001Good evening everyone. I'm Cohen. And I'm Lucy. And we are sophomores and are representatives of the poetry team at Exeter High School. We'll be your MCs for tonight's event. The work you're about to hear comes from predominantly from the freshman class project that is connected to Arts in Action. As someone that was a part of this project last year, I can say that it has really impacted me. I refound my love for poetry and writing and I found this thing in my life that I didn't know I was missing. So, what you're about to hear tonight is all of that coming to life once again. So, Tonight's students present student presenters are sharing poetry from Mr. Magliosi and Ms. Peterson's classes. These recitations represent some classroom favorites as well as some reciters returning to the
002stage from Slam Free and Flying years past. Throughout our projects, students are challenged to consider what change they want to see in the world and how they can affect that change. But before we get to that question, these reciters will be sharing a little bit of their worlds, expressing their thoughts about a plethora of themes and ideas that come directly from their soul. And as a message to all writers out there, remember to be loud. For our first um poet, we have Carson Curtis with Breathing for Three. There was a time before me. Before my name, before my birthday, and before the complete stature of my appearance you see today. Mom was one for one. I made it the 266 days, the 38 weeks, and the 9 months. I made it. I was here and
003I was breathing. One for two. When I was born, I was small. I was I was fragile. I was afraid and I was confused. You never had to get confused. But I was breathing. One for three. I was loud. I was unaware. I was lost and I was overwhelmed. You never had to get overwhelmed. But I was breathing. One for four. I was hurting. I was cold. I was angry and I was crying. You never had to cry. But I was breathing. I had eyes. I got to see her glowing full of life. I had ears. I got to hear her voice smooth as silk. I had a nose. I got to smell her luxurious cooking every night. I had arms and I got to give her the biggest hugs in the entire world. And
004I had a mouth. And I got to tell her every day how much I loved her. Sometimes I imagine what if I had three brothers and three brothers I'd shoot hoops with and show them how to become a man and defy standards. What if I had three sisters? Three sisters I'd treat like And every time a new boy came along that that they that thought that they were good enough for her. Oh, I'd make sure they know where they were in their place. What if they got to cry? I mean, what if they got to hurt or feel overwhelmed? What if THEY GOT TO FEEL ANGRY OR OR CONFUSED? Or scared? What if they got to love? What if they got to live? I certainly did. I got to breathe. I felt alive. I feel
005alive. I am alive. Thank you. That was beautiful. I I could feel and see the emotion and I'm pretty sure the crowd could too. There was a really strong voice you could hear everything about being grateful for life and for like just living in general, this experiences of it, the experiences of being grateful for family and and your mom. Um I I also thought that your meter was really good. Like how you slowed down and sped up, got angry, showed emotion. That was really good and and a lot of other slam poets they do a lot of that. I also think the way you spoke was just amazing. The way you commanded how you were talking about things. It was just really really good. I think your body language is was just phenomenal. I love
006how you expressed yourself. And it really just made a deep impact on everyone here. Really good poem. Thank you so much for sharing that. And next we have Chloe Ickemeyer, my smile. I love my smile. It makes me happy to be so bright. I love my smile. My mom says it makes me look pretty. I love my smile. My teacher told my mom that I was cute when she asked if I was reading yet. I love my smile. Some kid in my class called me ditzy and then said it wasn't a compliment when I thanked him. I love my smile. My friends say I look dumb. I love my smile. I think it makes up for the rest of my body. I love my smile even when my heart is broken, even when my skin
007is over stimming my mind and my soul is frowning at me yelling at me, "Don't lose your spark." I hate my smile. I hate my messed up teeth and the crease it leaves in my face. I hate how chubby my cheeks get when I grin too hard. I hate how it makes me look stupid or too silly. And don't tell me no one cares cuz I won't listen. Don't tell me I'm beautiful because I'll say it doesn't matter how much you try to comfort my saddening eyes cuz they refuse to see the light. I'll sit stand in front of my bathroom mirror grinning like it's homework but my cheeks won't lift without guilt. I'll sit in my room in like darkness around me watching the time tick by on my phone waiting for something someone
008to come save me but I push everyone away because I'm scared. I'm so scared. I'm scared of the earth beneath my feet and the wind from my face. I'm Maybe I should love my smile because it's fun. Maybe I should love my smile because it brings others joy. Or maybe I should love my smile because there are people out there who don't get to grin as much as me, who don't get to be happy and could definitely use a smile just like mine. That was also an amazing poem. I really like the message that you put behind it and the the feeling that you leave the like readers and listeners. That that was That was really good. I also don't think this is just about smiling. I think this is something that really connects to
009people personally. Everyone has something that they are not okay with in their life and the way that you can see that through this poem, it just brings that feeling to life and it's genuinely like I'm I'm so grateful you showed that with us. It was just It was really good. Yeah, I think um it's hard to get up there and show vulnerability and I just think that was amazing the way you expressed um like vulnerability and I think it was great. I think the repetition with smile also brought forth that imagery. Sorry, I keep going back to imagery, but it brought forth that idea of like smiling isn't just smiling. It's all the things that build up that smile and all the things that hide behind that smile. So, you did really good representing that.
