Pages 2012–13

Pages 2012–13 An Arts, Literacy, and Writing Program for High School Students

Writings Artworks

Wexner Center for the Arts The Ohio State University Columbus, Ohio

wexner center foundation board of trustees

Leslie H. Wexner, Chair E. Gordon Gee, Vice Chair James Lyski, President Trustees Nicholas K. Akins David M. Aronowitz Jeni Britton Bauer Shelley Bird Michael J. Canter Adam R. Flatto Sherri Geldin Ann Gilbert Getty Michael P. Glimcher Elizabeth Kessler C. Robert Kidder Nancy Kramer James E. Kunk Bill Lambert Ronald A. Pizzuti Janet B. Reid Joyce Shenk

lead support for pages

Alex Shumate A. Alfred Taubman Barbara Trueman Abigail S. Wexner John F. Wolfe Ex Officio Joseph A. Alutto Mark Shanda Bruce A. Soll Mark E. Vannatta

additional support for pages

support for teacher and school programs

Ingram-White Castle Foundation Milton & Sally Avery Arts Foundation

general operating support for the wexner center

Pages 2012– 2013 An Arts, Literacy, and Writing Program for High School Students

Wexner Center for the Arts The Ohio State University Columbus, Ohio 2013

© The Ohio State University Wexner Center for the Arts Individual projects © the authors Pages experience and exhibition photos: Jay LaPrete Classroom visit photos: Wexner Center staff project staff

Dionne Custer Edwards, Educator for School Programs Uttara Manohar, Graduate Associate for School Programs Amanda Keeton, School Programs Intern Natalie D’Andrea, Student Designer Mike Greenler, Graphic Designer Ann Bremner, Editor Gregory Buck, Graduate Associate for Communications Tova Seltzer, Communications Intern/Editorial Assistant education department staff

Shelly Casto, Director of Education Liz Dang, Graduate Associate Dionne Custer Edwards, Educator for School Programs Diana Gerber, Education Assistant Tracie McCambridge, Educator for Docent and Teacher Programs Uttara Manohar, Graduate Associate Jean Pitman, Educator for Youth Programs Amanda Potter, Educator for Public and University Programs

Table of Contents 6–7

Director’s Foreword Sherri Geldin

8–9

Introduction & Acknowledgments Dionne Custer Edwards

13–76

Writings Pages Students’ Responses to

Visual Arts Experience Annie Leibovitz

Performing Arts Experience I, Malvolio

77–97

Tim Crouch

Media Arts Experience

Louder Than a Bomb (2010)

Jon Siskel and Greg Jacobs

Pages is…

Artwork

Director’s Foreword It is once again my pleasure to welcome you to a very special anthology. In the pages that follow, you’ll find powerful prose, poetry, and excerpts from plays written by some of the nearly 250 high school students who participated in the Wexner Center’s 2012–2013 Pages program.

You’ll also see student artworks created by those who took part in this pioneering initiative, now in its seventh year at the Wex. The premise of Pages, conceived and led from its inception by Wexner Center educator Dionne Custer Edwards, is to make a meaningful contribution toward building literacy and writing skills among area teens through interactions with groundbreaking contemporary art at the Wexner Center. This year, as in prior years, the program took shape around three cultural experiences, representing the Wexner Center’s commitments to cultural exchange, creative innovation, and bold artistic expression in all creative media. All Pages students visited the Annie Leibovitz exhibition in our galleries, attended a performance of Tim Crouch’s I, Malvolio, and viewed Louder Than a Bomb, a documentary

film about one of the largest youth poetry slams in the country. They also had opportunities to work and talk with a number of dedicated artists and educators who guided and encouraged them as they formulated their own creative verbal and visual responses to those experiences.

Pages remains a core component of our education programming at a time when school budgets are stretched to the limit and the classroom curricula is increasingly geared toward proficiencies measured by standardized testing. By working closely with teachers and facilitating collaboration, idea sharing, and brain storming among them, Pages is designed to present the arts as an essential method for enhancing students’ skills in critical thinking, verbal expression, and visual and verbal literacy.

Kim Leddy, who has participated in Pages as both a teacher and a guest artist working with Pages students from multiple schools, notes: I have found that the more we integrate Pages into the curriculum, the richer the experience.… This cross-content connection of English, social studies,

and performance is a perfect example of how Pages encourages creative thinking, cross-content methods, and collaboration.… Teachers are learning that the arts can make an issue/topic/ curriculum come alive, which creates a deeper understanding and synthesis of the material.

Another Pages teacher, Gary Liebesman, comments that his students “have had their brains stretched by cultural experiences that so few high school students are fortunate enough to encounter.”

He continues: Through Pages, these experiences are given a framework that helps students make sense of unique and varied artistic works and develop their own intellectual and artistic abilities. That the program accomplishes this for multiple schools with different demographics, divergent goals, and varied student needs is just extraordinary.… Pages fosters good pedagogy by bringing teachers from so many different schools to share ideas and experiences.… It is one of the best examples of seasoned educators constantly examining their own practices as teachers and collaborating with others.

Aaron Sherman, yet another teacher in the program, sums up his thoughts in one sentence: “Had I the power, Pages is a gift I’d bestow on every student in Columbus.” And Pages students share their own thoughts in the “Pages is...” section that concludes the writings in this book.

To receive such enthusiastic endorsements from teachers and students is enormously gratifying and encouraging. Even more significantly, it validates a notion that is central both to the Pages program and to the Wexner Center as a whole: that arts and culture can play a central, potentially catalytic, role in the education of our youth and in the lifelong enrichment of our entire community.

I invite you to join me in congratulating Dionne Custer Edwards, along with her collaborators—poet William Evans, educator and photographer Kim Leddy, dramaturge and theater scholar Chelsea Phillips, and all the participating Pages teachers—for the stirring success of their students’ writings and art projects. I also thank the Martha Holden Jennings Foundation for its generous and longterm support for the Pages program, and the Puffin Foundation West, Ltd. and UniPrint for their contributions to the program this year. Most of all, I am proud to express my abundant compliments and thanks to all the Pages students for sharing their creativity with us in this volume.

Sherri Geldin Director Wexner Center for the Arts

Introduction & Acknowledgments Thank you to all of this year’s Pages students for their curiosity, creativity, and participation. Student participants and teachers were from the following schools: Arts and College Preparatory Academy, Columbus Alternative High School, Delaware Area Career Center, Franklin Heights High School, Mosaic, Pickerington High School North, and Reynoldsburg High School (Summit Road Campus).

I would like to also acknowledge and say thank you to our participating teachers—Sherry Forster, Kim Leddy, Gary Liebesman, Brandi Lust, Tom Mann, Jessica Sharp, and Aaron Sherman—for their unwavering partnership, commitment, energy, creativity, thoughtfulness, and especially for their willingness to take risks, try new pedagogy in and out the classroom, and push the boundaries of teaching and learning.

Thank you also to our artists-inresidence: William Evans, Kim Leddy, and Chelsea Phillips. Working with each of you was both a pleasure and an honor. The creative energy, expertise, and talent you brought to this program are dynamic and inspiring. As a final note, thank you

to all of our colleagues and staff at the Wexner Center who assisted with planning, organizing, and supporting this program throughout the year and to the generous funders who make Pages possible.

I also extend my thanks, along with those of the Wexner Center and of the Pages participants and teachers, to the Columbus Metropolitan Library for once again hosting an exhibition of artworks and writings from Pages. A special feature of the exhibition (April 9–May 28, 2013) is that the May 16 reception for the artists again includes an open mic, allowing the students to share their writings out loud with their families, friends, fans, and exhibition attendees.

Dionne Custer Edwards Educator for School Programs Wexner Center for the Arts

Guests and Pages participants enjoy the 2012 Pages exhibition, reception, and open mic at the Columbus Metropolitan Library’s Main Library.

Pages Schools, Students, and Teachers Arts and College Preparatory Academy Teacher: Aaron Sherman Taylor Lynne Armstrong Vanessa Grace Arnold Tashi Brown Beard Cesika Boster Cassandra Brennen Branham Bryon Brisco David Anthony Broadus Thomas Stephen Cain Ridge Valentino Craig Sharica Kimbere Crawford Taylor Anne Daniels Christopher Lee Duboe Megan Elizabeth Duncan William Mitchell Earnes Kori Dymon Griffin Joanna Joy Hachet Seth Allen Hall Khadeeja Marai Henry Ivana Klock Jessica Lynn Lilly Sherese Latoya London Alejandro Joseph Martinez Juan Jesus Martinez Austin James Milner Danielle Marie Oney Christina Osborne Lauren Ashley Pointer (Franki) Emily Poltor Xi Ren (Summer) Yajaira Dalia Salas Devon Lamaar Stewart Travis Lee Ward William Winbush Columbus Alternative High School Teacher: Gary Liebesman Halima Abdullahi Munira Abdullahi Sarah Carnes

Allison Hinkle Amelia Koontz Lashonda Love Koryn Naylor Kyrah Philp Hannah Russell Delaware Area Career Center Teacher: Sherry Forster Mitch Beem Sharon Brown Zac Caron Makayla Cimini Hannah Clegg Bethany Cognion Paige Daggett Stefani Dutey Jeremiah Ferguson Bre Floyd Jamie Geiger Alex Hawk Destinee Hughes Jon McClelland Heidi Oswalt Devon Overturf Tatiana Pacheco-John Matt Sparks Alexis Spiers (Lou) Meghan Stamper Erin Talamantes Justin Viers Kylee Wagner Kerien Wilcox Franklin Heights High School Teacher: Tom Mann Halle Addison Kalli Beck Katlin Bellaw Cara Bennett

Dakota Blanton Summer Bowshier Maressa Decarlo Hunter DeWeese Selenna Eng Gavin Franks Caylee Goodman Natalie Hall Anna Inthavong Josephine Kelly Ciara Masterson Fatou Miyouna Marissa Moore Austin Neal Mackenzie Nichols Breanna Novotney Allison Robinson Shelly Scarberry Drew Smith Syha Sok Brenda Sun Cheyenne Walton Mosaic Teacher: Kim Leddy Amanda Allen Michael Ball Amanda Butler Lindsey Caldwell Matt Cohn Kristen Donato Niles Eaton Mitzi Eppley Andrea Hanson Marina Hughes Cesar Medrano Victoria Myles Emily Postlewaite Dora Rodriguez Tiana Rogers Claire Schechinger Anahita Sharma Devin Sheline

Bailey Warner Courtney Williams Rachael Yoho Brittany Waddle Christa Zellfrow Pickerington High School North Teacher: Brandi Lust Heather Cooper Madison Demattio (Maddie) Daniel Durthaler Julie Gallaugher Olivia Goodin Kareem Jackson Lauren Martini Paige McLaughlin Callie Neal Kyle Pasqualone Catherine Pitt Nicholas Rollason Valerija Semeniakaite (Val) Sierra Sribanditmongkol John Stovall Samantha Valuckas (Sam) Natalie When Lara Zirkle Reynoldsburg High School (Summit Road Campus) Teacher: Jessica Sharp Yonatan Abate Hunter Allen Chyna Ames Sara Anloague Jeremy Bankston Nicholas Baxter Farkhanda Bibi Canei Brent Emiya Brock Chelsea Brown

