Generation F. Girls Write Now
Everyone’s favorite thing to make fun of about me was my forehead. So everyone and their mom decided to call me “Megamind.” They basically compared me to the blue guy with the really huge forehead. I cannot lie: It is pretty big. I swear it reached the sky. I could not do much about it, but I did wear my hair down more instead of putting it in a ponytail or anything else that shows my forehead even more. And . . . you guessed it! That didn’t work, either.
I could not name a worse period in my life than middle school. When I finished middle school, I hoped for things to be different, especially the bullying part. When I got to high school, things did change eventually. Although I still considered high school to be a failed experiment in preparing adolescents for the adult world, I have met a few good peeps here and they are all right. I have also started to love myself more, I guess. Hey, at least I’m trying.
I’ve titled this piece “Speak” in honor of Laurie Halse Anderson’s novel about a young woman who went silent after she was raped.
I thought I was numbed out. Thought, after months of one famous and powerful scumbag after another getting taken down (or not), that I had reached outrage overload. But a few days ago, a story appeared in School Library Journal, and then in The New York Times, about sexual harassment in the children’s literature world. Some prominent, powerful, esteemed, and beloved male writers have been accused of preying on aspiring young women writers at children’s-lit conferences.
What? Writers, too? Aren’t we the good guys, the sensitive ones, the progressive ones, the empathic ones? I write novels for middle-grade kids and teens. I have been a proud part of the children’s literature world since the ’90s. I spent the morning yesterday compulsively reading the hundreds of comments in response to the SLJ revelations, getting more and more bummed, thinking, Yeah, right, classic power imbalance. Same old story. Bummed, but still somewhat numb. Then I came across a quote from prizewinning author Laurie Halse Anderson about her “volcanic anger about rape culture and toxic masculinity.” It was not the “toxic masculinity” that made my blood roar and my eyes blur. It was the words “volcanic anger.”
When the Harvey Weinstein story broke last fall, I spent some time working on a poem I called “Coming Forward.” About how I did not. How it never dawned on me I could. In the almost fifty years since I was raped, I have come to know it was not my fault. Even so, I could not bear to put myself back there, in the fear and helplessness. The paralyzing shame. Could not bear to use a word that I did not realize still carries so much power over me. Even now, writing it, my blood pounds and I can hardly see.
I have been practicing these past few months, though. Telling other women, saying the word “rape” out loud to try to strip it of its shame. And it is astonishing, the number of women whose eyes have filled with tears, who have said, “Yes, it happened to me, too.”
My anger is volcanic. For all of us. Though, what a huge relief, thanks to the #MeToo movement and the countless women who have dared to come forward, dared to feel pure rage instead of that confusing mix of rage, humiliation, fear, and shame.
I have been looking for a way to tie this piece to this year’s theme, Generation F. But what is in my heart is last year’s: We are not helpless. Rise. Speak. Make them change.
JORDAN CHE
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter College High School
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Silver Key and Honorable Mention
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Being paired with Maria was more than a stroke of luck. From the first day we met, I already found it easy to talk to her. Our pair sessions went swimmingly as we bonded over bubble tea, horror movies, and the creepy guy who cannot sit still at the Queens Crossing mall every Friday. Seven-minute intervals and Reddit writing prompts made our sessions productive as well as fun, and we would always leave with a new (yet unfinished) story in our notebooks. But on top of everything, her enthusiasm and endless support are the best parts of our weekly meetings.
MARIA WHELAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Assistant Literary Agent, InkWell Management
BORN: Dublin, Ireland
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: The first time I went to Flushing, Queens, was to meet my wonderful mentee, Jordan. It was there where I had my first taste of bubble tea. The location and drink immediately became staples of our weekly sessions, along with Jordan’s incredible creativity and compelling sense of humor. In the loud, brightly lit food court in Queens, Jordan never ceased to impress me with her vivid imagination, radiance, and sharp wit. While no meet-up was the same, these are the threads that make up the tightly knit tapestry of our friendship!
When you can’t even turn to the person in the mirror for answers, you end up looking within yourself, instead, in order to figure out what you believe is right despite everyone else saying otherwise.
Calla Reyes sits in front of the full-length mirror on the shaggy carpet, curling her toes as the person wearing her skin curls them back. She breathes in the sweet silence of an empty house on Valentine’s Day. With her parents out making new memories over a candlelit dinner and Melody in a mysterious stranger’s arms after swiping right for an Eros-filled fling, Calla has the pleasure of having the whole house to herself—at least for now. Running a hand through her knotted hair, she inches closer to the mirror until she and her impostor are noses apart. The person in the mirror isn’t me, she thinks to herself for the fifth time today. We share the same drifting eyes, chapped lips, and nervous smiles, but she isn’t me. It’s 5:50 p.m. She glances at the clock, tearing her eyes away from the impostor. Zenia said she would be here at six. Following an intent glare outside her door, Calla dashes to the bathroom as if her feet are on fire, despite the emptiness of the hallway.
Squeezing out a dollop of cleanser and scrubbing at her face until her impostor shares the same frothy white mask, she tries not to think about how she was in the exact same location just a week ago, except for the fact that she wasn’t the only one in the bathroom. She tries to dismiss the memory of her parents barging into the room, interrogating her about the mysterious crewneck sweater hidden poorly under her bed with a bold “Z” on the back. The bathroom walls suffocated her as they argued and screamed until Calla’s lungs shriveled up. Between the vigorous shakes of her head, she stole a glance in the mirror and came face-to-face with a total stranger whose pupils were dilated, afraid, and filled past the brim with tears that rolled down her dry face.
Calla closes her eyes and lets the water run down her face and disappear in a spiral into the sink, along with memories of her impostor that she had sworn to put aside, at least for today. She is not going to let the person in the mirror ruin what would soon to be the best