Cover art by Lisa Stewart and family.
Lisa recently published Heaven is Amazing, the Dog , a children’s book that imagines how dogs in heaven might comfort those (children) left behind.
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Welcome back to our Commonplace !
A commonplace book—a collection of cherished words.
A common place to gather as writers and thinkers.
A commonplace practice turned extraordinary whenever we weave our thoughts together.
Thank you for making the second edition of the HVWP e-zine possible!
The pages of this issue come together at a time of year when we bundle up, find a cozy corner, and lean toward one another for warmth and comfort. The works featured here may or may not have been inspired by the prompt “thresholds,” but they have been collected into this edition on the threshold of a new season. As we transition from fall to winter, let the beauty of these pages remind us of the power we all have to make people—young and old, in and out of the classroom—feel heard and seen.
Sarah Wheeler & Meg Davis Roberts
Hudson Valley Writing Project
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Contents
Costume Parties Olga Choedron...............................................................................5
Deciduous Matter Matt Gill.........................................................................................8
Wunderlich Mary Sawyer................................................................................10
They ask Samantha Mossman.................................................................... 21
Convocation Tom Meyer...................................................................................25
The Hunger Was Subtle Lisa Stewart................................................................................28
Wash Days Lucía Brea...................................................................................30
Little Words to Live By Sarah Wheeler.............................................................................33
Is This A Good Time? Edward Louis Gold.......................................................................34
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Write About That Student You Won’t Forget Lauren Cope................................................................................38
What Ms. Johnson Knew Jennifer Howard..........................................................................40
Contributors................................................................................ 42
Call for Submissions....................................................................44
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Costume Parties
By Olga Choedron
Gosha, Goga, Igor- I loved playing with the vibrant sounds of your nicknames when I was three. I loved playing with your collection of toy soldiers, stamps and cars when I was five. I loved the rides with you when you took me to elementary school in your truck. No one else on our block had a private car then. I loved the wit and humor of your friend group when I was the youngest kid at your costume parties. That cold February night when you didn’t open the door of your apartment, The dark cloud of loneliness engulfed my teenage mind. The tears didn't dry up on my face for two years, watering flowers on your grave. Until I became a fitness buff and Vivekananda’s teachings lifted me up. Your death came before our grandparents’. They outlived you by barely a year and I was there to witness the agony of their last breaths. I wallowed in grief to the sound of our favorite rock bands. Tsoy’s songs were a way to make sense of all these deaths. Vodka shots with neighborhood boys couldn’t erase the reality of our broken family. Pelmeni never tasted the same again. 26 years on Earth, to make sense of your life experiences and choices,
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only 13 to call me your little sister. Too short to raise your daughter, who was only one when your life was taken away. I loved that you looked so much like our father — Yet another shock meeting him for the first time at your funeral. 30 years later, I still see you in my dreams, your smile shining light into my wounded heart, promising a new beginning, another chance at playing out another reality…
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Ó Abre Alas! Storm King installation by Sonia Gomes Photo by Matt Gill
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Deciduous Matter
Audio File
By Matt Gill
There’s a lump suspended from an oak. It’s wrapped professionally in a sequined top,
But looks conspicuously like a disembodied baby leg – no – a baby’s leg - because I’m pretty sure it belongs – belong ed – to someone and even though I don’t know them, it feels like I know them – like I knew them – like we knew them
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
Open wings – they say? To me seems they swing more like broken – wings Perfectly perpendicularly clipped – wings Purposefully Picasso-fied – wings Preemptively struck-by- great-balls-of-fire - wings Didn’t get a chance to s oar be- FORE – wings
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
American violence is the oldest living white oak tree. Its roots run deep, holding steadfast in its turbulent, homemade-muddy waters. Its branches press ever outwards, consuming all aerospace, updowns and sideways, crisscrosses and diagonal ways, leftways and rightways,
northways and southways, no atom unscathed – ways .
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
Its murderous rage like a swarm of Japanese Giant Killer Hornets invading a neighboring honeybee residence. It finds deep pleasure – jubilance even – in using its mandibles to first decapitate the honeybees' heads before systematically moving on to consume the entirety of the hive.
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You might think that at that post-extermination point, the hornet would be satisfied. Might own up to its consequences. You know – like take some accountability for its murderous slaughter.
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
But the American white oak is a deciduous tree. It sheds its conscience at the gates of each violent season,
its myriad acorns self-germinating before beginning the cycle anew. Only afterwards, when the death toll reaches a predetermined too much, when it’s too late for the children who ate shrapnel sandwiches and pop corn bullets – instead of flours , do our leaders suggest that “ those children look very hungry .”
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
There's a Something swinging from an elderly-looking white oak tree, its roots run deep, but the Something doesn't think about the tree's past. The Something imagines a future where the swing gives them wings, launching them away from the seat ♪ defying gravity - they’ll never bring us down 🎵 up, up and away into the stratified cerulean layers far above.
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
Admittedly, the Something swinging on the swing looks like a child. Parts disassembled and then hastily reassembled, thumbs, toes, eyesockets, cartilage, all haphazardly sewn together - perhaps a derivative of Coraline's alternate universe. Pixelated, ghostly, too faint to be sure of its true state of matter. Frail. If I reach out with my hand, I worry contact alone might disintegrate it back to dust.
