AMERICAN OVERSEASSCHOOL OF ROME

Via Cassia 81100189 Rome, Italy

Telephone +39 06 33 43 81Fax +39 06 33 26 26 08E-mail info@aosr.orgWebsite www.aosr.org

American Overseas School of Rome

Villa Voice2019MiddleSchool

Student Writing

and Art

0 VILLAVOICE COPERTINA 17 aprile 2019.qxp_copertina villavoice 06/06/19 14:22 Pagina 1

The Middle School Villa Voice 2018-2019

AMERICAN OVERSEAS SCHOOL OF ROME MIDDLE SCHOOL LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE

MIDDLE SCHOOL STUDENT WRITING AND ART

EDITOR AND FACULTY ADVISOR MS. NANCY PICCIRILLI

COVER ART FRONT AND BACK, LEA, GRADE 8

SPECIAL THANKS MIDDLE SCHOOL TEACHERS:

MS. HOLLY DANA, MS. KAREN SCARFUTO,

MS. MELISSA SLAVIN

CONGRATULATIONS MIDDLE SCHOOL STUDENT WRITERS AND ARTISTS

HEAD OF SCHOOL MR. MICHAEL CALLAN

SECONDARY PRINCIPAL MR. JUSTIN WALSH

MIDDLE SCHOOL COORDINATOR MS. SARAH ELLYSON

TYPESETTING AND DESIGN AVANTPRINT, GABRIELLA FARINA, RANIERO FRAIEGARI

AMERICAN OVERSEAS SCHOOL OF ROME VIA CASSIA, 811 ROME, ITALY 00189

TELEPHONE +39 06 33 43 81

FAX +39 06 33 26 26 08

EMAIL INFO@AOSR.ORG

WEBSITE WWW.AOSR.ORG

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Table of ContentsNarratives 1

Soaking in the Summer by Tatev 2First Impressions by Evan 3

25 Meters by Keaton 4Wasabi Revenge by Noah 5

The All Terrain Upgrade by Benj 6

Invention Essays 7Sibling Security by Sadie 8

Poetry 9Unspoken by Benj and Yali 10Grounded by Noah and Tatev 10

A Tribute to Ghost, the Novel by Evan & Claire 11You by Denisa and Emma 11

You Can’t Write a Poem About a Pinata by Francesco, Sofi and Riley 12

You Can’t Write a Poem About a Poem by Maxwell and Alessio 13You Can’t Write a Poem About a Book by Sadie, Natalia

and Gabrielle 14

Humanities Narratives 15A Stain on the Soul by Yaroslav 16

Was the Sacrifice Worth It? by Bryant 18Devil’s House by Blair 19

Fighting for Freedom by Ines 22Protector of Kin by Teagan 24

Poetry 27You Can’t Write a Poem About a Laptop by Daphne 28

You Can’t Write a Poem About Instagram by Ines 29

Expository Essays & Picture Prompts 31Out of the Ordinary by Benedetta 32

Born Not Bred by Roberta 34The Night Fire by Rong 36

Prose & Poetry 37Endless Expedition by Anson 38Space in My Heart by Pietro 39

The Dove Will Appear by Annika 40Lapiz Lazuli by Juliane 41

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Shan, grade 6

NA R R AT I V E S6 th G R A D E

1NA R R AT I V E S

“One was a book th ie f . The other s to le the sky.”The Book Th ie f

2 NA R R AT I V E S

Jihoo, grade 6

Soaking in the Summerby Tatev grade 6

I wake up suddenly; my feet arealready touching the floor beforemy brain understands what I amdoing. Somehow, this morningseems different than all of theother mornings. Immediately, Iknow why: it is summer, and I amback in my home country ofArmenia for Vartavar. Let’s startoff by saying that Vartavar is myfavorite holiday! Nobody inArmenia wants to miss it. InArmenia, Vardavar is a holiday thatcelebrates the transfiguration ofJesus Christ. But most important,you get to pour ICE cold water oneach other, and there are NOEXCEPTIONS! If you want toavoid get soaked, you stay atindoors. I certainly was not goingto stay home.

Eager to start the day, I dashdownstairs for breakfast. I arrive tothe balcony in my grandparents'house. Grape vines drape on thewalls preventing the sun fromsneaking in. Still half asleep butexcited, I settle onto the outdoorsofa and wait for others to wakeup. Specks of light stream inthrough the vines and warm meas I wait. My brother is still asleepbecause summer is basically hishibernation period. Suddenly Idetect a savory scent of saltedpancakes-one of my grandma’sspecialties. Soon, she stands inthe doorway with a platter. Isqueal with delight and grab asmany pancakes as my hands canhold. I devour them l like a bearthat has just discovered an entirehoney jar. Now, the family is ready for thefun that is about to unfold. Weleave the safety of our house andrace down the cobblestone streets.We slip through a narrow passageto get to the car. So far, we manageto stay dry. And yet I glancedown at the ground, and thereare already some water splasheson the ground. Tamar Tatik, ourfruit seller, waves at us and tellsme and my brother that we havegrown up a lot; this just remindsme that everyone in Yerevan isconsidered family. We squeeze

into my uncle’s Range Rover andstart the drive to our summerhouse. As we slowly wind throughthe streets, my brother tells usto close the windows becausevillagers have already started thewater works. He fears they willsplash water into the car. “Howdo you know?” my mom inquires.“Because I have done it before!”my brother replies with laughter. My mom smiles but still proceedsto open the window. She wants totake a picture of the landscape.Suddenly, my brother looks panicked.“CLOSE THE WINDOW!” he shrills.But it is too late. Some hooliganssplash water into the car. Mymom absorbs most of the waterbecause she is the closest to thewindow. Her face looks surprised,and yet it kind of looks like sheexpected it. We finally arrive at our summerhouse where our family’s waterwar will take place. At this point, weare mostly dry and ready for battle. Iremember someone carrying ahuge watermelon and the rest isone long, wet blur. Everyone startsto go crazy. They run like wildanimals with fear and excitementin their eyes. There is one specificattack that I remember clearly. Igrip a bucket of ice cold water inmy hands. I slowly approach myoldest cousin and pour it downher back! Her mouth drops to thefloor and her eyes roll back intoher head. I feel so proud in themoment, but that doesn’t last long.When I turn around, I see a glimpse

of my brothers mischievous grin.He is a tiger waiting to pounce onits prey. Within seconds, my brotherhas splashed water into my face!After about two hours, whichfeels like two minutes, we areall completely and utterly soaked! Once the battle is over, we makeour way to the dinner hall. Mymom tells us to dry up in the sun.We spend the rest of the dayrelaxing at the summer house,eating shawarmas and singingBeatles songs. When it is time toleave, we pack up and I race tothe car to get a good spot. We allsay our goodbyes and continueour singing all the way home. Within moments of arriving backto my grandparents’ house, myhead is on the pillow. I can barelykeep my eyes open. My momwalks in to check on me. “Youknow mom, I missed this place,” Itell her.My mom sits on the edge of my

bed. “Me too,” she replies. “I justwish I didn’t get splashedthrough the window, but I shouldhave expected it.”

“It is Vardavar after all,” I say,finishing her thought. I want tokeep talking about the magicalevents of the day, but fatigue istaking over. My mom gets up and movestoward the door. “Now get to bed.It’s late Tat,” she whispers. Andbefore I can protest, I drift off tosleep with a smile on my face.

NA R R AT I V E S 3

First Impressionsby Evan grade 6

I trudged up the driveway to our cousins' house andstumbled onto the doormat like a wounded animal. Ithad been a long travel day full of cars and planes. MyNorwegian aunt and uncle, Ingie and John, welcomedus into their house. It was the first time I had ever seenthem in their own home and had always wondered howthey lived. Outside, the Norwegian neighborhood waspitch black and cold, but the house was warm andcozy. We dropped our bags in a heap at the door andwalked into the living room. On the dining room table inthe distance was a delicious plate of “ Salma” (aNorwegian fish) awaiting us. The white plate was linedwith strips of orange red salmon, juicy mango, and limegreen avocado. My stomach rumbled as saliva filledmy dry mouth. My cousins, Thea and Tuva, ran downthe spiral stairs to greet us. We hugged and walked intothe kitchen to eat. We settled down in the dining roomchairs, that were draped in sheep skins, in front of thefire.

Their warm house was the perfect place to be aftera long day of travel. It was a small, two-story home lookingout across a shimmering fjord into Oslo. All of us togetherwere eight people: my aunt, my uncle, Thea and Tuva(my cousins), my parents, my brother and I. We spentthe next hour talking about our travels and devouringthe delicious dinner. After finishing, it was time to climbinto the comfort of a bed. I trudged up the spiral staircase,bags in hand, and collapsed onto a pile of blankets. Ifell asleep immediately thinking about tomorrow’sadventures in this new country that I had always wantedto visit because of my family there. I could just picturemy next day in this wonderland.

Our plan was to go on a road trip, across Norway,from Oslo to Bergen (where we would drop my oldercousin, Thea, of at college). The eight or nine-hour carride was a lot, but the extraordinary views made, it allworth it. Fjords, mountains, cherry farms and adorablecottages surrounded us as we drove. I had never beento such a place.

Our first stop was a small cozy “ boathouse” lookingover a majestic fjord that glistened like salt crystals. Itwas tucked behind rows and rows of juicy, ripe, redcherries. We were not sure if we could eat them, but Istill stuffed my mouth full of these delicious red treats.The “boathouse” matched the rows of cherries withtheir bright red color. It had two queen beds and twotwins. To remind you, we were eight people whichmeant two people had to share a twin and an unfortunatesomeone (my brother) had to sleep on the couch. In the morning, I would climb up on to a moss coveredcliff and look out across the foggy fjord hoping to spot

an orca. I would sit on the rock and imagine a blackand white whale emerging from the foggy surface anddiving back down to the bottom of the fjord. I wouldwait and watch until I became impatient and wouldhead back to the cabin. I never really spotted one, butI liked to think they were still there, gliding underneaththe surface.One day, my family and I went on a walk to explore thearea. We trotted down the side of the road, trees,plants, glimpse of stunning fjords, all the same until…

“He’s so cute!” I exclaimed abruptly. Along the sideof the road beyond the barbed wire fence stood abighorn sheep. His horns were curled up like a like apig's tail. His fur was matted down but soft. I immediatelyfell in love with his adorable face. Everyone stoppedand waited for me until it was finally time to go. Sadly,I walked away from the sweet sheep. Unfortunately a few days later, it was time to move onto the next destination. As we got ready to go, I knewthis boathouse would be one of my cherished memoriesof Norway and time with my family. Now that I had liveda part of my “Norwegian experience” I felt like I had abetter connection with them. I watched the cherry farmdisappear in the distance as we pulled down the windingroad. I looked ahead through the mountain landscapeand saw excitement as I pictured my next set of memoriesin this incredible country.

