Our Last Collection of 2022

 

Copyright: boboling

istockphoto.com

We have made it and the end is here.  With just a few more weeks of the school year upon us, we have our last collection of writers to view and comment.

There is a total of 8 pieces for this month.  You know what to do:

1.  Read ALL the submissions.

2.  Choose your favorites, at least 3.

3. Write positive and helpful feedback for the writer.

4.  You may leave your comments here on the Blog or on our Canvas Discussion Board.

5.  Use a chrome book, laptop, desktop computer.  Do not use your phone.

6. Comments and feedback due Monday, May 16th

Class of 2022,

I want to thank you for taking this class and contributing your creativity in your original pieces displayed here on the blog as well as in the classroom.  I reflect each year at this time and am filled with the bitter sweetness of May.  This is always a hard month for me because I see a plethora of emotions on your faces each day as Graduation approaches.  

I have enjoyed our time together, although a short time, it has been OUR time.  Thank you for sharing your found poems, your sonnets, your dance photos, your "goodies", your celebrations, your smiles, your tears and your YOU, with me and all of us!

Remember self care.  You are an ever evolving human.  Take care of YOU.  Always.

The blog is here for you to visit when you need to feed your SOUL!  Don't be a stranger.  Our paths may cross again in the future.  Until then, enjoy these last days of your senior year.  This is a most special time for you.  

Be Still. Breathe. Live. Create.

All my love,

Mrs. Solano

xo

Blinded Society--Sydney

 

With my camera in hand, I took to the streets of Downtown Los Angeles to participate in my first peaceful protest in 2020 to honor the death of George Floyd as there is power in numbers to bring about change. As everyone chanted “BLM”, I wanted to capture this empowering moment in time. Although the fight for civil rights is nothing new, as a Black teen I have been awakened to understand that racism is on a rise and one’s life is not always valued. Edited through Photoshop, the gun target image represents people of color being forever targeted just for living in their own skin. I chose black and white with a grain effect to date the never-ending cycle in time of police brutality and also the removal of color emphasizes the break-down of color lines publicly. Many black individuals are constantly overlooked all because of the color of their skin. Whether we are affiliated in the upper class, middle class, or lower class we still continue to be silenced. Expressing major issues through art is an aspect in my life. Through this photo I want to influence others to take part in their community and understand the importance of speaking out to the many overlooked issues. When the streets clear and the news topic changes, the power of a picture remains. Another recurring issue in Downtown Los Angeles is the rapid increase in the homeless population. All my life it’s been ingrained in my mind how privileged I am to be living life without having to endure other individuals' daily struggles such as knowing when they’ll receive their next meal. “If you don’t read, you’ll end up like them,” is one of the many insensitive things my father would say to me growing up. It was Christmas Eve 2020 when a family friend invited me to take photos at his community service event in Downtown Los Angeles’ Skid Row. I figured doing a good deed and then enjoying the rest of the day thrifting on the westside sounded like a plan. This was my first up close and personal with a houseless community. At church I learned to say houseless since the community is that person’s home. The thought of Skid Row made me nervous, but I also knew you sometimes fear what you don’t know. When I took to the streets, I came to realize that everyone has a story that runs deep. What touched me most was to see children clutching their parent’s hand in the meal line. I later learned that the many teens on skid row had aged out of the foster care system. It is shocking to see fancy restaurants, high rise buildings, and luxury homes within walking distance from the largest houseless population covering 50 city blocks. And here I am growing up in the suburbs with a roof over my head, food on the table, attending a college readiness high school, and provided a support system to be all that I can be when you have a large community of people living amongst violence, trash, drugs, mental illness, lack of healthcare, and hopelessness. Through my lens, I saw people with stories behind their pain. These photos were showcased in my former Language Art teacher’s Social Justice class to bring light to this tragedy and encourage others to volunteer their time. I continued this past year volunteering on Skid Row through the non-profit organization Project EDUCATE who extends resources to this community through fitness & health education, providing basic essential kits, workshops for women to provide health, safety, & beauty, intellectual development, and a host of events highlighting the humanity of this forgotten population. I facilitate the collection of DVD movies, that are of no use to many with the advancement of digital media, to hold movie nights in the nearby community center. Understanding that lack of housing has major consequences for the houseless in terms of education, mental and emotional health leading to their role in society, I took the photos and videos I had compiled and submitted for a $5,000 grant to help further this cause through Invisalign ChangeMakers. Working with Project EDUCATE has been a humbling experience, allowing me to help others have more opportunities in life and see themselves through a different lens. My personal endeavor to become a great film or media student in the near future is one thing but being a good role model and speaking out on what isn’t being brought to the attention of is just as important.

