My Best Friends, by Genesys

Early in the year, Genesys wrote about her parents a lot, especially her mother who died a few years ago from cancer. In the following vignette, Genesys remembers both the fun and the difficult times with both of her parents.


My father and I are really close, and I consider him as my best friend. I get flashbacks of him tickling me, sending shooting pain through my ribs. Ever since my mom and dad broke up, my dad takes me to the movies to spend time with each other. We also visit family and friends together. I remember clearly, a time my father took my to the ER when I tore the ligaments in my right foot when I was thirteen. Another time I remember with him was when I was five, and both my mom and dad brought me to the ER because of a fish tank falling on my face. Even when I was eight, my parents brought me to the ER, once again, this time for stitches because I accidentally cut my finger with a knife while trying to open a brand new pair of multicolored socks. I guess I spent a lot of time hurting myself . But someone was always there to fix me. One time however, I was the one who fixed things.


I spent many days, weeks, months, and years trying to fix my mom. She had cancer. My grandmother and I would take care of her and give her medication when we were living on Liberty St. in East Haven. It was just my grandmother, my grandmother's husband, and I living in the house. Everyone did their share in helping my mother. Whenever my mom needed to take her medication, I would simply remind her and bring them to her and made sure she took them. I would also help her get up and help her lay down since I was the youngest one in the house with the strongest back. I accompanied her to her doctor's appointments and I would spend the night with her while she was in the hospital and no one else wanted to stay with her. She was my best friend too.

Unforgettable Whistling, by Kiara

When I introduced vignettes to my students, I showed them one of Eudora Welty's, which was about whistling. Kiara used the whistling in Welty's vignette as motivation to write a vignette of her own.


As a child, I would hear the sweet and happy whistling of my grandfather, Victor Vernon. My grandfather was tall, had a dark caramel complexion, grey and black wavy hair and a permanent friendly smile on his handsome face. He and my grandmother would always come and visit from Panama. They usually would stay at my house, no matter what. My house was sort of the spot of comfort for my family.

My grandfather was a Christian, wise, and a peaceful person. He always played with my brother and me. He was our joy when he visited. He whistled tunes I've never heard before. When he whistled it brought bliss to throughout the house. It is the type of bliss that's contaigious. As contaigous as a smile or laugh. No one can whistle as great as my grandfather, not even 'til this day.

Now I no longer hear my grandpa's whistling, jokes or just the sound of his assuring voice. My grandfather tragically died in a car accident. He had just arrived in Panama coming from the US when my grandpa suddenly fell unconscience while still driving. I believe God was unfair to my family and me. Why did he have to leave? He now whistles with God.

Beowulf the Great, by Hayley

Hayley loved "Beowulf" probably more than any other student. At the end of the year, she took it upon herself to write a poem based on the book for this final project.

Beowulf's sword gleaming sharply
Ready to fight for what's right
His nerves anxious his heart
Throbbing with excitement
Revenge for Hrothgar and all of
The Danes
The mead-hall's walls stained
With Blood.
Is Grendel evil or judged
For his beliefs
Grendel supposedly caused the
Danes' grief.
The Christians berrating Grendel
With foul names.
Is thsi the reason why
Danes were slain?
Beowulf a brave hero
Stands tall with pride
Waiting for the vile Grendel
To arrive.
In the mead-hall he waits
In the mist of the night
For it is his destiny to win
This fight
Against good and evil
With God on his side.

Grendel came with a
Ferocious cry.
Let the games begin
And let the best man win.
So Grendel and Beowulf
Start to fight,
Beowulf with no weapons
Just his might.
Hrothgar's throne was the
Only light
That made Grendel's face
Fill with fright.
Beowulf gripped Grendel
Tight;
Grendel felt defeat
Pulse, thrive through his mind.
Beowulf put away all of
The crime
With one slash of his
Sword.
All the misery was over,
Beowulf then remembered Grendel's
Shoulder.

All the Danes felt safe,
Hrothgar stood mighty and great
As a king should.
He then rewarded Beowulf
For this good.
Gave him gold and treasures
And called the monsters
Foul.
Beowulf the great at his
Prime
And killing off those
Who comitted their crimes.
But this isn't the end
Will Beowulf the great
Live on?
Or will his life go
Wrong?

Loss, by Ranea

This is a vignette that Ranea wrote from the perspective of the character Titus in Shakespeare's "Titus Andronicus."

Living a life as a general and a proud king. Always living a happy and joyous life now has been taken away from me. The loss of twenty one sons, buried, gone from my world, gone from my heart. The loss of Mutius, the son who was no longer my son anymore, killed by me. My most beautiful daughter has been raped and murdered and has lost her communication and her two delicate hands. I have given up my position of being a king to Saturnine, who's doing a bad job and the empire is going down. My son Lucius, the only son I have who is still surviving has been banished from my sight, my world, but not from my heart. I even had my two sons' heads cut off. I sacrificed my hand to save their lives. But it was all a set up...It didn't save their lives. It only sunk me deeper into my dark hole. Only making me weaker, only driving me insane, and driving me through an eternal darkness. I have no one left in my life. I have lost so much due to one person. Why God? Why has God given me such a harsh punishment? Why? Why make me suffer? Why?

