Living in a world full Of selfishness and wealth, I feel the need to do something, Reach out to others. Two-year-old Diego Calls out to me, His picture spanning the miles From faraway Guatemala. Alone with just his mother And very little else, There must be some way to help, Save my money for his life. It isn’t fair, Growing up with so much, Knowing others suffer in Their lives day after day, And not doing anything to share. I can make a difference, In Diego’s poor community, Become his “big brother,” Help him lead a healthy And successful life. Carrying his picture in my pocket, I can’t wait for the moment When love wraps his body in blankets Or when I can finally hold his tiny hand In mine, knowing that I can be a part Of him forever. Mark Roberts, 12Windsor, California
July/August 2003
Bliss
“Grace!!! Wake up!” I awoke that morning to the sound of my mother’s prickly voice in my ear. I grunted and put the pillow over my head. “Grace!” “All right!” I cried, “I’m up!!!” My mother tutted and looked me in the eye. “I wish you wouldn’t sleep so late, there’s chores to be done.” She sat down on my creaky old bed and took hold of my shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said. I sat up and wriggled free of her grasp. “I’m listening,” I said with a sigh. I knew what was coming. My list of chores. She did this to me every morning. It was the year 185o, and I was sixteen years old, with light skin and sandy blond hair, that was often falling into my hazel eyes. “Your list of chores for the day is . . .” I interrupted her. “Mother,” I said wearily, “don’t you think there is more to life than sewing or cooking or washing? Something adventurous and thrilling? Something . . . wild?” My sister Katrina laughed at this statement and started getting dressed. My mother looked at me very solemnly. “Mother, don’t you think there is more to life than sewing or cooking or washing?” “Grace, darling, will you ever understand? Women are made for one purpose: to clean, get married and have babies.” I decided that this was not the right time to point out to her that those were three purposes. “Now, here are your chores.” * * * I spent the rest of the morning sweeping the floor of our little hut. It had only two bedrooms; one was for my father, mother and Jack to share. Jack was only ten weeks old, with black hair, like my father, and gray eyes, like Katrina. Katrina, my eighteen-year-old sister, was very fond of her glossy black hair that reached halfway between her waist and her knees. She was a very gorgeous woman, and had many marriage proposals, but hadn’t accepted one yet. She and I were complete opposites, not only in appearance (I looked exactly like my mother, and she looked quite the same as my father), but also in spirit. I was adventurous and I never wanted to marry while she enjoyed the housework and believed the same theory as my mother; we’re only here to get married and have babies. In fact, the only thing that kept me from running from that house was my father. My father was bright, witty, and like me, he was adventurous. I just cherished him. He was always trying to reason with my mother, trying to get her to let me come pick flowers in the fields while he worked, or take walks alone, and all of the things that ladies weren’t expected to do. But aside from my father, I had only one thing to keep me sane: my poetry. Whenever I had the chance, I would run off to the old tree with the hollow trunk and take my poetry book out of a hole in the tree, where I also kept a notebook, ink and pen given to me by my father. He was the only one who knew my passion for poetry, because I dared not tell the others. They would just laugh at me, the way they always do when I talk of unusual things. Then I would sit under the shade of the tree and write. Many times I would climb up in the outstretching arms of the tree, and sit and write of the sun, or clouds or night. Sometimes it rhymed, and sometimes it was just the way I feel. And others, I wouldn’t write it at all, just think about it, and eventually, I’d fall asleep. “Gracie, Mother says you have to come help make lunch.” Katrina’s voice pierced my thoughts. I desperately searched for an excuse. “I’m still sweeping,” I lied, forcing a smile, “The floors have to be extra . . .” But Katrina wouldn’t have any of it. “Nice try, but it isn’t fooling me.” I hung my head and sighed. “What must I do?” I asked. Katrina thrust a straw basket into my arms and said, “Just go pick enough apples to make a pie.” I looked up, surprised. Katrina noticed my shock and, exasperated, exclaimed, “For dinner!!!” A smirk grew across my face. “For dessert!” I said. And then I was out the door in a flash, running toward the apple tree, with the straw basket in hand. It was a beautiful sunny day outside, and I wanted to just stretch out on the grass and gaze at the clouds. But first I had to pick the apples. I climbed up in the tree and grabbed the reddest apples I could find. In the end I had about ten apples. I knew that that would be probably over enough, so I picked the smallest apple out of the bunch and ate it. It was delicious! I didn’t want to go home to do more chores on that gorgeous day. I just wanted to sit out in the sun. I’m sure they won’t miss me, I reasoned to myself, I think I will write my poetry. So, with that thought in mind, I sauntered over to the big old tree and took out my notebook, pen and ink. I gripped my pen and notebook with my mouth, and held the ink tightly in my left hand. Then I began to climb. Today, I thought, there must be a very clear sky, so the view must be best from the highest branch. And so I climbed to the highest branch of the tree, and sat facing the hills, leaning my back against the tree trunk. It was actually quite comfortable. And so, I began to write. Then I would sit under the shade of the tree and write I was absorbed in my poetry when I heard a voice calling up to me. “Hello up there!!!”
