For each contest, take a picture, add your name and email, and send it to Mr. Rich. Email: email@example.com*
- Decorating house!!! Who can decorate thier house the best? Make sure everything is Halloween themed! 🏠
- Pumpkin decorating!!! Do you like carving and decorating pumpkins? Who can decorate the best pumpkin! 🎃
- Costume contest!!! Who has the best costume? Whether it’s homemade or store bought, why not enter! 👻
*All rating is done 1 to 10. Please remember to add your name when you send it it through via email!
By Aidan C.
On Friday, October 9, 2020
By Maereg Million and Vivian Munton
On October 14, 2020
Believe it or not folks, it’s officially October! This month is filled with exciting events, such as Halloween (for those who celebrate) Indigenous People’s Day, and drum roll please… HYBRID!!!
Halloween is a fun and spooky holiday on October 31st. Normally, people would dress up in costumes, go trick or treating, and do all sorts of other fun activities! But with covid, nobody knows how halloween might go this year.
First of all, people are debating on whether we should go trick or treating this year or not. Of course, touching candy and passing it on to little kids isn’t exactly a great example of staying safe from covid. So basically, it’s gonna be different this year. Some people might have small gatherings, like a neighborhood party or family party, but still it probably won’t be the same. Do you think we should be able to go trick or treating this year?
Honestly, there might not even be much of a point in getting or making a costume. Unless you’re doing a Halloween Zoom or small gathering party, it’s not like anybody outside your family is really gonna see your costume! But nonetheless, creativity counts and what’s Halloween without costumes?
Indigenous People’s Day
Ok, so we didn’t have school on the second Monday of October. Does anyone know why? Well, you probably are thinking “Of course it’s Columbus Day, dude!” Actually, this year Wayland is switching the title of this holiday to Indigenious People’s Day. I know, I know “who cares, it’s still no school!” But it would be fun and important to learn about the people that we are remembering and why it’s not called Columbus Day in Wayland anymore. Indigenous Peoples’ Day is a holiday that celebrates and honors Native American peoples and commemorates their histories and cultures. It is celebrated across the United States on the second Monday in October, and is an official city and state holiday in various localities such as Wayland-Doesn’t it stink that not all places are remembering these wonderful people. And don’t forget that we aren’t really celebrating, the day should be set aside to continue to talk about our history and commemorate the many Native American Nations ! We are remembering them and It’s important to value and understand that Christopher Columbus was NOT the first one to discover our beautiful country. Let’s give some credit to the Indigenous Peoples who were here and thriving, not just one day, but all year round!
First day of hybrid!!
Now I don’t know how you guys feel about going hybrid, but personally, I’m super excited. Getting to FINALLY see my friends and teachers in person is gonna be WAY better than staying in a stuffy house looking at screens 5 hours a day! Although we’re going back, there are gonna be a lot of changes. We’re gonna have to bring masks, SPARE MASKS, there will be half as many people in the hallways as usual, and there’s gonna be MASK BREAKS (I find that one the most ridiculous)!! Unfortunately, this year we aren’t going to be getting lockers because it’s too hard to social distance in such close proximity which is a big bummer because that’s one of the things I was looking forward to in middle school. But look on the other side- FINALLY, WE GET TO SEE REAL PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, I hope you are pumped up for this month and whenever you are reading this, Stay Happy, Stay in the Fall mood, and Stay Safe!!!
This is Maereg Million and Vivian Munton 6th Grade Reporters signing off ’till next week!!!!!!!
Happy October Wayland Middle School!!!!!!!
Credits to Olivia Green for editing!!
By Isaac H.
On September 25, 2020
The Wayland community suffered on September 24, 2020 when Mr. David Summergrad passed away.
David was a teacher in the Wayland Public Schools until 2000 when he retired. He inspired so many students, teachers and administrators while working at the Wayland Middle School for twenty-five years. David was an amazing english and technology teacher. Mr. Summergrad also led other great programs in the Wayland Middle School including the Newspaper Club and student council. He also directed Middle School musicals, served as the English Curriculum Leader and as House Leader. He was a passionate advocate for the METCO program, even running marathons to raise money for late busses to ensure that the Boston-resident students could participate in afterschool programs without having to leave right away after school. The joy he took in working tirelessly to unlock every student’s passion for learning inspired countless teachers at the Middle School and throughout the District. David also won an award called the ‘Mary Johnson Travelship’ for his contributions to the Wayland Public Schools in 1995. After 2000, David went to become a principal in elementary and K-8 schools. He trained dozens of future teachers as a professor at Curry College’s teacher preparation program.
The superintendent of Wayland schools, had the wonderful chance to get to know David well over the last few years through his work in supporting non-profit programs that serve children.
On a number of occasions, David’s infectious enthusiasm inspired organizations to find solutions that would enable less privileged students to have access to outstanding learning experiences.
David impacted so many people, young and old. The Wayland community can really feel his absence as we offer condolences to his wife, Mary Grace, and his two daughters, Anna and Lisa.
Fun fact: Currently, Anna Summergrad, David Summergrad’s daughter, works at the Wayland Middle School as a 6th and 7th grade teacher assistant!
Zero by Brendan McGonegal
On October 2, 2020
By Uraan Choudhury
On September 25, 2020
Cam Newton started his first game with the Patriots right home in Gillette against the Dolphins, where Newton ran for 2 touchdowns, and the Patriots ran for 217 yards. As the season progressed with a 35-30 close loss to the Seahawks. Now as they head for a home game against the Raiders in Week 3, many people are wondering about the future of the Patriots. Today I will be making predictions about their schedule, if Cam Newton will stay and if future success will be found in New England.
I predict a 11-5 record. Why? The good, the Patriots defence is the best in the league, with the 2019 Defensive Player Of The Year Stephon Gilmore, and tackle machine Adrian Philips. The bad, we have the teams we face. We got an away game in Week 4, not to any team, but the former Super Bowl champs Kansas City Chiefs. Then a Week 6 home game against the NFC Champions San Francisco 49ers. Week 9 against rushing sensation QB Lamar Jackson and the Ravens in Foxborough, and the next week in the Lone Star State with Rook, or known as Deshaun Watson and his Texans. The Texans got a star packed defence with J.J Watt and Zach Cunningham. Overall it will be tough with the first season, and there will be some losses, but as they say, there are lighter days ahead. With a loss to the Seahawks, Chiefs, Ravens, 49ers and Texans, they will get an overall record of 11-5.