Can you see the child? Is it even a child still?
♪ Are you, are you - swinging in the tree? 🎵
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Wunderlich
By Mary Sawyer
The headline “Utah Hiker Found Dead After Apparent Fall” was one of those articles Mandy knew she didn’t have time to read. And she shouldn’t read—she had already wasted several minutes reading the triumphant story beneath the headline, “Woman Rescues 4-month Puppy from Florida Alligator.” She was about to close the tab when her eye rested on the Utah hiker’s name and hometown: Adam Brownmiller, Menlo Park, California, along with the location of the fall, Devil’s Castle in Utah’s Wasatch Mountains. Her heart stopped and confused emotions flooded through her. Just then her phone rang. The caller ID was Richard Larkin. She knew him as Larks, a friend she first met in high school. She had only seen him a couple times in the past decade.
“I’m afraid I’m calling with sad news about our friend Adam.”
Mandy knew what he was going to say and let the sound of his voice bring her back to high school. The spring of senior year. A party in Wunderlich Park in Northern California’s coastal foothills. That night Mandy felt thin. She had so far survived four days on the “liquid protein diet,” and could fit easily into her new black pants. She hadn’t felt like eating much because her life had an exciting new element: Adam. She had met him about a month ago at Leslie’s party, when they were with a group of people sitting in the living room talking about music. They both liked The Grateful Dead. She learned that he played guitar in a band. He had thick dark brown hair and a beard which made him seem older. When she and her best friend Greta were leaving, he whispered in her ear, “Come over to my house later tonight.” Mandy had never had a guy “come on” to her.
She asked directions to his house and said she would think about it.
Mandy had heard that last year he had gotten his girlfriend– a senior– pregnant. Maybe this was why he chose to graduate a semester early. She remembered sitting behind him in chemistry, watching him give his girlfriend back massages while their teacher, Mr. Olsen, explained
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Avagadro’s number and the concept of the mole. Every once in a while, Mr. Olsen would stare up at a poster with Avagadro’s portrait and boom, “Thank you, Avagadro, for making chemistry simple. Not easy, but simple.” She remembered trying to feel grateful for 6.022 X 10 23 and pondering the difference between “easy” and “simple.” She noticed that Adam gave very good massages. After Leslie’s party, Mandy joined Adam in his hot tub, sitting close enough to feel the press of his thighs. She discovered that he did indeed give good massages.
…
By senior year, Mandy was becoming more comfortable in this new school and place. She had lived her entire life nestled in Salt Lake City’s Wasatch Mountain range until the summer before her sophomore year. The California school was strange, with its hallways and lockers open to the outside. The girls she met were different from her Mormon friends. They were not focused on dieting and “moral cleanliness.” They were cracking dirty jokes as they gulped nondiet Coke at lunch and ate turkey sandwiches dripping in mayonnaise. They were out on the softball field shouting obscenities with sweat dripping off their faces. A few were preparing their applications for the Ivy League and talking openly of their plans to attend medical school. Mandy was happy to have moved to a place with seaweedy beaches and curling ocean waves, a place with massive redwoods poking through the fog, a place where bands like the Grateful Dead regularly played, a place she could become a “California Girl” just like the Beach Boys song. She was thinking about getting drunk tonight in Wunderlich Park. In Utah, drinking was a way to show she never wanted to become a bowtie-blouse-wearing Stepford wife. Her Mormon girl friends needed to stay pure so that they could get married in the Temple and have an eternal union in the Celestial Kingdom. Her California friends did not know her wild Utah ways. They would say that she was a good, quiet student who helped decorate the class’s homecoming float. Her best friend was just named class Valedictorian. These California friends did not know she had gotten drunk for the first time in sixth grade with her bad friend Celeste. They did not know that the previous winter she and her black
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sheep Utah friends had snorted cocaine before skiing down Alta’s High Rustler.
Wunderlich was a vast natural park where Greta sometimes rode her horse. Mandy was driving there with Brittany who wrote for the school newspaper and planned to be a journalist. As they drove, they searched for signs of a liquor store in each strip mall they passed. They finally spotted “Town and Country Liquors” and paid a guy to buy them the vodka. They turned out of the parking lot and headed west toward the hills, leaving the glow of city lights behind. Mandy’s stomach was flipping around, the liquid protein sloshing through her system. Would Adam show up tonight? But she couldn’t talk about this thing with Adam—she didn’t know Brittany well enough yet. She had told only one person– Greta. The turn into Wonderlich Park would have been easy to miss, but they spotted its brown wooden marker. As soon as they turned off the main road, the air filled with the earthy scent of bay and eucalyptus. They crept down the park’s winding road. Mandy could not see much beyond the car’s headlights and the trunks of towering redwoods at the road’s edge. Soon they found themselves at the end of the parking lot in a small clearing. There were three other cars—she recognized Greta’s Rabbit GT, Larks’s “Town and Country” station wagon, and Kiley’s Volkswagen. Larks was one of Adam’s best friends. Maybe Adam really would be here. As they walked toward a clearing, they saw a small group standing next to a giant, black oak, its gnarled branches silhouetted against the darkening sky. They stepped up to the shadows and joined the group. Larks and TJ had come together—TJ was in Mandy’s math class. Steve was Kiley’s boyfriend. Kiley and Greta were at the picnic table a few yards away. Adam was not here. Mandy swallowed back her disappointment. Adam only showed up when she didn’t expect him. Like appearing at the front door of the house where she was housesitting last weekend. Mandy had groggily opened the door in her sleep state. It took her a moment to see Adam standing in front of her, not Greta who had come the night before. Before Greta appeared, Mandy had been thumbing through fashion magazines and listening to the Beatles’ Rubber Soul album, the song “Nowhere Man” reverberating in her brain:
He’s a real nowhere man Sitting in his nowhere land
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Making all his nowhere plans for nobody. Doesn’t have a point of view Knows not where he’s going to Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
It was about 11 pm when she heard a knock on the door. It was Greta.
