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Manuscript for an anthology book that I contributed an article to.
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Copyright © Young, Broke and Talented, 2015
Published by Bluesky Printing 516 Champagne Drive, North York Ontario, M3J 2T9
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process --- electronica, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise---without the prior written permission of the copyright owners
ISBN:
Production: Valerie Amponsah Cover Design: Dymika Harte
Editor: Maverick Smith Printing: Blue Sky Printing
With the publication of Young, Broke and Talented Anthology, Enchanted recognizes the generous financial support of the City of Toronto through the Identify N’ Impact Grant
and trusteeship of Rexdale Health Community Centre.
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Contents What is the YBT Project 3
Introduction by Valerie Amponsah 4
In the Light of My Journey by Aaleem R. Mohammed 6
Life Story by T.M. Pierre 9
City Love by Michelle Smith 10
Growing Up by Esmuhan Dereve 12
The Fig Tree by Kaysey Davis 14
Are you Thirsty? by Taylor Cenac 17
The State of Journalism: The Writer’s Struggle by Milica Marković 19
If Love Is An Ocean by Michelle Smith 22
The Mailbox by Hayley Munro 23
My Black is Beautiful by Taylor Cenac 26
Acting by Michelle Smith 27
Where is the Justice by Gaetan Genesse 28
My Childish One by Philbert Lui 29
Life Lesson by Tajjo Smith 30
Beyond the City Edge by Geraldynn Lubrido 32
When I Found My Survival by Fardowsa Ali 34
School After Summer Break by Jamal Lee 36
I Dream Too Big by T.M. Pierre 38
Lion on the Rock by Philbert Lui 40
Learn More and Connect with the Writers 41
A Few Words from the YBT Team 44
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Young. Broke. Talented. are three words that accurately describe this generation of youth. The Young, Broke and Talented Anthology was created to encourage literacy, leadership and self-‐expression among young people. It is a platform where youth can express their realities openly and unapologetically using
literature as a catalyst to build community, spark conversation and encourage change. We understand that many young people are in a transitional period in their lives, realizing that life is “real” and that “the real world” is not as rosy as it was made out to be. It’s difficult. It’s more confusing then ever to figure out one’s
purpose in life, especially while being bombarded with contradicting truths.
Today, our young people are faced with more challenges and hardships than previous generations dealing with issues such as a declining economy, lack of employment as well as internal issues such as a pressure to conform to society, self-‐esteem and mental health. YBT understands the importance of listening to our youth and providing necessary solutions to inspire young people to pursue
their passions while giving them an outlet and a voice.
This book is filled with real thoughts, emotions and experiences from young people all over Toronto. While these stories are as multifaceted as the authors,
they all share the theme of persistence, positivity and patience.
For more information about the Young, Broke and Talented Project or to learn more about the project please contact [email protected].
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I have been procrastinating writing this introduction. I am anxious about choosing the right words, which experiences to share and nervous to start because as soon as I finish this introduction, the book is completed and headed for publishing. Which means it is a step closer to you. I wrote the grant application for this project back in 2013 and a lot has changed since then especially my mentality. The Young, Broke and Talented project was created out of frustration. I was at a point where I felt nothing was happening for me after taking a break from school to learn and purse my artistic interests. We have all heard of those stories of the greats who dropped out of school to be wildly successful. I may have been delusional to think that would be me after one year of effort but I did feel entitled to success. Not only because of the mediocre work I put in but because of my past, because of my poverty, because of living with domestic violence for over 8 years, because of having an alcoholic parent. I thought life owed me. In my mind, Life owed me opportunities. Life owed me happiness. Life owed me money so I can move out of my mom’s house. Life owed me new beginnings. Life just owed me. Because Life wasn’t giving me what I thought I deserved. I was frustrated. I was angry and worst of all I was blaming my stagnancy on everyone but myself. The words: young, broke and talented didn’t only describe me, it described my peers, my friends, young people in schools and young people out of schools. It accurately describes a generation. I didn’t know what to expect from this project. Early in I got an angry parent cursing me out via email about the name and how it was degrading and doing the opposite of what I intended which is to uplift and motivate young people. Fortunately, this book did not come out how I thought it would. I expected sap stories, sad stories about hardship and struggle like these plot points aren’t in every narrative of every person. I expected these types of stories because of how I used to perceive my story. After reading each submission. I was surprised at what type of stories this book attracted and how young people interpreted the words Young, Broke and Talented. I was surprised at the different types of stories ranging from universal themes of love and vulnerability to an appreciation of Blackness inspired by the movement #Blacklivesmatter. All these stories begin with truth and struggle but each and everyone left me with a lingering sense of hope. I took this as a metaphor for life and the beauty of this generation is that whatever we go through that is beyond our control if we can find the little shine of light then we can make it through our dark times and find a way despite our circumstances.
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My way of thinking has been changed from the idea of this project to the finished product. I went from thinking we are a powerless generation to the most powerful. As a generation going though times where there are murders of innocent young black men by authority figures, a fcuked up economy, a backwards society which glorifies self-‐absorbed reality “stars” instead of the doers, thinkers and dreamers combined with our own personal stories and struggles, we may feel to a certain degree that life owes us for all our trouble. This is not true. Life doesn’t owe us anything. Our greatness lies in our ability to find that little piece of hope that can carry us. Always remember that WE ARE the generation that can create opportunity literally at our fingertips, inspire change through our voices and force the world to become a better a place through action. We may be young, broke and talented but also remember that above all we are Powerful. Valerie
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In Light of My Journey by: Writing Mentor, Aaleem R. Mohammed
When I was younger, I hadn't shown many of my attempts at writing rhymes. As time passed and I became a teen, I went through the motions as teens do. Friendships and relationships, my family life, struggles, and circumstances were all fuel for the fire. My penmanship progressed and became personal, especially after losing friends (now, literally and non-literally).