Dear Dad, by Abraham

When students wrote letters to their heroes, Abraham took the opportunity to write to his father to thank him for being a hero.

Dear Dad,
If it wasn't for you I would be afraid of the world around me. People have tried to scare me and put fear in me to get me to do things. You have always told me not to be afraid of anyone no matter who it is.

I want to thank you for making me realize that I shouldn't be afraid of anyone or anything. You taught me to defend myself against anyone who would try to hurt me. You taught me to be unafraid in big situations, like if someone gets in my way and tries to punk me out for money or jump me for money. Once I got really scared and I gave the kid my money. I was so scared my legs started shaking and I almost cried. You were disappointed and told me never let someone do that again or everyone will take advantage. You made me believe in myself no matter what.

Thank you Dad for helping me realize that no matter what happens I should do the right thing even if it's hard and I don't want to do it.

Thanks,
Abraham

Class of 2005, by Zakiyyah

One of the assignments students completed was a vignette based on a picture of their family or friends. Zakiyyah brought in a picture of her friends at their 8th grade final field trip before graduation and wrote about that picture.

"Everyone smile!" I yell.
I yell because I can't hear over the music. I am at Mountain Side with my 8th grade class from Hamden Middle School and this is our last school trip of the year together.
"Do we have to take a picture," my best friend Ashley screams.
"Come on Ashley," barks Courtney, my other best friend.
"Oh, I want to get in," shrieks Khetry my other best friend across the room.
"Okay that's it," I yell so everyone can hear me. Mountain Side is like an amusement park without the rides in Wallingford. We are in the dining hall. We can small teh nachos and cheese, the hotdogs, the hamburgers, the clam chowder, the chicken, the macaroni, and teh hot chocolate from the cafe.

Ashely is the fashion queen. She always comes to school looking fresh and she'll tell anybody that they look a mess. Courtney is the goofy one. She always has everyone in tears at the lunch table. She says the funniest things and we do the funniest things to her. Once, for fun, we shook up her can of soda and she came back and opened it and the sode went all over her face. She wasn't mad or anything. She was laughing with us. Kay is more of the wild one. She loves to party and meet new people. When I say "new people," I mean "boys." She keeps me updated on all the parties and sometimes she pays for me.

It is May 24th and this is our last class trip of the year. We all are going our separate ways. Even though it is sad and I'm about to cry, I dont' because I know thatwe will always be friends to the end. And plus, I'll see them at church.

Smart Cookie, by Evan

In the following vignette with the same title as a vignette in "The House on Mango Street," Evan writes about a break-up from the beginning of the school year.

"Have you been thinking about what Mike said?" There I sit as always in my computer chair on the phone with Erin.
"What did Mike say?" she replies.
"That we'd be better off friends," I say, my voice stumbling.
"Oh, I'm a smart cookie." Erin used that expression a lot, but today would be the last time I would hear her say it. "Yes. I think he's right. I'm sorry, but it just isn't comfortable anymore." She says this with no sadness in her voice, only certainty. I knew it was coming, though. Mike had said it was actually her idea; she just told him to suggest it as his own.

"Ya..." Erin probably didn't even hear me say that, but I hang up the phone anyway. I lean back in my chair and let the phone drop to the floor. "Why?" I thought. "Why can't I maintain a relationship?" I felt as though I could punch a wall, but I refrain. I thought that this was it, that it would finally be the long-term relationship I have always wanted, but I was blinded and deceived. I get out of my chair and climb into bed. I pull my favorite blanket over and and run my fingers through the silk lining. I am too stunned to bother turning off the lights, computer, or even feel sorry for myself. So I just close my eyes and drift to sleep.

On Treat Street in Terrace Heights, by Lonisha

When I asked students to write about their neighborhoods, Lonisha chose to write about how her perspective of her West Haven neighborhood changed when she was witness to some violent activity.

"No matter where you go you'll never be safe," I thought to myself when I heard a gunshot coming from the apartment complex next to mine. I jumped up frantically in my bed after the loud boom. Afer being reassured that nothing was happening to my family, I slowly dosed off.

The next day, I woke up forgetting all about the night before. As I walked past my mother's room, heading to the bathroom, I heard my mother say, "The couple who lived in the apartment complex next to ours had a fight. Then the guy shot his girlfriend. You know how those drug addicts are."

I couldn't believe my ears. I thought West Haven was quiet and all the people were friendly. But I live in the other part of West Haven, the part called Treat Street. This is where everybody argues all the time and blasts their music loud, day 'til night. It's just like New Haven, so I don't know why we even moved to West Haven.