Untitled--Julissa

 

The rain came down hard that night. I remember falling asleep to the rhythmic beating of the water droplets on the pavement from outside. The faint, yet powerful rumble of thunder, the flashes of lightning illuminating my room in my childhood home. I felt peaceful while I slept, like everything in my life had made sense in that exact moment, that I was right where I needed to be. I dreamt of a promising future, one where I could finally be truly happy, without the strings that normally come attached to it. Oh how I should’ve known. I woke up at four a.m. that night, irritated that I couldn’t get the full night’s rest that I worked so hard for that week. I smiled to myself, remembering that it was raining and decided to sit outside for a bit in hopes of making myself drowsy again. I grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders as I made my way towards the front door. The cold air hit me square in the face, making me giggle as I opened the door and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me. My childhood home had a front porch with a rocking sofa, allowing me to sit outside and enjoy the rain, like I had planned to. That was until I noticed the stranger sitting on the sofa. I was taken aback, not expecting to see someone outside since not only was it raining, but it was four in the morning. The stranger didn’t seem so unfamiliar and after a while I began to feel like I knew her.

“Are you going to sit down or just keep staring at me?” She said, breaking the silence.

“Who are you? And what are you doing on my porch?” I replied, hoping to get rid of her so I could enjoy the calming weather by myself. She turned to look at me and I gasped. Sure enough the woman sitting in front of me looked just like me. The same cocky smirk, the same arched eyebrow, the same determined look in her eyes. It was me, just slightly older and tired looking.

“I promise to explain everything, just have a seat.” She answered, dodging the answers I wanted. I should have felt taken aback from what I saw in front of me, like any sane person would have, but I couldn’t help but feel curious, and deep down part of me felt calm, like this was completely normal or something that I knew was going to happen. I walked towards her and sat down, both of us turning to watch the rain pour down. “It’s still my favorite weather, you know.”

“I never doubted that it would change.” I stated back, amusement in my tone.
“I thought about the best opportunity to reach out to you, to...” She trailed off. “To...”
“To warn you.” Silence takes over for a bit, allowing me to process what was just said. “I remember this night, it was one of my favorites before my life, our life, started falling apart. I figured if this went south you could chalk it up to a weird dream.”

“Warn me about what?” I asked, curiosity and dread flowing through me.

“Mosciski, the group you helped take down. They’re more than just a weapons company.”

“Oh.”
“Oh? That's it? I must’ve really underestimated my younger self.” She chuckled. 

“Wait so you’re from the future?” I questioned as I turned to look at her for the first time since I’ve sat down.

“Yes, about ten years from now.” She replied, turning to look at me. I see the tenseness in her facial features, the delicate ones long replaced by the hard ten years she endured. Her eyes pierced mine and conveyed everything that she can’t say out loud. The pain, the tragedy, the bravery. She dropped her head and turned back forward. “They’ll come for you, you know? They want revenge, and believe me when I say they’ll take out everything in their way to get to you. You have to be ready.” She urged.

“Why? Why warn me? Doesn’t this break the biggest basic universal laws?” I rushed out, dread filling my stomach.

“Because I vowed that I would always protect my inner child, my inner light, and I failed. It’s still within you, and I’d risk everything to get it back.” She answered, her voice quivering in the process. I stayed silent, letting my mind wrap around everything she laid out. She interrupts my thoughts, “Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss in life is what dies inside us while we’re alive.”

“Wow, so philosophical.” I replied sarcastically.

“Thanks, I coined it from Norma Cousin.” She laughed. We sat in silence for a while longer, until she announced that she had to go. “I can’t stay much longer, they’ll know I’m gone.”

“Okay.” I answered back, my voice just barely below a whisper.

“Promise me you’ll fight back. Promise me you won’t let them take it away from you.”