LavantÊ Brown Cynthia Caldwell De’ Sha Caldwell Ryan Campbell Raven Carter Corey Cheek Joseph Claar Thomas Clayton Victoria Clemons Brandon Coble Aaron Crane Katlin Crow Elon Cunningham Renee Davis Jessica Diaz Somer Doyle Samantha Drumm Jordan Dunlap Ciara Edwards Lauren Ellis Hannah Eveland Tatiana Faison Luis Ferrer Nathaniel Freeman (Trey) Jesse Freeman Jose Garcia Garcia Te Anna Graves Raina Gray Justin Grier Chase Hayes Jeremy Hall Jamel Hillman Rachel Hodnett Brenden Holtz Jermaine Hughes Paul Jackson Heather Keefe Kai Kellum Rebecca Kibe Danielle King Krista Knotts India Lee Tanijah Lewis Virgil Maday

Nicholas Mahan Data Martin Ryan McGrew A. J. Mitchell Megan Paas Chiante Palm Joshua Parks Allison Parson Sydni Perry-Beard Kassidy Pierre Nickolas Pollard Alyssa Reed Kyrsty Rider Ashley Roach Samuel Routsong Jessica Sherfield Eric Smith Rion Smith Tynia Smith Zachary Smith Amy Solow Justin Stemen Brian Still Jordan Stinson Jordan Swansiger Jeavonne Swanson Matthew Takacs Destiny Tatum Paige Thomas Nikki Thompson Joshua Turner Jasmin Varbrough Anthony Walker Micah Ware Cornelius Washington Jacob Wile Destiny Williams Mykayla Williams Isaiah Woodberry-Shaw Jasmin Wright Khyle Wright X-Zavier Wright

Writings

Visual Arts Experience Annie Leibovitz Pages Artists: Kim Leddy (educator/ photographer) and Dionne Custer Edwards (writer/educator) Students toured the Wexner Center’s fall 2012 exhibition featuring the work of well-known artist and photographer Annie Leibovitz. Her work has graced the pages of Rolling Stone, Vogue, and Vanity Fair, and she is perhaps best known for her images of popular culture icons.

All four galleries at the center were filled with photographs by Leibovitz, including the artist’s Master Set—156 images she selected a few years ago as definitive examples of her work from throughout her career—and her Pilgrimage series: photographs of landscapes (including Niagara Falls and Yosemite National Park), interiors, and talismanic objects connected with such historical figures as Abraham Lincoln, Emily Dickinson, Marian Anderson, and Elvis Presley.

Students participated in a docent-led tour to view and discuss the artwork and had opportunities to craft narratives based on their perceptions of a photograph or a group of photographs in the galleries. In their writings, students engaged concepts including portraiture, landscape, narrative, tension, irony, and metaphor.

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Where I am from…

I’m from Gujer Khan From actuality and fiction.

Place of mind and depression.

Abandoned, controlled It got old.

I am from Jasmine and Nabila, From sisters and friends.

They’re gone forever but it’s just so hard to believe.

I miss you, I miss her, and I miss them.

I am from always telling myself that I will see them again I will see them again, because I am from faith.

I am from Islam that I was always taught to believe in.

I am from smoke and farms, From uncle and aunts.

I am from overly protected parents.

“Don’t do this!” “Don’t do that!”

I am from “Tum meri duniya ho.” “You’re my world.”

I am from affection and hatred.

Fights and makeups.

From his blue eyes I see every time I close mine.

I am from staying up all night talking to the certain someone, And never getting tired of it.

I am from thinking about her all day, I can’t help it.

I am from those sketch books and journals That I share my night and days with, Sharing my thoughts and saving memories.

Farkhanda Bibi

Untitled He presses his face against the cold, transparent glass.

Watching as things pass.

Rushing water following beside, the whole time, as they glide.

Leaves blowing by and hitting the glass, from the tall half empty trees that they pass.

The soothing sound of wind whistling by.

He closes his eyes.

And the last thing he sees is the sparkling night sky.

Cassandra Brennen Branham

When others would look over her precious grounds, through their pity-radiating eyes, she’d say, “People can overlook it now.

But oh, one day they’ll appreciate this beautiful garden, so untainted and pure.”

“Just Enough.”

She’d slowly state.

“You gotta plant just enough to make them look.

But be sure to not yet take their breath away.”

Growing up, I never understood Grandma’s analogies.

But now, just finally beginning to bloom, I’m old enough to comprehend that I, her child am what she groomed, she prepped, she planted, she watered, because she knew that one day more than a dandelion I could be.

And I just had to wait for my right moment to bloom.

De’Sha Caldwell

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Her green thumb gave way to her now-ample shrubbery.

Once, nothing more than an intrusive wilted Dandelion.

Her nurture was the fertilizer that reversed it all.

| Writings

Lillian’s Garden

Love Love is a lie

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Once you pick it from the vine it stops growing.

Bethany Cognion

A Photo A photo is worth a thousand words. I know it’s been said before but truer words have never been spoken. They tell you the mood and the setting.

hurting, she’s torn up inside and all that remains is a hollow shell. The reasons, we don’t know, how could we. The picture is only of her; they’re her thousand words,

If you look hard enough you can even find a story. For example let’s look at a photo of a girl.

At a glance it looks like a regular photo of any attractive girl,

but unfortunately they don’t tell her whole life story.

blue eyes, blond hair and flawless skin but you have to look deeper. Look at her fake smile and her hollow eyes. Analyze them and you’ll find that she’s

Ridge Valentino Craig

I don’t know your work I don’t know your hardship I don’t know you I don’t know your background story For your hopes and dreams were just simply a number written on me

I can’t hear you I can’t see you I don’t choose It is chosen for me For your hopes and dreams rely on me

Katlin Crow

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I am stained with numbers From which I make or break your dreams On me I erase your lowest, and your highest I present after you For your hopes and dreams are determined on me

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The Whiteboard

The Window I can still hear the children scream, their mark left in history with stains of agony, They jumped to freedom but rounds of fire made them hit the ground like the empty shells that led them to their end, this window of freedom just a mirage when man takes away what is not his to give.

Elon Cunningham

Guest artist Kim Leddy (center) discusses the Annie Leibovitz exhibition with Pages students.

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Where I’m from I am from love Laughter and humor I am from the swing Hanging below the tree From wet grass And colorful sidewalks I’m from baked beans Apple and peach pie I’m from No secrets or privacy from Sundays where I learned about my savior From the preachers and prayers I’m from Kennedy and Eveland branch City lights and country roads From the 22 that I aimed at paper Targets across Gma’s pond I am from these moments Right now til forever Hannah Eveland

Respiratory / Last Breath My mom loves to paint. With every stroke of the brush I can see an emotion of peace come over her. Like a cover protecting an innocent little girl from the monster that’s hiding in her closet, she feels comfort.

One night I was having trouble breathing due to my asthma. My mom and dad rushed me to the hospital in the car and I could see the rain pouring down the window and over the dark road.

I could see the fear on my mother’s face that was no longer at peace as I began to black out slowly. Even though my lungs were collapsing, the only thing I could think about was her heart feeling such pain.

The tears began to fall down my eyes, as so hers too. The smell of metallic filled the room as the doctors placed me in a hospital bed. My mom continued to hold my hand.

A man in a white coat walked in with a smile on his face and asked if everything’s ok. Which made my mom think if that was the case we wouldn’t be at the hospital in the first place.

I was given medicine to help me breathe but the only thing keeping me alive was my mom sitting right next to me. And now with oxygen in my body I wondered if my mom knows how much I love her.

I remember looking at her with amazement, astonished at how I was blessed to have a mother who cares for me. Since that day I’ve changed. Since that day I realized how much I take her for granted. But never again will I do that, making that experience a mural over my heart that she painted.

Tatiana Faison

Julie Gallaugher

The Photograph They say a picture paints a thousand words A photograph can capture a moment in time What were the thoughts intertwined?

And where were the feelings felt inside?

When the time’s just right the images scream delight There’s no caption needed no title needed Just the words that fill your mind When you view a picture with such design A digital copy of the present That will turn into the past That you can bring with you to the future There’s just nothing else in the world That can do that Quite like a picture Rebecca Kibe

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You get up every morning to look at yourself in the mirror. You stare hard with hazy eyes, a rubber band barely holding back the beast you call hair. Dark circles tell just how late you stayed up, and your breath reeks of a rough night of sleep. You stare at the mess you get the privilege to spend every day of your life as, and you kind of want to cry. You pull your eyes away from your image and take in a breath; holding it for a moment and gathering your thoughts, eyes fighting to stay open. All you really want is to crawl back into bed, to live in your dreams; but the blaring sound of your alarm clock and the harsh truth of reality won’t allow you that pleasure. As the breath escapes past lips you go to work on taming the mane on your head, ripping through the locks with a generic brush and wondering why you put yourself through this torture every morning. Once your hair is decent you move to your blotchy, uneven, less-Covergirl-perfect face. You do this each day, it’s become routine. It started with just some eye shadow, a little mascara. From there, it evolved, and now you won’t, can’t walk out of the house without your mask.

Seventeen, Cosmo, and Elle conditioned you for this; Pretty Little Liars are your idols.

You look to Teen Wolf and a young Carrie Bradshaw and see what you’re supposed to look like. The beast staring back at you, is nothing like the magazines. The monster you wake up to is definitely not getting Sex in the City. Once your skin is even, you attempt to give your eyes a little life. It’s a process, but it’s worth it. Right? After you get your face on you might just stand a chance against the Plastics, or at least after a few more coats of mascara and a little blush you might not look like such a zombie. You’re no Barbie, but society has conditioned you to wish you were one. You look back into the mirror and you add one finally touch, a smile; and you hope that no one will see through it.

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Untitled

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Susan Sontag [excerpt] These weeks have dragged on like my tight shoes, often letting me forget the solemnity of my purpose in the light of streetlamps and train windows. I have smiled at more things than I can count, certainly more than in the bleak daylight of my hometown. Sometimes I cannot help but feel as though this was the right choice, and that perhaps I am at the top of my roller coaster after all. But often, when there are too many or not enough people and the world seems blunt at the edges and voices around me speak in foreign tongues that I have no hope of ever deciphering, I cannot notice beauty of any kind for remembering the weighty pain of being finite. Even when it is dark and quiet and there’s nothing but soft blankets and warmth pressed into my side and the feeling of being safe and home (but not quite, because everything is uncertainty and I have never had to face this journey before), I can’t quite separate myself from this pressing anxiety. It lurks inside me, in some dusty drawer of my brain, clearing its throat every two seconds to remind me that it persists in being present.

