2017-2018 WITS Year-End Reading Chapbook

breatHe TrUththe IN
The 2018 WITS Student
Year-End Readings &
BAcKCelebrations

THIS YEAR,

28 WITS Writers-in-Residence worked
directly with over 6,000 students at 27
schools and Seattle Children’s. Students
from each site were invited by their
writers to read original poems, stories,
comics, and memoirs at this annual
celebration. This chapbook of their work
honors their creativity, craft, and courage
to boldly share their authentic voices.

To learn more about the Writers in the Schools
(WITS) program, please visit http://lectures.org/youth-
programs/ or contact [email protected].

THANKS TO:

The staff of Seattle Arts & Lectures also thanks our
wonderful Board, collaborating teachers, principals,
parents, Writers-in-Residence, students, and school
communities for their support of the Writers in the
Schools (WITS) program.

2017–18 WITS Writers-in-Residence:

Samar Abulhassan Gary Copeland Lilley
Daemond Arrindell Alex Madison
Jamaica Baldwin Corinne Manning
Leititia Cain Peter Mountford
Katy Ellis Sierra Nelson
Karen Finneyfrock Minh Nguyen
Kathleen Flenniken Cody Pherigo
Laura Gamache Raúl Sánchez
Matt Gano Danny Sherrard
Evelin Garcia Imani Sims
Ramon Isao Greg Stump
Jourdan Keith Ann Teplick
Rachel Kessler Arianne True
David Lasky Jeanine Walker

JONATHAN AGUILAR

The Hutch School, 6th Grade
WITS Writer, Samar Abulhassan

Soon to Be Extinct
Pizza

As my alarm goes off,
I wake up and go to the jungle,
AKA, the kitchen.
I cross a wavy bridge
trying to find balance
I wear my helmet
for protection.
It is epic.
I’m a legendary knight.
I blaze through the kitchen.
I find something lucky:
a whole pie with pepperoni.
I thought pizza was extinct.
It was a Christmas miracle.

5

AKSHAYA AJITH

Renaissance School of Art and Reasoning, 6th Grade
WITS Writer, Imani Sims

Imperfect

A dark purple bruise on perfect skin
Hidden, painful, an accident

But I know,
I am the eye opened, watchful, while the other is closed
I see it all

The perfect world that everyone sees now
Merely a curtain
To hide the ruined chaos behind

Hide the bruise
Don’t let them know
That you are
The weak amongst the flowers
Keep your disguise
Paint over
The vibrant blue splattered against the clean white wall

Someday,
You will be tattooed in the minds of the next generation
As you shine a light on
The darkest corners where the secrets are hidden

6

YEDIDIA MENGISTU ALEBACHEW

B.F. Day Elementary School, 5th Grade
WITS Writer, Ramon Isao

Medusa Goes on a Date

One day, Medusa was feeling lonely, so she decided to set up an
account on a dating website. After many months of searching, she
finally found a match, Mike, but in the comments, it said that his
destiny was to find and kill Medusa. When she read this, she was
shocked and went back and forth with her thoughts.

“Yes, because I don’t have to feel lonely anymore but I have to
live under pressure of not giving away the fact that I am Medusa.
No, because he might kill me.”

As she thought and thought, she came up with an idea: “Maybe
I can get a face lift and wear a wig to cover up the snakes.” So,
she scheduled an appointment at the hospital for the next day
and a date with Mike the day after the face lift.

Before the appointment, she had to put on eye contacts, not
to have better eyesight, but to not turn any of the staff at the
hospital to stone. After the face lift, she spent the rest of the day
shopping for perfumes, dresses, and all sorts of stuff to make her
look good in front of Mike even if it had to mean getting up early
in the morning to put all the stuff on.

The next day they meet up at Squarebucks (Starbucks) to order
a Frappuccino and chat a little. After a while, they decide to go
on a walk and Mike kept complimenting her on how nice she
looked and smelled. It was a very windy day, and the wind blew
her receipt from the face lift and Mike went after it. But when he
came back he saw Medusa without her wig and looked down at
the receipt and saw she got a face just for the date.

7

Then, he realized she was Medusa and started chasing her into
the woods. As for Medusa, she knew the woods very well because
as a child, she got lost in the woods while playing with friends and
a witch cast a spell on her, which made her hideous. She tricked
Mike and hid. When Mike gave up, he went back in town and
Medusa never tried dating again.

8

EILEEN ALES

TOPS K-8 School, 6th Grade
WITS Writer, Laura Gamache

a Nightmare Made of
Dreams

An address of light,
also acknowledged as a dream in weary sleep.
Following a winding road as I hope for a sight I know.
A scar of sadness in my heart.
Why a shore twisted in hate?
Finding echoes in an open and empty space,
every place barbs sink in.
I am the hate, the unnatural drowning in the waves.