Elizaveta, grade 6

4 NA R R AT I V E S

25 Metersby Keaton grade 6

“50 meters left, and the fiveswimmers are neck and neck. Weknew from the beginning that thiswould be a good race, but thiswas unexpected,” the announcerannounces. “40 meters left, andTIS’s swimmer John Mence ispushing ahead!”

‘No, No, No - this can't behappening I think. I close myfingers and yank water out of thepool. My legs are working doubletime but to no avail. I start tochoke on water as I slowly start tofall behind.’

“35 meters left, and ASIJ’sKeaton Diehl is falling behind! It’slooking like ASIJ will not win goldon the 200 meter IM,” theannouncer reports with a fake,sad tone in his voice.

I could practically hear thedisappointment emitting off of thecrowd and onto me. I could notlet my whole school, all 2,300kids, down.

I know that I only have one lastchance at winning, so with 25meters left, I put all of my energyinto my arms and legs and shootforward with all my strength. Ishoot forward like a bullet, andwithin seconds, I hit the edge ofthe pool. I glance up just as theannouncer announces the winner.

“And the winner of the 200meter IM is... ”It All Began Three Hours Earlier…

I paced the deck of the pool,watching my opponents andteammates as they swam. My firstrace was coming up soon, and Iwanted to know my competitionlike the back of my hand. I watchedas a kid from the Tokyo InternationalSchool (TIS) won another race.He was about my age but hadblack hair and was much betterthan I am at swimming. I wasstarting to freak out. Little beadsof sweat formed on my forehead,and my palms felt as if a slug hadslithered all over them. This kidwas really good, and I realizedthat if he qualified for the 200meter IM, I would have no chanceof winning and accomplishing mydream. I began to establishderanged notions and ‘what ifs’.

What if he beats me and becauseof that, aliens invade the earth?What if I tied with him and thenlost in a tiebreaker race only tosee a nuke fall on my head? WhatIf the world exploded because Ilost? What if...

I never got to finish the lastthought because, at that moment,my friend Edison walked up and asked, “Hey, are you readyfor your next race?”

“ No,” I replied,“not at all. But Ijust saw your race. Secondplace. That's better than I willever get. Who was that kid whobeat you?”

“His name is John Mence. He isprobably the best swimmer here,at the IM’s at least.”

“Then I am in hot water,” Imumbled. “What is his PB?”

“ I have no idea, but if I find out,I will let you know. Good luck!!!”

And with that, he walked off,oblivious to the anxiety writtenacross my face.Two Hours And Fifty Five MinutesLater.

The announcer looks up from thepodium. There is evident shock onhis face. He announces, “And thewinner is...Keaton Diehl!!!”

I am in a state of prostration. I

Antonia, grade 6

rip the goggles off of my face andlook around at all the ASIJ fansthat were surrounding me. I amso ecstatic that I have won the200 meter IM. And all the magichappened within the final 25meters. I slowly crawl out of thepool, and I immediately collapseon the deck. I look around inamazement at all the people whohad rooted for me. They are allcheering like crazy. This is trulythe best day of my life. All thesepeople had been encouragingme from the sidelines, and theywould have been so utterlydisappointed me if I had givenup.

I slowly stand up, and I amimmediately attacked by myteammates who rush at me like aswarm of bees to honey. I am sotired that I fall into my friend'sarms and let them carry mestraight to the pool, where theytoss me into the water.

This time, I don’t even have theenergy to crawl out of the pool. Ihang on the edge and receive asea full of compliments. I amelated in this moment. And it wasall because of the final 25-meterpush.

NA R R AT I V E S 5

Sadie, grade 6

Wasabi Revengeby Noah grade 6

3,2,1 GO! I raced off througha blur of trees and grass, but allI could see clearly was mydestination: the door of my house.As I neared closer and closer tothe finish line, I sensed that myopponent was far behind. Ithought I had won, only to see anew blur pass by me and touchthe door. I had lost the race that Iwas so close to winning, and I felthumiliated. The race was againstmy friend, Sean, a five year old,and I was six! Even at six yearsold, people knew how competitiveI was. I would not live this down.That is when had a thought...asinister thought.

My brain was a storm of evil notionsof revenge. “Sean,” I inquiredinnocently with gritted teeth, “youwant to go inside and have icecream?” Sean immediately smiled.He flung the door open andsprinted into the kitchen. Whenhe arrived panting at the counter,I casually told him that I just had“mint” ice cream.

The more my mind carried outeach step of my plan, the more Ibelieved it was simply too wicked.But then I would recall what hehad done: he had beaten me in afoot race! There was no goingback. I reached into the refrigeratorand pulled a tube wasabi. Slowly,I squeezed it into a cup; it pouredperfectly. When I placed thewasabi on the counter in order tocollect the real mint ice cream,Sean didn’t hesitate. His handswooped into the cup and grabbedhalf of the wasabi. He licked it all.My mind was bombarded withboth happiness and fear.

Sean stood with a calm, plainface for a second or two… andthen suddenly, his face turnedred as a pepper. He panted andscreamed in anguish beforedashing to the bathroom. When Iarrived to the bathroom, I found ahorrifying sight: Sean’s facewas on fire, and he desperatelyattempted to extinguish his painwith water. I felt shame. Mycompetitive nature had gottenthe best of me.

After twenty minutes, the painreceded but Sean remained lavared. He then asked sheepishly ifhe could have real mint icecream. I made him a deal: I wouldserve him up a super sized dishof ice cream IF he never spokethe “incident” to anyone. Thesecret has remained ours andours only... until now.

6 NA R R AT I V E S

Gennaro, grade 6

The All-Terrain Upgradeby Benj grade 6

Jingle:Do you want to keep sitting whileyou’re doing your errands?A fantastic new product for childrenand parents.You can ride down the stairs evenwhile you’re seated;You can eat in the chair with yourplate completed.Wheelchairs are now a thing ofthe past;You can ride the chair going slowor fast.Your chair can recline while you’redrinking your wine;You can sit in the chair while you’reon the phone line.Do you love sitting and just enjoyingsome simple downtime? Do youdislike doing your errands? Well,you are not alone. Many peoplewant to be able to relax andsimultaneously get things done.Guess what? A new product nowexists that will allow you to do justthat!! We -Techo Inc.- inventedthe All-Terrain Rocking Chairbecause we needed a productthat is an improvement of theaverage wheelchair and that ishelpful to all ages. We have beenworking on this for months now,and we think it will change theworld. With the amazing newproduct, the All-Terrain RockingChair, people of all ages can takeout the trash and handle othertedious tasks while never leavingthe comfort of their chair.How it works:

Let’s compare the All-TerrainRocking Chair to an all-terrainkart. It can change its wheel formto travel across deserts, mountaintops, canyons, and hummocks.We adapted that design to theAll-Terrain Rocking Chair, and

that’s what makes it similar to anall-terrain kart. It can change itswheel form to go down or upstairs or ride on an escalator. Theweight capacity it holds is twohundred twenty-two kilograms,which is four hundred eighty-ninepounds. It also gently convulsesto massage you, which you canturn on and off. Instead of a steeringwheel, you use arrow keys—likeon a keyboard—to move around.

You can travel as fast as afire-blasting jetpack or as slowas a tactical tank. Your choice.Through wires and cables, it con-nects the arrow keys to the wheels.You can relax in your chair whileonly using your fingers to movearound. The tech was madeprecisely so you are relaxed andcomfortable.Why it’s better than the wheelchair:

The All-Terrain Rocking Chaircan be used by all ages fromyoung to old, and even by thedisabled and impaired. It is anevolved wheelchair. If an All-Terrain Rocking Chair user hastrouble moving, someone else

can push them with the built-inhandles. Instead of using thehandle on the wheel, as we saidearlier, you can use the arrowkeys to move around. Also thechair has built-in footrests thatyou can recline - this allows youto lie down and sleep as well.

After testing and testing, wehave finished our perfect productand are now selling it in electronicstores around the country. We arepersistent when trying to improveour invention, so if we receive areport about a design flaw in theAll Terrain Rocking-Chair, we’ll fixit. We can’t wait for people of allages to enjoy crossing bridges,visit famous monuments or simplytake care of basic errands - allwhile enjoying our invention. Weassure you: you will not regretbuying this product!

Anita, grade 6

INVENTION ESSAYS6 th G R A D E

7

“You have been my f r iend,” repl ied Char lo t te . “That in i tse l f is a t remendous th ing.”

Char lo t te ’s Web

stronger and sturdier than the regularversion of Siblings No More. Siblings No More also comes in a varietyof different shapes, colors, and sizes tomeet the needs of the consumer. Forexample, it comes in solid colors of red,orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink,gray, brown, white, etc. It also comes inthe following sizes: small with simplertechnology, regular size and a bigger versionwith more advanced technology. Thereare certain options that are waterproofand others that are designed for homesecurity. There are also many differentversions that have patterns on it. Siblingsno more will make your door look like apiece of art!Siblings No More is a fantastic way tokeep unwanted people out of your room,but it is also a great home securitysystem! If you buy Siblings No More,you will never have to deal with yourexasperating siblings again!

