Tuesday, March 31, 2009
My heart, it's breaking.
I pretend that I don't notice you
but I do.
I do.
And I notice that your arm touched mine
and I stay cool.
Stay cool.
You hug me tight and I never wanna let go
but I do.
I do.
Because you'll never feel the way for me
that I feel for you.
For you.
but I do.
I do.
And I notice that your arm touched mine
and I stay cool.
Stay cool.
You hug me tight and I never wanna let go
but I do.
I do.
Because you'll never feel the way for me
that I feel for you.
For you.
The Day of Silence
Please participate in the Day of Silence and speak out again LGBT hate in our schools.
What will you do to end the silence?
April 17, 2009
With Love, From Gaza
There's a little boy
In a heap of rubble
Crying for the bombs to stop
People gather
Holding one another
Praying for the madness to end
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
Shards of broken glass
Litter stranded dirt roads
Lined with all the fallen men
Uniforms salute
With gun wielding fingertips
Arms aimed at the opposite flag
They'll never think of
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
In a heap of rubble
Crying for the bombs to stop
People gather
Holding one another
Praying for the madness to end
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
Shards of broken glass
Litter stranded dirt roads
Lined with all the fallen men
Uniforms salute
With gun wielding fingertips
Arms aimed at the opposite flag
They'll never think of
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
My Taste of Brown Sugar (a not-so-fictional short story)
I'll never forget the moments we shared hidden from the world in our little make-shift tent of sheets around her bed. Her lips grazed mine. My heart sped up. I lay beside her, hands exploring her. Her skin was so soft, delicious, inviting...the color of brown sugar. Her native beauty almost possessed me as I longed to know what she tasted like.
Another kiss. Our hands move faster, frenzied to explore each other where we had never dared to touch before. She was my first taste of pleasure, my first girlfriend, my first lover. She brought out the brave side in me, always testing boundaries and pushing limits. What had started as a few innocent kisses grew to much, much more.
Her hands reached for the buttons of my jeans. I was excited, kissing her deeper as I unbuttoned her shirt. She gave me pleasure I never thought possible as she smiled, her fingers tip-toeing down my chest.
I had always wanted to please her, to satisfy her, but she was satisfied just seeing the smile on my face when she came up to kiss me. Touch after touch and kiss after kiss lead to a whirlwind of bliss, snowballing passionately until it sprawled out of control. Tingles reached my toes then rushed up to my cheeks. She lay next to me, dark eyes looking past, looking into my soul, searching for hints she had done good. She didn't need to look far. She was all I wanted.
I'd love to say we had a loving and long-lasting relationship but that would be fiction. We were young, and emotions toyed with our actions, causing us to choose drama over the passion we had, even for only thirteen.
Even though she's somewhere I'm not sure of, I'll never forget her. I'll never forget the make-shift tent that changed the reason I love who I do. I will always remember holding her hand as we walked down the hallway in middle school, as if no one else in the whole world mattered.
We've grown up, grown apart, changed. And even though my heart is committed to the man of my dreams, I will never forget her, my taste of brown sugar.
Another kiss. Our hands move faster, frenzied to explore each other where we had never dared to touch before. She was my first taste of pleasure, my first girlfriend, my first lover. She brought out the brave side in me, always testing boundaries and pushing limits. What had started as a few innocent kisses grew to much, much more.
Her hands reached for the buttons of my jeans. I was excited, kissing her deeper as I unbuttoned her shirt. She gave me pleasure I never thought possible as she smiled, her fingers tip-toeing down my chest.
I had always wanted to please her, to satisfy her, but she was satisfied just seeing the smile on my face when she came up to kiss me. Touch after touch and kiss after kiss lead to a whirlwind of bliss, snowballing passionately until it sprawled out of control. Tingles reached my toes then rushed up to my cheeks. She lay next to me, dark eyes looking past, looking into my soul, searching for hints she had done good. She didn't need to look far. She was all I wanted.