“I just finished writing my Valedictorian speech. Will you listen to it and tell me what you think?”
But the next night it was Adam standing in front of her. It was 2 am. Mandy had been sound asleep. She was standing in her ratty nightgown. She opened the door for him. She stumbled a bit, trying to regain her waking balance. She can’t remember what she said, but she brought him to the darkened living room where she could sink into the big green velvet couch and where her nightgown could disappear in the shadows, Adam was soon on top of her, and she had to remember Greta’s instructions that when someone French kisses you, you can still breathe through your nose.
That was last weekend.
Mandy and Brittany made their way over to the picnic table. Mandy took the vodka bottle out of the bag. “Anyone bring cups?” No one had.
TJ lit up a joint, took a quick toke, and started passing it around.
“I guess we’ll just drink from the bottle,” Mandy said. “Who wants first-go?”
“I’ll take one swig, but that’s going to be it for me,” Greta said.
“I have a horse show tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going to hold back too. I have to work tomorrow, and I’m still not finished with my Senior paper,” Kiley said.
“You guys are all just so damn responsible!” Mandy said. “I am so ready to rid myself of this honor-student-AP shit!” Mandy reached for the bottle. She swallowed and felt the long burn down her throat.
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“We need to do this again next weekend, when finals are over and then we are really in the home stretch,” Kiley added. Kiley took a swig from Steve’s beer but passed on TJ’s joint. “Three cheers to the home stretch,” Steve said, the vodka bottle from Mandy and brushing his forearm slowly across her breast as he pulled it toward his mouth. She knew Steve was together with Kiley, but her body reacted to his touch.
Her body, a brainless sensory organism. Like the sea anemone that closes its petals with the brush of her toe.
They drank, smoked, and talked about nothing in particular. The stars came out. Someone opened a bag of chips. Mandy tried to grab a handful, but her hand wasn’t opening and closing as she expected. She was cold. Where was her sweatshirt? Hadn’t she brought it out of the car? Hadn’t she thrown it on the picnic table? With a surge of numb energy, Mandy moved toward the picnic table. Walking was a new experience. Her strides were lopsided. She almost ran into the tree.
Did anyone notice?
Where was she going again? What was she going to do?
Was she walking?
When Mandy returned to the widening circle, she moved next to Brittany.
“You have to hold me up!” she whispered. Brittany stumbled sideways with the weight of her.
They both burst into laughter, and Brittany reached around her waist and stabilized her.
The encroaching darkness made it hard to see anyone beyond the circle of faces standing in front of her. Greta said she had to go. They watched her taillights slip through the fog.
Kiley was saying, “One thing I don’t get is why seeing girls kiss is a turn-on to guys!”
“What?” Mandy said. “I didn’t know that.”
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“Oh yeah,” Steve said. “Just something about it…”
“Eeeww!” Brittany said.
“Truth or Dare?” That was Kiley who asked
“Who? Me?” Steve looked up at Kiley.
“Yeah, you Steve.”
“Truth,” said Steve.
“Are you a breast, legs, or butt man?” Kiley asked.
“No question there--I am a breast man.”
Kiley howled, “I knew that!”
“My turn,” Steve said.
He looked over to Mandy. “Truth or Dare.”
“Why me? Come on!” she protested.
“Truth or Dare! Steve repeated. “I will be easy on you.”
”OK. Dare.”
“I dare you to kiss Brittany like you mean it” Steve said.
“Oh. Me and my big mouth.” Kiley said,
“ I can do it,” Brittany said. “Are you up for it?”
“Am I up for it?” Mandy repeated. “I can barely stand! There are two of you.”
They burst into laughter and nearly fell down.
“Come on girls,” Kiley said. “You can do it. Turn Steve on!”
Mandy looked into Brittany’s glassy green eyes. She was truly beautiful. “Ready?”
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Their lips touched. It felt warm, unusual. She poked her tongue in and so did Brittany.
“Woooie!” Kiley screamed out.
Steve said, “Now that’s what I am talking about.”
Mandy started to feel dizzy. “Ok guys, show’s over. I gotta sit down.” Brittany slid down to the ground with her. They sat in a cocoon of dried oak leaves and dust.
“That was not bad at all!” Brittany laughed.
“Yeah, maybe we learned something new tonight,” Mandy nodded.
“You’re a good kisser,” Brittany said.
“So are you.”
Mandy leaned against Brittany and the world whittled away to the crunch of acorns beneath her thighs.
