© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
Before I sing the praises of modern communication technology (which I'm just about to do), I want to make a confession. Or maybe two.
I am a born optimist. In fact, in high school, I wrote an entire paper arguing for an optimistic reading of Lord of the Flies -- that vastly depressing book. (I got an A.)
I also know that I gravitate toward the outlier's position. It's not that I'll call the sky red if you call the sky blue. But I am behooved (I've never known quite why) to see many perspectives on an issue. The closest I ever got to discarding my deeply-rooted feminism, for instance, was during my first Women's Studies course in college. (My feminism is safe and sound today.)
In other words, after hearing much talk -- and much wisdom -- about how modern technology drives us apart, it's as if I can't help seeing the ways it pulls us together.
First example:
My dear friend Julie is away. Just this very minute, I got an email message from Julie. “Miss you!!!!” it said. Of course, I felt happy and connected, reading her message.
Second example:
The Adventures of “Piano Dog”
by Us
Once upon a time, there was a dog who loved pianos. The only problem was, he had two left feet. Now this created a few problems, namely problems with rhythm. He would try to practice arpeggios, but only to find that he didn't know what they were. He needed someone to help, so he went on a quest, and on the way, saw another dog – and he had two right feet! Except this dog loved to play the triangle. And so, under the full moon, the first dog and the second dog set out in search of a fun-lovin' coyote [KY-oat] who lived in the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. This coyote lived in a silver bullet trailer, and inside of it, she kept a recording studio and scissors for left-handed dogs – as she had been an orthopedist in a previous life, and she collected prosthetic dog legs in various sizes, shapes, and colors. Imagine the faces of those two canine vagabonds when they realized all this potential for making a band! All they needed was a really good band name. But that would have to wait because out of the sky came a...a...a...Could it be?...well...Maybe...or no...I think...wait! Wait! Yes...definitely...it's a...
The story isn't finished, because we haven't finished writing it -- we being “Us,” a combination of total strangers and long-time friends. I posted the first sentence or so on Facebook. From there, the story was picked up by Marilee in Bismarck, Debi in Mandan, Lisa in Fargo, Laura in Chicago, Sara in Georgia, and so on.
Third example:
My partner's distant cousin Ryan (who found our family through electronic networking) recently asked this question on Facebook: “When you were in high school or college language class, were you forced to pick an authentic name to be called in that class? What was it?”
So far, the responses have been Ana, Chloe, Renee, Ursula, Anya, Anja, Juliet (that was mine), Noel, Elena, Heidi, Jeanne, and Perla.
Suddenly, my strange and vulnerable experiences in high school French class became the stuff of connection across the miles.
Fourth and final example:
A couple of weeks ago, I posted a poem to my blog. Maggy in Chicago posted a poem in response, Kathleen in Oregon posted a reply to Maggy's poem, and so on. Using modern technology, we engaged in an age-old art -- telling our life stories and getting feedback.
Having lived in the Western world all my life, these exchanges are as close as I've ever come to sharing winter tales around a fire. Never having lived in a such a circular culture, I relish any coming together of our stories. I see this as a return to our human (narrative) roots.
In my field, Dance/Movement Therapy, there is a belief that humanity (and perhaps other species as well) need to be witnessed -- seen, heard, noticed, and acknowledged. We need this even more than we need to be understood. Not only that, we need to let others know we've witnessed them.
So, when my old friend Michele posts, “Thanks for a super fun NYE!” – my instinct is to reply, “That was one of my favorite New Years Eves ever!” She lets me know she has seen me, I let her know I have seen her. (In the world of Facebook, we also know we are seen by other loved ones and friends.) In these ways, we co-create community.
Really, though, I'm not singing the praises of technology, as much as humanity itself. Like chimps, baboons, gorillas, and bonobos, we thrive when we are connected to one another. While technology drives us apart, we also turn it around to pull us together.
Now for my secret theory:
Generally, people in indigenous cultures say they can rely on psychic communication more than people in technological cultures do. But could it be that telepathy and communication technology have something in common? Both are forms of sharing information across great distances, the transfer of information takes place in largely invisible realms, and the more you think about it, the more incredible it seems that it actually works.
Is it possible that communication technology is like training for telepathy? Soon, even before I check that email, post, or comment – I'll know my friends love me. And they'll know I love them, too.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Strangers of War
© 2009 by Karen Van Fossan
Strangers of War
There was a woman whose name
I have never known.