010Thank you for that poem. And for the next poem, uh Avery Carter with the prism of being. I think lenses are the magnifying glasses of the world. They are what allow us to perceive the universe. Most people wear the same pair, clear and transparent, invisible and meant not to be seen. We're told to see through this lens, to observe the world like others, to keep them on, forget they are there and become successful. But what about switching lenses? For a red lens, a deep, strong red, brave with no fear of their shadow, leaving sploches of their color across the worlds. Or an orange lens, quirky and odd, seeing everything with their very own understanding. Each simple thing, a beautiful blooming flower. Or a yellow lens, bright, forgiving yellow. Spreading a new light to every inch
011of the universe. Warm and comforting, lighting up every dark tunnel. Or a green lens, opaque, authentic green, showing the world each and every scar. Following their hearts, but leading with their souls. And a blue lens, soft, quiet blue. Lurking in a shadow. Calm and collected in each breath, there for everyone else but themselves. Or a purple lens, unwavering, loyal purple. A constant shoulder to lean on, steady in body and soul. What if with colored lenses, the heart is neon, the soul is rainbow, and forgiveness is eternal? What if we ignore the other lenses simply because the color is brighter? What if the only thing stopping us from trying on colored lenses is the fear of seeing a whole new world, one that we've been told to ignore and leave behind? We spend our lives waiting
012for the focus to shift, clinging to a clarity that keeps us blind. But once you see in color, you realize the world isn't just something to look at. It's a masterpiece waiting for you to pick a hue. That was amazing. I don't think you understand how the color, like, how you concluded how POVs are seen through different lensy lenses and colors, that really just brought to life like so many different perspectives that people see life as. You know, you can see it as sad, you can see it as awkward, you can see it as so many different things, and I think you really had a good job connecting that and making it like really good, like figurative language that brought it all connect together, connected everything. It was really good. I really liked your use
013of we and like including all of the emotions and including everyone in the repetition of we. Um for our next poem, we have Olivia Buchanan and uh To- Tommy Massecotte as "Hello, how are you?" I think that's something people hear a lot everyday. "I'm good, how about you?" is the only thing you can really say back. It's one of those questions with only one answer, like asking someone if they're sleeping or telling the truth. A game of follow the leader where everyone says the same thing again and again. No matter if they're your friend, family member, coworker, teacher, or even a complete stranger to you. "Hello, how are you?" It happens all over the world. Hola, ¿cómo estás? Estoy bien, ¿y tú? Bonjour, comment ça va? Ça va bien, et toi? Hallo, wie geht es
014dir? Mir geht es gut, und dir? Chances are if you've taken a class in one of those languages, you recognize those sentences immediately. It's one of the first things you learn, after all. Sometimes people say they're good even when they aren't. Even at their lowest, someone could ask them those magic words and suddenly they're doing just fine because they don't want to be a bother. I'll give an example. While writing this and maybe even reading it aloud, hi, I may sound calm and collected, at least I hope I do, but I'm actually really nervous about this poem. My hands keep trying to go into my pockets or behind my back and my feet keep trying to bounce on their heels like I don't want to be here. It's awkward, to say the least. Maybe people
015should just say how they feel. In a society where telling the truth is so idolized, why is lying so normalized? Hello, how are you? I think a lot of people are only tethered to their lives by the simple fact that their death would cause others pain. Hello, how are you? There's over 40 countries currently formally recognized as being in a state of war, with even more that could be considered as such, but are informally recognized as such. And a lot of people don't know that, which is really concerning. Hello, how are you? There will come a day where people say what they mean and they mean what they say. Where people will ask questions because they care and they want to know and connect with struggles, even if it's hard, because it is hard. But
016until that day, we're all just going to keep saying, "I'm good. How about you?" What I really liked about that poem is your speed change in the middle and how intense you were with that speed change and how you tie the question at the start with an answer to the question with another question. I think that really ties the poem together and it Yeah, it has a lot of emotion. I also think this is another one of those things where it's like, "Hi, I'm good. How about you?" Like or hi, hello, how are you? It's not really about how you are, it's about how everyone is and how everyone responds to that. It's a really great like symbolism of how everyone responds to different things, especially with with like countries and stuff. Like I think
017it's just it's amazing how you kept that theme going throughout your poem. The meter with that was amazing. Yeah, I agree. I think that was awesome. I loved how you your tone changed throughout your poem. It really carried us along on this like journey with a deeper meaning. I thought it was awesome. I loved it. The emotion you showed was also amazing. Thank you for being up there and being vulnerable and sharing that with us. Thank you. And next we have Olivia Buchanan. This is known as a Moth Radio Hour story, so you'll see this presented as a story. It is really interesting, so Olivia Buchanan, Dragons Love Tacos. So, this I'm presenting with a book called with Dragons Love Tacos. Um So, I'm an awkward person. I'm kind of the person who says you
018too when the waiter tells you enjoy your meal. I'm also the type of person to say things without thinking first. Ever since I learned how to talk, which was probably the worst idea someone's ever came up with. Um People used to tell me that being awkward was a mood killer and how speaking without thinking first wasn't a good trait. I would usually brush it off and just embarrassingly laugh, but later on over the years I've learned to take advantage of those traits and instead of hiding those traits and being embarrassed of it, I embrace them. Once in third grade, I was reading to a class of first graders as an assignment. The book was Dragons Love Tacos. I practiced for weeks reading constantly to my parents thinking I would remember and then eventually forgetting the
019next day. Honestly, my parents could probably read this whole entire book um with the blindfold on. The day came and my heart was racing. I read the book over and over again during silent reading time. I was ready. Then, my teacher called called me over and told me to go to Ms. Johnson's room to read to them. I walked down the freakishly long hallway book in hand, my fingers tapping against my thigh. I got to the door and all the kids were there sitting in a circle waiting for me to read. The teacher welcomed me in and leading me to this big white rocking chair. I sat down confidently greeting all of the giggly kids. I began to read the small colorful words in front of me. Fluently without even thinking. It then got to
020the book to the part of the book where I would always forget and suddenly I realized I skipped a sentence. Without thinking, as a little 8-year-old I was, the foul words, sorry grandma, um slipped out of my mouth. Swearing was wasn't isn't a normal thing in my house, mostly from my dad. All of the children gasped even and some even laughed as my face turned a bright red. The teacher scowled as expected as I look over brushing it off as I awkwardly continue flipping through the pages to the last. I finished the book and the littler kids laughed and whispered as my cheeks turned a deep rosy color. As I walked out the door, the teacher said goodbye and as I walked out smiling proudly, I noticed in the corner of my eye the teacher
021and the helper teacher whispering who knows what. At that moment, I realized that speaking without thinking isn't necessarily a bad thing unless you make it bad. I'm no longer embarrassed by blurting things out without thinking. After that situation, I've started to become more open about not thinking before I speak. And if I say something dumb or rude, I try to turn it into a humorous moment. Now, if I tell the waiter to enjoy his meal, I'll laugh it off instead, rather than making it serious or embarrassing. The whole point of telling the story was simply this: Don't be embarrassed. It's as simple as that. You only live once, so just be who you want and feel how you want. I've come a long way since the the Dragons Love Tacos innocent incident. These days, I
022save the four-letter words for as much more important audiences like Mr. Maggs. Thank you. I think that was like one of the best stories I've ever heard because it you learn it's not only an amazing just like really funny, goofy story that you bring to life on the stage, but also you learn a lesson. Like, I think how you connected it to you only live once and something that was like honestly, it feels like a long time ago when you're 8 years old and you're reading a book in front of all your peers, but I think the way you tied that to how you learned that now and how you learned that no matter what, you can turn something into a humorous situation and find yourself through that. I think it's a really really great.
023I also like how you took like a goofy like story and you you turned it into this like serious like you only live once, so might as well have a little fun with it. Yeah, I think incorporating humor into something that you could like potentially be insecure about just really shows how like confident you are and how like it just really tells a message to people that like being yourself is like who you are and like I think that's awesome. All right, to transition we have your intermission questions. So, Carson, you will see you have a microphone under your chair and we will be asking you some questions. Um so, we're going to ask one question. You guys pass it down and answer it and then we'll ask another one and you pass it back.
