school everyone was asking how she felt about going up against Beth! Jamie was shocked. She pushed

everyone out of the way to find Beth. When she found her, she asked why Beth had decided to do it.

Beth said, “Oh, you know. Jessie, Ella, and Emma—most of our friends are also doing it.”

“Okay,” she said. “So I just need to beat them and then I can at least get second place.”

But when the night came, Jamie was shaking, shaking, shaking! The judges asked Beth the first question and Beth answered perfectly. Jamie was up next. The word was INFORMATION. Jamie started, “I—M,” and before she could correct herself the buzzer went BEEEEP! She’d said the wrong letter! She begged for another chance, but the judges didn’t want to hear another word from Jamie. “You are out of the competition,” said one of the judges. After the spelling bee was over the judges announced the winner Beth! The crowd roared! Beth was congratulated so many times while on the other hand, Jamie landed in dead last. She was upset, but decided she would never in her entire life skip homework on purpose again.

Autumn Kolter, Grade 4 Hilltop Elementary School, Henderson

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Same But Different

It brought tears to my eyes. I want to scream, but I can’t. All I can do was hold my ankle. Right in front of my relatives: somehow I stepped weird and heard a crack. “Katie, are you ok?” My coach asks.

I nodded my head, even though I’m not ok. As I stand up, I try to put some weight on it I just collapse. My coach grabs my arm and helps me up. I try to pretend that no one was staring, that I didn’t pause the game, that I didn’t make a fool out of myself. I hop towards the bench, and Jordan is waiting there with my aunt, my mom, and my dad.

“Nice hat trick Katie,” Jordan says trying to cheer me up, “Thanks,” I say, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to play for a while. When we arrive at the hospital, mom goes inside while Jordan and I wait in the car. She comes out with a nurse and they help me walk to the X-rays. Turns out I broke my ankle. I will be in crutches and a boot for a while. My mom went to buy some crutches, so Jordan and I watched YouTube until I got an email. It read: Dear Katie Jones, You played great today and we are sorry about your ankle. This email is a scholarship to Velcrey Middle School next week. If you desire, you can reject. Sincerely, Velcrey staff.

I stare at it. I wonder if it was a prank. Knock knock knock! I take a screenshot and send it to my mom. “Uhh…. Come in?”

A nurse opens the door. “Hello Katie, can I touch your ankle?”

“Sure,” I say, as she puts my ankle in a sling thing hanging from the ceiling.

“Your mom is here” she says, “Be back in a bit!” She leaves. Ding! It was mom. She saw the email and enrolled me. The door opens again and my mom comes in with that nurse and they help put on the boot.

We pull into Jones Homemade Lefse and Buns, our family business. “Say hello to your aunts,” my mom warned.

“Ok.”

The week goes by so fast, and before I knew it I was standing in front of my mirror with the uniform for school. It was navy blue with a gold printed V on it. When I walked into the main lobby my jaw dropped. It had a knight sculpture with glass cases filled with trophies; benches lined the west wall. It had vending machines and a marble floor! But then it hit me that I don’t belong.

After I got my books, I went to class. The girls all had high ponytails with one small streak of hair along one cheek and same with the other.

I kept note of that and scanned the room for an open seat. There was only one. It was next to a mean looking boy in the back of the classroom. The bell rang so I quickly sat down. I notice the guy is looking at me. No, staring at me. I try to ignore him as I open my math notebook. Inside it has a picture of me and Jordan after one of her basketball games and I obviously was wearing my Venn pride (Venn is my school/city). Also, let me get this straight: Jordan is my dad's cousin's daughter, and my BFF. The boy was still staring, but this time his face wore a smirk. Then he started yelling, “This girl is from Venn!”

I felt my face burn while everyone exploded in laughter. Velcrey is the richer Venn Valley school. Venn is the normal one.

From that day on, I: 1. Sat alone. 2. Did not talk to anyone and nobody talked to me. 3. Did exactly what the other girls did, and wore what they wore. I didn’t expose my difference. On the third day, I was walking to history with my crutches when that boy came behind me and kicked one of my crutches out from under my arm. I came crashing to the ground and landed on my back. Again, my face flushed with red and tears filled my eyes. I prepared for the laughter, the humiliating spotlight on me but it never came. Just silence.

“What happened?” The boy came around the corner, “Umm, excuse me, I just pushed that laamme girl to the ground in front of the whole school. Where is my credit?”

“You don’t get ANY credit for being a jerk,” a girl in my history class says.

“Yeah that girl is in crutches,” says a girl I don’t know, but then the most odd thing happened. They all started helping me. And after that day I found my two best friends in the world.

Harper Peterson, Grade 5

Meadowbrook Elementary, Golden Valley

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Horse Tails Book One: Golden Horse

Chapter 1

“Winnie!” Stephanie, my instructor yells. “Watch out!”

At that moment, me, and my favorite horse at the stable, Firefly, crash through the jump. Poles roll to Firefly’s feet.

“I… I'm sorry.”

“Let’s take a break,” Stephanie says. I lead Firefly to her stall. I'm brushing her off when I hear a shrill whinny. I rush outside and see a golden horse being unloaded from a trailer. A man with a cowboy hat and big belly looks at me and says, “You Violet?”

“No,” says a voice behind me.

“I’m Violet.” Violet looks at me and says, “go back to work, Winnie.”

I pretend to leave, but hide behind a bale of hay. “Ok.” says the man.

“Where's your dad?”

“I’m here” says a harsh voice behind Violet.

“I believe this is your horse. Pure Saddlebred named Bentley.”

“Daddy! He's perfect!” exclaims Violet. Rage burns through me. I imagine my face is as red as a tomato. Violet does not deserve Bentley. she kicks her horses for no reason; she

doesn’t care about horses or any animals they are just her accessories.

I've dreamed of a horse like this, a golden Saddlebred, us riding bareback through the mountains.

“Winnie,” Violet says. “What are you still doing here? Go get a stall ready for Bentley.” I leave to go get a stall ready, all the time thinking on how to get Bentley. I work for Violet for a little bit of money plus free lessons.

My mom walks in. “Winnie, it’s time to go.”

“Where?”

My older brother Rickey bounds out of the car. He reminds me of a Clydesdale, a big, strong build.

“Winnie, it's my basketball game today!”

“Oh yeah, sorry.”

“Come on, get in the car or we will be late,” yells mom.

“Okay, okay. Let me finish up!”

“Okay, five more minutes!”

As I walk out, I pat Bentley. I need that horse. At the basketball game, all I can think about is Bentley. At home, I lay on my bed. Rickey comes in. “Good game,” I say.