Wanting to pursue this dream of mine, I was little encouraged, hence I lacked the courage to share it with the world around me; daydreaming about being on stages, like Def Leppard. The thing that scared me away from my passion (and love) was that inner voice that isn't a friend, nor a foe. The one that was telling me “I'm not good enough”, is the same voice that I would learn from one day. I went to Seneca @ York's Independent Music Production program in 2013. I would've went sooner, but I doubted myself for four years, some trying to convince me of other options. I couldn't cope in computer class for the fact that I didn't want to be there anymore. I felt as if (and still say as if) “I don't want to be behind a computer for the rest of my life!” The day came when I upped and left. I grew (from a mustard seed of faith in myself) in the arts, the music, and especially the writing. In 2009, my oldest friend from childhood, was a victim of gun violence in our home- neighbourhood, a few doors away from my house. It cut me deep. I felt like I was spiraling down. I found hope in a good friend, and mentor, SPIN. He introduced me to the world of volunteering and opening up as a writer, to feel again. I had found a sense of purpose with this bless-ed passion (that I've really always had). I wrote stories and poems about life and my experiences; even used my skills in prose to win grants that helped revitalize our old community. Note: The journey is a roller-coaster, but it's a beautiful one if you let it be* I was blessed with the opportunity to travel abroad on a student exchange. Learning about life in a new continent, as well as meeting and living with people I didn't really know at the time. It ended up being one of the best experiences of my life! It gave me the strength to come back to Canada with renewed perspective. I learned about becoming an entrepreneur and creating a business that would sustain my passions and dreams. My first attempts were great, but lacked spirit. I recently, amended my old business idea (which was natural, commercial cleaning) into “M Power Music”, which is a movement toward positive change via the arts. Again, this sense of purpose aids me in creating a way (for youth) and to help love grow from a positive space within them. It is the mission and the give-back. I wish the best for you all; the authors, the book team and anyone reading this forward today. Young, Broke, and Talented is a much needed outlet to guide youth emotions and away from negativity Thank you for the opportunity to work on this project, as a mentor to some and be a “positive energy” for the others. Authors! Keep writing and
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practicing, articulating your craft/s. They say, “Hard work beats lazy talent”, so strive to do your best. Find positive surroundings, positive people, talk about ideas, speak truth and say how you feel. Be genuine, as best as you can be. Overall, love yourself, regardless. One love*
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“Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use” – Mark Twain
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Life Story by: T. M. Pierre I am trapped inside a cage: Every page Written by someone who doesn’t know me. Every chapter, Every scene, Stars someone else— something less— While I am a footnote, Only to give reference to the When, Where and How.
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City Love by: Michelle Smith I want to ride through your mind like a subway or a one way street Dub me mayor of your metropolis And show me why this city of yours never sleeps Keep me awake with the pulse of your passion Grant me jurisdiction to rezone you for residential purposes Make a home out of your abandoned buildings Renovate that heart of yours that’s been in such disarray Or let me spray paint my gang signs along the wall of your back Scratch my name in it Mark my territory Let me play in your lap like a little girl in a jungle gym And I will laugh, jump, and swing Chant, dance, and sing Slide down the length of you Teeter on the edge of your emotion I want to feel the heat of you like a hot summer night Breathe in the scent of you like backyard barbecues on a Saturday afternoon I want to let my guard down with you But for too long I’ve been labelled at risk Cops, shoot outs, and stop n frisks on every corner I am high priority in every way Thieves always tryna break in I’ve got a deadbolt, tumbler, and combination lock on my soul I fear you’ll grow weary of my paranoia Of my pain But you are always patient Even on the days when I barely want to open the door and I’ve got to talk to you through the chain Never once have you tried to force your way through my barred windows So I open the padlock on my barbwire fence And I promise to let you be my attack dog My shot gun My first line of defence Let’s call this bed our block I call your chest of bronze my Bronx Borough The place where I bury my face You call my hips Harlem as they both seem to be a kind of mecca for black men And together well run this city Build a love so monumental and move less
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That even in our death They’ll name streets after us And of course, they intersect
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Growing Up by: Esmuhan Dereye
I was tireless, lurking in the grasses beside yards of trees and homes that had claimed the earth's soil, decades before I had an ass to put on the ground. Lawrence Heights still had a touch of youth to it; everywhere I looked there were untamed bushes growing out of someone's back yard or a classmate with one less tooth than they had yesterday. At six years old, my brooding mind was insistently bothered by my lack of knowledge on things I didn't understand but I knew that others feared. I kept secrets before I learned why secrets were supposed to be kept.
Back then, I knew that if I told my mother that I went to steal another toy or ran off with food before paying, she'd wear a look that was mixed with anger and shock on her face. She would say, "Why didn't you ask me for it?"I'd have to remind her again that I'd been asking her for the same toy for years, back when it was cool to have it first and that I thought the chicken wings were being sampled straight from the box. I silently comprehended why my friends borrowed shopping carts illegally to use as ghetto basketball hoops. The real basketball court was filled with tall strangers we weren't allowed to mingle with and who strangely thought that we were asking them to baby sit us when we approached the net.
A few years later I learned that one of the great things about my community was that nobody had a problem getting something off their chest; by the time I was in the fourth grade, I was proficient at rudely saying hello to my friends and enemies in 3 different languages. Just a year before in the third grade, I learned that some adults were just as afraid of seeing ghosts as me and my friends were. I never questioned what everyone believed until I got more into writing and eventually realised that ghosts were real only because people were paranoid enough to believe they existed. I understood that until one day, I was nineteen, walking past my neighbour's home, nodding my head to his music because I hadn't let it sink in yet that his apartment was empty and he was dead.
Years before my neighbour's death, I started to notice that the bricks that held up our building had begun to fade from red to brown and the people who left memories on the walls with chalk were changing over time. I continued to observe people coming and going because a corner of my building was my view for a long while after my mother had said it wasn't safe to go outside anymore. I stared as the seasons came and went but during one particular winter, I fell in love for the first time. The tree branches
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were frozen thick with icicles hanging from them, so Instagram was naturally filled with a bunch of people romanticizing dying trees. I learned that beauty was different for everyone and I didn't love again after that winter.
