October 31

The Psoriasis Psuperhero

 

By: Kennedy Ross

   A shirt that is 2 sizes too big and is burned too bright is a shirt that has encompassed the last 6 years of my life.

   Starting since I was 10 years old, I have had Psoriasis, a chronic and autoimmune disease that severely affects your skin with plaques. The moment I knew I had this, the world had stopped. Everything had paused. I was alone with no one to help me. I was in a world that knocked me from a happy and colorful road to the rough and gravel filled sides. Though 2.2% of the U.S. population, or 7.5 million, have Psoriasis, it seemed like none of those people understood. I thought to myself, “where could they be?”

   Though I started out petrified and confused, like a deer in headlights, I have continued my journey for 6 years, where I have learned to be proud of my disease and to not hide from it. Since then, I have stumbled upon NPF, the National Psoriasis Foundation, which took me from a small force that had only recently felt empowered, to a household name of many NPF ambassadors, volunteers, and speakers.

   I had become a sort of celebrity in this community, but I realized that being optimistic was not enough to bring awareness of this disease. Relying on adult volunteers and fundraisers to spread my name was not enough, so I had to expand my reach.

   The first thing I did was to submit an application to be a Youth Ambassador. At the time, I thought this was pointless because I knew that I would probably never get picked to hold such a prestigious role. But, sure enough, 6 weeks later, I became a Youth Ambassador! Now knowing that I was worthy of grasping this position, I started to raise money for NPF and attended all of the events that they held in my area. Every time I went to these events, I was given a shirt.

   Since I had raised so much money for every event, I got a special shirt. A shirt that makes you stand out in the crowd, no matter if you want to or not. A shirt that trapped people when they glanced over to you and forced them to walk over you in a trance-like state. It is a shirt that is as luminous as a traffic cone, but it is a shirt that encloses my need to donate and raise awareness for this disease.  

   Every time I take out my shirt and glaze over it, I realize just how much this shirt has done for me. It has reminded me that I stand out in the crowd and attract people to me. It has also taught me to continue to bring about more knowledge to Psoriasis and to fight for a cure.

   Overall, this shirt has changed my life for the better and has taught me the power of being positive, which is a power that should be spread more often throughout the world.

 

October 30

A Souvenir of a Journey and a Friendship

By Kelly Virgin

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The honking horn shouted my excitement up to the third floor apartment window. School year over. Check! Car packed. Check! Friend picked up. Almost check! Ahead of us stretched miles of open road and a full thirty days of possibility and adventure.

A few hours into that first day of our trip, I pulled my Convertible Mini Cooper, burnt orange and overloaded with luggage, off the Blue Ridge Parkway and into a little rest stop. Jill, my co-pilot, fueled up as I ventured into the tiny store to re-up on car snacks. While waiting in line to check out, a flash of vibrant purple caught my eye. I juggled the bags of pizza combos and liters of caffeine into one arm and reached out for the little handmade souvenir. It’s swirl of purple seed petals and bright yellow center screamed to join us on our southern road trip, so I placed it on the counter along side the snacks. A few moments later, before shifting into gear, I absent-mindely wound the stiff green wire around the base of my rear view mirror.

And so, from this central location, the little flower accompanied us across state lines – traveling as far west as the Mississippi, and as far south as the Gulf. She navigated congested cities and cruised down long, vast stretches of nothing. She visited Graceland and the Biltmore. Sat outside hostels and motels. She sat idlly in a garage in Baton Rouge while Winnie, the Mini Cooper, got a new break switch and Jill and I explored New Orleans on foot. 

She listened to three audio books (two Harry Potters and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil) and countless road-trip themed play lists. She overheard long talks about life and love and teaching and future plans and past memories. She eavesdropped on the irritation-driven bickering that is unavoidable when two people share less than 20 cubic feet for 8, 9, 10 hour stretches. She witnessed the wonder on our faces as we crested mountains and rounded corners into the new and the unknown. 

At the end of our long month away, the little sovenier watched as I helped unload luggage, and laundry, and road trip mementos onto the front step of that same three story apartment where our adventures began. And she witnessed what would be one of the last hugs and final goodbyes of an old friendship. As summer shifted into a new year and our lives grew busier, our once close-knit relationship drifted apart. By the following summer, our friendship had turned into little more than a Facebook status. 

Now, many years and a more practical car later, that seeded souvenir still hangs from my rear-view mirror. A few of the petals are broken, the once vibrant violet is faded to a ghost of a purple, and the yellow-center has long fallen out. But, when trudging back and forth through my daily routine, a glimpse at this worn souvenir can still flash me back to the long open road, curving through mountains, wind knotting my hair, and a good friend co-piloting the journey.