“Thanks.” He leaves. I drift off to sleep, dreaming about Bentley.

The next day, Rickey comes in. “Wanna go for a ride?” he says. My mom and dad own an animal shelter. One day they brought home two horses. One a chestnut mare, the other a seal gelding. Both quarter horses. Mom chose the chestnut mare as her horse and named it Bell. Rickey has the gelding and named it Rocky. I was offered Bell, but I could tell mom loved her, so I let her have Bell. When the horses were surrendered at the shelter, they were wild and full of fear, but I gentled them. I don’t believe in breaking a horse.

I roll over. “Sure.” I get dressed quickly and throw my hair in a ponytail that would probably win an award for messiest ponytail in the universe. I go outside and Rickey is already on Rocky.

“Bareback?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says. I grab Bell, put a bridle on her, and swing up on her.

“Race you!” Rickey yells. I click my tongue and urge Bell into a canter, then a gallop. We race past Rickey so I slow Bell down and dismount. This is my favorite spot, the little pond with a waterfall. I settle down on the grass. It’s full of morning dew.

Rickey sits down next to me. We sit there for a while then I say, “Rickey?”

“Yeah?” he says.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What?” he says.

“You know Violet?”

“The girl from the stable? The one you don't like?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen her ’round, what about her?”

“She got a new horse, a Saddlebred. I’ve dreamed of a horse like that! That’s why I didn’t take Bell.”

“I thought you didn’t take Bell cuz you wanted to give her to mom.”

“Rickey! I need that horse!”

“Okay, okay, settle down.”

“But Rickey! Violet won’t sell him because he’s the color of gold! I saw him when he was being unloaded; he sure was scared around humans and was full of fear. I could see it in his eyes! He didn’t take good to the halter which means he wasn’t halter broke, then he’s probably not saddle or bridle broke!”

“Well,” Rickey said. “You did say he didn’t like humans so maybe he’ll rear, and buck and Violet won’t want him.”

“Rickey! That's it! If Bentley does that, Violet won’t want him. They will sell him, then I can buy him and gentle him!” “But how do you get the money? Mom and dad already said no to another horse, unless you buy it.”

“Rickey—the race! It’s one hundred dollars to enter and one thousand dollars if you win, plus your hundred dollars back! I have about one hundred dollars! We could win and then buy Bentley!”

“Winnie, you have to be eighteen. You're twelve and I’m seventeen.”

“But your birthday is in two weeks! Then you’ll be eighteen, and then you could race! Please?”

“Winnie…”

“You could ride Rocky and train!” Winnie exclaimed.

“Fine!” he shouted. “Really?”

“Only if you do my chores for a week.”

“Thanks.” I hug him. I hop on Bell and race off.

“Were you going?” Rickey yells.

“To get the barn ready for another horse!” I shout. I leave him by the pond, shaking his head.

Chapter 2

I stare at the clock. My parents have a rule not to leave your room before seven.

Right when it hits seven, I run out of my room and place a note on the counter saying off to work see you tonight. I grab my bike and go straight to the stable. When I get there, I hear a frightened whinny. I rush in. I see Violet on the ground, a halter in her hand, Bentley rearing, his nostrils flared. I walk up slow and steady, talking a long stream of nonsense. He lets me approach him. I blow in his nostrils; it’s how horses greet each other. He blows back.

“That’s a good horse.” I say, patting him on the head.

Violet gets up. “Get away from my horse!” Bentley gets scared; he rears again.

I step back. “Winnie! That horse is dangerous!” she shouts.

“Does that mean you’ll sell him?” I ask.

“No, Winnie. That horse is golden. I don't care if he’s tamed as long as he’s gold.”

It feels like my insides are sprawled out across the floor. I walk off to see Firefly. “Hi girl.” Firefly snorts “I’m sorry for yesterday. How’s your feet?” She snorts then nickers. “Okay then, want to go for a ride, if mean old Violet lets us? We could go t ” I hear someone clear their throat. I stop dead, I slowly turn around. Violet is standing right behind me

“H… how long have you been standing there?” I ask.

“The whole time,” she replies. I’m dead. I’m lightheaded. I want to faint. My head is full of what if Violet does this to me? What if what if…

She looks at me. “Winnie, my dad is going to have the time of his life hearing this story!”

She runs to her dad's office. My feet feel like jello. I grab the bridle on Firefly's stall door. I slip it on, my hands shaking rapidly, I’m going to lose my job. I will never get allowed near Bentley again. I hop on Firefly. “G-go,” I tell Firefly. I need this job. They pay me a little money. Plus I love the horses and I would miss the trainer and Firefly and they would never let me buy Bentley. I wasn't paying attention again!

Firefly’s one of those horses who would run off a cliff if I asked and we were headed toward a tree. I heard something! It’s Rocky's heavy snorts. Rickey runs up to me, grabs the rein, and pulls us off.

“Winnie! What are you doing?” I don’t reply. “Winnie! Tell me! Please!”

I sit down and everything spills out. Rickey just sits and listens. He says these words:

“Violet's dad won’t care. You're his best cleaner, and his only cleaner; you won’t get fired. Just go back and tell him. I will come with.” Rickey swings up into the saddle. “Come on.” When we get to the stables we walk in the office and tell Violet’s dad. He doesn't believe us.

“You think I’m going to believe you and not my own daughter?” he says, “You're not fired, but instead of ten dollars a week, you’ll get five dollars a week. Then, if you do an even better job and stop being rude to my daughter, I’ll move you back up to ten dollars a week. Got it?”

“Um, sure.” I say.

“You're off for today.” he says. Before we leave, I show Rickey Bentley. Rickey says, “I see why you want this horse so bad. Come on, it's time for dinner.”

“It's only five!” I say, but I know my mom likes to eat early. At dinner, dad asks how work is. I decided not to tell him. When it’s time for bed I’m actually glad. I have an early bedtime today. I'm tired. I fall asleep instantly when my head hits the pillow.

The next morning, I lay in bed, not wanting to do anything. Finally, when Rickey comes in for the third time, I get up and zombie walk outside. That's when it hits me, like a baseball to the head. The race! I haven’t even ridden Rocky to see how fast he is. I grab our best saddle and bridle and ride out. I know the course by heart, because mom makes us go every year. I start Rocky off at a walk around the course. When I get back, I set a pad. When the horse’s hoof hits the pad, the timer will start; when it hits it again, it will stop. I put the pad on the starting line and get Rocky set up. I let him go when he wants. As I give him his head he lunges forward right in a gallop. We act like we’re in the race, taking a good position not too close to the inside, but not too far away. Rocky is super happy, taking a long stride. Finally, we reach the starting line. his hoof hits the pad and I slow him down, he wasn't even sweating. “Good boy,” I say and go to the pad. The set time on the pad was unbelievable. I thought maybe I didn’t set it right, it said 29.4 seconds. With a time like that, we could win. Bentley would be mine. Imagine what we could do if we practiced. I did a cool down lap with Rocky and went back home to tell Rickey the good news.