Born Bad, by Blanca

Blanca used a vignette title from "The House on Mango Street" to inspire her to write about a particularly violent moment in her past.


1515 Lanes Mill Road is a beautiful white house with three floors in Lakewood, New Jersey. Through the blue-shuttered windows, you can see the front yard, covered in a sea of lush, green grass and dotted by three large oak trees.

Inside on the third floor, a young girl with brown hair cowers on the blue carpet of her room. The calloused fist of a brown-haired man repeatedly slams toward the crying child's body, the "swish-whip" of a wire hangar in his hand leaving welts of swelling red on her small arms, back, and legs. The man's green eyes are wild with fury as the eight-year-old begs for Daddy to stop.

Tears are streaming down from her chocolate eyes as she wonders why he's doing this. But she has an idea why. She procrastinated on putting her numerous multi-patterned dress Daddy always made her wear on the rows of wire hangars in her closet, and is now being punished for it. However, in the back of her mind, she knows it's only an excuse, that her father's anger was from another source.

Daddy always wanted a son, but never got the chance. He never got to take a young boy of his own fishing. He was never able to have a son to work in the garage with him, the garage that one could never walk thorugh without getting stained with oil. He tries to substitute his daughter, taking her to the fishing pond in the next town over, having her sit with him while he works on his big, black Dodge 4x4. But it isn't the same. Because of this, the girl believes that with every meeting of his calloused fist to her young skin, she is not just being disciplined for her mistakes. She thinks she was simply born bad.

Her mother, sisters, everyone tells her that it isn't her fault, that her father is to blame. They say the drugs make him do it; all the beer, wine, marijuana, the rainbow of pills. But she doesn't believe them. Maybe she wants to think she's to blame. She doesn't want to put the excuse on drugs.

Now six years later, she no longer hangs her dresses on those wire hangars, for she owns none. The white house with blue shutters is now owned by a Jewish family of four. The girl lives with her mother, far away from that house in Lakewood.

She still talks with Daddy, but she doesn't call him that anymore. Now it's simply Father. Or "Jailbird" if she's in a bad mood. The police found his rainbow of pills and little drug trees. She hasn't seen Father for five years, but she still remembers the "swish-whip" of those hangars and the swelling red welts. And from time to time, she still believes she was just born bad because she wasn't born a boy.

Revelations of Grendel, by Charles

For this assignment for "Beowulf," I asked students to consider writing from the monster Grendel's perspective. I asked them to step into Grendel's shoes and explain why he was murdering so many people. Charles took this opportunity to write a long, descriptive monologue to explain the pagan Grendel's motivation for killing the Christians in Herot Hall.

Why...Why you ask me. It is not by will or by instinct. It is by choice. Now it has become my purpose, my cause. I no longer have control over what or who I slaughter or destroy. I remember when my life was wonderful; as a child, I used to run around the forest, smelling the fresh air of the blossoming flowers and listening to the wind. My whole family and people lived in the forest, taking no heed to time, just smiling and laughing. Every month, we would have a spiritual festival, tributing to the Gods of Nature. We enjoyed our lives and never ceased to.

Then, they came...like a pack of rabid dogs only to kill and to scavenge. They came to us in the mist of the night, setting houses on fire, killing men and women and children, anything that so much as blinked or gave a gasp of air was like an animal. I barely escaped with any goods, let alone my life. I looked back to see my life, family, and hope being burned to ashes.

That night, I mourned not only for my family but for revenge. I went back to where my village was and gritted my teeth. The trees were now pitch black and smoke rose from the ground. The very air I breathed was poisonous, but I didn't care. It was then when the gods appeared to me in a dream and gave me an offer I could not refuse.

Now the sole survivor of my clan, I have been hunted long enough. It was a week after I had the curse that my first seige on Herot came to pass. Like them, I came in the night. I busted through the door and let instinct and hate take me over. That night, all that was heard was screaming, snapping of bones, the sound of slash marks and spewing intestines. My eyes had turned blood red, not only because of the blood that gleamed off my pupils from seeing my victims lie helpless, begging for mercy as I dug my cold snout into their broken rib cage and ate their liver, but because although I had taken a bloody revenge, one killing didn't seem enough.

Now killing is like a drug to me. Once I start, I can't stop. And until my bloody genocide is complete, I will continue to kill. It was because of them I am alone in this world, no family, wife, child, anything. But somehow, after all the bodies I've torn apart with my bare hands, after every cry of anguish and beg for mercy I heard before my victims throats bled to death, I've loved every second of it.

The Phone Call, by Aarika

In this vignette from the beginning of the school year, Aarika writes about a life-changing event: finding out her brother's best friend has been killed in a car accident.


