Courageous Writers Hyde Park Anthology 2017

Courageous Writers: Hyde Park atRoosevelt-Vanderbilt-Van Buren National Historic Sites Anthology 2017

Teacher Consultants: Dorothy Luongo, Poughkeepsie Day School Dennis Maher, Newburgh Enlarged City School District In collaboration with Susanne Norris,Environmental Education and Natural Resource Specialist National Park Service Scott Rector Chief of Interpretation National Park Service John Tappen, Fieldwork Student: SUNY New Paltz Kelly​ Escarcega Teaching the Hudson Valley: 1

Table of ContentsAria Avery………………………………………………………………….3Isabella Cho……………………………………………………………….5William Cho………………………………………………………………..6Catherine Darcy…………………………………………………………...7Anya English ……………………………………………………………...12Angelina Finateri ………………………………………………………….13Theodora Hirmes………………………………………………………….15Trinity Kara…………………………………………………………………18Evan Liu……………………………………………………………………19Maple Loeb ………………………………………………………………. 21Julianne Louie ……………………………………………………………. 23Priya Patel ………………………………………………………………….24Hudson Peplow …………………………………………………………… 25Sophie Reisbord ……………………………………………………………26Jack Reusing ……………………………………………………………….28Abigail Straus ………………………………………………………………29 2

​ “She Was so Much More” By Aria Sickler Avery, Age 12 She remembers the day she was put on her post in their garden. Nothing morethan a mere statue she seemed, but in the end she was so much more. She remembersthe Vanderbilts smiling faces as she brought to a close the boring plainness of the redbrick room in which she was stood. As the Vanderbilts walked away she came to life, aprotector of their garden. She oversaw all the harmony of which bestowed upon the garden a tranquilpeace that dared not be disturbed. She oversaw the balance between life and deathwith humans in between that lived within the garden. A brilliant piece of land that was inthe hand of man but surprisingly not yet destroyed. Her garden was a founding ofbeauty for all to see. She was the reigning queen. The dutiful protector of what was now rightfullyhers. Yet, her pride seemed to understandably dissolve once the fact of the matterwould come to mind. She could not move. She could not speak, and once that comes to be known aquestion arises. Is she truly more than a mere statue, now with green mold creepingupward upon her legs? Was she more than a statue granted only a smile? Is that all shewas meant to do? Is that all she was meant to be? Smile a small smile, with only a sliverof hope towards her dream of one day being more? No! She wouldn't allow herself to be condemned to such a fate. She would notcondemn herself to an eternity of sadness and longing to be more. Fore she was more!She was more than she seemed to be. More than a mere statute whose only fate was tostand and want to be more. She was more! She always was, and always will be, more.She was the protector of the Vanderbilt’s garden. An overseer of all that is and was andwill be in the garden. She disregarded the thought that she was nothing but a statue frozen in time.When, in the end, she was, truly, so much more. She noticed a child enter the garden, and her thoughts came to a stop when thatsame child came from behind placing a pink flower on her stand. The little girl giggledas she walked away, as if she knew the statue was real. 3

She knew at once that the flower was from her garden, but she let it go. It was thesweet little girl’s thought that counted most.Context: Aria was inspired to write this piece after taking a tour of the Vanderbilt estategarden where she saw a statue in the middle of the garden. She wondered what itwould be like to be that statue, so she brought her (the statue) to life through this storyof a statue going through an identity crisis. 4

The Deception of People By: Isabella Cho People only know another person by the side the person chooses to show them.Everyone has a bad and good side even if they don’t display them. People have aone-track mind when it comes to someone’s personality. They are deceived as easily asa knife goes through butter. Many people and stories portray deceptive personalities. In the Beauty and theBeast, the Beast first appears to be the monster, but the readers and Belle soon learnshis true, great personality. Gaton pretends to be the hero, but shows that he was thereal monster in the end. People try to deceive others because it is an attempt to benefitand protect themselves from insecurity and even depression. The selfish desire forsecurity or need drives them to deceive others. That is called human nature. There is so much more to people and personalities. The shyest person in theclass may be the most upbeat person alive when they’re comfortable. The cruelestperson may be the most insecure person and the nicest person may be the most fakeand plastic-y person too. Deception is strong thing that is present in everyday life. What Adults Will Never Understand By: Isabella ChoWhenever I am down, I go to my phone. My phone is where I can escape reality andnothing is an abnormality. It is where I can understand everyone and look at lives sounlike my own. If I have my phone I am never truly alone.Context:Izzy had the idea of her first piece, “deceptive people” before coming to camp, but the arrival ofauthor Geraldine Hawkins and the study of excerpts from her book ​Elliot and Eleanor ​served asinspiration for further development. Her second real world problem response titled, “W​ hat AdultsWill Never Understand”​ was inspired by all the tours where the lack of technology was evidentand she learned how much the phone means to her. 5