The syllables of her name would have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.
The woman was not my friend.
Her God was not my friend –
nor her sisters, nor her brothers, nor the children of her home.
She rose from soil I have never seen,
singing a prayer
I will never sing,
wiping the hands of children I do not recognize.
The secrets in her eyes will never
flash upon my eyes –
holding hope, like laughter,
in our throats.
The woman was not my friend –
nor her sisters.
Her brothers held their arms against
my brothers.
My neighbors sent soldiers
across the sea
to fight her neighbors.
We were enemies, they said.
She was my enemy, they said.
Never, not for a moment, did I believe them.
The syllables of my name would have been sharp against her tongue.
And yet –
I miss her.
Strangers of War
There was a woman whose name
I have never known.
The syllables of her name would have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.
The woman was not my friend.
Her God was not my friend –
nor her sisters, nor her brothers, nor the children of her home.
She rose from soil I have never seen,
singing a prayer
I will never sing,
wiping the hands of children I do not recognize.
The secrets in her eyes will never
flash upon my eyes –
holding hope, like laughter,
in our throats.
The woman was not my friend –
nor her sisters.
Her brothers held their arms against
my brothers.
My neighbors sent soldiers
across the sea
to fight her neighbors.
We were enemies, they said.
She was my enemy, they said.
Never, not for a moment, did I believe them.
The syllables of my name would have been sharp against her tongue.
And yet –
I miss her.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Thank You
Thank you for all the kind and hopeful words I've received since posting my letter to President Obama. Since my last post, CODEPINK Women for Peace picked up my letter and ran it on their Pink Tank blog. (Somehow, I got the whole thing down to 600 words.) The comments on Pink Tank are pretty interesting, and you might be interested to read them.
Peace to you,
Karen
Peace to you,
Karen
Monday, December 7, 2009
Dear President Obama From a Neighbor
Written upon the President's Announcement of Another Surge of Troops in Afghanistan
December 2, 2009
© 2009 Karen Van Fossan
Dear President Barack Obama,
You may not be aware of this, but you and I have plenty of things in common. True, I've never been elected president of the United States, and you've never been elected president of the North Dakota Peace Coalition. But I do hope your tenure as president will be as informative as mine was.
In any case, I'd like to list just four of the things you and I have in common:
1)We have each devoted our time, energy, and heart to the people of Chicago.
2)We have each spoken openly about our vision of a nuclear-weapons free future.
3)We each opposed the Iraq war and occupation from the beginning.
4)We each hold to “hope” as an ideal in the world.
Certainly, you and I don't agree on all political and social matters. I felt immense relief when Chicago's bid to host the 2016 Olympics – and bear its subsequent hardships – was eliminated. Also, when I heard you speak here in North Dakota last April, I was the lone voice boo-ing as you called the war in Afghanistan “the good war.”
I would be mortified if an audience member booed at me, so now, as I write this letter, I feel some compunction to apologize for booing at you. The trouble is, I was not then – and am not now – certain how to be heard by the leaders of my country.
I have called the White House innumerable times to register my concern about your Afghanistan plans. During the weekdays, the phone lines were invariably busy. Over the weekend, the message stated that your mailbox was full. When I did break through the White House telephone traffic, the on-hold message told me that the volunteer operators would answer as soon as they were able.
While on hold, awaiting a volunteer operator, I had time to consider many questions: Why does our White House have so few phone lines? Why does our White House have such limited mailbox space? Why does our White House rely on unpaid volunteers to respond to calls from the American people?
Frankly, I wanted to boo all over again.
And frankly, there are endless reasons why the war in Afghanistan should never be called “the good war.” As you must certainly know, these reasons have names, and these reasons have faces.
Unfortunately, I don't know their names, and I don't recognize their faces. So their stories aren't mine to tell.
What I can tell you is a story of Chicago.
In 2001, my partner and I moved from Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood (on the south side) to the Rogers Park neighborhood (on the north side). In the middle of this move, on September 11, the World Trade Center in New York was attacked by self-proclaimed terrorists from another country – or countries.
As I was grieving this event, the radio news told of another tragedy. A young girl had been shot to death in the lobby of her apartment building, caught in Chicago's gang crossfire.
I spent many nights hollering into the wind, over gangs and war and violence.