Amelia Koontz

Brother Strange (excerpt) Among the noise, the music, the voices, beer and smoke These strangers are now my friends, one more than the others He saved my life that night, I had nowhere to go We ride a bus to his home, it’s a warm summer night We order pizza, it’s devoured We sit outside on the porch, We talk, we laugh This stranger is now my brother, more than the others.

Alejandro Joseph Martinez

Introduction to Her Heart Her heart so warm and sweet.

But greatly armed and protected.

When love runs through it’s like a treat, Yet fear of being infected.

The sun is not what describes her smile.

It truly shows under moonlight.

But even though she hides in black, Her smile still shines so bright.

Data Martin

Home Home is the place I request in a tired, groggy voice as my car seat rocks me and my father counts up into the hundreds as I close my eyes and fall fast

It’s the driveway where he said so sure of what was ahead “So your dad is leaving US this place, right?”

And it’s the yard out front covered in orange leaves and dew where I collapsed after he took back what he had convinced me he was sure of.

It’s the place where I watched with small brown eyes as my things were carried out and I would whisper, “mine?” with the point of a stubby finger withered and worn like raisins, the abuse of teething.

So now there are two homes.

It’s where my mother secretly films me through the screen on her bedroom window Swinging on my swing set belting “Somewhere over the rainbow” like the true reincarnation of Judy Garland.

It’s where I welcome a new beginning, and meet my stepfather for the first time It’s where my walls are paper thin, and my stepfather takes another bite of chips with salsa, and my mother’s TV blares and my eyes can no longer concentrate on the words on a page.

It’s also where he held me.

He held me close, and I didn’t have to say a word.

It’s where he would show up on my front porch on days when no one could say the right things And it’s the last place I saw him before I watched the tail lights of his beat-up Chevy Malibu leave me once and for all But it’s also the place where he left the gate open Maybe I’ve sat in one too many English classes But could it be That this isn’t over And I could find in him once more My home.

Koryn Naylor

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It’s the one where the porch light glows until I slam the door to his tattered Chevy Malibu and open the one that is propped open to the living room.

| Writings

It’s the brick road that I tripped over and scraped my knees on too many times to count

Depression, that overwhelming sensation that binds you to reality… You think there is nothing you can do, broken, by ones fatality. Or maybe nothing is wrong, and you just think maybe it’s you. Until you meet someone, who can show you things you never knew. Eyes, blue like unturned water shimmering beneath the sun. And that smile... every time you look at me you look like you’ve won. But what did you win?

My heart? No. You won nothing, because what I feel is not by your doing. But the sensations and emotions that have been blooming… You were nothing but unexpected, but maybe that’s the best part. For the best things never come when you see them, sharp, like a dart. As for the feelings I have, what are they? I do not know. But what I see in you, and that fluttering feeling in me, I wish to never forget.

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Unexpected.

Danielle Marie Oney

Calculus I hate calculus. Yeah, the whole math part sucks, but two rows behind me and one to the left, she sits, twisting a perfect lock of hair around her index finger. She sits with a flawless figure always dressed in flawless clothes. She sits laughing with the other beautiful people surrounding her. She sits pretending not to notice that any guy in the school would kill just to take her on a date. She sits making perfect calculations, giving her perfect test scores. She sits basking in her own perfection.

You know those girls that rant about how everyone’s body is beautiful the way it is, and all of that bullshit? The girls that have a gap between their thighs and protruding hip and collar bones. They fucking walk through the hallways like every day is the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Easy for them, right? Who gave them the authority to tell other girls not to be self-conscious? Well, she is the verbatim leader of those girls.

It makes me sick thinking about the level of fake-ness she has achieved.

I ran into her at my favorite coffee shop the other day; she was reading Great Expectations in the far corner by the fire. I made sure to avoid eye-contact. Juxtaposed to the fireplace there is a full length mirror. Flames and glowing embers were reflected making a picturesque scene. I’ve always found comfort in local coffee shops. Upon my departure, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I tossed the latte and pastry I bought into the first trashcan I saw.

Monday morning she was not in calculus. The next day came and went without her. It isn’t like her to miss school. The desk two rows behind me and one to the left remained empty for the rest of the year. I really don’t understand why she did it.

Catherine Pitt

The Woman in Moscow

People in the town say that she is a very pretty lady.

Smile so big and bright That the moon would not compete with it.

Heart so sweet Candy could not match it.

Mind so sharp That a knife could not fight it.

However, those things are all in question.

She wonders in the town called “People’s Impression”; Trying to get answers from what she thought was a perfect enlightened place.

The more she walked The more her feet bled the self-consciousness.

Her eyes urinated themselves empty.

Though she finally realizes something that could never be taken away; Dignity.

She later learned that she is all the things that positive angels claimed.

No more will she have to wonder.

No more will have to cry.

No more.

No more.

Lauren Ashley Pointer (Franki)

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Walking down the streets of hopelessness Her heart is surrounded by the darkness of lack of self-confidence.

What used to be mighty Is now weary and troubled.

Confused about whether or not she is allowed to feel frightened Angry Hurt And not at ease with her true self.

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There was a woman in Moscow.

Sleeping among the streets.

She hoped that one day she could get out of This trapped prison called “uncertainty.”

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Different I am different We are all different Different races and personalities So I ask you?

What is normal Is normal the world’s conception?

Or yours?

Who is the judge?

Not me or you How can we sit up there talking about how she is not normal Because a doctor says she has a diagnosis If that is the case We all have a diagnosis then Yes every single one of you Why give science a rule over your life?

You are not different Just unique Pills do not make us “normal” We are unique We are just unique in different ways So what a man lost his leg in the war But that man that lost his leg fighting for you You Don’t you get it What if you were out here fighting And lost your leg?

He did something you would not have done “And you bully him because he doesn’t fit in the normal category” We need to develop our minds like leaders They are meant to be free Take your brain out of the cage Rescue it out of that little prison called Normal He can’t see or hear So What He sees life beyond us Ways we cannot understand Ways we cannot comprehend That is what I call unique Normal that’s average Mediocre And being somebody else You are amazing and you know it Let the sunshine God gave you soar beyond space And let those normal people Know your gift And make a change Nickolas Pollard

Stargazing

We are told to aim for success, Which equals big paychecks, nice house, shiny new car, and to be the best dressed.

But why must we rely on material things for success and happiness?

And why am I, among others, going along with this?

I know people will consider me a failure in life, Because I don’t have plans for a fancy college or a fancy career.

But that’s never been what’s mostly important to me, And I can’t understand why that’s so wrong.

I probably won’t have the most money, the nicest house, or that shiny car.

But I’ll be happy.

And I’ll be okay.

But for some reason that just isn’t good enough for anyone today.

In a lot of ways, most of us have lost our way.

We say we’re aiming for happiness Honestly we’re mistaking that for wealthiness.

And I don’t want that to be okay.

Alyssa Reed

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We are told to appreciate the little things in life, But why are these things considered the little things in life?

Maybe those little things should be our goals to aim for, While dreaming and planning our lives into those stars at night.

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Do we understand the meaning of happiness?

Since childhood we are told to keep our heads held up high And to reach for the sparkling, golden stars above.

But with all of these distractions society has come to create, We’ve lost the purpose of stopping to see what’s all around us.

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The Unforgettable Memories (excerpt)

Blue Flower

Blessing the family with five beautiful kids, she fears of giving up.

A strong person seeps behind the cracks of her smile.

Deep scars lie fragile on her skin.

Seems like pain has been her only friend.

How do you amend those hurtful memories?

Tall red concrete walls Surrounding the small courtyard.

From the outside world,

GOD. I pray that the alcohol she soaks up every night, doesn’t wipe away a beautiful life faster than a blink of an eye.

Ashley Roach

All will see beauty From the heavens they see: The Cyan Beacon.

But not this moment.

It is surrounded by the Tall red concrete walls.

One can only dream To touch the endless blue sky Achieve greatness. grow…

Eric Smith

My Town (excerpt) My pilgrimage starts on the swings. Kids aren’t playing on this playground anymore. It’s just me, sitting alone in the 22 degree weather with my marshmallow coat, contemplating the uselessness of fingerless gloves. This place is now a foreign planet. They’ve taken down the tetherball poles that were all bent 45 degrees from fender benders long gone by. The blue monkey bars have been replaced by a yellow slide and the monolith of the zip line is now an ancient relic without its sliding bar. I get the feeling of a time traveler shot into the future against my own will. These are the ruins of my childhood. The creak of the swings feels like the crying of ghosts.

Most of the friends I made were imaginary and I met them in between the pages of library books. The library two blocks from my house became my own personal dating service, where Christopher Robin and Harry Potter duked it out for my affections. I remember running through the rows, both terrified and comforted by that mandatory silence that was only interrupted by the muted thunder of my heartbeat. The books tower over my head like boulders teetering on the edge of cliffs and with the way those books were stuffed onto the shelves, my description wasn’t very far off.

Hannah Russell

| Writings

It wishes to grow, To touch the endless blue sky, Its petals glow strongly.

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Reaching out for all the help she can find, she sits in a bare room with tons of strangers, following the steps in her mind.

She finds unconditional love from one person,

The small blue flower Glows in the direct sunlight Of a summer’s day.

I come from nowhere, an idea, imagination, a typical place that cannot be found because the foundation of this dream dies within ourselves on the sheer fact of fear of being alive.

A mystery is my mind, filled with temptation trying to kill me.

The swirling images are dancing with the universe, trickling down like tears from the somber eyes.

Hummingbirds and tulips. Roses and songs.

I sit outside and breathe in the memories of my lovers. You smell like old perfume, nice cologne, nag champa, you smell like home.

Alexis Spiers (Lou)

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Untitled

Untitled It was a somber scene in the hanger on the air base that day. The pounding of the rain on the metal roof was almost fitting. The inside of the hanger fit the mood outside of it. Three soldiers stepped away from the coffin they had placed next to the priest. One soldier, tall, in his dress blues, a marine, grasped the triangular folded flag. The other two marines walked in perfect unison to assist the lone soldier. Six white gloves held the edges of the flag. Six white gloves grasping a flag were all this woman had left of her husband. The eversteady white gloves passed the flag in to the woman’s trembling hands.

With this transaction from the white gloves, she now realized her reality.

She would never get her husband back. Dropping to her knees she began to wilt like the last flower at the start of winter. Seeing her children follow her actions was even more difficult to watch. The grandparents tried to console the mourning family, but a hug and advice was not going to bring him back.

It took one day, one phone call, one black dress. It took one long procession, one air force base, one coffin. It took three marines, three blue uniforms, one folded flag. Six white gloves. All it took were six white gloves, and this woman’s life would be changed forever. It’s amazing just how many simple things can be part of an event like this woman losing her husband.

Matthew Takacs

Untitled My heart is a broken record, Falling to my gut.

They’re coming!

I’m trapped!

Surrounded by nothing but walls and A door.

A door With the enemy’s name Upon it.

I got no choice But to climb the wall And pray I can make it Without being blown to shreds Or shot down.

Pray I don’t leave behind A wife and Three kids.