"Where's your brother?" asks my mother.
"He's outside somewhere," I answer.
"Go find him. A call just came in and a kid has been hit on Quinnipiac and Clifton Street."

As I walk down the lonely, quiet street on this warm, late spring early evening, trembling with fear, I wonder if it can be Kameron. I pray that it's not. I was just down there on Quinnipiac; I saw the police and the street was blocked off. I figured there had just been a car accident. I then see my brother Kameron's friend, Jonathan.
"Johnathan," I call out. "You've seen Kameron?"
"Yea, he's up on Kingswood, playing with Joseph."
Even though relief rushes through my blood, I have to see for myself. I'm overwhelmed with relief when I see him playing basektball on the corner of Kingswood and Russo Terrace. I don't want to interrupt his game, so instead I turn back and go home to my house on Russell Street. I walk into my cream, wood, and beige kitchen, where I quickly grab the phone and dial the New Haven Police Department where my mother works.

"May I speak to Debra Thornton?" I ask politely. When I hear my mother's voice on the phone, it is filled with pain and concern.
"Did you find Kameron?" she demands.
"Yes; he was on Kingswood playing basketball," I tell her. We chat for a few minutes more and I can tell she's relieved. I go on about my day, talking on the phone with my best friend, Nikki, and watching TV, just as I would on any other day. A few hours later, the phone rings.
"Hello?" I ask into the phone.
"Aarika," says my mother, her voice shaky from cry. "The kid who got hit earlier is Michael, Kam's friend."
When she tells me Michael has died, I feel tears building up in my light brown eyes and I feel the warmth stream down my cheek. I can't believe it. It can't be true.
"Alright. I'll tell Kameron," I answer before hanging up the phone.

Now I have the responsibility to tell my little brother that his best friend is dead. How do I break this news? How to start? Where to start? How does anyone tell another person a life no longer exists? I don't know if I can do this. It's killing me inside. I watched Michael grow into a young man and now...he's gone at the age of twelve.

I call Kameron into the kitchen; he sees that I'm crying.
"What's wrong?" he asks with concern.
"Kam," I say my voice quivering. "Michael is dead." I see the tears building up in his eyes. At first he is stuck, then they come streaming down his face. I begin to cry more and to hug him tightly. He's speechless and can't do anything but stand there and cry.

Vignettes, by Nicole

Early in the year, students wrote a number of vignettes about people and about events in their lives. Nicole has selected two of her favorite vignettes to include below.

The Stranger

Hiding behind the big brown door of the Spanish restaurant on Grand Avenue, hoping he doesn't see me there. He comes walking closer to me with that same phony smile. His clothes are ragged and his body dirty. He tries to hug me and give me a kiss, but I push him off and try to walk away.
"Stop," he says, and tries to hold me near him again. Try as I might to get away from him, I can only yell "Move!" I reject him as hard as I can. His teary eyes plead with me in ways words can't. He is defeated; he stands there looking at me and simply, in a deadpan voice says, "I love you."
He turns his back and walks away. I watch him go and only wonder am I the wrong one for being so mean? He told me many times before how much he loved me but it always seemed like a lie.
Looking for forgiveness, I run up to him, put my arms around his neck and say, "Dad, I love you too."


A Better Place

I sit here all alone on my bed, flipping through my red photo album looking at pictures of my grandfather Edward who passed away when I was four years old. I set the pictures of him standing by a wall of liquor at the bar he once owned in New Haven called "The Nutmegger" but everyone called it "The Nut."

The smile on his face tells me he was happy and loved his job; he must have, since he owned it over four years. But when he got sick, he was forced to sell it. Now it's called "June's." I don't remember much about him but from the pictures with the big wide grins, I can tell he was a good man. I hear from my grandmother that he took very good care of his family and other who were down on their luck. He also spoiled his daughters rotten. Once when he was driving down from Foxon Boulevard, a young boy was riding his bike and fell. He was injured badly, so my grandfather helped stop the bleeding and took him to the hospital.

But then I see pictures of him lying in the white hospital bed and I don't see that big smile anymore. The smile is replaced with a look of sadness. His eyes tell me, as they stare back at me, that he's suffering and is no longer happy. My grandfather had diabetes and was put on dialysis. His sickness slowly destroyed his body; doctors amputated his toes, and later on, both his legs. He was known to be a strong man but when the doctors told him about his legs, he cried and begged for them just to end his life there. It wasn't much longer before he died. He is in a better place where I know he's smiling like he did in the pictures.

With that sudden thought, I began to smile too.

My Cousin Carlos, by Calvon

In this piece, Calvon took advantage of a free-writing period to write about the death of his little cousin, "C-Low."

My cousin, Carlos Brown Jr. was born July 11, 1997 in New Haven, Connecticut at Yale New Haven Hospital. Carlos is my cousin and I love him. He will always be in my heart no matter what happens--nobody can't take Carlos out my heart. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, I will always think of my cousin C-Low.