“Rickey, Rickey! Rocky was so good; his time was 29.4 seconds!!” “Wow!” “Come on, I need you to get on Rocky so he gets used to you.” “Winnie.” “Please.” “Fine.”

“You ride Rocky; I will get Bell.” A few seconds later, we were headed down Brookview lane, Rocky in front, me behind. We get to the racetrack. I line up the big black pad and get Rocky to the starting line.

“Ok, you ready?”

“Yup!”

“On your mark, get set, go!”

They tear around the racetrack. I see Rickey but he’s not giving Rocky his head; Rocky's slowing down. His hoof hits the pad. “Time.” I go over to them. “42.3 seconds. Rickey! that’s not fast enough!”

“Sorry.”

“When I yell, go give Rocky his head; he will run faster. Right now he’s just slowing down. Let's try it again, this time give him his head at the start.”

“On your mark, get set, go!!” Rickey let the reins go a little, giving Rocky his head. That’s all Rocky needed. He lunges forward at a gallop. “Go Rickey and Rocky!” Before I knew it, the timer was done and Rickey was waving me over to check it: “30.4 seconds. Good job guys, 30 seconds! Let’s take a break.” We rode back home. We untacked and brushed down the horses then led them to their stalls.

We ran inside. “Hi mom.” We both said it at the same time. So much for keeping down suspicions.

“Where have you been?” mom asks.

“Um, out on a ride.”

“Oh, okay. Well, good thing you’re back; I made my famous tuna casserole!”

“Oh, great.” Me and Rickey don’t really like what mom calls her famous tuna casserole. But we eat it so mom doesn’t get sad. “Winnie, go get dad.”

“Where is he?”

“Outside fixing the fence.”

“Okay, I will go get him.”

I stroll down the fence, and I finally see him. “Dad, dad!”

“Oh hi sweetie.”

“It's time for lunch.”

“What are we having?”

“Mom’s famous tuna casserole.”

“Oh yes, just perfect to lighten my spirits.”

It was my chance so I took it. “So dad.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel about Rickey doing the big race at the fair?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That race is dangerous. What if Rickey gets hurt?”

“Dad!”

“No. I don’t want to hear any more about it. My word is final.”

I dragged my feet all the way home. This is going to be harder than I thought. We were going to need to sneak into the racetrack, and that was going to be hard with mom and dad prowling the perimeter looking at the horses. We get to the house and sit down for lunch. It was a silent lunch. Mom and dad keep glancing at each other in a weird way. That night, I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I lay there waiting but for what, I don’t even know.

Chapter 4

I wake up the next morning, but not from Rickey shaking me awake. I glance over at the clock. 9:00. Wow that’s late. I get up, grab my favorite green shirt and some jeans, put my hair in a ponytail and go out for breakfast. Mom, dad and Rickey are sitting at the table. Mom and dad have serious looks on their faces, but it almost looks like a lopsided grin.

Mom waves me over to have a seat. Rickey’s the first to speak. “Mom wouldn’t let me wake you up.”

Mom and dad look at each other. “We have a surprise for you,” they finally say.

We follow them outside to a small pen at the back of our house where two dogs were sitting. Mom went on to explain that the former owner was getting a heart transplant and couldn’t take care of their dogs. Mom said the person didn’t

“What’s going on, mom?”

have names for the dogs and the dogs were very young. “Dad and I thought it would be a good idea if we gave the dogs to you. What do you think?”

“They're great,” I say. One of the dogs was taller with a silver coat. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. I opened the gate carefully so the dogs didn’t get out. “Rickey? Can I have the silver dog?”

“Sure. I’m kinda glad; I wanted the other dog. He reminds me of Reepicheep from Narnia. Reepicheep. Do you like that?” Reepicheep wags his tail. Mom hands us each a collar.

Rickey's red, mine blue, dad hands us leashes. We walk inside and let the dogs sniff around.

Rickey sits down at the living room rug playing with Reepicheep. I call Mira. “Mira, Mira!” Mira walks down the stairs; in her mouth is my stuffed horse I named Dusty. Me and Rickey chase Mira all around the house; finally she gets tired and lays on her bed.

When both dogs are asleep, Rickey and I tiptoe outside to see the horses. I grab Bell and Rocky from the pasture, and lead them into the cross ties. Rickey starts brushing down Rocky. I do the same with Bell.

“Rickey, why have you been so quiet?”

“Winnie, I’m scared.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m scared of the race. I’ve seen other people's horses; they’re much bigger than Rocky . One man said that he’s entering his Clydesdale.”

“Rickey, Rocky is a born racer. Trust me; just keep practicing and you’ll be the best in the country.”

“You really think so, Winnie?”

“I mean, if I didn’t think so I wouldn’t have asked you to race for me.” I put a saddle on Bell, tighten the girth and mount.

“Rickey,” I say. “Wanna go to Zoe’s?”

“Sure.”

He mounts. We set our horses into an even trot. Zoe is our friend. She owns a ranch with her husband Nelson, but we call him Nell. I do all the horse work and she pays me. Rickey works in the field with the cows and chickens he gets paid the same amount.

When we get there, Nell is sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. Zoe is hanging laundry to dry.

“Hi, Zoe. Hi, Nell.”

“Oh hi, Winnie. Hi, Rickey. How are you?”

“Good. How about you?”

“We're good ourselves.”

Nell walks over. “Are you guys going to the fair tomorrow?”

“Yep, you’ll see us there” Rickey says.

“I’m sorry kids, but I finished all the chores already.”

“Oh that’s okay; see you tomorrow at the race.”

“Bye guys.”

“Bye!”

We walk home. “Hey Rickey, how you suppose we’re going to get in that race tomorrow?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe we can sneak by mom; it's worth a shot.”

“Race ya home!” We gallop home, Rickey beating me. When we get home the sun, is dropping behind the clouds. I go inside, get ready for bed, and go to sleep.

Chapter 5

The next day, I get out of bed and race to the shower. Rickey’s already up. Today, we planned to be up before mom and dad so we could get ready. Dad owns a pickup truck, but it's the only car we have so mom and dad will drive to the race together. We will ride Bell and Rocky so there will be no problem getting the horses there.