Cam Newton, Will He Stay?
As for now, it is too early to say. Cam Newton wants to focus on winning, not the contracts or his future. Belichiek is stubborn, and has his own opinions. If Cam Newton performs well, there will be no reason to object him and release him. But if he performs sloppy, horrible and doesn’t show good results, we will kiss him goodbye. In my opinion, I really did not like tom Brady, but I LOVE Cam Newton. I think he can be the Face Of Our franchise, the Pats.
Thanks for reading this Sports Article. Tell me what you think about the Patriots.
(You have no idea how much my little MCR stannie self had to refrain from writing “Famous Last Words”.)
So here we are. The end of the road, or at least this segment. It’s been a good long three years, Wayland Middle School. The day I went to 6th grade orientation seems like forever ago, yet I can’t believe that I’m almost done with 8th grade. The days just slip by, don’t they? It’s simultaneously been forever and a blink.
I figured it’s about time I wrote one last piece for The Orange and Black, and it might as well be a reflection on the ending of my time here — or should I say there? I doubt any of us could have predicted this three years ago.
In a way though, it almost seems fitting. I went through much of middle school in a haze, a sort of not-fully-present state that’s a part of who I am. So the disconnect caused by the quarantine for me is really only my normal mental absence.
My journey through middle school has been one of (guidance counselors listen up, you’re gonna love this) self-expression, friendship, and identity. I embraced creativity and started writing and drawing for fun. The first few months of middle school saw me with pretty much no friends, and now I have… less friends than I can count on one hand, but that’s okay because I can count to 12 (you gotta use the joints). I entered 6th grade wondering why I was so interested in this gay stuff, and I come out of 8th grade (you see where this is going) with “queer” as my label of choice (oh, yeah, if you didn’t know, I’m here, I’m queer, and I’m full of existential fear *does a coming out*) (yup, that was the point of the whole paragraph).
My mom once told a story about one of her teachers saying, “A good way to tell how old someone is is to ask them where they were when JFK was shot.” This seemed ridiculous to her class, as JFK died far, far in the past for them. But in the end, 9/11 became the chronological landmark for their generation.
To me, JFK was killed only slightly before 9/11 happened. Objectively, I know that 9/11 was much more recent and has a much larger impact on my life, but I feel about the same amount of connection with both events — perhaps 9/11 more only because more people died. To me, they’re both in The Past. Turns out I get a generational landmark tragedy anyways.
I’ve often thought that one of the biggest divides between Millennials and Gen Zers is the ability to remember 9/11: the oldest Gen Zers might have been alive, but they don’t remember it. On the other hand, the youngest Millennials’ earliest memory might be 9/11. Millennials understand the fallout. They understand how the world changed. They know what the phrase “post 9/11 world” means. We don’t. (This might be false. I guess you can burst my bubble if you really want to. It sounds pretty good though, doesn’t it?)
The understanding of the COVID-19 crisis is what will divide our generation from the next, Gen Alpha, though they are already born. Right now, we’re still in the middle. But later on, what new public health things will become routine? What will we reminisce about being so much easier in our youth?
There are things I’m never going to do because of this. I’ll never get my DC trip. The lack of dance is what bothered me the most, until I flipped through my Cape Cod memory book. Those packed days created many special memories, and DC probably would have created more of that type.
I feel extra sorry for the current 7th graders who miss Cape Cod for the allegedly more academic DC trip. 6th graders, you can get an “oof” for Walden. (You do have to admit missing a one-day bike trip is nothing compared to overnight trips.)
There’s something special about the end of the year that we’re all going to miss here. That hyper energy as everybody just wants the summer to begin. The way the sunlight seemed so much more tempting and happy packing up the last few days. Waiting to be picked up, so close to being the last time. I want to be part of that clamber again, yelling my friend’s names across the mob, cursing my locker, having strange little conversations with my locker-neighbors.
I never got to do that certain in the knowledge that it was the last time. I never got to clean out my locker for the last time, then run outside because there’s no way the teachers are going to make us do anything else at this point. I never get the final winding energy of “it’s the last day of school!”
You know what? I do feel cheated. I don’t get clapped out. I don’t get a closing ceremony. I don’t get to say a proper goodbye to my favorite teachers. I don’t get to choose the perfect book to circularly close out the year and middle school. (Fangirl, obviously. This is the book that launched me into online fandom, which has been a big part of my identity ever since I read it in 6th grade. I actually bought it a while back… maybe I’ll read it this weekend.) I don’t get to visit my old lockers or any other meaningful place one last time.
None of my classmates get this either (though I doubt many of them want the book one). No end-of-year traditions. No signing “HAGS” on the signing-papers or yearbooks of classmates you don’t really care about. No collecting thoughtful messages from your teachers on the same paper items. No hugging your friends goodbye on the last day, and forcing them to also inscribe their name on the dead tree. No reminiscing over the coincidences that led to you becoming friends in the first place. No end-of-year parties in clubs. No one gets a proper entire fourth quarter — a whole quarter of our year’s education is sub-standard.
We are all being cheated, and there isn’t a clear thief to blame. A more efficient and effective government might have made things better for us, but part of this was always going to happen — I can’t for the life of me remember where I read it, but I know I was once told that worldwide epidemics would become more common in the future because of higher inter-community mobility and population density. A new disease transmits to humans somewhere and, in the modern world, it spreads. Now the question is, will this happen again? When?
But here we are, Wayland Middle School. There was no way this could be a normal goodbye article, because that’s the way things go. I can write something nice for you anyways:
Though the journey has been long, the path ahead is longer, and the destination is yet to be known. We all began in very different places than we are in now. Some time ago, the class of 2024 walked into their first real day at the building where they would be shaped for the next three years. 540 school days later, they don’t ever get to walk out.
This is the end. We don’t get a do-over, another chance to make it right. No time-travel. The story arc doesn’t get the conclusion it deserves, but the book moves forward, climbing toward the next phase.
Goodbye, Wayland Middle School. I’ll miss you and I won’t. Thanks for everything.
See you next year, Wayland High School.
It’s been 18 days since the world as we knew it changed. 18 days since schools sent us home, social distancing became the new normal, and face masks and latex gloves became “wardrobe essentials”. 18 days of home quarantine and counting.