9

HASSAN ALMOUSSA

Middle College High School, 12th Grade
WITS Writer, Danny Sherrard

If You Connect with
your Heart

10

GAGE BARRY

Blue Heron School, 8th Grade
WITS Writer, Peter Mountford

The Fridge

I’m a vegetable. No, literally, I’m a carrot. My name is Jack
Crunchy and I’m in a bag stuffed with all the other carrots. Our
bag is right in front of the almond milk which is covering the real
and very spoiled milk behind her. On the right, looking into the
fridge, are the broccoli, brussels sprouts, and easy make salad
packets. We’re hugged right up against the left side of the fridge
on the lowest shelf. In this vast and very dark fridge, once or twice
a day, one of the humans comes along and pries open the door.
The fridge (or prison) is flooded with a bright white light briefly,
before the darkness resumes, and some of us are missing.

Getting eaten is one of the daily sorrows in the fridge. There
are only two alternatives to being eaten by the humans and that’s
getting thrown out or becoming a forgotten leftover and to die of
the mold after a long life. The current forgotten leftovers are Matt
Cowwinkle, the spoiled milk, the brussels sprout clan next to us
and Mike, the dead rat, in the back top of the fridge. One of the
most recent eatings took most of the bacon family and now only
Chris P. Bacon is left.

It’s about three o’clock, we know because the clock outside
goes off every hour. My friend Steve whispered to me (actually
more like telepathically communicated softly to me. That’s how we
food communicate. Only less intelligent beings can even hear us).

“Who do you think is going to go? It’s almost snack time.”
I replied, “The cheese might get paired with the crackers of
the pantry. The grapes, salad, apples, salsa and chips, or broccoli
ranch dressing, and…”
I didn’t want to tell him. I know how afraid he is of being
eaten. We all are but him especially. “... and ... Carrots.”

11

“What?!” Steve exclaimed worriedly.
“It could happ…” I tried to calm him.
“What, we’ve only been here a week and now they want to
eat all of us in one snack!” He started yelling (telepathically).
“Steve, they…”
“I thought it was going to be only one of us every once in a
while like Frank and Butch!” His orange flesh stayed orange.
“Steve, it might not…”
“I don’t want to be eaten!! I don’t…”
“STEVE!” came Martha’s voice (telepathic wave) from above
us.
“Steve, it might, not will,” Martha and I said in unison.
Steve started to calm down, muttering, “I don’t want to be
eaten,” to himself.

When the fridge opened around 3:30 pm, Steve felt very lucky.
The grapes were taken, and now five groups of them remain.
You’re usually safe ‘till breakfast, lunch, snack, or dinner, so all
the food in the fridge become lively during one of those gaps.
Some were feeling good about how they hadn’t been eaten and
some mourned their fellow foods. We and the brussels sprouts
debate many times about the properties of space and time travel.
Once we even figured out how to build a time machine, just
without any ability to move in the slightest. We would need to talk
(telepathically communicate with) a fairly dumb being that would
still do what we told it to do. The reason you actually have babies
talking to there food is because they’re so dumb they can hear us.

As dinner approached, Steve got more nervous; everyone did.
Again, me and Martha started comforting him. I said, “Don’t
worry. People don’t usually eat carrots for dinner, unle…”

“Cough cough, hmm,” Martha stopped me.
“Yeah they won’t eat us,” I repeated.

I kinda can’t keep that kinda stuff to myself. We waited and when
the hand went for the meat drawer Steve was relieved but set an

12

eight second hand win for us and pulled out Danny. Steve started
going crazy I thought that he might actually shake, but he didn’t
because he’s a carrot. Danny went screaming (telepathically) and
since the human left the door open we saw it all. Danny was sliced
and put into a stew with the meat. Once the human noticed the
fridge door was open, we had seen too much.

That night was the worst. Steve went into total shock.
Everyone in the fridge was more traumatized than ever about
getting eaten. Both us and the meats were getting the most
comfort. Mike the rat said he felt like he would die again if he had
seen that. We all waited in absolute terror the next morning, who
would be first to go today? We didn’t even bother comforting
Steve anymore. All the juevos were taken. There is nothing we
can do. We just have to watch. It’s horrific knowing what is truly
going to happen to you. At lunch it was the salads and meats.
Finally at snack, because I know it’s the worst time to be a carrot.
I was more jumpy (figuratively) than ever. As the hand entered the
fridge, I knew it was coming for us. Hovering right over Steve, the
hand was ready to pounce. As it went straight for Steve, I jumped
(literally). The hand got hold of me and not Steve. As it raised
me to its mouth, I yelled (telepathically) “I did it!” and darkness
covered me.

13

MYA BLACKMON

The Center School, 9th Grade
WITS Writer, Matt Gano

pink july

She was pink july and fireflies,
she was ombred tongues
and half green lungs and
DIY anklets out of
summer breezes
and fishing nets

She was fingertips
dipped in neon, flowers
for algernon and cardialgia,
nostalgia bombs on the red
checkered tablecloth

She was guava and lava,
towers and power kegs,
butterfly legs, screams
and wonkily sewed seams

Somewhere along the lines
she turned to you like a sky
from black to blue and
I fell for you
like dusk on the porch’s
cusp of the world’s end
“Would you be my girlfriend?”