Today, I still grieve, though on December 2, 2009, I have a bit more clarity.
The child who lived on the south side was murdered by a gang. Let's just say this gang was from the north side, where I lived. Certainly, someone in the south-side gang might have known this child, might have grieved for this child. The south-side gang might have declared war against the north side.
This isn't fair, of course. I had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, I abhorred the shooting. Just because a gang sought refuge in my neighborhood didn't mean that I was giving refuge. I didn't want the gang in my neighborhood. And I certainly didn't want gang warfare.
Similarly, there is a gang known as al Qaeda. Their leader has claimed responsibility for the attacks of September 11. They entered the United States' neighborhood, and they killed people. In doing so, they represented no particular government, no particular country, and hence, no particular people. To attack the country in which they have taken refuge – to harm the innocent people who are their neighbors – is to behave as a gang.
For more than 8 years I have wondered – Is the United States behaving as a gang or a government?
A government could make use of a police force, trained in precision, to find the alleged attackers, bring charges against them, and serve the greater justice. You and I both know that the government of Chicago doesn't have the best reputation, and neither does its police force. But a government, unlike a gang, has a degree of public accountability. By design, it represents the people.
Thankfully, the south side never bombed the north side, no matter whether we harbored an enemy gang. But let's just say the south side had attacked us. Let's say they'd been attacking us for 8 or more years. Let's say, all the while, the south-side folks were growing weary of war.
Then – a voice. A south-side visionary. A person who declares, “Yes, we can!” – even if he borrows that phrase from Delores Huerta of the United Farm Workers.
This south-side visionary speaks of hope, the audacity of hope, a future of promise for the children. He offers the people renewal – of the economy, the environment, international relations. He rails against his predecessors' warring predilections. In the mean time, yes, he does call the north-side war “the good war.” But nobody's perfect, and here is a person who's poised and ready to listen. A leader like this would never drown his people in endless war.
And so he's elected. Of course, he's going to listen. Of course, it will make a difference that 55% of his people want to end the war – win, lose, or otherwise.
But suddenly, this leader's phone is busy. Suddenly, his mailbox is full.
Has he forgotten we're all neighbors?
Has he forgotten “Yes, we can”?
Does he think he was elected to kill people?
This is my greatest fear:
The audacity of hope has truly become an audacity – especially for the children of Afghanistan.
Sincerely,
Karen Van Fossan,
a neighbor
December 2, 2009
© 2009 Karen Van Fossan
Dear President Barack Obama,
You may not be aware of this, but you and I have plenty of things in common. True, I've never been elected president of the United States, and you've never been elected president of the North Dakota Peace Coalition. But I do hope your tenure as president will be as informative as mine was.
In any case, I'd like to list just four of the things you and I have in common:
1)We have each devoted our time, energy, and heart to the people of Chicago.
2)We have each spoken openly about our vision of a nuclear-weapons free future.
3)We each opposed the Iraq war and occupation from the beginning.
4)We each hold to “hope” as an ideal in the world.
Certainly, you and I don't agree on all political and social matters. I felt immense relief when Chicago's bid to host the 2016 Olympics – and bear its subsequent hardships – was eliminated. Also, when I heard you speak here in North Dakota last April, I was the lone voice boo-ing as you called the war in Afghanistan “the good war.”
I would be mortified if an audience member booed at me, so now, as I write this letter, I feel some compunction to apologize for booing at you. The trouble is, I was not then – and am not now – certain how to be heard by the leaders of my country.
I have called the White House innumerable times to register my concern about your Afghanistan plans. During the weekdays, the phone lines were invariably busy. Over the weekend, the message stated that your mailbox was full. When I did break through the White House telephone traffic, the on-hold message told me that the volunteer operators would answer as soon as they were able.
While on hold, awaiting a volunteer operator, I had time to consider many questions: Why does our White House have so few phone lines? Why does our White House have such limited mailbox space? Why does our White House rely on unpaid volunteers to respond to calls from the American people?
Frankly, I wanted to boo all over again.
And frankly, there are endless reasons why the war in Afghanistan should never be called “the good war.” As you must certainly know, these reasons have names, and these reasons have faces.
Unfortunately, I don't know their names, and I don't recognize their faces. So their stories aren't mine to tell.
What I can tell you is a story of Chicago.