One day we were in school as usual, except for the rampant rumors, like the one during fifth period that ten, ten students had tested positive for the virus. Those proved to be exaggerated, but no one knew what to make of the situation. Even today, 18 days later, no one seems to know what to expect. How much longer will this last? How much worse will things get?
We learned by email from the superintendent that school was cancelled “until further notice.” Most students and workers across the country probably found out this way, or heard an announcement from their governor that schools and non-essential businesses would be closed until further notice. Until further notice? What does that mean? Weeks? Months? What are we supposed to do? Stay at home all day, every day? It sounds like if we are careful, we may not get the virus, but I think we might go stir-crazy in the process. In our house, we have five people living under the same roof, including my grandparents. Like all families, we have our moments even in the best of times. This isn’t the best of times.
This quarantine comes as Terra and I have started to become close friends. We hit it off that very first day of the semester, about two months ago. Now, that seems like an eternity, although my sense of time is warped. It was really only 3-ish months ago that Terra and I first met. Now, we’ve become inseparable. Of course, we are physically separated, but we make sure to keep in touch and create times to chat. In fact, we may even be communicating more these days, although electronically — by phone, text, and video chat.
Sometimes, I wonder if my friendship with Terra is moving too quickly. On many levels, Terra has taken the place of Marie. While no one can ever replace Marie, my re-emergence from sadness is mostly due to my developing relationship with Terra. Should I be getting this close to Terra so fast? Just months after her death? In many respects, I was living like the walking dead. My heart was beating; I had a pulse. But otherwise, I was going through the motions, not much more alive than Marie. The only thing I could really feel was sorry for myself.
I was in a bad place. I was stuck in a vicious cycle of nothingness, drifting and woesome — until that day when I stepped in to defend Terra. After that, things changed. I started to live again. Now, I can laugh and interact “normally” in school. I sing in the shower where I am a rock star. I can argue with my mother — now there’s a sign that things are getting back to normal.
While there are still times when I think about Marie and it still hurts deep down — that may never totally heal — I am no longer looking back and dwelling on Marie. My relationship with Terra has filled the void, something I thought might never happen. I now have someone to talk about things with… someone with whom to discuss just about everything: school work, classmates, teachers, future plans, or just joke around — all that, and more.
Why is it that our relationship is so strong? Is it that Terra and I are each so amazing, or that our connection is so special? Maybe a little of both. It seems a little strange that our friendship has developed to this extent in such a short amount of time. I think some of this closeness might be because Terra’s life was so disrupted before we met. Not the same as how I was traumatized, but there’s a similarity there on some level. Surely, she was fraught with anxiety over being plunked from her comfort zone and dropped into new and unfamiliar surroundings. She must have been eager to make friends. And while I was barely feeling anything, I must have yearned deep down for affection and friendship. I just didn’t recognize it.
All it took was a spark and the friendship started to blaze. Now, in retrospect, that spark came when I first approached Terra, just as Virginia had begun to bully her. A few minutes earlier, or a few minutes later, and we might not have ever “met”. Even though Terra and I are in the same homeroom, everything might have been different with that incident.
We certainly have fun together, as well as a lot in common, even though our backgrounds and some of our beliefs are different. Such as religion: she’s religious and I’m not. She believes God has a plan and I don’t even think there is a god. We talk about this stuff from time to time. When we do, we’re respectful. I think we’re mostly curious about the other’s position, exploring who’s “right” or if there’s even a “right” answer. I suspect the coronavirus must be causing lots of people to question things differently. But most of our interests and perspectives are similar to the point where we usually see eye to eye.
One of my favorite things to do with Terra is to discuss the future. We try to make plans so that we can be together as much as possible. I used to love to do this with Marie as well. We’re about to graduate from middle school and there’s so much to talk about, from graduation to summer programs, to high school, to the 8th grade dance. In fact, just before the quarantine, Terra and I were sitting together in the library, picking next year’s classes for high school!
Wow. High school. So many options, from electives to clubs. Terra and I picked mostly the same classes, except I picked Journalism and she picked Youth Leadership. Also, I take French and she takes Spanish. But otherwise, we should be together in Honors Math, Honors Science, and Honors English. And we both will be taking Social Studies, although we could get assigned different teachers.
But here we are on Day 18, and we don’t even know if there will be High School come September, four months from now. Some people are saying schools won’t be able to open by then. How do we live in limbo with suppressed hopes and dreams? I’ve been working hard, studying and following a formal schedule, but it seems sort of pointless against a backdrop of such uncertainty. No high school? Really? is that possible? The fact that people are even questioning the coming of high school is unfathomable.
We’ve already lost so much. Parts of my youth are gone. Unrecoverable. Our eighth grade spring field trip to Washington DC has been cancelled. This was supposed to be a highlight of our middle school experience, the culmination of everything as we approach graduation. Gone. What about the 8th grade dance — our version of a middle school prom — that was supposed to be at the hotel on the last night of the DC trip? Gone. And middle school graduation? That may be gone too.
I get like this every once in a while. It’s hard not to. This is such a crazy experience, and I don’t really know how to handle it. I become self-absorbed and start feeling sorry for myself. I get bummed out that I am missing out on so much. But at least I’m alive. I am alive while many others are dying, or dead. Hundreds of people are dead from the virus in Massachusetts, thousands in the US, tens of thousands in the world. So far. And people are still dying. There doesn’t seem to be any end to the dying, So when I get like this, I try to remember that at least I am safe, healthy, and alive. Same for my family and friends. I got like this with Marie too. I would dwell on how the loss of Marie affected me, all the while it was Marie that was dying. Is this bad? Am I bad? These thoughts make me feel petty and selfish.
Still, I can’t believe that, once again, I’m having to deal with death. I don’t think I’m supposed to have to deal with the drama and trauma of death at such a young age. I’m supposed to be focusing on being a good kid, good daughter, and good student. Having fun. Laughing. Sometimes crying over little things. Now, so soon after Marie’s sudden death, I am confronted by something even more unthinkable: a pandemic that’s claiming lives all over the world. Now, again, I am having to deal with death. Not only has my best friend passed, but a pandemic has hit, and it’s killing so many people. People who have family and friends, just like Marie. It’s hard to make any sense of any of this, but I try. And I’ll keep trying.