Nikki Thompson

I come from…

I come from the afternoon from a sunny day from the FFA presidency from the open wheat fields from the probability of winning my first argument, but not remembering from a farm from a combine shelling com from a tractor plowing a field of sod from a Chevy Silverado from work Justin Viers

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Bang!

There’s a gunshot It sounds so close.

So close, The hairs on my neck Stand up straight.

| Writings

I’m trying to escape.

My palms A sweaty mess.

My mind A bomb ready to explode.

I come from night I come from Lego Land I come from humor I come from nothing I come from cool summer night I come from guitar I come from cracked sidewalks I come from go home and grow up I come from Trav I come from St. Patrick’s day

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Untitled...

Travis Lee Ward

Untitled I come from lissome dusk lights from vast skies and the arms of the Milky Way from listening ears, a tall tree, like Gaia herself from a soft smile, soft like a mother’s voice to her sleeping child from dark night, the chill still air of Jack Frost’s bosom from the crown, the tiara of love and future accomplishments from fields of wheat, enchanted and dancing, free, bold, and majestic from the womb of a noble, breaking my way into existence from Neankums, a name of a child lost in the illusion of time from the bitterness of Columbus Day, and the sins of the worshipped from dried tears and bloody waters from fantasy and ocean wave from twinkling stars, dead yet still burning bright like the fire of my soul from the call of the inner cosmic sirens from within Kerien Wilcox

Untitled

I’m from Woodberry from Woods from Harris from Poindexter. From soul food every weekend to cobbler every holiday.

I’m from single moms and few males from caring, loving, and happy people.

Isaiah Woodberry-Shaw

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I’m from those well-known walnut brownies, from NW Ohio. I’m from the strange weather from Wow it’s snowing! To Wow it’s extremely hot!

I’m from Sunday school every Sunday and from Indiana Baptist.

| Writings

I’m from Grippo’s, from corner stores and City Park.

I am from the old, small, and crowded three-bedroom home. I am from the warmest, most-loving house on the block.

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| Pages Anthology 2012–13

Performing Arts Experience I, Malvolio Tim Crouch Pages Artists: Chelsea Phillips (dramaturge/ theater scholar/educator) and Dionne Custer Edwards (writer/educator) Students viewed I, Malvolio, playwright/ performer Tim Crouch’s fourth show that uses individual Shakespearean characters as points of departure for his own funny and engaging shows, which are intended to introduce young audiences to Shakespeare.

I, Malvolio reimagines Twelfth Night from the perspective of Malvolio, a puritanical steward who is the butt of many jokes and much teasing in the play. It is performed in modern English and uses this minor character’s viewpoint to reach a younger audience through what Crouch describes as “an honest response rather than a pale reduction.”

Students had opportunities to explore Shakespearean themes including humor, power, love, and metaphor in their own writing, thinking, and discussion and to try their own hands at writing forms, such as plays and sonnets, associated with Shakespeare.

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet 140 Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; Lest sorrow lend me words and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were, Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so; As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No new but health from their physicians know; For if I should despair, I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee: Now this ill-wrestling world is grown so bad, Mad slanders by mad ears believed be, That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, through thy proud heart go wide.

Response I will not press your tongue-tied patience My manner wants not to pity thee yet Pity replaces my love in your absence Despair washes over the spark of our love We fall into our normal cadence My love masked like a hand by silk glove I should grow mad if you silence Our love as beautiful as the rose yet The thorn of infidelity pierces your heart Caught by cupid’s arrows words of love exchanged If your ill words should cause us to part I would wrestle with words of passion But forever they stay behind my tongue.

Amanda Allen

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 142 Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied!

Amanda Allen

I, Ben Kramer, Write the Truth to Samantha Draper (excerpt) Dear Samantha Draper, It’s going on seven months since we were last together. I remember sitting on your front porch waiting for you to finally come outside and acknowledge that I wasn’t leaving until you did. You walked out from the garage in an emerald-green silk button-down blouse and tan khakis. Your golden blonde locks fell all around the collar, and they still bounced despite the bounce you lacked in your stride as you approached me. Your piercing blue eyes looked sharper than ever before. It made me want to cry.

At first you stared at me, with your eyebrows raised in a perplexed manner, as though it was just before you would begin to scream. I really thought you were just going to stare, mute, after the longest time of silence, so I spoke.

“Samantha.”

“I’m going to Leslie’s graduation party.” You didn’t look at me when you said that.

“Samantha, can I please talk to you?”

“Not unless you’re here to tell me that it’s not true, Ben. Is that why you’re here?”

“No.” “Then, go.” Those two words cut deep into my chest, making it hard to tell you what I said next.

“I cheated on you.” You nodded, but you looked appalled. Livid. Then you cracked, slightly.

“Why?” A tear fell down the right side of your beautiful face. Suddenly growing angry again, you said, “No. No, forget it.”

These were the last words you spoke. You opened the door to your blue Honda Civic and started the car.

I watched, as you pulled out and drove away, leaving me behind on the front porch.

I deserved much worse than that.

Sarah Carnes

| Writings 39

Response If love is my sin then we have sinned Love as light as a feather; hate heavy As an anchor; but cupid grinned Upon our love till a stranger bravely Confessed his love for me. Words of betrayal Crossed my lips with no thought of thee, but bond Not false, his love more true than thou’s brutal Pity. Thou finds it better to respond With disdainful vengeance than pity thy Self for thou isn’t worthy of good fortune I cannot pity thee any longer, I Am called to my other love’s mansion

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Response Shall I compare thee to a flowing stream?

Thou art more shallow and more volatile.

Coolness not refreshing but chilled and mean, On the run; never stop to stay a while.

You caress every pebble in your way Trickle over and seek no forgiveness, You find new curves for every new day, Fleeting from here to there, never to rest.

Your tide weathers the complexion of love, Withered like time’s forgotten spring rose buds; All men the same, searching for misled love, Love in private affairs; love is your drug.

So long as men can breathe and eyes can see

Remember Shakespeare, you’ll never love me.

Lindsey Caldwell

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 46 Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war How to divide the conquest of thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar, My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.

My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie— A closet never pierced with crystal eyes— But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies.

To ’cide this title is impanneled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part: As thus: mine eye’s due is thine outward part, And my heart’s right, thine inward love of heart.

| Writings 41

Response Mine eye and heart agree on this matter, To show you no kindness, no affection I know of you and the way you flatter, I wish not to join your crude collection.

My eye doth see this figurine of lust Who sees only the bodies of women, My heart cries aloud to me “do not trust!”

Like a sixth sense that women are given.

Poets, you think you know women so well, Don’t be so quick to think you have the right On female appearance you tend to dwell, Dream on if you think I will stay the night.

Keep your wandering eye where it belongs,

I wish “go fuck yourself ” rhymed with “belongs.”

Lindsey Caldwell

Tim Crouch performs I, Mavolio for Pages students.

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I, the Audience I, the audience am in the dark, even though all the lights are on I, the audience felt as if something was missing, even though everything was there Concept and execution are different things And the clarity was abstract while the revenge was poignant I, the audience want to stand up and say that we are not all like that That morals are not ancient history, and love is not extinct I want to tell him that everything will be okay Because sometimes life is difficult, and there is a lesson in every trial I, the audience want to change the world and change the past I, the audience long for the world to have compassion, joy, hope, and love I, the audience know what it’s like to feel all alone But there is always light at the end of the tunnel And it’s always darkest before the morning And where there is pain there is love In the words of Shakespeare, “So shines a good deed in a weary world.”

Hannah Clegg

I, TOBY He deserved it! He made the whole place more and more gloomy than it needed to be. I thought what could it hurt to add a bit of humor to the home in which we live? How were we supposed to know he was going to believe the words before him and participate in the commands that were mentioned?

He’s mad! He’s mad for thinking royal blood would ever fall in love with a man with a heart like his! He’s mad for actually believing he had a chance to become a count and have the ability to control whomever he pleased! He’s mad for dressing like a MAD MAN and thinking that’s how he’d obtain the lady’s heart. He should have been suspicious from the start, the fool.

It takes a mad man to not be able to comprehend the madness before him, and that request was mad. Therefore, he’s mad and the result was all on him. ’Twas nothing but a joke on my part. He evolved it into a more serious event and received what he deserved.

He acted like a mad man, and in the end was treated like a mad man. He should’ve expected no different. The fact that he thought the outcome was going to be pleasant shows us exactly how mad he truly is! Let him deny it all he wants. Let him displace his downfall on us, does it change anything?

He will still be and always remain a mad man.

Stefani Dutey

I, Allison

I am uncomfortable. You come up to me and ask me to say something I do not want to say.

You are doing things to make all of us uncomfortable. You take revenge on us, for something we have had nothing to do with.

I am exhausted. You make me laugh at your misery and then reprimand me for it. Like a roller coaster, I feel the euphoria of laughter, followed in quick succession by the sinking pit of guilt. You want us to laugh at your misery, only to make us bullies. Then you tell us what we are doing is wrong, pointing out how mean we are being.

I am tired. Tired of being all of these things. Tired of being manipulated. Tired of doing what you want me to do. Tired of just how masterful you are at controlling me.

I am mad. You keep saying you are not, but just like me, you are. You are mad for good reason, as am I. You are mad because people manipulated you, and made you into a fool.

You did the same things to me. Thus, you are one of the people you so vehemently hate.

You are turning into exactly what you are mad at. You are a hypocrite. I am mad that you are not mature enough, though you are a grown man, to learn not to take out your anger on innocent bystanders.

I am mature. Unlike you, I will not take my anger out on innocents. I will instead express all of my hate, all my horrible feelings on this page. I will show you how to be mature. I will show you that I do not have to do everything you say. I will show you that although I do not like you, I will forgive you. I will never see you again, but if I did, I would not explode and make you a fool. No, I will simply walk by, or perhaps, if I am feeling bold, I will hand you this page. Then you will know how I feel. I will not expect a response.

I am relieved. Relieved that I have gotten this out of my system. Relieved that I am no longer under your power. Relieved that I have taken control of my life. Relived that I have learned from you. Learned that I cannot let others control my life. Only I can.

Thank you for this revelation. You have made my life better through your abuse. Thank you.

Allison Hinkle

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I am disturbed. Disturbed at how you tried to kill yourself. Disturbed because of the memories that flood my mind at the sight of your noose. Talking to my aunt, how she would forget I had something to say and would talk for hours without a pause. How my mother banned me from talking to her. How before this, I was a lot like her. How I felt when I heard she had committed suicide. How I felt at the funeral. How it felt like a dream. How years later, I finally realized she was not coming back. How my mother would never celebrate her birthday, mourning for her twin.

| Writings

I am shocked. Shocked that you would do something like that. Shocked that you mooned me, not once, not twice, not even thrice, but many more. Shocked that you, a middle-aged, bald man with a paunch, would dare to scar our young eyes with the sight of you in nothing but a leopard-print thong. Some of us want to bleach our eyes to get that image out. In some ways, the blindness that would result would be worse. At least now, the images I see around me counteract the one of you. If I were blind, there would be nothing but that image and no outside force to distract me.

