Maryclare Yesterday
Maryclare Today
Shy and passive
Funny and full of life
I hate putting my ideas out there. They’re horrible!
Yes, you are speaking to a 2018 Gold Key winner. Holla!
I’m not good at anything but watching Netflix
Class of 2018 valedictorian baby! Talk to me nicely.
Is that something out of my comfort zone? Yea . . . I’ll pass
Wow. What’s that strange cool thing? I wanna do it!
Uhm . . . I think I’m okay with only speaking English.
Yo no hablo ingles! Lo siento, chica
If my mom wants me to be a doctor, so be it.
Girl, you know I love dance. Minoring in dance it is!
Should I enroll in AP Spanish? Nah. It’s too challenging
Yea, I’m with you on that one. Let’s take AP Calc instead
I’m not African. I’m, uhm . . . Native American and Latina
Girl, please! You’re Nigerian all the way, baby!
Is that a protest about women’s rights? I’ll just walk past.
“Pro Choice! My Body!” Oops, am I protesting too loud?
Before I do anything, I have to think of the What-Ifs
No you don’t. Be a free spirit! Stop being so paranoid!
I need to delete my Netflix account. It’s distracting
Should I get Hulu and HBO Go? Eh, the more the merrier!
Maryclare Yesterday
Maryclare Today
Shy and passive
Funny and full of life
The Bechdel test measures women-centered narratives. To pass the Bechdel test, a work must feature two women who talk to each other about something other than men. These narrators try with little success. I think a crucial part of being a member of Generation F is centering the experiences of women.
Test #1: Betta Fish
My b——— kept a betta fish in a huge glass tank. It swam in brisk, uninterrupted circles that my knocking did not disturb. It ignored me, much the same way that D——— ignored me in science class, even though I sat directly in his line of sight. And yet I could not imagine being angry at D. It wasn’t that he was ignoring me: It was that he could not yet see me.
Back at home, I dug out a compact mirror from my mother’s purse. It was marbled purple and gold. The mirror was dusty with powder, but I could still see my own face through the stipple. I turned it toward the tank. The betta swam by once, unbothered. I flicked the mirror back and forth until I caught its attention. It hesitated, taking in the new interloper on the other side of the tank. Then it charged. Again and again, it hurled itself at the glass. The interloper responded in kind. Mesmerized, I watched until the sound of the doorbell startled me out of my reverie. The compact fell from my hand into the tank. The betta went belly up a few hours later.
My mother fished them both out that evening and replaced the betta before my b——— got home from his overnight game. The new betta fish swam in a languid, confused circle. Poor thing: trapped in a tank, not knowing a single thing about girls.
Test #2: Lipstick Theory
We are reading the labels and deciding who to be tonight. A dusky English Rose. A lurid Tropical Sherbet. A slash of red in Sultry Siren. Or one, dark purple, simply titled Mistress.
Test #3: Last Night
I dreamt of a gate tied shut with two pink ribbons.
I dreamt of a world without men.
BRIANNA CLARKE-ARIAS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Freshman
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Meeting with Rachel has led to many breakthroughs in not only my writing, but in my views of myself as a writer. I have become more conscious of my role as a constructor of worlds simply through the sharing of my lenses of my surroundings and experiences. This act of openness had always seemed daunting to me before, and through a closer and continuous relationship with a mentor who is a writer herself, I can feel myself becoming braver and more bold.
RACHEL SHOPE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Associate Editor, CB Insights
BORN: Chapel Hill, NC
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I always look forward to meeting with Brianna, because it’s magical every time. Whether we’re tucked in a corner at the public library or sharing red-velvet cupcakes in a café or snagging chairs at a random Whole Foods, we connect as writers and friends. I am constantly struck by her talent and brilliance. I leave each of our pair sessions with a renewed sense of creativity and hope for the future. Being her mentor has made me a stronger editor, a more disciplined writer, and I think just a more positive person overall.
Musings from a Lost New York Native
This poem explores the process of getting to know oneself when given the freedom to do so. More recently, I’ve noticed aspects of myself mirrored in the city, and I want my work to reflect that.
I don’t want to put on a hat.
My ears are so cold
they burn.
But I won’t do it.
I can’t.
Warmth feels unnatural now.
Let the air prick and my hair
run loose in the
wind,
slipping into my eyes,
out from behind my ears.
I left my scarf at school. I’ll
probably never see it again. The cold
bites into my skin as I gaze skyward,
to the tops of the buildings that