By: Prosper O., Grade 10

How To Pick Your Poison

Come children, time to pick your poison.

Something that affects the next four years but a rush to be chosen.

Choose

Let your regret put you in a chokehold as you fret you chose the wrong

school.

Choose

As your friends whisper bias, clouding your judgement you lose your cool.

Choose

As you lock in your choice, you yearn to see if what you did was the right

thing to do.

Chosen!

Time’s up! No more switching or changing.

You’re going where you’re going, and you’ll never see your friends again.

Goodbye!

“Yo bro, what school are you going to pick?”

“I’m thinking of going to Mckinley Tech.”

“Nah man, Phelps has way better IT.”

“Hell, nah what do you mean?”

My mirror fogs up from the heated debate

I need to get ready for school before I’m late

“Everybody take out a computer to research schools.”

Choose.

The word echoes in everybody’s mind as we start running out of time.

People compare choices but we all have different minds.

How can we choose the same school if we all have our own thing that we

like?

Lose

It sets in that I, you, or her, or him, probably won’t see each other again.

One day my school brings in an alumni.

They talk about high-school, they talk about the transition.

But one quote really put my heart on a mission.

“Choose for the best you that you can envision, not for others even if you

miss them.”

To choose for myself means to choose for my kin,

to choose for myself means to choose for no other man,

to choose for me means to choose—

When I come home my parents bombard me with questions,

“Why? When? What did you choose?”

I lay down my bookbag and steady my mind.

“I chose what I thought was right…

if you don’t agree then that’s tragic because I’ve had it.”

Now those who know me know I would never say that.

But I chose for me and sometimes this is what it means.

Moving Forward

Freshman year was tough, new opportunities

for eager hands waiting to steal one for their own.

Moving Forward

As I start to lose contact with those I left behind,

I get second thoughts in my mind.

Moving Forward

As the year wraps up, I vow to be better next year.

The loop starts again, but different.

The jokes don’t hit the same,

and you know the drill so there’s nobody you can blame.

Junior year you should find your ground.

You know what to do and how to do it, you finally look like you know your way

around.

But that confidence will be replaced by a familiar uncertainty.

Soon those genuine laughs are overturned by bittersweet smiles.

With every new freshman you see

a friend you lost in the sauce

but nonetheless you must keep

MOVING FORWARD.

Senior year, they bring in an alumnus

who talks about a choice that weighs on us all.

But now I listen closely,

I know a simple phrase can affect someone deeply,

“Come children time to pick your poison.”

“Take your time to choose so regret does not take hold.”

“Do not let your friends whisper because this road is yours alone.”

“As you lock in your choice you will walk with poise,

because you know you made the right choice.”

“Have confidence in the power you hold,

because nobody else has seen the stories you hold.”

“That is how you pick your poison.”

By: Ma'lon H., Grade 10

Blood Ain’t Thicker

They told me family was a bond meant to last,

but I learned that love could fade just as fast.

I scrolled through their joy, their smiles so wide,

watched from afar, no place by their side.

“Why weren’t we invited?” I asked with a frown,

my mom sighed and said, “Not everyone wants you around.”

The party lit up every screen I could see,

a reminder that family wasn’t meant for me.

I turned to my sister, her silence was loud,

both of us, outsiders, to our family crowd.

I looked at my mom, hoping for a reason,

she met my eyes and said, “Not everyone’s heart holds room for you.

You’re not going anywhere you’re not invited,

not everyone stays through every season.”

She told me stories of wounds left to grow,

of words unspoken, yet heavy to know.

“Your grandmother worked hard to pave my way,

but envy made them turn love to decay.”

I sat there quiet, piercing it through,

realizing family isn’t always for you.

Their smiles on the screen felt empty and cold,

love was a language I was never told.

We weren’t just forgotten—we were ignored,

erased from the picture, our presence implored.

That night, I learned what silence can do,

it speaks the truth they’d never tell you.

I stopped waiting for calls that NEVER came,

stopped holding on to a one-sided game.

If they won’t speak, neither will I,

I won’t reach for hands that let love die.

From then on, I learned what to do—

give the same energy that’s given to you.

My mom showed me love they never could give,

taught me that family is how you choose to live.

She held me up when their silence cut deep,

proved some bonds aren’t worth trying to keep.

Through her, I learned what real love should be,

built on trust, not just shared history.

The family tree may have roots that run deep,

but some branches rot, too broken to keep.

I stopped waiting, watering what refused to grow,

let go of the ones who let me go.

