The sound of a zipper not closing was the bane of my existence as a child. Seeing a pretty dress in a store and falling in love with it, only to find out it was in every other size but my own.
As a child, my grandma raised me due my mother working twelve-hour night shifts three days a week. And at every moment, whether it was her picking me up from school or playing in the park, she would shovel rice or ice cream down my throat.
I was a fat baby. Fat babies are cute, but after you pass third grade and you still haven’t lost that baby fat, you’re automatically put at the bottom of every “prettiest girl in class” list.
I could sit around and blame my grandma for making me like this (and I did for a couple of years), but it wasn’t her fault. I loved food, and I carried that love into my early teenage years.
It was during fifth grade that I found out that this wasn’t something to be proud of. At age ten, I was already wearing women’s clothing, and my mom would always complain when she took me to the children’s section, even though she knew damn well I was not going to fit in anything.
“Just try it on,” she used to say. Many people have grown up with this notion that the less you eat, the prettier you’ll be, and that this kind of mindset could destroy someone’s mental health. I used to cry about eating things that I wasn’t supposed to (those Rice Krispie marshmallow treats were actually very good at absorbing my tears; I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing) and would hide snacks in my room so my parents wouldn’t find out I was eating junk food.
Two years ago, I sat in front of the TV at 3 a.m., watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show and crying about my body not being like the models’ while eating a slice of chocolate cake.
I really wanted to be like them, eating whatever they wanted without bloating up, but then I did a little research. The VS Angels have to work out at least five times a week, have a controlled diet, and the week of the show, they don’t consume solid foods.
I may not fit society’s beauty standard, but I still love food. I can’t imagine life without pizza, mac and cheese, or even something as simple as bread, which the models aren’t even allowed to consume.
And who would want to live a life like that?
The doubts will always be at the back of my mind when making a decision to wear “those shorts” or “a shirt like that.” But eventually, you begin to realize that life is so much more than a number on a scale or a BMI percentile. It’s actually about eating as much food as possible, and learning to love yourself.
That Woman
SARA POLSKY
Since November, I’ve struggled to write about the people I met while canvassing for Hillary Clinton in Pennsylvania. Inspired by Rachel’s tenacity with her writing, I kept tackling the topic and ended up with this poem.
The woman who came to the door
in Lancaster County said no,
no one in that house
would speak with us,
ever, and how dare we
come around seeking votes
for That Woman. That woman,
she hissed, and her lip curled
and her door closed
and her daughter,
the one on our voter list,
looked at us and away.
And all these months later,
I still think about
that woman, still wonder
at the force of her anger,
at how stunned I was,
that day, to meet it.
SOLEDAD AGUILAR-COLON
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Beacon High School
BORN: Bronx, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Named an editor of Beacon’s literary journal
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: This year my mentor Linda and I have had multiple moments that together have made a wonderful and empowering experience. It has been amazing to explore the craft of writing just by reflecting on our everyday lives. I have not only found a mentor that challenges me as a writer, but who has also become a friend in whom I can confide. For me, our best moments have been when we sit in a café and just write because in that, I have been able to start my evening by getting everything off of my shoulders and just be.
LINDA CORMAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 7
OCCUPATION: Freelance editor/writer
BORN: Newton, MA
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: A variety of publications, including Knowledge@Wharton
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Soledad and I have spent a lot of time talking about politics and social issues, certainly in part because of the tumultuous year it has been in this country’s history. I really appreciate Soledad’s openness and thoughtfulness about issues of race and the nuances of race and class in our society. It has been wonderful to reflect on and discuss our experiences in this regard (as well as everything else)!
We Protest with Thunder, Not Lightning
This piece critiques the way people of color are treated by police when protesting for their rights and contrasts how white people are treated when protesting.
It was like lightning. The bright flash of cameras was blinding as our adolescent faces appeared on their screens. We were seen, but never really heard. We might as well have been silent. My friend and I walked hand in hand, my fingers tugging on hers. Turn right, I tugged her thumb, avoid the dog, turn left I tugged her pinky. Avoid the book bags, they whispered. My fingers clench around her slippery wrist. Stop, they say. I want to make sure she’s okay, but her name slips from my tongue like raindrops and emerges into the puddle underneath our trembling feet. Ixchel reminded me of the Puerto Rican drink my grandmother makes during the holidays so she can drink away her ex-husband; her special eggnog with un chin de rum, we call it coquito. When I look at her hair, it’s anything but the strong independent black curls I had connected with the first moment we met. They were instead pressed down by the heavy pour of rain. They were straight for now and the ends of her hair seemed to be held down by a hot iron plank. They reminded me of prison bars. When I think of Ixchel and me, the color of our skins have never stood out so vividly; eggnog with a hint of rum fading away against the untouched snowflake white.
The voices of the protesters made noise, but delivered no message as we marched with our soaking wet book bags toward the Trump Towers on Fifty-Sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. I jerk at the sound of a hundred geese screeching as it fills my eardrums and I turn around to see a line of cars honking