How does one "satire"?

     "Write a 300 word satirical article on some aspect of our school" says Mr Van Camp.
     "Be sure that it is critical on some aspect of our school- but be sure not to sound like a whiny adolescent! Be witty! Sarcastic! But intelligent at the same time!" he says.

     What a shame that this adolescent completely lacks any wit, and the part of her brain that is supposed to bring forth some forms of intelligence is currently under construction. She does know how to be sarcastic, but most say she normally takes things too far, so she usually keeps the sarcasm to herself. Awkward emphasis on "usually".

     Mr Van Camp makes it sound so easy to dig up a topic amongst all the rubble of a young mind, suitable for an English 12 "satirical article". This adolescent, for example, has piles of spanish verbs waiting to be properly conjugated, fifteen year high school reunions to act out, laws and charters to learn, beautiful poetry to write, musicals to learn, universities to apply to, scholarships to research, money to make, babies to sit on, and now also think of the perfect topic for a satirical article.

   But so little time to complete this simple assignment! It almost seems as if the teachers employed at Princess Margaret Secondary believe that their students take only one class (that one class being the class that they teach), and once they've finished sitting through the 90 or so minutes of a lesson, they simply go home and do nothing. So in order to prevent the students from going home and doing nothing, the obvious solution to preventing teenage boredom is: homework. Piles and piles of homework.
Oh but how this thought process is wrong, so very wrong. Keep in mind, dearest teachers, that there are four blocks of classes each day, and the students have a different class each block, with a different teacher whom also assigns homework.

     But lucky for the teachers (or the students, depending on the perspective) the students, for the most part, manage to pull themselves together and whip something up. This adolescent, for example, more often than not, concocts a masterpiece. And she promises she doesn't leave assignments to the last minute (especially not this satirical which was an extreme pleasure to write), because leaving it to the last minute would be silly. They say procrastination is not the key to success! And if they haven't said that before, they're going to start saying it now.

Slam What?

     What do Shane Koyczan, Sarah Kay and Katie Makkai all have in common?

     They are slam poets. Now, most people may not even really know who these gifted people are. These people are part of the brilliant world of Slam Poetry. For those who don't know, a poetry slam is a competition where poets gather and perform and recite their original poetry. Members of the audience are selected at random to judge both the performance and the poem on a numeric scale of one to ten. Now, one may think to themselves: "What is so interesting about people reciting poetry?" But these poems aren't anything like those "roses are red, violets are blue..." poems, or just a piece of writing that rhymes like most people seem to associate "poetry" with. In fact, since slam poetry is spoken word poetry it's entirely different than just a regular poem. Slam poetry often resembles a speech, but what's different about them is not only the way it is written (often with rhythm or rhyme) but the way it is presented. These three poets use poetry to express themselves. They use words to create and inspire. But most importantly, they do not just stand on the stage and recite. They perform, and engage the audience. They have a gift, and they deserve to be known.

     Katie Makkai recites a poem called "Pretty". She uses the power of her voice to tackle an issue many young girls can easily relate to. A question that fills, or at one point has filled up their minds like a thick, black cloud of lethal smoke; "Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Pretty? Pretty." This poem is inspirational, and Makkai does an excellent job of showing the world that the word "pretty" is nothing more than "a five letter word." Many young girls at younger and younger ages find themselves "stung-stayed with insecurity"; Over analyzing and questioning themselves, as if their entire lives depend on whether or not they have "porcelain skin", Disney princess hair, or the body of a Victoria Secret model. She makes it clear that the word pretty is "unworthy of everything [girls] will be." The poem has a strong, clear message: that pretty is just a word that has no significant meaning. Where's the happiness in life if one spends their entire time trying to do everything to make themselves "pretty". Learn how to wear joy, and discover that pretty means nothing if not immediately followed by words like "intelligent", "creative" or "amazing". One should never settle for "merely 'pretty'."

     Sarah Kay performs a beautiful poem called "If I Should Have a Daughter". In the poem, Kay talks about positivity, and things she will say to her future daughter. She makes it clear that "this life will hit you, hard, in the face. Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air." She uses an extended metaphor throughout the poem. That one day her daughter will realize that "wonder woman isn't coming. But when that day comes, she will realize that "she [won't] have to wear the cape all by herself." Or that when one day when she'll "step out of the phone booth and try to fly [...] the very people [she'll] want to save will be the ones standing on [her] cape." But nonetheless she won't be alone. And even when life gets her down, she will realize that "those are the very days [she] has all the more reason to say 'thank you.'"The theme in this poem is beautiful, it's positive. The poem itself is inspiring, and it reminds the audience that "this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it." And that even when life becomes difficult or unbearable, there is always a lesson to be learned, and beauty to be found.