They heard a car door slam.
“Yoooo-hoo! Yoooo-hooo! Is there someone out there?” Kiley said.
“Oh my God,” Kiley squealed. “Adam! Look! He has his staff!”
Brittany stood up. “He’s wearing his Gandalf cloak. He’s such a Hobbit nut.”
“All Hail Gandalf!” Larks called.
Adam stood in a long brown cape, a hood draped over his bearded face.
“What took you so long, Gandalf?” Larks asked.
“A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to,” Adam replied in a low, funny voice.
He walked into the center of their circle and pounded his staff next to Mandy’s foot.
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Brittany was trying to help her stand.
“I just want to lie here,” Mandy said.
“Adam, you missed Truth or Dare!” Kiley said.
“Gandalf, sire! Truth or Dare,” Larks said.
“Go back to the abyss! Fall into nothingness that awaits you and your master!” Adam responded.
They all laughed.
Mandy sat up and brushed back her hair, feeling some sticks and oak leaves tangled in it.
“What have we here?” Adam knelt down next to her.
“I don’t know what we have. Don’t knock me with your staff.” Mandy said.
TJ lifted his beer in a toast: ”Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said. “The moon is full. This night calls for wizardry!”
Larks and Steve played along, yelling, “Hail Ye Gandalf!”
Adam stood and raised his staff.
Mandy looked up at Adam. His staff. His cloak. How perfect with the full moon. He was entirely ridiculous but also magical.
“Help me get up!” Did she say that or only think that?
Adam knelt beside her.
“You can only help yourself,” he whispered.
“I can’t.”
“Open your eyes,” he said.
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Mandy reached for his ridiculous cloak, expecting it to be flimsy. But it was thick and rough. Like the handwoven wool blanket her mom placed at the foot of her bed.
She felt his warm breath on her cheek. Last weekend.
And he was here now.
Her body was releasing into its elements—heat, water, muscles, bones. Tears. Mandy was sobbing, and everything was spinning. She felt for his hand. His grasp was solid.
“Come. I want to show you something.”
He led her from the site with its laughter, oak tree, and picnic table. The darkness became bolder, the silence stronger. He helped her through a thicket of shrubs and down a slope. The air became warm, and the topography changed from grasslands to a wildflower meadow with piles of boulders. Before her was a lake, and towering above her was the unmistakable profile of Devil’s Castle, the rocky crag overlooking Alta’s Albion Basin.
She pulled on his hand.
“You’ve brought me to Alta! This is my favorite place in the world!”
Mandy told him about her friend’s Alta cabin and their summertime hikes to Cecret Lake.
“Everyone assumes it is spelled ‘S-e-c-r-e-t,’ but the silver miners who discovered it spelled it ‘C-e-c-r-e-t.’ You can also climb up Devil’s Castle. It is hard if you are scared of heights.” Mandy acted like she had climbed it before, but she hadn’t. She was only sharing what some of her friends' older brothers had said.
She turned to Adam.
“How did you know to bring me here?”
He just smiled and hugged her.
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She pulled off her shoes and pushed her toes into the lake’s water. Glacial. Cold. She pulled off all her clothes and plunged in. He sat on a boulder watching her. She went all the way under again. It felt good to get all the sticks and dust out of her hair and rinse the salty tears off her cheeks.
“This is just like a Mormon baptism,” she laughed as she submerged for a third time.
She dried off by wrapping in his cloak. They watched the stars twinkle in the night sky.
She started singing, “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires will come to you.”
“What’s your wish?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Life can’t be all about wizardry and fantasy. You have to have a dream for yourself that’s real.”
“I hope the stars will tell me one day,” he said. “What’s your wish?”
“To be loved. To be happy. To live fully.” She looked over at him. “Something like that.”
…
She lost touch with Adam over the years. He dropped in and out of college and various rehab programs. When she heard about his struggles, she would think back to that night and pray that the stars would soon shine bright for him.
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Near and Far . Photos by Tom Meyer.
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They ask… By Samantha Mossman
They ask, “ How is your dad doing? ”
What I want to say is that I am losing my dad in slow motion. Years are being robbed in seconds, moments are grieved in minutes, Memories are corrupted by the hours, Hopes stolen by the light of day. What I want to ask is Why do you need to poke your fingers In the wound that is already festering With each visit home. Each action that is added to a list Of no longer possible, Like walking any distance, Like getting off the couch on the first try, Like pushing his own chair in At the kitchen table. What I want to say is That the father I knew for so long, 32 years to be exact, Is fading, faster and faster, Becoming a specter before my eyes.
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It's the parasite that infected his body, Taking pieces away each second, Each minute, each hour, each day.
What I want to say is Stop reminding me that I am grieving Grieving the loss of could be moments.
Grieving the of modification of important hopes Like my wedding day and daddy daughter dance. Memories held dear but corroded around the edges, Dream versions rotting with their unfulfilled potential, Burning the edges and leaving something charred in their wake.
What I want to say is That one day, probably not as far as I hoped, Or need, He will be Gone. And no longer will I be peppered with Polite inquiries into his status. And will that be worse? The absence of inquiry… A burning reminder of his absence. And how will my grief feel, Compared to my unfounded rage.