Finally legal and grown out of my mother's care, I could barely engage with my community because I didn't know where I was anymore. I didn't know the people, the scenery was either being cut down or broken down and the people were dying or moving to new homes. I was motivated to pick up my siblings from school around this time.
I watched my sister a few months ago as she climbed up the steps of our apartment, amidst the flowers that she loved to pick. She skipped on top the tiles that were cracked by bullet holes. She didn't understand what I meant when I said she could only admire those flowers because they were left for someone. I know exactly why I voiced that she should hurry up and quickly go home from now on even though she was seemed confused by my words. I encourage her to keep drawing because I'm hoping she'll become talented enough to draw her worries away instead of being forced to become a nurse so my family doesn't have to live broke forever.
For all my life, I've used the backdoor to exit my building and finally when I was fifteen, I got brave enough to ask a stranger who often stood there why he always smoked. He replied something like "I'm hoping for an early death" and then he laughed. I heard the same line when I was stuck in my room just two weeks ago in a song that comforts me now that I'm a wayward adolescent, coping with the truth behind my fears.
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The Fig Tree by: Kaysey Davis
“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
―Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Spice Girl. My six-‐year-‐old heart set was
on being a part of the most popular girl group of the 90s. Destiny’s Child was also an
option. I wanted to entertain. Not because I wanted to sing, or dance, or wear beautiful,
one-‐of-‐a-‐kind clothing, but because I wanted to do it all. I dreamed of being a singer, a
dancer, an actress, and, a fashion designer—all at once. If Mary-‐Kate and Ashley Olsen,
Hilary Duff, and Raven Symoné could do it, then I could do it too. At least, that’s what I
had convinced myself and my mother. She signed me up for a ballet and hip hop dance
class at the YMCA. I lasted one class. From there, I attended swimming and skating
classes, and played soccer. None of them lasted longer than the other.
My interests seemed to change like the weather and so did my dreams. I
discovered other things like writing and music. At ten, I started playing the cello. I really
wanted to play the violin but as the tallest person in my class, my height sealed my fate.
By eleven, I decided I would be a poet, a haiku extraordinaire. At twelve, a friend and I
started writing short stories. We had one collection of short stories about our circle of
friends and each girl was named after a fruit. By the end of middle school, I had finished
two novels and was in the process of writing a third one.
When I got to high school, I changed my mind again. In ninth grade, I wanted to
be a radio broadcaster. After my grade ten English class, I thought I could be a writer. In
grade eleven, I thought about being a marine biologist. However, I quickly changed my
mind about biology and science after I had to dissect a baby pig. By grade twelve, I had
changed my mind so many times I couldn’t be sure what it was I actually wanted.
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The deadline for university applications came quickly and I still didn’t know what
to do or where I should go. I applied for three different English programs but chose the
University of Ottawa in the end. I realized quickly how this choice would impact my life.
During orientation, I was able to meet other English majors. We sat in a circle and said
our names and what we wanted to do after we graduated. Most people said they
wanted to be teachers. I was the only one who didn’t know what I wanted to be.
It seemed like I was the only freshman who wasn’t enjoying their first year away
from home. I spent most of my time in my dorm, doing homework, watching the first
three seasons of the Big Bang Theory, and eating cereal because I didn’t have an oven
and my hotplate kept making funny noises. In less than a month I felt homesick. Moving
five hours away from home felt like the biggest mistake I’d ever made. I struggled to
make friends, real friends. I liked my roommate but it wasn’t the kind of immediate and
intense connection that I was expecting. It didn’t take long for the stress to get to me.
My scholarships and student loans barely covered my tuition and all I could think
about was being in debt for the rest of my life. I loved my classes but the homework
piling up. I barely had time to do anything but study and sleep. It felt like I was living on
an island, and looking back now I can say it was more like living in a box. The thirty
pounds of freshman weight I was entitled to never showed up. I actually started to lose
weight. By the end of October, I stopped getting my period. By November, I experienced
my first anxiety attack.
Over Christmas break, my family kept complimenting me. I finished my first
semester with an average of 8.8 and I had lost twenty pounds. As far as they knew, I was
doing well. But I was miserable. I felt lost, stressed, and anxious all the time. I was so
worried about flunking out of university and too stubborn to ask for help when I knew I
needed it. It wasn’t until the end of March that I knew something was really wrong. I
couldn’t keep food down and I didn’t know why. My mother didn’t know either. After
several long phone calls, she finally convinced me to go to the clinic.
It took almost three hours before I could see the doctor but all of ten minutes to
diagnose me with possible gallstones. My test came back clear but my symptoms got
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worse. I went back and saw a different doctor who decided I had an ulcer. He didn’t look
at me when he said it nor did he show any empathy or any other human emotion. He
prescribed me some medication and sent me on my way. By the end of exams, I was
almost back to normal.
I spent that summer at home, recovering. I read a few books, one of them being
“The Bell Jar.” The first time I read it was in high school but reading it again a year later
changed how I looked at the words. I could see how much Esther was like me, unable to
decide between all the things she wanted to be. I didn’t want be her and just sit there
while the figs of my future rotted and died. Making a choice, even if it was a mistake,
had to be better than not making a choice at all. My choice was and still is to tend my fig
tree, keeping it healthy and fruitful.
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Are You Thirsty? by: Taylor Cenac
You thirst
You hunger
And crave
I say
Drink up the fountains of the sky
Soak in the brilliance of the sun
Feel the wonder of the earth beneath your feet
Passion in your heart
Power in your mind
Arms stretched, mind wondered
They say
RUN!
Yet you don’t run
You grow
And look back
Passion in your heart
Power in your hands
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You remember your thirst
Filled
You return
Satisfied
You lift up the other
They grow
Once broke
Never broken
Now rich
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The State of Journalism: The Writer’s Struggle by: Milica Marković
The initial objective of journalistic work is to represent the public interest; thus, reporters immerse themselves in contextual conditions with significant implications. They go to great lengths to gather insight from vocal advocates and thinkers, to uncover expert findings from all branches of science, and to inquire entrepreneurs, crusaders and policymakers, in order to articulate informed opinions on matters and provide learned knowledge deemed useful for reform and innovation – in theory. There comes a point when news media cross the line from serving the public interest, to arbitrarily constructing it on the basis of what corporate media elites want audiences to believe is most important.