024Um in your own words, what is poetry to you? Poetry to me is a way you can express yourself in words with deeper meanings and sometimes from behind a mask. I always thought poetry I'm almost like a different person up there. It's It's not only me saying the lines up there, but it's it's something inside of me, almost my soul. So, um I always feel like a lot of people open up when they're doing poetry. Um poetry is a great way to connect with your feelings. Um and another thing I like about poetry is just all the um creativity that comes from it. You can write so many different time types of poems with repetition and similes and all of that, but yeah, I love poetry and I love being able to express myself from
025inside of me. Uh like Carson said, I think poetry is like a really good way to express myself and like embrace emotions that I keep deep down in my my soul, my chest and it's really good way to just like get out the things you need to say without like directly telling people like I am uncomfortable or something like that. I think poetry, just to kind of keep it short, um is that it's really it's it's it's easy to feel. everyone feels, um but it's hard to vocalize it and put it into the universe. So, poetry gives you a chance to do that. Poetry can be literally anything. It's formless in nature. I've seen people write poems about the most mundane things. And it's crazy cuz you think it's going to be like all stuck
026up, hipstery, you have to be dark and depressing, but nope. You can So, any emotion you want into words and come out with a beautiful poem. And that's beautiful. Yeah, they basically just took all of my ideas. Um Um yeah, I really think um just like poetry's just storytelling. Like telling your story like through words like simile, like all of that. Like and just like getting it out without like really just being like I'm mad or I'm sad. Like I feel like it really like just like helps you say what you want to say. That was really great. Thank you guys for sharing your opinions on that. I think the common theme I saw was getting your words out into the world, expressing feelings that you can't express by just words out your mouth. So,
027writing them down is amazing. We have one more question for you guys. So, it's which of the five senses connect you to writing the most? I believe um my eyes and seeing connect to my writing the most. As uh most of what I uh I guess bring in into the world is what I see. Um if I see bullying, I know not to hang out with them. If I see kindness, I know I can hang out with them. Um, so I really like to grasp on to the side of what I've seen, but then also going up to them cuz can you can never judge a book by its cover, but yeah, so I think kind of what I see and that's kind of how I write and um, I think just eyes are an
028amazing tool and I just get to see and put it into words, which is just so magical cuz there are so many so many so many words that um, so many different words that mean the same thing that you can use and yeah. Um, I think what I do is I I take what I hear around me for into my writing. So like if I hear something on the news or something around my person or like in my community, I can take that and I can it really helps me write because there's so many problems in my life and in the world that are easy can be able to address in poetry. Um, I think for me it's definitely my eyes. I mean, obviously from my poem because the reason poetry has so many creative
029outlets for so many people is because the way we see the world is different for every individual person and that's what makes poetry like really what it is and allows it to be unique to every individual. This is embarrassing saying, but is speech a sense? I think taste is a sense, but maybe it could like a sixth sense. I'm sorry then. Uh, I had something prepared, but I guess not. Um, You can go ahead and say it. It's all right. Well then I guess I kind of also have to go with sight because a lot of times what meets the eye isn't what is true. A lot of times there's a lot of nuance behind things that you can't see as easily. And I think that's kind of related to my poem. Sorry. Yeah, so
030I'm going to go with my eyes again. Um So I like Yeah. Um So I like when I see someone like sad, like I always like have like the urge to be like, oh, I need to make them happy. Like I hate seeing people sad. Like I just like have the need to like bring everyone up and I feel like having that up energy is just like really good to have with someone. So I feel like with my Moth Radio Hour, I really wanted just to make people happy and with this like ending all of like the first people, I feel like that really just like it went from like deep to like really like I guess happy. So I that was just really my hope. All right, so round two is up. Thank you
031so much to you guys for reading out. That was really vulnerable. >> All right, so just a reminder that we have our 50/50 raffle still going on. Um, one ticket is $1 and three tickets are or sorry, five tickets are $3. Um, I'm right up there. Um, any money is greatly appreciated um, to go to our poetry team fundraiser. So, thank you so much. Now, on to round two. First up, we have Arya Donovan with water can't stain you. Yesterday I had to run inside inside of the building because of the rain. Rain that tried to ruin the hair I spent all of my time curling into curls. Curls that I needed to stay pretty and put. But, it was fine because I just had to remember. Remember what my grandmother used to say about
032water. Water can't stain you, so don't act like it can. Rain only drops on you, but it can never attack your heart. So, when it was raining, I never wore a raincoat. Raincoats were for girls who let water stain them, but water never got to me because I never let it touch my face. But, rain is only one form of water. The other day I needed to drink a glass of water. I just came back from running in circles trying to catch my breath. Then, my water just spilled. Spilled all over my neatly flourished floors. But, then I saw you. You ran to me with towels to dry to dry my floors of my dirty water with a smile, a smile of belonging and love. Then, you helped me throw the dirty water absorbed towels
033away, away in some far off land, a land where it can't come get me any longer than it already has. You showed me that my dirty water doesn't define me. And now everything is fine, fine until it isn't because you love her. Her and her are Midas touch and auburn hair, her hair and her deep forested eyes, eyes that give you a look of longing and love, love and a sorrow and happiness, happiness and peace and empathy, empathy and something that I know I could never give you even if I tried to. My dirty water can't touch me. It can't knock me out, haunt me at night, or find a way to slowly deteriorate me into nothingness. And as my dirty water disappears, I feel something on my cheek. And as my tears start to
034stream down my face, as I face the truth that I wish these tears could blur out, I remember what my grandmother used to say about water. Water can't stand you, so don't act like it can. But, I think this just did. Thank you. I think that was really really good, and I know I keep saying that, but that was gorgeous. I think the way you connected each of your sentences, especially when you um brought like fourth of the last words you used into the next one, like remember or rain or just the the illustration of water you put into life, I think that's what you did there was really great. For our next reader, we have Beatrice Cooper, "For Every Swimming Lesson I Missed". My mother gave up on teaching me how to swim. I
035was probably around eight or so. Every swimming lesson she tried to make me attend somehow felt worse than drowning. Surrounded by kids half my age and twice my skill, I'd flail my arms as hard as I could, but I just didn't float. I started swimming late, and she could never be bothered to keep up with a consistent schedule. I started off behind. It felt alien to me that I could give it my best shot and still fail. That there was something that, no matter how hard I worked for, I just couldn't succeed at. My mother gave up on teaching me how to swim, and every pool day or beach trip since I've cursed her name from the shallows. Swimming wasn't the only lesson I missed. In fact, there were plenty of things she never taught