In 2001, my partner and I moved from Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood (on the south side) to the Rogers Park neighborhood (on the north side). In the middle of this move, on September 11, the World Trade Center in New York was attacked by self-proclaimed terrorists from another country – or countries.
As I was grieving this event, the radio news told of another tragedy. A young girl had been shot to death in the lobby of her apartment building, caught in Chicago's gang crossfire.
I spent many nights hollering into the wind, over gangs and war and violence.
Today, I still grieve, though on December 2, 2009, I have a bit more clarity.
The child who lived on the south side was murdered by a gang. Let's just say this gang was from the north side, where I lived. Certainly, someone in the south-side gang might have known this child, might have grieved for this child. The south-side gang might have declared war against the north side.
This isn't fair, of course. I had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, I abhorred the shooting. Just because a gang sought refuge in my neighborhood didn't mean that I was giving refuge. I didn't want the gang in my neighborhood. And I certainly didn't want gang warfare.
Similarly, there is a gang known as al Qaeda. Their leader has claimed responsibility for the attacks of September 11. They entered the United States' neighborhood, and they killed people. In doing so, they represented no particular government, no particular country, and hence, no particular people. To attack the country in which they have taken refuge – to harm the innocent people who are their neighbors – is to behave as a gang.
For more than 8 years I have wondered – Is the United States behaving as a gang or a government?
A government could make use of a police force, trained in precision, to find the alleged attackers, bring charges against them, and serve the greater justice. You and I both know that the government of Chicago doesn't have the best reputation, and neither does its police force. But a government, unlike a gang, has a degree of public accountability. By design, it represents the people.
Thankfully, the south side never bombed the north side, no matter whether we harbored an enemy gang. But let's just say the south side had attacked us. Let's say they'd been attacking us for 8 or more years. Let's say, all the while, the south-side folks were growing weary of war.
Then – a voice. A south-side visionary. A person who declares, “Yes, we can!” – even if he borrows that phrase from Delores Huerta of the United Farm Workers.
This south-side visionary speaks of hope, the audacity of hope, a future of promise for the children. He offers the people renewal – of the economy, the environment, international relations. He rails against his predecessors' warring predilections. In the mean time, yes, he does call the north-side war “the good war.” But nobody's perfect, and here is a person who's poised and ready to listen. A leader like this would never drown his people in endless war.
And so he's elected. Of course, he's going to listen. Of course, it will make a difference that 55% of his people want to end the war – win, lose, or otherwise.
But suddenly, this leader's phone is busy. Suddenly, his mailbox is full.
Has he forgotten we're all neighbors?
Has he forgotten “Yes, we can”?
Does he think he was elected to kill people?
This is my greatest fear:
The audacity of hope has truly become an audacity – especially for the children of Afghanistan.
Sincerely,
Karen Van Fossan,
a neighbor
Friday, November 20, 2009
Women & Spirituality (A Quiz)
© 2009 Karen Van Fossan
Quiz time! Well, not yet.
First, I should tell you, I recently returned from an energizing (and overwhelming) adventure at the Women & Spirituality Conference at Minnesota State University in Mankato. I traveled there by van (and satellite car) with a group of spirited friends.
As the keynote speaker and beloved leader in the global sustainability movement, Dr. Vandana Shiva linked women's traditional wisdom with the modern cry for sustainability. Here are just some of my favorite quotes from her:
“Across cultures, women have been the seed-keepers – which they have regarded as a sacred duty.”
“People invented this thing called 'the food chain,' with man at the top of the pyramid.” Dr. Shiva smiled and said, “They forgot that the microorganisms get you at the end!”
“Today, women's agriculture produces far more food than industrial agriculture.”
“The womanly way of farming has been through diversity.”
“In the U.S., there are more people in jails than on the land.”
“Industrial agriculture is a system for creating scarcity, a system for creating hunger.”
“The earth is a much more generous employer than Wall Street will ever be.”
“We feed the soil organisms – and they'll feed us.”
“Each day, Gandhi prayed, 'God, make me more womanly – make me more feminine.'”
Now – it's quiz time:
1. In the Trance Dancing workshop, facilitated by Ella Davis-Suggs and Linda Deer Domnitz, participants (including myself):
A) Breathed in unison.
B) Moved to ancient rhythms.
C) Pressed our foreheads and bellies to the floor, for insight.
D) All of the above.