The Most Important People By: William Cho, 14 My mom is my guide An inspiration to me Always by my side Since I was a baby My dad is always there Never away too long He is my support Which makes him so strong My sister is my day one An annoyance to me Sometimes, maybe always But never straying away from me My friends are my mates Who I can laugh with and hang They always come back Just like a boomerang These are the people That make my life great I love them so much And that's not up for debate Context:William Cho wrote this poem titled, The Most Important People, after finding inspiration from aprompt given by author, Geraldine Hawkins. The poem is about the most important people in hislife. 6

​ H​ ere They Sit Catherine Darcy Here they sit Three leaders of men Three hearts prepared to protect Three captains, warriors. Worry has not overcome The courage these men are made of. And as pioneers of robust interior, They will keep pursuing Without a doubt in mind To provide hopeRising from ashes of demolished hope. Three humans, worriers Three becomes one To conquer wicked And here it sits. 7

Strange New Happenings By: Catherine Darcy As I looked over to my window on a torrid Wednesday, the morning dew cloudedmy view of the Hudson River. From the fourth floor of the Vanderbilt Cottage in which Iwas a parlor maid, the boats grew in number by the minute. Early in the morning iswhen the work started for us. I rolled out of bed, knowing that soon I will need to beginmy day doing normal work, sweeping floors, answering calls, and washing dishes.. Justa few of my many, many jobs. By the time I had washed up, gotten dressed, and put onmy shoes it was nearly half past six. I flew down the vast staircases and began to openthe doors on the first floor. Most of the maids last night had cleaned up after dinner, butin those six hours between midnight and now, think of all the dust that must have piledup! I scurried across the lavish, Italian, tile floors to the maid’s closet, where brooms,dusters, and mops galore await to be used. My maids and I have approximately threehours to make the house more grand and impressive than it was the day before. Withmy steady broom in hand, I swiftly sweep through the corridors and hallways of the first,second, and third floors, careful not to disturb or arise any of the family. I do not mindmy work. I have never complained, and I always try to impress and earn the trust of mymaster. As an immigrant, I am beyond lucky to have been given a position for one of themost extravagant and wealthy families in the country. Back in England, work for a younggirl was hardly even an option. My father died in a mining accident two years ago, andsince I do not have any brothers, my mother and I were left to fend for ourselves. Theidea of America came right to our front door. The newspaper boy threw my future at myhouse, wrapped with a string. The front paper read “AMERICA, LAND OFOPPORTUNITY”. My mother, Anna, told me that it was okay to leave, that she wouldsurvive on what our farm could provide and what I would send her. I knew that shewould be lonely, and that she secretly didn’t want me to go. As for me, I had already 8

decided. I was going to this “land of opportunity” and there, I will provide for my motheruntil I can pay for her passage to join me. I have almost earned enough, in a few moremonths I may be able to pay for her boat trip to New York, and a small home in town. Ofcourse, I would have to move out of the Vanderbilt complex with my mother until shewas well acquainted with the new area. It was a part of the rules of the house, thatunless you were living alone, you could not live in the home where we worked. Formost, it didn’t make a difference that with family, you couldn’t live in the cottage,because most of the maids did not have one. For those who lived in the home, it wasmuch more simple to save money, because we weren’t paying rent on a home or loft. Thinking has become a major part of my daily routine, although it gets me easilydistracted and in trouble. The head maid, Miss Elizabeth, would often scold me for notdoing a very good job at anything, because I was preoccupied in my own mind. Ofcourse, it was a lifelong habit for me to daydream. “Phoebe!”, she would say to me,“Why can I still see dirt on the floor and dust on the cupboards? I will not have theMaster be frenzied about our work!” Although our work was always pristine andimpeccable, Miss Elizabeth seemed to be always on my case, which she is this verysecond. “PHOEBE!” she quietly squeaked, “How many times do I have to tell you thatby this time in the morning, you should be almost done with your morning chores, andyou only recently opened the velvet curtains! Get moving!” Rapidly, I finished dusting,washing the floors, and setting up the dining room for breakfast, and I finished at twominutes ‘till nine. I escaped down into the cellar, where the kitchen and icebox were,and started my chores washing dishes down there. Those fine dishes never ceased tobe piled to the rim of the steel sink every morning. I carefully picked each one up anddutifully scrubbed them until they were spotless. Some other maids would help me andwe would quietly chat about the events in the past week or so. Around noon, the bell rang, calling the masters and the servants for lunch. I wasalready prepared with my silver tray with beautiful carvings in hand. Most of the time, Ihad no idea what sort of gourmet, glorious cuisine lay under the cover. I delicatelywalked up the rounding stairs to reach the dining hall, where to my surprise, there were 9