036me. The things that come to everybody else as easily as breathing, she never taught me how to do my hair, put on makeup, make a meal that doesn't involve a microwave. She never taught me how to cry, how to lose a friend, how to fail. She never taught me how to be knocked under the waves, how to survive the feeling of the air being punched out of your lungs. She never taught me how to fight against the tide when it feels like the ocean itself has a vendetta against your existence. My mother never taught me how to swim. But I won't sink, because she never taught me how to quit, either. I really liked your repetition with how to, when it was like, "She never taught me how to, how to, how to", and "She
037never, she never, she never", and the reoccurring water metaphor with swimming, and how you bring that to sinking. And it was really powerful poem. And next we have Oren Butts untitled. This is a Moth Radio Hour. So, it is another story. This is beautiful. Thank you. I finally got the diagnosis in eighth grade, autistic. But, before then, I knew before maybe even my own parents. Because the signs were obvious. Going back in seventh grade, it was the too loud noise of the PA system that wouldn't stop for 20 25 minutes. And the bullying that said I was somehow different, but couldn't tell how exactly. It was how it In sixth grade, someone tried to make dead eye contact with me, and it felt like my retinas were burning off. It was fifth grade when I
038tried when I would got so excited that I forgot that you're supposed to keep your arms down, not hold them up in the dino position because you're so excited. In fourth grade, it was I can't manage my time. I don't want to do these activities that I was sent home with. I don't want to do the extra math. I want to do the fun science activities. So, my teacher just got upset at me every time because I couldn't bring myself to do them. In second grade, it was the overwhelming death that I feel of my first cat that I had that I felt like I was supposed to get over my now, but I still couldn't. In first grade, it was am I really supposed to be crying over how my snack had fallen? I
039feel humiliated. And those times, they were meant to some They were never Most of the time they weren't met with something that they were supposed to. They were not met with the understanding that I needed because I didn't have the label. I was a different and I didn't know why. The label didn't change much. It just made it so I had a 504 plan that was supposed to support me, but then I don't know how to advocate what I need. No one taught me how to say what to we want in a 504 plan meeting. And even the rubric of this project has flaws that I can't follow. Make eye contact, body language, use your facial expressions, tone, rhythm. But I had to learn those. I Eye contact hurts. Body language, I don't understand. I
040can't read it on someone else. How am I supposed to do it on myself? The facial expressions just don't make sense. I thought they were things in books until like sixth grade when I'm like, "People actually communicate with these?" It was a shock to me that I didn't know wasn't supposed to be. And there's even rubrics in the past remember in eighth grade going after because they wanted me to do something I couldn't. I didn't know how or it just wasn't in me. How am I supposed to do something I wasn't born with knowing that everyone else in the world seemed to do, that everyone else insulted me for, thought I was weird, different, taught me to hide it. But eventually it was met with what I needed, but not all the time and still
041not yet, which is understanding. Understanding is the one thing. Just trying even to understand is what shows that you care. It's saying that you're actually there, you're not some weirdo, you're not different just because you're you were born with a different brain. It even the trying, trying to hear what I'm trying to what I'm trying to tell you. What I'm trying to tell you that I can't make eye contact. These clothes are uncomfortable. I really can't go because I know I'm going to get overwhelmed. Trying knowing that when I suggest a book to you by someone I trust because she's an autism advocate and actually looking into it it means a lot. Trying is the important part. And trying to understand. So, understanding is all I ask of you. In the end of this, I'm
042terrible with words. Maybe it's just all nonsense to you, but in the end all I want from you is understanding. At least to try to understand because I'm trying to tell you that I'm different and maybe you won't understand why I'm different or you might find it weird or confusing. But maybe just try to understand a little bit more. I think the vulnerability that you brought to the stage today was one of the best things that I've seen like ever. I think you really bring forth um growing up as someone who is autistic and not knowing what's wrong with you when there's really nothing wrong with you and having to learn social cues and um like even this project you said was going against something that you just don't want to do in a way
043because it's uncomfortable for you. And I really think you bringing that here tonight and bringing that presence really allows the audience and us to understand how you feel and the story was just amazing. Thank you. Our next reader is Jordan Gabbis with the poem A Gift. Like a trophy on the shelf, a display, a reminder. Desired by many, had by few. Capable of everything and nothing. Maybe the bane of your existence. A gift can be whatever you need it to be or not be. It can be what you brag about at a party. It can be something you wish you never had. A gift is a reflection of what you can be, which can inspire you or jade you. Like the trophy you've always wanted or an expectation hanging over your head. Somebody with a
044gift is spoken of by many, spotlighted and praised for what they can do and what they're capable of, for pleasing a crowd. They please by succeeding and soon the praise becomes consistent and the lifestyle becomes engraved. But at one point or another, they begin to falter. They begin to falter from the constant success and the expectation of constant success because that is what deems their value. Eventually, they just shut down. The gift people praised, the person people praised, no longer valuable. Like a glass dropped on the floor. The gift, the person that was once beautiful, now shattered into sharp pieces. People say they're broken, no longer a winner. Like a trophy on the shelf, a display, a reminder. Many still want it, yet even fewer have it. Capable of everything and nothing. But maybe they're
045more than shattered glass. Thank you. I really liked in that poem when you talked about um it's a reflection of the desire to win and how that uh causes a slow deterioration because of the cycle of expectation that you have for success and how it how a trophy can become an empty placeholder. And that was a really powerful poem. And next up we have Teagan Chan with the black dot on my nose. Uh I would like to preface this by saying that I'm not alluding to drug use or getting high. This is my original poem The Black Dot on My Nose. Sometimes I have a multitude of tests that define my future. A handful of quizzes that assess my memory more than my learning and a bunch of assignments that steal my sleep and haunt
046my dreams. My laundry is a mountain range that I lack the gear to climb and my bookshelf is a graveyard of unread spines. During those times you can find me with the black dot on my nose. Addicts always hide their problems which is why I don't want you to know that the black dot on my nose is from sniffing a Sharpie. Like I was taught, I breathe in through my nose sniffing the flower and out through my mouth blowing up the balloon. I drown my stress in the simpler times suppressing my worries with the smell of my youth. Now I don't want you to think I have a problem. It doesn't have to be a Sharpie. Crayons and markers work just fine. Or the smell of a classroom with the rug because I swear that
047rugs and drugs smell different. It's the sound of winter boots shuffling across the carpet. It's the feeling of sticky fingers grasping at the fringe. It's the sight of a class circling up to share about their weekends. And now, no one even asks me about my weekend. Or the sheets of soft, cottony construction paper that are porous to the touch and have a fragrance of wood and vanilla, used once for works of love. Now, I only use construction paper if I'm seeking a cold, hard, eye-on-a-project. Nothing in my life is for pure shits and giggles. Everything has an ulterior motive. What happened to doodling in my notebook for fun? The Sharpie would pull my hand along the paper in no particular order, but the magnificent work of childlike creativity would always be produced. That Sharpie that