“I promise.” Our eyes met one last time before she stepped out into the rain, disappearing through a blue circle. I sat in silence for a while longer pondering what just happened.

That was fifteen years ago. I stand in the middle of the abandoned warehouse that I turned into my home, looking out of the window into the wet city below. I take my black rain coat and walk out into the dark. I walk the same route I take every time I go to see you, the same route I’ve been walking through for the past five years. I come to my destination and walk through the gate, weaving through stones and potholes on the ground. I walk towards you, wondering if the woman who came to see me all those years ago would know it would end this way. Did she know that this was the price of my soul? Because if you ask me, I would gladly lose my inner light just to see you live your life. But now I look down upon you remembering the night I wasn’t quick enough to save you. The pleas and screams that filled my ears, while I watched them take you from me. God, did the rain come down hard that night.

Phil--Ethan

 

Phil opened his eyes, waking from the previous night’s restful slumber. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and he had a lovely breakfast of jelly on toast to look forward to. However, as the blurry masses shifted before his eyes, he quickly retrieved his glasses from his breast pocket - a sensible man always keeps his valuables on him during sleep - and fitted them along his face to reveal that he was not emerging into a sunny Sunday morning in the shoddy apartment he called home. In fact, he didn’t seem to be anywhere at all; Phil Smith was floating in a vast endless space, darker than dark and colder than cold. It seemed slightly damp, and smelled as if a tinge of mildew and wet towel had wafted over from the unfathomable darkness just five feet to the right. Phil paused for a moment before speaking,

“Am I in the bathroom?”, he questioned aloud.

A deep, imposing voice boomed throughout the void. 

No. You are dead.

“Ah,” he said, “That is certainly inconvenient.”

Phil looked down at his torso, inspecting his body for any wounds and finding none. No slashes along his black shirt, no signs of damage to his Superman-spotted pajama pants. He raised his palm three or four inches from his mouth and exhaled. No changes to the morning breath he had endured every morning for the past twenty-six years. He lowered his hand to his chin, his brow furrowing in confusion as he attempted to solve the mystery of his own death.

“How did I die?”, he quietly muttered to the omnipresent voice.

You choked on a spider in your sleep.

“I knew it.”, he whispered, “Benny always made fun of me for believing that, but look at me now!”

Vindication of childhood beliefs aside, Phil paused for a moment. If he was dead, he would miss his lovely breakfast. It was imperative to have a lovely breakfast, he thought, as without one it is simply impossible to have a lovely day.

“Can I be revived? I’d like to go back to my Sunday morning and have my breakfast.”

You cannot.

“Oh, excuse me, MAY I be revived?”

You may not.

Drats.

“Why not?”

Because you are dead.

“That’s awfully rude, killing a man just before his breakfast. It’s not like you can kill a man whenever you want!”

Actually, I can.

“Oh. Right.”

“So, do you have like, board games or something?”

No.

“Magazines?”

No.

“Books?”

No.

Phil huffed. “Being dead is way more boring than I thought it was going to be.”

I do have a complete broadcast of your entire life.

A sudden bright light forced Phil’s hand up to his eyes, shielding them as they tried to adjust. As he lowered it, he found a screen no bigger than his home television in front of him. The screen seemed to be playing home videos, the kind that your mother would create of you when you were a baby... only he wasn’t a baby in these videos, he was a teenager.

“Hey! That’s me!”, Phil blurted out excitedly.

He watched as his teenage self went about his life day by day at P.S 213. He watched him eat the same jelly on toast every morning, take the same classes each year, eat the same peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch, go home, eat the same chicken stew for dinner, and go to sleep to repeat the cycle. He watched his teenage self turn down opportunity after opportunity, skipping over all four of his homecomings, prom, high school reunion, job promotion. He watched as he made the same mistakes over and over, completely missing the chance to change. Day by day. Month by month. Year by year. For twenty-six years. It didn’t feel like twenty-six years, he thought.

As Phil watched, he realized just how incredibly boring his life had been. He hadn’t made any changes throughout the entire course of his life, and never took any risks. It was a safe life, sure, but what was the point of being safe if one wasn’t having any fun? It might have been safe to not go near any dangerous rides at theme parks, but he’d now never know the thrill of hurtling through the tracks with friends. It might have been safe not to try for a job promotion, but he’d never have a life of luxury and comfort as a result of his extra pay. It might have been safe not to ask his crush out, but he’d never have known if she would have said yes.