no guests today. Another surprise came as I got closer to Frederick Vanderbilt, the bagsunder his eyes were as clear as ever, his normally steady, hard face seemed to be paleand distant, and his usually brown, greased hair looked gray and messy. I was notsupposed to inquire or speak but right now I could not resist my curiosity. “Pardon meMaster, but are you feeling well today? Would you like the nurse to come check yourtemperature?” Mr. Vanderbilt looked at me as if he was looking through me, like hismind was stuck on an abstract dream, and to my astonishment, he didn’t scold me, “No,Pheobe. I am just exceptionally drained today, most likely did not sleep enough. Thankyou for your thoughtfulness.” I curtsied and retreated to the servants quarters. TheMaster was always kind. His friendly, gracious attitude towards his servants areundeniably ahead of his time. He invited us to dine with him sometimes, and treated uswith respect and dignity. He realized that most servants are treated like vermin, and hewanted to do the very opposite. I always enjoyed his company, as did everybody else.Despite my worry, I proceeded with my chores, constantly re-sweeping the halls andre-dusting the mantles. Of course more than once, my mind got the better of me, and Ihave to rush to catch up with the time I had lost daydreaming. It was a particularlydepressing day. The weather was cloudy, gray, and quite humid. The day just seemedto lag on forever, it seemed as if it had been hours but only a few minutes had passed.For in the still silence that the day had felt, a sudden ring of the doorbell struck a nervethat nearly made me jump out of my own skin. I suddenly felt a sense of unease as I instantaneously moved to the front door,and to my alarm a doctor carrying his medical bag stood before me. I moved aside andlet the doctor file through the door and a maid quickly directed him up the stairs,undeniably to the Master’s den. My heart seemed to pound vigorously as I quicklyrealized what was happening. Illness had overcome the master of the house. The worldseemed to change time. A minute felt like an hour, and an hour felt like days. Afternearly what felt like a week, the doctor trudged down the staircase that once seemedregal, and now felt empty and ghostly. The butler stood next to him and whispered a few 10

things, and the doctor nodded grimly. A sob escaped from Miss Elizabeth’s lips, andwas followed by the many servants who had gathered around. I couldn’t think straight,or follow a thought. I had just spoken to the man that morning. A man who undoubtedlywas not well, but still breathing and living. The tears swelled in my eyes and I stoodfrozen. The world around me stood still, as I tried to grasp what had happened, but Icouldn’t seem to grab on. The Master had treated us as equals, and had accomplishedso very much in his life. Yet in that solemn silence, I saw my future, an entire future injeopardy.Strange New HappeningsCatherine wrote a short story titled “Strange New Happenings” after finding inspiration on a visitto the Vanderbilt Mansion and discovering a fascination for the people who worked there. Thispiece highlights the story of a Parlor Maid upon learning of Frederick Vanderbilt’s death.Here They SitCatherine wrote a poem titled “Here They Sit” after finding inspiration in a photograph of JosefStalin, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Winston Churchill. These were some of the mostinfluential people in history and they deserve to be respected. 11

Flora & Fauna By Anya English, Age 15Contemplating our existence independent of natureFor my eyes only I see nature as purely sereneOur roots intertwine past materialismWe are birthed from the same motherYet, blind to the radiant beauty of our ownWe destroy elegance and intricacyThe wild should not have to compete for the affections of menThough… our bones become fragile and weakPeople dieHearts become weakBut a tree’s roots are built hardyCreated with the intent or withstanding hardshipBuilt with an eternal heartComments:I love the theme of unity with nature and how we’ve disconnected from it!Context…Anya wrote a poem with the the title of “Flora & Fauna” after being inspired by theimmaculate gardens of the Vanderbilt mansion. The poem highlights the misuse ofnature, but also describes its true beauty using descriptive language and metaphorsthat hide deeper meanings. 12