2. With Paula Kramer as our guide, participants in the “Feeling, Seeing, & Psychically Reading Auras” workshop:
A) Journeyed through all the layers (three) of one another's auras.
B) Made colorful drawings of other people's auras.
C) Gave “aura hugs” (or maybe that was just my group).
D) All of the above.
3. In Amy Leo Barankovich's workshop, “Dancing Your Own,” participants:
A) Danced with the floor.
B) Danced with bells.
C) In one case, danced with her nose.
D) All of the above.
4. During the “Introduction to Shamanism” workshop by Rhonda Steele, participants:
A) Journeyed to the lower world.
B) Met their power animals.
C) Made animal movements and sounds.
D) All of the above.
The best thing about the conference was:
All of the above.
(Next year, maybe you...with your aura and your power animal...will join us.)
Quiz time! Well, not yet.
First, I should tell you, I recently returned from an energizing (and overwhelming) adventure at the Women & Spirituality Conference at Minnesota State University in Mankato. I traveled there by van (and satellite car) with a group of spirited friends.
As the keynote speaker and beloved leader in the global sustainability movement, Dr. Vandana Shiva linked women's traditional wisdom with the modern cry for sustainability. Here are just some of my favorite quotes from her:
“Across cultures, women have been the seed-keepers – which they have regarded as a sacred duty.”
“People invented this thing called 'the food chain,' with man at the top of the pyramid.” Dr. Shiva smiled and said, “They forgot that the microorganisms get you at the end!”
“Today, women's agriculture produces far more food than industrial agriculture.”
“The womanly way of farming has been through diversity.”
“In the U.S., there are more people in jails than on the land.”
“Industrial agriculture is a system for creating scarcity, a system for creating hunger.”
“The earth is a much more generous employer than Wall Street will ever be.”
“We feed the soil organisms – and they'll feed us.”
“Each day, Gandhi prayed, 'God, make me more womanly – make me more feminine.'”
Now – it's quiz time:
1. In the Trance Dancing workshop, facilitated by Ella Davis-Suggs and Linda Deer Domnitz, participants (including myself):
A) Breathed in unison.
B) Moved to ancient rhythms.
C) Pressed our foreheads and bellies to the floor, for insight.
D) All of the above.
2. With Paula Kramer as our guide, participants in the “Feeling, Seeing, & Psychically Reading Auras” workshop:
A) Journeyed through all the layers (three) of one another's auras.
B) Made colorful drawings of other people's auras.
C) Gave “aura hugs” (or maybe that was just my group).
D) All of the above.
3. In Amy Leo Barankovich's workshop, “Dancing Your Own,” participants:
A) Danced with the floor.
B) Danced with bells.
C) In one case, danced with her nose.
D) All of the above.
4. During the “Introduction to Shamanism” workshop by Rhonda Steele, participants:
A) Journeyed to the lower world.
B) Met their power animals.
C) Made animal movements and sounds.
D) All of the above.
The best thing about the conference was:
All of the above.
(Next year, maybe you...with your aura and your power animal...will join us.)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Insomnia
© 2009 Karen Van Fossan, written at 3:44 a.m.
Once, not long ago, there lived a rosy, young woman. She loved nothing more in life than her apple tree. In Spring, she pressed her cheeks to the sweet, tender blossoms. In Summer, she danced in the moonlight with the shadow of her tree. In Autumn, she gathered bushels of the red, nourishing fruit.
In spite of her love of apples – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Crud!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”
At about the same time, there lived a purposeful, middle-aged woman. How she loved to run! In Spring, she liked to sprint among the tulips along her walk. In Summer, she went jogging between the tall and reaching daisies. In Autumn, she hurdled playfully over the asters.
In spite of her love of running – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Shoot!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”
At about the same time, there lived a powerful, elderly woman. She had been making pictures since she was three or four years old, and she had no intention of stopping now. In Spring, she filled her canvas with sweet, tender apple blossoms. In Summer, she painted lanky clumps of daisies in the garden. In Autumn, she put the final stroke on a portrait of herself.
In spite of her love of painting – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Glory!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”
I wonder, dear readers – can you help?
Once, not long ago, there lived a rosy, young woman. She loved nothing more in life than her apple tree. In Spring, she pressed her cheeks to the sweet, tender blossoms. In Summer, she danced in the moonlight with the shadow of her tree. In Autumn, she gathered bushels of the red, nourishing fruit.
