I am an animal. I am a fighter. It is who I am. Each day it is the crack of the whip and the ring of a bell. It is the creed I live by, the carrot or the stick. Each rosy dawn I awaken to greet a new day, a new challenge, and always a new fight. The musty, warm smell of hay will surround me and the rustle and snort of my herd members will always be heard. The round pen we are contained in is only enough to hold me. If it weren’t for that Powder River corral, I would be free, free to run and escape the restraint placed upon me. I am a fighter, one who fights for his right to freedom. I am nothing else. I was born from one of the finest bucking mares for miles, in a small dusty corral, on the eve of June. My early days are now a blur to me, nothing but feelings and short memories. I do remember the man. Burly, rough, smelling of sweat and woodsmoke, he would bring the hay, loaded in his arms. “You are my winner, little firebrand,” he would mumble to me under his breath. “Soon you will be a bucking legend among the best of the best.” He would sigh and scuff his boot against the dusty, hard ground, then, whistling a slow sad song, he would trudge back to the house. Little mind I paid him then. It is interesting that after so long he would remain in my memory and not fade away like most of my other memories from my youth. I scarcely recall my own mother, so why, above all, should a man remain in my memory instead? A mystery, to me, it remains. I do remember, however, the weaning. Harshly separated from my mother, and all I knew disappeared in the bat of an eye. No more were the quiet peaceful days with my mother in the sun. Introduced were the long lonely nights and the endless nickering of the frightened colts around me, a never-ending cry of bleak misery. I began to rely only on myself for comfort, never anyone else. I became the fighter I am today. I became “the animal.” I live to fight, and I fight to live I don’t remember the first time I bucked. I remember my first rodeo, however. The noise, the smells, the fear. Never before and never again will I feel such fear. I trembled with adrenaline and terror, wide eyes engulfing my surroundings, as the fear engulfed me. I was driven from the pen in the back to the long queue of bucking chutes, forced in, and entrapped. Then came the saddle, the heap of leather and cloth, heaved on your back for the first time and strapped on under your belly. I despised it. However, even more than that, I despised the rider that followed it, plopping down on my back like he owned it and taking an infuriating tight grip on the lead rope attached to my halter and around my sides with his legs. The fires of hate boiled a frothing stew inside me, raging and foaming within me, fueling my desire to break free and show the infuriating human on my back who was boss. I remember wriggling and shuffling in the chute, tossing my head and stamping my feet in furious impatience. Then, the bell rang and the gate opened. There is something about the bell, the buzzer, or the opening of the gate that sends a fighter, a bucking horse, into a mad rage. I see the gap and I release all of my fury, all of the hate that boiled within me while inside the chute. I shot out of the chute like I was shot from a cannon, kicking up my heels and leaping like a madman. My rider, I could feel, was flopping around, gouging me with his spurs and hanging on to the rigging for dear life. I leapt and spun, bucked and kicked, dodged and reared, whirling and tossing my rider about furiously. In a matter of moments, I catapulted my rider from my back, sending him in a wonderful arch to land with a thump on the ground nearby. I recall clearly the roar of the immense crowd and the shrill ring of the buzzer seconds later, and in a rush, I was herded from the arena. Still mad with fear, I circled inside my pen nervously, snorting and plunging about. Little did I know, that for the years following, I would have many days like this, fighting days. For the years following, I would grow fiercer, increasingly wiser, and forever more determined. I would learn to trick, learn to fight harder, learn to deceive. I would acquire the titles The Nightmare and The Animal, which I maintain to this day, taking them with pride, knowing they mean I can fight and win. I would become known for the ferocity in my fight, the success at the end, and the sheer determination I fight with. I live to fight, and I fight to live. It’s as simple as that. As I have said before, each morning I awaken to greet the new challenge ahead of me. I will feel the adrenaline, the hate, the fear. They will drive me into the chute, where I will be trapped, saddled, and mounted. I will feel the frothing madness and the overwhelming desire to throw my rider. I will fight. Like a caged animal, I will fight to be free, fight to show who is boss. I am an animal, a fierce fighting animal. It’s who I am, always will be. It is drilled into me, planted inside me, by instinct, by breeding, by influence from man. I am the fighter, and that will never change. Jenna Fields, 12Coyote, California Christine Troll, 11Somerset, Pennsylvania