8 IN V E N T I O N ES S AY S

Alessio, grade 6

Sibling Securityby Sadie grade 6

Knock, knock, knock… KNOCK,KNOCK, KNOCK… POUND,POUND, POUND! Are you utterlytired of your brother breakingthrough your door? Do you findyourself infuriated when yourparents invade your privacy?Thankfully, there is now a solutionto this problem - introducing thenew, Siblings No More. SiblingsNo More is a lock system thatyou can attach to your door. Thisdevice is great for a bedroom,but other heavy duty versions cango on the exterior door of yourhouse. Does this sound likesomething you need in yourhome? Consumers should buythe new lock system because itkeeps unwanted people out oftheir room. Siblings No More willallow you to the have peace andprivacy you deserve. Siblings No More contains manyimportant functions that keepssiblings away. For example, itcomes with a camera to put onthe outside of your door and ascreen to put inside of your roomor home. This will allow you to seewho is outside your door. SinceSiblings No More is voice activatedit is very hard to break into.Additionally, when you close yourdoor, it locks automatically. So ifyou're in a hurry, don't worry!Also, if you get tired of your currentpassword, you simply repeat yourcurrent password to the device. This will allow you to access“settings” to change yourpassword. Now that you know how SiblingsNo More works, you may want toconsider all of the ways thistechnology can help in your life.First of all, it can keep siblings outof your room. Second of all,parents can use it in their roomfor privacy and for peace andquiet. Further, families can use aneven more robust version of thisproduct for home security. Thisversion is waterproof; it has moreadvanced technology, and it is

Valerio, grade 6

PO E T RY6 th G R A D E

9

“And now here is my secret : I t is on ly wi th the hear t that one can seer ight ly ; what is essent ia l is inv is ib le to the eye.”

The L i t t le Pr ince

Unspokenby Benj and Yali grade 6

I am almost eleven, and I can do things.I’ve held a guitar and strummed its long strings.I’ve slept in my bed, covered in bold blue sheets.I’ve devoured pies and biscuits and other fine treats.I’ve been to some concerts, watching famous people play.I’ve opened many presents, neatly wrapped for Christmas Day.I’ve seen so many places and traveled everywhere.I’ve eaten dinner at my table, sitting in my chair.I’ve heard the birds tweeting, singing sweet, joyful tunes.I’ve stood on my balcony, admiring full moons.I’ve had a snowball fight and also tried skiing.I’ve fallen in love and have been sightseeing.So many things I’ve seen, felt and heardbut never I have ever spoken one single word.

10 PO E T RY

Emmett, grade 6

Groundedby Noah and Tatev grade 6

I see the planes in the sky That fly effortlessly among the cloudsI dream to be above them so high A wisp of a breeze, so gentle yet proudAs I think of this, reality sweeps me awayLike a harsh storm on a brisk autumn day Until I fall firmly on the groundReality has a deafening soundNot in this day and ageWill I ever soarWill I ever flyWill I ever be able to touch the sky

PO E T RY 11

A Tribute to Ghost, the Novelby Evan and Claire grade 6

I never talk, I just runI run like the wind on a restless dayLike a cloud of dust dashing away As I run, the trees speak to meEncouraging my legs to find the inner meMemories that I can’t escape Follow me like a darkened capeAs I runThe memories of my dad with a gunChasing me, his own sonTo him, I am a ghostBut I still run.I run with the trees, the birds and the breezeWith myself, my soul and my freedomAnd yet, I have never spoken a single wordBut like a ghost, I still run.

Youby Denisa and Emma grade 6

You really are a wonder,Like a summer storm with thunder.You have a shining smile,That stretches miles and miles and miles.

You’re a rainbow in the dark, But what is strongest is your heart.You're the peace instead of war,The happiness in my soul.

You really are a wonder, you see,Which is why you’re so special to me.

Giulio, grade 6

12 PO E T RY

Sienna, grade 6

You Can’t Write a Poem About a Pinataby Francesco, Sofi and Riley grade 6

Mid-noonThe best time for Bethany’s birthday party.But one thing is missing...A bold, bright pink pinata

Bethany is wearing her new pink dressAlways trying to look her best

The pink pinata finally arrivedThe children started to come aliveSuddenly they started to beat itCandy spilled - and they rushed to eat it.

A strange tradition for sureTo beat an animal to the floorSo violent I covered my eyesAnd silently said my goodbyes

But Bethany kept on swinging And the children just kept on singing Happy Birthday, Bethany!

PO E T RY 13

You Can’t Write a Poem About a Poemby Maxwell and Alessio grade 6

It’s the middle of the nightThinking of words to writeMy paper: a lonely blank sheet My assignment must be clever and neatNothing on my mind The words I cannot findTime is tickingIdeas aren’t sticking…Oh great. It’s now really late.

But wait, what do I see?There’s a poem in front of me.

Evan, grade 6

14 PO E T RY

You Can’t Write a Poem About a Bookby Sadie, Natalia and Gabrielle grade 6

MidnightCan’t sleepThe darkness eats me aliveSomething is calling my nameI glance around and immediately seeA bookI dive into the dusty pagesSuddenly I am on a pirate shipDark waves rock the boat back and forthAs I snap out of the motionI witness a commotionPirates sword fighting Under a dark starless skyThe smell of burning gunpowder fills the airI know I must leaveI know this is dangerousBut I want to stayI must know what happens next.And THAT is the power of a book.

Sofi, grade 6

Daniel, grade 7

HUMANITIES NARRATIVES7 th G R A D E

15

“And the secret garden b loomed and b loomed and every morn ingrevealed new mirac les.”

The Secret Garden

16 HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S

A Stain on the Soulby Yaroslav grade 7

The sound of gunfire rings in myears followed by screams of theZulu children. I shiver as I lookinto my smaller brother’s eyes.His eyes are solemn like agravestone. My heart’s beat issteady and clear. We are ready!We are ready to fight for ourlanguage, for our education, andfor Zulu. Now it is battle. Thetension which built up betweenthese two segregated races forthe three decades is about to beexpressed. Now it is real.I am Mandla. I am a typical blackhigh schooler just like everyoneelse in Naledi High. At first glance,you may think that there isnothing special about us. Buttogether we might bring a slightspark of extraordinary and capturethe attention of the world. Wemight spread the story of the Zuluand our fight against racialsegregation.It wasn’t always like this. It allbegan in the 17th century whenmy ancestors saw ships comingin towards their pier. It wasthe beginning of what is stillhappening. The Dutch colonizerson the ships introduced racialsegregation. South Africa beganto be a mix of different races,ethnic bonds, languages, andcultural identities. After that, theBritish took over and they continuedwith segregation. Race was andstill is a really important concept.Then things got even more serious.Racial segregation continued afterthe beginning of apartheid in1948. During apartheid, thegovernment introduced a lot ofnew rules on racial classification.The whole multiracial country wasdivided into four main racial groups:whites, blacks, Indians, and coloredpeople. During the colonization,race was used for the Europeansextravagant mercantilism idea tobenefit their economies. Now,race is still used for economic andsocial purposes. White peoplehave the right to vote and be partof the government. Whites can

have better jobs or even owncompanies or productions. The other apartheid laws werethe Group Areas Act of 1950 andProhibition of Mixed MarriagesAct of 1949. The Group Areas Actdecided where we had to live justbecause of our race. TheProhibition of Mixed MarriagesAct stopped people of differentraces from marrying each otherand the Immorality Act of 1950made any sort of relationshipswith a person of a different race acriminal offense. The Reservationof Separate Amenities Act of1953 made the segregation ofpublic services legal. Therefore Igo to a school which is only forblack students. Blacks and whites also haveseparate beaches, buses, hospitals,

and universities. The servicesprovided for us are inferior to theones that whites get. Similarly,The Bantu Education Act of 1953segregated blacks and whites’education systems. The educationsystem used at my school forBlack South African studentsdoesn’t include math and science;it is designed to prepare me andmy classmates for lives as alaboring class. Since 1959,Black, Coloured, and Indian stu-dents had separate universities.The universities that existed werenot allowed to enroll new Blackstudents. That December on the 19th theANC held their annual conference.The ANC planned that next yearthey would launch an anti-passcampaign. The PAC instructed its

Sabrina, grade 7

HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S 17

supporters to leave their passesat home on the day of the campaignand gather at police stationsaround the country, and be availablefor arrest. The PAC speculatedthat if thousands of people werearrested, then the jails would befilled and the economy wouldstop. On the day of the campaign,a lot of people joined in. They chantedfreedom songs and slogans.First, the police declined to arrestthem. By noon, approximately 300armed policemen faced a crowdof approximately 5000 people.According to the police, protestersbegan to stone them and, withoutany warning, one of the policemenpanicked and injudiciously openedfire. His colleagues also openedfire which left 69 people deadand 180 seriously wounded. In the 1970s, my family and all ofour neighbors were slowly movedto homelands/bantustans whichwere areas to which most of theBlacks population was moved to.This was to stop us from livingwith whites and in the urbanareas of South Africa. The idea wasto give us our own independentgovernments, thus denying usprotection and any remainingrights we could have in SouthAfrica. We became independentfrom South Africa. There was nojoy in this independence. We allknew that this was just a plan topush all of us out and have usisolated from South Africa. Itmeant that we would have tosupport ourselves in these areas.The homelands’ economies werepoor and mostly depended onthe whites’ economy. Farmingwas not possible on these landsbecause of the poor agriculturalsoil. Consequently, my parentsand millions of other Blacks hadto start leaving the homelandsdaily and work in mines or forWhite farmers. Most recently, in 1976, The BantuEducation enforced a law whichrequired secondary education tobe taught only in Afrikaans.Teachers weren’t allowed toteach in English or any of thenative languages. Everyone inmy school was fuming with anger.