Phil silently stared at the screen, which had been as black as the void for a while now. He had watched his entire life. Three times, in fact. All twenty-six years, back to back. And still, he struggled to find a single exciting or special thing he did.

Phil closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’ve made mistakes. My life was boring, and I was to blame. Please, if you’ll just give me another chance, I’ll make things right. I’ll have as much fun as possible in the time that I have left. I’ll ask out Beatrice. I’ll ask Mr. Pendragon for that pay raise. Please, just let me back to life!”

Phil opened his eyes.

There he was. It was a sunny Sunday morning. He felt the soft caress of his bedsheets as he sat upright in his bed. His apartment. His dirty, stinky apartment that smelled slightly of mold and mildew. He chuckled for a second, touching his face, ruffling his fingers through his soft hair. “I think I’ll have my jelly on toast now. After an incredibly ridiculous dream like that, it’s important to start one’s day off with a jelly on toast.”

Far away, in a void beyond comprehension, a lone voice chuckles. They never learn, the voice mutters quietly to itself. It knows that Phil Smith has betrayed the agreement, and will spend the rest of his life living it out in the most boring way possible. Because it knows that all humans hate risk. After all, why would anyone take risks and have fun in life when they could stay safe in their home, eat jelly on toast, and be like Phil?

Shadows--Maniyah

 

Tales of Shadow People come from everywhere in the world. These “Shadow People” wander through the perimeter of our world, just barely out of sight. Most people say that they cannot make out any noticeable features on their faces and they seem to have gender. These entities sometimes simply walk through our bedroom at night and they are never seen again, while others lurk in the shadows for long periods of time. However, they all have one thing in common. They leave victims laying in bed, terrified.

My name is Barbra Macholfenschtein and I’ve studied Shadow People phenomena for as long as I can remember, and from my research I have come to the conclusion that they really exist. Due to the fact that they have absolutely no distinguishable features, people assume that the shadows that people are seeing are just a figment of their imagination, coming from the silhouettes of objects in their peripheral line of sight, like clothes hanging in a closet or a lamp, but I know better. Thus, I can’t seem to pull myself away from reading about Shadow People encounters online or in the library whenever I get the chance. After some thorough research and my personal experiences with these shadows, I have been able to categorize them by behavior so anybody who reads this can be aware of what they are dealing with.

Harmless Shadows. These are the ones we see as kids that cause us to look under our beds at night. They appear to walk throughout bedrooms, without even seeming to notice the people in the room.

Evil Shadows. These entities are known to just sit and watch its victims with big, bright red eyes

The Man with the Hat. He is known to appear at your bedside or in the doorway to your bedroom, unmoving, just standing tall. Victims of The Hat Man often feel as if all of their breath is sucked out and they feel paralyzed under his gaze, not able to move or speak.

A lot of the encounters that I have read about are the same. . The victim wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night to a terrifying human-like creature standing at the foot of their bed or in the doorway to rooms and closets. They feel as if the creature is sitting on their chest because they can’t breathe, move, or close their eyes. As suddenly

as it started, the figure seems to disappear into thin air, and the person regains all movement. Psychologists call this sleep paralysis. Some say that these “visions' ' come from being in a state between asleep and awake and are just because your eyes haven’t adjusted enough to signal to your brain that whatever is in front of you is just a coat hanging in your closet. This could also explain why you feel as if you can’t move, because your body isn’t fully awake. Though that would be a less terrifying explanation, the people who have reported seeing Shadow People claim that they are not asleep when it happens. They report waking up to these entities being directly in their line of sight, as if the creatures themselves awoke them.

No matter what these entities actually are and regardless of what they are here for, my advice to you would be to sleep with your lights on, because once you see a shadow person, it will never stop haunting you.

What have we done to our bodies?--Kaitlyn

 

I've never accepted my appearance. Even as a six-year-old, I looked in the mirror and noticed hairy arms and legs. My stomach didn't stretch against my body. I had broad eyebrows and a dark fuzz on my lip. I was never good enough, yet the point of reflection hadn't been as severe as altering my way of life. However, when I was nine, it began when I swore off any bottoms other than pants. I noticed my thighs bulking and my body widening, and the idea of exposing these changes to my fourth-grade crush kept me up at night. I pictured myself as social perfection in my dreams, and waking up to reality was disheartening. What is wrong with my body?