September/October 2013
The Road Home
Vast green plains and tall grasses are spread out in front of my vision The sky outside is a blood-red color. Slowly, I close my eyes and let a mercifully cool breeze blow on my face through the open car window. I open my eyes and stare out at the landscape spread out around me. Vast green plains and tall grasses are spread out in front of my vision. The scarlet sky is streaked with pink, orange, and purple. The light of the fast-setting sun reflects off my stormy gray eyes. The shine makes my brown hair look red. “What a beautiful place,” I breathe. Then I remember with a jolt. If my family and I hadn’t got evicted, I wouldn’t be here, right now, in this un-Montana-like place. I sigh quietly, and then unintentionally go over yesterday’s events in my mind. The giant, horrible eviction notice, which seemed to cast shadows over the lawn. The landlord with the nasal voice. My sobbing mother. Why did this have to happen to us? Every day my parents tried to make ends meet, but they failed to do so. We had lost our house and were now on an unfamiliar road, in an unfamiliar place, driving west in the oldest pickup truck in history. My parents had informed me and my three-year-old sister, Lizzie, that we were going to live at our grandparents’ house in eastern Washington for a while until they could find jobs here. Originally they had both been working at an office in Montana, but the company just didn’t work out. After thinking about all this, I smile sadly. My parents always told me I was a thinker, not a speaker. I strongly agree with them. Suddenly, the car starts spluttering up a storm and then starts jolting back and forth, back and forth. I knew we should have stopped for gas when we passed that gas station about an hour ago. Lizzie wakes up from a nap from her purple car seat and starts wailing. This long car drive has been really hard on her. Honestly, we’ve been driving for at least nine hours! Poor Lizzie, I thought. Lizzie’s face is screwed up and tears are streaming down her cheeks. Her sandy-colored hair is coming out of her pigtails. Lizzie had remained quiet for this entire trip, but this was the last straw. My mom reaches around from her seat in front of me, takes Lizzie’s tiny hand in her own, and speaks softly. “Don’t worry, Lizzie; it’s only one more mile.” “One more mile,” my dad says out loud, patting the dashboard. “Hang in there, Blue.” Blue is the name I gave our red vehicle when I was two and had just started talking. Mom and Dad thought the name was so cute they started calling our truck the same thing. “Allie?” Dad questions me. “Are you still there?” “Oh, yeah,” I reply with a yawn. “What time is it?” “About nine o’clock,” Mom says. The car shudders again, and I clench the sides of my seat with tight fists, urging the car on with my mind. “Come on,” I think with every ounce of my brain. “Please.” Dad steers the truck down a gravel road and says as the car shudders once again, “We’re here!” “Woo-hoo,” I say in a semi-excited voice as Dad pulls down a long driveway in front of a modest-sized house. As if on cue, our old car chokes on the last bit of gas, and then dies. “Whew,” Mom exhales a sigh. “That was a close one. Come on, Lizzie, let’s go say hello to Grandma Joy and Grandpa Rob. Mom gets out of the car and then picks up Lizzie from her car seat and starts walking towards the house. By now Lizzie has calmed down and looks around with green curious eyes. Dad gets out of the truck and opens the car door for me. “Come on, honey,” he says softly. I hop out of the car onto the driveway. Ah, solid ground again, I think to myself. The sky is now much darker, and stars are beginning to peep out from behind their dark veil. Lights are shining from inside the house, their light dances on the front lawn through the window. The smell of white-chocolate-chip-and-macadamia-nut cookies is beginning to waft through the open door. I turn to face my solemn-faced father. He stares up at the house with a glazed expression. “So this is going to be where we live?” I ask him. “For a little while,” he replies. He gives me a hug and whispers, “Welcome home.” Hannah Ogden, 13 Sammamish, Washington Victoria D’Ascenzo, 12Lincoln University, Pennsylvania
Curtis Freedom