048turned my palm into a trampoline. That Sharpie that transformed the side of my hand into a moving mouth. That Sharpie that became a magic wand for creative outlets. My only use for a Sharpie this week was writing my student ID number on my hand because I forgot it and I don't know my number and I have to print and I have to buy lunch and now I have to avoid the lady in the front office because she yelled at me. When everything feels like a 100-lb weight resting on my chest, knocking the voice out of my throat so that every breath feels like an accomplishment, I zip open my backpack, I reach for my pencil case, and I pull out my childhood. I close my eyes and inhale. The way someone with asthma would use
049an inhaler. The way a chain-smoker would light a cigarette. The way I used to sniff the flowers and inflate the balloon. My youth is my drug, but unlike Sharpies, my childhood wasn't permanent. Thank you. I'd like to start with saying that was absolute bars because I think the way you connected just a smell to your childhood and how that kind of prefaced on things of going from doing things for the creativity in the art to focusing on school work and just being constantly work work work with no stopping and trying to get as perfect as you can those grades like I think the way you really connected Sharpies and the way you said my my youth is my drug even though you disclaimed at the beginning we don't endorse drug usage I think the way
050you kind of even tied that was just amazing the figurative language and the comparisons you used were beautiful thank you. All right so now we're going to ask you a question. Um in one word what does poetry do? Projects I think that poetry really just projects people's voices it projects people's thoughts and emotions I think that if I were to use one word it would just be projects. Um I think poetry connects it connects us to others and it connects us sometimes to even parts of ourselves. Um I think that poetry illustrates just things that normally don't like get talked about like you can describe them really well. Um I'd say poetry empowers like I know I've read so many poems especially in this last week um with the poetry unit we've been doing but
051oh my gosh the messages all these poems have is really so empowering. Uh for me it helps it helps me find the voice to talk about the things I want to most that have no other way of of sharing them that I know how to. It now we're ready for round three to come up. For our first poem of round three, we have Meg Garrity with Letters to My Life. Dear piles of notebooks, what happened to all the stories and universes? I remember when the swing could be my throne, my bike a noble steed, the trees my kingdom. Now, I have endless ideas with no outlet. Stories to tell, but nowhere to tell them. I yearn to create, but I toss every mark I make on the paper. Sincerely, empty pages. Dear novels, there was
052a time when you would pull me in. I spent hours dancing on the lines of your chapters. Days rereading every phrase I could manage. Now, I lose interest, not time. I test my patience, not my imagination. What happened to our bond? Sincerely, screen time. Dear dreamer, I sorry I let you down. You are not the top of your class. Instead, you're still dreaming. Big dreams, they tell you. Still achievable, but that window is smaller every day. Strong girls still make a strong world, but I don't think I fall under that category anymore. I should have written this earlier. Sincerely, reality. Dear future, I used to think that you were so far away that whatever I said to you now didn't matter. But now I'm looking at the cusp of adulthood, where what I do actually
053matters. No more are social troubles the biggest problem I have. No more are the words, "I'll do it later." Enough. You have arrived now. My invitation. Sincerely, the present. Dear May, pressure creates diamonds. Pressure also creates rubble. It can only come from you, but how much do you really want it? And why do you really want it? Sincerely, the piles of notebooks, the empty pages, the novels, the screen time, the dreamer, reality, the future, and the present. Thank you. What I really liked about that poem is how it's broken up into sections, and the personification of each a complex topic of reality, future. Um also, one of my favorite things in um spoken poetry is like volume control and the articulation of your words. So, think you did a really good job at that. And
054next we have Rowan Dequeue with ping pong thoughts. I can never think of just one thing. My brain can never stop. It bounces between different ideas like a ping pong ball being hit across the table. I just wish just once I knew how to serve. Right now I'm thinking about big things, climate change I think that we're all told about but no one seems to do a thing. That global warming that makes every argument heat up. Those ice caps that won't stop melting and the ice that won't go away. And now I'm thinking about how my mom says sugar instead of and the candy sweetness of the sugar coating my school drizzles over every scare. Now I'm thinking about the pledge of allegiance and how I no longer hold my hand over my heart cuz
055I won't swear myself to something that I refuse to believe in. And now I'm thinking about that old saying, if it ain't broke then don't fix it and how stupid that is cuz what if I'm so broken you can't even tell? What if I'm barely hanging on and a single whisper could shatter me into a million pieces like a vase dropped on the floor? And now I'm thinking about how I was the only baby to not need heart surgery when I was born unlike my siblings who needed to be stitched together to stay alive. And now I'm thinking about when I tried embroidery. I tried to make a birthday gift for my sister and I stitched a bear in between our initials and only afterwards did I realize that it looked like RIP. If only
056there was enough thread to weave together the broken hearts of those who have lost someone. But you can't use glue to fix heartbreak any more than you can use a spoon to dig a grave. Right now I'm thinking about so many things. My brain bounces between subjects like a ping pong ball you can't quite pick up. I try not to focus on the bad things, the scary things. I try to make it lighter about think by thinking about things that make me happy. But lately everything that makes me happy is morphing to something scary. Like our shadows on the wall turn into monsters in the dark. I can feel my thoughts mixing together turning the good into the bad, the friend into the enemy, peace into war, until there's no more good left. That was
057really, really great. I keep saying that, but that was really, really great. I think the way that you connected ping pong, like I just a ping pong bouncing around in someone's brain to how thoughts bounce around in our brains and how we really like climate change and how all of these things that are happening in the world and you want to get that started with serving that ping pong, but you you can't because you don't know how to or you just you really want to start it, but you can't. And I think you brought a lot of um vulnerability to um explaining about heart surgery and how you were the only one to not get that out of your siblings. I think that was a great, great example of how you used a ping pong
058to just connect it to things in your life. Thank you. And for our next poem, we have Sloan Hanson and Annabelle Monroe Dervon with the American Dream. When we were little, we never noticed the news on TV. >> buildings. I never noticed the poverty. I never noticed the danger of being in school. I never noticed that wanting a better life is a crime. I never understood why your skin color gave you preset stereotypes. >> I never understood why women don't have the rights to their own bodies. >> I never understood why guns are legal with 136 school shootings happening every year. I never understood why wanting to live the American dream advertised can get you killed. The American dream is a glorified nightmare. I never understood why the phrases >> Stay inside. Lock the door.
