Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II by Jack Canfield
And Sarah didn't seem so weird
Through his understanding eyes.
Now he knew he'd never play again
The game of making Sarah cry.
It took several days of teasing
And razzing from his friends,
But when they saw his strength,
They chose to be like him.
And now out on the playground,
A group of kids meets every day
For a game of kickball and laughter
And teaching their new friend, Sarah, how to play.
Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey
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The Wedding Ring
In the high school creative writing class I teach, I try hard to give assignments designed to make my students think about the details of life. In describing these details, I've found, they produce some of their best writing. They make good use of each of their senses as well as their creativity to get to the heart of things. This is how, if they and I are lucky, they find their own best creative writing voices. For some of my students, those voices express certain sentiments that desperately need an outlet.
Recently, I asked the students to describe an object and its particular significance to them personally. They had a week to complete the assignment. But one of my students, Kerry Steward, approached me the next day and told me she wouldn't do it.
I knew Kerry fairly well. She had been in my class for two years, her sophomore and junior years. She was a good writer and very cooperative. So this statement of hers surprised me. I looked at her for a minute as she stood by my desk. Her attitude of defiance was completely uncharacteristic, so I asked her to come in after school to discuss this further.
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When I saw her again later that day, she wasn't defiant anymore, but she still said she wouldn't do the assignment. She asked if she could have a different one. Something in her voice made me ask her what this was all about.
"Are you having trouble thinking of some object?" I asked.
She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, "No. Last night, when I told my mom about the assignment, she said she had an idea of something special for me to write about. She took me into her room. She opened this big jewelry box she has. I thought she was going to show me a pair of earrings or something that had belonged to her mother. I was already thinking about lots of terrific things she had told me about my grandmother to write about. That would have been an easy essay to write."
She stopped for a moment. I could see that she was having a hard time with her next thoughts.
"But, she didn't give me a piece of my grandmother's jewelry. She took out the wedding ring my father had given her and handed it to me."
I thought for a minute. I remembered from conferences that Kerry's parents had a different last name. But her stepfather had always been as interested in Kerry's progress and as proud of her achievements as her mother. So I had just assumed that even though they were a blended family, they were a happy one. And Kerry always seemed so well-adjusted that I never had any reason to assume differently.
But, the teenager in front of me was miserable. "How could she have kept that ring? How could she want me to have it?" Kerry began to cry. "They got divorced when I was a baby. I don't even know what he looks like. He's never wanted to see me or hear from me. I hate him! Why would I want to have that stupid wedding ring?"
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Kerry's anger was acute. I let her cry for a minute. Then I asked, gently, "What did you do then?"
"I threw the ring as hard as I could against the wall. It made a mark and fell behind the oak dresser. Then I ran into my room and slammed the door." Kerry took a tissue from my desk and blew her nose. "My mom didn't yell at me or anything. She didn't even make me move the dresser and get the ring."
Wise woman, I thought.
"You don't have to write about that ring," I said. "You know you can choose anything you want, don't you?" Even as I said it, I knew that Kerry had, in fact, wanted to at least talk if not write about that ring. I knew that all the rage and frustration of an abandoned child were symbolized in that ring. But I'm an English teacher, not a psychologist and certainly not Kerry's mother. It wasn't my place to force her to express painful feelings. I told her she was excused from the assignment.
That night, I called Kerry's mother. I thought she should know about Kerry's and my conversation. She thanked me for letting her know. Then she said, "I didn't realize how angry she isnot just at her father, but at me also. But, I kept that ring to remind me of the good times in my marriagethere were good times." She paused. Then she said softly, "If I hadn't married him, I wouldn't have Kerry."
"Tell her," I said.
The next day, I waited anxiously for Kerry's class to begin. I had spent a sleepless night. Kerry's feelings were so understandable. But, I hoped that the obvious love between mother and daughter and the secure family they had now would help Kerry deal with those feelings.
Kerry smiled at me when she came in. She said, "I'm a little sore today. I moved some heavy furniture last night."
I smiled back. For just a minute, I was tempted to make
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some comment about weights being lifted, but then Kerry stepped forward and put a composition on my desk. "Read it later," she whispered.
