“Hey, there’s the ballerina!” “You have something in you, Alex. Something not a lot of boys have. You have the ability to speak, to communicate, through dance. I am very proud of you.” Those words play through my head every second of my life. I go to Kent Middle School. Ever since I started here, things haven’t gone too great. You see, I’m a dancer. Yeah, OK, fine. Tease me. It’s not like I can hurt you. The thing is, I love dancing. I take contemporary, tap, and jazz. For me dancing is a way to express myself. Authors express themselves through their writing. Artists express themselves through their painting or drawing. Singers express themselves through their song. But I express myself through dance. There is only one problem. Boys don’t think it’s cool to dance. They think cool is sports, cool is dressing cool, and dancing is definitely not cool. So I’m not cool. Not being cool pretty much means I’m a dead fish. Right as I enter the classroom people look at me and say something like, “Hey, there’s the ballerina!” Then they start twirling around the room. Of course, the teacher notices, and she has talked to them. They just won’t listen. So here I am, on the bus to dance class, thinking the same thing I always think about: those encouraging words my teacher told me the very first dance class I ever took. Unfortunately, some of the other kids take this bus too. Today, three kids from my class are on for the ride. I try to duck so they won’t notice me, but nope, it’s not working. “Hey, ballerina, where are you heading?” one of the girls asks me, shoving in front of the others. “Dance class?” “Yeah, actually, you’re correct,” I say, “I am heading to dance class.” “Did you remember to practice?” she asks, giggling. I just decide not to answer. Eventually, she walks back to her seat. I get off on Twenty-Second Street, walk to the building where my dance class is, and open the door. As soon as I enter the building, I know I’m supposed to be here. I walk to the back studio. When I walk in, my contemporary dance teacher is practicing. He is so graceful, turning and leaping in the air; I wish someday I could dance like him. “Hey, Alex,” he says, finishing his dance, “how are you?” I don’t really want to spill the beans about how I’m getting bullied, but I think my teacher might understand. I mean, he was a boy dancer in middle school too, right? “Hey, um,” I say, “I have a problem you might be able to help me with. In my class people don’t think it’s cool to dance. They’re bullying me just because I’m a dancer.” “Alex, why didn’t you tell me before?” he replies, surprised. “I had the exact same problem when I was in middle school. A lot of boys do. The best thing you can do is to stand up and show them what you can achieve. Show them how amazing you really are.” “How?” I ask. “Dance for them, Alex. I know you can do it.” “When would I dance for them?” “Do you have a talent show at your school?” “Yeah, next week.” “Perfect, sign up, and give them all you got.” * * * I walk down the hallway of my middle school, heading towards the signup sheet. I hear people whispering behind my back. And I’m pretty sure the topic is me. I pretend not to notice as I reach the sheet. One word printed on the sheet in big red letters sends my dreams crashing towards the floor: FULL. Impossible. It can’t be full. I came all this way and practiced extra hard. Just to be rejected? Wait, what am I saying? I’m not giving up now. I’m going to walk to the principal’s office and tell Mr. Lawrence what I think about this. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he says, “full is full.” “Please,” I say, “I want to show people what dancing really means to me.” The principal closes his eyes in thought. I hold my breath. He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “All right,” he says, “I’ll try to open up a spot for you.” “Thank you.” I walk out of the principal’s office, my heart jumping with joy. I leap across the stage, gliding and twirling. The audience is watching me do what I do best; and I am free. A sound over the loudspeaker awakens me from my daydream: “Alex Miller. Please report to the principal’s office right away. Thank you.” I hear snickers from my classmates, but I try to ignore them. I quickly get out of my seat and head down the hallway. When I reach Mr. Lawrence’s office I open the door and sit down. He clears his throat. “Congratulations, Alex!” he says. “You will be performing in the talent show.” I’m overjoyed. “Oh, thank you so much!” “You’re very welcome, Alex.” I walk back to the classroom with high spirits. I’m in a good mood for the next few days, too. There’s a feeling in me that I’ve done something right: stood up to people who have teased me; loved myself just the way I am. * * * “I know you can do this, Alex.” I’m in the boys’ room with my teacher, putting on the finishing touches. Makeup, hair. I know it’s weird. Welcome to the theater life. A head pokes in through the door. It’s Mr. Lawrence. “You’ll be on in five,” he says. I’m ready for the show. For the next five minutes I sit backstage, waiting for my cue. A staff member looks at me. “You’re on.” I am ready for this. I know I can do it. Those encouraging words my teacher told me the first dance
May/June 2014
The Writing Tree