059>> are so scary. This poem isn't about politics, it's about humanity. I don't like ice in my drinks. >> I don't like the color orange. >> like red hats. I don't like how belief is trimmed down to slogan and how it takes 5 months to hold a gun. And 12 months to cut someone's hair. I don't like that children are being taken away from their families. >> Liam Carnelos >> Sophia Vargas >> Janice Esteracarts These were all kids stripped of the American dream. Thomas Jeff This poem isn't about politics, it's about humanity. >> Thomas Jefferson >> Grover Cleveland Richard Nixon Bill Clinton George H. W. Bush Ronald Reagan Donald Donald Trump These pol- political figures These were all political figures found guilty of SA. This poem isn't >> isn't about politics, it's about humanity. Our
060country is seen as a fairy tale on a bookshelf full of dictionaries. A fairy tale you'd want to live in. With fairies and dragons >> and freedom. It's seen as a bookshelf on a ro- on a bookshelf It's seen as a bookshelf on a It's seen as a flashlight in a room full of darkness. >> It's seen as a pair of mis- matched socks in a pile of mismatched ones. It's seen as a dream. But is it really a dream if all this is happening? This is the American dream. Are you living the dream? We used to think dreaming was safe. Now we know it depends on who you are. Um one of my favorite kinds of spoken poetry is duo poems where both of you are very intense and like when you both say
061the lines at the same time it it it just it it yeah, it's really cool. Um I I think your poem talked about very real topics and um and the the corruption of the American dream and how it's turning into this fake like how you said it fairy tale. I thought that was very moving and very good. Thank you. And next up we have Ari Anderson, thoughts without a remote. I listen to the scratching of my pencil as I write the date on the corner of my paper. February 6th, 2026. I'm thinking about how my birthday was almost a month ago. And unlike how I feel inside, I am not eight anymore. I am 15. I am not the little girl who sat by the window tracing the constellations in the night sky, dreaming of
062flying a rocket ship someday. I'm thinking about someday. How much a single word can carry? An entire lifetime encased in two syllables. How when I was five, 15 felt like someday. Yet now, 15 is today. I'm thinking about today. 24 hours of potential. Yet for many, it turns to 24 hours of laziness. I'm thinking about laziness. How normalized it has become in our culture. How we waste away our lives watching what we wished we had on a small screen, hypnotized by tiny pixels. Trapped in a cycle of scroll, like, comment, follow. No more human one-on-one or talking. Now I'm thinking about talking. How hard it can be for someone to talk when it matters. How when it's comfortable, it is easy. But as soon as you are asked on a deeper level, all you can
063do is deflect. The words bouncing off your skin. I'm thinking about skin. Wondering when pale became a layer of protection. First it was a guard against racism and slavery. Then we said, "With liberty and justice for all." But now it doesn't feel like it is for all. We have returned to the pale skin barrier. It's become a layer against the cold and ice. Thinking about how my father is an immigrant, standing here in America with only a green card. Yet he faces a fraction of the risk that the fathers without pale skin do. He was given a layer of protection. Safety. I'm thinking about safety. How when my mother was a little girl, she was taught fire drills. But when I was a little girl, I had lockdown drills. I learned how to hide and
064defend myself before I could even read a clock. Thinking about how mothers across Thinking about how desensitized our generation has become, how we see numbers in headlines and only hope it doesn't come to our town, how our school has had two threats in 1 month and we are just supposed to move on. It wasn't real. We are fine. But, the fear was real. The texts I sent my mother were real. Thinking about how mothers across the country have to sit down their little girls and tell them that they cannot wear their favorite pair of light-up shoes to school this year because they would give her away if she were ever in hiding. I'm thinking about daughters. How I am the daughter of my mother and she is of hers. I am the result of generations
065of women and their strengths and traumas swirled together to make the next. How when I look in the mirror, I see my mother's freckles, then my aunt's eyes, and even my grandmother's smile. How the first thing people say to me is, "You look so much like your mom." Thinking about how we really are the same, for worse or for better. How when my mother looks through her high school yearbook and it sees her own ninth grade pictures, she's met with my face in her memories. I'm thinking about memories, how easy it is to take for granted. How if you raise your hand in class but get the answer wrong, all you want is to forget. You want to forget the embarrassment and the muffled snickers you heard across the room. But, then I think about
066how my grandfather had every moment of his life stripped from his memory when Alzheimer's settled into his brain. Every bit of laughter, every tear, every embarrassment. All gone. Thinking about how when I look at the man who taught me how to know how to never give up give up and find laughter in every situation, all I am met with is a blank, confused stare. He does not remember who I am. I only wish I had held onto him before his mind betrayed him. I'm thinking about holding on. How when I was young, I held onto my mother's hand for safety, our fingers curling around each other, a silent understanding. But now, as society has told me to grow up, our hands have separated, and I was taught to let go and don't dwell on it.
067But I can't seem to. Every moment I've ever lived is constantly replaying at top volume, swirling through my mind. The remote, nowhere to be found. No fast forward button, no pause, no volume down. Nothing to clear it. How even something as harmless as writing the date can spark a train of thought that could travel for pages. So I pick up my pencil and I write because because it is the only way. Thank you. I wish all I had to say to that was wow, because I think it connects to so many people. You brought forth so many topics that I wish I could elaborate on more. I think I might have to talk to you after, but there was a I felt this feeling of nostalgia while you spoke, this feeling of growing up on
068phones and screens and then not living in the moment. I think that was a really big thing, especially with um how we are so desensitized to things, um like how we had two threats in one month. That was something that we all went through and it could have been very real, but a lot of people were making jokes about it or not taking it seriously, and how you brought that forth. I also think the way you brought heredity, like your grandfather and your mother and your family and your aunt, I think that was amazing and you did a really good job. Thank you. And now it's time to ask you guys a question. Um after this like uh unit that you had about poetry, how do you feel about it? Like before and then after?
069I grew up on Shel Silverstein and um poetry books. They're still on my shelf now. Thank you. And I've always had a love for poetry, um but up until um last summer where I did took a creative writing class, um never did I actually write my own poetry. Um being able to share this my poem that I wrote for you guys today uh has been really powerful in enhancing my love for poetry. So, I'm really grateful for this project. Yeah, I wasn't so excited for this unit. I I like poetry. Like I I like it as much as like the next person. Like I used to write it and all that stuff, but like I don't know. I just like something about like sharing it in front of everyone else. Like no, thanks. But it
070wasn't as bad as I thought and I think that it really did like like make me look deeper into like what I write and why I write it. So, I I I guess I'm kind of glad I did it. And then so it was pretty nice. It's pretty nice. Um kind of off of what May said, I grew up surrounded by poetry. My my mom is a poet. She um so, I so, I was I just grew up surrounded by it. Um but I do have a distinct memory of coming home from my first grade class and we had just written poetry and it was the first time and I went to my mom and I told her I went I hate poetry. I don't know how you do it. And um and I mean
071that didn't change for a long time. I still it's not my favorite, but I this unit definitely was fun. I enjoyed it. Um I didn't really prepare for questions. Um I was never like a big fan of ELA in general till like around 6th grade cuz I was dyslexic a while so I like grew up like not liking anything with ELA cuz I was like told I wasn't good at it. And I mean, going to this unit I wasn't a huge fan of poetry but after like seeing everybody else present and like what they wanted to talk about, I thought it was really cool and I definitely like it a lot more than when I started. Yeah, it goes off what Salone said. Um, it's I really like did not like it at first. I