Her essay about the wedding ring was short. Kerry wrote: "Things are just thingsthey have no power to hurt or to heal. Only people can do that. And we can all choose whether to be hurt or healed by the people who love us."
That was all.
And that was everything.
Marsha Arons
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Andrea's Fresh Start
Down the hall I could hear buzzing, then a click, then "Can I help you?" as a night nurse responded to a patient's call.
But it wasn't the noise that was keeping me awake. In the morning, I was having surgery. And I was scared. I got up to splash water on my face. If I get past this, I'm going to make a fresh start, I said to my reflection. I was only seventeen. . . .
It's still hard to know exactly why I grew to feel so angry and isolated. I think it started with how I felt about the girl in the mirror.
"You are pretty," my mother would say, but I felt ugly, different from the smiling girls at school.
"They're phonies," I'd tell my sisters Loren and Melissa. So I made friends with kids like me who felt they didn't belong, and reacted with anger.
By high school, I wore black clothes and makeup, daring others to say something. At least once during the day, the door to the school bathroom would swing open behind me as girls in the clique came in, pushing their way to the mirror.
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"Going to the dance?" they'd ask each other. A few times I'd catch them gawking at me, but usually I was invisible to them. I told myself it didn't matter. But I ached with loneliness.
"How was school?" Mom would ask. I'd snap, "Why do you care?" I'd mope around. I'd pull away from hugs. And when she said, "I love you, Andrea," I never said, "I love you, too, Mom."
My dad tried, too. "Why don't you join a club?" he'd ask. "We want you to have a bright future." I don't fit in, I'd rage. What kind of future does someone like me have? And how on earth can anyone love me?
So I couldn't believe it when a boy I thought was nice liked me too. We went out for over a year before we broke up. If I'd been angry before, now I became wildand dangerous. To myself. As the weeks passed, I'd reach at night for my favorite poetrysomber, depressing verses by Edgar Allen Poe. I'd write my own: Maybe the angels would accept me as I am. I'd make lists of people I wanted to come to my funeralkids who had never looked at me twice. Maybe they'd feel bad. I thought of suicide. Was I strong enough? But then one night, watching a movie about someone fighting a terminal disease, I thought, That could be my way out. I could get sick and die.
It was a dark teenage dream that came back to haunt me. First, I thought the pain was menstrual cramps. But then it felt like a knife. Then Mom took
The doctor did an ultrasound. "The sonar's picking up a mass. You have to go for tests."
Mom's mouth dropped open and my heart stopped. "Am I dying?" I whispered. "Don't worry," Mom assured me. Tears sprang to my eyes as I looked into her terrified
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face. I hated seeing someone I loved look so scared.
''The best scenario is a benign ovarian cyst," the surgeon said. "The worst? Ovarian cancer, but that's very rare for a girl your age. For that, we'll have to do a hysterectomy."
Cancer! People die of cancer. A hysterectomy meant never having children. My head swam. This couldn't be happening! Had I tempted fate?
I thought of all the years I'd been angry. Why? Because I didn't have dimples or wasn't captain of the field hockey team?
Is it too late for second chances? I worried. Suddenly it struck me. I'd fantasized about dying. Now I knew I wanted to live more than anything. If I get the chance, I promised, I won't waste it.
"We'll be here," Mom and Dad said, holding back tears as I was taken to surgery. Loren held my hand, and she was holding my hand when I woke up from anesthesia.
"Is it . . . ?" I managed to ask, my mouth dry and slow. The news was scary: along with a cancerous tumor, my reproductive organs and part of my stomach had been removed. I'd need nine weeks of chemotherapy.
"We love you," Dad said tearfully. The words had been hard for me for so long, but full of tears too, I cried, "I love you!" back.
I told my parents "I love you" a lot as the months passed. As Mom took days off to sit with me during chemo. As Dad brought me bandannas to wear when my hair fell out. As Loren and her friends wore bandannas so I wouldn't feel out of place. As the kids at schoolall of themwished me luck. And I thought, Had they ever really shunned me? Or had I imagined that?
When I finished my chemo, the cancer was gone. So was my depression. I figured it had all happened for a reason: so I could help other people who felt alone. After graduation, I joined City Year, a Boston youth group, volunteering at a
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women's shelter. "You have to fight to live," I'd tell them, "whether it's against disease or circumstance."