I grab for a knob, hoisting myself onto the first branch. Rough bark crumbles under my sneakers as I search for a hold. Odd-shaped leaves rustle as branches shift under my weight. I pick pieces of wood off my hands, leaving indentations in my skin to fade away. Nestling into a worn crevice I look out over the dark, still water, light from the evening sun playing across its ever-changing surface. I lean up against the massive oak, one leg dangling out over the lush, tall grass. Silhouetted in the sky birds burst from the trees. Silence surrounds me. I am alone with my thoughts as a friend. I free my hand and begin to write. Brooke Gillman, 13Rolla, Missouri
The Jago Bird
There in the sky are the unmistakable brown and purple feathers of the Jago bird “S’bongo!” I hear my mother’s voice ring clear and loud across our homestead. I look up. There in the sky are the unmistakable brown and purple feathers of the Jago bird. Its massive wingspan blots out the sun and its black shadow twin chases me as I start running toward my mother. She motions for me to get inside—not that inside our mud-and-stick home is much safer than outside—yet it’s all we have. We huddle together underneath our window and wait, still and quiet. The Jago bird is one of the most ruthless, destructive creatures in our region of southern Africa. Its wingspan is the biggest any in our village have seen. Bigger than the tallest of the men. Its cry has the ability to send a surge of cold through our bodies, even in the heat of summer. It has attacked our livestock, eaten our crops, and even attacked adults and children. We have reason to be frightened. Whenever the bird comes around we hide. It has become our first instinct. Some of the old people say the bird is a curse on our people. That we have upset the gods, that when the bird is seen a time of trials and suffering will begin. When we are sure it is safe, we slowly walk out of our hut. It is a simple home, one round room with a thatched roof and no door. We are very poor but it is home to me, my little sister, Nkugle, and my mother, Boniswa, whom everyone calls Bon. I don’t remember my father. He died when I was three. Days later, I collect my water jug and head off into the dense forest surrounding our village. My shoeless, calloused feet have traveled this dirt path many times. I have to go collect water for my family before dark. If I stay out later I risk getting bitten by a snake or losing my way home. Getting to the river takes about forty minutes. The return takes much longer. I’m still slower than my mother, but she can’t collect water as she looks for work in town. As I walk I hear a screech. I know that screech. My body immediately reacts, sweat is replaced by chills like a winter gust. I realize I need to hide. Dropping the jug, I scamper up a nearby broom tree and hunch down. At the top of the tree I look down. The bird is pecking at my water jug. I wish I could scream at him—tell him to leave. But I can’t, I have never been able to speak—speak a word, sing a note, or even laugh. Not being able to speak can be very frustrating. Not many understand me. My mother has always understood me though. Since I was little, I was able to draw with sticks in the dirt. When drawing in the dirt was no longer sufficient, she bought me a set of pencils, a small notebook, and one rubber eraser. I don’t know where the money came from. That notebook and pencils are my greatest treasures. The tree is rocking violently now. Looking down, the bird is gone. Looking up, there he is. My grip on the limb loosens and I don’t remember anything until I wake with a sharp pain from a scrape on my knee. My head rests on a pile of leaves near the tree. I can’t see the sun anymore. As fast as I can, I gather my empty jug and limp home. When I arrive, my mother takes one look at my knee and rushes inside to get moss to soak up any remaining blood. Once my wound is clean, I draw her a picture. It’s of an ant and an angry Jago bird. “Oh, S’bongo!” Mother shakes her head and pulls me next to her. We both soon drift to sleep. The next morning when I wake my mother has already left to collect water. When she returns she is clearly weakened by the effort. She lies down on her mat and falls asleep immediately. It’s a bad sign, as she hardly ever takes breaks from work. I hope tomorrow I have the strength to collect the water. The next morning, however, it is clear no one is collecting water today. My knee is puffy and sore, and the cut oozes. My leg cannot support me. My mother is ill and it is painful for her to breathe. When I try to give her hot pap that morning, she winces. The trip to the healer takes three days time, and she will want some form of payment. We cannot afford that. I hold my mother’s hand and rub her face, comforting her with my eyes. The next day I go to the next homestead and motion for my best friend’s mother to please watch over my mother and sister as I go to collect water. This trip is less eventful. I return as children are coming home from school. The children stop laughing and joking as I pass. I hear them murmur “curse” under their breath, and they move away from me. My best friend smiles at me, but it is a timid smile—even she thinks I may be cursed. Then the screaming erupts. Everyone runs toward their homestead. My mother lies there, unable to move toward me and my sister under the window. We keep a watchful eye on her. My mother’s eyes look frightened. This time the bird’s visit is short. Soon I walk back outside. As I emerge I notice green herbs scattered around the front of our homestead. Did the healer come as I so wished she would? I bring the herbs back into our homestead and show them to my mother for approval. They pass the test. I grind them in a small wooden bowl with a spoon. They give off a small