“Winnie.” I turn around to see Rickey. “The horses are ready.”

“Okay, good.”

I take a shower and braid my hair. I put on jeans and a red flannel shirt. I go to the kitchen and eat the best breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon, and it was already time to go.

“Bye mom, bye dad; see you at the race.”

We canter down to the racetrack. Normally we would walk but today, we needed to get there fast. I hand Rickey a big cowboy hat.

“What’s this for?” He asks.

“So when you’re racing, mom and dad won’t recognize you.”

“Ok.”

“Rickey, the other day at the stable I saw Violet. She was hurting Bentley for no reason!”

“Winnie don’t worry; we will get Bentley.”

“I hope so.”

We get to the racetrack, get signed in, and get Rocky to his stall. “Rickey, I’m going to go tie Bell up.” Since Bell is not racing, we have to tie her up instead of her being in a stall like Rocky.

“Rickey come on; mom can’t see us in this barn and the truck just drove up.”

“Okay, coming.”

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi, guys; how was your ride?”

“Good.”

“Can me and Rickey play some carnival games?”

“Sure, each of you get ten dollars, and don't wander too far.”

“The race starts at twelve don't be late.”

“Ok.”

We go over to a hotdog stand and get some lunch. We talk about the race. Finally, it's 11:50.

“Rickey, let’s go to the barn to tack Rocky up.”

“Okay.”

When we get to the barn, I hear a shrill shriek from a horse. My head whips around and I run to the auction barn.

“Bentley!” I yell. Two men with ropes were on the ground. I could count about ten men holding Bentley captive with their ropes. I go over to Bentley. He settles down and I hug him. Everybody was saying Bentley was a beast, so I acted like he was one too.

“How much for this beast?” A man steps up; he was slender with a big belt and a face that looked like it just survived a tornado.

“I reckon this horse would be about $700 because no one can go near him.” My heart basically leaped out my chest.

“Can I buy this beast before the auction?”

“Well. The man left him here and said I could do whatever I wanted to do with him as long as the money got back to him, so why not.”

“Hold the beast; I will get him after the race.”

“Deal,” the man says. We shook hands and I ran off. Rickey was already on Rocky.

“Rickey?”

“Winnie I can’t talk.” “Good luck.”

He rides to the starting line, his big hat covering his face. I go to the bleachers. “Winnie, where’s Rickey,” dad asks. I don't answer. I hear the announcer's voice.

“On your mark, get set, go!”

Rickey's hat flies off. Mom gasps and dad gives me a stern look. I turn my head back to the race just in time to see Rickey let the reins go slack. Rocky leaps forward. I imagine being the other racers, all they would see is Rocky's tail and a cloud of dust. Rickey turns Rocky over to the rail they turned so much that Rickey could have touched the ground. They cross the finish line. I run down the bleachers, leap over the fence, and go to Rocky. They won! A man walks up and hands Rickey his prize. Rickey hands it to me. When he was being congratulated, I went to the auction barn and handed the man with the big belt the money and he handed me the lead rope.

Piper Kunde, Grade 5

Meadowbrook Elementary, Golden Valley

Teaching Artist: Stephen Peters

Your Wrath

If you don't know me by now, it's probably because of my underwhelming knowledge of Hmong language the language barrier between us.

I'm sorry I could only understand to focus. I'm sorry that I was doing not nearly the bare minimum. You crossed the Mekong and got called ching chong, and all I had to do was go to school.

I knew focusing on school would bring good in my life, but honestly, I felt like a tool: being forced to become a doctor, all because I could make money. I remember the time you laid my nose flat. BAM. My nose drenched my white shirt, now a new red. Yet my fear wasn't clear that it would be hard to build another relationship with you again. You busted my lip and almost broke my hip. Yet my fear wasn't clear.

When it ended I know you wanted to say sorry, but your pride was the only thing that let you stride away from that. After your path of wrath you began fighting with mom. I remember nights when you’d say you’d leave. You were lost, and the frost encased you in a cube. Our family was in a feud.

Your wrath imploded my confidence, blocking me like a dog in a yard surrounded by a fence. Your wrath henceforth pushed me to be better. Your words no longer held me down like a fetter.

I know that school wasn't always my strong point, being called a fool often in family reunions. What about now? I have straight A’s, an almost perfect 4.0, and now this ode to you. You weren’t all bad, though. I remember the fishing trips,

teaching me how to cast my rod; I remember the first time catching the hook in the back of my shirt.

You weren’t all that bad, though.

I remember the trips to stores, malls. Me getting lost and you running to me with a single tear each time.

Cheng Vang, Grade 9

Patrick Henry High School, Minneapolis

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

You’re Not Alone

I'll be honest: I see the evil that people do in this world, the things that hurt and harm, and everyone wants to fix it but it's not that easy; we all wish we could just say, hey, stop, or quit. But I'll be honest: it's not that easy.

When you try to help, you freeze with fear, and the thought is like a ferocious frenzy of feral piranhas feeding on your very confidence in such a fashion that you realize: it's not that easy.

There are some people that pride themselves off disrespect, so when they disrespect the weak, to them it's like easy social points, and when you try and defend yourself, it's not taken as defense, but disrespect and then you're alone, a freak.

You feel degraded; you feel that you've been betrayed by the friends you trust the most. You start to hate yourself because it makes you feel so weak and powerless that when you're down people ask you what's wrong?

You tell them you feel hated, and they think it's their fault, so relationships are getting faded, and yet again you think your emotions have been tainted, and you feel that you have been traded to a side that you found yourself hating. It's not that easy. Emotions are like magnets that pull you to make decisions. Now, how do you think you'll act when your emotions are negative? All you have in the end is family, and as they try to help and understand and turn that magnets’ charge to

positive, you realize you're taking that anger and hatred out on the people that love you the most.

When that realization comes you're stuck in a pit of darkness, and spiral into a deep depression, the ultimate stage of alone. When there, all you can think about is thoughts, thinking about thoughts, picture that? You probably can't, and now your life is full of darkness and confusion.

You want to give up. You're tired, confused, drained of the very thing that made you alive. But we all have a light, dim, bright, black, white, gas or electric. We all have a light, a flame, a candle, a match. So, you can tell yourself you're not good enough, or that so and so is better than you could ever be, but believe me: we are all human, boiled down to a light, so make that light grow like an evertree and know it's not easy, believe me, we’ve all been there. Even if you’re, 5, 35, or 15, believe me. Open your eyes; you’re not alone.