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Red The red sun sinks below the horizon. The sun glares at me over the crest of the mountains as we speed down the highway. The shovels are clanking around in the back seat, and something is breaking inside of my chest, the story of today written in ruby red ink all over my clothes. My breath feels heavy in my throat as my trembling hands clutch at my knotted stomach. It’s too late… I can’t move. I can’t speak.

I can’t cry for help. Who would hear anyway, even if I could jump out of the car and free myself? It would be a hell of a sight to see: my tattered skirt on the side of the road and the drip-dropping of every ounce of life out of me. I want to grab my throat, plug the massive gash in it with my hands, and save myself. How can I though, when my hands merely sit there, contorted like claws, against my stomach? I thought it would be quicker than this: the suffering. The death.

Out of the corner of my eye I see dark red hands steady on the steering wheel, a cigarette fuming between two fingers. The red is sliding down the wheel, inching to the bottom. Compliant with gravity. The pit of my stomach pulses and twists, my heart thumping louder and faster the farther we drive. I want to turn my head and look at his face. I need to see the eyes. Is there anything inside? Any compassion? Because all I can remember is his hard, rough hands slicing the cold knife through my neck. I remember the feeling as each muscle severed and warm blood spilled out over my body. His iron grasp on my body before he tossed it on a tarp haphazardly and threw me into the passenger seat.

Does he know I’m still alive?

Lashonda Love

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 61 Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?

Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?

O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake; Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

Dora Rodriguez

Hammy: A Play in Two Acts (excerpts) From Act One From SCENE 1 (Elsinore Estate) Horatio: Yo Hammy! Come quick! I have received word that thou pops has appeared upon the roof!

I’m not really sure how, but it was something wickedly foul, man. It might be his… you know… ghost.

Hamlet (perpetually depressed): Dude, Horatio, stop messing with me… Your efforts to lift my bummer spirits are pointless! Thy estate owner is dead. Thy father is dead! Dead! (Stalls for a while before bursting out into tears.)

Horatio (fake slaps some sense into him): Get ahold of yourself man! It was him!

I swear it on my pops’ three teeth!

From SCENE 2 Ophelia (upset): Horatio, did I miss something?

Horatio: Uhh… what are you talking about?

Ophelia: Hamlet! I mean he was like totally fine yesterday, we were like this close to Facebook official!

Then, today, he throws me the words: “Fugly be thou skank! My love for you was but for the lolz!” I mean, I just… don’t understand (crying) what grotesque change has formed within our dear Hamlet??

Amanda Butler, Niles Eaton, Mitzi Eppley, Devin Sheline

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Response Why does this machine keep mine eye awake?

For man should know, from man’s hands it was made But the ghosts of things past, my dreams they shake As the clock’s backward hands undo time’s braid And even the time that we wish to travel Its delicately woven translucent thread Is of the hands whose mind wishes to unravel A thirst for fresher grounds on which to tread New old horizons lie around the bend It isn’t the machine that keeps me from sleep But it is my will to see this trip end And I am too close to start counting sheep Until then I’ll let my mind and heart race Through undefined space between time and place

The Tragedy of Omar: The Brother from Brooklyn (excerpts) From SCENE 9

Omar: Yeah, man, it was passed down from my grandmother. She told me to give it to the right girl. Why you ask?

Neo: No reason. I was just wondering… you gave it to Demi?

Omar: Yeah… I just feel like I can trust Demi, she’s always there for me. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her, man.

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Neo: Hey Omar, I heard you gave Demi a scarf or something?

Neo: Oh, that’s weird. I’m pretty sure I saw Demi giving a scarf to Casper. What did the one you gave to Demi look like?

Omar: It’s faded from dark orange to light orange. It’s kind of long, I guess.

Is that the one you think you saw?

Neo: Uuuhhh man… I think that’s the one. I’m not trying to start anything but be careful, dude.

Omar: I don’t think I need to worry though, do you?

Neo: I’m not saying one thing or another. I’m jus saying, if you need anything, man, I’m here for you. I gotta go man. Emily is waiting for me back at my apartment.

From SCENE 10 Neo sits in his apartment. Emily knocks on the door and walks in smiling, with the scarf in her hands.

Emily: Guess what I have?

Neo: The scarf?!?!?

Emily: Here you go baby, is this what you were looking for?

Neo: That’s the one! Thanks babe! (hugs Emily from behind) I really appreciate this!

Emily: Is that all you needed? Just that little scarf? It doesn’t seem so important to me.

Neo: No, this is just the thing I was looking for…

Emily: What are you going to do with that? I mean, Omar and Demi can be annoying sometimes when they’re with each other, but I’m not out to ruin any lives here.

Neo: Trust me, it’s all just a fun, harmless joke. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to cause a triple murder-suicide. (laughs) Matt Cohn, Kristin Donato, Victoria Myles, Tiana Rogers

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Romeo & Juliet (excerpt) Prologue Two coffee shops, both alike in dignity, In chill Columbus, where we hang our scene, From ancient grudge break to mainstream mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hipsters unclean.

From forth the fatal colored skinny jeans of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; Whole misadventured, understanding bros.

Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.

The urban passage of their death-mark’d love, And the continuance of their parents’ rage, Which but their children’s expiration, could not remove the tiff, Is now the Starbucks tragedy of our stage; The which if you with scarves and gauged ears attend, What here shall miss, our struggle shall strive to mend.

Michael Ball, Emily Postlewaite, Brittany Waddle

Guest artist Chelsea Philips (at left) conducts a theaterfocused Pages classroom visit.

Media Arts Experience Louder Than a Bomb (2010) Jon Siskel and Greg Jacobs Pages Artists: William Evans (poet) and Dionne Custer Edwards (writer/educator) Students viewed Louder Than a Bomb, a documentary film about the poetry slam in Chicago that is one of the largest youth poetry festivals in the world. The film follows young writers from various neighborhoods in the Chicago area as they write, prepare, edit, prepare, and finally perform their work in front of their peers at this annual event. The film tackles the difficult topics the teens grapple with through their words and the support of their teachers and peers.

Two of the film’s featured poets, Novana Venerable and Lamar Jorden, participated in a panel discussion and answered the Pages students’ questions about content, process, and style. With this influence, the students explored and critically thought through writings inspired by discussions about media literacy, creative writing, culture, literary integrity, and the writing process.

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Hope PORTLAND, MAINE 2006 Awoowe=Grandfather Abo=Father I remember the salty scent of the Atlantic As the wind blew softly, Making the chimes of the nearby houses sing a sweet melody.

My younger sister squeals as Abo and older sister splash water Awoowe fixes the blanket I wade into the warm water.

Above, the 4th of July sun shines, Reflecting its wondrous rays on the Atlantic Ocean.

Below, the sand filters through my wiggling toes.

I looked up and stared at the vast blue sky That rose above the Land of Opportunities.

I wondered if I could be having this much fun In Somalia.

A country that I have never seen before, Only imagined from the tales of my parents and grandparents If the war had not happened, If it was still safe, Would I have been wading in the Indian Ocean, On the shores of my father’s hometown instead?

Would my family be in one place?

Would I know my country’s history?

Awoowe catches me deep in thought.

He smiles at me And reads me like an open book.

“Do not stress over a problem.

You are too young.

You will find a solution another day, But right now, Celebrate.

Enjoy today.”

He pats my head.

“Keep hope, my child.”

Hope.

Abo begins the call for the afternoon prayer.

Hope.

It keeps my dream alive.

My home is America, But the home of my ancestors was a beautiful place It is called a “Failed Nation” today.

I’ll bring it back to its feet again.

I’ll make sure others can call it “home” one day, Just like my family calls America “home.”

Halima Abdullahi

I am the earth. (excerpt) A cabin as broken as the spirit, and its windows cracked like eyes.

Anonymous

Taylor Lynne Armstrong

Proud (excerpt) so all that hate can remain absent and my attitude will remain constant then MY soul will be a parent to the kid you left behind the child that can no longer see Dakota Blanton

Untitled sittin’ in my bedroom hearin’ instrumentals thinkin’ in my mental dawg you gotta grab a pencil so you can show all these brothas that you bad for their dental that you’re the man with the words never borrowed like a rental i’m original call this brotha adam i got ya chick eve yeah she ridin’ on my saddle and i can grab you like a baby shake you like a raddle and when i won the war you ain’t even win a battle IMA MONSTA an assassin even when i’m rappin’ what you make ima take kinda like taxes a wise man said no talk just blastin’ fuck the lights and the cameras but i’m ready for this action Bryon Brisco

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What goes through your mind I wonder Do you process the words I say?

I want to look through your eyes and see what you see.

It must be difficult to be different, To go through life with a disability burdening you.

To face judgment on a daily basis.

But none of that seems to faze you, With your everlasting smile Your personality will shine through even your darkest of times.

I hope you can understand that you’re an inspiration to me and that without you, life would never be the same.

| Writings

Untitled

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Found Poetry Afghanistan: Attacks Machine guns rattle, Four massive airstrikes.

Silent, the next morning it starts again.

The base is under attack.

If the Americans leave Pakistan will flow through the valley, If they stay Attacks will happen. http://afghanistan.blogs.cnn.com/2011/06/29/insidea-firefight-between-u-s-troops-insurgents Sharon Brown

Who are you?

(excerpt)

Who are you to me, but a man in DC Sitting behind a desk making choices for “me”?

You promise to change and rearrange the strange ways that this country is run but now you only run… for yourself.

And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do, eat, drink, say Every day that I live in the land of the free and home of the brave?

Who are you to take my choice and my voice out of the equation for my life?

Take away my right to my own body, my family, my future Who are you? but a man with a five point plan that I don’t understand and if you had power in your hand I’d be lost…

I am a woman and my life should be mine after all of this time fighting to get to title nine Amanda Butler

Mara She is a statue, Cold and still, dappled Light falling on curtain’d eyes Moving toward the light, But before her lie the The fires that she brought of love.

The darkness shivers, And light fills us all, Before falling away.

And my blue misery fades, The sharp, stinging taste Of wonder holding on my tongue.

The granite cracks, and Flies like leaves in the wind, And the fires die in fits of steam.

The light takes all, blurring Joy, love, and life, in this Kaleidoscope of hearts.

14% Female Army Outnumbered by 86% Male Army She did what she had to do The single mother soldier Lay awake, think of not going back Rare chance to call home Missing her family A woman A woman in gear A woman of respect A woman Can still fight for her country http://www.cnn.com/2013/01/24/us/womancombat-afghanistan-profile/index Zac Caron

The Soldier (excerpt) Startled, waking to the sound of the emergency siren Everyone hurrying out of their bunks What is going on?

Throwing on desert sand camo and my light brown combat boots and grabbing my m-4 Door slams open as we run out of the barracks Hit the cold, frigid air of Afghanistan Waiting for the Captain’s orders Saluting him at his arrival Listening to the orders Thinking what could have happened?