One day, when Carlos' mother was moving, his mother said, "Stay on the porch."
But there were two boys, 11 years old and 13 years old with Carlos, so they went down to the bridge then they started playing on the train tracks. And then they started playing in the water.

So the current pushed Carlos away and he was screaming "Help, Help!"
But he couldn't swim so he went down in the water.
So then his cousin went to knock on Carlos' mother's door and he told her that Carlos drowned in the water. His mother fainted six times. June 2 he was missing. On June 7th we found him by the ripples in the water.
That's what happened.

Eulogy, by Mike

When we read Richard Preston's book, "The Hot Zone," I asked students to write eulogies for characters who had died in the book or Lifetime Achievement speeches for themeselves or people they know. Mike chose to combine challenges and write a reflective paper about a woman he knew who died a short while ago.

I knew this beautiful and loving mother named Debbie. She was the mother of two boys named Peter and Michael and she had a husbaned named Pete. I always used to go over there and play with Peter and Michael, like everyday in the morning at 8:00am until 8:00pm because it was so fun over there. At their house we went swimming in the pool, jumped on their trampoline, played PS2 inside, and sometimes played baseball or basketball outside.

Their mom always gave me snacks and drinks when I was over and I also ate dinne rover there a lot. Also, their mom got me stuff for Christmas and Easter and I got her stuff too. Some days she brought me, Peter, Mike and other friends to the movies and we went other places too, like out to eat or over to their grandparents' house and a lot more.

Then, she died at 40. She died becasue she had a tumor in her head and the next morning she wouldn't wake up. And Peter and Michael told their dad and I found out about it the next day. I was so sad when she died because she was so nice and a wonderful mother. And she also said she would adopt me because I liked her so much and had fun playing with her kids. She said she would adopt me if my mom let her.

I went to her funeral when she died and I cried, but I was okay. She was the best ever; she was like a mother to me.

Reyna, by Francisco

This is a vignette written at the start of the year. I asked students to write about people they love. Francisco chose to write about his dog, Reyna, whom he left in Peru before immigrating to the United States.

I see her now and I can see through her eyes that she is about to cry. I feel the same way and I don't know what to do. This is something so big that I can't explain, because it's so hard to separate from someone you love and you have known for years.

Now she is looking at me with those big brown eyes and she is not making any moves like she is trying to explain to me that she is not going anywhere without me. I try to control myself, but I don't know how long I can hold this inside. I try not to make her sad but at the same time I try to say "bye-bye forever" and that this destiny has ruined our big friendship. I hug her with all my strength becasue I don't want to go. Just in this moment, a flash like a big light passes in front of my eyes with all the happy moments and memories that I have with her.

I remember when I saw her for the first time. I was helping my mother to make dinner and it was in that moment that my father arrived with a little dog in his hands. It looked like a little fox with that big mouth, triangle ears, and long tail. My brother and I walked to my father and we asked what was the name of the little dog that he brought home."Her name is Reyna," he said. I was very happy to see her because I thought it would be very fun to have another friend that we can play with. After that, we built her house. Then we did so many things together and even created games with her.

Reyna learned to do a lot of tricks like "get the ball," "say hello" and many other tricks. But she also learned how to stop doing bad things because at the beginning she liked to bite the plants but then we showed her that was wrong. She was funny. She wasn't my pet; she was my friend.

Everything was so good like a happy tale and I thought that nothing was going to break our friendship. But you know that a happy tale has bad moments. My story has them too. In a happy tale, the bad moments end and everybody lives happy forever. But in my story, this bad moment never ends because after the good moments we had, we had to leave Peru to come to the United States because my father had lost his job. We chose to come here because my father has a big family here; my brother and I didn't want to come here because we didn't want to separate from Reyna and lose the big friendship that we had. But we didn't have another choice. In the week that we made that decision, Reyna was very sad like she knew what was going to happen and that she would never see us again.

Now this flash has ended and all the things that we have done stay in the past and all the things that we have learned of each other stay with us. I see her now and I think that, when she was a baby she was able to stay away from her mother. And now that she's all grown up she can stay away from us. I knew that this day would come, the day in which she would never see us again, the day in which she was going to meet new friends and the day I would lose a friend and our family would have to start from zero. But she is still in my heart and she will be there forever like a true friend with a big friendship.

A Moment of Clarity, by Taylor

In preparation for reading "Beowulf," students wrote vignettes about people in their lives who they considered either good or bad. Taylor chose to write about a complicated moment from her experiences with her father.

