Blue skies
A soft breeze tickling my face
Freedom to do what I want
Rolling out of bed late
Relaxing with my summer playlist
Playing basketball
Leaving my blood, sweat, and heart out on the court
Playing volleyball
Learning new things about the sport and myself
Playing more basketball
Perfecting my game, my shot, my moves
Walking to lunch with a friend
Baking cookies and brownies and eating the batter
Making fruit salad and enjoying the sun
Making fruit salad and enjoying the air conditioning
Slathering on the sun screen and riding my bike
Heading to the crystal blue pool with my friends
Lounging
Loving
Living
This summer will be my best yet
I can feel it
I can sense it
I can taste it
And it tastes like cookie dough
23 School shootings in the U.S. this year
22 school shootings since 2009 in Mexico, South Africa, India, and Afghanistan combined
21 weeks into the year
20 injured in Sutherland Springs, Texas
19 years since Columbine
18 year olds can own guns in this country
17 lives taken at Parkland
16 killed at the University of Texas
15 minutes of gunfire in Las Vegas
14 lives taken in San Bernardino, California
13 lives taken at Columbine
12 lives taken in Aurora, Colorado
11 years since Virginia Tech
10 lives taken in Santa Fe
9 lives taken in Red Lake, Minnesota
8 lives taken in Omaha, Nebraska
7 year olds at Sandy Hook
6 year olds at Sandy Hook
5 students killed at Red Lake High
4 months since Winston-Salem State University
3 months since the Parkland shooting
2 years since Orlando
1 life lost to gun violence is 1 too many
0 has been done by the U.S. government to change this
I’m so angry. All the time. I can’t understand for the life of me why Sandy Hook wasn’t the end of it.
Something has to change. My generation is fighting for change, and we are being backed by sensible adults. But we don’t have the power to make laws that will stop the death toll from rising.
We have the vote. But November is far away. We have to change something. Right here, right now.
We have to fight. We have to win. We have to resist.
From the Plane
Looking down
At little square blocks
Lined with little square houses
Entangled with winding roads
Circular patches of electric blue
That are really just swimming pools
Tiny cars
Like ants
Move swiftly
And I think
How very small
The invisible drivers
Must be
How very small
March 17th
A very happy St. Patrick’s Day!
And thanks for nothing UVA
Congrats to UMBC, however
What’s going on with this rain-snow weather?
Just a reminder, Harvard women did it first
Beat the best seed while they had the worst
Now it’s time to tear my bracket up
I had UVA winning, so wish me luck!
The Walkout
I stand on a single, rickety, red bench looking out over the grassy field. Behind me on the shining silver bleachers there are 17 backpacks spread out in a line. My fingers are frozen as I look down to read the sign I’m clutching.
“Protect kids, not guns!”
Then, I look to my left and it’s a sight to behold. A stream of students are slowly making their way up to the football field where I and the other speakers stand. Students of every size, shape, color, and creed are flooding out of the building that we once felt was safe. Students of all sorts decided to walk out.
When the blaring bullhorn gets everyone quiet, the speakers begin. First, a senior with the task of telling everyone why we’re here today. Then another girl reads three names. Then I do.
Those three names will forever be engraved into my head. Their faces. What they did. What they did in both life and death.
All of their names. All of their faces. I see little six-year olds waving goodbye to their moms and dads on the bus to school. I see fourteen year olds reluctantly hugging their parents goodbye in the morning, and then never hugging them again. I see seventeen and eighteen year olds with their whole lives ahead of them, only to have them snatched away in an instant.
All of these people, all of these children that we lost… we lost because of one thing. Guns. It always comes back to guns. It comes back to assault rifles, assault rifles in the hands of mentally ill eighteen year olds. Yes, we can blame mental illness. We can blame bullying, society, and the individual who was behind the gun. But that individual is powerless without the gun itself.
I walked out because I believe we need stricter gun legislation. I walked out because I believe I can have a voice and make a change. I walked out because I’m scared that I will be murdered in the halls of my school.
Schools are supposed to be safe. And we can make them safe. It just always comes back to the guns.
Protect kids, not guns.
Protect transwomen, not guns.
Protect black lives, not guns.
Protect life, not guns.
Spring in February
The air is cool and clean, playfully batting my cheek and filling my lungs. The wet porch beneath me is cold but comfortable. An enormous green bush hides me from passers by, but I can peer through the branches to the road beyond. Watching without being watched. Seeing without being seen. I’m pretty used to the view.
The evening sky is a cotton candy blue, and the bare trees reach up into it like skeleton arms. Birds chirp and children scream in the distance. A car door opens and shuts. I hear muffled voices from inside my house.
Another car creeps around the corner and I return to my book. The breeze nips at my bare legs and I like the feeling of wearing shorts outside for the first time since October.
More car doors. More birds. I look up at the light sky and see a bug zoom by, then a bird. The crisp air around me smells like rain and earth.
I could get used to this. I could get used to spring in February.
I return to my book once more, my back starting to ache. Then, when the pale reading light from the sky above is all but gone, I stand, open the front door, and return to the stale air of my front hall.