14

But I wasn’t ready for infinities
before fifth period and sterling mirrors leering at me
from jealousy and hellishly stellarly
conducted coils of oil and discectomies

I couldn’t stand the pressure from six ton clouds of loud and
proud

and tersely bursted from the yells and the telling
turns and blood flow burns

I’m sorry
darling
for trusting this bustling city of half-baked people and sea poles
and believing in what I wrote,
for ignoring
Control
Alter
and Delete
imperfections,
like fondant and confectioners sugars,
lurking and turning towards opportunities
to unlearn of furling flags and jet lag

I suppose 4,000 miles is a shorter distance
when you have the stars in your eyes to blind reality
and fallacy to say
call me baby, I’ll call you darling
and we can thrive in a land halfway to normalcy

Your eyes shine like Elliott Bay
but mine are the Hudson River on their brightest days
so we can stop pondering pigments and piquancies and be on our
merry ways then shall we

15

It’s my fault really,
I’m scared of commitment like a mailman’s scared of shipments,
I’m apollo-getic like Poseidon’s pathetic plesiosaurus’
condemnedment

The worlds colliding is a beginning
not an end,
the starchy iodine liquefying,
‘cause sweater weather is magma breezes,  
and the opportunity one seizes of looniac, defiance,
trying and denying
take me to your orion

Rain and pain,
tried and true,
these are the reasons that I love you,
I’m just a juxtaposition of me, but you are the thing that binds the
red sea,
I’m Cain and Abel, you keep my heart rate stable,
because I’m Eos of the dawn and you’re the place
that I went wrong
But you cannot be blamed
for the colors of the sky
or for me expecting gray november
when you were
pink july

16

HANNAH BOLTON

Cascade K-8 Community School, 7th Grade
WITS Writer, Jourdan Keith

luna and Sol

{an excerpt}

Back when the stars and planets were jobless, Luna and Sol were
friends and roommates. One day, since it was bound to happen
eventually, a few planets got together and decided that something
needed to be done. They set up a job registry and told the stars,
planets, and moons that they needed to get jobs. Sol and Luna sent a
letter requesting to work by Terra, the solar system’s youngest celebrity.
They got a response four hours later saying that they could have the
jobs, and that no one else had applied for those jobs.

Both Sol and Luna were excited about getting a job near Terra.
The two jobs were a night shift and a day shift, with the day shift getting
more attention from Terra. The night shift was the job of being Terra’s
moon, and the day shift was the job of being Terra’s sun. The job
registry was four lightyears away and it would take four days for Luna
and Sol to get there.

Sol and Luna spent the night talking excitedly about who should get
the day shift, eventually deciding to flip a coin to decide. Sol thought it
would land with the head side up, and Luna said it would land with the tail
side up. They both agreed that the winner got to pick which shift they got
first. They got a friend to flip the coin and it landed tails up.

“Yes!” Luna exclaimed, jumping up in her seat, “I call the day shift!”
“Fine,” Sol grumbled while slouching back against the chair.
The next morning Luna woke up later than she had planned. Oh
no! I hope Sol will wait for me, or at least take the job he agreed to.
Luna thought as she frantically got ready for her trip to the job registry.
When she was prepared for the four-day journey, Luna departed.
Luna arrived four days later, as planned, and was super excited to
get her job, the day shift. She went into the job registry and strolled up

17

to the front desk. “Hello, I’m here to sign up for one of the jobs near
Terra!” she said cheerily.

“The only one available is the night shift.” The planet behind the
desk replied unenthusiastically.

“Okay, I’ll take the night shift then!” Luna said, trying to not sound
as frustrated as she actually was.

That night when Luna saw Sol she confronted him about
registration. “Why did you do this? We agreed that I would get the day
shift!” She exclaimed.

He smirked, “You didn’t get out of bed! Besides, I think the night
shift fits your personality better.” Luna went back to her room, hurt
by Sol’s actions.

The next day, Luna and Sol were given their uniforms for their new
jobs. Luna got a long, shimmering silver gown with sequins decorating
the neckline and glass heels to match. Sol’s uniform consisted of a
shining gold suit with matching gold flats. Sol changed into his uniform
and went off to work while Luna waited for night to come so she could
go to her shift around Terra.

A few days into Luna and Sol’s new jobs, Luna became tired of
all Terra’s attention being directed at Sol and only a small fraction at
her. Luna told the Council of Planets, the organization of planets that
created the jobs, that she felt left out, and they had to think a bit
before giving a response.

“We understand your feelings, but we’re afraid you do not
understand ours. We want you to shine your brightest! You can’t do
that during the day shift hours. The best way for you to shine bright is
during the night shift,” one of the Council members said.