     One of the most powerful and influential spoken word poets is a man named Shane Koyczan. His words reach into the reader, and pull out emotions like no other poet. Beauty doesn't begin to describe Koyczan's writing. Shane is best known for "To This Day" a poem he wrote about the bullying he faced as a child. But there is more to Shane than just "To This Day". "The Crickets Have Arthritis" is a poem about a nine year old boy who he meets during a short hospital stay. The boy is visibly sick, and he "doesn't have to ask what he's got- the bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes." Ultimately, this young boy changes his life, with his smiles and his patience. A patience he'd "never seen in someone who knew they were dying." Beautiful isn't a strong enough word to describe this powerful piece. The poem has a tenacious message- that courage is often found where no one is looking for it. Koyczan, before building a relationship with the young, wise boy, was "afraid of a fifty-seven pound boy, hooked up to a machine." But as the story goes on, the young boy helps him find courage, and "bravery in this world." He learns that "there's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath [people] take has to be given back."

     Spoken word poetry is powerful. It opens hearts and it opens eyes. It allows for the audience to see things in new perspectives, and learn things about themselves. Makkai, Kay, and Koyczan are extremely talented artists, and their talents deserve to be shared with the world. Slam poetry is beautiful. It's an art. And it never ceases to touch the hearts of the audience.

     

     I walked into the hospital waiting room and sat down desperate to hear some good news about my brother. Initially, I heard nothing but the alarmed, rhythmic pounding of my heart. I stared only at my mother, hoping to see any suggestions that perhaps something had changed since she called me and informed me of the accident. But as I had predicted- nothing. She looked more fearful than she sounded over the phone. Not saying anything, I began taking in the environment in which I was placed. 

     

     The hospital room smelled like a synthetic, clean death.Crowded, the waiting room was filled with several, diverse groups of people. The sick, the impatient, the distressed. A variety of emotions across the board.

     In the corner of the room, where the glare of the florescent lights on the tile floor seemed to glow brighter than any other square inch in the room, sat a boy and a girl playing with the toys supplied by the hospital. 
      Sitting across the room from the children, on the chairs directly across from the television set, sat an elderly couple. The man was attached to a device to assist him with his breathing, his facial features twisted and contorted demonstrating both the pain he was in and the fear that had, apparently, been recently bestowed upon him.  

     Beeping. Constant beeping. Whispers, cries, distressed breathing. Moans and groans, prayers and arguments. A woman's nails tapping on the screen of her phone as she sends a text, a man's newspaper rattling as he turns the pages of the local paper. So many different sounds were heard. The more I focused on them, the louder they became in my ears. The more I focused the more I heard. The sizzling of a pop can being opened, the rattle of a chip bag being opened or the remains of a sandwich wrapper being balled up and thrown in the garbage. 
     There are the sounds of a pen clicking. The soothing voice of a nurse trying to calm down a man, drunkenly slurring his words and looking around him in a state of panic and confusion. Distant sirens, distant coins clinking in the vending machine. All these sounds, built up in my mind, making me go crazier and crazier as I awaited the news of my brother's state. 

     Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore, and I rose abruptly, startling my mother. I told her I was going to get myself some coffee. I walked the short distance down the hallway and through the automatic sliding doors. I was then in an area with a variety of vending machines and a "bar" to make coffee and tea. 
     Once my coffee was ready, I poured the steaming liquid into a styrofoam cup, added my regular amount of sugar and cream, and made my way back to the waiting area to rejoin my mom. As I walked back, I remembered how uncomfortable the metal chairs were, and I found myself dreading going back into the waiting area, for more than one reason. The plastic, thin padded seat offered little to no comfort for the back and the derrière. I returned to my seat and immediately began crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to find a comfortable position despite the cold metal armrests the dug into my forearms, painfully. 
     Giving up on finding a comfortable position, I carefully took a sip of my coffee, looking forward to tasting something good, considering everything else was going bad. However, rather than tasting something sweet, and wonderfully caffeinated as I had been expecting too, I tasted something extremely watered down, bitter, and all around lousy. Making a sour face, I swallowed despite how badly I wanted to get up and spit it out, and I placed the cup behind the leg of my chair, leaving it there. 

