GWN 9780996277211 2p all r1 - Girls Write Now SPEAK CHANGE: THE GIRLS WRITE NOW ... The Persians are great negotiators, ... And don’t forget my jiggling eyes, rolling, swollen balls

236 • GIRLSWRITENOW.ORG

WINKIE MA

YEARS AS MENTEE: 3GRADE: SeniorHIGH SCHOOL: Stuyvesant High SchoolBORN: Brooklyn, NYLIVES: Brooklyn, NYPUBLICATIONS AND

RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Writing Awards: Gold Key

MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: It is with bittersweet

feelings that I realize in a matter of months, I won’t

see Stephanie every week. In the past three years she has

taught me to think a little deeper about the world.

Whether we were bouncing ideas for a new piece or

exploring the latest art exhibits, her wisdom, experi-

ence, and guidance have shaped me into the writer

that I am today. I will forever treasure the Wednesday

afternoons in the Target cafe where we have shared

writing and laughing together, and I know she will

still be my mentor for many years to come.

STEPHANIE GOLDEN

YEARS AS MENTOR: 3OCCUPATION: Freelance au-thor and journalistBORN: Brooklyn, NYLIVES: Brooklyn, NYPUBLICATIONS AND

RECOGNITIONS: Published e- book, Mermaid No More:

Breaking Women’s Culture of

Sacrifice

MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Winkie and I had great

fun with found poetry. When a friend sent me a single

long sentence from a speech by Donald Trump, we each

wrote a poem from it. Our two poems, with their simi-

larities and differences, reflect the closeness we’ve devel-

oped in our three years of working together. Both of us

focused on the sound and rhythm of the language,

more than on concept— me to distill an essence of the

speaker’s destructive voice, and Winkie to shift his

abrasive tone to give a new feel. We are— and will re-

main, I know— on the same wavelength.

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RISE SPEAK CHANGE: THE GIRLS WRITE NOW 2017 ANTHOLOGY • 237

Welcome to Madame Zhu’s;In the Words of Mr. Trump

WINKIE MA

The first poem came from a New Yorker restaurant review; the sec-ond, from one long Trump sentence. In the second, I wanted to use Trump’s words but give them a different tone and meaning.

Welcome to Madame Zhu’s

The pan- Chinese unicorn,the stuff of fantasy and forlorn foodie dreams.Start with Sichuan peppercornsand spicy mung bean jelly:slippery, tremulous slabs of mung bean starchsteeped in a magma- like vinaigrette,and chewy chili peppers transforma tender main event.

Marry sweet with savory,glaze the meat subtly,taste every dishand then eat endlessly:this is no idle dream.

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In the Words of Mr. Trump

Look— a great professor and scientist and engineer,good, very good genes,smart, very,very smart— you know,they would say I’m one of the smartest people— It’s true!— but oh, do they always start off:good student, went there, went there,did this, built a fortune— it would have been so easy.These lives are powerful;explainthe power of what’s going to happenand who would have thought whenyou look at what’s going on with the four prisoners— used to be three, now it’s four— even now, I would have saidfellas, fellas,you know,it’s gonna take them about another 150 yearsso they,they just killed,they just killed us.

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Two “Found” PoemsSTEPHANIE GOLDEN

In one workshop this year I discovered a knack for found poetry. The first poem below is based on a single endless sentence in a Trump speech. The second comes from a Vogue article.

Trumpery

Having nuclear . . . My uncle, a great professor and scientist, very smart, very good,

very smart,Went to Wharton, was a good student, went there, went there,

did this, built a fortune.Look at the nuclear deal, nuclear is powerful; my uncle explained

to me many, many years ago, the power,The power of what’s going to happen.It’s all in the messenger . . . The Persians are great negotiators, the Iranians are great

negotiators, so they, they just killed,

They just killed.

Dangerous Bargain

We are always the same age inside. But one day, you will be invisible.

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If you start altering your face so you resemble a Cubist painting? (But I know what it’s like to hate your reflection some mornings.)

Now there is no turning back.

Two weeks later, my face glowing, I am flooded with elation.It’s dangerous— delusional— yet I wantmore, more, more.I feel an almost sickening sense of hope . . . I begin a cosmic bargaining.

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NATALIE MOJICA

YEARS AS MENTEE: 1GRADE: SophomoreHIGH SCHOOL: Central Park East High SchoolBORN: New York, NYLIVES: Bronx, NYPUBLICATIONS AND

RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Gold Key (2); New York City Youth Poet Laureate finalist

MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I think the first time I

met Gabriella outside of the Girls Write Now office was

the most important. I was terrified that she would be

someone I would never be able to talk to or want to

share my writing with. However, from the first mo-

ment we started speaking I quickly realized the oppo-

site would be true. She is someone who cultivates my

creativity and inspires me to work on writing more.

She doesn’t dismiss my opinions or input and supports

me in more ways than one. I owe many of the writing

projects I am working on to her.