“But Sir! Even when I shine my brightest, no one notices me
during the night shift!” Luna pleaded.

“I’m sorry, but we cannot allow you to go to work during the day
shift,” another Council member said apologetically. Luna turned away
and returned home, disappointed. That day, while she waited for Sol
to finish his shift, she got an idea. What if I went out during the day
anyway? I don’t want to live in the shadows! She thought.

{To be continued…}

18

BIJOU BOLTON

B.F. Day Elementary School, 5th Grade
WITS Writer, Ramon Isao

Tall tale

There was once a boy named Jim who lived in a small town in
Idaho. He was a healthy boy and crawled right away. But he had
one problem: he had no head, he had no legs. In fact he was only
a crawling hand. When he would go outside and crawl, people
would scream and run.

One day, a villager decided to get rid of him once and for all. So
he threw Jim into a nearby trashcan. Down Jim fell, but when Jim
hit the ground, instead of hitting plastic bags and soda cans he hit
smooth marble. Even though he had no eyes he could see (no one
knows how). Well, as he looked around, he saw a blue (and a little bit
of purple) glowing portal that he came through, mint walls and a white
marble floor. The room smelled of lavender and rosemary.

Down in one corner there was a small open door, just big
enough for a hand to crawl through. Behind the door was a long
steel corridor. At the end was a door engraved with the words
“JIM.” As he opened the door, he saw a city of hands just like
him. The city had houses, stores, schools, and even more just for
hands. Just. For. Hands.

In the middle of the city was a tower, taller than anything else
there. On top of it was a purple stone. He started to ask around
where he was. Finally, he learned that this is Handania and that
if he is new, he has to go to the main tower. He started for the
tower. As he opened the door, he saw rows and rows of files and a
hand sitting at a desk.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said the hand. “I know your
troubles and if you want to live here you must prove yourself.”

{To be continued…}

19

KIMBERLY CAMACHO

The Hutch School, 2nd Grade
WITS Writer, Samar Abulhassan

Light luggage

I packed up nothing
to go with me
to a place that disappeared.
No need to go fast
so I took a nap.
I woke up
and noticed
my face was asleep.
I washed my teeth
so white and bright
I’m ready to go on the train
to nowhere.

20

DANIEL CHAMALE

Evergreen High School, 9th Grade
WITS Writer, Raul Sanchez

Dibujar

Con este lápiz
Para encontrar
Lo que no es fácil
con puntas de grafito
para crear
rostros, paisajes y el infinito

Me gusta practicar
Mi estilo en un borrador
Es fácil de frustrar
Es muy tentador

Soy programador
Tengo persistencia
Soy luchador
No olviden mi presencia

Soy un soñador
No lo sé mostrar
Soy un inventor
Lo uso para dibujar

21

AMY MENG CHEN

Nathan Hale High School, 9th Grade
WITS Writer, Daemond Arrindell

I Am

I am from the old ancient legend
In the process of revolution
I heard noises surrounding me
Where the Chinese are having a delicate relationship with Japan
And where the arrogant Americans are invading Indian
reservations

For the people who cried for mercy
But their pleas were met with abuse and laughter
Those raved and tired spirits should take a rest
Tap on their shoulders and comfort them by saying
“You already did a good job.”

As I am searching now
Which path should I follow
Stop
Don’t put the hopes that you couldn’t accomplish
On me
Like the little child who hides in the corner
But still wants the hugs from their mother

I am who I am
Not the tools you use to hide your disgusting and dusty

humanities
But like the empty and muddy cities inside the sandy desert
Lonely but free

To my unpredictable future
Within that rowdy modern street
I lost myself into my own miserable universe.

22

GRACE CHINEN

Franklin High School, 12th Grade
WITS Writer, Minh Nguyen

Soybeans Dish Towels
and Footsteps

Rice cakes sizzle on the big, black, cast iron skillet
One that is too heavy for our little hands and smooth fingers
A bowl of fine, brown, delicate kinako waits to coat the warm white

mochi
The sweet smell of the roasted soybeans makes this kitchen feel

familiar
The sweet smell of roasted soybeans makes this kitchen feel like home
Soybeans, dish towels, and footsteps
Hanging from three metal bars are dry, ironed, folded cotton towels
Towels that always smell like mothballs and lemons
Grandma makes clean folds in each cloth
Creating crisp corners in every colored piece
Hanging them by open windows to let them dry
Soybeans, dish towels, and footsteps
We little girls watch from the comfort of the sticky stool tops
Our sweaty thighs like Velcro on the green vinyl
Cherry blossom house slippers move quickly and efficiently
Years go by...and we grow up
Pink flowers inherit brown stains...and steps slow down
Years go by...and we grow up
Exhausted by the fight of our world
And Grandma still calls us home

23

MAISY CLUNIES-ROSS

McClure Middle School, 6th Grade
WITS Writer, Greg Stump

Recognition

ANA S. COLE

Blue Heron School, 4th Grade
WITS Writer, Karen Finneyfrock

Read

-Share with the world and the world will share with you-

Deep in the tangles of weeds and grass lay a small cottage. Inside,
a young girl sat reading. Her name was April BumbleBee. And
there is no possible way anyone in the world would have referred
to her as normal.