What I want to say is
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Your inquiry angers me, rubs my skin Against a cheese grater made of words, And polite interest in his wellbeing.
What I want to ask is For you to stop. Stop asking. Stop reminding. Stop making me take inventory Of what’s been lost And what is soon to be Gone.
What I want to say is My dad has Parkinson’s. A disease that turns your bones to cement, And your brain is Swiss cheese. That my dad’s memory is going And won’t be back. That I feel its presence Every time I think of him. What I want to say is I am trapped in a cycle of grieving, A grief that moves in slow motion Blackening small pieces of your heart With its touch.
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What I want to say is That I am terrified, petrified, horrified, Not only of the process of watching him Slip away, slowly, painfully. But knowing it could happen to Me. What I want to say is That his parasite could be inside me Or my sisters. And we won’t know till it’s too late So can you just stop? Stop sending my mind on this spiral Consumed by fear, grief, heartache, and pain.
What I say is “ He’s doing okay. ”
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Convocation by Tom Meyer This is 9th grade. We will write every day. We will read so much. Do cool things. Every day. (Emphasize the every... No crosswords. No matching. No fill-in-the blank. Just writing. Reading. A lot.) We are the dumb kids, you know. (Was that Jason or John or James?) Write me a letter about what you need to learn . (This is not hard. They know what they need. This is where I’m meant to be.) Donald wants an A. The person who want me to achieve my grade is my friend, Edgar Gomez . Give him a call with how I doing: 347-0597 or -0599. (Donald’s Punjabi grandparents don’t speak school or English. Don’t know that Donald aced his Magic Johnson newspaper analysis portfolio project.) Someone is dead on the tennis court (What? What? What the fuck?); Donald’s classmate, Sonny’s not here today. Not knocking rhythms on the metal walls or the heater (Fine. Use the heater as your desk); Sonny’s sister lay on the tennis court by the science lab. Sonny’s sister and a flappy yellow plastic ribbon wrapped around an early morning present. Sonny’s classmate, Jason, presses down his number 2 pencil forever tattooing R.I.P. through his daily g et-some-paper-if-you-need it. Jason’s classmate, Olivia’s murmur, sends ripples on our classroom pond. Why did she suicide? Why? Does she hate us? No - it’s did she hate us? Yeah. Did. Did she hate us? Did she hate this place? Hate here? She wuz from Oregon, right?
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Jason’s classmate, Angelo’s hand is a hovering helicopter; his words whirr in the air, Waz, I gonna’ say? Waz, I gonna’ say? Waz, I gonna’ say? Never mind . Angelo’s classmate, David, tries to postpone Hitchcock before I hit play. Can’t we just watch some prison movie where guys get randy? David’s classmate, John, draws a haloed manchild throwing a book into a roaring fire, his answer to draw yourself as a reader. John’s classmate, Abel, captions an astronaut kneeling at the altar of me gusta la ciencia : A solar flare on the sun . (See, I knew it.) Abel’s classmates, Kneinah, an Oregon transplant in October, announces, I gotta’ piss like a racehorse. Where’s the john? (What is happening?) Kneinah’s grandmother looks away. I try to fill the door frame as if I’m bigger than a bear. Kneinah disappears in December. Kneinah’s classmate, Riccardo, reads aloud his write for ten minutes about ten minutes of your weekend. White cops right here by school; White cops stopped me for walking, right here . Right here. Riccardo’s anger leaves soot on the page. (What if we were to interview the local cops?) Riccardo’s classmate, Glenn, shakes his head, no. No. I never got to go on a fieldtrip. Not once. Not in grade school. Middle school. Not here. Nope . Field trips are for fancy kids (That was Jason). They go everywhere. (I took honors students to clean the beach. To the Shakespeare Festival.) Glenn’s classmate, Derrick writes, Chicks would hella’ dig on it; there’s murder and sex. That’s why Romeo and Juliet is still around, 400 years later. Derrick’s classmates Donald, Sonny, Jason, Angelo, David, John, Abel, Riccardo, Glenn, and Derrick are ten of 18 boys + Kneinah and Olivia in our class of 20.
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20 kids teach me more than I am ready to learn. More than I can sort out on my drives or in the night. 20 kids teach me about a rigged school system. 20 kids pushed me to learn til it hurt. Donald made it to the June podium in 12th grade. I didn’t. Sonny’s sister didn’t. Kneinah didn’t.
Our school got a Blue Ribbon from the State. I don’t know about the rest.
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The Hunger Was Subtle
By Lisa Stewart
The hunger was subtle, yet unrelenting. They knew friends were dying as they entered the cavern hole. They knew some friends went in, and never came back out. They knew they could satiate their appetites with regular living. After all, they had homes. They had families. They had food. But this home…281 Wild Side Lane. This home was epic… They had rice, and tampons and Christmas light wires. They had cotton balls, arts and craft bins full of fabric -- with lids slightly open! They had baskets full of untouched children’s dress up costumes, with the softest fabrics. They had dinner leftovers on the table at least a few times a week. And the crumbs…holy heavens, they had CRUMBS GALORE. They had bowls of dog food, and best part… They did NOT have mouse traps and the humans were out of town for several weekends in a row. The mice elders warned that this home was not worth the risk. The elders told tales of relatives who entered homes and didn’t make it out, but one after another the mice entered through the dingy concrete cracks into paradise. They ravaged whatever they could get their grimy little paws on and delightfully made nests in spaces of the home which were essentially untouched by humans. They hopped about cheerfully, filling their nests with the comfiest tampon fluff, and ensured they had enough dog food nearby to keep their families happy if they need a midday snack.