Heather Cooper

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Found Poetry Afghanistan: Single Mom

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Thomas Stephen Cain

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Things I Never Said Move on already Because no one cares That you’re Still hurt.

Those nights she Left you alone.

And came crying On my shoulder.

Nobody knows, but me.

I still have The tear-stained Sweatshirt.

When you let your Guard down and Told me how she Cheated on you.

How you said She was the love Of your life with Her golden hair And glowing eyes.

While, you’re the love of mine.

Move on already No one cares How she hurt you, And how you’re Still hurt.

No one, But me.

Taylor Anne Daniels

I would never do that.

Momma’s Miracle (excerpts) Early September The start of my life Nobody knew it And nobody knew me Momma found a tickle in her belly And you kicked rocks headed that way Headed somewhere where you could deny me Let’s face it, you didn’t even want to know me May came All of the harsh months spent Throwing away momma’s high school education Spent trying to keep me alive Spent trying not to break bones like twigs in her five-foot, ninety-five pound body Spent saving dimes and pennies to feed me when the time came All of those butt-busting hours and sacrifices finally came worth it.

May 21, 1997, The day I was born with no dad to a no-income 15-year-old mom ………

I didn’t even recognize you.

Was I supposed to? ………

January 17, 2010 All you could say was That you didn’t have to be there that night that you never had to be there.

Well guess what?

You never were, And I’m not even mad anymore.

You can just take yourself back to Italy with your newborn son… and just forget about me Like you did for the twelve years before that incident.

There’s a reason why I’m momma’s miracle And that’s because daddy was never there…

May 16, 2013 I’m still here, telling you guys the story of the daddy I never had.

Maressa Decarlo

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May 21, 2007, You finally decided to come To my tenth birthday.

After the last seven years of One phone call a year of One weekend a year of Two checks a month of Your girlfriend every day of A step-child every day of Two joints every day of…

No love for ten years…

And you finally showed up To the first birthday party of mine you had been to.

| Writings

May 21, 1999, It’s been 2 years and where are you?

Momma had another baby and she’s 17 now.

No money?

Not even a dime you could spare us?

The Burden of Taxes for the Classes Man Marches on. Higher, Higher, Higher up.

This mountain he will defeat with ease His strength and power does him well “Sir. wait a moment for me please!”

Both boy and man share the same purpose; To reach mountain peak for the pursuit of happiness Together they start, determined they climb Burden flung onto their backs like bags of rocks Rocks. Jagged, rough, hard to climb.

For boy at least. Man climbs just fine.

Why does Man ignore boy’s pleas and cries?

Man can easily lift boy up and dry his eyes.

Man is strong enough to lift some of boy’s burden off his back.

Man doesn’t give a little rat’s ass to try!

Boy’s shoulders are numb from burden’s bag Man gets ahead, boy slows speed But boy’s dreams feed his smaller arms and legs fuel To walk and stand tall and struggle on through it all.

Man doesn’t care if boy falls down the mountain.

Man just likes to bask, relax, and laugh at boy’s struggling task But ask yourself; if Man is able to, why not help?

Man is just too busy helping himself.

Niles Eaton

Untitled (excerpts) “Taught from infancy that beauty is a woman’s scepter, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.”— Mary Wollstonecraft She cried.

The drips dropping, flip-flopping, Wide-eyed stare.

Streams down her cheeks, But she doesn’t care.

Crowds; black with envy, White with anger, glare.

Pressure block, building thick in the air.

The curse of harmony and happiness, Strangles her hair. A symbol of pride She lies through a bone-white flare.

Blood drip dropping.

Her stomach is flip flopping.

Juno could never prepare her for this.

Crowds glare at the three-month baby bump.

Pressure builds while she tells her parents the rest.

Fake harmony and happiness, everywhere.

So she chops the one symbol of pride.

And lies with a flash of her teeth— Mitzi Eppley

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The tall and strong, the small and weak Stand together at first at mountain’s feet Shoulders weighed down heavy with burden Equal-sized burden, but different-sized strength

| Writings

(excerpts)

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Found Poetry Afghanistan Love is a foreign affair that you don’t dare get involved— elude the stares be wheelchair bound and emotionally euphemistic I’m feeling nothing except massive confusion is this what you want https://forums.craigslist.org/ ?forumID=575&arealID=42 Jeremiah Ferguson

Found Poetry Afghanistan: Kunar Valley Embedded with US troops in Afghanistan, US troops use mortars Aiming for Taliban, Dug into the hills.

Mortars and RPGs, Pound the base.

Machine guns, Rattle through the air, As US jets strafe the hills.

It is hell for 1000 men. http://afghanistan.blogs.cnn.com/2011/06/29/inside-afirefight-between-u-s-troops-insurgents/?iref=allsearch Bre Floyd

Untitled

Found Poetry Afghanistan: Afghanistan Poem

I don’t like Haikus Many guidelines, no freedom It is quite a bore

Ten years ago the first bombs began to fall on Afghanistan Two weeks earlier, Taliban forced me out of the country later we learned the target was al Queda training camps.

That night was enough to know US had gone to war Everyone knew it was going to Happen Day after Day, week after week, Venturing out with a camera to record what they could Driving him from Afghanistan proved easy, Killing Bin Laden was a decade-long Challenge Looking back, so many lives have been lost.

Bre Floyd

http://afghanistan.blogs.cnn.com/ Jamie Geiger

Untitled Power, money, greed, Life lived by society, We are the machine.

Stutter again.

Don’t worry though no symptoms have ever been reported.

A week later 15 pounds thinner, short fix turns to excellent, grades graze gold.

Symptom one: weight loss due to stimulation.

Mittens turn focused head like bacon grease turns baby’s tummy, fingers feel numb now.

Math is too easy now. I can sit still now.

Symptom two: poor circulation in extremities from calmed nerves not having to fidget.

I, I, I, well, you, see—(takes a breathe, tries to finish) My head, keeps spinning, my thoughts, come too quick, my mouth, is too slow.

Symptom three: Focus turns quiet because thoughts cannot move out fast enough for the patient’s liking, still considered normal behavior.

My boyfriend is worried he is not perfect enough. He’s the peanut butter to my jelly. He is more perfect than my focused mind could ever be, he spits spit balls and I calculate how acidic his saliva is.

Symptom four: emotional withdrawal is seen in some users currently trying to run from previous hurt and pain. Suggest a higher dose for added comfort and stability.

Skip to symptom five: this drug might now be prescribed to half of the children living in your county and because of this, even when you are on it you may now start feeling behind because now you have no advantage over virgin minds.

Solution one: this pill does not define you sister.

Solution two: proving its power wrong can only empower yourself.

Solution three: it is not an attention problem, it’s a motivation problem.

Stay motivated, stay focused.

Solution four: admit when you are wrong. It’s normal to forget about an appointment or miss a few points on that bio test, life moves on girl.

Solution five: stop letting those outside forces choose how you become. Individuality is happiness in a nutshell.

Solution six: close your eyes for a second… hear that? It’s your passion; it doesn’t need Adderall to pursue it, that pretty brain of yours is plenty capable on its own.

Andrea Hanson

Political Haiku Opinions flying Country divided Political war ground Alex Hawk

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Stutter.

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Joanna Joy Hachet

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Lost towards the End… (excerpt) I was born in bright lights and cracked pavement.

Loud music and loving family.

I miss my old life…

Now, I am from hospital waiting rooms and failed classes.

Disappointed faces and lost days.

If I could turn around and go back I would.

I’m in so deep I forget myself.

I went from hugs and kisses.

To no family and further distance.

I don’t care if I am wrong or right.

I just wanna see the bright city light.

Khadeeja Marai Henry

Leaving He opens his blinds and squints at the light She goes out on her porch and looks to the north They told them that they couldn’t just throw their lives away What’s it all for?

He looks up at his wall, sees posters of empty figures She sits at her table, wishing he would save her Everything’s beginning to lose its meaning What’s it all for?

She asks how this will ever last When you’re 2,000 miles away He tells her she will always be his everything Happiness is easier lost than never found What happens when you find the one who turns your life around, and they turn around and leave.

Ivana Klock

A story told with your eyes Sherese Latoya London

Found Poetry Afghanistan: Brutal Tribal Justice in Afghanistan His crime: The killing of his lover’s husband. The executioner: The victim’s father.

A mobile phone video captured the grisly scene. Bang.

Two more shots ring out. “Stop shooting, you donkey,” “He’s still alive,” says one. But not for long.

After a decade of the US-Ied war to defeat extremism in Afghanistan, feudal justice still exists. http://www.cnn.com/2011/10/08/world/asia/afghanistantribal-justice/index.html Jon McClelland

Work Haiku

Trapped (excerpt)

Working hard all day, Bosses yelling and screaming, You are at your job.

Jerked awake not by a dream but by unease These city lights leave no room for the stars 11:30 pm, streets beckoning to me

Jon McClelland

Paige McLaughlin

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When I look into your eyes I see a story A story that only makes sense in a dream A story that you can’t tell with words only memories That takes time to understand That can tell you about love and hate at the same time That can tell you about the sound of rain, how to drown out the world, or speak to someone just to have them listen to you A story with no specific audience, but a crowd of people who have a story also Not a story that’s just told with words, but a story like yours A story told with your eyes

| Writings

A Story

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If You Were Me (excerpt) I took the road less taken like Robert said to do and I plan to keep taking this road and seeing it through And one day I’ll be much Higher than that Mary Jane Ever Made you.

Mackenzie Nichols

Untitled (excerpt) You fed the fire for far too long, My embers singe your eyebrows, I asphyxiate your fantasies and perforate your lungs, How does it taste?

Because it tastes sweet to me, Sweet like your saliva, Sweet like the ignorance of manipulation, Good luck washing that taste out of your mouth Christina Osborne

Found Poetry Afghanistan: Afghanistan’s Blue Treasure Boxes, bowls and blue treasure All raw and uncut; a variety of unique treasures Gazing at a tropical midnight sky.

A blue treasure piled the surface of a vase.

Wild and blue, frozen in time onto a metal base. http://afghanistan.blogs.cnn.com/2010/08/19/lapis-lazuliafghanistans-blue-treasure/ Heidi Oswalt

http://afghanistan.blogs.cnn.com/2010/03/18/shaming-her-in-laws-costs-19-year-old-her-nose-ears/ Tatiana Pacheco-John

Home My Grand-gran always told me that the way to one’s heart is through their nose, I don’t know how true that was for others but…

I always welcomed the tingling smells of the Caribbean lemons, coconut, strawberries, and blueberries.

China’s white and green tea mixed with Queen Elizabeth sweet pastry French bread sprinkled with Spanish nutmeg and African spices.

Growing up there was never a day that my house wasn’t blooming with different smells and sounds.

Every day, after the final bell I would fly my way to my locker Dodging all the crazed jungle animals I would slide my way out of that zoo Then boogie down Penworth to Sugarmaple Then rehearse my jig from Northcliff to Northtown Making a piercing left onto Waldorf I would sing hello to our mailman Tumbling into a whirlwind of sounds and smells They are still able to bend, twist and flowing together To make a home that molds a new generation and gives pride to the old.