But my heart broke for the children, living in a strange place. It's hard feeling like you don't fit in. That's why I'm studying child psychology now. And that's why even though Loren has offered to carry a child for me when the time comes, I think I'll adopt, because I know what it's like for a child to feel unwanted.
Those dark days are behind me. I've made new friends in college. And although I've been in remission for just two years, I know I've been cured . . . of a lot of things.
Peg Verone
Excerpted from Woman's World Magazine
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A Lesson for Life
The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core strength within you that survives all hurt.
Max Lerner
"Look at fatso!"
Freshmen in high school can be cruel and we certainly were to a young man named Matt who was in my class. We mimicked him, teased him and taunted him about his size. He was at least fifty pounds overweight. He felt the pain of being the last one picked to play basketball, baseball or football. Matt will always remember the endless pranks that were played on himtrashing his hall locker, piling library books on his desk at lunchtime and spraying him with icy streams of water in the shower after gym class.
One day he sat near me in gym class. Someone pushed him and he fell on me and banged my foot quite badly. The kid who pushed him said Matt did it. With the whole class watching, I was put on the spot to either shrug it off or pick a fight with Matt. I chose to fight in order to keep my image intact.
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I shouted, "C'mon, Matt, let's fight!" He said he didn't want to. But peer pressure forced him into the conflict whether he liked it or not. He came toward me with his fists in the air. He was no George Foreman. With one punch I bloodied his nose and the class went wild. Just then the gym teacher walked into the room. He saw that we were fighting and he sent us out to the oval running track.
He followed us with a smile on his face and said, "I want you two guys to go out there and run that mile holding each other's hands." The room erupted into a roar of laughter. The two of us were embarrassed beyond belief, but Matt and I went out to the track and ran our milehand-in-hand.
At some point during the course of our run, I remember looking over at him, with blood still trickling from his nose and his weight slowing him down. It struck me that here was a person, not all that different from myself. We both looked at each other and began to laugh. In time we became good friends.
Going around that track, hand-in-hand, I no longer saw Matt as fat or dumb. He was a human being who had intrinsic value and worth far beyond any externals. It was amazing what I learned when I was forced to go hand-in-hand with someone for only one mile.
For the rest of my life I have never so much as raised a hand against another person.
Medard Laz
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Remember Me?
My name is Gossip.
I have no respect for justice.
I maim without killing. I break hearts and ruin lives.
I am cunning, malicious and gather strength with age.
The more I am quoted, the more I am believed.
I flourish at every level of society.
My victims are helpless. They cannot protect themselves against me because I have no name and no face.
To track me down is impossible. The harder you try, the more elusive I become.
I am nobody's friend.
Once I tarnish a reputation, it is never the same.
I topple governments and wreck marriages. I ruin careers and cause sleepless nights, heartaches and indigestion. I spawn suspicion and generate grief. I make innocent people cry in their pillows. Even my name hisses.
I am called GOSSIP. Office gossipShop gossipParty gossipTelephone gossip. I make headlines and headaches. REMEMBER, before you repeat a story, ask yourself: is it true? Is it fair? Is it necessary?? If not, do not repeat it. KEEP QUIET.
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GREAT minds discuss ideas. . . . Average minds discuss events. . . . Shallow minds discuss people. . . . Which are you?
Ann Landers
Submitted by Amanda Kurlan
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A Wider Classroom
Our white van meandered its way through the broken West Virginia landscape and pulled up alongside Jim's avocado-colored house. As the doors opened, we poured out with hammers in hand. We were eight teenagers on a week-long service project to repair the homes of the less fortunate residing in the Appalachian mountains. The area seemed to contradict itself, for it held so much beauty yet housed so much poverty. Maybe we hailed ourselves as being able to serve those people in need; I do not think we ever imagined that what they could give us would perhaps be more valuable then any services we could render.
We rotated jobs as we basked in the southern sun; some of us scraped and painted windows, while others stained the deck or worked on the roof. All the while Jim sat in a lawn chair observing us: the kindest of old men, only too sorry that he could not labor alongside us on the ladders. We passed the time with inside jokes and songs, truly enjoying ourselves regardless of the tedium of treating window after window as Jim just silently observed.