~ ~ ~
The days have started to blur together. Every day is the same repetitive schedule. Some people probably do nothing. I have a scheduled routine for each weekday. But it’s hard to keep one day separate from the next. By our second week of quarantine, the school started to give us review work and practice sheets to “keep our minds engaged” while they figured something out, but it’s nothing like real school.
I miss going places. I especially miss seeing Terra at school, hearing her voice in person. Seeing her smile– a small, closed-lipped, corners quirked upwards grin at first, evolving into a teeth showing beam as she gets happier. I’m even starting to miss school. Anything would be better than this. Everything feels bland. At school, before Terra showed up, I used to isolate myself from the other students. Maybe, if I’d known that soon I would be forced into this seemingly endless quarantine, I would have made more of an effort to interact with my fellow students. For now though, I’m stuck at home 24/7 with the same surroundings and schoolwork that doesn’t really teach me anything.
“Terra!” My mother shouts up the stairs. “Where are you? It’s about to start!”
“I’m coming!” I call back as I type one final sentence on my laptop. I shut my computer before sprinting downstairs to my parents’ office. That’s where we keep the monitor with the biggest screen.
“Oh good,” she sighs upon seeing me. She beckons to me with a wave of her arm. “Come over here,” she says. I walk over to where they sit on the study chairs, and my mom pulls me over to sit in between them. “We don’t want to be late for the service,” she frets.
My mother is referring to our Sunday church service, which is now streamed live on YouTube. About a week after the quarantine began in our area, our priest sent out an email informing everyone that our weekly church services would be moved online. Since then, we have been tuning in every Sunday, at the same time we would usually go to church, to listen to his sermons. Of course, we do this in our PJs instead of our Sunday best. I guess that’s a good thing. Small things have become big things. Hanging out in our PJs is sort of fun and cozy, but it’s starting to get old.
I haven’t seen anyone other than my family members in person for a couple of weeks now. Every day, my parents call in to their work meetings, and I go through my classes via video chat. I haven’t even talked to Anna in a while, and I can’t remember the last time I went outside for an extended period of time…
Abruptly realizing I’d tuned out, I refocus as the priest mentions an event. Something about making baked goods to support our local healthcare workers. At that, I perk up. I remember Anna liked making cupcakes… I think she was even telling me on the phone the other day about these special dark chocolate cupcakes she used to make. I know she hasn’t made any in a while… since her friend died, but maybe she can teach me, and we can make them together for the event! Well… as “together” as over a video chat can be. When the service ends, I pick up the phone to call Anna.
“Hello?” Anna’s voice rings out over the telephone.
“Hey, Anna,” I start. “I just had the best idea!”
I listen as Terra describes the baking event for the healthcare workers on the front lines. When she finishes, I exclaim, “Terra, that’s a great idea! What are you going to bake?”
“Well…” She starts, “I was thinking you could teach me to make those special dark chocolate cupcakes you were talking about?” I freeze for a second, just long enough for her to add, “You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it! I totally understand if that’s too touchy. I know it was something special you and…” Terra pauses. “Marie had. I-”
“No!” I cut in quickly, and Terra stops. “I’d love to teach you! Do you want to video chat on… Tuesday? I can show you how to make them then?” And although we’re only talking over the phone, I swear I can see Terra beaming her wide, happy grin.
“Great!” She says. “I’ll see you then!” And she hangs up.
At that point, laying on my bed, I stare up at the cracked, aging paint of my ceiling. Lost in blank thought, I mindlessly inspect the peeling coat. After a bit of suspended time, I start to move, pushing off my bed to get up, and heading downstairs to the pantry in the kitchen. Opening the cabinet doors and moving aside a bag of coffee grains, two unused bags of dark chocolate are revealed, right where I had left them since giving one to Terra the first day she came to visit me. Otherwise, the stack has been untouched since… since Marie.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath in. A deep breath out. When I open my eyes again, I reach into the pantry and extract one of the bags. One hand braced on the cabinet door, I bring it to my nose and take a deep breath in. The bittersweet scent of dark chocolate hits my nose, filling me with the aroma of childhood memories and nostalgia from just a few months ago when I was making dark chocolate cupcakes for Marie. Not long ago on the calendar, but yet a lifetime away. A wave of solemness hits me as I return it to its place on the shelf.
“Well, at least I know it’s still good,” I mutter to myself. Taking another deep breath, I close the pantry doors. It’ll be good to finally use those bags. They certainly don’t do anyone any good just sitting there. At least this way I’ll be using them to support local healthcare workers. Maybe even the same ones who took care of Marie. The possibility hits me suddenly and I feel as though I’ve just tripped over my own thoughts. Then, I nod my head resolutely. Yes, this is the right thing to do. And with that, I walk away from the bags of dark chocolate sitting behind the closed pantry doors. I walk away feeling lighter than before. Maybe I’ll even have one of those cupcakes.
The Other Girl
It’s been two months since Marie’s death. Two whole months without my best friend. Two whole months to mourn and cry and move on.
But I can’t find it in me to stop moping around. I can barely make it to school, let alone through school. I have no friends, and I don’t try to make friends. People sometimes approach me (adults mostly), make an effort to cheer me up… to no effect. In fact, I usually don’t even “hear” them.
I feel lost. Marie and I were sort of outsiders at school. Other kids mostly stayed away from us; if we didn’t bother them, they wouldn’t bother us… and we were fine with that because we had each other. Of course, that left me lonelier than ever when Marie died. I had no other friends to support me… just the solitude of my own thoughts.
My mom allowed me the day of the funeral and the day after off from school, but no longer. She told me it would be “good for me to get back into the swing of things,” but it’s not working. I go through the motions of everyday life — wake up, eat breakfast, go to school — but it’s an empty feeling. Sometimes, when I’m wandering the halls, I find myself reflexively turning around to tell Marie something, only to realize that she’s not there, that she’ll never be there. And then I sheepishly lumber on, more isolated, more sad.
Being alone in my thoughts all the time is the worst experience, because I don’t have any good thoughts. My biggest problem after dealing with my loneliness is trying to make sense of what happened. I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t understand how this could have happened; it just seems so random. If something like this can happen to Marie at such an early age, so suddenly, what’s the point? It can happen to any of us. It can happen to me. I could have been Marie. Why am I trying so hard to be a good friend, daughter, student, if things can change so suddenly? Marie had an illness, but she could have been hit by a drunk driver, or even lightning.