As discouraging as it may be for aspiring young journalists, it seems that writing nowadays has become subject to one or any mix of the following processes: commercialization, competition, or a risky business. The first two go hand in hand; successful stories are typically categorized under digestible easy reads, such as romanticized shopping lists and insubstantial or unrealistic tutorials on assimilating a wide array of popular culture trends. Since these types of features are in demand, candidates who are able to work under tight time constraints and consistently produce content to keep readers investing are chosen in favor of truly passionate writers. The last-‐mentioned writers are those who may spend more time getting well acquainted with topics that are current and legitimately beneficial to people.
This systematic dilution of journalistic integrity comes with dire consequences. Depending on the nature and format of the piece, columnists tend to submit rushed and often one-‐sided articles as a result of little to no real primary investigation. Even if there is news coverage of events, most of the questions posed are either basic or loaded. This is contingent upon who is being interviewed and how many there are to provide varied insight, and much of the information derives from secondary sources like ‘official’ data, usually supplied by the very parties being questioned. Because of high costs and heavy regulations on media reporting, muckrakers and investigative journalists aren’t given the liberty and proper resources to delve deeper into underlying issues with most business and public administrative practices, for example.
It’s understandable that corporate media wouldn’t start chipping away at themselves, so bias and the prioritization of economic laws over society and the environment are inevitable. It becomes less about the public interest and more about
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making money and staying out of trouble with the entities that fund our publications. Otherwise, writers end up engaging in a risky business, where their written voices can be silenced and lose all credibility, or worse, face severely tedious and specious lawsuits.
It is because of contrived and manipulative marketing ploys that people come to understand newsworthiness as cultural rather than socioeconomic. Beyond the focus on soulless entertainment and propagative advertising, news industries create further diversions by emphasizing certain incidences over others. This is the case with massive broadcasting of violent or street crimes, where marginalized communities are normally targeted, while impactful corporate crimes remain largely invisible. The latter gets tucked away under less popular headlines. Unless readers are willing to go out of their way to search for them, which they unfortunately aren’t for the most part, there is little chance of media coverage in that department.
It is here where budding journalists are confronted by a dilemma. They can either pour their hearts into narratives that are meaningful both to them and patrons they want to address at the risk of unemployment, or lose those narratives by selling their individuality to corporate news outlets. If they go with the second option, they guarantee job stability at the potential expense of society’s well being. Part of the problem is evaluating success in the field, whether it is contributing to a cause greater than oneself, or making a profit. Thankfully, there are alternative and independent sources that break tradition, such as the blogosphere and documentaries. These venues actively pursue more creative and accessible means of introducing new ways of perceiving ideas and doing things to the public. They don’t report; they allow for submergence into social conditions and political activities.
In spite of these platforms’ greatest efforts, however, they lack the power and influence of large entities and thus do not get as much support. Ideally, the process of getting the real truth out would have to start from within these corporations, although this is difficult to do due to pressures and scrutiny, without the help of like-‐minded employees. A lot of freelance work entailing extensive research is inclined to sitting on a pedestal in the academic realm, but we don’t want to keep vital information isolated from the public eye. Some possible solutions to this might be translating writings for intelligibility and printing them in newspapers, and for the television viewers, try launching talk shows in which political discussions take place. This could be an opportunity for social media personalities that speak to these issues to encourage follower engagement, and gain media coverage on hidden politics and sociology.
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Many artists turn to expressive forms of writing, like poetry and fictional storytelling, to convey overarching themes reflected in the world, usually without explicitly backlashing any specific party. Motifs are widely considered both entertaining and educational. But as effective as they can be to compel an audience, they’re not enough to combat the root causes of problems that physically and mentally affect our everyday lives. We, as speakers of the truth, who want to demonstrate as much authenticity as possible, need to show concrete evidence that there’s a problem with how we’re being run.
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If Love Is An Ocean by: Michelle Smith If love is an ocean I am the timid little girl standing beside the shoreline, too afraid to jump in I can’t swim Instead I wet my feet The waters are too rough and too cold All manner of creatures lurk below, they are worse than the most sinister monsters stolen from the pages of a child’s imagination If love is an ocean If I am the girl too afraid to swim Then I stand on a beach of loneliness – each grain of sand is as a day without love I have learned to make my own fun Building castles Burying treasures and trinkets Digging up memories and mementos I am no stranger to long walks on the beach If love is an ocean If I am the stupid girl at the edge of the sea too afraid to swim If the beach on which I stand is my isle of isolation Then each lover that rolls in is a crashing wave Each time they pull away They seem to carry my whole world with them Literally the ground beneath my feet sweeps into the sea I let my toes sink deeper into what little of my fortress remains Eventually, if I keep standing in the same place I fear the sand will engulf me Swallow me up until there is nothing left These tides have torn down every castle I’ve built up They expose every treasure of mine If love is an ocean If I am the girl at the edge of the sea – too afraid to dive in If this beach is my prison of solitude If these waves are passing lovers Then you are the life jacket The boat that lets me navigate these waters of love The buoy that keeps my world afloat
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The Mailbox by: Hayley Munro
It’s here. It must be. I can hear the mailman—mail person—walking up our front steps.
Oh god, get off the couch. I don’t know if I can do it.
I’ve worked so hard for this. I put everything I had into it. I spent all summer writing and reading, I studied day and night for exams, I got a job at the goddamn multiplex so I could afford tuitions, I nearly died of exhaustion studying for the SATs and the A-‐levels and all the other tests Canadians aren’t supposed to do, I broke my parents’ already broken hearts—I don’t know if I can handle getting rejected.
I stand up.
Kurt Vonnegut—a hero of mine—said in A Man Without a Country, “(I)f you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts.” I didn’t want to hurt them, but I just couldn’t stand it. They want me to do something sensible, like become a doctor or whatever, but I don’t want to be a doctor or whatever, I want to be a writer.