I'd love to say we had a loving and long-lasting relationship but that would be fiction. We were young, and emotions toyed with our actions, causing us to choose drama over the passion we had, even for only thirteen.
Even though she's somewhere I'm not sure of, I'll never forget her. I'll never forget the make-shift tent that changed the reason I love who I do. I will always remember holding her hand as we walked down the hallway in middle school, as if no one else in the whole world mattered.
We've grown up, grown apart, changed. And even though my heart is committed to the man of my dreams, I will never forget her, my taste of brown sugar.
"Night" by Elie Wiesel: Final Chapter
A note from the author: This was an English 20-1 novel study project. I was asked to create a final chapter to my chosen novel, "Night" by Elie Wiesel. This project is not for monetary gain.
I awake in a cold sweat. Memories haunt me, forcing images to the front of my eyes. They're so wicked, evil beyond comparison. Are these truly my memories? Vivid pictures of thousands upon thousands of prisoners, forced to dig shallow graves, their own graves?
A line of striped clothed skeletons leading to a massive oven, then submissively thrown in. No, this can't be true. I saw my father's eyes, shallow and deprived of life, begging for water, for mercy. His last word was my name and I could do nothing but stand there. Yes, these were my memories, the ones that have haunted me and claimed my childhood.
It was only months ago that I was liberated from Buchenwald and brought here, to an already over-populated orphanage in France. I slept in a room shared by a dozen or more other children, all fast asleep in their beds. I must have caused a stir when I woke though because Madame Reverie was bustling into the room, rousing many of the children from their sleep.
"What's going on, Madame?" Some were asking. I could barely understand them; my French was limited to short conversation. She responded with something abrupt and came to my bedside.
"Elie, dear." She whispered in German. She was the only nun that could speak it in the entire orphanage. "What has you awake? Bad dream?"
I wasn't sure if I should talk to her about it. She knew I was one of the liberated children, but no one had ever asked me what happened to me in that period of darkness that changed my life. My arms crossed tightly across my chest and I looked away. "I don't want to speak of it." She wouldn't, couldn't, understand. What could she offer me, pity? Rest assured, I have seen enough of that.
She examined me closely, those deep brown eyes searching intently for truth. Finding none, she nodded and left but not without the order to call for her if anything was needed.
I lay my head back down on the pillow; fighting fitfully for sleep, finding it hard when the hard beds remind me painfully of the bunks in Buchenwald, the one I lay in while my father was stolen to the crematory, possibly still alive...
I rose and dressed in the morning, meeting the other children downstairs for breakfast. There were many of us, but food wasn't scarce. I thanked God for the food before delving into my eggs and sausage.
Time passed in a wonderfully mundane manner in the orphanage and before I knew it, fall turned to winter and Christmas was upon us once again. I was thankful to be blessed with a safe and warm place to spend the holidays, but I didn't feel much like celebrating without my father. In a month it would be a year ago that he died. Since my liberation, I have been able to cry, and I have cried many times mourning the loss of my father. Human emotion does not come easily anymore though, every tear and smile feels painfully forced. I pray this will pass with time.
One day in early spring, I was laying in bed reading a history novel when Madame Reverie swept in, a thick, yellow envelope in her hands. "Here son, this is for you." She said as she passed this mysterious piece of mail to me. I thought I saw a smile hidden behind her stern eyes. But why? My curiosity intensified and I opened it gingerly. It appeared to be a letter. I looked up to Madame Reverie and she nodded humbly the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
I unfolded the paper with shaky hands. The breath was taken from my throat in an instant, joy flooding through my fingertips and up to my brain as I read the first two words:
"Dear brother".
I read on.
"Dear brother,
It has been over two years since I've seen you, Mother, Father and Tzipora. I can hardly believe that I have the blessed chance to write to you. My heart is full of hope.
When you were deported to Auschwitz, I lost contact with you. Everyday I lived in fear that I may never hear my family's voices again, never smell the scent of Mother's hair or hear Father preach to us about the Promised Land. And Tzipora, my beautiful baby sister, how I would miss playing dolls with her.