I don’t have any answers, which makes it harder. I just have my routine. I don’t have to think about that. I get up, go to school, come home, do my homework, have dinner with my mom, do more homework, shower, go to sleep (or at least try, often unsuccessfully for long stretches of time). The worst part of the routine is dinner with my mom. She tries hard to engage me, cheer me up, suggest activities and things I can do. I know she means well. I mumble my thoughts here or there, but mostly I sit silently, and the silence just makes me feel worse. Still, there is comfort in my routine, especially as a distraction from my thoughts.
So I get up every day and go through my routine. No one bothers me. It’s lonely, but I’m not sure how to do anything else right now. The other kids whisper about me at school, about “that sad girl whose friend died.” Not necessarily in an intentionally mean way, more filled with pity. They feel badly for me, but they haven’t really tried to reach out. And I haven’t tried to encourage them, haven’t extended myself to make friends. By this age, we’ve all settled into our cliques: the popular kids, nerdy kids, athletic kids, geeky kids, eclectic kids. We seem to have found our comfort zones. These kinds of things don’t change very easily in the best of times, and this isn’t the best of times.
Other kids are not the only thing I’ve been ignoring since Marie’s death. Unopened bars of dark chocolate sit in our cupboard. The expensive, fancy kind that Marie used to like so much. The last time I’d touched one was the day I found out. I was in the process of making Marie’s favorite dark chocolate cupcakes, but I never got to finish them. It hurts to think that Marie never got to eat them. Now, I can’t bring myself to touch them, although I can’t bring myself to throw them out either. So they just sit there, pushed to the back of the shelf, behind the heavy cupboard doors, ignored.
This morning, I ate my breakfast in silence. My mom looked like she wanted to tell me something, but I left before she got the chance. Whatever suggestion or encouragement she had for me, I didn’t want to hear it. When I walk into school, trudging my way to my locker, I hear a banging noise. I look up to see a small, skinny girl I don’t recognize, watching with distress as Virginia and her gang dump out her books from her backpack. I flinch. Virginia is one of the most popular, brattiest girls in school. She used to tease and bully Marie and I. I duck my head and begin to walk past, ignoring the ruckus. I don’t want to draw Virginia’s attention to me. But as I look up again at the unfamiliar girl, something makes me stop in my tracks. I think back to the time when Virginia had taken Marie’s bag. I’d stood up for Marie then, stepping up in front of Virginia. Before I realized what I was doing, I approached Virginia, empty backpack in hand.
“Leave her alone.” I said, standing between the dazed and intimidated girl and the bullies.
“Or what?” Virginia snarled in my face. “Are you gonna tell on me?” A few of the girls standing behind her chuckled, and I drew myself up a little taller. Virginia had always seemed taller than everyone else, but I realized that if I stood up tall, we are actually the same height. I looked her in the eyes.
“Give her bag back.” I said. I felt someone move behind me and the new girl shifted so that she was standing next to me. She still seemed afraid, but was glaring at Virginia with strikingly bright green eyes. Virginia looked back and forth between the two of us, uncomfortably. She’d always liked easy prey, probably the reason she had chosen to pick on this timid-looking, seemingly lost, smallish girl. But after I stood up for Marie, Virginia backed down and found someone else to pick on. This time, she threw the girl’s backpack on the floor and just smirked, before turning and stalking off, followed by the other girls.
Today is my first day at my new school. I wish it was the actual first day of school, but it’s January 4th, the first day of the second semester. We just moved here over the holidays because my father got transferred from Milton, Georgia, a town of approximately 40,000 people known for its top ranked school system, located 30 miles or so north of Atlanta. I didn’t want to move but it’s not like I had any choice. We spent most of Christmas vacation packing, driving, and unpacking. Christmas day was nice, but I mostly received cold weather clothes. I wanted wireless earbuds, but I didn’t get anything cool like that.
The thing I fear most is jumping into school in the middle of the year. I worry about both the classes and the kids. Where will I fit in? Is my math up to the level of their math? Will I be able to break in and make new friends? I’ve never felt this combination of fear and anxiety, along with anticipation and excitement. At my old school, when new kids arrived, everyone would be extra friendly and often they were making friends in no time. What would it be like here?
I have a few minutes before I need to go out and catch the bus. There’s snow on the ground. It looks cold, the opposite of what you would call inviting. It’s downright intimidating. We don’t have snow in Atlanta, except on unusual occasions, and never this much snow. It’s rarely, if ever this cold. Before I put on my new warm puffy jacket, pom-pom hat, and gloves, I pause to say a prayer. It’s a familiar prayer, but I add an extra line: “God, I know you have a plan for everything, please help make this one of your better ones. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” I cross myself and then go hug my parents before picking up my backpack and setting out on this new day, the first day of the rest of my life.
As I approach the bus stop, a few kids are congregating. At first, it looks like they are smoking, but I learn that’s fog from their warm breath converging with the cold air. My breath is doing the same thing as I play around with short and long bursts of air. As I get closer, I notice that no one is talking. I figure this is because it is cold. I ask a younger girl if this is the bus stop for my school and she nods and looks away, as if I was asking a stupid question. It was just my way of saying hi, but at least I know I am in the right place, waiting for the right bus. Then the bus comes and the ride is pretty uneventful. Some kids are conversing, and there is one really loud boy in the back, bragging about something, most likely exaggerating what he did on Christmas vacation. After about 10 minutes, the bus arrives at school along with a lot of other buses and kids stream in through four doors, bunching up to make it through.
I had visited the school the previous day and so I sort of knew where my classes are and where my locker is located. The first thing I do is head towards my locker, put my backpack on the ground, and dial the combination. I had memorized it: 32-6-27. Then, I notice that a girl starts to approach me, sauntering somewhat exaggeratedly with three other girls in tow. She is dressed fancier than I am, wearing white denim jeans and a sleek, leopard print jacket with fur around the cuffs and collar. My first thought is: how is she not freezing to death? The girl walks right up to me with her friends close behind and my heart swells. Maybe these well-dressed kids are part of the welcoming committee! I look at them eagerly.
“Well, who do we have here?” the lead girl barks at me.
“Hi, my name is Terra,” I respond, “nice to meet you!” I stick out my hand and she looks down at it for a second, like it’s a foreign object.