We're sitting in our silver and black Expedition driving on Interstate 91 going North toward Meriden. It's around 8:00 at night and my father has just picked me up from choir rehearsal. Like always, his window keeps going up and down, depending on his whim. The car is silent. It's so silent that I can hear the rhythm of our breathing. In and out, out and in. I guess my father hears it too and doesn't like its sound, so he turns up the radio and his favorite song is on, Cameo's "Word Up!"I begin to smile and so does my dad. He turns up the volume even more and now the song is blasting throughout the entire car. The smooth grey leather seats are rattling with the beat. Then Cameo begins to sing, "So tell me what's the word? A word up!" and so does my father. He's laughing, smiling, and dancing to the song. I laugh too becasue my father's form of dancing is to move his arms around in a circle, but he's all off beat.

As I watch him, I see the good side of my father. The side that tuaght me how to ride a bike, that would dance with me when the teme song from the T.V show "COPS" would come on. The side that made me love my dad. The side that rushed me to the E.R. when my finger needed to be saved from the sharp metal of a partially opened can. The side that would comfort me when I woke up crying because I had a nightmare about the monster in my closet. I couldn't see the side of thim that would make countless promises to take me to a friend's party or to a dance and then come home two hours late and say, "Sorry, I forgot." I couldn't see the side that left me waiting by my bedroom window for him after he had left becasue of an argument with my mother. The side that would leave for hours and come back smelling like liquor and tobacco smoke. I couldn't see those things that constantly make me want to hate him.

Cameo's song is on its last "Hey" and the music begins to fade. The song has ended and my father routinely turns the radio back down and the fun goes down with it. Silence returns and I lay my head on the window's cold glass and the rest of the ride home I ask myself: "What happened to the good side of my dad?"

Good Person, by Ashley

When I asked students to write about good people in their lives, Ashley chose to write about her friend Ann who is in her class. While Ashley refused to read it aloud to the class, she identified this piece of writing as one of her best all year. Ashley has come a long way in her writing this year. In this piece, she is able to describe Ann's hair and personality as well as give specific examples of the way Ann talks.

In 2005, I met this girl named Ann Campbell at New Haven Academy. She is a nice and sweet girl who doesn't cause problems with anybody.
Her hair is pretty and long. Sometimes she has her hair out, sometimes she has it in a ponytail with her hair curled in the back.
I like how she talks. Sometimes she uses this word all the time with the teachers: "But Miss..." or "But Mister...". I like how she laughs when our crazy friends go sick over boys that she really likes.
She is not like me but I can always count on her to do me a favor or when I need her or if I am sad she would ask me, "What's wrong?" And I would tell her and she would solve my problems for me.
This is funny because sometimes we have fights and yell at each other. But once you get to know her you would never want to let her go as a friend.

Sixta Torres, by Luis

In the beginning of the year, Luis wrote a vignette about his mother who died of complications related to AIDS seven years ago.

Sixta Torres is one of the greatest people to live. She is my mother. She always had a warm heart because she would always have an open hand for anyone who needed help or someone to talk to. One example is when my aunt was looking for a whouse. She didn't have the right amoutn of money for the house. So my mom took the little bit of money that she had saved up and gave it to her.
Another person she helped out is her adopted daughter's mother. My mother used to sneak her adopted daughter's mother into the house when she really wasn't supposed to do that, just so she could see her daughter.
Sixta was the mother of three children: me, my older brother Israel, and my sister Keilah. At the age of thirty-five Sixta was infected with AIDS. So then, she took four kids in for adoption. Only three of them were taken away when she passed away on May 12, 1999.

Good or Bad It's My Life, by Kevin

When we began reading "Beowulf," I asked students to write about people in their lives who they could identify as good or bad. Kevin chose to write about his life and about a few complicated people and events.

After 15 years, the truth comes out
Talk of anger and pain coming out my mouth.
Talk that'll make the light hearted cry
And this all started when I was five.
When my dad left becasue of crack
And for seven years he didn't come back,
And when he did come back I had no clue
Who was this tall black dude I never knew.
He wasn't my dad druing my days of tears
I guess he's trying to repent for the past seven years.
And for a good portion of my life, ridicule was my only friend
And I thought my suffering would never end.
On my eighth birthday I got a friend wrapped in a ribbon of green--
She was a biggest dog ever, a Wrotweiler named Queen.
But then she got sick and left my home
And once again I was all alone.
And no girl would dance with me at the prom;
It seems like the only woman in my life is my mom.
My mom is the greatest and sometimes the worst
But she always makes sure I come first.
With her dark brown skin and her short black hair
And when it comes to my life she's the only one who seems to care.
But all in all my life's unfair
So when I'm met with misfortune I just don't care.
And if people don't like me I don't like them more
I'll step on them like roaches I see on the floor.
And forget being considerate--my heart is black.
And since the world wants to screw me I'll screw it back.
The truth hurts, doesn't it? It's cuts like a knife.
So I've decided to fight the misfortunes of life.
You're probably thinking this poem is sad
But it's my life and it's good and bad.