I heard news of your liberation when I received a telephone call from the orphanage you are staying at." (How long ago had they contacted her? Months, perhaps? Without telling me?) "I knew I had to get in touch with you. I have heard no word from Mother or Father, I hope you can tell me at least a little." (My heart filled with sorrow. How could I bring myself to tell her?)
"Hilda and I are quite well, she's living here in France too. I will tell you more when we meet.
I must go. Please write back or telephone me as soon as you can. The orphanage knows my telephone number. Take care, little brother. I love you and miss you.
Yours truly,
Bea."
I held the letter against my chest, my eyes full with tears. My sister had survived! Oh, how I couldn't wait to talk to her, hear her voice and see her smile. I ran like a wild animal down the stairs, my heart pounding in my ears. Down, down, down the stairs, across the hall and into the administration office. I burst inside so abruptly I'm sure I scared the secretary half out of her wits. But Madame Reverie, who was seated in the corner, understood. She handed me the receiver and dialed the phone number for me. I held my breath.
Ring, ring. I hope she's home! Ring, ring.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a soft, female voice answered.
"Hello?"
My voice shook with emotion. "H-hello. Is this Bea Wiesel?"
"Yes, this is I." Her voice sounded confused.
"It's me," I cried, barely able to hold back the tears. "It's me, Elie."
It was then, at that very moment that my perception shifted, the heaviness was lifted and I was free, for the first time since night fell.
"Oh, it's you, dear brother! I love you."
"I love you too." I choked.
My heart burst with happiness and my face cracked into a genuine smile.Yes, I think I was finally beginning to see the light.
I awake in a cold sweat. Memories haunt me, forcing images to the front of my eyes. They're so wicked, evil beyond comparison. Are these truly my memories? Vivid pictures of thousands upon thousands of prisoners, forced to dig shallow graves, their own graves?
A line of striped clothed skeletons leading to a massive oven, then submissively thrown in. No, this can't be true. I saw my father's eyes, shallow and deprived of life, begging for water, for mercy. His last word was my name and I could do nothing but stand there. Yes, these were my memories, the ones that have haunted me and claimed my childhood.
It was only months ago that I was liberated from Buchenwald and brought here, to an already over-populated orphanage in France. I slept in a room shared by a dozen or more other children, all fast asleep in their beds. I must have caused a stir when I woke though because Madame Reverie was bustling into the room, rousing many of the children from their sleep.
"What's going on, Madame?" Some were asking. I could barely understand them; my French was limited to short conversation. She responded with something abrupt and came to my bedside.
"Elie, dear." She whispered in German. She was the only nun that could speak it in the entire orphanage. "What has you awake? Bad dream?"
I wasn't sure if I should talk to her about it. She knew I was one of the liberated children, but no one had ever asked me what happened to me in that period of darkness that changed my life. My arms crossed tightly across my chest and I looked away. "I don't want to speak of it." She wouldn't, couldn't, understand. What could she offer me, pity? Rest assured, I have seen enough of that.
She examined me closely, those deep brown eyes searching intently for truth. Finding none, she nodded and left but not without the order to call for her if anything was needed.
I lay my head back down on the pillow; fighting fitfully for sleep, finding it hard when the hard beds remind me painfully of the bunks in Buchenwald, the one I lay in while my father was stolen to the crematory, possibly still alive...
I rose and dressed in the morning, meeting the other children downstairs for breakfast. There were many of us, but food wasn't scarce. I thanked God for the food before delving into my eggs and sausage.
Time passed in a wonderfully mundane manner in the orphanage and before I knew it, fall turned to winter and Christmas was upon us once again. I was thankful to be blessed with a safe and warm place to spend the holidays, but I didn't feel much like celebrating without my father. In a month it would be a year ago that he died. Since my liberation, I have been able to cry, and I have cried many times mourning the loss of my father. Human emotion does not come easily anymore though, every tear and smile feels painfully forced. I pray this will pass with time.