C. S., Grade 9

Patrick Henry High School, Minneapolis Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Comfortable Shirt

I get up in the morning, look into my closet and think: Which one of these shirts will help me fit in? But never which one will make me feel comfortable? Never forget my deodorant to cancel out the fumes because I’m busy adjusting myself instead of taking a moment to purify myself. And I say to myself, am I good enough? It really doesn’t matter, because others’ opinions drown mine like a fish with no air.

As I hang out with my friends, I wonder if they like me? Maybe if I learn to play a sport? What if I lose weight? Or if I build muscle? No, it shouldn’t matter what they think; their insults whiplash me and I say to myself, is this what I want? No. No, it isn’t. I want to be able to have self validation. To be able to open my closet and pick the most comfortable shirt without worrying about others’ opinions about me. BAM. My mind is made; there’s no turning back now, as I walk into the school with the earth’s weight on my shoulders, when I think to myself, is this what I want?

Yes. Yes, it is. To be able to slap pain back for all it’s caused me; to be brave as a big fierce lion, not a little mouse. So now I get up in the morning, open my closet, and pick the most comfortable shirt. Muad Ali, Grade 9 Rochester STEM Academy, Rochester Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Ignite

Watch me ignite. Emotions flare like the embers of a flame, yet when it falls, ashes remain. If only I could subside the turning of the tides; living in constant fear of this fire that pierces like a spear.

Watch me ignite. Everything seamless as fabric; my mind is constantly in havoc. Bend me, shape me; why can’t I just be? My vision blurred by orange and red; why can’t it all come to an end?

Watch me ignite. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust: emotions explode and I start to combust, no longer held by the fire I once desired. I am empty, a wired heart for a wired liar.

Watch me extinguish my flame; no longer mine I arise like a phoenix; it’s finally time to shine. Watch me extinguish my flared vision gone, until I ignite again, another flame redrawn.

Renee Barke, Grade 11 Rochester STEM Academy, Rochester

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Shattered

A kindergarten child being dragged down a hall, by her wrists and ankles, able to be seen by all. Day after day, the same routine of being scared of all of the adults that she sees. Though, still being forgiving with that innocence she had, never truly batting an eye at anything bad. Who was she to ever try to say?

Under the constant illusion that this was okay. Innocence is so fragile; it can be broken like glass . Afraid of both being at home and in class. Crawling and hiding under her desk, her judgement and fears always being the test, Knowing what the approaching two towering adults signified in her mind—

All of those thoughts she wishes she could leave behind. Rug burned leggings and skin underneath. Screaming, crying, and it's grown hard to breathe. Innocence is so fragile; it can be broken like glass. A few kind peers can be thought of at last, though again, they all just left, the notes and warnings constantly expressed. "I can't be your friend because the teacher told me not to." The discombobulation and self-questioning she constantly had gone through.

Looking on the brighter side, she still had one, the one that stayed with her, to have fun with under the everlasting sun.

Innocence is so fragile; it can be broken like glass. Years later and yet, she's still afraid of the past. But the sadness and fear seemed to be occasionally delayed, though she knew the momentary bliss never seemed to stay anyway.

Forced yet again into something confusing: “a plan” that was up to all of their choosing. Locked away in a room from everyone else, isolation seemed to just deteriorate her already semi-broken mental health.

Innocence is so fragile; it can be broken like glass. "Hey Shakira, maybe we can hang out before or after class." Yet again another failure:

Either kicked out or humiliated, her time in class left her, told again and again that she was never enough. She eventually believed them and agreed; that's why everything was so tough. It's why everyone left her. It's why every failure in her life seemed to occur.

Innocence is so fragile; it can be broken like glass. Years of abuse and neglect had passed. Eventually, she was just broken, nothing more than a dumb clown for entertainment, with cheap jokes that are so blatantly spoken.

The innocence that was once possessed, shattered to sharp shards of hatred that she continued to internally obsess.

The bruises and nail marks once left on her joints, eventually lead to mental scars and razor blade points.

I left my happiness on the playground seesaw, I’m but only a lonely cowboy, yeehaw.

Roseau

Elizabeth Iceman, Grade 9

High School, Roseau Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

The Unknown.

People in this world are always quick to push away anything that isn’t normal.

Anything strange. Anything different. Anything unknown.

If they’re not familiar with it, then all they want to do is throw it away deep in the trash, out of sight, out of reach, out of hearing, like the last old idea of a starving artist giving up.

Some think they can just fix the “unknown” and change it to be known.

Although, the unknown just needs to be familiarized—not fixed, not cured, not changed to be what it isn’t. Familiarized in a sense that they need to be supported.

Supported by a helping hand, like the pillars of an old cellar barely holding its roof up.

Supported like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, just before it tips too far.

Supported like a mother or father will help their child achieve their greatest dreams.

They just need a little push: Someone or something to push them on to reach out for what they truly need, something like a gust of wind to send them on their journey, like a leaf blowing across the yard.

All of these rights, and privileges, locked behind bars because of it being “unknown.”

Just because it’s unfamiliar.

Out of the ordinary. Different.

But that doesn’t stop the unknown from continuing in this world, and they do anything possible to just fit in. Even for a day. Even for a minute. Even for just a brief moment.

Although time after time, they get pushed away, just because of the belief they aren’t “normal.”

I’ve always seen the unknown. Left out just because of their past making them more mature. Just because they’re mature doesn’t mean that their innocence was taken away at a young age. It just means they have experience.

Experience of this world, and what to expect. Experience that gives them the ability to see differently than anyone else.

Experience that makes them different. That experience is good, and while others will sit around, that experience is the exact same fire that will move them towards the future.

Forward, and onward, they’ll advance in this world. Advance like a chess player about to capture the king.

Advance like a musician or singer becoming a superstar. Advance like the Romans on a journey to conquer the world. Only to fall flat again.

Time after time, they’re still unknown. Thrown in the trash. To be forgotten.

Lost in an infinite loop of time. Lost like a child in a grocery store. Lost like memories of childhood. They still remain “unknown.”

Aedan Berger, Grade 9

Roseau High School, Roseau

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Fainting on Demand

The feeling of setting a 5 o’clock alarm on a hungry stomach. The feeling of getting up and driving to the hospital for the 6am check-in.

The feeling of getting inquisitive looks from all the parents who wish they were at work.

And worst of all, the feeling of not knowing what is going to happen.

But at least I had the comfort of my new, hospital issued, colorful, fuzzy, polka-dot blanket.