I take a step forward.
We’ve never had much money—dad works two jobs, mom sells beauty products door-‐to-‐door—it’s hard enough trying to survive, let alone trying to afford tuitions. There’s no way they could ever afford to send me to college, so I started working harder in school, getting straight A’s on my report cards, working overtime at the multiplex.
Come on, move.
It took me a while to finally tell dad I applied to a liberal arts college instead of a medical school. He works so hard to provide for my sister and me. He’s always told me that he doesn’t want us to end up like him, to have to live the life he lived. He wants to be assured that we’ll be financially stable.
I reach the front hallway.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get in. I’ve had a bad enough day already. The zit on my forehead—grotesquely huge after twenty-‐four hours of existence—has sprouted what appears to be some sort of Caucasian visage, yet it remains unpoppable. I passionately argued in fourth period history about the disastrous effects of tailings ponds, although instead of tailings ponds I said carbon sinks. I concluded today that I cannot cook, and now roux the day I ever signed up for Home Ec. Get it? Roux? Also, lunch? Yeah, I spilled that all over the cafeteria floor. Whoops.
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I take three more steps forward, but stop to steady myself.
If Leonard doesn’t accept me, I’ll have to go to our community college, the one in which 75% of our graduating class will be shifted into. I don’t know if I can survive another four years surrounded by all the same people. All throughout high school, I have been disliked by my peers, because I would sooner read Tolstoy than play hockey or soccer or foot/hand/elbow/mouth/aorta/sphincter/I-‐don’t-‐even-‐know ball.
I open the front door of our townhouse. The mailbox is now a foot away from me. I try to get my feet to move, but they’re frozen in place. I start shuffling over.
What if I don’t get in? What if I do, but it doesn’t work out? What if I don’t want to be a writer anymore? What if I can’t make anything out of myself? What if I die without a penny to my name, like Edgar Allen Poe or Oscar Wilde? What if I don’t even live up to cultural giants like Edgar Allen Poe or Oscar Wilde? What if I die penniless, depressed, and alone? Is this really worth it?
I reach the mailbox.
Am I really sure this is what I want to do?
I open the top. The first thing I see is a coat of arms.
What if I’ll regret this? What if I can’t do it? What if?
I take out the envelope, along with some bills and a Nat Geo magazine.
Vonnegut also said once that “of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, ‘It might have been.’” I don’t want to wonder what might’ve been. I tear open the seal.
I don’t know if I can do this.
I try to steady my hands.
I don’t know if I want to do this.
But I do it anyway.
Because whatever happens, I will survive this.
I take out the letter.
Dear Edie,
We are delighted to inform you that your application has been accepted and we are willing to offer you a full scholarsh—
Oh my god.
I drop everything on the ground.
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I’m okay.
I’m alive.
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My Black is Beautiful by: Taylor Cenac
They told me I was different
Thriving on a history filled with pain
I am a torch,
A lighthouse at which you marvel
They said my skin was dirty
Scarred and calloused
But I bleed strength,
Integrity, passion, and love
An exquisite beauty bound to wonder
My black is beautiful
Bewildered they are
Allured by my copper, caramel, golden glow. My toasted, mocha, sun-‐kissed skin
My black is beautiful
My black is special
My black is wondrous
My black is unique
My black is influential
An exquisite beauty bound to wonder
My life matters
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Acting by: Michelle Smith Why don’t you pretend to fall in love with me So for a second you can start acting right We can spend the night holding hands Reading minds Fighting the sleep from our eyelids with the fear that time is slipping away Make believe that you care Before reason starts to dawn on us like the start of a new day Flooding out emotion like tidal waves Read the script and say “I love you” And let the words linger on your face even after the expression evaporates Like the steam from the tea we’ll drink the morning after Then say it once more with feeling Let it burst from your heart Let it rupture from your soul Let it roll off your lips with such intensity That I begin to crave the taste of each letter on your tongue Say it until you convince yourself that I am the one
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Where is the Justice? by: Gaetan Genesse
How can one with one hand stab you and with the other treat you like a friend, that is
so complicated it makes my head spin because the violence is in the way people, the
culture, forces me to stay in. The shelter. The basic respect is too recognize it and to not
pretend otherwise.
Like a superhero, I am the man behind the mask, the joker, the prankster. My joke is on
every Batman t-‐shirt, every comic book hero trending and on every Disney princess
whether it be movement or shirt or high selling good. I am the product that people are
looking for, I am also the wind in the crowed, the one that is whispering in your ears.
I am an introvert, it’s hard for me to make friends so it is hard for me to get job
opportunities, I give out bad first impressions. I hate that I need to sell myself so to
prove that I am not a bum.
What if I was this bum?
This is exactly where I am, living with addicts, drunks and the morally deprived. Why
have I left my parents you would ask me? I left them because of my talent, the same
talent that is forcing me to eat bed bugs because I can’t afford shelter or food.
Lots of people see me as a leader because I have been threw all the emotions that they
are dealing with. Emotions of profound injustice where you see again and again people
stealing your goals and living them and you keep being left behind asking yourself, why
is it worth to fight another day. You are only there to feed the bellies of the people in
charge. With their words they can take credit for what you do and live the life of kings. If
this is not slavery then I wonder what is. And it is often the bad people that have it good
while the good ones struggle full time.
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My Childish One by: Philbert Lui
So you finally got your nightmare, oh lost, alone, wounded, childish one…
You got your cancer parade,
You had your alien way.
We took all the weekends,
We flipped all the birds and
You used this while bleeding green
even at this present.
Your final gift for me and my childish one…
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Life Lesson By: Tajjio Smith
Won't lie, I'm kind of a messed up person, but nobody can change what happened to
them in the past. It is gone forever and will never show up again, just like time and
opportunities, so I value the people who value me and make those people my priority
instead of my options. Just because I'm struggling doesn't mean I have failed just yet, all
opportunities come with opposition.