October 30

Memory Writing

It was a cold winter night. One that was sure to bring snow later- if only you could wait for it.

There was a fire in the hearth that would pop sporadically from time to time. The black leather couch, scored with years of dog claws and worn by the constant rubbing of people, was pulled up close to it- a rare occasion. Normally it would be back against the wall.

The Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner, a rather interesting sight of whatever different colored lights we could find and random decorations from years past. Red stockings- surprisingly new and clean, (dad sewed them together) were hung up two a hook on either side of the fire so they would stay that way.

The carpet that would normally be spread across the floor was rolled up and put aside to make room for the couch. The overhead fan light glowed and shined brightly- the brightest light in the room. Finally, the piano light was on, adding to the skew of yellows in the room.

The fire emitted a warmth that we all wanted to be closer to. We. There we were, all piled up on the couch- 6 of us, minus mom. We could hear her in the kitchen, baking something for another day. The smell was delicious, but nobody would even consider moving from their perch- it was far too cold for that. The warmth from the fire seeped through our layers, warming us so that we would sigh in delight.

Oboe, my dog, was curled up on my lap, pretending to be smaller than she really was. It was a special time and place, that, under any other circumstances, would be quite annoying. But for now, we were content to squeeze onto the small couch. Next to me, my brother’s nasty old blanket he always kept around was a barrier for him against the cold. There were three other blankets on the couch, I had one, the one with the many holes, that used to be white.

I shared it with the youngest, Natalie, the baby of the family. We stroked Oboe gently together, listening to dad read a story beloved by all of us. “My side of the Mountain.” An audio record couldn’t have done a better job of reading that book than dad. His deep, reverberating voice carried easily above the comforting crackle of the fire as we sat there, trying to maintain a seat on the couch, just listening. It was the best kind of silence. We never wanted it to end.

But inevitably, one of us would get too cold. This person would sit on the ledge in front of the fire with their back towards it and listen as the rest of us stretched our legs, abating the space on the couch until it looked like no one had sat there at all. The person near the fire would sigh in delight as the fire warmed them.

Soon, however, it would get too hot and they would move once more to the crowded couch and try to reclaim a spot. The worst (relatively speaking) was when the fire would run low on wood. The logs were just outside the door, but it was cold, and the couch was so warm that no one wanted to do the menial task.

Dad would choose the person to go get the wood, usually the person closest to the door. Somehow, it made sense for it never to be him. Why, he was the one reading, of course he shouldn’t.

Soon, mother would come in to join us, sitting on the rocking chair nearby. (No way there was room for another on the couch.) She would alternate from on the ledge near the fire, back to the rocking chair.

There was a fullness in the room right then, one that was not present at very many other times. The simplicity of sitting near the fire on a cold winter night, huddled together, just our family, is ingrained in my memory as a time of closeness and love. This was a different kind of warmth than that of the one the fire or the blankets gave. All of us together protected each other from the cold nights.

 

Now, as I sit in a classroom and write, I remember this time as a time of closeness for our family, one that I know will not happen in the same way ever again.

-Savannah Jeffery

October 30

Home Poem

Home Poem

Home.

What a powerful word…

Home is where the heart is.

In a “Bill Nye” way, it has arteries, blood vessels, a bunch of cells and molecules inside it. It has this weird outside, red and rubbery, that can sometimes gross you out when you’re eating. But on a sentimental level, I do not know where my home, or my heart, is.

I never felt like I truly belonged anywhere. I left my birthplace, and came north, leaving what was my house at birth. Up north, I got sick easily, fell into trouble, and it’s “too cold”. But when I visit Houston, my birthplace, it’s “too hot,” and I cannot stay. The problem with where I thought my home or my heart was had as much to do with some simple comfort as it did “fitting in,” belonging somewhere. I could not stay comfortable in the South, but I cannot fit in within the North. North, North as in the Mid-Atlantic, not the Northeast, or further North, like Canada. I could never see myself accepted in some place like Boston or Connecticut, if I couldn’t be accepted by a single town in Pennsylvania.

Most of the time, I am homesick. But is it for a place that does not exist anymore, or a place that does not exist yet? I am not sure. If it no longer exists-what do I do: Do I hoard the little tidbits of memories and live out my days dreaming? If it does not exist yet-what do I do: Do I work myself to the bone to make it come true? Do I plant myself down and wait until it comes? I do not know.

I could not really know who would be in my heart, in my home. A lot of the time it looks like there is nobody there. Empty, like the inside of an old and worn out shoe, the jalopy of footwear? Or empty, like the inside of an old jug of milk?

