“Sure,” Jude said finally smirking, “or whatever.”
James closed her eyes and laughed. It was suddenly so easy to laugh she almost cried.
The world disappeared around her and she escaped once again into her mind. She imagined a bridge, broken and tearing, and she walked across it without holding the ropes. It was a tightrope, a thin, barely visible piece of white thread, and she moved on her toes with her eyes closed. Below her was a pit of darkness that didn’t seem to have a bottom. She could hear the monsters rustling below. She could see their cruel claws trying to reach her from the abyss and pull her down. She spun and jumped above them. They couldn’t touch her. Not a single scratch.
Don’t Leave Me Alone.
To the Defenders of the Union
JAMIE SERLIN
This piece was inspired by the free write from our very first workshop on travel writing. At a time of great fear and uncertainty at home, this place has special meaning to me.
In a city of skyscrapers, we sometimes forget to look up. Have you ever walked by something—a building, a sign, a statue—a whole bunch of times before you ever really stopped to look at it? Or maybe you just noticed it for the first time from a different angle. Or maybe the light hit it in a funny way one day, and you thought, “Hey, has that always been there?”
I can’t claim I never noticed the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch. The marble behemoth that straddles Grand Army Plaza is pretty hard to miss. In the evening it glows a mystic purple, and the car headlights swirling around it make for a cosmopolitan scene that is almost Parisian.
But there is a specific angle from which this Brooklyn landmark takes on added symbolism.
For the runners who frequent the Prospect Park inner loop, the Arch marks the end of a 5k journey that winds through leafy woods and around the sprawling man-made lake, past noisy playgrounds and tranquil picnic houses, evading bikers, skateboarders, and vigorously power-walking Hasidic ladies. It sits at the crest of a brutal, serpentine hill, the kind that slowly saps the strength from your legs as it sucks the air from your lungs.
The first time I attempted it, reaching the top took every ounce of mental and physical endurance I possessed.
But the payoff, I learned, is a view like no other.
The towering arch—framed by regal Greek columns, adorned at the top by the winged goddess of victory—is inscribed with the words:
To the Defenders of Union.
It comes into view in the homestretch, the epic finish line of a one-person race. It is a portrait of resilience, a monument to resistance, a reminder of all the hills we are capable of conquering.
“You made it,” it announces.
“You are strong,” it affirms.
“Keep going.”
GIA DEETON
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Baruch College Campus High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I stepped into the persona of a bubbly sex-ed teacher and performed my one-woman show. When I returned to my seat, still feeling like my legs were Jell-O, my mentor, Lindsay, was waiting for me with a high-five. Writing a monologue about preventing sexual assault may be one of the trickiest things Girls Write Now has pushed me to do at a workshop, but Lindsay’s encouragement gave me the confidence to present a piece I was really proud of.
LINDSAY ZOLADZ
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Staff Writer, The Ringer
BORN: Voorhees, NJ
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Association of Magazine Media’s 2016 ASME Next Award for Journalists Under 30
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I’m always happy to see Gia at the Hungry Ghost every Wednesday afternoon, but one day in March I was surprised to see a present waiting for me at our favorite table. I had no idea what it was for; my birthday had passed a few months ago. “Happy International Women’s Day!” she said as I sat down, and I opened my lovely gift of a scarf and my favorite tea. Gia and the Girls Write Now community make me feel like every day is International Women’s Day.
The stigma around mental illness needs to change. By telling the story of how mental illness affects my family, I hope to inspire others to gain the courage to share their experiences with an issue that is often overlooked. Names have been changed.
My mom and I walked in silence under the yellow glow of the polluted night sky. When we reached the door, she handed me the overnight bag that she carried for me while I carried my backpack for school the next day. Before ringing the doorbell, she hugged me and murmured, “I love you. Thanks for being strong. Bea will be okay.”
I knew that my older sister, Bea, would not be okay.
“I know.” I lied.