In spite of her love of apples – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Crud!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”
At about the same time, there lived a purposeful, middle-aged woman. How she loved to run! In Spring, she liked to sprint among the tulips along her walk. In Summer, she went jogging between the tall and reaching daisies. In Autumn, she hurdled playfully over the asters.
In spite of her love of running – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Shoot!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”
At about the same time, there lived a powerful, elderly woman. She had been making pictures since she was three or four years old, and she had no intention of stopping now. In Spring, she filled her canvas with sweet, tender apple blossoms. In Summer, she painted lanky clumps of daisies in the garden. In Autumn, she put the final stroke on a portrait of herself.
In spite of her love of painting – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Glory!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”
I wonder, dear readers – can you help?
Friday, September 11, 2009
It's almost time for "Shhhhhhhhh!"
Can't wait! It's almost time for Shhhhhhhhh! -- a very original play by truth-telling teens in the heart of North Dakota.
Join us at 7:30 PM on Saturday, September 12th in the Sidney J Lee Auditorium at Bismarck State College. The show is rated PG-13. (Well, make that PG-12.) And it's totally free.
"But what is the play about?" people ask.
Just about everything that anyone's ever said, "Shhhhhhhhh!" about.
The Group That Opened the Box is ready to talk.
You'll laugh...you'll cry...you'll renew your hope for humanity.
Find out more on URL Radio with Stacy Sturm, on the KFYR Morning Show with Anne Kelly, in the Bismarck Tribune article by Karen Herzog, and at the Culture Pulse website.
Here's a peek at some of my favorite scenes:
Sarah wanders up and down the closest Walgreens to her home, filling a basket with odds and ends. Some Easter decorations. Light bulbs. New mascara. Pregnancy test?
Her hand shakes as she reaches for the box.
Bonus! Free Additional Test Inside!
"Awesome!" she thinks. "Sounds great!"
Is Sarah pregnant at age 16? Find out Saturday night.
Join us at 7:30 PM on Saturday, September 12th in the Sidney J Lee Auditorium at Bismarck State College. The show is rated PG-13. (Well, make that PG-12.) And it's totally free.
"But what is the play about?" people ask.
Just about everything that anyone's ever said, "Shhhhhhhhh!" about.
The Group That Opened the Box is ready to talk.
You'll laugh...you'll cry...you'll renew your hope for humanity.
Find out more on URL Radio with Stacy Sturm, on the KFYR Morning Show with Anne Kelly, in the Bismarck Tribune article by Karen Herzog, and at the Culture Pulse website.
Here's a peek at some of my favorite scenes:
"Sarah"
written by Rachel Patrie (age 17)
How did this even happen?Sarah wanders up and down the closest Walgreens to her home, filling a basket with odds and ends. Some Easter decorations. Light bulbs. New mascara. Pregnancy test?
Her hand shakes as she reaches for the box.
Bonus! Free Additional Test Inside!
"Awesome!" she thinks. "Sounds great!"
Is Sarah pregnant at age 16? Find out Saturday night.
"Only She"
written by Caitlyn Taix (age 15)
Lately we're inseparable.
She's the only one that finds happiness in a garden.
We just drive. We don't complain, we just listen to a better time,
preferably Cat Stevens,
and drive on a long gravel road
to nowhere.
Only she finds peace in that...
Who is "She"? Find out Saturday night.
"Matthew and Me"
written by Michaela Miller (age 16)
So in love. So in love, I don't
care who sees me with him.
So in love, we don't care
who judges us.
So in love, I'd kiss him in the middle of
downtown New York City.
A lot of people are watching, spectating.
It doesn't really make sense...
Why are people looking? Find out Saturday night.
"Daisy & Pierce"
written by Megan Isaak (age 14)
I'm in the doctor's office. I cut too deep, I need stitches.
I hear the door ring, as a tall man steps in, wearing a fedora, Mexican sunglasses,
and a big trench coat...
"Daisy?"
I look up at the sound of my name being said. It's the man with the fedora.
I remember, Pierce used to wear his fedora all the time.
No, don't think about him. He's gone!
Or is he? Find out Saturday night.
"Buddha"
written by Alexis Hellman (age 18)
I am Buddha.
Rub my tummy
for luck.
That's what I need --
Luck...
Why does Buddha need luck? Find out Saturday night.
We hope to see you there.
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