A home where k-pop blasts from one room, rap pounds from another and the rhythm of Antiguan steel drums pours from the kitchen, Where my Grand-gran creates her master pieces of Caribbean lemons, coconut, strawberries, and blueberries China’s white and green tea mixed with Queen Elizabeth sweet pastry French bread sprinkled with Spanish nutmeg and African spices.

Kyrah Philp

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Her beauty is still stunning Her confidence inspiring Wearing her patterned scarf With roughly painted nails 19-year-old Bibi Aisha of Afghanistan They cut off her nose and ears The crime of shaming her husband’s family.

An act of Taliban justice She had become a prisoner She tried to run away She suffered in silence But she survived There are still times she can laugh at that moment you see her teenage spirit escaping a body that has seen a lifetime of injustice.

| Writings

Found Poetry Afghanistan: Beauty is not just an image

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Pride Are you proud of yourself?

Was it all worth it?

You just couldn’t leave them alone.

You just couldn’t let them be happy.

Two men, who just wanted to be together.

Who just wanted to be left alone.

But you just couldn’t do that.

You attacked them every chance you got.

And this time was just “an argument that got out of hand”?

You always said you were the bigger man, But like a coward you shot him when his back was turned.

You didn’t even have the nerve to do it to his face.

He had kids, He had a family, He had pride in who he was.

But I guess that doesn’t matter.

So many have been killed just because they were proud of their sexual orientation.

So many innocent people are dead because of people like you.

Harvey Milk Matthew Shepard Larry King Brandon Teena Venus Xtravaganza Angie Zapata Rita Hester Robyn Browne Erika Keels And this list goes on and on and on.

All of these innocent people were murdered because they were proud of who they were.

So I’ll ask again; Are you proud of yourself?

Claire Schechinger

Lamar Jorden and Novana Venerable, two of the poets featured in the film Louder Than a Bomb, talk with Pages students at the Wex.

Untitled Frank and I spend most of our evenings in the living room. He’ll lounge in his chair that I dare not sit in when he’s around, and I’ll sit by myself on the sofa made for two. He was never the affectionate type, so cuddling together was out of question.

You know, I’d feel a pang of pride each time I’d peek at my husband over his newspaper and see his face twist into an even deeper frown. Feet up, coffee mug by his side, he’d scrutinize each page and scoff or mutter a curse word or two under his breath every now and then. That was almost a sure sign that he had the misfortune of coming across an article that spoke of what he labeled as “absolute folly”: women in the war industries of World War II. “Now, you disregard all this nonsense, Margaret, you hear me?” he’d demand in a dangerously quiet tone of voice. I’d defy him and silently rejoice, convincing myself that women were on the road to equality. Needless to say, my hopes began to gradually dim after the war, and once again, to a woman, there was nothing more to life than babies, dishes, and happy husbands.

My mother tells me I’m only being selfish. She says I’ve yet to learn my place as a wife and that my husband is a very kind man to put up with me. She’s a real character, but I really do try my best to be a good housewife and keep him pleased and content. I try not to burden him with much at all. Dinner is served not a minute too late, and I can sure cook up a feast. Salmon steak, chicken pot pies, oysters baked in the half shell-all his favorites. I make sure the house is spotlessly clean by the time he comes home from work. I mop and I vacuum, and scrub every corner. After hours of housework, I still manage to look my best. Just before his arrival, I put on lipstick, the brightest shade of scarlet I own, and I comb my hair until there’s not a strand out of place. I rush to the front door as soon as I hear the rumble of his brand new 1958 Edsel and embrace him as he enters. I sure do hope my smile is wide enough.

Valerija Semeniakaite

The Unspoken Rules of Being Non-White

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1. Be careful around old people since it’s okay for them to hate you because they grew up in the past. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, so don’t even try to walk that grandma across the street.

2. Skin colored bandaids? Maybe I was that color at birth.

3. People WILL make fun of your name. That’s okay! They don’t understand your culture, so it’s alright to let them drop a name pun or two.

4. MY house usually smells like incense and spices. WHITE PEOPLE DON’T LIKE THAT. They’ll ask you what smells funny, so open up a window and light some candles to avoid being embarrassed.

5. Don’t be offended if you have friends that only tolerate your culture instead of embracing it.

That’s okay! They’re not comfortable around new things. You can’t expect that from them.

6. It doesn’t matter if I’M not comfortable wearing this invisible white skin over my own.

7. You might even have a teacher who finds it necessary when confronted with a class that’s a third minorities to prove his experience with diversity by talking about that ONE TIME he went to a bar with a black friend.

8. It doesn’t matter where you were born or where you grew up or where you live now, because you’ll be foreign wherever you go.

9. The most important thing is to make sure other people are comfortable around you! Think of it like putting a lid on the culture pot or maybe a muzzle on a Rottweiler.

10. It’s okay that people don’t realize how rude it is to ask you to translate something your parents say to them IN ENGLISH because they can’t be asked to try to understand…in front of your parents.

11. Don’t even bother getting offended when people joke about your heritage. They’re just tryna relate, you know?

12. “Can you say something in Indian?”

13. Don’t even get me started with Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.

13a. You can’t criticize the government without being a cultural outsider, so you might as well not even try.

13b. Your parents can’t protect you from people who don’t like you because of the color you were born.

13c. “The person in charge” is hardly ever the same color as me unless we’re talking about the Curry Club.

13d. That joke? NOT OKAY for a white person to make.

14. Try to fit in, be accused of acting white.

15. Don’t try to fit in, get treated like an outsider.

16. It’s not cool to be offended, bro.

17. Be afraid of conservatives.

18. Prepare to be disliked by white parents who want their white kids to have white friends, even if they’d never admit it.

19. White people have tons of religions to choose from, but all Indians have to be Hindu.

20. “But you don’t ACT Indian!” I’m sorry, would you mind telling me what an Indian acts like?

22. “Being white is so lame!” You don’t even know how lucky you are.

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Anahita Sharma

| Writings

21. Jokingly blaming white people for things? Yeah, that’s a defense mechanism.

Picture Frame Those of higher authority have put limitations on our freedoms.

We have to follow the criteria of our teachers, employers, or parents Having to follow their perception of what we’re meant to be.

What we’re meant to do in life and who we should associate ourselves with.

It’s like painting a picture that has already oh, so perfectly been framed for you.

It creates a feeling of suppression They framed an unfinished piece of artwork, putting limitations on our freedoms Forcing us to carefully paint inside those frames Trying our best not to pass those frames because we fear the consequences of opposing higher authority But I do not fear those who doubt me, doubting my decisions, as if I were a child I will show them that I’ve grown up by beginning to paint over those frames.

I will watch those who didn’t believe in me as their angry faces stare at the painted lines that covers the frames of which they placed And then, In the end, I will present to them a masterpiece!

Syha Sok

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Untitled Having a 4.02, taking advance biological prep at THE OSU. I respect your drive (something that’ll never be mine) The will to stay afterschool late for four years straight, but listen…, we’re not all as great.

I don’t need to know every single one of your test scores; All primped and pampered up, like some sort of new age scholastic whore.

I took a true cause in my pause a reason of my academic treason.

I need to be able to learn and thrive at my own pace.

There is no tortoise or hare, no arbitrary countryside race.

You can see it, true horror, in a counselor’s face, when you loosen the slack on the “educational” rat race.

It really rustles my jimmies how upfront and annoying you are with all of your abilities.

I’ve already heard everyone’s future possibilities and there isn’t a need to create such hostilities when there is the probability that these responsibilities are my own liabilities!

As “pomp and circumstance” serenades you down the aisle.

Lined up in your single file to all of us, it’s going to feel so worthwhile but who cares who becomes valedictorian or simply the next art historian In school or out in the world life is already hitting each of our with countless whirlwinds Nobodies going to end up begging on the streets on Reno, one of us might even become the next Tarantino!

I have a 3.4 grade point average, No it doesn’t feel like a downgrade.

I don’t think anyone is going to try and underpay me.

I’m still gunning for college all the way.

All because I choose to disobey people thought I would simply… slip away.

In the words of the timeless Kurt Vonnegut As I come to a close He taught me to never be just an apologist.

So it goes.

Devin Sheline

Untitled (excerpt)

They treat me like I’m the one who gripped the knife, Using the edge to slice through flesh as if ripping the wrappings from gifts on Christmas morning.

They look at me like I used these hands to throw punches, Just as often as a writer tosses his unwanted pieces at a garbage can.

If I could choose a different life; I would.

But I can’t.

Sierra Sribanditmongkol

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They don’t care, all that’s seen is the daughter of a murderer.

The girl whose mother was slaughtered by her father.

The one who watched as a pound of flesh pumped its last liter of blood onto the floor around her.

| Writings

Hiding from those who don’t even look for me, I put up my hood.

They’re too scared of me, or at least should be.

I’ve witnessed things, things no seventeen-year-old should witness.

Accused, tormented, abused, and scarred for life.

Based in Afghanistan Women can meet the standards Given the nature of the fight We depend on each other Interdependent as far as combined action Opportunities for future women soldiers http://security.blogs.cnn.com/2013/01/24/womenin-combat-one-soldiers-story/?iref=storysearch Meghan Stamper

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Found Poetry Afghanistan: Women in Combat

Change Striving for a change, not striving for perfection.

Our flaws are who we are, this shows us our direction.

My poetry is an art, from my glowing perspective.

So see me as a spirit, the most vivid reflection.

I’m asking for one moment, I only need one moment.

My temperament is mild, my thoughts are overflowing.

Now picture such a picture, a picture picture-perfect.

Expressing my expressions, an image full of focus.

At times I might grow weak, from stress and true devotion.

But understand my life is constantly in motion.

I live to live and learn, and learn to live indeed. hope I do it all before I rest in peace, man.

Life is such a blessing, success is such a fetish.

My grandma’s looking down, it’s like she never left us.

At times it’s hard to smile, so frowning is a preference.

I left it all on paper, this image is my message.

Devon Lamaar Stewart

http://www.cnn.com/2011/10/07/world/afghanistantenth-anniversary-robertson/index.html?iref=allsearch Erin Talamantes

Black Knight (excerpt) I know these eyes.

Wide and lost.

These hands.

Always reaching.

The same small perfections Hidden in their small, soft, creases.

Full feet.

Round and yet to be roughened By cold floors and harsh pavements.

Samantha Valuckas (Sam)

Found Poetry Afghanistan This is a warzone—not an amusement park Whoppers, Dairy Queen Sundaes will soon disappear But troops shouldn’t feel neglected http://afghanistan.blogs.cnn.com/2010/03/25/u-s-basesin-afghanistan-say-goodbyeJustin Viers

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It happened in the rose gardens The two were drawn together when they met It was love Everyone knew it Several months later, bombs began to fall The two hearts had gone to war on each other Gracefully they refused to go on They bravely continued day after day Whatever the pain, they remained friends They do not fall back in love.