The sight of room number seven down the hallway. The sight of the nurses rushing to their next patient. The sight of a cold, hard hospital bed, with the monitors waiting to be hooked up.

And worst of all, the sight of desperate children who just want to go home. But at least I had my colorful, new, fuzzy, polka dot blanket.

The smell of hand sanitizer throughout the whole hospital. The smell of all the sterile, cold, metal supplies. The smell of medicine, everywhere. And worst of all, the smell of, well I'm not quite sure, but that distinct smell of a hospital. But at least I had my new, fuzzy, polka dot blanket.

The sound of whispering coming from the nurses, like lunchroom gossip.

The sound of beep beep beep from the monitor on my heart. The sound of footsteps in the hallway. And worst of all, the sound of the emptiness the unknown— just the quiet, cold walls. But at least I had my fuzzy, polka-dot blanket.

The taste of the seemingly fresh apple juice. The taste of the whole grain goldfish from the nurse. The taste of crisp cold air while I’m gliding through the hallways on my hospital bed. And worst of all, the taste of a dry, stale mouth just wanting food and water. But at least I had my polka dot blanket.

The scars from the many, many IVs. The scars from needles drawing my blood, like a leech. The scars from dry needles wiggling around in my muscles. And worst of all, the scarred memories that haunt me every time I step into a hospital. But at least I had my blanket.

The hope of gaining insight. The hope of getting real answers after years of tests and medication. The hope of getting better and not feeling this way anymore. And worst of all, no hope of any of it coming true. But at least I had the comfort of my new, hospital issued, colorful, fuzzy, polka-dot blanket.

Reagan Kvien, Grade 9

Roseau High School, Roseau

Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

Mental Health

She doesn’t show it, but she’s in pain. The state she’s in is far from sane. She’s locked inside; at the boarded door, she pries. Now she’s screaming and calling for help, but no one seems to hear her cries. Now she feels there’s nothing left; she’s jealous of the people who get the warmth of the sunset.

Charlie Davis, Grade 6 Roseville Out of School Time, Roseville Teaching Artist: Desdamona

Missing Pieces

Ten seconds, and everything changes. Car as white as the snow rolling downhill, fast as a rollercoaster.

BOOM! There you laid still; my brain was trying to comprehend what I had just seen.

Ten seconds, and everything changes. Mom tells me to look at you one more time, but I couldn't. I wouldn't. To this day, it is my biggest regret.

Ten seconds, and everything changes. Now you are only a memory that gets unlocked every year around June.

When I visit our childhood home, it brings back the most haunting memories, but it also carries the only memories where I was truly happy.

Ten seconds, and everything changes.

I look at our pictures together as kids, and I imagine how you would look if you were here today. I kept your soccer jersey because I know you loved it so much.

Ten seconds, and everything changes. I can't express how much my heart aches. I waited so long hoping to wake up, realizing that it wasn't a nightmare it was reality.

Nine years later, and everything has changed. There used to be five of us, but only four remain. How deranged.

Tenzin Dechen, Grade 8 South View Middle School, Edina Teaching Artist: Frank Sentwali

My Heart is a Streetlight

My heart is a streetlight. They never get noticed, but they still light the world around you. It may not seem important in the time being, but the second I disappear, and the world goes dark, you will miss how I lit your way. The moment the world becomes dark around you, and the lines separating you and total destruction become faded, you will think of me again. You will miss when I was there, but I'm tired of being forgotten. My light has faded. The anger in me festered, as I watched your melancholy face drive past, day after day. Your face never held the smile I love; you left me to light this sad world on my own, and without me, you let it tear you down again. You are right back to where you were when I first found you alone, drowning in your own self-pity. But I'm not getting you out of it again. I will light my own way from now on.

Alexis Eggenberger, Grade 11 William Kelley High School, Silver Bay Teaching Artist: Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre

Cascade Poem

I am thoughtless right now. My mind is unclear, overthinking.

Sink into emptiness, deep in abyss, thoughtless, right now.

Paradise distraction; looking for something my mind is unclear.

Too much inside, all pent up, overthinking.

Daniel Herrera, Grade 9 Richfield Senior High School, Richfield Teaching Artist: Desdamona

2 Index by Student Writer

Torbin Ackerman Sanford Middle School 99 Muad Ali Rochester STEM Academy 147 Zeina Al Ramahi South View Middle School 101 Altez Aquilar Kennedy Senior High 76

Jeremy Asiedu Bailey Elementary 113 Ms. Austin's Class St. Anthony Park Elementary 10 Renee Barke Rochester STEM Academy 148 Aedan Berger Roseau High School 151 Mariah Bilotta Roseville Out of School Time 59 Zander Bloden Northeast Middle School 78 Ella Bouska Bailey Elementary 2 Niya Briggs Richfield Senior High 107 Mrs. Burke's Class Weaver Lake STEM School 19

Gracelynn Byboth Bailey Elementary 45 Summer Byfuglien Roseau High School 56 Braxton Carr Kittson Central Elementary 28 Aaron Coburn Bailey Elementary 23 Miles Davenport St. Anthony Park Elementary 38 Kendall Davis Free Arts of Big Bro Big Sis 117 Charlie Davis Roseville Out of School Time 156 Larry Davis Jr. Free Arts of Big Bro Big Sis 24 Tenzin Dechen South View Middle School 157 Elizabeth Desrosier Roseau High School 35

Jamie Drevlow Kennedy Senior High 25 Alexis Eggenberger William Kelley High School 159 Ms. Eischen's Class Park Elementary 34 Isaac Erickson Roseau Elementary 51 Hope Ernest William Kelley High School 67 Harrison Eyngorn South View Middle 105 Niles Fast Sanford Middle School 62 Daniel Fenske South View Middle School 41 Cora Freeman Sanford Middle School 12 Olivia George St. Paul Academy Lower 40 Sophie Glass Bailey Elementary 44 Harlem Graves Roseville Out of School Time 58 Ms. Gupton's Class Park Elementary 33 Hamilton Class Roseville Out of School Time 37

Fodaylin Hayes Anoka Middle School for the Arts 70

Daniel Herrera Richfield Senior High 160

Carson Hoffmeyer Oak Hill Montessori 49

Emily Huggett South View Middle School 16 Elizabeth Iceman Roseau High School 149 Grace Jauquet Roseau High School 7

Lyvia Johnson Roseau Elementary 53

Sally Grace Keillor Roseville Out of School Time 20 Ariella Kim St. Paul Academy Upper 60

Penny Knights St. Anthony Park Elementary 11 Autumn Kolter Hilltop Elementary 120 Kraft Class Roseville Out of School Time 8