“My name’s not Boy! It’s Curtis!” The hot July sun beat its fiery rays down on the heads of the slaves working in the shelterless Carolina cotton field. Tall, twelve-year-old Curtis, dragging his cotton bag behind him, paused to steal a moment to soothe his aching back. Straightening up, he winced as his back stretched. His hands, rough and scarred from picking cotton day after day, twitched at his decrepit straw hat. Glancing over the field, he spotted the Big House, standing out starkly against the darker forest behind it. “You! Boy! Keep working!” The order was shouted out in a harsh, thick voice from behind Curtis. Resisting the urge to shout back, “My name’s not Boy! It’s Curtis!” he bent over his work once more. Curtis what? he wondered, disgusted, to himself. It didn’t really matter, of course, but still, the lack of a last name galled him. Stop worrying about it, he told himself. No one even calls you by your first name, let alone an appendage like a last name. Curtis couldn’t forget it though. He sometimes wondered where his parents were. All he knew was that he had been born in the hold of a slave ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. He had no memory of his mother or father, let alone a last name. Oh well. Who needs a last name? he tried to satiate himself. It didn’t work. “Sing!” the overseer ordered roughly. “Sing and be cheerful!” If slaves were quiet, overseers took it for a sign that they were plotting escape. Singing was a popular way to keep them “happy.” One of the slaves struck up: Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale o’ cotton, Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale a day. Oh, lawdy, pick a bale o’ cotton, oh, lawdy, pick a bale a day. Gonna picka, picka, picka, picka, picka bale o’ cotton… The overseer smiled at the swingy tune. Curtis scowled again. That night, in the hut he shared with several other slaves, Curtis listened to the talk of Harriet Tubman. Most slaves called her Moses, after the way she freed slaves, like Moses had freed the Israelites. She had been to Canada already, but she came back to bring other slaves out of “Egypt.” “They say she’s headed this way. If she comes to us, I mean to go. I’m sick of slavery.” A young black man tossed a stick into the fire. “I’m ready to ride the railroad to freedom.” Me too, thought Curtis, sitting in his dark corner, listening, but unwilling to join the gossip. But will “Moses” ever come? * * * One week later, as the slaves sweated in the fields, Curtis caught the sound of someone singing. The song almost seemed to be coming from the woods beside the field. He knew the words. They were part of a popular slave hymn: I looked over Jordan, and what did I see, Comin’ for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me Comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home… That’s odd, Curtis thought. Why would someone be singing that song on a weekday? Then a faint memory flashed across his mind. Hadn’t he heard that slave rescuers sang that song to let other slaves know that it was time to escape? It had to be Harriet. Curtis began to sing the words too. Soon other voices joined in. The others knew; tonight was their escape. Curtis thought about escape for the rest of the day. Could he make it? Was slavery really worse than the unknown? Doubts assailed him. A moment later, hearing the crack of the overseer’s whip, Curtis glanced up. He glimpsed the unfortunate slave’s face twist in pain. In that moment, Curtis knew he had to go. Anything was better than slavery. That night, five of the slaves, three men, a woman, and Curtis, packed their few belongings. Stealing as softly from the little quarter as possible, the five walked towards the woods. They would have to pass the Big House, where lights still blazed, to reach temporary safety. Curtis was almost having second thoughts again. If they were caught, they would be flogged and probably sold down south. The thought chilled his blood. There were such stories about the South… Curtis, clenching his teeth, forced himself to keep walking. I can’t endure anymore. I don’t care what they do to me, he told himself. Still, he glanced back fearfully as he slunk along behind the others. There. It was past. Once in the woods, they were able to breathe more freely. Uncertain what to do, they halted. After a few moments, an owl called softly, and a figure glided out to them. Even in the dim light, Curtis was able to recognize Harriet Tubman from the posters he had seen of her. With her were six other slaves from a neighboring plantation. “By dawn, they’ll have discovered our absence. We must put as much distance between ourselves and them as possible,” Harriet said, as she counted noses. They started the long hike. The whole journey seemed odd and dreamlike to Curtis. The only noises were noises they themselves made. Harriet led her Israelites to a creek. “We’ve got to throw the dogs off the scent, so we’ll walk in the stream,” she explained, stepping into the chill water. The slaves followed her lead. Curtis shuddered as the water closed around his ankles. When they could finally climb out of the stream, Curtis could hardly feel his feet. Still they kept on. At last they came to a road. Here they could travel more quickly. The numb feeling had moved on up Curtis’s legs by the time when, at dawn, Harriet led them into a barn at a little distance from the road. The slaves collapsed, exhausted, on the warm hay, too tired even to worry about whether it was safe. All the next