But sometimes it feels like there is someone there… sometimes it feels like someone is there, hanging stuff up, picking things up, moving around, doing things. Someone like a friend. Sometimes one friend, or two friends, or maybe three, maybe more. These few people walk around my home, mostly to visit, but it feels so good to have them around. It feels warm. Not as warm as Houston-but warm enough to be a healthy warmth. Sometimes it can feel cool. Not always as cool as the North-but cool enough to make you feel calm. Maybe even feel hip. These people have an important place in my heart… a pretty big room in my home, you can say.

I would not trade that for anything else in the world.

October 30

That One Door

That One Door

by: Gage Stankiewicz

 

If there are hallways in my mind, there must be doors. Doors that hide many things behind there wooden frames. Doors that hide secrets and memories that can be revealed by the twist of an iron knob.

Walking quietly down the one half- light hallway gave a sense of feeling utterly alone. The silence being pierced by my breathing and footsteps as I continued to walk. Looking around I could see different vibrant doors decorated in crazy colors, all marked with signs that were just as bright as the handels they hanged from. As I walked a door with a frosted handel and bright blue wood caught my attention. I decided I wanted to take a look inside the interesting door. I could clearly see a little boy with a mountain of jackets on. His brown hair was covering his face as he gripped the stings of his skates trying desperately to tie the two white laces together. Frustration and anger filled him as he realised he couldn’t tie the losses due to all the coats he was wearing. I couldn’t help but laugh at the scene in front of me. Something about that little boy seemed familiar but I didn’t know why. Then it hit me like a bag of bricks, the boy that I saw was actually me when I was younger.

As I continued to walk I couldn’t help but stop at a door. The door was worn down, chipped and cracked, rust on the broken, dented, and screwless handel. Curiosity washed over me like a tidal wave,I couldn’t stop myself from opening the door not knowing what I might find. Taking a couple steps inside I could clearly see a boy sitting in a dark closet, he was crying his heart out. The tears spilled from his cheeks onto the glass of the picture frame that he clutched in his shaky hands. When he finally put down the picture to dry his cheeks, I could see what the frame heald behind its glass. There sat a picture of my cousin who had passed away at a young age. The memories and feeling hit me like a punch to the gut. I bolted out of the room and slammed the door shut behind me. I hated that memory I could feel my blood boil in my vain. All i wanted to do was forget what I had saw and forget that memory. I had to take a couple deep breaths just to calm myself down, when I finally was calm I continued to walk down the hallway.

At the end of the hallway there sat a door. The wood was painted to look like a transgender flag, the doorknob had a bright rainbow tag hanging off of it bringing a bright and happy feeling to my heart. I couldn’t see the sign on the door because of the large gap between me and the door. I couldn’t help myself and decided that I must see what was behind the bright colored door. Every step I took closer and closer to the door just made me want to look inside. When i finally arrived in front of the mysterious door I grabbed ahold of the shiny door knob and twisted the handel. I opened the door and hoped to get some answers on what would be coming in the futcher, what could I look forward too? I released the breath that was caught in my throat and opened my eyes only to see…

Black.

I was staring into a dark void. There was nothing to be seen there at all, I couldn’t even see two inches in front of my own face. There was no light, no emotion, nothing just complete and utter silence. How was an empty room going to answer anything that I was asking. I was in complete disbelief. I took a step back and closed the door, i realized there was a sign hanging on the door. I turned it over to see if there was any explanation to tell me why there was nothing inside of the room and why all i could see was darkness. There was one sentence that was written on the peace of paper, just reading it made me have hope about my future that was going to come. “When your world changes for good, then and only the, will your second chapter start.” staring at the sentence at first was confusing but as time passed i realize what that sentence means now. That room that i saw wasn’t another memory, it was actually another hallway. But that hallway did not have doors to look in, that was a story to come.

My second chapter.

October 30

Abuela

i stop to think about the old times, when only bright colors stroked across our canvas. nothing like gray or black. i always have this necklace.

my Abuelita Chelo sent it from Mexico. It has my name, Yosimar, carved in the back.

i look up to my abuela. there was never a gloomy day when she was here.

she left back to Mexico when i was learning to crawl. still trying to figure out how words fell upon my tongue. it has been 13 years since then. now I walk. i have even become part of my words. just like abuela has become

part

of

me

my Abuela, kind-hearted and welcoming, reminds me of my mom. i sometimes wish i could be a bit more like them. bring peace with my voice. tranquility from my eyes.

she calls from time to time. “besos mi nina.” “kisses my girl.”

i always hold onto the necklace when i feel unsafe. nervous. i know Abuela is always with me. i always think she was the one who made things easier.

i wish she could still be here, not only through the necklace. here to make things better again.

thank you Abuela.