I detested the idea that thegovernment took our languageaway from the new, younggeneration. Many of my teachersdidn’t speak Afrikaans so theycouldn’t teach us. This affectedtheir mood during classes andbehavior with the students. Myclassmates were also angryabout being forced to learn the“enemy's language”. We saw itas an attempt to make us forgetour native languages. A lot of myteachers got fired for not followingthis rule and with every day lessof my classmates appeared inschool. My friends and I refusedto learn in Afrikaans. It turned outthat we weren’t the only ones.Plenty of students agreed with usand repelled against the law andin response, the government shutdown the schools for a while. Sothat is how we arrived at today’sprotest march.Countless students don’t evenknow there is a protest marchtoday. For many, it is a usualschool day. Today is exam day forsenior students. My class is totake the exam first. I am scaredthat I am going to fail the exambecause I will have to write inAfrikaans. The march saves mefrom the exams. There is no way,I, Mandla will be missing a protest.The leaders of the march mainlycome from my school, NalediHigh in Naledi, and MorrisIsaacson in Mofolo. Phefeni HighSchool is close to the railway sta-tion from which many studentsget off their trains to join the march.The plan is that the students fromour school are to march from ourdirection and pick up studentsfrom the schools on the way. TheMorris Isaacson students are todo the same until we meet in themiddle. My classmates and I are the firstones to arrive at school thismorning. The mood amongst usis joyful and lively. The principalsupports us and wishes us luck.The leaders of the march informeveryone again that this is apeaceful march. The sameassembly is held at MorrisIsaacson and then the students

of both school set out passing byother schools and collectingstudents for the march. As wemarch to our center point, theOrlando High School, we arestopped by the police a couple oftimes but that doesn’t affect themood of the march at all. We aresinging and holding our signs.Everyone is excited but it isimportant for us to stay wary.Then the march is halted and oneof the leaders of the march climbson a tractor and asks everyone tostay calm and cool. He announcesthat he has received a report thatthe police is coming for us. Healso tells us to not provoke thepolice and not fight. We continuemarching until we got closer toOrlando High School.My mind goes blank as more shotsare fired and a white policemanlobs a teargas canister into thefront of the crowd. Students startrunning wildly in all directions likeherds of buffalos. Anger growsme in me as I see the innocentdead high schoolers. The angerspreads from the front of thecrowd to the back in a matter ofseconds. The anger spreads likehay set on fire. I get out matchesand set a car of one of the whiteson fire. Other students also lightvehicles and buildings on firewhich are slowly burning to theground. Fires and incidents with the policecontinue into the night. The toughand calm Mandla that was in themorning is slowly starting to fadeaway. Tiredness takes over mybody and a bit of hope appearsin my heartNo one is the same anymore. Thisevent has left a stain on everyone'ssouls. We are part of the longstory that began with my greatgreat great grandfather and thecolonizers. We are part of history.We let the whites and the wholeworld know that we will fightfor our language, culture, andeducation. There is hope forfreedom in every one of us; wejust have to persevere.

18 HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S

Was the Sacrifice ReallyWorth It?by Bryant grade 7

The tear gas chokes my lungsand obscures my vision. As I pushthrough the crowd I grab Arnos’arm and try to protect my face withmy shirt. The planes roar aboveand the sound makes my earsring. I see the Afrikaner policestanding in a line, rifles gleaming inthe harsh African sunlight. Theprotest to the police station wasnot going well. My ears are ringing.That's when I hear the bang of riflefire and the pop of machine guns.Arno falls and does not get up. I letout a shrill cry as I feel a sharp painin my leg. I turn and run…My name is Thato. I’m a blackSouth African, and this is why Imarched. For as long as I canremember, I have had to live underthe effects of apartheid. Apartheidstarted in 1948 and has beenrestraining and demoralizingcolored South Africans for manyyears. There are many laws tokeep us away from white SouthAfricans. One such law is thereservation of the separation actthat segregates colored andwhites. I have felt the effects of this actmany times. Water fountains arenow separated, and schools arenow separated. One time, I had towalk many miles just to get a drinkof water. Our school is so muchfarther away and has less andworse equipment than the whiteschool. The population registrationlaw required all people to beexamined and to be classifiedas colored or white. This acthas affected my family andother families because itinconveniences us so much toconstantly get mandatory hairchecks that don't even showanything and are constantlyunreliable. The Group Areas Actrequired all colored people to berelocated into townships which arepoor slums on the outskirts oftown. I have been greatly affected by

this. I used to live in a nice housenear the city center, but now I livemuch farther away. The livingconditions are so poor. The PassLaw is what we are protesting; thislaw requires all black SouthAfricans to carry our passes whereever we go and if you do not dothis you will be beaten. One time. Iwas late to work and I forgot mypass. I was beaten and questioned.My friend Marzo has also beenbeaten and arrested for not havinghis pass.There are so many lawsand regulations we have to live by,and the punishments for not doingthese things are harsh.A couple of weeks ago, I overheardmy father talking about a protest. Iwaited in my bedroom as I heardmy father talking. My handsstarted sweating and my fistswere clenched. I wanted in. I wastired of being treated like an animaland less than the white SouthAfricans, and I was going to dosomething about it. I had oftenyearn to make a difference, so Idecided then and there I wouldmarch. At that moment, I did notunderstand the consequences ofmarching.I couldn't wait for the morning ofthe protest. Pressure had increased,and the African National Congress(ANC) has been spearheadingthe fight against racism anddiscrimination.The Pan AfricanistCongress (PAC) has beenpressuring people to participatein protest just like this one, andthey protested racism and injustice,too. They posted posters andhanded out flyers and told peoplenot to go to work the day of theprotest.The protest started around mid-noon; I felt a pang of fear, butthat fear was soon replaced byanticipation. I couldn't wait toprotest the unfair Pass Law. Theplan was to go and protestwithout our passes, so theywould have to arrest us.

Then they would have to arrestthousands of us, and this would bevery hard.We all gathered around the policestation. There where so many ofus. I later learned there werearound 20,000 people. When westarted marching toward the policestation, I could already see thepolice standing in a line waiting.We started protesting by burningour passes and ripping them up.People were screeching andyelling. I was scared, and Iwanted to leave. However, then Iremembered why I was there andsurged on. Later in the protest,they started driving us back withlarge armored trucks and throwingtear gas. I’m assuming we weretoo violent because that's whenthey opened fire.So here I am. And now,my friendhas fallen. I feel a bullet penetratemy leg. The tear gas chokes mymouth as I try to run away. I try tofind my father, but the tear gasobscures my vision. The planes flitand dart above me like birds as Ifade into the darkness. I wake up in a hospital and seemy leg bandaged. I read thenewspaper on my lap it reads 69dead and 180 wounded in theSharpeville massacre. Was it reallyworth it? This massacre broughtendless pain, a state of emergencyand hundreds arrested.Organizations were shut down.This is my life: miner, protester,activist. I am South African.

HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S 19

Devil’s Houseby Blair grade 7

I hear the dreadful sound of mymother’s screams as the soldiersbarge into our house and wrenchus from the comforting arms ofour parents. My dad grabs me,but one guard slams him to theground. I see the horrible sight ofblood dripping from his mouth asthey drag us outside. A pang offear drags down my spine like ahundred sharp knives. A look ofdefeat flashes across all of oureyes. As they begin to lead usfrom the house, I feel the devil inthe dark corner laughing andstaring straight at me. I try to fightloose from the tight grip of thesoldiers, but they are just tostrong and...

“Waabizii, wake up it’s time forchores,” my sister tells me. Myeyes feel heavy, and don’t want toopen them. Slowly I wake, and Istruggle to get my bearings. I situp, swing my feet to the cold floorand put my head in my hand andmumble, “I hate this place.” It’sbeen two years since they toreme from my family and left mehere. Yes, they left me here, in myown little hell named the MohawkInstitute Residential School. Thisplace is the Devil’s house. I havebeen in this same nondescript,cold, lifeless room since the nightI moved here in 1919. All of a sudden I hear a soft,comforting voice say, “Waabiziiare you ok?” It’s my older sister.“It looked like you were having anightmare.” I look out the window and seethe harsh, cold brutal Canadianwinter. “ Yes I am fine, just a baddream, don’t worry about it,” Irespond. I drag my fingersthrough my hair and fight theurge to cry. “Oh, ok well we need to getworking before we get in trouble,”my sister tells me. She then foldsthe blanket at the bottom of herbed and turns to check herthings.I linger in the warmth of bed a

little longer. “Bawaajige can I askyou a question?” “Sure, but after we finish ourchores Waabizi,i” she answers ina soft quiet tone. “Get to work.”

I begin mopping the floors, butmy mind is spinning with factsabout my dream and how theseschools came to be. Over the pastfew months we’ve learned how Mr.Davin, a Canadian journalist, wasappointed in 1879 by the PrimeMinister, John A. Macdonald, totravel to the US to learn about“Indian” integration. I wonderwhat Mr. Davin really saw on hisjourney to the US. I wonder whathe really observed and learnedabout their residential schools.Did he really see the sufferingthat we experience every day? Idon’t know if I really want theanswers to these questions. As I begin to make my bed andtidy my few things, I keep hearingmy teacher’s solemn voice as hedescribes the importance of theeducation, religious teachings andassimilation provided through thisprogram.“Assimilation?” I am still trying tounderstand that word, but aren’tI already a Canadian? I guessnot, according to his lectures,which always tell us, with passionin his voice, of all the wonderfulbenefits this program wouldprovide to young natives and tosociety. My mind returns to the present,as I realize that my hands arehurting. I look down and see mytender knuckles, still bloody fromthe harsh chemicals and theseendless hours of scrubbing. I amcurious whether or not my teachershave ever thought about theharsh life we are living, and whywe silently hate this place. Iguess not. I chuckle to myself.The answers would be too simple.I mean, we have been torn fromour families and told we are nolonger allowed to practice ourways. So why would they see this

program differently? Would Mr.Davin have changed his visionif his kids were the ones beingforced to go to these schools andwork? Probably. More importantly,I can’t stop thinking about whychurches, religious institutions,would be willing to fund theseschools if they knew the pain wego through being torn away fromour families in these cold, loveless,harsh boarding schools.As I finish my morning routine, Mr.Smith looks over my work andgives me a cold nod of approval,indicating that I can finally go tolunch. A few minutes later, I silentlypass through the food line, graba bowl of the same watery, tastelesssoup we have everyday. At leasttoday I got two meatballs and onecarrot. Must be my lucky day! Ifinally find a seat in the corner bythe lone heater. As I sit eating my soup, I lookover the book for my next class; itcontains the history of our schooland explains the laws justifyingits existence. I ponder over theselaws and try to understand if theyreally justify these schools, but Ican’t really understand what thegovernment is saying. I find myselfgetting angry, and thinking backto when my fifth grade teachertold us that years before Mr.Davinwent to America, the governmentdecided to pass a law stating thatevery Indigenous child wasrequired to go to these schools. Iwonder if these schools existedbefore the law was enacted.What really happened to the firststudents who were forced toleave their families to attendthese schools? How did theymanage the pain? How were theytreated? Did the government tellthe teachers to only tell us thepositive sides of these schools,and did they leave out theattempt to try and demolish ournative culture? Most importantly,did their parents ever visit? Ohhow I miss Mom and Dad.