When the mice wanted a real rager, they ate the wires of Christmas tree lights.
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Unknown fact about mice and Christmas lights… when they eat the wires they get an electric high, which has nothing but a state of ecstasy and no dangerous side effects… Another fun fact about mice and Christmas lights: if a mouse has consumed mouse poison, and they immediately realize this calamity and chew on Christmas tree wire, they will be OK.
Scientists don’t know this. Veterinarians don’t know this. Animal rehabbers don’t know this. No single human knows this.
And the mice laugh and laugh in our basements every time the humans talk about being the most intelligent species.
Imagined when my world felt it was crumbling. Then to top things off, we had a mouse infestation. Written when I had a moment to breathe and reflect. Imagination will always be my favorite exit door.
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Wash Days by Lucía Brea Sundays were wash days for my mom and me. Our sacrament. Like a prayer, demanding of our time, patience and devotion. We shared coils like springs that go down our backs. We shared similar hair textures, though mine spunkier. During the week, my hair would be dressed differently, it had many lives. Mondays, pressed and suited for school. Tuesdays, a sophisticated ponytail swinging through the halls. Wednesdays, a single braid down my back, formal in the morning, straying by afternoon. By Thursday and Friday, it was braids and beads, of greens, oranges and bubbly blues. My hair had more personality than I did. Always kept neat until Sunday.
When you have curls like mine, you don’t wash your hair every day.
So Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Sunday mornings began with breakfast for five. We sat on the table, once a door, with plátanos, salchichón, and eggs. Common tablemates, los tres golpes . My parents’ mugs filled with cafecito , a thick espresso in random cups. The sounds of the bolero blaring from an old radio my dad pieced together. Ballads de amor, con perfumes de gardenias.
The music reminds me, Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Always last in the bathroom, my hair took the longest. Sitting in the tub, waiting for my mother to scrub and shampoo. Her nails worked like rakes thoroughly, tough and rough to get all the spots, never forgetting behind my ears. Not once, or twice but three times, for maximum suds. The first rinse felt like absolution, rinsing away the sins of sweat, struggle, and school scent. By then, my head was a super hero, a super knot. Coils clung to each other like family, holding tight.
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Conditioner meant untangling time. A wide tooth comb she would start at the ends and work her way up in a soothing rhythm, music lines drawn down my back. It always started tenderly, descrescendo, slowly to unknot. Like a melody of piano, flute, strings and then came the pull, the church organ. “¡Ay!” I’d protested, but I knew the refrán “Quien quiere moños bonitos aguanta jalones ”, implying those who want pretty hair, endure pain. After untangling came la ‘ guela , a moisture treatment for curls. La ‘guela traveled from afar, usually packed in newspaper, sealed in Saran Wrap, a migrant in my tia’s maleta from the Dominican Republic. La ‘guela had traveled far. All natural, dique . Always buena pa’ tu pelo. Smelling like a cinnamon candle left too long, my scalp burned. When we didn’t have ‘guela, my mom would make her own, an old avocado and olive oil. Smelling of fresh salad dressing, sneaking around, sticking my fingers into my hair and licking it. Mmm… just needs salt.
Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Boleros floated through the apartment, José José, Julio Iglesias and the other José. Often tristes y dueños de nada, olvidándoses de vivir . In the living room, my father sat in his signature cologne of cafe and Marlboros. Singing along. While Mami crowned my head with a plastic bag so la ‘guela could sweat in heat, making my curls soft, smoother and easier to manage. We were twins then. Same sweaty bag, same silent promise of transformation. From our second floor apartment, laundry hung from cords tied between the back window and the light pole, fluttering secrets across the alley. If my mother caught me hanging underwear, she’d remind me not to make the private public. Just like la ’guela , some things weren’t for everyone to see. A villain to the knot, la ‘guela did her job. After an hour or two, came a baptism in the kitchen sink. By then, my mother had rolos . Setting them herself, she grew from barely five feet to five and a half. Plastic cylinders staked like a crown, the queen of a scented kingdom of cafe and ashtray. Sitting between her legs, each roller a devotion, each pin a counted act of faith in beauty and transformation. Wound tight by sounds of the past, an island of glory. Los rolos, soldiers in formation strong and silent.
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The hooded dryer hummed, like a hooded storm. Swirling heat in whispering spells that beauty is not sudden. It burns. It binds. It is tricked, wound tight, and waits patiently for a transformation happening slowly, invisibly, waiting to be released. Resurrected. Checking for dampness, loosening los rolos ’ grip. We slipped, slip by slip, freeing curls. What emerged wasn’t just hair, but the story of waiting, coiled and then liberated. Los rolos: weapons in a world demanding perfection, but hiding the labor. A resurrection of the self. Renewed, radiant, ready. Transformation. Mami has never said she loves me. It was the way she loved me, the way she cared.