When she took me back to school shopping in fifth grade, my mom had picked out a dress at Kohl's. Unfortunately, it cut off at the knee. The legs that earned me the nickname "Werewolf" were exposed to the world. How do I fix my body?

It took weeks of convincing, but I could shave my legs at eleven years old. It wasn't because I liked the sensation of smooth skin. It was because, as an eleven-year-old adolescent, I felt the pressure to conform to societal beauty standards. At eleven years old, my body needed alterations to satisfy those around me. What have you done to my body?

Insecurities and social pressure followed me through middle school, but in high school, it became lethal. After Covid-19 sent us home for the rest of sophomore year, my father required that I record my weight every morning to ensure I wouldn't gain weight. My mornings began with a reminder text from both my dad and his wife, reiterating the consequences of gaining weight. If the scale were to perform against my father's wishes, I would work out thirty minutes longer than the half-hour session required each night. Afraid of the repercussions, the idea of restriction and starvation came about. My caloric consumption trickled slowly. Two thousand to one thousand five hundred. One thousand five hundred to one thousand two hundred. Finally, eating more than 800 calories a day resulted in purging or episodic guilt. What have I done to my body?

Today's “Kylie Jenner” beauty standard has set unrealistic expectations for adults and young children. The pressures to portray a toned stomach and plumped glutes have reached women of all ages and backgrounds, creating an idea that bodies unidentical to those displayed on fashion magazines or Instagram feeds are incompetent. Starvation and other forms of self-harm are infiltrating our minds like a virus. We strive for external validation at the expense of our emotional, mental, and physical health. What have we done to our bodies?

Little Girl--Berry

 

Little girl, where did you go? I miss you, I really do, every part. I miss your innocent, lovely look at this big, scary world. I miss your compassionate, sympathetic hugs, I miss your genuine laughs, I miss you........God knows I miss you. Everyday I search for that little girl, that little happy girl who didn’t know anything, who didn’t care about this scary world, who didn’t care about what people said. She wasn’t afraid to be loud, or to love, and most importantly she knew how to live. The little girl with glasses bigger than her face could hold and braces to hold her perfectly imperfect smile. This little girl didn’t care that the world would judge her for being her. The saddest part is that she didn’t really know what to expect and the world took her by surprise. This little girl is not so little anymore, she’s just “girl” now. This girl is quiet and reserved, afraid of what the world will think of her, afraid of being judged for being “different”. This girl changes herself to fit the world’s view of “perfection.” This girl puts on makeup and does her nails just to “fit in.” This girl spends hours finding the perfect dress so they’ll like her. She prioritizes what the world thinks of her and who they want her to be over her values and who she really is. This “girl” looks in the mirror everyday wanting to be more, wanting to be called beautiful even though deep down she’s “wonderfully and fearfully made.” This “girl” puts up a facade everyday pretending to be okay but is not.....she fights a silent battle that rips pieces of her everyday. This “girl” is tired of the voices in her head, one of which she calls “depression.” Inside her it rips her, choking her, inflicting so much misery that she just wants to close her eyes, stop fighting and let go. This “girl” is tired because despite being around people she feels lonely. This girl wishes you understood because instead of crying to you, she cries with the pen and paper in her hand. She feels so isolated but manages to make everything seem perfect. This girl resorts to her headphones as her safe space, because when she puts them on the world goes quiet for a moment, almost peaceful. She searches for that little girl hoping to God she isn’t gone, a part of her hopes “little girl” is still in there somewhere, a part of her wants to feel again.....This “girl,” is at the edge ready to give up, at her breaking point but she heard that voice, that calm, peaceful, lovely voice say “Don’t give up, have faith.” This “girl” with no faith believed, her small faith created big things. “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, move from here to there, and it will move.” She began to have trust that things will get better, she grew, not caring about what they thought of her anymore. She began to be happy, back to seeing the scary world as lovely again in hopes of making “little girl” proud. This “girl” well this “little girl” was never gone...SHE JUST GREW.