What's in the dark must come to the light. If you don't advertise a business it will never
get known. Nothing stays hidden forever .The truth hurts once, but a lie hurts every
time you remember it. Sometimes it's good to pretend that you don't care, than to
admit it’s killing you inside. If you don't like me it’s cool, just don't pretend and let me
get close because betrayal doesn't ever come from an enemy. Everything has its own
time, so stop chasing after love or affection, and worst of all attention. If those things
aren't given freely from another person, it isn't worth having.
Life is something you should cherish, because you never know when your time is going
be up. It’s going to knock you down, show you things you're afraid to see and make you
experience sadness and failures but once you overcome it, it makes you stronger. God
made no mistake, everything happens for a reason, every disappointment happens for a
great reason, so I don't stay mad, I think it’s just another way God was showing me to
prove himself that he's the great one, Adam and Eve should have took his word for it.
Guess what? I’m a born sinner. My life could have been perfect but you just got to live
and learn, don't be a sore loser to the game.
They say life is too short, so I cherish mine. Stop the fighting and arguing, count your
blessings value your friendships and keep your head held high. Give a smile to everyone,
because you
definitely crossed paths for a reason. Every person you meet is fighting an unknown
battle, so be kind to everyone, you never know when the tables will turn for you. But, at
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the same time the people who are going to criticize and judge are the same people that
know nothing about you or the price you paid to get where you have gotten. I won’t be
surprised if my successful days turns people I called "friends" into strangers. My
teachers taught me one thing and that was to keep my eyes on my own paper. The devil
was once an angel.
They say I'm a strong person internally and my strength may remind people of their
weakness, but I'm not going to let the negative things slow me down. Why look back
and pay attention to valueless things that aren't going get me to where I want to go.
Stay humble, we're all going to end up in the same size grave, but you work for what
you want. I keep working at my own pace and stay in my lane like a long distance
runner. Not too fast so I won’t be able to breath, but not too slow to lose the race but at
my own pace .Try to lead, not follow and admire without jealousy and praise without
flattery.
When I'm mad I'm a totally different story and it's harder to take responsibility for your
own actions, but I'm not ever going to blame my skin tone for the part my mouth
played. Take it like it is, say what you mean and mean what you say. I'm on a journey,
but I don't know when or if I'll ever come back, so I'm trying to enjoy my dash; my time
period from 1998 to unknown as yet.
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Beyond the City Edge by: Geraldynn Lubrido Dead town past the city’s edge, That everyone gave up on. The park where kids played until sundown? Tumbleweed abandoned. Signs for stores and houses old, Faded from neglect, Tagged with signs of gangs familiar. Neverending debt. City shine, horizon distant Lured the young away; The rest, too poor to journey far, Stuck in lifeless grey. But like a sudden circus comes To sounds of cheers and laughter, A daily market came one day! Beautiful disaster. Filled with music unfamiliar, Tents now line the streets, With hand-‐me-‐downs and rarities, Foreign clothes and treats.
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People flock to cheaper prices, Try to paint the park.
Sun trapezes through the dust As building projects start.
Hopeful splash of coloured murals,
Bright as recent blood, Spill through hidden alleyways,
Mixing with the mud.
Paint left over disappears, Stolen overnight;
Re-‐surfaces on windowpanes. Old tags, old fights.
No one dares to say a word,
Weakened by the lust, For money, life, entertainment,
Most of all, trust.
At night, tents are taken down, Skyline black remains.
A new performance rules the night, Where gunshots are for fireworks
Mistaken.
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When I Found My Survival By: Fardowsa Ali
Survival is an eight lettered word, so simple. It is hard to believe that such a simple word carries
a deep message that is different for every individual that it comes by. Each message that people
tell you of survival is something that impacts them and continues to impact them, making them
who they are now. The basic message that everyone agrees on, and conveys is that surviving
isn’t living, not even close. What does survival mean to me? Read on and find out.
Hey, my name is Alex Black, I am 16 years old. I am a 5’5, really short for my age, another thing
to get teased about. I live with my mother, and my 5 brothers, I am the youngest of the bunch.
What does survival mean to me? Survival to me is going everyday without breaking down in
tears, keeping my image strong, making sure that no one finds out how broken I am. The
survival that I have to go though each and every day is physical and mental. Physically I have to
have enough energy to run form them. As for mentally, I have to make sure that I keep myself
strong, so that they don’t see the tears I am holding back.
Their cruelty had once gotten to the point that I wondered to myself “What is the point of
living?”
This is when I made my definition of survival, because I realized that I was not living, merely
surviving and it was not a good feeling. This is the story of when I realize that with everything
good that happens in life, something bad happens either before or after that will make you
appreciate it.
I am running home, after school, hoping to avoid my usual tormentors. I was able to avoid them
at lunch, and was finally able to eat lunch. I am wearing my usual uniform to school, a baggy
black hoodie, with my black baggy sweats and black high-‐tops, with my black straight hair pulled
in a tight ponytail. Yea, I like to wear black.
“Hey, there she is.” Says tormentors number 1, as I say in my head,
“Shit, they found me.” I mumble under my breath, as I increase my speed even more, when I
turn the corner, I see my house ahead, leading me to silently rejoice my luck.
“Damn, she is getting faster. She is getting away. Cut her off.” Tormentor number 2 yells at the
group.
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I look at behind me once, and noticed the large group of people was splitting in half, with one
half trying to cut me off, and the other trying to keep up. I look forward and increase my speed
one more time because as soon as I cross the fence, I am home free. Just than my older brother
comes of the house, and notices me right away, and looks really happy to see me until he sees
the crowd. At that moment I was praising my good luck today, and also wondering at the same
time what I do to deserve it. I can hear the bullies in the back around, cursing at the fact they
couldn’t “teach me my lesson of the day.”
“Hey little sis, you made it just in time, I am going shopping. Do you want to come with?” Sam
asks me.
“Yeah, sure. It’s been a while since I have done that, it will be fun.” I reply
“Really, awesome. Hop in the car.” Sam says to me with an easygoing smile on his face.
“Where are we headed? “ I ask him as we head into the car.
“We are doing some grocery shopping. Mom wants to make a special meal today.” Sam answers
me as he starts the car, and starts heading in the direction of the mall.