20 HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S

Fabrizio, grade 7

As the bell rings, I am broughtback to the pages in front of me,and I see everyone in a rush likebees trying to get to class. I closemy book, quickly put my trayaway and rush to class. OnceI’m seated, I wonder what thepunishments were like for the firstgroup of students? I know that ifwe are late to class two or moretimes a week, we get hit orwhipped. As the class begins,my mind starts to focus on theteachers voice but a little part ofme just wants to yell out “Do youever think about how we feelliving here?” I know that if I wereto ask that, I would be sent to theHeadmaster and punished. It isnot worth the lashings.

For the rest of school, I can hardlyfocus on what we are learning. Ihave so many thoughts andquestions about residential schoolsthat I start to zone out. But thensuddenly, a sharp pain spreadsacross my hand. I realize that myteacher is staring coldly down atme; he scolds me for not answeringhis question. I quietly apologizeand drop my eyes. As he turns tocontinue his lecture, I try to rubthe pain away, but it lingers.Once class is finished, I quicklyexit the door and find a placewhere I can catch my breath. Iam so angry. The thought of thelives of all of the children like meflash into my mind. Would otherchildren stand against this brutality?Would their parents do somethingabout this if they actually knew?Maybe, but who knows. I rememberhearing something about parentsmaking villages of tent and tepisoutside the gates of the school sothat at least, they felt close totheir children. I also heard thatguards prevented them fromgetting too close to us. I guessthey have their own rules to follow.That’s too bad.Walking back to my room, Icontinue to wonder if the kidsbefore me ever rebelled against

the teachers and government. Idon’t think so, but I do know thatfor the first few months, all of thegirls in my dorm would stay upextra late to play our native gameand speak our language.Perhaps this was our way ofrebelling. It was so fun to think ofall the memories I had of playingthese games with friends, mynew family. This all ended whenone night, the headmastercaught us playing our gamesand was outraged. I can stillremember the anger boiling up inhis face, and I can even imaginesteam coming out from his ears.

Our punishment was lashing forthe older girls, which we all hadto watch, and no food for twodays. I guess we learned ourlesson because after that wealway followed the rules.As I arrive at my dorm, I noticethat the sun is beginning to set.It’s time to start our nightly routineof showering, combing hair andbrushing teeth, and getting intobed. I walk into the room, and mysister is sitting on her bed with ajournal open. I quietly make myway over to her bed, and sheseems a little shocked to see me.I gently sit down and silence fills

HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S 21

remember her parents and thelanguage. It helped he cope withher feelings and fear. The writinggave her freedom from this prison.My sister hands me the journal.“So if you miss her, you canalways read this. You can evenstart your own journal; we justneed to keep it hidden in ourbooks,” she says. “These bookswill be our rebellion, our ability toremember who we are, where wecome from, and the family werepresent.” I feel the worn leatherin my hands, but before I have a

chance to ask anything else theHead Master comes in and tellsus lights out. I quickly return the journal, andmy sister hides it under hermattress. “I am going to do it,” Ideclare. “I am going to startwriting. Thank you for telling meabout mom, and thank you forshowing me a way to hold ontohope. I love you!” My sister smiles. “Me too, littleone,” she whispers. “Me too.” Ireturn her smile as a soft darknessovertakes the room.

Milos, grade 7

the room. Finally, she breaks thesilence. “This is mom’s journal,”she explains in a sad tone. “Shegave it to me right before we weretaken. She secretly kept it whileshe was here, and now it’s mycloset memory of her.”Sis, can I ask you a question thatI wanted to earlier?” My voicesounds shaky.“What do you need?”“How did mom cope with the painand suffering she had?” I ask.“Mom had a very hard timecoping with the struggles andpain of being thrown into thisschool. She was sad, angry,depressed, and so she barelyever talked to anyone. She usedthis journal to write down all of herthoughts and feelings, so shecould express them,” my sisterexplains in a calm tone. “Shefound that writing was a passionof hers. She could expressanything she wanted in the wayshe wanted. Mom wrote countlesspapers while she was atResidential School so instead offocusing on the bad side of herlife she focused on the positive.She would focus on things likehow she finally met a friend orhow she was picking up thenew language quickly but alsostudying her native languagetoo.”“So mom focused on the goodnot the bad?” I ask puzzled.“Yes,” (NAME) continues. “Shewanted to capture her experien-ces. Like when she missed herparents or her old life, or whenshe was mad. She would recallhappier times and them rereadthe stories, and this would helpher to feel safe. I guess writinghelped mom to manage the painbut in a good way.”I return to my own my bed with anew perspective. Even before mymom finally became civilized andreturned home, she always founda way to stay positive through herjournal. Writing helped her to

22 HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S

Fighting for Freedomby Ines grade 7

The light seeps through thenarrow wood walls as the sunbursts above the tall rolling hills.From outside our small house, I hearvoices coming from the village. Thevoices gradually get loud andlouder. As the shouts escalate, Irealize why people are screaming.Today is the day. The day of theNorth-west Rebellion. Suddenly,my thin, scrawny blanket doesn'tfeel so comforting. I climb out ofmy cot, trying not to wake upMigizi or my mother. My father isalready at work. The moment mybare feet touch the cold woodfloor, a shiver runs down myspine and doesn’t stop until I pullon my dark uniform.

I step out of our home and thecrisp Canadian breeze pinchesat my face, making me squint asI walk to the village. The longwalk from our small house toMatchitehew gives me time tothink about the looks that I know Iwill receive, what people will thinkwhen they see a female Mètismilitant. But instead, as soon as Ireach the small town, I am sur-rounded by people with hopefuleyes. There is something else inthe air: something strong andpowerful. The feeling of freedom.It all began three years ago, aftermy return from the abhorrentresidential school in Joussard.Coming back was difficult. Myfamily’s gaping hole had beenfilled in, but the residential schoolshad stripped away as much of myaboriginal self as they could.Speaking my aboriginal languagewas forbidden at the residentialschools, and being caught doingit would lead to being violently hitwith a ruler. But even with my lackof indigenous tongue, I coulddetect concern in my parents’hushed voices.Their conversations about ourfood and buffalo shortages were

worrying, but I couldn’t help but beconfused. When I was attendingthe residential schools, the nunsconvinced us that assimilationwould help us, the natives, thatthe European colonizers werecivilizing and educating us. Butafter leaving the sickening schools,everyone in my village knew thetruth and contradicted what theysaid. The residential schoolswere now brainwashing facilities;the Canadians were our worst

enemy. All of this infuriated me. Theprotective bulwark that helpedspare me from all these problemswas receding and so was mypatience. My head ached as Iconsidered how disruptive theseproblems had become to myfamily and people. Over time, my courage reached

the point when I could finally askmy mother what was going on.She set me next to her on the

Lucia, grade 7

HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S 23

rugged floor. Her eyes sparkledwith a thin layer of tears as shesqueezed my hand firmly.Hesitantly, the pained words cameout of her mouth. She told me aboutthe discernible inequality betweenus Mètis people and the cruelCanadians. The Mètis had beentrying to have political representationfor years but we were evidentlyignored. Nothing worked, frompetitions to marches, it was allhopeless. All of this continued until lastyear’s early fall when LouisRiel returned. He had beenbrought back by the Mètis ofSaskatchewan from his exile inthe United States. With newweather came new hope, andRiel did everything in his power tohelp us Mètis people gain controland power. After our "Revolutionary Bill ofRights" had been neglected, Rieldecided to gather an armedgroup of Mètis rebels to takethings to a different level. As soonas I heard about this I knew Iwanted to be a part of it. Gettinginvolved in these actions as ayoung, indigenous woman wasambitious and tough, but I waswilling to do anything to help mypeople. I asked Father to helpand support me and after a lot ofpersuasions, he met with Riel.That night, my father came homewith a jubilant air and a proudlook on his face. Riel had agreedto allow me to become the firstfemale Mètis militant.That brings us back here.My eyes scan through the crowd,observing familiar and unfamiliarfaces. I see the people aroundme climbing on horses of differentbreeds and colors. I find the onenearest to me. His fur is dark andslick and he looks just as ready aseveryone else. I grip the saddlefirmly and hoist myself up. By

now, everyone is equipped andready.The leather of the saddle feelscoarse and rugged in my shakinghands. I look up and hear Rielshrilly screaming something,but I can’t make it out over thecommotion. People start to settledown and Riel says it again. Hetells us that enough is enough,we are equal to them, and thewall separating us from themcrumbling. Everybody repeatsthis, our voices filled with passionand rage. Now I know that whetheror not we succeed, I am surroundedby inspiring leaders and fighters,who fight for our authorization. I lift my hands, hit the reins on myhorse’s back, and we set out toreach the justice we deserve.

24 HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S

Protector of Kinby Teagan grade 7

Throughout history there havebeen countless massacres -countless brutal slaughters ofundefended humans. And now,one is going to happen inSharpeville. On March 21, 1960,blood will be shed. I am Phikisa,a brother, a protector, a believerof many things, and this is mystory.Sweat trickles down my face as Irush through the daily tasks, lest Inot have them complete before Ihave to leave. Today, March 21,1960, we, members of PAC -otherwise known as the PanAfricanist Congress - will fight fora sliver of our freedom, out of thewhole that has been stolen from usby the South African government.Today, we will take one more steptoward abolishing the passsystem. We will take one morestep toward ending Apartheid inSouth Africa, however small astep this may be. The plan issimple, yet ingenious. We aregoing to hand in our passbooksand invite arrest, filling the jails ofthe South African government.The government will be forced tolisten to our demands and get ridof these passbooks. Passbooks.I wrinkle my nose at the thoughtof the offensive, but so calledmandatory object that I mustcarry. They are just anotherattempt to control black SouthAfricans, like myself, by dictatingwhat areas we could enter andgo through. Ha! As if they couldcontrol where we go.