Then she blurts out: “Oh would you look at that. She knows her own name!” The girls snicker at me and I lower my hand in confusion, smile slipping off. The lead girl whirls back around on her heels, smirking at me. “Why don’t we help the new girl with her bags? A little ‘welcome present’ from us to her.” So I was right, they are part of the welcome committee. But as I smile up at them, the girl snatches the bag out of my hands, unzips it, and tips it over, dumping out the contents.
“Hey!” I shout, “What are you doing?!” She doesn’t respond and gives my bag one final shake. Just then, another girl happens down the corridor, does a double-take, and somehow decides to intervene, stepping between the lead girl and me. Maybe God is watching over me today. About time! I mumble to myself. Her brown ponytail swings as she boldly confronts them, diffusing the drama and causing the other girl to huff and walk away, evidently deciding this encounter isn’t worth any more effort.
“So,” says the girl who’d scared away the bullies, “what’s your name?” We were now bent over, picking my books off of the hallway floor and stuffing them back into my backpack.
“O-oh,” I stutter, surprised to hear her talking to me “I’m Terra.” She looks up from helping me pick up my things. With muddy brown eyes, she eyeballs me, sizing me up as we all do in that first nano-second when we meet someone. I guess she didn’t really get to see who I was when she stepped in between the bullies and me.
“Hi,” she says, “I don’t recognize you. Are you new around here?”
“Yes.” I confirm, “my family and I just moved here from Atlanta over Christmas. My father got transferred.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Anna.” she pronounces, standing up. She wipes off her jeans as she sticks out her hand. I zip up my backpack and shake her hand back, swinging my backpack back over my shoulder. She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head at me “What homeroom are you in?” she asks.
“Cool, that’s my homeroom too, Mrs. Grammercy, she’s strict but fair,” she says, smiling. “I’m headed over there now. Come on, you don’t want to be tardy on your first day!” She proclaims. And just like that, we’re off together strolling down the hall and into Room 126. Maybe not a “welcoming committee,” but certainly a nice outcome after all.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. I didn’t really expect to be standing up to Virginia, but it was exhilarating. It reminded me of how Marie and I would help each other. Looking at Terra as we approach our homeroom, she seems to remind me of a younger and more slight version of Marie, herself on the smallish side. Something provoked me to want to protect her. I feel like I’ve known her before. It’s strange. I almost laugh out loud: the first new person I meet and I’m drawn to her because she reminds me of Marie. Then, I do smile. Wait until my mom hears about today.
“What’s so funny?” asks the other girl, observing the smile playing on my lips.
“Oh, nothing.” I reply, “Well actually everything right now. Everything seems funny.” I look back over to Terra and she is glancing upwards, her lips moving silently. She seems to be…praying? She notices me observing and smiles. “It worked out because it is all part of His plan. It was one of his good ones.” She smiles again as she walks into the classroom, looking more comfortable and self-assured.
His plan? Who’s plan? God’s plan? She’s actually talking about God having a plan, and a good plan at that? Evidently so. Hmm, I say to myself, how can God have a plan when something like Marie’s illness can occur? Marie shouldn’t have died this young. She should’ve lived a long and happy life. I should still have my best friend. How could this be anyone’s plan? Her illness struck so suddenly. It all seems so…random. Then the bell rings and snaps me away from my confused thoughts and back to my routine. I lead Terra and direct her to a seat next to me just as our homeroom begins to make announcements.
I learn later that day that the girls that had dumped out the contents of my bag are considered the “popular kids”, led by a girl named Virginia. That was another thing that we didn’t have at my old school. The well-liked kids there were generally that way for a reason; they were nice and/or respected for their abilities and talents. Sure, there were cliques, but this kind of bullying was never present at my old school, it just wasn’t tolerated.
But for now, at least, Virginia and her crew seem to be keeping their distance. Basically, they are ignoring me, and Anna seems really nice. It was great the way she stood up for me. But I miss my old friends and I can tell that this place is different: it just doesn’t seem as warm and friendly as my old school. I was warned that people up north were more reserved and distant, initially less friendly, but I didn’t expect this on the first day. My teachers have introduced me or asked me to tell the class my name, but otherwise, no one has bothered to ask.
Still though, it’s only been a few classes. We still have recess and lunch. I look forward to talking more to Anna and learning about her. She seems…different. She’s obviously warm and friendly, but she also seems somewhat aloof and withdrawn. In fact, she hasn’t introduced me to any of her other friends, which makes me wonder who she was hanging out with before I arrived.
Gesturing my arm towards the back corner of the cafeteria, I say to Terra, “This is where I usually eat.” Two or three other girls sit at the opposite end of the table, whispering amongst themselves. They glance over at Terra and she gives them a broad smile and a friendly wave. The girls just roll their eyes before turning back to each other. Terra looks over the table once before plunking down and opening her lunchbox from home. “I have to go buy lunch,” I say, pointing towards the increasingly long lunch line. Terra nods at me once before tearing into a ham and cheese sandwich, and I turn around and take my spot in the lunch line. As I pass through the line and today’s lunch of soggy pizza is plopped on my tray, I wonder about Terra, her background, family, friends, school, etc. I grab a cardboard carton of lukewarm milk before heading back towards our table. I spot the table and Terra is…she’s… sitting by those girls. Talking to them. I gawk slightly at her, chatting happily, seemingly as if they’d been lifelong friends. Terra and two of the other girls suddenly burst out laughing at what the third one said. How is she making friends so quickly? I wonder to myself. And on her first day here too? Terra spots me standing a few feet from the table and waves me over with a wide grin on her face. I walk over cautiously and sit down next to her. “So I see you’ve made some new friends.” I say. She nods eagerly and turns back towards them, smiling the whole time. She does have a warm, infectious smile. Gotta give her that. I think I used to have a smile like that, but I haven’t been in a smiling mood for some time, given all that’s transpired.
I did it! I’m making new friends. I feel proud of myself as I throw out my wrappers and stack little plastic containers back into my lunch box. Anna throws out what’s left of her lunch and stacks the tray neatly with the others. As we walk in silence down the hallway on the way to our next class, she abruptly turns to me.
“Terra…do you want to come over to my house tomorrow after school?” she asks.
“Sure,” I respond, “I’d love to, let me check with my mother, but sounds great,” I say as I notice a smile flickering on Anna’s face as she heads into the classroom. As enthused as I feel about meeting Anna and her invitation to get together after school tomorrow, I am thrown off a little by her demeanor. She seems smart and nice, but something is a little different. Not sure what it is. Still, we have the same homeroom and a lot of the same classes, especially the advanced classes, so I’m looking forward to getting to know her better. Very excited, actually.