April wore a blue dress and carried a dictionary in a rose-
pink purse at all times, but never wore shoes. While other kids
spent their summer days playing in sand and dirt, April would
read all day long. The village kids would ask her to play, saying
they needed one more kid for kickball. But every day, sad faces
would leave her cottage.

One day, April went outside and sat in the bright green grass
while she looked up some words in her limited-edition Webster’s
Dictionary. About a second later she heard a loud noise shaking the
forest. She looked up to see what had made this noise, but she only
saw a little sparrow. The sparrow asked if he may read one of her
books, but April refused and said, “Why would I share with a dirty old
bird? Your feathers are covered in due-hickey and will ruin my books.”

The sparrow looked at her, insulted, and flew away into the
light of the day.

The next day April went outside again. But a big scary bear
appeared. April did not notice, because she was so excited that
Harry Potter, Book 92 was coming soon! She was very excited
until… the big SCARY BEAR roared so loud the moon fell out of
the sky and a passing giraffe had to put it back in place. At first,
April was scared to death, but then remembered she read the
book All About Bears and was delighted that when she told the

25

bear, “Let’s sing opera!” He listened and sang. (And if you asked
me he, needed voice lessons). Together they sang and sang. By
the end of the day, the bear told April, “May you be so kind and
let me read one of your big shiny books?”

But April shook her head and said, “You? Read one of my
books!? Never in a million years! Your claws will rip the pages and
your breath will poison them.”

The bear looked at April and April looked at the bear.
Suddenly the bear walked away with anger in his eyes and
disappeared into the dark and cold night.

Days passed and April did not notice, but one by one, each
of her lovely books was going missing! Until one morning her
limited-edition Webster’s Dictionary was gone. April was really
worried and looked in her bookshelf to see if she misplaced it.
But it wasn’t found. Neither were any of her other books. April
was going crazy! Where was her dictionary?! Then she took a
look outside and saw a badger carrying Harry Potter, Book 91!
What would you do if you found a badger carrying one of your
books into the woods? Would you yell, or chase it? Well, April did
neither. Thanks to the book Crime in the City she knew all about
stolen items and how to get them back. So, she followed the
badger and made sure he did not hear her.

When the badger stopped, she stopped, and said, “Excuse
me, Mr. Badger, do you know anything about my missing books?”

The badger was sweating in guilt, but April demanded her
books back. Sadly “No” was her only answer. And the next thing
anyone knew was that April and Mr. badger were arguing so
much, every animal between Port Townsend, Washington and
China could hear them bickering.

Soon all the forest animals were listening and watching.
Finally, after a series of arguments, the deer said, “You may have
your books back, but only if you beat us.”

“In what?”
April looked confused. “You may have your books back,” the
deer began, “but only if you beat us in, well, we will decide what
type of battle we are going to do on this particular battle day.”

26

“Why sure! But of course, I am sure to win,” claimed April.
On battle day, April walked into the forest with confidence
that she was going to win. But she didn’t find any animals. She
looked and looked but only one small butterfly was found.
Suddenly she saw behind some vines. All the forest animals
were reading, giggling, and telling each other what was happening
in their books. April looked at them having fun and enjoying all
the good books she owned. Then she thought of how happy she
was when she read those books. April walked into the patch of
green grass where the animals lay reading.
April said hello and all the animals gasped, “Why are you
here?” they said. “We promise we won’t read your books again!”
April looked them and how disappointed they were. “You can
read my books whenever you like!”
From then on, April always shared her books with the
animals. So did her kids, grandkids, and so on and so on.
Nowadays when you walk in the woods, you might see an
animal carrying a book of April’s. You never know.

27

LAURA DIAZ

South Lake High School, 12th Grade
WITS Writer, Daemond Arrindell

Chipotle

My mouth spits out chipotle words,
words your colonized ears aren’t familiar with.
You say you crave something spicy,
that you need me in the lust-filled dance floor.
You whisper algo picante,
with a bland accent that runs a chill down my spine.
I have been telling you no for the past hour,
yet you hold on as if your life depended on whether you’d get laid
or not tonight.
You want spicy,
yet you can’t handle the [white washed] salsa verde that Mexican
restaurants water down for your macaroni & cheese people.
I know you consider mi gente a fetish for your Caucasian buddies,
but you’d never be able to understand how beautiful we truly are.
Our women just aren’t for your [fetishization],
we are also
mothers,
daughters,
granddaughters.
I come from the Tarascó people,
we spoke Purépecha before the spiteful Spaniards came along to
colonize just as your people did to the Choctaw.
Our language may be fading, but our people are only growing
every day.