My emotions swirl inside me likea raging storm. They clash vio-lently together. I let out a rattlingsigh as I wipe my hands on thetattered rags of the shirt I’m wea-ring. Glancing around me at theslum I live in, I duck inside myfamily’s shack. Inclining my headtowards Mother, I then look atUmkandeli, my brother of sevenyears. He grins at me with hiscrooked teeth and impish eyesand exclaims, “Today is the day,I must say. Today I will go out andsee what Phikisa plays!” I furrowmy brow, wary of what might

happen at the protest, eventhough it has every intention ofbeing peaceful, but cave when Isee Umkandeli’s face. A hopeful,wistful expression has taken overhis face. I tweak his ear and nodat him with a wide smile.Umkandeli lets out a holler ofdelight, but clamps his handsover his mouth when Mother shootshim a fierce look. He then proceedsto whisper shout his elation andsilently pumps his fists in the air.After so much hardship, his flamestill burns brightly, unlike many’s.Turning my mind back to the taskat hand, I tell Umkandeli to gethis passbook, as I wasn’t about tolet him get arrested, or go intoany jail. The idea of my slight,fragile brother in jail wasunbearable, and it caused myheart to lurch. Even just a day ina jail cell would crush him and hisfantasy, dream-like bubble.However, I knew that I wouldsurvive; there was no otherchoice. I had to stay strong forMother and Umkandeli. Umkandeli flits out of the shack’srusted doorway with suchswiftness that the dirt streakedfaces walking past us giveUmkandeli a second glance. Wemake our way on foot to thepolice station, covering groundfairly quickly. A huge pack ofpeople surround the policestation. Glancing up at the sky, Iobserve that the sun is a littleover halfway done with its journeyacross the sky. I conclude thatit’s a little over midday, close towhen Umnakekeli, a close friendof mine, normally makes his runthrough town, checking in on hisfamily. Umnakekeli doesn’t havea fixed job, which is normal for usblack South Africans. Instead heworks odd jobs - jobs normallycentered around the urban areain Sharpeville - in an effort tomake ends fit. Truth to be told,Umnakekeli makes more moneythan most other black SouthAfricans, who work on farms andin mines, but are cheaply paid.Umlandeli and I join the throng

and cry out the words that arefiercely resonating throughout theair, “Izwe lethu!” (our country). Idon’t notice Umkandeli’s agileform darting off into the crowduntil it’s too late. The crowdinstantly swallows him, obscuringmy view of him. I rush after him,screaming his name, but thesound is lost in the sea of voices.Suddenly, the crowd pulls back infront of me, forming a path, andmy eyes find UmkandeliI. I boltover to him and hug him to mychest, my arms forming a protectivewall around him. He looks up atme and winks, prompting me toopen my mouth to give him agood scolding. However, mywords are drowned out by a rapidbanging noise, before Hell isunleashed on Earth.At first, I think the sound isfirecrackers, not a promise ofdeath itself. Next are the screams.They are blood curdling, bonechilling, howls of pain that raisethe hairs on my arms. Jolts fromthe multitude of people wrenchUmkandeli from my arms, andthen he’s lost in the chaos. I lookat the police, finally figuring outwhat’s happening before me.They fire round after round at usuntil we drop. A few people nextto me stumble, bright crimsonholes blooming throughout theirclothes. One of their hands havea hole in it, which grins at me likea demented fool. A dead foolwas the exact thing thatUmkandeli would become if Ididn’t find him soon. However,the mass of people have differentplans and push against me. Ishove through the hysteria, grit-ting my teeth, but the strengthand number of the panicked istoo much for me. My feet hit theground hard, and I make a maddash home, too concerned withUmkandeli’s life to worry aboutmy own. When I get there, all myhope evaporates, leaving despairin its wake. Mother and an emptybed are all that greet me.Refusing to let Mother’s accusing,yet melancholy tinged gaze be

HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S 25

the thing to break me, I flee to theprotest site in hopes of findingUmkandelwhich is ripped apartto Umlandeli. Kneeling next tohim, I tenderly touch his cold,unfeeling skin. Pulling my handaway, I realize that it’s sticky withblood. Umlandeli’s blood. Mystomach lurches, and I claw atthe ground, wanting the pain tostop. It tears me apart, bothinside and outside of me. I dryheave, having nothing to throwup, and a figure obscures myvision. The figure soon morphs into thatof a man with skin the color ofsnow. So pale, that the sunlightsparkles and dances across it.But that doesn’t matter, as my kindoesn’t discriminate based onskin color, unlike most of his. No,we just lack respect for thosewho believe in, and support thetwisted idea of segregation. Theyseperate us because of our skincolor and brand us inferior.Judge us over something that wehave no control over. Yet, thisthing, our skin, determines ourfuture; it determines our lives.But that doesn’t matter right now.The only thing that matters isthe gun he cocks at me and hisuniform. The uniform of a policeman.He doesn’t spit at me, like othersof his race sometimes does, buthe doesn’t attempt to conceal thedisgust in his eyes. He makes ashooing gesture with his hands,as if he’s waving away a fly. I feelire began to build in me, and Ihuddle closer to Umlandeli,refusing to leave him. The mansteps closer to me, and kicks mesharply in the side, causing me tocough up blood. Blood dribblesdown my lips, painting themcrimson. I glare up at the man,who then shouts something to anearby building. An answeringshout echos in return. Glancingat Umlandeli’s still body, I make apromise to myself to return later.It will do me no good if I getdetained now, and Mother is inshock; something that she hasn’texperienced in all my 17 years of

living. I leave before the policeman can kick me again, walkingon unsteady feet, gagging at thepotent stench of death and bloodas I go.The trucks came in rows, withclosed coffins stacked on top ofeach other. Loved ones lost, butwhich one was my brother’s? Isearched frantically, my eyesdarting from side to side. Mychest swelled with even moreindignation, and my eyes wereglossy with tears. Was it notenough to kill them, and shootthem and us down with noremorse? To fire round afterround of lead at us and hear our

screams? To see our panic, ourhysteria at our current situation?They believed that they coulddeny us our final goodbyes to ourloved ones after stealing themfrom away from us so horrifically. . . after they killed 69 peopleand seriously wounded at least180 people. My mind shut downat this even further demonstrationof injustice. I robotically trudgedforward in the crowd, wonderingwhat my last words to Umlandeliwere, before all of the hysteria. Ifelt an inkling of tranquility runthrough me, knowing that hewouldn’t have to suffer throughwhat is to come. He won’t hear of

Olivia, grade 7

26 HU M A N I T I E S NA R R AT I V E S

the news that more than 30,000people marched from Langa toParliament, and workers in Langaand Nyanga went on strike forthree weeks in protest. He won’thave to experience the SouthAfrican government declaring astate of emergency, or arresting atleast 18,000 people and detainingaround 11,000 people in retaliationfor black South Africans’ protests.All of these events were thedecisions of the South Africangovernment, or in protest of them.The massacre here at Sharpevillewas just the breaking point andfueled the fire between us blackSouth Africans and the SouthAfrican government; it promptedthese future protests anddemonstrations. In a way, it wasa turning point, the breakingpoint, especially for those of uswho lost love ones. The massacrehere in Sharpeville changednumerous things, including therelationships between blackSouth Africans and others, namelythe police. However, Umlandeli will never beable to feel these things, which ispart of the issue. He won’t beable to ever feel the palpablechange in the air, or really everfeel again. I just hope that hefound peace; I hope that theother 68 victims will rest in peacetoo, especially after the way thatthey had left this life. Now thoseof us on Earth, especially those ofus in South Africa, just have tofind peace.Belief. That’s what started all ofthis. My belief in PAC, and mybrother’s belief and trust in me.His name, Umlandeli, still ringsout hollow whenever I hear it,and leaves a pang of longing inmy chest. They say that time'ssupposed to heal you, and thatmight be true for some, but notfor me. Instead, I hear empty,lonely echos of his voice, andglimpse his lost gaze every night.As an attempt to fill this hole, Inow devote my time to PAC. TheSouth Africa government attemptedto put down our uprisings by

banning PAC and ANC - anothergroup that works to organizeuprisings against Apartheid. Yetthey failed, as we just wentunderground and continued ourmission. Although, we are startingto become more forceful in ourapproaches - how else are yousupposed to interact with thosewhose response to a peacefulprotest is to shoot at protesterswithout warning? We did all of thisdespite - or perhaps even slightlybecause of - the passage of the1960 Unlawful Organizations Act,which was passed only a monthafter the slaughter in Sharpsville.This law allowed the governmentto declare any groups that mightthreaten public order unlawful.However, me, and others in SouthAfrica can tell that this law is justsomething for the government tohide behind, a guise. They havefinally opened their eyes and arestarting to see our determination,our spirit; the spirit of SouthAfrica. We, the natives of SouthAfrica will not allow laws by thewhite government to deprive usof our natural rights.I devote myself to making theworld a less hateful - one that isn’tdefined by segregation. A betterworld, one where Umlandeli won’thave to wonder when his nextmeal will be, a meal of scatteredpieces, barely edible food. Not aperfect world, as such an absolute,unfiltered word such as perfectdoesn’t and never will existcompletely. It’s a laughableconcept in itself, especially ashumanity would never allow sucha thing. Just as it didn’t letUmlandeli, a mere child and newto the world, to have a chance toactually live. To let him experienceall the thrills, the emotions, andsensations that come from life. Inthe end, everything and everyonehas flaws, but what ties theseflaws and qualities together areyour decisions and beliefs. Thisis what I fight and sacrifice for.