The rest of the day passes without incident. Before I know it, I’m waiting outside in the freezing cold for my bus to arrive. I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to restore some heat to my frozen limbs and wishing for the warmer weather of Atlanta. When my bus arrives, I hustle on, claiming a seat for myself; the other kids grab seats next to their friends, or try to get one for themselves. Once we start driving, kids gossip and laugh loudly. Even inside the bus, the air is very cold. I bunch up in my coat until the bus finally arrives at my stop, and I quickly get off after thanking the bus driver (seemingly surprised by my niceties), and dash inside.
As the warm air hits and wraps around me, I sigh in relief and shuck off my outer garments. I walk into the kitchen to get a snack, where I see my mother sitting at the counter, a laptop open in front of her. The swirling white marble counter makes the sun-kissed tone of her skin pop, tan from so many years of living down South. Her dirty blond hair falls neatly to her shoulders and her emerald eyes sparkle in the sunlight. The corners of her eyes wrinkle as she smiles at me, but she still looks young, pretty. Everyone tells me I look a lot like my mom, with our shared hair and eye colors, but I think I look more plain.
“How was your day?” she asks me.
“Good,” I respond, tugging open the fridge to find a snack, “I made some new friends,” ignoring the part about my early encounter with Virginia.
“Great!” she says smiling back at me, “your father’s still at work, but when he gets home he’ll want to hear about everything.” Unpeeling a banana, I suddenly remember,
“Hey mom, can I go over to this girl Anna’s house tomorrow? She invited me and seems really nice. We have a lot of classes together. I told her I would check with you and get back to her.” I ask, taking a bite of my fruit.
“Sure,” she responds, “just give me her parents phone numbers so I can arrange it with them.” She turns back to her computer, and I smile as I make my way upstairs to my room.
“Hi Mom,” I call out as I open the door. I plop my bag down on the ground as she pokes her head around the corner.
“Hey, honey,” she greets, “How’s school?” Her forehead is slightly wrinkled in worry and a concerned smile appears on her lips. I ignore these things as I extract my homework from my backpack.
“Good. I think I made a new friend today. There’s a new girl that just moved here from Atlanta. We have the same homeroom and a lot of classes together. She seems really nice,” I say as I hear her feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she walks towards me. When I look up, she’s smiling broadly.
“That’s great Anna!” she gushes, “I’m so happy for you!” I stand up and my mom wraps her arms around me, engulfing me in a big, bear hug. I hug her back, smiling, before pulling back a little to look at her.
“Can she come over after school tomorrow?” I ask. My mom still has her arms around
me, still beaming.
“Of course,” my mom exclaims, “I can’t wait to meet her!” as I disengage.
“Thanks mom,” I say, before grabbing my homework and heading down the hall to my room.
I text Anna that my mom says it’s OK to go to her house tomorrow. I also have a question about one of the math problems in our homework. She says she’s been struggling with the same problem. Together, we manage to figure it out. That’s a good sign. Good signs everywhere, I hope it’s a omen of more good things to come. I’m so excited.
I can’t wait to spend tomorrow afternoon together with Terra. I have so much to ask her about her life, so much I want to know. I’m sure she feels the same way. Then, I get a little worried. I guess that means I’m going to have to tell her about Marie. How will that go over? Do I even want to go there? Realizing that she’s going to find out sooner or later, I decide it’s better that she hears it from me. So I start to anticipate the conversation. How will I start? I think I’m going to have to just sit her down and tell her there’s something I have to discuss. Then, I’ll probably just blurt it out. I hope I don’t cry, but I suspect I will. I wonder what she will think. I’m worried that she’ll realize that I’m a borderline basketcase, that I haven’t really dealt with Marie’s death. But on the other hand, it might be good to talk about all this, to get it out.
Then, I start to wonder about Terra: “What’s with this religious thing?” She thinks God has a plan and is an active force in life. I think things are random, I can’t imagine how there’s such a thing as a plan. Who would plan for the horrors, not just Marie’s death, but school shootings, and worse, wars and plagues. I don’t see a plan. I don’t think we live our lives as if there’s a plan. I think we just have to do the best we can do to make our lives good, to be good, do well, and try to have fun in the process. If bad things happen, we have to overcome them, I say to myself, realizing that I’ve been doing the opposite.
Maybe it’s time to move on. I can’t hold on to the bad memories forever. Marie…Marie would want me to be happy, so maybe it’s time I start trying.
Anna and I were able to take the school bus home to her house today. She lives in a moderate-sized house on a nice street, her house is panelled with white wood, turning brown at the bottom edges as mold and mildew starts to climb up the exterior, feeding on the beginning to rot wood. This is an old house, a house with history that’s been lived in for a while. Despite the age though, the house looks inviting, the shades are all thrown open, as if welcoming the sunlight inside, and bright flower pots brimming with wide-petaled pink flowers have been placed inside on the windowsills, as if to serve as reminders that Spring is not too far off. Not to mention that it was cold again today, and Anna and I were shivering by the time we got off of the bus. So it sure felt good to get inside. They have a gas fireplace which we turned on and stood by for a while to warm up, when all of a sudden, a woman’s voice called out from down a hallway.
“Anna? Is that you?” The voice shouted. There was a rustling sound as a middle aged woman comes out of a doorway down the hallway and walks to the living area. I see the resemblance between the woman — who I assume is Anna’s mom — and Anna, in their chocolate brown hair and muddy brown eyes, as well as the proud way they walk and stand with their chins up and their backs straight. “Oh!” the woman exclaims, “You must be Terra.” She holds out a hand, “I’m Anna’s mom, nice to meet you.” I shake her hand back, responding,
“Nice to meet you too.”
“It’s always good to see that Anna’s making some new friends.” Anna’s mom steps back. “Well, I have some work to do. I trust you girl’s will be fine on your own?” She looks over at Anna who nods.
“I can show Terra around.” Anna responds.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” And with that, Anna’s mom disappears back down the hallway, ducking back into the room.
When my mom ducks back into her office, I turn to Terra, “Are you hungry?” I ask.
“You bet,” she responds. “I’m starving after those laps we had to run in gym class today.” I lead Terra over to the kitchen, pointing her over to the cupboard to look for some snacks while I open the fridge to explore myself.