October 30

Hammock in Blacksburg

By Emma Giancola

 

Though summer reigned at the time, the air had a slight chill to it as it grew into night. Lavender painted through the sky. One hem shone with rusty orange and muted pink as the circle of gold that oppressed during the day retreated behind the crest of the mountain; indigo dyed the other, as the light had already seeped from there, leaving only the deep purple-blue of night.

The grass beneath my toes felt cold, damp. The receding light left it looking deep blue-green instead of the bright emerald of day. I gently pushed myself off from the cool dirt, leaning back onto the ropes, worn and white, that cut into my arms. My head found a divot and I laid back, looking at the twilight sky and the darkening tree limbs that encircled it like a crown. The air smelled of fireflies.

It provided a nice place to think, a nice place to relax, a nice place to speak softly to myself words for no one to hear. No one replied, save the gentle swishing of the trees and the occasional squeak of the hammock. Every now and again a breeze would cut through, adding a soft whisper to the night.

The stars, small and twinkling, began to emerge. Specks of light, more than I had ever seen in one spot, dotted the deep, dark purple.

Eventually, the chill set in fully and the bugs emerged. Riddled with regret, I retreated to the house.

October 30

Labyrinth

If my mind is a labyrinth then I must find my way around.

I walk slowly, cautiously, eyeing the hallways that carefully labeled my age. First taking a stop at yellow brick lining the floor, glistening . The sound of deafening kazoos and kaotic kids, all around. Then I saw myself sitting in the birthday chair, present in hand. The beautifully wrapped present is large, and silver topped with a bow. Ripped apart crudely by tiny hands, my tiny hands. Then my father says something, but his sentence is chopped short by the sheer force of my squeal. My tiny body, rockets up the steps a horde of six year old girls tromping after me. I throw my door open to see an enthralling snow white pup, a big red bow around his head. I close the door to my memory a smile still glowing on my face, that is until I saw it. The door that had blood dripping from it, the door stated my age in this memory, eight.  I opened the door to see myself for some reason crawling on the floor. I winced, I knew exactly what was going to happen. I remember this every time I thought about it I could nearly feel the pain again. My body, or at least the memory of it, writhed and wretched on the floor as blood flowed freely from my hand, staining my body and all those near. The screams sounded like I was being ripped apart limb from limb and in my mind, that what it felt like. Without my consent I was propelled into another memory so forcefully I could’ve gotten whiplash. In this one I’m 11 under the door are tears a river of them. My mother kicking out my father. I’m beginning to not like this Labyrinth. No, I don’t like it at all.

October 30

My Home

Home. What a familiar word. First Family appears in my thoughts. Mom, Dad, Eliot, Jesse, Nora, BB.

 

Then the location springs into my mind. An stone house, old and proud. An unruly front yard. Trees and leaves, windows and doors. A smooth back porch. A rocky patio. An overrun garden and an empty driveway, long and cobbled. A green front door calls me in. A boardwalk of wood floors stretches out inside. A vast living room, music and roars of laughter float through the air. An orange dining room, memories of dinner and homework. A messy kitchen, “ were those cabinets white originally?” and “Did you do the dishes yet?”. The hallway leads back to the creaky basement stairs. It extends to the office, orderly and cold, where my sisters work. The wood banister leads up from the door to the landing. Just one truncated flight of stairs later and I reach my room. Separated. Small. White. Organized. Covered in all kinds of things. A bulletin board, the letters S-I-M-O-N, a bottle cap map, and artwork from years of creation.

 

This is my Home.

October 30

Home

Home. What a powerful word. My mind is flooded with the tears from family tragedies and award-worthy jokes.

 

Home. A three-story, brick house. Stretched out with a long sidewalk and driveway. An acre backyard; best for energized pets and enthusiastic children. Five bedrooms, one family room, one kitchen, and several others.

 

I step inside my bedroom. Pale yellow walls detailed with decorations of bumble bees. A bright white dresser with a matching hamper. Both filled to the brim with my clothes. A floral quilt draped over top of a twin bed. A light pink nightstand overflowing with books that Mrs. Thorne-Locke gave me at the end of third grade. Two large windows. Wispy white curtains barely covering them so that the sunlight shines in warm beams on my face.

 

I am in love with every room of that house, but my home is more than bricks, wood, and glass. Home is Augie covering me in kisses as soon as I walk through the door. Home is the trek to a mailbox down a narrow driveway, icy and treacherous. Home is corned beef and cabbage on a cold St. Patrick’s Day evening. Home is bare feet burning on the pavement while playing basketball in the summer heat. But my real home does not have any walls. Just wide open doors.