We get the shopping done pretty quickly, and pack everything in the car. We get home faster
than I expected, and I help Sam take the groceries out of the car and into the house, than I leave
him to put the groceries away, as I head to my room. There I meet up with the rest of my
brother, Alec, Ben, Ash, and last but not least, Will. I tell them that I am going to be in my room
to do my homework, and not to bother me, they all promised to leave me alone.
As I finish the last sheet of homework, I look at the time and notice that it is getting late, and I
am pretty hungry. So I head downstairs, only to notice that all of lights downstairs were turned
off. I went to turn on the light in the living room.
“Surprise” is the first word that was shouted as soon as I turn on the light. There in the living
was my entire family. There was cake, decorations, and a banner that said Happy Birthday Alex,
right on top of the table for present. As I look around, I feel the sudden urge to cry, with tears of
happiness running down my face. I thank my family for talking the time out to plan out such a
beautiful party for me. It was at that exact moment I found out what survival meant to me. It
was also on that day that I made the vow that I will continue on surviving no matter what, until
those little moments that I am living for increase to the point that I am living and not surviving.
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School After Summer Break by: Jamal Lee
Jan, feb, march, april, may, june, july, august, September, Now I remember, I got a letter
It was time to do better, than the last time
Because last time wasn't my last time,
It was only grade nine, I wish I could just grade mine,
Give myself all A's for all days, so I could abandon these hallways
They're so boring, always, those long days
And wrong plays, wrong answer on a test,
Asking a girl to be yours, your last request,
Reject, you digest, hang with friends then time for class,
You cant surpass the feeling to skip class,
But they offer and you past because if you did
Your mom would blast, and you'd crash.
Scratch, your headlights as you go downhill fast,
How long will these months last, oh wait,
This year and next year isn't my last, hope the next will be a blast,
Not of words, but nouns and verbs,
Doing something that deserves, a slot in my brain,
Sweet like deserts and exerts joy that will outlast the dry deserts,
I hope for a better semester, nothing lesser,
Pick up my keys off the dresser and open the door, but then I remember.....
I'm not in grade nine and this IS my last!
Grade twelve and to be honest I can't grasp,
Dangling like a wind chime as I clasp
Onto the ending of my final class leading to the world
At Last, "you got a bright future ahead of you kid"
Aha words I cherish and I laugh.
37
Imagine the same guy 5 years later: " kid are you really STILL doing that arts and crafts
stuff?"
Then even harder than before I laugh,
While you were "cheering me on" I was in the lab,
Scuttle crab, future to grab, I was told by my Dad,
So when you look down on my art, my heart gets sad,
If only you knew, if only you knew
But at the end I'm still kinda scared, behind the confidence its clear
I dont know where I'll be next....
If I even make it there, aha The unknown,
We're all scared.
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I Dream Too Big by: T. M. Pierre I dream too big. I dream too wide, Too deep; My hats will stretch if I keep dreaming, My mind will come apart at the seams And my dreams will spill all over the floor and soak into the carpet. No use crying over spilled dreams! I’ll just make more. I don’t have any space in my apartment for my dreams: I’ve filled my cupboards with them; I’ve stuffed them into drawers and under my bed and in my bathtub and even in my shoes. But I keep dreaming. My dreams go to sleep with me and they wake up fatter. They jostle for space on my bed. I sleep on the couch now… My problem is that I dream too big. I brought a bunch of my dreams to share with my friends once. I unzipped my mouth and they poured out and cluttered the table.
“My dreams,” I said. “Look. Aren’t they amazing?” “They’re too big,” my friends said.
And they told me to please shut up because my dreams take up too much of the conversation. They wanted to talk about their dreams, too: The ones they primp and trim Like little dogs. Their dreams are not as wild as mine, And they know it.
39
My parents say I have to choose only one dream. But how can I, when they’re all so pretty, When they’re all so big, So ripe, So full of juicy wonder? I want to eat them and spit out the seeds, I’ll plant them now so they can grow into more dreams that I can harvest later When I’m old.
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Lion on the Rock by: Philbert Lui
When the lions leer down from their peaks,
When the thunder claps and ceilings leak,
Lay low then rise up.
Raise your refuge to the sky,
Shield your soul from smoke,
Let the world hear you roar,
Let the People see you soar.
Keep still as they strike behind disguise.
Calm your will as they trade dollars for lies.
Shake it dry and retract your blade,
For tomorrow is another day.
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Learn More and Connect with the Writers! Taylor Cenac I've always loved to write. From the time I was little, I would compose small booklets of written pieces - each one containing hundreds of grammatical mistakes. So if at age five I had a passion to write, I figure I was born to do it. For this reason, I have decided to take that daring leap of faith that every upcoming writer worries about and to pursue a career in writing and in English. Creative writing has helped me develop my voice both on the page and as a young woman. The possibilities of writing, for me, are endless.
@taylorcenac
Taylor Tamara Cenac
taylorcenac.wix.com/portfolio. Milica Markovic Hello readers! My name is Milica Marković, also known by my pen name as Mimo le Singe. I'm both a writer and an editor who has made it her goal to dabble in as many industries as possible. My inspiration for my contributed piece in this book came from a criminology honours seminar I've been attending this summer called Crime and the Corporation, in which we've discussed the growing negligence towards purposeful journalism. I'm glad to have been a part of this anthology and can't wait for everyone to read it! Thank you to the YBT staff and the other young, broke and yet talented contributors for making this possible. xo
MacMedia Magazine
@MacMediaMag
macmediamagazine.com Hayley Munro Hayley is a sixteen-year old high school student who enjoys writing about herself in the third person. She spends her spare time rereading Harry Potter, playing ukulele, attempting to write novels, and decreasing worldsuck alongside fellow Nerdfighters. If ever you need find her, she typically resides on her collaborative YouTube channel, PassTheCamera, but can sometimes be found on one of her several, irregularly updated blogs.