Dear Ashley, by Isaiah

The following letter is from Isaiah to one of his classmates. Students were asked to write letters to their own heroes before we began reading "Beowulf." When Isaiah read his letter in front of the class, everyone grew silent and a number of students asked him to read it again.

Dear Ashley,
I dont' want to scare you by saying this, but to me, you are a hero. You have changed and come a long way from the start of school and now. Bad things have come your way in your life. Tests that you had to take, trials and problems that you've faced, people that you had to let go of. Decisions that you had to make that were hard. Even when you thought giving up was best, you didn't. You let no one take you down, hurt you, or stop you from doing what you had to do. You have made so many good friends and lots of people like you. I say you're a hero because it takes a true hero to go past all that and still keep your beautiful smile. Even if you see it or not Ashley, you're a hero.

Your friend for life,
Isaiah

An Updated Script, by David

The following script is David's interpretation of part of Act IV, Scene 2 of Shakespeare's "Titus Andronicus." I asked students to update the Shakespearean English into English they used on a daily basis. The following scene is when Aaron, the only black character and the plotter of all evil acts in the play, learns that he's become a father. Also in this scene is a Nurse, who tells Aaron he has a son, and Chrion and Demetrius--the boys who raped and dismembered Lavinia upon Aaron's advice.

Nurse: What up my people. Have any of y'all seen Aaron?
Aaron: A yo. Who looking for me? I be's Aaron. What ya want?
Nurse: Gentle Aaron. We in trouble, son. Help or be hated forever.
Aaron: For what? A yo, what is you talking about? What ya have in your hands?
Nurse: Oh this...I'm ashamed to let God see this. The queen's mad and so will Rome. She was brought abed.
Aaron: What? Then let her have a good nap. What was she sent?
Nurse: A devil!
Aaron: Well, she's the devil's dam. A good issue.
Nurse: A bad awful black baby. A stick in the sand. Out of all faces, the baby gets this one...none like any other. The queen orders you to kill it.
Aaron: You whore! Is black so bad of a color? You white women...you must be a crazy chick on some real.
Demetrius: You slept with our mother?
Aaron: No, I made love to your mother.
Chiron: It shall not live.
Aaron: It shall not die.
Nurse: It must. Your baby mama said so.
Aaron: If it dies, no one but me will kill it. My flesh and blood.
Demetrius: I'll kill the child with my sword.

All About Me, by Jamesha

At the beginning of the year, I asked students to write about what things they would want people to know about them. Jamesha identified five important parts of her identity that she would want to share.

Native-American. African-American. Diva. Dancer. Daring. All of these are inside of me.

I am Native-American from my great grandmother. She was full blooded Indian. Everybody else in my family is African-American. Everyone who knows me knows that I am a true diva. I don't care what people sy about me. I still walk with my head up high.
I attend Ultimate Dance Experience. I take jazz and hip-hop. I enjoy dancing and will more than likely following through with it into college. I am going to try out for a dance group called Short Circuit. They are the best kids dance group in New Haven.
I am a dare devil. If anyone dares me to do anything more than likely I will.

Native-American. African-American. Diva. Dancer. Daring. All the parts of me.

Stranger, by Imala

The following is a vignette Imala wrote when I asked students to write about people they see regularly but don't know personally.

I see you everyday, same place, same time, but we have never even spoken. Every morning you stand on Goffe and Norton waiting for the Z bus. I look up, our eyes meet, but still no words spoken. It's almost like we have our own language, an unspoken language. Your hazel eyes are so warm and friendly, almost as if they were screaming out to me "Hello."
Your skin is caramel, your hair is cut down and smooth. You're not a giant but you're taller than I. No matter how cold it is you always have on shorts. Today, for instance, you have on those blue denim shorts with the deep pockets. They don't even look like shorts becasue they almost reach your ankles.
I want to say something to you. I'm dying to say something to you. But fear takes over me. My head is telling me, "Say Hi," "What's Up," something. But my lips can't form the words. My heart cries out, "Stop walking!" but somehow my feet don't get the message because they keep going right on past you. Your name, your age, where you live I do not know. But everyday, before I go outside, I wonder if today will be our first "hello."

Lavinia : Philomel, by Danielle

While reading Shakespeare's "Titus Andronicus," Danielle wrote this poem from Titus' perspective upon seeing Lavinia dismembered and after learning she had been raped by the characters Chiron and Demetrius. Several times over the course of the play, Shakesepare refers to an ancient story from Ovid's "Metamorphosis" about a girl named Philomela, who was also raped and mutilated. In the following lines, Danielle continues the connection between these two literary women.