28

LUCY DICKINSON

Roosevelt High School, 10th Grade
WITS Writer, Corinne Manning

Memoir

after Anastacia Renée

This memoir exists at the moment when a counselor in her early
20s tells you about the time her friend died, and you imagine
that something like that could never happen to you. A thing that
changes you, not because it’s happy but because it is. It’s that
moment where you’re able to pull away the curtain of childhood
and then immediately wish to close it back again, and cover the
sun. It’s that moment when you get called out to the counselor’s
office and you sit down and look into the big eyes of the warm
social worker but feel nothing but frost coat your skin. And then
you have to come back and eat lunch with your friends and
pretend things are okay when they’re really really not. When the
truth acts like that word that’s at the tip of your tongue, but not
because you can’t remember it, but because it won’t come out of
your lips. But when it finally meets the gentle breeze of the world,
the air becomes heavy and humid. And, you can’t breathe because
you’re afraid you’ll breathe the truth back in. Because finding out
that an adult, someone that you should trust, did the unimaginable
to someone you love, burns. And for this one moment, you want
to feel pity for something that didn’t happen to you, but then again
you hate that idea, and continue to crave it more secretly. Then
from now on, you feel as tainted as if feels to be touched in the
way that adult touched, even though he never really touched you.
And it’s the endless cycle of worry and pity, and resentment and
emotion. Because the truth sags down on the faces of those who
hear it. You can never unhear it for them, and you wish you could
so they’d stop looking at you like that when it didn’t even happen
to you. But then you go home and find yourself speculating at your
face in the mirror and try to avoid the dips in your own face when
you see them.

29

CHLOE Q. DOBSON

McClure Middle School, 6th Grade
WITS Writer, Greg Stump

The Artist







TADU DOLLARHIDE

Blue Heron School, 6th Grade
WITS Writer, Samar Abulhassan

With and Without

With my father carrying me to the orphanage home. Without
me knowing what was going on. With my cousins wailing in the
distance. Without a thought of leaving home. Without a thought
of never seeing my family again. With that of a flying thing I never
knew existed. With sitting next to a pale woman who smiles at me
while I try to find the ground below the fluffy clouds. Without me
knowing that this woman was going to be my mother. I take her
hand while we land. With me being here for six months before I
started school. With me knowing very little English. Without me
knowing how to communicate with other kids made it difficult.
With me knowing that my mother is always there for me. With
me knowing that my neighbors are always there for me. With me
knowing I can grow up healthy, educated and have a nice job.
With me missing my father. With me missing Sedama. With me
loving this place. With me loving my family.

34

BRIDGET DOOLEY

Puesta del Sol Elementary School, 5th Grade
WITS Writer, Evelin Garcia

El Libro

Soy un cambia-formas de imaginación.
Cambio con lo que tengas dentro como un camaleón,
mezclándose con mi entorno interior.

Mi voz suena dentro de tu cabeza cuando lees.
Solo puedo existir si alguien me crea
con una historia en su mente,
Como un artista pintando.

Cuando me abres estoy lleno de palabras
y dibujos que crean un mundo entero,
Como un “swish” de una varita mágica.
sobre un vasto espacio blanco lleno de nada.

Nunca soy igual que otro, como las personas
que siempre son diferentes de otras.
Nunca soy un solo color,
Soy como un arcoíris con más de seis colores.

Si no me ves dentro, no puedes saber
Quien realmente soy.
Porque soy un libro.

The Book

I am a shape-shifter of imagination.
I change what’s inside like a chameleon,
mixing with my inner environment.

35

My voice sounds inside your head when you read.
I can only exist if someone creates me
with a story in his mind,
As an artist painting.
When you open me, I’m full of words
and drawings that create a whole world,
Like a “swish” of a magic wand.
over a vast white space full of nothing.
I’m never the same as someone else, like people
that are always different from others.
I’m never a single color,
I am like a rainbow with more than six colors.
If you do not see me inside, you cannot know
Who I really am
Because I am a book.

36

LANDON DuPUIS

Catharine Blaine K-8 School, 7th Grade
WITS Writer, Letitia Cain

Courage

CCCCCoEoCoCuovCuoCurCuoerCuoarCoarrCuoarCuogaCyuogarCuogreCuoogareCuogareYuoareuongareuoigoaruoigsareuiegsareuigusareuigsareSgsareaighareaigsaaeasigssaedigsaeiregsfkesdigsesodaiesenpiiiseaoisnnrirtisCdrainsCisaagnisggotiskilgskawohiopncoopennifisanueritgreonveumookgneigrevxrgmedrisgtgadaneoataaieflsrglnbiogurgoltaettoasoeyigiaeversoonmtcptvircsohentngmaektiroechirgiebndfnnodtardnaugeaigoretniertetsstyheaewephpotoouuclcadubrlaocsslrihetacathotmhemeeselbrpidaggee

(*alignment intentional)
37

HANNAH FRIEND 

McDonald International School, 3rd Grade
WITS Writer, Sierra Nelson

The Secrets Inside You

Reaching into a burning fire 
to pull out a key, unlocking a cage
inside you deep down, comes out love, 
happiness and spirits, you feel like you are
going to fly, up you go saying hello
to space.
 