One day in early spring, I was laying in bed reading a history novel when Madame Reverie swept in, a thick, yellow envelope in her hands. "Here son, this is for you." She said as she passed this mysterious piece of mail to me. I thought I saw a smile hidden behind her stern eyes. But why? My curiosity intensified and I opened it gingerly. It appeared to be a letter. I looked up to Madame Reverie and she nodded humbly the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
I unfolded the paper with shaky hands. The breath was taken from my throat in an instant, joy flooding through my fingertips and up to my brain as I read the first two words:
"Dear brother".
I read on.
"Dear brother,
It has been over two years since I've seen you, Mother, Father and Tzipora. I can hardly believe that I have the blessed chance to write to you. My heart is full of hope.
When you were deported to Auschwitz, I lost contact with you. Everyday I lived in fear that I may never hear my family's voices again, never smell the scent of Mother's hair or hear Father preach to us about the Promised Land. And Tzipora, my beautiful baby sister, how I would miss playing dolls with her.
I heard news of your liberation when I received a telephone call from the orphanage you are staying at." (How long ago had they contacted her? Months, perhaps? Without telling me?) "I knew I had to get in touch with you. I have heard no word from Mother or Father, I hope you can tell me at least a little." (My heart filled with sorrow. How could I bring myself to tell her?)
"Hilda and I are quite well, she's living here in France too. I will tell you more when we meet.
I must go. Please write back or telephone me as soon as you can. The orphanage knows my telephone number. Take care, little brother. I love you and miss you.
Yours truly,
Bea."
I held the letter against my chest, my eyes full with tears. My sister had survived! Oh, how I couldn't wait to talk to her, hear her voice and see her smile. I ran like a wild animal down the stairs, my heart pounding in my ears. Down, down, down the stairs, across the hall and into the administration office. I burst inside so abruptly I'm sure I scared the secretary half out of her wits. But Madame Reverie, who was seated in the corner, understood. She handed me the receiver and dialed the phone number for me. I held my breath.
Ring, ring. I hope she's home! Ring, ring.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a soft, female voice answered.
"Hello?"
My voice shook with emotion. "H-hello. Is this Bea Wiesel?"
"Yes, this is I." Her voice sounded confused.
"It's me," I cried, barely able to hold back the tears. "It's me, Elie."
It was then, at that very moment that my perception shifted, the heaviness was lifted and I was free, for the first time since night fell.
"Oh, it's you, dear brother! I love you."
"I love you too." I choked.
My heart burst with happiness and my face cracked into a genuine smile.Yes, I think I was finally beginning to see the light.
In Loving Memory
We. Will. Never. Forget.
Brandon Teena
Born
December 12, 1972
Died
December 31, 1993, twenty one years old.
"The only abnormality is the incapacity to love."
Anais Nin
Matthew Shepard
Born
December 1, 1976
Died
October 12, 1998, twenty one years old.
Mama...
A new word
A cry from deep within her womb
Her seed thirsts for love
And longs for things he's not sure are real
His hunger for his father grows deeper
As he curls up, bruised like his mama
Wondering
So curious
As to who would turn their backs on them
So many questions he longs to ask
Ready to pour from his tiny lips
Like the rain that chills his mama's skin
Cold and unprotected
Weak with betrayal
He closes his eyes
He wants to scream
Of how he loves his mama
But all that can be heard
Is a cry from deep within her womb.
A cry from deep within her womb
Her seed thirsts for love
And longs for things he's not sure are real
His hunger for his father grows deeper
As he curls up, bruised like his mama
Wondering
So curious
As to who would turn their backs on them
So many questions he longs to ask
Ready to pour from his tiny lips
Like the rain that chills his mama's skin
Cold and unprotected
Weak with betrayal
He closes his eyes
He wants to scream
Of how he loves his mama
But all that can be heard
Is a cry from deep within her womb.
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