When they look back it saddens them But they know It didn’t work then, and it doesn’t work now And their hearts break.

| Writings

Found Poetry Afghanistan: Love Happened

Brave (excerpt)

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These are the people that die young.

These are the people whose lives rest with a gun.

These are the people we find covered in blood.

They fight for us and ask for nothing, When they deserve to be treated like kings and queens.

These are the people that may never see their family again, When other people choose to sit on their fat asses again.

If you have a heart you will stand and take your hat in your hand.

You’re not a man.

How come we never send our “king” to war?

Look back in medieval times The king was always the first one in.

That’s because the president is only worried about himself.

They don’t give two shits about all of those men, all they want is to shake another hand to get another grand to try and save this corrupted land.

Handouts are a cause of war.

Why don’t they understand?

Brittany Waddle

Guest artist William Evans (right) listens to a Pages student read aloud on a classroom visit.

Bailey Warner

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Dear Love, I write to you in an open state Vulnerable, broken Ready for answers I know won’t arrive, But I push and I strive To understand what you want From a world that’s been warped, Bloody and torn A war on love.

The seed has been planted The notions been born The chapel is open, How bout you down a few more, Sweetie, baby.

Can I ask, what’s this “institution” you speak of?

Do tell.

I’d be glad to pay a visit In my GPS put Hell Right by hate and alone Pushed and abused, While he can’t love him cause the big book says no?

I don’t buy it, I’m not sold.

Well, you better believe it says the senator and priest.

They know, just ask The ten-year-old boy who now lives through a mask, Or the dancer turned mistress…

You know what, don’t ask.

You got laws, you got God, So I find it rather odd That adultery comes in right next to rape Like the rose on the table he got her is fake.

But hey, it’s okay It’s alright, no big deal.

All I’m trying to do is function and heal From you and your mistake The cheating and deceit That kill me inside.

Oh my bad, It’s all good, No it’s not, Just stop!

| Writings

Dear Love (excerpt)

Brain

PTC= Pseudotumor Cerebri. A.K.A. Damn you, spinal fluid/ the scariest sounding name ever (even though it’s not actually that scary)/ “Oh, you have a headache? Poor thing.

Here, shove some pills down your throat.”/ My own personal form of Hell.

Over 5 months of tests, scans, medicines, and IVs, yet the 568,249,679 doctors working on me still have no clue what to do with my head. Their greedy hands all take a whack at me, hoping they’ll find something Dr. Blah Blah Blah missed.

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I can’t make you all understand. I can’t tell you what my pain feels like. I can’t even tell you when I’ll be better. Because I’ve come to realize that I have absolutely no control over my life anymore.

So

people every many

me

tugging

possible.

way

Shattering every last dream of what I want for myself.

I don’t want their poking and prodding, their wide theories on PTC. And I don’t want their pity or their sympathy.

I just want my life back.

Natalie When

Painted Underwear Your hard cold-blooded plastic lies in my 7-year-old hands, Your 19-inch waist rings as a constant reminder of what I’ll never be able to achieve.

To achieve that full state of sunken-in cheeks, to look like the walking dead; Waistline measures the same as my head, 19 inches.

Your double-F cups fill my mind with silicon thoughts of never having a mold-pored plastic image, a mold any man would want to be proud of.

A perfect ten.

No matter who the man is, rather perfectly primed prince Ken or just some man trynna “get it in.”

Your perfect praised body was what led to those long sessions in front of my mirror that always ended in fear.

Fear of being labeled an “untouchable,” fear of playing the role of a second-class citizen. It’s hard enough being a female, but a fat female where society deems you as an epic fail.

So I push, pinch and pump, my plump figure full of that problem-solving medicine.

Considered better than those constant throat massaging fingers or when that “I’ll start my diet tomorrow” phase lingers.

Those little white heavens that will finally make me fit in long enough to hear Victoria’s Secret, that has promised and been praised for resulting in 19 inches and overflowing double-F cups.

They even went as far as to have Kardashians swearing by it, so it must be the shit.

Now, your hard cold-blooded plastics may no longer lie in my once-adolescent hands but remain plastered and painted in my insecure head just like your white painted underwear.

Who brought about war Blood, killing, the fight Losing innocent souls out of spite Getting into the middle of conflicts that are not our own Why do we do that No one knows The Afghan war was relentless Suffering from what we have done But in all reality it has just begun Sleepless nights full of breaks and cries Your wife doesn’t trust you now there’s no getting by Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder It happens to us all Living through the 2700 men and women that had to fall The time is now to tell those mothers who get that bad news That their son has been killed They say it was with honor but that doesn’t bring him back No one knows the suffering that I’ve had!

World War 1 and 2 Vietnam and Iraq It’s what America does we go to war But why when we have to lose our brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers The time is now to get those people out There are conflicts here that we have to worry about To end the war for good, never looking back The time is now…

Christa Zellfrow

75

The Time Is Now (excerpt)

| Writings

Rachael Yoho

If I could rewind and do all of my Pages experiences from this year again, I would.

—Halima Abdullahi Pages is a reminder that life’s not about time, it’s about memories and never regretting them.—Mitch Beem Pages is a life-changing experience that I will remember forever.—Cesika Boster You get to see fantastic art and incredible performances. Pages has a domino effect leading to creativity across the board.—David Broadus Pages gave us opportunities to explore things I wouldn’t explore on my own. It pushes us to interpret what we read and have fun while reading.—Tashi Brown Beard Pages is empowerment through education.—Thomas Cain Pages is coming out of your shell and sharing your creativity with the world.—Hannah Clegg Pages is like a melody in a song / Creative and unforgettable.—Heather Cooper Pages is like when you walk outside on a beautiful spring morning and see the wonderful sunshine.

You can’t do anything but embrace it.—Sharica Crawford Pages is an open notebook waiting to be created.—Maddie Demattio Pages got my creative mind working. I am glad I got to participate.—Chris Duboe Pages is like a pot of gold. It’s something you will never forget.—Megan Duncan Pages is a peek into a life I stray away from but that constantly hovers above me, ready to fall.—Daniel Durthaler Challenging but fun at the same time.—Billy Earnes Pages is magical!—Bre Floyd Pages is a world filled with creative people and their thoughts.—Jamie Geiger As I climb the neverending wall to perfection / I never hesitate to look back on my reflection / Writer’s block is no more / Thanks to the Pages program, I now see.—Olivia Goodin I’ve enjoyed all the trips we made to the Wexner Center.—Kori Griffin Pages is a collection of minds blown out onto paper, onto the stage, and onto the canvas.—Seth Hall Pages is a poetry slam, pouring emotion and forging a bond between everyone who tried to express themselves in stories, poetry, or art.—Alex Hawk Pages is a time to express how you feel / A time to relax and enjoy the things you love doing / No roles, no restrictions, and nothing but fun / Pages is best for everyone—Kareem Jackson Pages has made me a better writer and gotten me out of my comfort zone.—Jessica Lilly Pages is an outlet to tell the stories I haven’t told anyone else before about the good times and the bad. I could tell people how I really feel and I could create stories just because I can.—AJ Martinez Pages crashed down around me, filling my head with new and inventive ideas, as the sounds of the routine world faded into the background.—Paige McLaughlin Pages is like the last French fry in the bag, a gift.—Austin Milner The Pages program lets us express the thoughts and creativity in our writing that are so often suppressed by formal essays and Scantron tests.—Kory Naylor Pages is the lengthy effort toward unachievable perfectionism.—Callie Neal Going through

Pages

the Pages program, you start to look at art differently. You attempt to connect with the artist to fully grasp what they are trying to portray.—Christina Osborne It’s art brought to life.—Heidi Oswalt Pages is awesome and has made my senior year great.

—Devon Overturf A bright glare, / Intellectual existence in my presence / Ingenuity rushing in from all directions / I can only bear the whirl of emotion / Bracing for the impact of expression / Pages transforms into something we all aspire to: / Individuality— Kyle Pasqualone An eye-opening experience of laughs, giggles, and screams and a writer’s earthly paradise.—Kyra Philp A foreign country that is accepting of different ethnicities, religions, ages, and so forth.—Franki Pointer Getting out of the classroom to see different art forms is healthy for the creative mind.

—Emily Poltor Pages extends knowledge we learn in class. It’s learning and having fun.

—Summer Ren Pages is like a piece of poetry, difficult during the creation, but it all culminates into a piece of work that you can look back on and be proud of.—Nick Rollason Most of what I write has been inspired by Pages, whether directly or not. Not only the experiences, but also the conversations, cause dominoes to fall until I end up with a page full of words.—Hannah Russell Pages is an area where you can explore new things within the new literature. An area where we explore things we wouldn’t explore nor see on our own. Pages gives us a broader view of how we can interpret plays and enjoy them.—Yajairu Salas Pages is the key that liberates the mind of all locks.—Valerija Semeniakaite Pages is an experience of learning and exploring your mind through the eyes of poetry, literature, and mind-dazzling images. The potential of Pages is the desire of your heart.—Lou Spiers Pages is that massive form of water building up after a receding flow and crashing down on a beach of writers’ blocked minds to fill the emptiness with new, foaming ideas.—Sierra Sribanditmongkol Pages is an open journal!—Meghan Stamper Pages is dirt. / The base, the foundation / The fertilizer for our creative plants / It provides a place for our roots / As we sprout and get ready for our / Growth in the writing world / Pages is what we stand on / The start of everything from our most monumental works / To the smallest flicker of creativity / It all starts with the dirt, the base, the foundation, / The fertilizer, the source of food, the guiding line… / Pages—John Stovall Pages is an adventure. It allows you to experience new things that you never thought about. It opens your eyes to a creative world and helps you express yourself.—Erin Talamantes Pages is an interesting thing, with different arts, painting, poems, and writing; it’s fun and was a great experience.—Kylee Wagner Pages is a vivacious spring, able to swell bigger than it ever has before.—Natalie When Pages is the confidence to express the hidden artist within you.—Kerien Wilcox

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Artworks

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Heather Cooper

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| Pages Anthology 2012–13

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Madison Demattio

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| Artworks

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Daniel Durthaler

82

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

Emily Postlewaite

Mitzi Eppley

83

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Julie Gallaugher

84

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

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Olivia Goodin

85

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Lauren Martini

86

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Paige McLaughlin

87

| Artworks

Self-portrait

Victoria Myles

88

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

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Callie Neal

89

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Kyle Pasqualone

90

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

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Nicholas Rollason

91

| Artworks

Portrait of Brittany Waddle Anahita Sharma

92

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

Self-portrait

Anahita Sharma

93

| Artworks

Portrait of Anahita Sharma Brittany Waddle

94

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

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Natalie When

95

| Artworks

Niles Eaton

Christa Zellfrow

96

| Pages Anthology 2012–13

Self-portrait

Christa Zellfrow

97

| Artworks

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Lara Zirkle

98

| Pages Anthology 2012–13