Sundays were wash days for my mom and me.
Our sacrament. Our prayer.
It’s still the way she cares.
Lucia’s niece Luna, now part of the ‘rolos ’ club.
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Little Words to Live By By Sarah Wheeler
At home On the door-sill Of movement
As if these so-called function words weren’t laden With rich content, driving us from here to there To take life By the horns, gently stroking the soft forelock Between them, leading it
Among the wildflowers For a rest In the afternoon sun
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Is This A Good Time? By Edward Louis Gold
“So?” A question.
“So.” A declarative.
She wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t write.
She was done.
And with that… She turned away.
Pushing through the noontime throng crisscrossing 57th Street,
She never hesitated. Never turned back. Never glanced behind.
She would not see his stricken, bewildered face. Never see him look after her in stunned disbelief. Never know how long he stared after her. Seconds, hours, weeks? Unmoving as if anchored deep into the sidewalk, oblivious of the hordes pushing, sliding, slamming past him, into him, racing to their destinations.
Places to go. People to see.
And she would not see him, finally, come unmoored and float, directionless, down Fifth Avenue. Never see him turn, for no reason, east on 48th.
And certainly not see him as he passed by the ancient church under the rotting parapet.
Nor see the chunk of distressed concrete as it hurdled towards his oblivious brain.
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Standing Up In Geometry Class
The story that I remember most clearly from junior high, and that I’ve shared the most, is about my geometry class. I usually sat at a table with Alicia and Wallace. Alicia and this other kid in the class, Gene, were in eighth grade; Wallace and I were in seventh. Alicia liked to embarrass Wallace because it made his ears turn bright red. Gene wasn’t physically intimidating but he was sharp, confident, and tenacious. Wallace lived in my neighborhood and had been a friend since childhood, but I was in the process of becoming a skater: spot-bleaching Converse All Stars and jean jackets, too close to being cool to wear an argyle vest or risk having a friend like Wallace. Someone whose ears didn’t turn red. Someone that perhaps Alicia could like as more than a friend. As I remember it, Gene always gave me a hard time. I seemed to really annoy him, though I wasn’t trying to: I hadn’t leaned into aggravating people as a defense mechanism just yet.
But one day, I had had enough of his abuse. I stood my ground.
Gene said, “Yeah? Let’s fight. Out back. After school. Tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be there.”
However, that particular tomorrow was a snow day.
The day after, when school re-opened, Gene got in my face and said, “Where were you yesterday? I rode my bike all the way here to fight you!” But he couldn’t keep a straight face for very long. Of course he hadn’t ridden his bike to school in the snow.
It was a joke. Maybe always had been.
This is the part in the story where I point out that just by saying that I would fight him, I had passed the test and earned his respect. I can see him saying something like “You’re okay, kid” and giving me a pat on the back, a playful punch on the shoulder, or a hearty handshake congratulating me on my ascent into the world of young manhood.
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I don’t think that’s what happened next, though. He probably just pulled a protractor out of his backpack and started working on a proof. Well, he definitely didn’t do that: I just made that up. Or maybe he did. I don’t really know what he did next because I was probably checking to see if Alicia was paying attention. Or, maybe she was absent that day. Who knows? This all happened more than 30 years ago. The point of the story is that Gene taught me to stand up for myself—which throws the whole story into doubt because I want to be a person who always stands up for themself and for others—but I’m haunted by the cacophony of memories of all of the times that I didn’t. So isn’t it a little too convenient that I so clearly remember the moment in my life when I crossed the threshold from the person I used to be to become the brave upstander that I like to believe I am now? Isn’t it just a little too comforting to have such allegorical and unambiguous proof that when you take a stand, justice—rather than force—prevails? You see, I have no memories of Alicia or Gene outside of that class. Did they move away or go to boarding school? Was geometry class the only time I mixed with 8th graders? Wouldn’t I have seen them in the halls, the cafeteria, or the curb by the bus lane where the skaters rapped songs from “License to Ill” from start to finish? I’m not saying they didn’t exist at all: Gene was friends with someone I knew later and I remember that he had a lot of stories about Gene. But other than the fact that Gene’s brother was in a band that actually made records and went on tour, I don’t remember a thing about him. So who’s to say, even though you can easily look up his brother’s records on Spotify, that he was even in my math class? It’s also possible that Wallace and I were in eighth grade and Gene and Alicia were in ninth. I was an “accelerated” math kid, but geometry in 7th grade? That just doesn’t sound realistic.
*
*
*
At some other point in junior high, this kid Kenny Saunders from shop class used to bully me. I told my parents, they told the principal, and the principal told them that Kenny had a steel plate in his head. He also, I assume, gave Kenny some sort of talking to. That was the end of it.
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I don’t think of that story much and almost never tell it. The moral of the story about Gene is that I’m brave now and can solve my own problems. The moral of the story about Kenny is that you should tell a trusted adult and they will help solve your problem, which doesn’t fit most people’s definition of bravery. But while the story about Gene is more glamorous, I probably made the right move with Kenny too. If I’d told him off, I don’t think he would have said “You’re alright, kid” before quietly turning his attention to a geometry proof. He would have kicked my ass.
Which, come to think of it, would have made for a pretty good story.