Untitled By Angelina Finateri, age 15 The woman was marvelous. A waterfall of curls tumbled over her bare shouldersand she possessed a face that could make any woman who gazed upon it shrivel upwith jealousy. She was the image of perfection. However, despite her overwhelmingbeauty, she was colorless. She seemed to be carved out of marble because she wasmade from the precious stone. The women was a statue. Dozens of other statuesgazed down at Jonathan from around the gigantic, tastefully decorated room and shecouldn't help but think that their eyes had no purpose. There was no emotion behindtheir expressions. How could something so realistic not be alive? Jonathan sprung away from the statue at the sound of a child's screeching. Thecries seemed to be coming from the rectangular window to her right. Sunlight hit thewindow and heat radiated of of the glass. The sun was like a gleaming torch that hadfilled the sky with smoke. The Vanderbilts were waiting for him to bring them a frostypitcher of lemonade. The Vanderbilt couple that he worked for had no children of theirown and their mansion had very few photos and plenty of blank walls. They were havinga photoshoot and they had invited all of their relatives. He had to hurry up. Adelina assumed that he was staring at her. His eyes are just small she thought.Actually, she wasn't sure if he has any eyes. He’s a worm, or maybe a centipede.Adelina forgot which one had legs. Mommy says ignoring others is impolite and sheglanced at him just in case. His name is Buddy. He wiggles a lot. Adelina looked back at the camera right away. Mommy says she has to look atthe camera but Mommy's rules can be really hard. Mommy is so mean sometimes. Shedidn't realize how itchy Adelina’s dress felt against Adelina’s tender skin or how muchshe wanted to sneeze. It was allergy season and everyone in the Vanderbilt family hadgathered in the estate’s colorful garden. An ant was crawling up Adelina’s leg and aflower brushed against her pudgy, little arm. All she could think about was chugging acool glass of lemonade. The sun is sucking the water out of me and Buddy won't stopmoving around in my partially cupped hand. It tickles. 13

Context:​ Angelina was inspired for this piece by the many stone statues or sculptures inthe Vanderbilt mansion and a photo of FDR as a child. She wanted to challenge herselfby writing in a variety of points of views (including a child's points of view). Angelinawanted to capture the beauty of the statues in the Vanderbilt mansion and convey achild's joy through her writing. She hopes to continue this short story. 14

Solitary Reverie  by Theodora Hirmes, age 12   With each step, I begin to lose myself. There has been too much happening. Too much constant noise. The only way I can truly escape is to walk  into the woods. No particular direction, no right way or wrong. Finally, I can think with my own mind, not others. I can now turn to the joys of reveries, the sweet, soft sounds of ineffable Nature. No more honking, yelling, boring commands that society weaves so secretly into us. No more dresses, comments, and holding guilt like a child on my shoulders.  With each step, I begin to lose myself. There’s been too much going on, too much constant noise. Hassle and words. Commands and worries. The only way I can truly escape is to go to the woods. No certain direction, no right way or wrong.  Finally, I can think with my own mind, not others. I can now turn to the reveries, the sweet soft sounds of ineffable Nature. No more yelling, honking, controlling, and boring commands, that society weaves so secretly into us. No more dresses, caring what others say, or carrying guilt like a child on my shoulders.  I step towards the lake, reflecting my hopes upon it’s back. As I slip off my shoes, I slowly make my way towards the majestic water. My tired feet, molded into tightness by stress and direction, now unravel. My mind wanders back to my childhood. When I ran, barefoot, lost in my all to real fantasies. When I could be myself.  The sublime landscape turns a dazzling dark blue, as the sun slowly descends. Now only laconic darkness remains. The soft green grass acts as a  15