GABRIELLA DOOB

YEARS AS MENTOR: 1OCCUPATION: Associate Edi-tor, Ecco/HarperCollinsBORN: New Haven, CTLIVES: New York, NY

MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: One of the first things I

noticed about Natalie is that she liked to quietly read

even when a lot was going on around her. While I could

certainly relate, I worried I wouldn’t find enough

things to connect with her. Quite the opposite— I have

been consistently inspired by her creativity, her robust

opinions, and her many, varied interests. She has intro-

duced me to writers, ideas, and— crucially— the show

Riverdale. We’ve spent a lot of time talking and

debating— over coffee, burritos, books at the Strand. It

has given me a lot to think and write about.

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Skinny Girl MemoirNATALIE MOJICA

Growing up surrounded by women of color, I always felt isolated by the fact that my body was different than those of the beautiful women around me. This poem was my moment of solidarity; my body is no one’s but my own and I don’t need anyone else’s approval.

I know distance more than I know company,and when my family pinches at the fat around mywaist I am taken back to the motherland for abrief moment. my grandmother is sitting in thebackyard, drinking the cafe bustelo my mothersent her and smiling, she beckons me towards herand I sit on her lap blissful and naive to what thenext twelve years of my life will become. the momentends almost as quickly as it started and my aunt isquestioning if I eat enough at home, my cousin isgrimacing as her curves are compared to the anglesmy body is made out of and both of our bodieshave become spilled coffee stains on the floor forother people to step on; everyone in my aunt’stoo small kitchen is laughing and I feel as if somebodyhas set me on fire. my skin becomes paperand my skeleton becomes full of the debris I triedso desperately to sweep under the rug; my twelve-

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year- old insecurities come flying out again like a geniefrom a magic lamp simply by the sound of drunkenfamily laughter and I cannot breathe. I have neversmoked before but in that moment I swear there is notoxygen in the world and my lungs are filled withtobacco made from the scars on my body that neverhealed and nicotine- like unspilled tears. my cousin isblushing and I know that it bothers her that her father’sfriend is staring at her in a way less than appropriate becauseit bothers me that my father’s friend is staring at me asif I were a blow- up doll made simply for his pleasure.the twelve- year- old inside of me, filled with insecurities, isscreaming with shame but the fourteen- year- old me issighing because she knows— we’ve been through this process so many times weknow it by heart, it is wrong but it is to be expected andthe newly fifteen- year- old girl I have become stays silent.I pretend that my aunt’s sharp fingernails poking medon’t feel like knives, I smile and laugh with them,when my aunt says that my hips are finally growing inI do not say that this is not an accomplishment, thatmy body growing is not a trophy for the public to stareat. instead I nod and feel my throat constrict withanger so immense it is like a monsoon inside of me. butI do not speak. my obedience has become a habit toohard to break. I know distance more than I knowcompany because even if my body is an abandoned homethat grows only weeds in the backyard it is myabandoned home.

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The Monsters in My HeadGABRIELLA DOOB

I began writing this irreverent poem a while ago as a sort of homage to my childhood books, the reason I’m a reader and editor. Re- reading those books, I felt freed by the playfulness of the forms and reminded of the many ways— serious or whimsical— to express oneself in writing.

Aside from all the creepy- crawlies that live ’neath my bed,There are all the creepy- crawlies that I keep inside my head.

First you have my tongue,a serpent decked in slime,it slithers ’round my back- of- throat,in restless, pulsing time.

Then there is my nose,a looming, lumpen den,with sticky little putrid trolls,that burst from their damp pen.

And don’t forget my jiggling eyes,rolling, swollen balls of gooze,that could fall out at any time,made flat by careless shoes.

I don’t need to remind youof those monsters called my ears,

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with their twisting, windy pathwaysthey capture groans and sneers.

Back to the mouth we travel,with its lips like quivering slugs,that wrap themselves with gusto’round cups and coffee mugs.

Those pudgy slugs are creepy,but are nothing, don’t you see,to the glittering, clanging, scraping teeth,I nightly gnash in sleep.

But by far the scariest monsterthat I keep inside my head,is the clumpy, dumpy mash of brains,I’ll have until I’m dead.

Those clumps are icky, sticky,and worst of all they hostthe fears and painsin my mind and brainsthat torture me the most.

But if my brains are rotten,filled with demons, ogres, elves,they are also what can free mefrom my monstrous, mutant selves.

See, my brains are wondrous creatures,sprightly, roaming trickster fairies,

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that mark the time,or tell a rhyme,and ward away the scaries.

So, of all the precious monsters,that live inside my dome,I’ll take my brains,with all their pains,and never be alone.

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GWN 9780996277211 2p all r1 - Girls Write Now SPEAK CHANGE: THE GIRLS WRITE NOW ... The Persians are great negotiators, ... And don’t forget my jiggling eyes, rolling, swollen balls