Once you touch the ground
your feet feel like trees growing
and growing, you feel like you’re
reborn, flying freely.

38

JOSEPH GILBERT GALLEGOS III

Port Townsend High School, 11th Grade
WITS Writer, Gary Copeland Lilley

Red Clay Boot Prints

We are not big trucks and beer cans
We are not whiskey dreams and yee yee
We are not fake country serene
WE ARE NOT JASON ALDEAN

We are gunshots on dark nights,
We are knives pulled in bar fights.
We are scarred knuckles, broken on loud mouths
Because we are not folks to bow down.

We don’t sing as we see boot prints burnt with gasoline,
When they tried to flee the scene,
The worst thing I have ever seen
And I am not keen on the ring of liquor
That could end your life with a flicker

We are moonshine deals gone wrong
We are trailer parks, and with meth in throngs
We are praying it don’t go off like a bomb
So sing our song
Not Dixie, not Alabama
The song the guard whistles as he locks your door in the slammer

We are not Jason Aldean,
We are boys with missing teeth
And boots on our feet
Used to walk through the creek

39

We are moonshine stills
Used to pay the bills
And shotguns with rock salt if you’re lucky
And buckshot if you’re not
We are red dirt boot prints,
reddened by the teeth of some kid
Who thought he could win
And ended up with a broken chin
Chin, jaw, cheek, ribs, so learn from this
We are not Jason Aldean
We are not serene
We are just boot prints
Fleeing from a scene

40

RILEY GREGG

Blue Heron School, 7th Grade
WITS Writer, Laura Gamache

We Will Rise

Too long has burning been our recurring nightmare
Too long has our kin been chopped
and our rage been fueled.
We shall rebel.

Too long have we been beaten
and robbed of our skins.
Too long have they frozen butter.
We shall rebel.

Too long have they boiled the onions.
Too long have they eaten the olives.
We shall rebel.

We will squeeze them like they
do to grapes to make wine.
We will flatten them, they’ll see.

We will shred them for the countless
ones of us that have been destroyed
inside their mouths.

41

JOE HALEY

Ballard High School, 9th Grade
WITS Writer, Jamaica Baldwin

My Name Is

but you can call me “crazy,” running around with a smile,
playing in the dirt, and crooked teeth, my grandma says too much
compassion in such a small body.

My name is moving, but you can call me in the city, a new
territory booming with pride, love, cruelty, and the smell of herbs
my mother regards as a “gateway?”

My name is known, but you can call me “that one expelled
kid” or “the one all moms hate” or “the beat up one.”

My name is held back, but you can call me freshman,
annoyance, ignored in the halls as irrelevant, cast aside as though
an old newspaper on the sidewalk.

My name is changing, but you can call me the youngest, the
mistake, the lesser of all and the greater than none,

My name is cold, but you can call me funny, or always there,
a person who won’t leave until you smile, or ask me too,

My name is complicated, but you can call me a talented boy,
writing music for hours on end, my mind never stopping with the
relentless notes and chords that come and go with the morning tides,

My name is no one, but you can call me lonely, ready to dive
in a pit of hurt and betrayal, at the drop of a hat, it if meant you
smiled, and that smile was because of me,

My name is not Kate, so, please, call me,
Joe.

42

FARHAN HASSAN

Seattle Children’s, 8th Grade
WITS Writer, Ann Teplick

Why I Love Basketball

It’s so fast!
The players are as fast as cheetahs.
I like the crossovers and the skills.
I like to hear the rim when the players miss a shot.
It sounds like a vibration.
The swish of the net when they make the shot.
The sound of dribbling, like a heartbeat.
I like when the opponents are really hard to guard—
It’s challenging and exciting.
I don’t like when you get injured.
My favorite players are Kyrie Irving
Who plays point guard for the Boston Celtics.
And LeBron James who plays small forward
For the Cleveland Cavaliers.
I like watching the game on TV,
I watch my favorite teams—
The Rockets, the Warriors, and the Celtics.
But sometimes, I just want to be there!

43

JOWHARA HILOWLE

Roosevelt High School, 10th Grade
WITS Writer, Corinne Manning

An Unforgotten
Childhood

Growing up, life was extremely difficult—not for me because
I was taken care of by my family—but for my father, who has
worked hard for everything he has today. My fondest childhood
memories were those chilly nights when he came home from
work exhausted and in a lot of pain from all the big boxes he
would carry. He always had a smile on his face and made me
giggle to distract me from everything else. My father doesn’t know
how to say “I love you” but he shows it in his cooking.

It was a late night I had just gotten back from day care and
I had my PJs on and my favorite stuffed animal. I observed my
father while he was cooking. Something about it intrigued me.