“Whoa!” Terra exclaims from behind me, “Where did you get these?” I turn around to see Terra clutching a bar of gourmet dark chocolate and I freeze. I’d stacked up six of those bars towards the back of the second shelf. I don’t know what to do or say. Those bars have been untouched since Marie’s death. “This is really high quality stuff!” says Terra, “I love dark chocolate, it’s one of my favorite things.” She looks up at me, suddenly nervous, remembering that this is not her chocolate. “Can I have some?” she asks tentatively. For a second, I’m struck by the instinct to tell her to put it back, that she can’t have some because those are Marie’s special dark chocolate bars. They were her favorite, I thought about saying, I’m saving those for Marie. But then I remember. And I nod with a small smile. Someone should get to enjoy those bars.
Author’s Note: While this story stands on its own, it is written as a continuation of the Gold Key award winning short story “Dark Chocolate” (essentially, Chapter Two). The original story will be renamed as “Marie” (Chapter One) and the novel itself will be titled “Dark Chocolate”.
A Cry for Acknowledgement of All Us Asian Americans (For My Mother)
My mother has taught me many things
about race and racism
She has many opinions
that she shares with me
I know not how to turn them to prose
So I write these lines instead
My mother is ABC:
American Born Chinese
Her parent immigrated here
a very long time ago
She was raised in this country,
Born in this country
She speaks English
Her Mandarian twice as good as mine
But not nearly as good as her parents’
She is American
She is Chinese
She is Chinese-American
The hyphen connects her identities
It connects the country her parents come from
and the country she comes from
The country I come from
It represents her
But the hyphen also
makes it seem like
one must qualify
what kind of American they are
“I’m American and also Asian”
With a space, it becomes
“I am Asian and a American”
All at once
I will use
a hyphen for us
because I’ve already made it poetic
and a space for everyone else
because it’s trendy
and what I said above
III. Omitted Narratives, Forgotten Stories
But sometimes people don’t see that
my mother is American
Sometimes people don’t tell
the stories of her people
the stories of Asian Americans
Stories of America
The same America
of the Gold Rush
of the Civil War
of the railroads
That America chooses to leave us out
Some of these stories I only hear now,
In my idle searching
Our landmarks are so erased from the books
I never learn of
Asian American firsts
So I will tell you now
how these stories go
People know many Chinese miners
came for the California Gold Rush
But do they know the Chinese miners’ distinctive clothes
made them the targets
of white miners’ violent frustration
at all foreigners?
We have all learned about the Civil War
so often forgotten,
ignored in their small numbers,
were there too
Along with Pacific Islanders,
Mostly for the Union
Sometimes for the Confederacy
Often without citizenship
Always for a country
that told them they were
The railroads represent
the peak of steam power
A shining accomplishment
and a demonstration of America’s superiority,
they have fallen into
When they were the future,
Chinese workers built them
Many were killed or injured
But they were not allowed
to be in the picture
that was taken when
the two lines finally met
Connecting a country
that would soon stop all people like them,
from entering it
The same year
became the first African American
to play for Major League Baseball
a Japanese American,
broke the color barrier
for professional basketball
Why have I heard one’s name but never the other’s?
Jazz was created by African Americans
its history is filled with
I never knew Asian Americans
had a whole Asian American Jazz movement
in the ‘70s and ‘80s
with the sounds of our classical instruments
When the space shuttle Challenger broke apart
killing seven people,
including Christa McAuliffe,
Ellison Onizuka was onboard
He had been the first Asian American
and the first person of Japanese descent
to reach space
These are omitted narratives,
Pages never put in
Words no one thought to write
But still only a few
of the stories tossed aside
For not being dramatic enough
For not being revolutionary enough
For not making America better enough
Whose heros could have been found within these tales?
Who could have found the first person
to do the things they wanted to do
if they only had heard this?
Who would have been inspired,
knowing there was a place for people like them
- No, I’m Telling You it’s Racist
When my mom was at school,
Classmates would mock everything
from Asian eyes
while referencing Asain stereotypes of laborers and beggars
“Dirty knees, skinned knees”
to her parent’s language
“Hahaha, what does ‘ching chong’ mean anyways?”
an entire language
filled with delicate sounds
and intricate idioms
A language that so much had been
To a few silly sounds
“It’s just a joke”
I don’t really know
how often this happened
what the kids’ intentions were
or how much it hurt my mother
(One thing many children of Asain American immigrants
have in common
is keeping their feelings hidden)
But I do know
Kids don’t say stuff like this to directly tease anymore
but it still shouldn’t be said at all
even by Chinese kids themselves
(my mom told me, clearly quoting something, that it’s called “self-hating racism”)
at its core
in its origin
to the point of inextricability
And I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell people this
- Hey, is Anyone Even Listening?
I have heard
Asian American kids
don’t bother to speak up
about the racism they face
Because they know no one will listen
(I have my sources)
I know of people
who are speaking up
But no one is listening
My mother listened,
to a panel on Asian American health
It focused on the children of immigrants
but could apply,
to an extent,
to all Americans of Asian descent
When she tried to share what she learned
it seemed like
No one was listening
Did you know that
have the second highest rate of depression?
another “invisible minority,”
But the symptoms of depression
in Asian Americans
They keep showing up
They keep “doing well”
They keep getting good grades
There are stories
where kids show up
Until the day
they can’t take it
because of a breakdown
No warning signs
Asian Americans see themselves so little
in the media
in their curriculum
in their teachers
in their idols
that they often end up thinking of themselves
There is nothing for them
so they take what they can get
to fit in
There is no place
for Asian Americans
to talk to each other
and form their identities
So they drop the “Asian”
They drop their parents and/or grandparents stories
of sacrifice and hard work
They drop amazing cultural legacies
they were never told of
They drop who they really are
Even though they can never drop
the way they are seen
stereotypes and microaggressions
(parents, people, themself)
and become just
Some of the other things my mother learned
that apply to me
(to an extent):
Asian Americans internalize perfection and allow performance to define self-worth
There is no emotional crash
like thinking I’ve done something poorly
that I thought I was great at
Asian Americans don’t ask for help
I think of it as waiting
until there is solid proof I need it
And I’m not lying
It’s because we don’t want to be a burden
If you want me
to admit I need something to be explained again,
you need to ask twice
Because I hate bothering anyone
My mother tells me to speak up
So here are my words
Are you listening?