blanket for my fears. I let it steal me away. My hair hits the ground. My perfectly combed, stunning hair, now covered in dirt and leaves. But I don’t care. Not Anymore.  Suddenly, the silence captures me, leaving me breathless, and searching for words. I’ve never heard anything so peacefully quiet. The animals and plants make an orchestra of sound, but it’s perfect noise. A rhythm, not spreading chaos. Back home, you grow accustom to the strange mess of sounds. Think of something else.  As I think the words, I wonder, if I can even call that my home.     I let the stars tell me their stories. All I have to do is listen. Not a command, a way to fade. The luminous stars shine a bright and noble message.I suddenly remember something you told me years ago.  “We’re all made of stardust.”  I sit with that thought, letting it create a protective blanket around me.  “By the time the starlight reaches us, the stars are already gone,” Another thing you told me. Someone forgotten. Someone gone.  If we are made of stars, say, that one, shining it’s confusing hopes in no particular direction, and in reality, it’s been gone for thousands of years, is part of me gone? Or am I holding part of the light within me, and if I only let it out, I’d suddenly be somebody. I’m not sure I’ll ever know.  My imagination builds a wall between me and society, letting me be free. I imagine myself as a bird, soaring high above this glass marble we call home. And higher still, past the storytelling stars, the dreams and wishes of every  human being, the fear and hope, the love and despair, the right and wrong, until I reach the end. The end of human existence and knowledge. The end of me, and you. The end of a story we’re all part of.  Shaking away from my solitary reverie, I look across the vivid night sky, portraying a message no one understands. I take a much needed deep breath and  16

lie down into the offering ground. I let myself fall into a deep, soundless sleep, knowing tomorrow I’ll have to go back. Back to society, the order, the work, decisions, and the industrial filled life. Back to a place I never belonged. But at least for know I’m here. Fully connected, happy and free. At least for now, I can truly be somebody.   Context Theodora’s piece was  sparked by a picture of Eleanor Roosevelt walking in the woods. She thought the idea of such a famous person, who surely was always surrounded by people and order, taking  the time to decompress in the woods was interesting. This launched an idea of loneliness and solitude, and using the outdoors as a way to escape from everyday live. Her piece follows an undefined character walking through the forest, reflecting past memories and future inspiration.     17

Movement Trinity Kara, 14Escaping to a place where all my focus is placed on the steadying of my breathsThe build up of a sensational painBlushed puffy cheeks indulged in beads of sweatStinging the surface of oily poresAt least it's better than before… Movement (Context)Trinity wrote this poem after learning about FDR and his disability and the way hedaydreamed about proceeding in activities involving his legs. Trinity hopes that readerswill interpret the meaning of the poem in their own way and relate personal experiences,for her it would be running. She used wording that could describe someone's feelingswhile participating in an exhausting activity. (ex. sports, work, etc.) 18

The Beaches of Normandy By Evan Liu, 13 The moment we have all been dreading, the boats have arrived at the beaches ofNormandy. This is my first battle, the gloomy clouds cast a shadow over the battlefieldand over our hearts. Suddenly the gate drops, and our boat is not lucky, machine gunfire rains down and my comrades at the front of the boat are shredded to pieces.Jumping out the side of the boat, I make it onto the beach and a mortar shell explodesnear me and I'm blown on my back. There is a ringing in my ears and I feel blood in mymouth. I remember back to the days of my childhood when the we would pretend to fighton the streets of New York City. This is no New York, we are not at the mercy ofchildhood friends but at the mercy of our bitter enemy. A thought hits me, I may dietoday and I might never be able to go home. This is the first time when I have truly beenin the face of death. But this is not a place to be weak. My captain screams at me andhelps me to my feet. The ringing stops and I hear the explosions all over the battlefield.It's time to fight like I did back on the streets of New York.ContextEvan wrote a first person story about D-Day, a massive invasion at the beaches of Normandy.He was inspired by a photo shared at the first day of camp. The character in the story looksback into his life after he is injured by a nearby explosion. Evan uses great word choice toexpress a story that shows the true face of war. 19

Cold Maple Anne Sugarbear LoebCold seeps into the tent like water. It drips at first, only powdering the tops of our heads, but itwas turned into a flood. The frigid air drowns my body, stealing warmth from the blood thatrushes through my veins.Our teeth are a symphony of chatters. My mother’s eyes glaze over in fear. I hug a thin blanketcloser to my shivering form in an attempt to block out the cold. The tips of my sister’s fingers areturning purple, and her nose is a crisp blue.“I’m cold.” My little brother whines through the chattering teeth.He’s ignorant. “We’re all cold!” I say, my voice faint against the howling wind.My sister, Maria, glares at me through blue eyes, “come here Tom,” she beckons our brotherwith a stiff wave of her hand.He walks towards her and sits close. Their breath is visible, little puffs against the grey tent. Tomblows on his hands and rubs them together furiously.I watch.My little sister lays on the floor beside me, she is purple than the violets that bloom every spring.She died last night.I remember the way she hugged me, and how tears were frozen to her cheeks. Her hair wasmatted with icicles, and I clung to her small body, trying to warm her up.But she was smaller than I, and died a great deal faster. I curse myself for her death, for lettingher go. I curse the cold and the snow. I curse my father for not being here.I shiver. 20