My dear daughter,
How you resemble those of whom have suffered.
I have failed you.
No man on earth should have taken your sweet chastity by thy husband.
In all my recent losses,
I have never hurt this bad.
Let me ease your pain--
I shall become you:
I will cut off my tongue and hands;
They are of no use to me.
My hands have held you tightly when you were scared,
Or just needed a hand to hold,
A shoulder to lean on.
My dear sweet Philomel,
How you have been wronged!
My duty as a father has not been fulfilled.
A stranger has taken your beautiful chastity.
I shall avenge this terrible wrong
And kill those who have hurt you.
If only you could tell me,
Tell me who has done this to you.
Oh how I hurt for my sweet Lavinia.
For she has become...Philomel.

Dear Mama, by Chris

Before we read "Beowulf," students identified people in their lives whom they considered heroes. Chris wrote the following letter to his mother, who is his hero.

Dear Mama,

I consider you to be my hero. Why? Let me tell you. You carried me for 9 months. You took care of me when I was sick and was just always there for me. While my father was out in the streets, you took care of me. Unless I had to go to school. You was my favorite always after the age of 5. Before that, I was stupid and didn't understand what my father was really doing. If I was sick, you will make me feel better, give me medicine and stuff like that. The big thing is that you gave me a nice home, put clothes on my back, fed me, dressed me when I was a baby. You are my hero. 'Till 18.

From: Chris

Grandpa, by Justin

At the beginning of the year, I asked students to write vignettes about people they love. Instead of a vignette, Justin wrote the following poem about his grandfather who died a number of years ago.

I miss you grandpa
I always say
Time goes by fast
I miss you every day.
All there is left
Are little memories
I wasn't as loving
As I wanted to be.

You were a good man
You asked questions that I would know
You always smelled like
Peppermint and pipe tobacco.
When you got cancer
My heart had dropped.
Time froze around me
Like my heart had stopped.

Why grandpa, why?
Why did you leave me?
I need you now
Why won't you answer me?
I pray to you always
Dearly with my love
Give me a sign
To show me your love.

I need to talk,
You need to listen.
Dad won't see me--
It's you I'm missin'.
Please, oh, please
Do this for me
I'm dyin' over here
But you're too stubborn to see.

Fine grandpa, I get it
I won't hide
Grandpa answer me--
A dove flew right by.
I felt this passion
I felt this dove
It was you, Grandpa,
Answering from above.

You answered my question
You answered my faith.
I'll be with you one day--
Wait by the Gates.
I love you Grandpa
I'm filled with love and
I believe in you now
Signed your favorite grandson Justin.

Monologues, by Vanessa

These monologues were written while reading William Shakespeare's "Titus Andronicus." These monologues were written from Lavinia's perspective, a character who gets raped, and from Titus's perspective, her father who has seen her after getting raped.

From Lavinia's Stand

I was going on a hunt in the nearby woods when my world turned upside down. Everything started going wrong. I saw the faces of Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron laughing their heads off. That's when I heard Tamora tell her sons to do anything they pleased to me for their lust. I begged and begged for her forgiveness, but she still did not budge. So she left laughing, and Demetrius and Chiron captured me and took me to a place to fulfill their pleasure, using me.
That's when I felt both of them forcing themselves inside of me. I felt pain go throughout my body and heard my voice scream. Still they forced themselves.
It felt like forever; Demetrius and Chiron never got enough. It wasn't over when they were done, though. They hewed my hands off, and I felt blood pour out of my arms and pain go throughout my body.
They used branches to replace my hands and I felt the branches stick into the inside of my arms. When I thought this was the end, they opened my mouth and sliced my tongue right out of its place.
I saw three cups of blood pour out of my mouth. I tried to scream but I choked and choked and only a murmur came out. The last moment came when they hung me on a tree. And there I hung, making no sounds, but only feeling pain, hoping someone would come for me.


From Titus' Stand

And so the evil and monstrosity of them did this to her. Moments before, I lay outside the gates of Rome, taking my temper out on the dark, empty atmosphere. The sky is eerie and the clouds are gray. The sky beings to darken and I feel something bad is going to happen. I get up and see my brother, Marcus, walking the path toward me with a girl in his hands. He's right in front of me and I realize the troubled girl I am looking at is Lavinia.
I'm speechless. Words are unable to come out of my mouth. That second, my blood stops flowing and my heart stops. I go cold. I'm staring at my precious daughter whose soft hands have been replaced by branches. And streaks of blood are running down her arms. I touch her arm, asking her to explain what happened and she opens her mouth.
Dark, red blood pours from her mouth and I hear her choke and murmur, trying to get words out. I look at the sight of her tongue that has been sliced from its place.
My eyes have never shed a tear in my life. Even after losing my twenty-one sons in war. Still, no tears to shed. The world turns upside down thrice, after the sight of my daughter.
I cry continuously and it starts to rain.
Sweet Lavinia, I want to hear your voice.

An Overview and Welcome

Welcome to the New Haven Academy Literature blog.
This blog serves as the 9th graders' final project. Displayed on these pages are my students' self-identified best pieces of writing, up for your viewing, comments, and enjoyment!