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Terese Mason Pierre Terese Mason Pierre is an undergraduate student at the University of Toronto, who, besides her passion for writing, plans to become a physician. Since the age of sixteen, she has published short stories, poems and an electronic novel, and currently sits on the Editorial Youth Advisory Group for the Toronto Public Library. Terese's interests include music, creative writing and behavioral psychology; she lives in the Greater Toronto Area with her mother, brother and cat.
http://teresemason.webs.com/
http://www.quora.com/Terese-J-Mason-Pierre Gaetan Genesse As a child I used to express my frustration by recording or drawing mini comic book. My mother always told me that I would be an artist. Growing up a Jehovahs Witness I left school and went to work in construction, sick of being took advantage of and wanting to see the world I move to the bigger city of Montreal. (I spend 5 years in Florida as a kid). My goal being to bring back the Disney trend from the hands of Pixar and work in the animation industry. I am also fueled by my uncle’s geekyness and would try to bring that to be trending. My work includes, signing a Whole New World - Aladdin in the subway, being apart of a social activist group called Raje Citoyenne, doing circus and theater shows and being introduced to various art forms with exhibitions, animation, community newspaper, etc... (Cybercap). My style is satiric combining comedy and drama and also impressionistic with themes of mental illness and rejection. I would say I am good at making people uncomfortable and blurring the lines within good and evil.
https://www.youtube.com/user/MrNormandTalbot/videos
https://gaetangenesse.bandcamp.com/
[email protected] Kaysey Davis Kaysey is a poet and a writer. She is pursuing a degree in English at the University of Ottawa and is a contributing writer for the HerCampus uOttawa chapter. Some of her favourite activities are reading, writing, and aimlessly surfing the Internet for inspiration.
@kaysey_dee
kayseydee.wordpress.com
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Geraldynn Lubrido Geraldynn Lubrido is an English student at Ryerson University. She is one of the editors of the Toronto Public Library's Young Voices magazine, and the art publication The Continuist. Her first real writing piece was a grade four story about Santa Claus breaking through apartment windows to deliver presents - because she lived in an apartment and wanted some high-rise representation in the chimney-centric Santa tradition! Geraldynn's desire to write about the underrepresented and the illogical still fuels her writing today.
doyouevensleep.wordpress.com. Michelle Smith Michelle is a 24 year old law student, dreamer, and poet who draws inspiration from the world around her. She has an undying love for chocolate, international human rights, and R&B and soul music. She has been writing from the age of 10. For her, it has always been a release and at times an act of resistance when she feels she has been silenced. Some of her aspirations include starting a vinyl record collection, stepping foot on every continent, and making the world a better place.
http://21yrsyoung.tumblr.com
https://www.pinterest.com/ellesweetbell/ Phibert Lui "A Toronto-based filmmaker, Philbert has been involved with film festivals and arts organizations since 2009. Most recently, he was the Volunteer Coordinator at the Reel Asian International Film Festival. In the past, he has worked with the Sony Centre for the Performing Arts, Kollaboration Toronto, and the Canadian Film Centre. Philbert is currently developing his first graphic novel and often writes song lyrics in his spare time."
@philbertlui
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Tajjio Smith Talented, adorable, joyful, jovial, intelligent and optimistic are a few words that describe me. Tajjio is my name. Unique isn't it ? Yes I am one of a kind. You can say I am a great leader because I don't follow people, I like to stand out not blend in. I was born in Kingston, Jamaica and raised in Toronto, Ontario by my grandmother Jasmine. I didn't have the typical family but I was raised right to believe in myself and keep trying when things got rough because nothing ever comes easy, you have to work hard for what you want and in the end, hard work does pays off. I wrote ”Life Lessons ”a year ago out of built up anger and stress. I expressed myself in the form of writing and turned something negative into something positive. I lost friends, got betrayed, made my past hold me back from doing things in the future, met new people, learned not to be judgemental because you never know what people go through etc. I had learned many life lessons in 2014 and I put them together and reflected on my year and made this poem. I didn’t think it was a big deal when I finished writing it. After sharing it with others and inspiring many it encouraged me to keep writing and make more poems to later publish all together as a book.
Tajjio Smith
cdt_xo
cdt_xo Fardowsa Ali Hey, I am Fardowsa Ali. I am 18 and have lived in Canada my entire life, but I am a Somali Canadian, and very proud of that fact. I love to read, write and edit stories that I see. I am going to Seneca for Liberal Arts in fall. Thank you for reading my story and I hope you enjoy.
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A Few Words from the YBT Team! Graphic Designer ,Dymika Harte Dymika Harte is a young entrepreneur and graphic designer who specializes in creating exciting brand visuals for small companies. She started out her graphic design career when she was in grade 10, competing in local and provincial design competitions, and volunteering her design expertise to local non-profit organizations and community centers. Fast forward three years, she now runs a design company called UNSGND that offers creative solutions to small businesses who are in need of graphic and photography services. For more information visit UNSGND.ca. Editor, Maverick Smith Young, broke and talented. These three words sum up the theme of this anthology which I have had the privilege of editing. Through-out the editing process, I have been constantly in awe of the passion behind the pieces that were submitted relating to this theme. It has been an honour to stitch these pieces together, producing the following manuscript. I believe I have done justice to the talented young people whose pieces are published in this anthology. These young, talented poets and writers in this anthology show astounding promise; I hope to see more work from them in the years to come. Congratulations to everyone who participated in this project. Maverick Smith is a deaf*, queer, trans*, dis/abled, genderqueer person, Maverick Smith, has always been interested in social justice and equity. Maverick is honoured to have had the opportunity to serve as an editor for this anthology which they believe aligns with these interests. A published writer, poet and now an editor, they reside on the traditional lands of the Mississaugas of the New Credit and are engaged in community work related to intersectionality of their various identities. Production/Concept, Valerie Amponsah Thank you to everyone who helped with this project. Thanks to my friends that helped me put my idea into motion, who said encouraging words when I was low and wanted to give up because it was too hard, thanks to my sisters and best friends for reading over my words and giving honest, ( a little bit too honest ) opinions which helped made my thoughts stronger. If you want to know more about me or about the project you can contact me at [email protected]