“Come here Jackie.” My older sister calls me. “And bring your blanket.”I am too cold to rogue, I stand up and walk to Maria’s side, before curling up beside her. Mymother joins us, fearfully whispering to Tom, who is cradled in her arms. Hunger gnaws on theinside of my stomach, we haven't eaten for three days.“When will the storm stop?” Maria asks my mother.“Only when it is done my dear, only when it has killed us all.”I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fall into the lull of the wind. Yet it still bangs giants our smalltent, pushing it back and forth. It is growing dark from the snow piled on top of the thin cloththat covers our heads. The wet floor is unforgiving and glacier-like, and I feel myself slidingagainst it. I jerk my eyes open.Our tent flap is pushed open by another harsh wind, and wet snow spills onto our empty trunk ofclothes. Tom slides out of my mother’s arms, his dark hair hits the floor, and his thin bodyfollows.A sob escapes my mother’s lips, and soon she is wailing. Wailing for her dead children, wailingbecause she could not save them.“Mother,” Maria whispers, “we’re still here.”“I killed them!” Is my mother’s response. “I killed all of them!”She looks insane, my mother. Her hair is knotted and icy, her eyes puffy with distress. I shudder,she is mad.My sister huddles close to me, and her voice is harmonic in my ear.“We’re all going insane, aren't we?”And for once in my life, I don't doubt her words in the slightest.Context: ​Maple was inspired to write this piece by a photo of a family during the GreatDepression that was shown at the beginning of camp. She expertly mixes metaphors,personification, and simile to create an image of the character’s situation in the reader’s mind. 21

“Life is a Series of Thousands of Tiny Miracles” -Mike Greenberg By Julianne Louie, 13 years old My life has spiraled into a disastrous tornado. It is now a tale of a homeless person. A Series that's continued by the rest of the unfortunate thousands. Most of them have lost hope but I still hold a tiny glimmer of it, just waiting for the miracles.Context​: Julianne was inspired to write her poem by the image of the homeless family during the Great Depression. She wrote a golden shovel poem (when the last word of each line put together reads as aquote) in the point of view of someone going homeless. Throughout the week, she worked on the flow of the piece and how to add more descriptive words. 22

An Everyday Routine By Priya Patel, Age 13Dear Family, It is a pleasure working for the Vanderbilts for the six months they are at their seasonalcottage. It consists of 54 rooms, 14 bathrooms, and 50,000 square feet, not to mention this isthe smallest of the 48 mansions built. Each room is grand, bordered with hand carved stone,giving any guest the pleasure of staying here. Today was just like any other day. I woke up at6:30 to do another day's worth of of laundry. As soon as I got of out bed I bolted downstairsthrough the crowd of people to start the laundry fire. Once Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt left theirsleeping quarters the other maids and I rushed in to get their sheets washed. This is aneveryday routine. Along with new bedsheets, everyday we also put in new hand towels. It wasreally hard for us to run out when 300 were piled up in the linen room. After all of this was done Igo downstairs back to the laundry room. The clothes are washed in sinks and when it's time todry them the laundry fire does its job. Tomorrow will be the same. Truly yours with love, AnaContextPriya’s piece is a diary entry inspired by the life of a laundress at the Vanderbilt mansion. Shechose a diary entry so others could listen to a story from another Point of View. Ever since Priyastarted writing this piece she knew that this would be the piece she would be adding on to makebetter and better. 23

The Final Moments of an American Soldier Hudson PeplowWe crawled down the nets into the Higgins boats ready to depart. The boats set off. Aswe got closer we could hear the machine gun fire from the MG-42s. The massive cliffsof Normandy with the bunkers built on them sat spewing machine gun fire at theincoming boats. We miraculously made it to the shore and dropped the ramp. I took myfinal step as a bullet screamed into my skull ending my life and plunging me intodarkness.ContextHudson was inspired to write this piece after seeing a photo of American soldiers in alanding craft heading for the beaches of Normandy. He has a love of history. 24