     Just as I placed my coffee cup down, a nurse walked into the waiting room and asked for the "Ricciardi's?"
     My mother and I looked at each other and raised our hands. The nurse slowly walked over, looking down at the notes from the doctor on her clipboard. She was only a few steps away and in reality it only took her a couple of seconds to reach us, but it seemed like an eternity. She opened her mouth, took and breath and spoke to us the words we have been waiting all night to hear. 

     "He will be fine."

I Have a Dream

     Four years ago, I took my first steps through the double doors of Princess Margaret. Four years ago, I began my journey into the abyss that is high school. My life went from watching Hannah Montana every day after school, to studying, to working, to rehearsing every single day. My life completely changed.

     Since high school has begun, I have initiated a collection of dreams.

     For starters, I have a dream that rather than spending my evenings struggling with the force of writers block, coming up with cheesy writing assignments for English class, I can be completely honest in my assignments; and tell you that I would much rather be discussing Pretty Little Liars plot twists in my jogging pants than trying to invent dreams worthy of a speech.

     I dream of weekends where I can fully relax and enjoy dinners with my family, and not be conjugating Spanish verbs between bites.

     I dream of a day where my 95.2% will be enough. Where I don't obsess over getting enough volunteering done, to prove to universities that I am a well rounded person. Where I don't obsess over getting that extra 0.8% in a class. Where I can fill my mind with thoughts other than history facts and synonyms. Where I can worry about things other than how high my GPA is.

     Will I get into university without knowing how to graph polinomnials?
     Will I be able to break down these walls of intellect, and for one class, one hour, one minute, not worry about what "shortly" means according to UVic and Canada Post?
     Will Mrs Grant kill me if I forget another line?
     Will she really, in the end, make me wear that dreadful hot pink wig?

     I dream of a day that I have dreams worthy of a speech. Of a day that my dreams grow to be as bold, as inspiring, as significant as those of Martin Luther King Jr. Of a day that my dreams are worthy of a national holiday.

     But for now, I dream a different kind of dream: Inner peace and money for Starbucks. I dream that the voices in my head will cease to debate: do I buy that Mustang Egger or do I save every dollar, every penny, and buy that perfect prom dress for that perfect night?

     I wish for day that I am not working for minimum wage and can afford some of my bigger dreams. Like the hundreds of shoes on my list or that plane ticket to Europe.

     I wish for a day where I don't waste time worrying about what my future holds, what I can do to perfect every project that I work on, and what my next scholastic step is. That I can be true to myself and give myself the spontaneous, adventurous life style I have always craved.

     I especially wish that Mr Van Camp will grasp the importance of this speech, not only for semester 1 English, but for my entire scholastic career; and will help me reach my wish of a golden 96% average shining bright in my hands as I hold my report card on November 8th.

     My name is Giorgia Ricciardi and I have many wishes. I wish that one day some of my more trivial dreams will be fulfilled, and I will allow myself to follow the dreams that continuously grow inside of me. I wish that I will allow myself to free the worries that anchor me down to the ground everyday. I truly wish that when that day comes, I too will be standing before crowds of people, inspiring others to dream as large as I do.

 

    

George looked up from shoeing the horse to see the outline of Curley's wife in the doorway of the barn. They were alone.

George's eyes widen in utter shock. He drops the hoof knife and quickly brings his hands to his eyes, rubbing them as if to wipe the image away. When he opens his eyes again, the hour glass figure is still standing in the doorway.
     "Hullo George." she purrs.
     "It... it... is you! This can't be real! They tol' me you was dead. I woulda bet all thumbs that yous was dead!" hollered George
     "Keep ya voice down will ya, you gon' wake the entire town up with ya thunderin' voice." she calmy replies, angering George even more.
     "How can it be. Yous was dead. I'm imaginin' things now, I'm imaginin' things." he frantically repeats. "How are ya here. Ya here to teach me some sorta lesson or somethin'? Ya here to tell me I was wrong for shootin' my best friend? I didn' wan'ta, I'm tellin' ya, I didn' wan'ta."

Curley's wife is now slowy walking into the barn. Every step she takes toward George is a step he takes away from her. Part of him knows very well what he is seeing is as real as the crow flies, but still he isn't able to brush off the fact that he swears he saw her dead as a doornail. 