Today
Today, for most people, is Super Bowl Sunday. But I’m not exactly a football fan, so I barely even notice as people all across the country get ready to watch a bunch of men tackle each other in big sweaty piles. For me, today is something a little more average.
Today my brother had a basketball game. Today I have to go grocery shopping. Today I have to do the homework I put off all day yesterday. Today it is pouring rain but I guess it’s not cold enough to get us out of school tomorrow. Sigh.
Today is also my Grandpa’s birthday. Today, I am celebrating a smart, kind, funny, generous, wonderful grandfather. I am not celebrating a bunch of millionaires who run around on a field playing an over-glorified game of fetch.
Not that there’s anything wrong with liking football. I don’t judge people for what sport they watch. (I judge them for other things.) I just wanted to point out that for a lot of people, today isn’t just about football.
Just saying.
(Happy birthday Grandpa.)
#GrammysSoMen
Last night as award season continues, the world once again tuned in to “music’s biggest night.” However, this year’s Grammy awards could be described in one syllable. “Men.”
Last night, only one woman went home with a major award despite the countless talented women who were nominated. SZA, a woman of color, who has had a dominating year with her album “Ctrl,” went home with no awards, despite her five nominations. But women not winning hardly any awards was arguably not the evening’s biggest issue.
Another large controversy was the fact that Lorde, the only woman nominated for Album of the Year, was also the only nominee in that category who didn’t get to perform onstage during the show. The other four nominees, all men, each got a slot to perform. Fans were furious that artists who weren’t even nominated this year were given priority over Lorde.
While both of these issues are frustrating, especially with the progress of the Time’s Up movement so far this year, this next part was the last straw for me.
Today, the Recording Academy President Neil Portnow blamed the lack of female winners on- yeah, you guessed it- women. Portnow stated that women in the industry need to “step up” in order to win. He claims that the industry as a whole is “making the welcome mat very obvious, creating mentorships, creating opportunities” for women and all creative people. It is here that I would like to point out that Neil Portnow is a rich white man who is the president of an enormous organization in the music industry. In his own words Portnow admits, “I don’t have personal experience of those kinds of brick walls that you face…” Despite Portnow’s statements that say otherwise, women usually have to work twice as hard to receive the same opportunities as men. This is even more true for women of color, who must overcome obstacle after obstacle to bypass the white men that have such a head start.
Now that I’ve stated the facts, it’s opinion time. I find Portnow’s statement not only insulting, but untrue. This year the music industry has seen some incredible work from all sorts of women in all different genres. The idea that we, as women, are at fault for our lack of opportunities is absurd. The idea that we, as women, are to blame for the way society underestimates us is unfair.
So I have a message for Mr. Portnow. Women in every industry, in every field, in every nation have stepped up. And we will continue to step up, time and time again. We will continue to make and do incredible things despite the fact that the work of men will always be prioritized above our own. We will continue to work harder and harder to become equals with men, just to get less credit and less pay then men in the same field. We will continue on. We will continue to step up, rise up, and stand up… because time’s up.
A film about journalism and U.S. history starring Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks, directed by Steven Spielberg, shouldn’t even need nominations. The Post has so much cred to its name that the Academy might as well just hand over the Oscars now. As I walked into the theater today, smuggled candy in my pocket of course, I was a little wary that the film might not live up to its hype. Boy, was I wrong.
I’ll admit, at first this film was slow-going and a little hard to follow. But as the pace began to pick up, I slowly began to feel empowered and excited to learn more about a newspaper, Richard Nixon, and the 1970s. Those are three things I’ve never felt enthralled about watching on the big screen.
The most memorable and enchanting thing about The Post was Meryl Streep, in yet another role that was made for her, as Katherine Graham. Graham was the daughter of the publisher of The Washington Post. After her father died and her husband committed suicide, Graham took on the business. At first she was overwhelmed and timid in her new position. The beginning of the film portrays Graham as clumsy and small compared to the men that surrounded her on the board of the newspaper.
Several times The Post shows Graham as the only woman in a room full of men. This is incredibly powerful, but Streep’s character really takes a turn as the movie nears its climax. As Graham begins to stand up to the men around her and speak her mind, she empowers the women around her and probably women in theaters all over the country seeing The Post. In fact, on several occasions I had to resist the urge to shout “YASSSSSS GIRL!” in the middle of the theater.
Streep in this role brought tears to my eyes as I thought about all the women who came before me. I thought about the women who paved the way for me to be where I am today. They made it possible for me to be who I am today. They made it possible for so many women to be free, to have rights, to have choices. But they aren’t done yet. We aren’t done yet.
So as I left the theater along with my incredibly empowering mother and my empty Ziploc bag that once held Junior Mints, I decided that The Post was definitely worth the hype. It empowers women, it empowers writers, it empowers everyone. But most of all, it really, really made me want a typewriter.
So Close, Yet So Far
Charging down the empty court
Ball in hand, no one around
Striding forward
Feeling the air against his pink face
So close
Just one dribble
One dribble more
One dribble
One dribble
Too hard
Bounces
Too high
And wanders away
Off into out-of-bounds land
And the crowd,
As one,
Groans louder than a roaring lion
As the ball rolls farther away
From the wide open floor