Piper Kunde Meadowbrook Elementary 126 Benjamin Kunkel Meadowbrook Elementary 30 Reagan Kvien Roseau High School 154 Kell Lewen Oak Hill Montessori 83

Rachel Mattson Anoka Middle School for the Arts 110 Ms. McCoy's Class Park Elementary 31

IzzyGail Jo Middlebrook St. Paul Academy Upper 94

Luke Miller Roseau Elementary 55

Rio Mississippi Northeast Middle School 80 A. M Roseville Out of School Time 93

Delaynna Mortvedt Roseau Elementary 91 Yotam Muchtar St. Paul Academy Lower 39 Mrs. Nehring's Class Weaver Lake STEM School 18

Jubilee Novitsky Oak Hill Montessori 49

Ulises Olvera Hilltop Elementary 118

Harper Peterson Meadowbrook Elementary 123

Kelly Quizhpi Patrick Henry High School 87

Ashley Ramos Guevara Community of Peace Academy 3

Siobhan Ratigan Green Sanford Middle School 14 Tona Ratigan Green South Senior High School 65

Brielle Reynolds Oak Hill Montessori 49

Emmie Rueb Bailey Elementary 22 Rihana Said Rochester STEM Academy 89

Jack Schloesser Cleveland Public School 115 Sam Schwartzentruber Meadowbrook Elementary 29

A. S South View Middle School 103 C. S. Patrick Henry High School 145

We Are Birds Collecting Sticks…

Mr. Terrones' Class St. Anthony Park Elementary 9 Mora’s Third Grade Mora Elementary School 4 Corbin Thompson Cleveland Public School 116

Bay Vagle Kittson Central Elementary 27 Onya Vandarcia Roseville Out of School Time 36 Suab Ncu Vang Community of Peace Academy 74 Cheng Vang Patrick Henry High School 143 Zoe Vang Patrick Henry High School 86 Levi Vo Anoka Middle School for the Arts 72 Celia Xiong Bailey Elementary 47 Caden Yanz Sanford Middle School 96

Index by School

Anoka Middle School for the Arts Fodaylin Hayes 70

Anoka Middle School for the Arts Rachel Mattson 110

Anoka Middle School for the Arts Levi Vo 72

Bailey Elementary Jeremy Asiedu 113

Bailey Elementary Ella Bouska 2

Bailey Elementary Gracelynn Byboth 45

Bailey Elementary Aaron Coburn 23

Bailey Elementary Sophie Glass 44

Bailey Elementary Emmie Rueb 22

Bailey Elementary Celia Xiong 47

Cleveland Public School Jack Schloesser 115

Cleveland Public School Corbin Thompson 116

Community of Peace Academy Ashley Ramos Guevara 3

Community of Peace Academy Suab Ncu Vang 74

Free Arts of Big Bro Big Sis Kendall Davis 117

Free Arts of Big Bro Big Sis Larry Davis Jr. 24

Hilltop Elementary Autumn Kolter 120

Hilltop Elementary Ulises Olvera 118

Kennedy Senior High Altez Aquilar 76

Kennedy Senior High Jamie Drevlow 25

Kittson Central Elementary Braxton Carr 28

Kittson Central Elementary Bay Vagle 27

Meadowbrook Elementary Piper Kunde 126

Meadowbrook Elementary Benjamin Kunkel 30

Meadowbrook Elementary Harper Peterson 123

Meadowbrook Elementary Sam Schwartzentruber 29

Mora Elementary School Mora's Third Grade 4

Northeast Middle School Zander Bloden 78

Northeast Middle School Rio Mississippi 80

Oak Hill Montessori Carson Hoffmeyer 49

Oak Hill Montessori Kell Lewen 83

Oak Hill Montessori Jubilee Novitsky 49

Oak Hill Montessori Brielle Reynolds 49

Park Elementary Ms. Gupton's Class 33

Park Elementary Ms. Eischen's Class 34

Park Elementary Ms. McCoy's Class 31

Patrick Henry High School Kelly Quizhpi 87

Patrick Henry High School C. S. 145

Patrick Henry High School Cheng Vang 143

Patrick Henry High School Zoe Vang 86

Richfield Senior High Niya Briggs 107

Richfield Senior High Daniel Herrera 160

Rochester STEM Academy Muad Ali 147

Rochester STEM Academy Renee Barke 148 Rochester STEM Academy Rihana Said 89

Roseau Elementary Isaac Erickson 51 Roseau Elementary Lyvia Johnson 53

Roseau Elementary Luke Miller 55

Roseau Elementary Delaynna Mortvedt 91

Roseau High School Aedan Berger 151

Roseau High School Summer Byfuglien 56

Roseau High School Elizabeth Desrosier 35

Roseau High School Elizabeth Iceman 149

Roseau High School Grace Jauquet 7 Roseau High School Reagan Kvien 154

Roseville Out of School Time Kraft Class 8

Roseville Out of School Time Hamilton Class 37

Roseville Out of School Time Mariah Bilotta 59

Roseville Out of School Time Charlie Davis 156 Roseville Out of School Time Harlem Graves 58

Roseville Out of School Time Sally Grace Keillor 20

Roseville Out of School Time A M 93

Roseville Out of School Time Onya Vandarcia 36

St. Anthony Park Elementary Ms. Austin's Class 10

St. Anthony Park Elementary Miles Davenport 38

St. Anthony Park Elementary Penny Knights 11

St. Anthony Park Elementary Mr. Terrones' Class 9

Saint Paul Academy Lower Olivia George 40

Saint Paul Academy Lower Yotam Muchtar 39

Saint Paul Academy Upper Ariella Kim 60

Saint Paul Academy Upper IzzyGail Jo Middlebrook 94

Sanford Middle School Torbin Ackerman 99

Sanford Middle School Niles Fast 62

Sanford Middle School Cora Freeman 12

Sanford Middle School Siobhan Ratigan Green 14

Sanford Middle School Caden Yanz 96

South Senior High School Tona Ratigan Green 65

South View Middle School Zeina Al Ramahi 101

South View Middle School Tenzin Dechen 157

South View Middle School Harrison Eyngorn 105

South View Middle School Daniel Fenske 41

South View Middle School Emily Huggett 16

South View Middle School A S 103

Weaver Lake STEM School Mrs. Burke's Class 19

Weaver Lake STEM School Mrs. Nehring's Class 18

William Kelley High School Alexis Eggenberger 159

William Kelley High School Hope Ernest 67

Alexei Moon Casselle

Alison Bergblom Johnson

Beverly Cottman

Caley Vickerman

Charlie Maguire

Danny Solis

Desdamona (Heather Ross)

Frank Sentwali

Glenda Reed

Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre

Jen Scott

Jon Lurie

Joyce Sidman

Julia Klatt Singer

Kashimana Ahua

Kevin Strauss

Kristoff Krane (Christopher Keller)

Louis Porter II

MaLLy

Marie Olofsdotter May Lee-Yang

Morgan Grayce Willow

Naomi Cohn

Saymoukda Vongsay

See More Perspective

Stephen Peters Zoë Bird

COMPAS works with over 120 of the top Teaching Artists in Minnesota. Our Roster of Artists includes writers, theater artists, visual artists, dancers, musicians, and more. To read more about these artists visit COMPAS.org.