POETRY7 th G R A D E

“In a ho le , in the ground, there l ived a rabbi t . ”The Hobbi t

27

Maya, grade 7

28 PO E T RY

You Can’t Write a Poem About a Laptopby Daphne grade 7

We navigate the world from our glowing screensPlanning out our hopes and dreamsSearch the web and talk to our friendsAfter a long day, we resort to them

We’re addicted to binary codeStaring blankly while our media loadsA laptop is simply a machineBut to us it is like a human being

We sit at desks and they teach us mathUse overused memes to make us laughSlowly real life memories are erasedAnd eventually they become replacedWith screenshots, emojis and empty space

Hours and hours we waste away Consuming both our nights and daysNot noticing the sky, so clear and blueUntil suddenly, we become machines, too

They own us more than we own themWishing we were technology free againAt the end, we power off“We can live without laptops,” we scoff.

No, we cannot.

Finn, grade 7

PO E T RY 29

You Can’t Write a Poem About Instagram by Ines grade 7

I rub the darkness from my eyesLights seeps into my visionNext to me, my phone screamsBegging to be picked upMy hands wrap around it - excited, shakyMy fingers hover over the illuminated logoInstagram

With one click Happiness unfolds in front of meTropical trips Women, thin and bronzed like bread sticksFriends with white teeth and wide smilesSusie on safariBeth at the beach Mary in the Maldives

The likes pour outOverflowing red heartsValidating the happiness Of these chosen moments

I should feel happyBut a pang of jealousyClicks at my heart

I look at my day - consider my lifeIs it plain and unwelcoming?Black and White?Heartless?And I can’t help but think Was this worth waiting for?The excitement of each new image.Happiness framed against the reality of life when it is not told through pictures.

Fabrizio, grade 7

30 PO E T RY

A. J., grade 7

Mohammad, grade 7

Aino, grade 7

31

EXPOSITORY ESSAYS & PICTURE PROMPTS8 th G R A D E

“That is jus t the way wi th some people. They get down on a th ing whenthey don’t know noth ing about i t . ”

The Adventures of Huckleberry F inn

32 EX P O S I T O RY ES S AY S & P I C T U R E PR O M P T S

Carlotta, grade 8

Out of the Ordinaryby Benedetta grade 8

“It takes nothing to join the crowd, it takeseverything to stand alone.” The quote refers topeople who are different, known as outsiders. Theterm “outsider” is not a commonly used word. Ithas developed through time in our society. Anoutsider is a person who is not accepted as partof a group or of an organization. As MayaAngelou says: “If you are always trying to benormal, you will never know how amazing you canbe.” This refers to the idea of outsiders who seethe world from a different perspective. Normally,outsiders are people who are enclosed, not opento everything. What makes outsiders unique ishow important family and love are to them. Theyfind themselves doing the same things andinteracting with the same people. By staying soclose to other people, they praise and admireeach other. What is most important for outsiders istheir desire to guard and love their family to thepoint where they would do anything to see themlive. In the book The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton, theoutsiders refer to the Greasers, a gang formed ofyoung boys who have either lost their parents orare no longer in contact with them. For this reason,they rely on their friends and gang memberseveryday. Also, in the New York Times article“Bored, Broke and Armed,” outsiders refer to theGangsters Disciples that live in Chicago. By seeingthe world through the eyes of an outsider, we cansee how vital family and love are, because outsidershave grown together and learned how to rely oneach other in any situations.

In fact, in the book The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton,the idea of growing together and protecting familyis very common. For instance, the Greasers learnhow to protect their family by making theirfriends’ lives a priority to them. Dallas Winston, the“bad guy,” is seen as a courageous person whohas no real feelings. He has been abandoned byhis parents and he acts like he doesn’t care aboutanything. Johnny is the “lost puppy,” the weakone; his only family is the gang. At the end of thebook, right after Johnny’s death, Dally is shockedby the event that happens. According to Ponyboy,“Johnny was the only thing Dally had and nowJohnny was gone” (Hinton 152). The quote confirmshow Dally could never live with the idea that hewas dead and how now that Johnny was gone, hehad nothing to live and fight for. In fact, Dally wasalways seen as a strong person with no feelings.Only after Johnny's death, Ponyboy realizes thatJohnny was everything for Dally. The quote alsodemonstrates how people who don’t have a lot ofthings in life tend to rely on other people. Theycreate this bond with the other person and onlysomething so severe as death can break theirlove. The gang in the book is very similar to theone in Chicago, where outsiders can be seen inreal life.Similarly, in the article “Bored, Broke and Armed,”the idea of outsiders is related to gang memberswho are seen as different and out of the ordinary.Most of the gang members were related to violenceand shootings. What all of these gangs have in

EX P O S I T O RY ES S AY S & P I C T U R E PR O M P T S 33

something that make you independent.Differences can sometimes be associated withhaving problems or making mistakes, but theonly way to improve yourself is by seeing yourmistakes and trying not to commit them again.People are afraid of differences, and we haveseen this throughout history in the years of theHolocaust and racism. People were afraid of otherpeople who looked different and believedsomething different, but if we do not separateourselves from someone else, then we will neverimprove ourselves or grow. Samuel Hall Lordonce said, “Do not choose to be wrong for thesake of being different.” In fact, being differentmeans sometimes appreciating different things.Outsiders learn to appreciate every aspect of lovethat we sometimes take for granted.

common is their love towards family and towardseach other. Despite their acts, they are still humanbeings who don’t have a lot to live on and the onlyimportant aspect of their life is their families. Amember of the gang, Antwin White, states that,“After getting shot himself, he resolved to reconcilewith his father and lead his son in a better direction”(Eligon 12). The quote expresses how family isnecessary and vital to the gang members. In fact,by seeing the mistakes he committed in the past,he will try not to let his son do the same things hehas done. His desire to lead his son towards ahealthy and less riskful life shows how outsidershave learned through their mistakes and will notcommit them again, especially with people theylove.Therefore, in both the article and the book, theidea of outsiders is expressed by showing theimportance of family and friends. By looking at theperspective of these sort of people, we can learnhow to appreciate the priorities in our life thatinclude family and the people we love. In addition,we can also learn how to avoid committing thesame mistakes and improving ourselves day byday. Everyone has their own origins and everyoneshould follow what they believe and what theythink is vital in life. For outsiders, even though theymight seem like diverse people, they are stillhuman beings and they still create lifestyles thatrevolve around protecting family and demonstratinglove. Although many people think that havingdifferences is bad, differences are actually

Mila, grade 8

be born and never experiencethe life of an outsider, while othersspend their whole lives being anoutsider. By seeing the worldthrough the eyes of an outsider,we can learn how life can beunfair due to being born into arough or special living environment.Outsiders suffer many problems,such as poverty, violence, andgang life. They may try to changetheir future and the future of theirchildren and to get rid of the labelof an outsider. However it’s not aseasy as it may seem. For instancein the article “Bored, Broke andArmed,” the author John Eligontakes a look at the lives of gangmembers in Chicago. In the article,we get a look at an outsider’spoint of view on how life is like. Inone part of the article, a formergang member is introduced. Hetalks about his experience in agang and how it has caused himto risk his life and risk his son tobe left without a father. For thatreason, he has made the decisionto leave the gang, but leaving isnot as easy as it seems. Heexplains the difficulty of leaving

Born not Bredby Robertagrade 8

I am going to tell you the insidescoop of being an outsider. At theage of five, I was enrolled in anItalian ballet class. Even though Iwas Chinese, I was mostly familiarwith the Italian language andItalian people. Listening to peoplearound me speaking in nativeItalian I was able to comprehendtheir every word, in addition, I couldspeak Italian without hesitation.But in that ballet class, seeing theother girls disappointed expressionwhen they had to talk to me orhearing the girls speak aboutthings I could relate with yet Iwas always never invited to jointhe conversation. Still, I feltdisconnected from the class. Iwas different from the other Italiangirls, I was like an outsider. Justas I felt like an outsider in myballet class, many other peoplelabel themselves as outsiders.Many people are born into thelife of an outsider instead ofbecoming one. In the book TheOutsiders, by S.E Hinton, and thearticle “Bored, Broke and Armed,”by John Eligon, the lives of outsidersare portrayed. Some people may

34 EX P O S I T O RY ES S AY S & P I C T U R E PR O M P T S

Bianca, grade 8

EX P O S I T O RY ES S AY S & P I C T U R E PR O M P T S 35

doesn't like the fact that you haveto be separated into thesegroups just because of whatfamily you are born into. For thatreason, Ponyboy and his friendJohnny want to escape thisplace. Since they are alreadyborn as Greasers, they cannotchange their label as outsiders,so they think about escaping thelabel. Johnny reveals histhoughts, “It seems like there’sgotta be someplace withoutgreasers or Socs, with just peoplejust plain people” (Hinton 48).From what Johnny said, we cansee that from an outsider’s pointof view, being an outsider isactually very hard. In the story,Greasers get jumped by Socs,they can’t get a high paying job,and most of their families areabusing or neglecting them. EvenPonyboy’s older brother, Darry, islabeled as a Greaser eventhough he acts like a Soc. Justbecause he is born into the life ofa Greaser, so he cannot changehis label. This shows that outsidersare unable to change their labelsno matter how they act since theywere born into the life of anoutsider.All in all, from the eyes of outsiders,the world is different from how they

experience it. Multiple outsidershave to experience how cruel theworld is by dealing with issues likepoverty, violence, gang activity,and more. This may seem unfairsince the reason they have toendure all this trouble is justbecause they were born into anoutsider life, not as a result oftheir own actions. Even thoughsome outsiders want to becomejust normal people, it is a hardtask for various reasons. Beingan outsider doesn’t necessarilyhave to be due to a bad livingenvironment. Sometimes peoplecan feel like an outsider just bybeing surrounded by a group ofpeople that have different intereststhan them. The important thing isto always try to understand thepeople around you before judgingor labeling people.