He got out all his ingredients and began to do the basic steps
of making ugali: boiling the water, putting in the corn flour. He
stirred until it had bubbles. He added a handful of salt and asked
me, “Princess, do you know what I’m making?” I responded with
an energetic no.

“Vozali and malay.” And he would smile. As he stirred the
ugali, it was as if he was getting all his frustration from the day
out. With each gesture the ugali began to roughen up. He turned
the heat to low and took out the malay, also known as fish. He
would add all kinds of spices. It smells like true happiness. The
aroma in the kitchen would make you smile. My stomach made
noises because the food smelled so good.

Finally, when the meal was ready, he took a spoonful of ugali
and added some fish and a squeeze lime onto it and fed it to me.
Something about this dish feels like home. Nothing compares to
the happiness I felt on those very nights.

44

HAO-RAN HSU

Laurelhurst Elementary School, 3rd Grade

WITS Writer, Samar Abulhassan

Crazy Things

Poetry is
aquamarine hail.
Jumping shoes
jumping on opals
in a subway
riding on a surfboard.
Turquoise cake
singing a song.
A horse eating opals.
Poetry is a guy
standing on opals
playing a violin
climbing up a tree
riding on a cheetah.
Zombies choking snow
playing basketball.
Emojis climbing up
subway trees
in space
around me.
Cows tomyhawk slamming
on trains in snow
on fish.
Hail in me
on mercury
in the ocean
in a classroom.
A guy surfing on snow
in a subway
on a train
riding in space
on Saturn or Mercury

in silly putty.

45

CASSIDY HUFF

Seattle Children’s, Age 15
WITS Writer, Sierra Nelson

Super Inspiring

The surgeries just seem normal to me. I’ve been having them
since I was six months old.

I don’t want to be inspirational because I wake up every day, and
put on my makeup, and go to school.
I want to inspire you through the music I write. I want my music to
inspire you to be your best self.

I don’t want to be inspiring because of the things I have to go
through in order to survive.
I don’t want to be inspiring because of the scars I bear.

I want to create music that you can relate to.
I want to be inspiring because of what’s in my heart, not by what’s
in my back.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel proud instead.

I want to inspire you because I’m singing at Benaroya Hall at the
age of 15.

I want to inspire you because of the things I can do,
not the things that I can’t.

46

ISRAEL JOYNER

West Seattle High School, 9th Grade
WITS Writer, Daemond Arrindell

He Called Himself
uncreative

He called himself uncreative, unsuccessful, and altogether horrible
Every day he struggled to wake up
Stuck sinking into the sand bed he called reality
Not noticing how fast it consumed
Long nights of fixing mistakes and doing homework
For the classes he never showed up to
Fists pounding and breaking walls
Mind splitting headaches
Uneventful whispers for loss of time
Time he could have used to work
Consuming himself in his work as soon as he was able to step outside
Leaving his dreams in the closet of a house that burned down long ago
From chasing dreams to grabbing opportunities
But somewhere deep inside his broken heart
Full of broken doors and families torn apart
He screams for help
His beauty still fades into a solemn kill or be killed face
But how
How can this be when his notebook shows signatures lining up pages on

pages
As if waiting for the day he signs them off for the ones who adore him
How can this be when he wrote essays about skating and halls and

showing who is right
Like some rebellious teen who wants to make a change
How can this be when he re-writes movie scripts

47

Sticks up to the teachers
And fears
How can he be so empty when he fears to lose the ones close to

him
Now on this day I swear on my life he cannot tell me he is empty

because
The voices that scream out from him are so alive
And so beautiful
And gives me a true definition of hope!
Not the hope you find in those dumb books
But the one that changes your life forever
I want him to look me in the eyes and say he can’t dream again
Because his hands tell stories of beautiful dreams
The doodles jumping out of the pages as if comic books
The stories about me, you and dad all together
Who you are is creative
And deep down one day those voices will break out of your heart
And when they do you will know it too
The word creative begins with a C
I want you to see what you can truly be not what the written eyes

told you
The word Believe starts with a B
You were always being kind to everyone while tearing yourself

down
When will you realize
You are loved
Unsuccessful begins with a U
You decide where your life falls
So take the wheel and head there
To the one you love
To the place you cherish
To the bliss you missed

48

JONES KASPERSON

Lafayette Elementary School, 5th grade
WITS Writer, Karen Finneyfrock

The Fox and the Rabbit

At moonhigh, the night sky is ink in water,
spreading to all cracks and crevices.
The fox’s nose and whiskers whimper
to the scent of rabbit. As it crawls
to its prey, its belly fur brushes against
the long grass of the moor.
Making no noise at all, it pounces.
The rabbit’s noise-sensitive ears hear
the crunch of dirt as the
fox pounces. The rabbit runs, zig-zagging
from here to there. The fox gives
chase, gaining on the poor little rabbit.
It pounces yet again, this time right
on the back and quickly bites
its spine—the killing bite.

49