Thirteen and Still Feeling Lucky
I leaned back in the cushioned seat of the gondola. I looked over at my close friend and mountain bike riding partner Daniel Vest. Dirt smudges ran across his face, and his clothes had a tint of brown on them. Both of our shirts were drenched with sweat. I drummed my fingers on the seat. Outside, the wind howled at us as the gondola took us to the top of Mammoth Mountain. Daniel and I had been riding cross-country trails all day to train for our next race, and to finish the day off, we were going to ride the world-famous downhill course Kamikaze. It drops from a summit of 11,o53 feet to 8,9oo feet in about seven minutes, riding at a medium pace. Daniel rode a Specialized Hard Rock, a 24-speed hardtail and an all-out cross-country bike. I had a Schwinn Rocket 88, a 27-speed full-suspension bike. It was also a cross-country bike. At the time, we were both saving up for downhill bikes so that we could each have one bike for downhill and free riding and one bike for cross-country; however, we couldn’t wait until we had the right equipment. The Kamikaze’s draw was too powerful. I looked out the window. Trees stretched out for miles and miles, and they could be seen all the way to the White Mountains. The gondola rumbled and shook as we entered the station at the peak of Mammoth’s height. The doors opened with a sound like the release of a cap on a soda bottle. Daniel and I grabbed our glasses, stepped out of the gondola, and wheeled our bikes out of the station and down the stairs. A cold wind blew through the air and moaned in my ears. A dust devil swirled through the air, causing all of the tourists who were taking the scenic gondola ride to gape and point. I looked over the barbed-wire fence which separated the level ground from a section of Kamikaze. The wide course was windswept, and rocks littered it. Daniel and I clipped into our pedals and rode toward the start. A wooden sign read “Kamikaze,” and right next to the name of the course there was a black diamond. My stomach knotted up. Should we be doing this? It was a pro downhill course, and we were only thirteen. No, I said to myself, I can’t chicken out now. I’ve just got to do this. I can’t chicken out now. I’ve just got to do this We turned and began our descent. One minute later, we were speeding down the course side by side. Unlike the sheltered cross-country courses, trees were nowhere to be found except in the distance since the course was above the tree line. There were, however, plenty of rocks. My shocks rocketed up and down. My fingers were sore because of their position on the brakes. I had to be ready for anything. My knees moved in harmony with my shocks. The wind blew into our faces and moaned in our ears, but neither of us was daunted. I saw a bump throw the back of Daniel’s bike into the air. His back tire came down crooked, but he shifted his weight and corrected it just in time. He then began a right turn which took us into another straight downhill section. I shifted my weight toward the back tire so that I didn’t lean forward too much. We leaned into another right turn. Pink flags fluttered in the wind to our left. I sighed in relief. This was the last part of the course. We were finally done. I pushed my pedals as I tried to catch up to Daniel, my bike wobbling from the sheer speed of it all. “Whoa!” Daniel shouted. He leaned into a hard left turn and was then out of sight. Right ahead of me lay a series of sandy ditches. That was why Daniel had turned so suddenly I, however, couldn’t turn. If I turned right, I would just hit more sand. If I turned left, I would hit the metal pole that supported the pink flags. I stared ahead, frozen. A bump knocked my hand off its resting position on the back brake. I braced myself for the impact. I would have to do whatever I could to avoid injury. My front tire dug into the sand, and my bike immediately stopped. I, however, kept moving. My stomach lurched as my body threw itself over the handlebars. There was a snap as my clip-in shoes tore out of the pedals. My arms flailed as I flew through the air. My legs jutted upward. I was in the same position a swimmer is in as he dives into the water, but my hands weren’t in front of my head. My head slammed into the ground. Bright lights erupted in my eyes. I kept rolling and rolling until the sand finally stopped me. I heard Daniel shout something, I couldn’t tell what, as he dropped his bike and sprinted toward me. My head burned, and it felt as if it were swelling inside my helmet. I unbuckled my helmet and threw it to the ground. “Are you OK?” Daniel asked. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied. I put my hand in my hair. Rocks littered it, and dirt was smeared all over my shirt. I sat there for about a minute. Finally, after he asked if I was OK again, Daniel suggested that we get to the bottom. I nodded. * * * We sat on a bench outside of the main lodge. I looked around at all of the tourists who climbed the climbing wall and rented mountain bikes. I rubbed my head. That had been a pretty hard fall. My head still hurt, but it should since the fall was only about—how long ago was it? I thought about it. Why couldn’t I remember? I had fallen on . . . “Oh, no,” I said. “What?” Daniel turned