when he states, “But leavinggang life is not simple. For one,just because you say you’re outof the gang doesn't mean yourrivals see it that way” (Eligon).This is an example of a person whowas born into a gang, surroundedby violence and poverty. Afterbeing shot, the guy has realizedthe dangers of living in the ganglife, as well as how it can threatenhis life and his son's life.Therefore, he has decided toleave. However, leaving was noteasy due to the rivals of the gangstill seeing him as part of thegang, and still holding grudges tohim from his past gang life. Inaddition, his own gang maybecome resentful of his actions.Many generations of outsidershave to deal with being stuck inthe outsider life since being borninto the outsider life means youare unlikely to be able to escapethat lifestyle and label. Even so,that doesn't prevent from somespecial outsiders from wanting tochange their fate. Portrayed in S.E Hinton’s bookThe Outsiders, people are dividedinto two groups: the Socs whichare the rich kids, and the outsiders,or Greasers, who are the poorkids. The main character, Ponyboy,

The Night Fireby Ronggrade 8

It was between 7 and 8 p.m ona typical fall evening inSeptember. There was a gentle,cool breeze, the kind that ticklesthe back of your neck and sendschills throughout your body. In the darkness of the woods,Max, Mark, Anna, and Bobbywere walking. Mark and Anna arethe parents of Bobby, and Max isthe grandfather of Bobby. As the family strolled, they sawtwo benches in the midst ofdarkness. A ray of lights flashingthrough the distance caught theirattention, and it looked like alaser beam that might be shot byvillains in a movie. They figured thatpeople might be camping therealready, but as they approachedthe site, they realized the brightnessthey saw was from the reflectionof the sunset. As Mark, Max and Anna steppedon the leaves, they made acrunching sound underneaththeir feet. Little Bobby wonderedwhy the leaves made that soundand tried to imitate the others bystomping on every leaf in hispath. Finally, they reached adeserted place near the border ofthe woods with two benches. Thebenches were old and rusty, withleaves spread all over becausenot many visitors had come tothis place. The four of them wiped

the leaves off the benches andstarted preparing their food forthe night.Mark was trying to set a fire byputting big wood logs on thebottom and kindling on top.Then, he lit the piles of wood andkindling. The red and orangecolors soon began to light up thesky. As he tossed in each log ofwood, the fire became biggerand bigger.“What are we doing?” Bobbyasked.“We are trying to make a wish fortoday,” his mom replied.“But what are we wishing for?”Bobby asked, looking confused.“Anything, my dear, because weare spending time with our familyand having a nice rest in the forestall together, so you can wish foranything you want,” Markexplained.So as Max, Mark, Anna andBobby put hats on their headsthat were made out of colorfulflowers, they started to make awish by the fire. As they madetheir own wishes, they heard acrow calling and birds chirpingfrom the darkness of the forest.Suddenly, the leaves on thebranches of trees startedswaying rapidly, and even thegrass began to move with thebranches.

Bobby suddenly heard a howlingsound to his right. He thought ahuge monster was comingtowards him, but he saw nothingthere. A wave of wind started toblow his hair to the left side, andhe saw that the fire was dancingfrom right to left, too. As the family watched the fire, itmake them more relaxed andcalm because of its warmth. Thefire became very huge, and itstarted to sparkle on the left side,but they didn’t mind at all,because they thought that thebigger the fire became, the morewishes they could make.Mark was still sweating all overhis back from the heat and thephysical effort he had made tostart the fire. Max passed aroundcookies for everyone to share. As the fire dwindled down, thescent of the smoke traveled fromthe piles of wood and kindlingand stuck to their clothing. Thefamily waited for the fire to vanishand turn into smoke, hoping theirproblems and suffering woulddisappear once the fire wasextinguished, and dreaming thattheir wishes would come truesometime soon.

36 EX P O S I T O RY ES S AY S & P I C T U R E PR O M P T S

Jingyi, grade 8

PROSE & POETRY8 th G R A D E

37

“The scar iest dragons and the f iercest g iants usual ly turn out to be nomore than windmi l ls . ”

Don Quixote

Endless Expeditionby Ansongrade 8

Conversations float aroundTrapped in a steel boxSweaty kidsDying to be freeSmells, Sights, Sounds,A mixing pot of actionNumbing my sensesUnaware of the endless cacophonyThat is going on around me.

The countryside flits by, Like a butterfly in the windThe sun floats aboveRays burning through the busSlowly heating upAn inferno of sound and movement

The time ticks byI can hear itAs if it is mocking meEach pulse resonating in my skullLike a drum

The chatter continuesLike music to the beatOf my tired heart As I try to sleep.

38 PR O S E & PO E T RY

Livia, grade 8

PR O S E & PO E T RY 39

Space in My Heartby Pietro grade 8

Me, an insignificant thing,Approached the enormous building.I thought that they were kidding.I desired this for my entire life,All this movement, all this wildlife.

While I gazed in the streets,The destination was just around the corner,Genova,So colossal it didn’t have a border.The aquarium was enormous.

The waiting was agonizing,It was way worse than a bee sting, And I wouldn’t stop complaining.When the guide finally came,I was looking for someone to blame.

As I stepped in,On my face there was a sudden grin,When the animals started to appear,I began to fear,That I would die of cheer.

The fish, the snakes, the sharks,Made in my heart a bunch of sparks.The birds, the turtles, the prawns,Made me want to stay there,To stare,Till the sun dawns.

The field trip was fantastic, My friends and I, ecstatic.The images, so photographic.The teachers, too, weren’t badAt least they didn’t make us mad.

When I finally saw the light, I let out one big sigh.Goodbye aquarium, goodbye marine art,Now I have to depart,But you will always find space in my heart.

Emma, grade 8

40 PR O S E & PO E T RY

Alex, grade 8

which was being kept in place byone of the people’s hands. Theclouds moved, changing theimage to of the dove’s wingsgetting scarred. The bird was herand the two knives were heranxiety and depression. Shechuckled when she saw the birddisappear into nothingness. Shebelieved that even God hadgiven up on her.At that moment, she felt a strongwill to live. She was alive, but shewasn’t living. She wasn’t alone,but she was lonely. She neededherself to drag herself out of thehole she had dug herself. Sheknew that as much as she shoutedat the people surrounding thehole, they would not or could nothelp. Her friends had extendedtheir arms, only to take themback. Taking them back in fear offalling in along with her. She hadmade her decision. She was

going to chip at the groundaround her hole and climb out.And as much as she wanted topull them in to the hole before shegot out, she knew she wouldregret it. She just cared too much,while they cared too little. She looked up to the sky again.She saw the clouds form a doveagain. There were streaks inbetween the wings, making itseem like scars. But the dovewas flying. She smiled. Shehadn’t been given up by Godafter all.

The Dove Will Appearby Annika grade 8

Deep into the night, when all inthe house lay still, she sat on thebalcony. She was leaning against the huge plant pot behindher, her head buried in herhands. She took a deep breath,trying to assure herself thateverything was okay, that nothinghappened.But she couldn’t lie to herself. Notthis time.And she let everything out. Shecried in the agony of being lonely,of what everyone said abouther, of all the tragedies that hadhappened to her. Her cries turnedinto sobs. Sobs that echoedthrough her head, that she wassure the people in the park infront of her house heard.The cold balcony chilled her feet,and the frigid air around herdidn’t help in keeping her bodywarm. Snot ran down her lips,and she made no move to removeit whatsoever. All she could dowas cry.She thought that life was unfair,and that she didn’t deserve whathad happened to her. She movedto wipe the snot off of her face,proceeding to wipe her handson the balcony floor. She onlycontinued crying while thinkingabout the gods taking pity on hercries of human grief. She grievedfor her old self, for the person sheused to be before all kinds ofsituations messed up her life. Shegrieved for her friends, her family,and most importantly, herself.She even thought about ending itall. But then called herself an idiotand admitted to being a cowardto die. Inside, all she wanted wasa sign. Something worth living for.She looked up to the sky, trying tointerpret the meanings of theclouds up above. She hoped fora sign from God and she hoped itwould be hidden in the clouds.And then, she spotted it. Hersign. It was a dove being trappedbetween two people. The peoplewere pointing knives at the dove,

PR O S E & PO E T RY 41

Juliane, grade 8

the colour lapis lazuli, and thebreeze is fresh like early morning,and there is the slight smell of saltin the air. Among all of this, is theever so quiet sound of peoplepanting when they reach theemerald green trees on top of thehill. Eyes are darting back andforth at the sight of the deep bluesea. The snow-white foam at theedge of the rocky cliffs is so closeyou can almost touch it, yet so faraway, like the trees that seem tostretch far into outer space. Theair feels silent and the only thingyou can hear is the slight oceanwaves in the distance, collidingwith the steep cliffs. A slight warmbreeze cuts through the mountains,

the dark green leaves rustling bythe slightest movement. Walking on that steep road feelslike walking on a floor that movesupward every time you put yourfoot down. Though it graduallybecomes easier the more you goon, the floor never comes down;you simply get used to it. You cansee how the ocean never getstired of creating its waves, andso, neither do you. One foot infront of the other, and you get hitby another wave of beauty. The infinity sea never forgets tosurprise you; it always brings newthings.

Lapis Lazuli All Aroundby Julianegrade 8

Starting up the steep trail toPortofino, you notice the groundis becoming harder to walk on.How much more energy do youneed to put in your legs to pushyou up every few seconds? Youobserve your peers in front ofyou, grabbing their icy water withtheir sweaty hands. The teachersstop every few minutes, despitethe fact that there are no baretrees to provide shade. At leastnothing is in the way of themagnificent view. But the roadgoes on, and so do we. Walkingalong a shifting platform, youhear the sound of waves strikingthe rocky cliffs ahead of you. The sea is astounding, blue as

42 PR O S E & PO E T RY

Carter, grade 8

Shea, grade 8

Jingyi, grade 8

43

“Yours in demigodishness, and a l l that . PEACE OUT.”Percy Jackson

AMERICAN OVERSEASSCHOOL OF ROME

Via Cassia 81100189 Rome, Italy

Telephone +39 06 33 43 81Fax +39 06 33 26 26 08E-mail info@aosr.orgWebsite www.aosr.org

American Overseas School of Rome

Villa Voice2019MiddleSchool

Student Writing

and Art

0 VILLAVOICE COPERTINA 17 aprile 2019.qxp_copertina villavoice 06/06/19 14:28 Pagina 1