     "I was fakin'-"
     "Why you're crazier than a loon!" interrupts George, cold as ice. 
     "Change your tune George, ain't ya happy to see me? I did it for us. We can run away together, me 'n you. Dontcha want that? Ya told me yourself you was attracted to the danger of bein' with me. Well now you can be with me. This is a get outta jail free card." Curley's wife justifies.
     "I killed my best friend. I killed him because everyone thought you was dead, and they all thought Lennie was the one who don' it. We may have had our little love affair, but lightening never strikes the same place twice. Now I'm gon' lay down the law and you're gon' save your breath and shut your trap."

She shakes her head no and opens her mouth as if to say something, but George looks at her through evil eyes and she quickly slaps her jaw shut.
   
     "You're lower than a snake's belly for doin' what ya did. I could never be with someone as twisted as you. Because of you my companion is gone." He clenches his fists, knuckles turing white. "Now I could kill ya, but two wrongs don't make no right. So today you're lucky. But get out. Go far, far from here. And I swear by the life o' me  if you come back or if I ever see ya again on God's green earth ya better wish on the stars I spare you your life a second time. Now go." George says, out of breath from his rampage.

Stunned, Curley's wife slowly backs away; her face pale, her eyes wide in disbelief and her knees trembling. She reaches the doors to the barn and stops. George takes one step toward her, both fists still clenched. She jumps and before she turns and runs away in the dark of the night, she whispers "Goodbye George." and disappears.

All for one and '1 4 all.

     
      Ever since I completed my very first day of school, back in September of 2001, I have heard everyone around me say "Enjoy these years while they last. Before you know it you'll be walking across the stage, diploma in hand, wondering where the time flew."

     Every year seemed to drag on and on. Then I reached high school, where my link crew leader told me the same thing. "Enjoy these next four years at Maggie, because before you know it, it'll be your last year and you'll be wondering where the time flew.". Based on previous years, and how it always seemed to be an eternity before the school year ended and summer rolled around yet again, I naively didn't believe her. Now three weeks ago I found myself walking through the double doors of Princess Margaret Secondary School, on my last first day thinking to myself: "wow... turns out they were all right. How am I already here? I am now a senior student. Top of the school. It's my very.. last.. first.. day."

   They say this is the year. This is your year. Make it worth it. Cherish it.
If I could go back in time and tell myself one thing it would be this: take their advice. Listen to what they have to say.. because believe it or not, when you find yourself facing your final year (which you will before you know it) you'll regret not playing messy musical chairs in the common area.. or playing rock 'em sock 'em with your best friend. Just get involved, as much as you can.

   The scariest thing about grade 12 isn't who you're going to go to prom with.. or whether or not you're going to trip on the stage on your way to collect the diploma you've been dreaming of since the first day you stepped into a school (well.. this might be a bit of a lie.. it is a pretty terrifying thought.). It's not even filling out the university applications, or the hours spent on your laptop trying to find the perfect 325 words for that scholarship essay you have to write. To me, it's wondering how the years have managed to, as the cliché goes, fly by. It's wondering what the future holds for me, now that I'll be leaving not only the comfort of home, but also oddly enough, the comfort of high school.. never thought I'd be saying that. But then again.. grade 12, already, seems to be making a huge impact in my life, and has me considering things, feelings things, and wondering things I never thought I would have.

Giorgia on my mind

      Globetrotter. Bi-Lingual. History geek and in her eyes a photographer. Born in '96, during an icy winter. Perhaps the bitter cold she faced as a newborn has something to do with how quickly she grows tired of the crisp months and the way she finds herself craving the long, peaceful summer days again.

      Her name is Giorgia. The name is, literally, like a melody. It always causes people to sing that Ray Charles song. The name that she has never been able to find on a keychain or a magnet. The name that is almost always misspelled. Giorgia is in many ways an average teenage girl. She hates Monday mornings. She loves starbucks. She's got a bad case of the 'like' disease and she loves to shop. But in many ways she's far from ordinary. She's been to Italia a grand total of 6 times, and seen 6 different European countries and she hasn't even hit 17 yet. In her free time she gets a kick out of watching youtube videos on how to speak various languages. Hej, jag heter Giorgia, och youtube som lärde mig grundläggande svenska. Jag älskar språk!
Her iPod is filled with music that isn't English, and she is capable of taking hundreds of pictures in one day.

     She is full of dreams and knows where she wants to go in the future. Ambitious, head-strong, and determined, nothing will ever get in her way once she sets her mind to something. These are traits she has carried with her from an early age, and traits that -hopefully- will never leave her.
 
    She's just an old sweet song, with a desirous heart full of dreams, adventures, and wanderlust.