COMPAS Mission and Programs

COMPAS delivers creative experiences that unleash the potential within all of us.

Creative Classroom

Creativity is not owned by the arts, it is taught by them. We connect students from kindergarten to 12th grade with the life changing power of creativity, reaching over 30,000 school children across Minnesota each year with residencies, workshops and performances. Our skilled Teaching Artists teach professional art techniques, build connections with classroom curriculum, explore history and cultural diversity, and nurture student potential.

Access Yes!

Catalyzing creativity in all students through the arts. COMPAS works with special education classrooms, schools that specifically serve students with cognitive or physical differences, and or schools that specialize in content tailored toward students with autism or social emotional needs. We aim to give all students the opportunity to benefit from our artists' attention and expertise.

Creative Community

Those who create the art define the culture.

Access Arts

Empowering people of all abilities through the arts. Making art and connecting with each other through the arts stimulates the brain, reminds us who we are, and helps us know how to say all we want to say. COMPAS teaching artists create new access to a variety of creative experiences through performances, workshops, and long term residencies.

AnyPlace Arts

Bringing the arts wherever you are. From libraries, parks and festivals to after-school programs, shelters and recreation centers, COMPAS delivers enriching, creativity-growing experiences to all Minnesotans.

Artful Aging™

Creativity gives us purpose. Purpose is what keeps us alive. Artists work side by side with adults 55+ who live independently and in senior living centers. Engaging, artistic experiences bring joy and satisfaction to seniors as they discover new talents and renew old ones.

Arts in Healthcare

When words fail to express, creativity allows us to heal. Our Arts in Healthcare programs strengthen community and wellness through professional arts performances and instruction. Creativity stimulates recovery, increases quality of life and connects staff and patients.

Youth Arts

Creating a brighter future. Youth Arts programming equips youth to reach new heights. Inspired by their interests in the arts, youth learn life and business skills to help them succeed anywhere.

Women’s Writing Program

Helping women create better lives and brighter futures. The Advisory Task Force on Justice Involved Women and Girls began a poetry writing program for women in Minnesota county jails and recently partnered with COMPAS to incorporate the program into our offerings. The program has grown to in clude Sherburne, Washington, and Ramsey County jails.

Our talented writers, musician s, visual artists and performance artists inspire all ages with hands - on programs throughout Minnesota.

For more information on any of these programs contact COMPAS at: 651.292.3249 or info@compas.org.

Dawne Brown White, Executive Director

Marlaine Cox, Arts Program Manager

Matt Levy, Arts Program & Content Manager

Joan Linck, Director of Strategic Development

Troy Linck, Marketing Manager

Va Lor, Arts Program & Content Manager

Sam Massaglia, Marketing & Communications Director

Elwyn Ruud, Northwest Area Arts Coordinator

Emma Seeley, Arts Program Manager

Julie Strand, Arts Program Director

COMPAS Board of Directors 20 2 1 2 2

Yvette Trotman, President

Elizabeth Sheets, President Elect

Mimi Stake, Vice President

Jeff Goldenberg, Treasurer

Amy Lucas, Secretary

Tracy Morrow, Human Resources Chair

Virajita Singh, Executive Committee At-Large Thuong Thai, Strategic Plan Chair

Keven Ambrus

Iren Bishop

Ann Dayton

Jessica Gessner

Andrew Leizens

Dr. Louis Porter II

Greta (Margaret) Rudolph

Dameun Strange Sonya Šustáček

Emeritus Board

Cheryl Bock

Roderic Hernub Southall

The Lillian Wright Awards for Creative Writing

The Lillian Wright Awards recognize literary achievement among young writers in the COMPAS Creative Classroom Program. Generously underwritten by the Lillian Wright and C. Emil Berglund Foundation, the award winners and their schools are celebrated at the publication event in November along with all the students within these pages. This year’s judge is the anthology’s editor Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre:

Coming from the world of poetry slams, I know first hand how arbitrary awards and accolades can be, and what kind of chaos lives in the heads of judges. That is just to say: while the five young writers listed here each captured something powerful and vital in their writing, so did a whole lot of other young writers who aren’t listed here. If writers are astronomers, mapping the stars and unlocking the secrets of the cosmos, awards are shooting stars: always fun to see, but fleeting distractions from the larger work in front of us. Still, congratulations to these five writers for catching one anyway.

The winners are:

BEST WRITING, GRADES K-3:

“The Dream of Peace,” by Benjamin Edward Kunkel , Grade 3

Meadowbrook Elementary, Golden Valley

BEST WRITING, GRADES 4-5:

“Spirit,” by Olivia George , Grade 5

Saint Paul Academy – Lower School, Saint Paul

BEST WRITING, GRADES 6-7:

“Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder,” by IzzyGail Jo Middlebrook , Grade 6 Saint Paul Academy – Upper School, Saint Paul

BEST WRITING, GRADES 8-9: “Pine Cones,” by Kell Lewen , Grade 8 Oak Hill Montessori, Shoreview

BEST WRITING, GRADES 10-12: “The Last Road Trip,” by Tona Ratigan Green , Grade 12 South Senior High School, Minneapolis

Lillian Wright Awards Judge & Editor Bio s

Kyle Tran Myhre (also known as Guante) is a poet, activist, and teaching artist on the COMPAS roster. His work involves using spoken word and storytelling as doorways into critical dialogue, and he’s performed everywhere from the United Nations, to two National Poetry Slam championship stages, to countless colleges, universities, and conferences. Tran Myhre's new sci fi poetry book, "Not a Lot of Reasons to Sing, but Enough," is available now via Button Poetry. Find more at www.guante.info.

Every year this anthology is assembled and printed, it is with support from the Lillian Wright and C. Emil Berglund Foundation. Thank you for making this collection of writings from youth possible!

We also thank Minnesota taxpayers. This activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund.

Thank you to our supporters!