So next time, let me tell you about how I learned to take a punch from this kid who had a steel plate in his head: it made me into the brave upstander that I am today, even more so than the fight in math class that never happened.
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Write About That Student You Won’t Forget by Lauren Cope Write about Markquese, that student you’d been warned about since he was in 1st grade. His mother waging war against the school as a whole. “Get ready,” they told me, “He’s coming your way.” Third grade, a challenge on its own, now with an added hurdle. Write about Markquese, who told you how he hated school every morning in September. How school was dumb and pointless, just a place he had to be. “Just leave me alone,” he’d frequently say. I’d tell him how it was my job to help him learn – I realized I needed to teach beyond the curriculum to reach him, convince him that he belonged. Write about Markquese, who would threaten to – and execute – destroying our classroom. Throwing books, flipping his desk, slamming our classroom door as he charged into the hallway.
Write about Markquese, who needed time to trust – trust me, trust his classmates
and administrators. Trust himself to be vulnerable, to be accepted by his peers.
Write about Markquese, that student you grew to love most. The one that the office staff began calling “your son” by January. How he’d blossomed and opened up at school – a newly found safe space. Write about how even his mother grew to trust you, she learned not to fear the sight of the school’s phone number on her caller ID. How she knew you’d call to highlight something good rather than calling to complain, to demand consequences at home for something that happened at school.
Markquese, Third Grade, 2019
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Write about Markquese, who came in with a smile, asking for a hug hello with each new day in May.
Write about Markquese, who had shown the most growth beyond the assessment drills.
Write about Markquese, the boy who taught you so much about what it truly meant to be a teacher – wearer of many hats, responsible for much more than state test scores.
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What Ms. Johnson Knew By Jennifer Howard A revolutionary teacher upholds love as the primary thing, knowing that the doors she opens let in light but what about those who feel shut out? lost outsiders, immersed much more in the intoxicating fellowship of misdiagnosed, misinformed, pain, than wisdom those that never choose to hear her voice never lean in, never look, never even think her worthy, fine dining on assumptive delicacies of superiority, while gnawing at the optic nerve of democracy, brunching on bullets drinking the milk of malice seeking her demise, she being both righteous & rigorous chose a mindful revolution prioritizing a justice that looks like love, because having been loved she could never be a slave to hate she teaches
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understanding that every door she opens lets in light
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Contributors
Lucia Brea is an ENL and STEAM teacher at Jefferson Elementary School in New Rochelle, New York. Originally from the Dominican Republic, she currently resides in Stamford, Connecticut, with her husband, Ramfis, and their cat, Theo. Outside the classroom, Lucía enjoys traveling, cooking and gardening. Lucía wrote “Wash Days” after her “neighborhood map” exercise, remembering spending Sundays listening to bolero and washing her hair with her mom. A memory of unspoken love. Lucía was in the 2023-24 HVWP Leadership in the Teaching of Writing cohort. Olga Choedron is inspired to write by her studies of Russian poetry as well as her travels, yoga, and meditation practices. She enjoys teaching ENL in New Paltz CSD and loves connecting with family and friends, exploring nature and all aspects of life. Olga was in the 2024-25 HVWP Leadership in the Teaching of Writing cohort. Lauren Cope is a second grade special education teacher in New Paltz, NY. Lauren is a fellow in the 2025-26 Leadership in the Teaching of Writing institute. Matt Gill joined the HVWP in summer 2025 and is a middle school language and literature educator at Chadwick International School in Incheon, South Korea. Matt lives with his partner, Keisha, in an apartment in Songdo on the 10th floor, where they overlook a newly planted forest of trees, each tree doing its utmost to take root amongst the wanting soil that is landfill. Edward Louis Gold taught English, screenwriting and creative writing at Monticello High School for 17 years and is now an Adjunct Professor in English at Marist University. He joined the HVWP in 2020. Jennifer Howard is a retired elementary teacher who loves reading, creating writing workshops, and encouraging others. She was in the 2017-18 HVWP Leadership in the Teaching of Writing cohort. Zelig Kurland , who is currently a fellow in the 2025-2026 HVWP Leadership in the Teaching of Writing Invitational Institute, teaches English at a public high school in New York's Hudson Valley.
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Tom Meyer , aside from his amazing family of five humans, two dogs, three cats, two donkeys, ponies, horses, and chickens, is a founding director of the Hudson Valley Writing Project and a professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz. Samantha Mossman (Sam) is a long-time participant in HVWP programs. Her participation started in 2019 as an ECLI fellow and then later in 2023 as a YRI fellow. Sam has co-facilitated ECLI since 2024. Mary Sawyer is a founding director of the Hudson Valley Writing Project. In 2021, she retired from her work as Associate Professor and Coordinator of SUNY New Paltz’s undergraduate and graduate programs in Adolescent Education-English. She still enjoys writing, especially with the support of a writing community. Lisa Stewart participated in the ECLI from 2019-2020. She now homeschools her two children and recently self-published her first book. Sarah Wheeler teaches writing for the Bard Prison Initiative, as well as English and Education courses for SUNY New Paltz. She joined HVWP’s Leadership in the Teaching of Writing in 2024 and enjoys working as a teacher consultant in schools throughout the Hudson River Valley.
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