072thought it was like I don't know. I just didn't like talking about your feelings and talking about how you felt and expressing it and I just kind of thought it was corny but you know, once you actually get into it, it's really not. It's really like deep and yeah, I did really think it's corny but it's it's not. It's I mean, it's corny but it's in a good way. It's it's sends a message and you guys all thought it. I'm just Um But yeah, I I just I I actually ended up really loving it. Um, I can't say I'm the best at presenting but Um, yeah, it's really fun to write and I think I'll definitely just do it on my own sometimes cuz it's a good way to let stuff out so. Thank you
073guys so much for sharing your thoughts. We're now going to move on to open mic. Thank you. Your pizza's I don't know what your pizza's under. My pizza's under you. Is this a broken one? I don't know what it looks like. Yeah, I don't know. Yeah. Okay, so what are their names? Okay, I'll use this one. Maybe? Yeah. Is this a I don't know. I don't know. I don't >> Uh we were told to say that we're freshmen, so we need to get more time. Wait, is it Wait, Abby was Did Did other like freshmen So, you got Abby's? I'm just going to make that one different. Yeah. I want to give it another shot. Sure, yeah. She can also do every single person. Yeah. She She just say "Ready?" Yes. So, we're going to
074wait. Uh Why don't we just walk around? Give it a shot. Walk it around. No, where are the tickets? Go around with the tickets. See if they're there. Where is it? I get all the time questions. If you want to do that, go No, what? Yeah, you guys are going up there. You want me to say something? Oh, sure. Okay. Before we continue, I just want to thank the musicians, Nick and Graydon. You guys are doing really good. Thank you. I changed it up. I was trying to Good job up there. It's a nice job. Answer your question. Do you want me to go first? I will. I just found out that I have the pleasure of introducing our MCs as poets. I knew they were poets already, but I didn't know I was going
075to get to introduce them. This is Lucy and Cohen. And they are not only the phenomenal people you've met over here. I've had the pleasure of having Lucy as a student last year in freshman year, and I met Cohen in poetry team and both of them have been phenomenal leaders of poetry team. So, I'm super happy to introduce these two reciting the seven deadly sins. The first deadly sin is lust. Something that I've surpassed. Love is not what poets write about or what movies are made of. There are no violins or slow fades. There is no yearning to overfill a heart that is already so full of love. >> Love. Just an empty space that you convince yourself is home. Home. Just strangers calling each other home. >> Home. Lust is the wildfire in a
076wedding dress that promises forever but burns through sensitive memories in minutes. A hunger that eats itself and an impatient gnawing that says >> I need you. That means until I don't. >> Leads you on and drinks champagne >> bathrobe convincing you what you have is true before believing before the sun rises. The second deadliest sin is gluttony. My mother always told me take only what you need, but I often find myself wanting more than I eat and wanting more than I need chew chomp. The chair beneath me wobbles as I belch what I think is my last burp. Pop, groan, the scratching at its neck to grab my last grab to munch its last mouthful. The third deadliest sin is greed. I want more. >> Time, chances, words. I want to stop myself from saying
077or doing something I regretted. I want to hoard the moments when I actually mattered to you. I want more than the explanation you gave me. Greed wears a three-piece suit and steps over bodies in the name of profit. I apologize to a vending machine for not having quarters, but billionaires apologize to no one for taking years off the of the planet's life expectancy. Devours and discards and still says starve better. Call it hustle. >> Hustle. >> Call it ambition. >> Ambition. Call it the American dream. >> We wonder why our hearts don't grow anymore more the same way money doesn't grow on trees. Taught to say please, taught to say more. More. More. More. The fourth deadliest sin is sloth. Too much work. Too little work done. The fifth deadliest sin is wrath. It swims
078in my eyes when I see you talking to a prettier fish in the sea. Even though I have no right to feel so my skills ripple with fury. On the way I look at my reflection in the mirror, why are you so filled with love but can't do it without breaking? Why can't you learn without failing? Why can't you be without hurting? Mantra after mantra taken out on people I surround myself with. Trapped in an abyss of anger. Anger like my mother pressing her lips so hard they become a prayer. Anger like my father punches walls so he doesn't punch fate. Coiled as a snake with fangs dripping with unworry towards my own actions. I am all fists because the world only listens when I yell. Sharpen my words so people can feel the bite
079of them. Wrath convinces you let my voice be thunder since they should have listened when it was still raining. The sixth deadliest sin is sloth. I don't know a lot. But I do know that when I see you with the sneakers I don't have the fiery shoe cut hole in my heart starts to burn a little more. I never knew how much I wanted until I wanted you. The seventh deadliest sin is pride. You think you're better. Better than them. Them. Than her. Her. Than him. Him. It kisses along your neck and whispers into your ear ear you're better off alone. It's watching someone else breeze past during a race grabbing gold like they were born to inherit it while you're gasping for air. I stood tall for far too long yet I stood upon
080a field of trash. A queen of broken things. I told myself I didn't need you. Didn't need anyone. My crown embroidered with boasts of slipping down my face as I try and scramble down mountains of melancholy tin pretending my fortress wasn't fake. The deadliest sin is desire. Thank you. Thank you so much for letting us go up there. Next, we have Andrea Toussaint. Andrea is also a part of poetry team and she is returning for the third time. Uh we had one we had another slam for your fly in April of maybe last year, I think. Maybe a little bit later, but here's Andrea with a broken clock. There's this feeling of nostalgia I get whenever I hear a clock. I'm not sure why. I've never really spent much time around clocks. I think it's
081the tick the device makes whenever a second passes. The silent tick brings me back to when I was six. Memories of sitting in my parents' room whilst watching a YouTube video, waiting for my mom to call "Ade bobo" from my living room. The second hand of The second hand of a clock flicks right. Another tick erupting from the device. More memories start to flood in as more ticking enters my ears. My surroundings begin to morph into something of my past. I can almost see the red stair railings of my old elementary school in Manchester through my eyes. The idea that I used to climb up and down those stairs talking with friends I've forgotten sends this feeling of nostalgia down my spine. I never really had many good memories living in Manchester. But the ones
082that I did make stick out like a sore thumb in my mind. One of the multiple memories I've retained is the booming sound that was the white clock hanging on my parents' wall. Now that I've said all of this, maybe I do know why I get nostalgic over the sounds of a ticking clock. The feeling of being a kid again, listening to a clock make that all comforting tick effect. It's something I miss, quite honestly. I wish I'd spent time making more fun memories in Manchester when I still had that clock ticking away until it ran dry of battery. But, I'm happy I didn't as well. I'm still powered with childlike wonder for things. Still looking at things with the curiosity of a 6-year-old. Still filled with love of toys and stuffed animals. And yet,
083I still miss my life in Manchester, just a little bit. All because of that stupid ticking clock. I don't have a clock in my house anymore. I just have a broken clock. Thank you so much for coming up. Next Next we have Sydney Marrow. Sydney is returning for her second year. So, next we have American Dream. American Freedom, sorry. In America, we teach kids that we are the land of freedom. We are one of the best countries in the world. American Freedom. In America, we hold these truths to be self-evident. That all men are created equal. That we are endowed by our creator with certain unalienable rights. Among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In the 1700s in America, freedom is being a nation of democracy. Giving people the right to vote.
084But, only if you're a white, wealthy, property-owning man. It's growing our economy on the backs of slaves. And tearing families apart. In the 1800s in America, freedom is being prideful, manifesting our destiny, assimilating Native Americans, and um Sorry. Kill the Indian, save the man. In America, freedom is after the Civil War, the creation of the KKK. Your freedom is the choice in choosing whether you die from murder or you die from starvation and exhaustion. In America, freedom is technological advancements, big business owners flaunting their wealth in the streets, while the average factory worker works 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, with no breaks and little pay, easily replaced by the next desperate worker. In the 1900s, in America, freedom is laws restricting immigration, the peak of nativism fueled by racial and religious prejudice.