Ripples By Sophie Reisbord, age 15 “Grandpa, the water is s​ o​ cold!” Franklin’s granddaughter said, sliding in anyway. Franklinsmiled watching the ripples form as her body hit the water.A ripple for the Great War A ripple for the bloodiest stalemate in history A ripple The Treaty of Versailles, where fingers pointed and blame was assigned A ripple for Germany on the heels of defeat, on the brink of destruction A ripple for the people,the angry,the desolate, the poor A ripple for a man with the greatest weapon in the world; words A ripple as they travelled through Germany, feeding off of fear A ripple for a shop window broken and a mother crying A ripple for the people, the scapegoats, the victims, the scared A ripple for fascism A ripple for communism A ripple for the world divided, hurtling towards an uncertain future. A ripple for the many men who ruled it A ripple for Hitler A ripple for Stalin A ripple for Mussolini A ripple for Churchill A ripple...for Roosevelt “Is something wrong dear?” Eleanor asked, sitting beside him. “Something terrible is coming.” replied Franklin, “And I am not so much worried that Iwon’t be able to stop it, but I am terrified at the price I will be willing to pay.” Franklin watched as Eleanor jumped into the pool with a SPLASH A splash he feared would soon be heard around the world. 25

Context: Sophie was inspired for this piece by a photo she saw on the first day of theRoosevelts relaxing by the pool. Writing this piece, Sophie tried to think about how much stressFDR must’ve been under because of the impending war. She used repetition to explain thecatastrophic domino effect that led to World War II and the lengths the President would have togo to end it. 26

Legacy Jack ReusingThat special moment between me and my grandfather together rushes back to methrough time. I can hear the quiet squeak of his wheelchair and feel the tangled fur ofthe dog on his lap. I wish there were more pictures of him like this, as he really was. Tome he wasn't an untouchable, distant leader but a kind, loving grandfather. I'm surprisedat my reaction this picture. It makes me wonder what I would remember if there weremore.Context‘Legacy’ was inspired by a picture of a girl with President Roosevelt in his wheelchair.This is done in the perspective of Roosevelt's granddaughter looking back. 27

We Make History Abigail Straus, 14history is keywe make history todayhistory saves usit is destructivesurvival is not ensuredare we sure about this?our choices change liveschange them for better or worsefor the greater good?are we sure about this?we make history todayour choices change lives ContextThis photograph that served as inspiration for Abigail’s piece was taken in 1943 at the TehranConference. At this conference three leaders, Stalin, F.D.R., and Churchill, decided on lifechanging events for both during and after the war. Her four haikus are an expression of howthey must have felt making these decisions and she is uses questions to draw you in and leaveyou thinking. The first three haikus are each told by one of the three leaders, the fourth being acombination of the first three. She invites you to try and find for yourself who said what in ​WeMake History. 28

About The AuthorsAria Sickler Avery is a seventh grade student at Rondout Valley Intermediate/ JuniorHigh school. She enjoys reading, writing, and learning as much about history as shecan. When it comes to writing Aria likes to write about heroes with a journey that usuallyhave some sort of fantasy element. She also likes to write anything that somehow has amessage of family. Aria finds the most challenging part of writing to be finding an idea togo on, and making her writing relatable. Her advice to writers young and old is to writesomething you love and believe in because that way you've already done it right.Izzy Cho is a student at Saint Martin de Porres School. She enjoys tennis and reading.When it comes to writing Izzy likes to write about fantasies and real world problems.Izzy finds the most challenging part of writing to be putting ideas into words. When shegets older she hopes to become a lawyer. Her advice for writers young and old is to letthe world encourage you, but not let it discourage you.William Cho is a student at Our Lady of Lourdes High School. He was born on May 6,2003 in New York. He enjoys watching Netflix, playing football, and hanging out withfriends and family. He plays football, squash, and the saxophone.When it comes towriting, William Cho likes writing about sports and fiction. He finds the most challengingparts of writing to be coming up with the endings of stories or developing ideas. Whenhe gets older, he wants to have a family and be successful. His advice for young writersis to never give up on what you think is a good idea.Catherine Grace Darcy is a rising freshman at Saratoga Central Catholic High School.She enjoys hanging out with her family and friends, writing and reading, and playingsoftball. When it comes to writing, Catherine likes to write poems or short stories. Shehas been reading since she could walk and always enjoyed the company of books.When Catherine gets older she hopes to work somewhere in the medical field or be awriter… Maybe both at the same time! She finds the most challenging part of writing tobe tying everything together in the end. Her advice for the young and old is to do whatyou love and always try harder than yesterday. 29

