But how long can you avoid the restriction of your blue
jacket? Just remember that people can catch up to you.
I’m up here, little chocolate boy, watching the moving
form of you, wondering if you expect someone to swoon
at your little tricks. Because you have skin they want to peel
and with your valiant resistance, they’ll make the perfect
example of you, soon enough. Little boy, you’ll have to fly
when the airplane of tomorrow’s resistance soars above.
I wrote this lighthearted piece for our Structured Poetry workshop. The sounds are meant to convey and conjure up vivid memories of enjoyable afternoons. Generation F is connected to earlier generations, celebrating their example.
Mary’s at the seat of her truck
Thinking that with some good luck
For her lunch today
She’ll eat at the bay.
The sun shines hot through the windshield
And she thinks that she will yield
To her appetite for a sandwich
Before she gets up to boogie bandwidth.
She drives to Kettle Cove
Where often she’s known to roam
Whoopie pie in her hand
She thinks of one demand:
We love our Amato’s
So full of tomatoes.
NATHALIE CABRERA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: A. Philip Randolph Campus High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Being with Deb means having meaningful, much-needed conversations. We talk about everything about life in our weekly meetings. Every time I meet her we just feed off each other’s knowledge and we transform this into ideas that become part of our writing as well. Our space has turned into one that is safe and has no filters because no one else gets to judge. It is just us. I love having the opportunity to talk and write and create and have the chance to do things that we love the most.
DEBORAH HEILIGMAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 3
OCCUPATION: Author of Books for Children and Teens
BORN: Allentown, PA
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Vincent and Theo: The Van Gogh Brothers (Henry Holt); YALSA Excellence in Nonfiction winner, Michael L. Printz Award Honor Book, Boston Globe–Horn Book Award winner for nonfiction, SCBWI Golden Kite Award winner for nonfiction
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: The first time I met Nathalie, she hugged me, and I knew we were going to be a great pair. And we are. From our very first weekly session, we have been able to talk deeply and truthfully about a range of subjects, from the personal to the political. We talk so much sometimes we realize we haven’t written—yet. And so we write, and when we do, it is magic, the words flowing out of us, into the space of safety and comfort we have created together. I am so grateful to have this opportunity to work with Nathalie.
I wanted to write about self-love, about a woman realizing her full potential.
The sky had rose-pink and gold hues woven through it as the wee hours of the morning began to fade away. I walked home, my hands bunched up in my pockets, the cold air numbing my face as I breathed it in. I headed toward a worn-down, tan-colored building, its paint chipping off like LEGO pieces, and an entrance door that often failed to close.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, and as I unlocked apartment 3C I smelled stale coffee and lavender disinfectant. I sighed wearily at my apartment’s living room: two chocolate-brown couches, a coffee table, and a television. This home lacked any life, it seemed as if no one cared to live in the boring four-white-walled room. I strode to my bedroom, which had sunlight streaming through a crack in the window, illuminating the room with warm kisses.
Peeling the clothes off my body, I reached for my towel. In the bathroom, I stepped into the shower and turned on the faucet. I let the warm water run over my chest, my breasts, and my navel. I turned my back to let the water pound against it.
As the water streamed along the hills and mountains of my body, I sighed deeply in a state of sheer peace. This peace is not something I have grown accustomed to. I have been tormented for many years with my own belittling thoughts. I thought I didn’t deserve to be strong and happy. I told myself I was weak, incapable of being loved or accepted.
This vicious scrutiny terrified me. As the water ran over my body, I realized I was tired—too tired of the violent destruction within me. A destruction that I knew would lead me to lose myself and all I could be.
But this time I allowed myself to be free of those thoughts. I let my mind, for once, be empty.
I reached for a honey bar soap and lathered it on my skin and I rinsed.
When I was finished, and felt clean and ready, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in the warm, soft towel.
And—
There was a girl staring at herself in a long, narrow rectangular mirror, reflecting her entire body.
I didn’t know who she was or why she was in my room, but I suddenly didn’t have the ability to speak or move. I stood there motionless, in a dreamlike state, almost as if I were part of an audience waiting for a show to unravel. I closed my eyes and then pried them open again, but she was still there. This is real, I told myself, there is a girl, a stranger in my room.
She was completely naked. She stood there admiring her caramel skin, the stretch marks along her wide hips and arms. She admired her small breasts, her lips, and her broad tipped nose.
She was admiring it all. All of herself.
She began to play music on her phone and I recognized the song but couldn’t quite remember the lyrics, just how it made me feel.
She wasn’t a good dancer, but that didn’t matter to her, as she moved and sang along with the song’s fast tempo and rhythm.
As the song began to fade away, she came to a stop and returned to the mirror. She looked at herself, but this time she spoke to her reflection.
“I will learn to accept myself.”
“To forgive