085It's taking territories like Hawaii, because we believe they're not fit to govern themselves. But, we will save you, even if you don't want us or need us, and we're taking away your culture. In America, freedom is giving women the right to vote in 1920. But, only after they've been fighting for that right for about 90 years. And giving black people the vote, the right to vote in 1965. But, only after they've been fighting for over 100 years. In America, freedom is creating laws that restrict gay relationships, denying medical care and research that could solve an epidemic. In America, freedom is representing our country with a black man. But, no woman yet. That would be way too risky. In America, freedom is our country currently being compared to Nazi Germany. Immigrant detention centers and media so
086biased, no one knows what is real and what is fake. In America, we teach our kids that we are the land of freedom, that we are one of the best countries in the world. But now, these kids grow up. They learn about the true history. And they wonder, in America, was freedom ever truly free? Thank you, Sydney. Up next is Steffi Heelen with Importance of Imagination. And before we start, Steffi is a senior and has been doing this four times. Yes. So, it's her last time. Hi guys. So, I kind of lied. I'm not reading The Importance of Imagination. I'm actually reading a piece I dedicated to my mom. Um she is one of the most beautiful, strongest woman I know, and she immigrated to this country, learned the language from scratch. She met my
087dad. She had me and my sister, and I am so grateful for her and everything she's ever done for me. So, this piece is for you. Born with tainted blood I am, or so that's what you say. I'm not a purebred like you want me to be. I'm not a Doberman with her feet planted on the ground, but a mutt with her head stuck in the clouds. My mother is from Colombia, and my mother taught me how to write the number eight. Two circles stacked on top of one another, like two separate worlds never meant to connect. The division of a third world country. Here, children draw connected eights. It's supposed to represent what their country is meant to be. An equality of opportunity, the linking of our lives and worlds. Two different eights, two
088different cultures. Yet, despite it all, one circle always seemed to be above the other. So, I sit there, a child, writing numbers in my kindergarten class, wondering why that could be so wrong to you. You like the way the other children write. You like the way they read. You like the things they know. You like the things they talk about. You like the way they feel familiar. You like the the way they feel safe. You don't like me. But, you like the other children's parents. You like the way they sound. You like the way they look. You like the way they feel familiar. You like the way they feel safe. You like the way they teach their children how to write the number eight. You do not like my mom. And so, how dare I
089be a stain on your classroom, a failed product of her unrequited mastery as I write this not American American eight that is so foreign, so vile, so indescribable to comprehend. And so, my teacher, you seize my wrist, and you write my numbers for me. As clumsy tears of protest pull from my eyes, you square your wrath at me, ruthless as you label my learning a crime. And you tell me my mother cannot teach me. My mother is not from here. She is not an American. She cannot teach an American child how to read, HOW TO WRITE. SHE HAS NO RIGHT over me. AND SO, I SIT THERE, A MUTT, wondering I why I must only be that to you. But, I do not need to have my in the clouds to realize that your reality
090is not the one I wish to live. Thank you. And I'd also like to dedicate these flowers I got to my mom if she'd like to come up and accept them. I love you so much. Viva Colombia. That was really beautiful. Thank you. Next up we have Lily Bosensky, love poem. It is also Lily's fourth year coming up. She is a senior and I'd like to also recognize that. Thank you. I have never written a love poem. I've written poems about love, about how much I love my family, about how much I love my friends, about how much I love the world, about the times I love myself and the times that I don't. But I've never written a love poem. I'm not opposed to trying new things. I'll give it a go. Let me
091write you a love poem about the first and only romantic relationship I have ever been in. It was a kindergarten crush. Nothing more really. It lasted only a few days. I was 13 and I was stupid. That's what I tell myself, what I try to believe, because it makes the daggers in my back sting a little less. Let me be honest for a moment. It wasn't a few days. It was 10 years. 10 wonderfully sickening years. We met in preschool. I don't really know how we met, but obviously we did because we were instantly best friends. Or at least best friends on the days you wanted to be. Those were the best days. The days when the sun was a big yellow circle in the sky. On the days when someone else was your best
092friend instead, I wandered the playground alone, befriending my shadow. A gray mass of shapes I didn't know the name of. We weren't classmates for several years in elementary school, but you still managed to be the center of my solar system. I never held on to any friendships except for you. Once I waved to my neighbor in the hallway, you saw and refused to speak to me for the whole day. I thought you hated me. I begged you to tell me why you wouldn't talk. When you finally did, you said you were testing me. You concluded I was gullible. In middle school, you weren't in any of my classes once again, but that didn't matter. You were still the X in my equation, the single most important variable I was always solving for. After COVID, I
093hadn't even noticed you were one of my only friends. The few left were the ones you approved of. You were the most important person in my whole world. You said jump and I already knew how high. So, when you said you loved me, I gave you my heart. Can you still hear it beating beneath your floorboards? It took me an eternity to see my blood had been spilt. I was blinded by how delicious your poison was. I drank it up like honey, ignorant to its toxins spreading through my veins, unaware of the fact that you were the only antidote, oblivious to how it would nearly kill me the moment I broke away from your hold. But there was light on the other side. Not the light of the afterlife, but the light at the end
094of the tunnel. The light of finally being able to see clearly. The light of knowing I've broken free. Yet, even now in the light, I will never love another like I loved you. I will love my family. I will love my friends. I will love the world. I will love myself. And someday I will love a partner worthy of a love poem, but I will never love anyone the same way I loved you. My love for you was all-encompassing and obsessive and twisted and full of rot. My love for you was 12-hour shift without pay. My love for you was a child's toy in the jaws of a grizzly bear. My love for you was the strings that wrap around a marionette's limbs and force it to dance. But God, did I love you. I
095loved you like a hostage with Stockholm syndrome. I loved you like the protagonist of a dark romance. I loved you like Eve loved the snake. Even then, for as much as I loved you, I love this light more. Thank you so much. And now for Mr. MagliOzzi. Sorry, we had a little 50/50 raffle snafu. First, this is your last chance to come in and try it out. And second, the people who have donated so far or put tickets in, we didn't get your side of the ticket, too. So, can you come back with your ticket so we can take the other half and do the raffle? Thanks. We're going to have a little ditty from the band, and then we're going to close out here in 1 sec, folks. Thanks. >> Are you leaving me?
096I'm warning you. Will you guys make a note? Yeah, just we didn't Hey, how are you? We're making notes of this. Where did Jordan go? Yeah. I'm keeping this quiet. Right here. You know, Bowen and Kio were just talking about how I messed up. You messed up, too, Lindsey. Let me tell you something. >> Before our closing statement, we'd like to do the raffle. So, if you Yeah, we got to count the money first. So, All right. Going to mix it around a little bit. All right, and our winner is uh 977-5642. Perfect. All right. Thank you so much for coming. This was an amazing experience listening to the people that spoke today. I think a lot of creativity and art was brought onto the stage today, and it was generally just really beautiful to
097see everyone come together as a community to both watch and present. Thank you so much. Have a good night, everyone. And as a reminder, if you are a writer, remember to be loud.