Anya English is a rising sophomore at Susquehanna township high school. She enjoysoutdoor adventures, exploring nature and horseback riding. When it comes to writingAnya enjoys piecing together abstract poems and writing realistic fiction. The challengeshe finds in writing is conveying the world detached from a strictly realistic viewpoint.Anyone who has ever met Angelina Finateri’s family, including Angelina, would havethought that when she grew up she would have a career that involved food. Hermother's side of the family is Russian and her father and his family are Italian. Althoughthe Russian and Italian sides of the family are very different from one another, food isan important part of both their lives. In all honestly, Angelina can not toast breadproperly. Writing and reading were always a way for Angelina to get away from herlarge family and she hopes to have a career that involves both those activities.Theodora Hirmes is a 7th grader at Buckley Middle School. She enjoys writing,spending absurd amounts of time in trees, and reading wherever she is (bookstores,school, subways, and while walking, which results in many encounters with poles shedidn’t see). She pulls a lot of her inspiration from Nature and people she meets.Theodora likes to write about a variety of topics, from poetry to fiction. She believes tobe a writer is to pull experience from everyday life, and make it into a message aboutsomething want to portray. She explains, “In writing we create the worlds we wish werereal, the friends too good to be true, and a way to escape normal day life.Trinity Kara is a freshman at KHS. She enjoys music with various meanings. TrentReznor inspires her when it comes to writing typically. She likes short stories since achallenging part about it is finishing and coming back to a story. She believes thatcarrying around a notebook and pen is helpful for when you get an idea cause younever know when one will come to mind.Evan Liu was born on January 5, 2004 in Kingston, New York. He is a student at JWBMiddle School, and will enter eighth grade next school year. Evan also swims for theNorthern Dutchess Aquatic Club (NDAC) in Red Hook and the Red Hook Sea Raidersin the summer. His interests lie in sports, music, and reading. He currently lives inHurley, a small town at the edge of Kingston with his family, his father, mother, andolder brother. 30

Maple Anne Sugarbear Loeb is a student at Woodstock Day School. She lives inSaugerties New York with her mom, sister, mom’s boyfriend, his kids, and some prettyawesome pets. Yet she spends the weekends in Redhook with her dad and Stepmom.She is 12 years old. She enjoys reading, ceramics, creative writing, and petting animals(mostly dogs and cats). Maple finds the most challenging part of writing to be sticking toa topic. She prefers writing fantasy, historical fiction, and mystery, but is really willing todo anything if it means putting a pen to paper. When she gets older Maple hopes totravel the world, write a novel, and be able to make green tea ice cream from scratch.Julianne Louie will be an eighth grader at Miller Middle School next year. She enjoysreading and writing very much. She also enjoys playing lacrosse and the flute. When itcomes to writing, she likes to write about nature, fiction, and nonfiction. Poems are oneof her favorite types of genres to write in. She finds the most challenging part of writingto be sticking through the entire writing process without giving up. From boxes tobillboards to books, she loves reading anything and everything. When Julianne getsolder, she'd like to become a doctor. She's still deciding on what type of doctor, though.Her advice for writers young and old is to be creative and to let your imagination runfree.Priya Patel is an eighth grade student at Miller Middle School. She enjoys reading,playing lacrosse, and cooking. When it comes to writing Priya enjoys writing aboutpersonal incidents and mysteries. She finds the most challenging part about writing tobe writing with a specific topic. Priya enjoys reading poems, biographies, and a lot offiction novels. When Priya gets older she wants to be a doctor. Lastly her advice towriters young and old is to never abandon a piece of writing.Hudson was born May 15, 2004 at Vassar Hospital. He likes history and reading. Hegoes to Highland Middle School. He has one cat and is an only child.Sophie Reisbord is a fifteen year old writer from Arlington High School. Along withwriting, Sophie is also a certified dog enthusiast who enjoys astrology and early 2000spop music. When it comes to writing, Sophie likes to write about poetry in its simplestform and history in its truest form. Sophie finds that the most challenging part of writingis not constantly comparing her work to others. When Sophie gets older she hopes tobe the best version of herself. Her advice to writers young and old is to write everyday,practice makes perfect. 31

Jack Reusing is a sophomore at Brooklyn Tech. He enjoys the outdoors and animals.Abigail Straus will be a freshman at Spackenkill high school in the fall. Some pastimesinclude crew, spending time with her friends and family, and different forms of art. Shecurrently lives in Poughkeepsie with her parents, sister, and dog, Toby. Her favoritegenre of writing is poetry and her advice for other writers is to start with what you knowand then to build up from there. 32