Now I see family for what it should be,

not just blood, but who stands by me.

It’s the ones who show love without a disguise,

who lift me up, not feed me lies.

I’ve let go of the hurt, left the past behind,

and found my peace with the love I define.

Grade 10

Untitled First Draft

Melissa sighted at her newfound situation, sitting under the table with the intention to overhear what Julian, her brother, said about her to his friends when she wasn’t there.

She, for one, already knew Julian talked about her to his friends, they’d giggle when she passed by them in the school halls, so it wasn’t that hard to notice.

Although she wasn’t sure of what she was even trying to accomplish by snooping into their conversations, she was already waiting for them to come into the living room, so what else was there to do?

As soon as she heard close steps, she moved to the middle of the table in case they sat down too, which turned out to be a good idea, since Julian and his friends all immediately sat down.

“So, about the Melissa thing,” Xavier, Julian’s middle school friend muttered.

Melissa could hear Julian groan in what she thought was irritation before he spoke, “Enough about that! It’s stressing me out, man.”

Stressing him out? Why would it? Melissa was the stressed one if anything. What were they talking about?

Luo Yi, Julian’s friend, hummed before adding to the conversation a comment that made it all bittersweet. “I think she’ll like the cake decorations, why stress? Don’t be silly.”

Huh?

Melissa popped her head out from under the table to find the three friends staring at her and giggling. When she looked in front of her, there was a cake propped up by a small table.

“Happy birthday, Melissa,” Julian said with a laugh.

Luo Yi was right, she loved the cake decorations.


This was a writing exercise from a Young Authors’ Book Project session at Phelps ACE High School. Here’s the prompt that the student used:

Write a story about what is happening in the picture below. Be sure to describe the setting, character(s), the main action of the story, and how it is resolved.

Person under a table
By: London, Grade 10

Talk the Talk

My mother was always a stickler for proper grammar when I was growing up. She would correct me to “yes” when I said “yeah” or “do not” when I said “don’t.” These habits followed me to where I am today, and according to family and fellow peers, they are detectable in my speech.

Throughout my life, I have been constantly told that I speak proper, or like a white person. I am African American, and my ethnicity has always been questioned because of the way I speak. I have always been seen by nmy peers and even family members as mixed or an “Oreo.” All of my life I have seen this as a deficit because of the taunting I received.

As I continued to grow, I thought that I should change the way I spoke due to comments from other people. I decided that if I spoke “slang” more often I could change the way I sounded. I tried to engage in conversation with peers in slang, but they told me that I did not sound right saying it. For example, when agreeing with someone I would say “kill moe,” and everyone would stare in silence. I thought that the way I spoke was a curse that my mother had plagued me with. I wanted to change the way I spoke badly so I could fit in with other people.

I constantly felt as if I was losing parts of myself, and I was not the only person who saw the metamorphosis I was going through. I received remarks from adults and peers regarding how I changed. I knew it was wrong, but I desperately wanted to fit in and not feel like the black sheep of the herd. I thought that changing my speech would make me feel like I was accepted, but I only felt more like an outcast.

It took me awhile and a lot of soul searching to finally find out who I was and what I wanted. I discovered that the way I speak is part of me, and that I should embrace it instead of shunning it away.

 

Originally published in Having To Tell Your Mother Is The Hardest Part.

By: Niya, Grade 10

Haiku

Stop asking fools for

acceptance when they are the

ones who need guidance

 

 

Originally published in “Spit Fire”

By: Treseat, Grade 10

Cool Disco Dan

In my city, Washington D.C., the buildings that crowd our streets are often colored. They have been, at times, temporarily decorated in the bright colors of Shepard Fairey’s famous stencil of President Obama; or otherwise come to be part of the very fabric of the city – John Bailey’s mural of Marilyn Monroe in Woodley Park comes to mind, as well Byron Pecks’ icon image of Duke Ellington on the True Reformer building overlooking the U-Street corridor. Yet despite all of the color and street art, Washington’s most famous urban artist didn’t do murals. He simply sprayed the name of his moniker, his alter ego, and left his mark on every part of the city at a time when graffiti as an art form and means of expression was just emerging. This is how the legend of “Cool Disco Dan,” was born.

His work is simple and immediately recognizable, his name in uppercase, encased in quotation marks. He would spray it in black or at times in red, and that was as about as colorful as he got. What really set Cool Disco Dan apart was his prolific output; there was a time in the 1980s where you could not go two to four blocks without seeing his name.

Cool Disco Dan emerged on the graffiti scene back when D.C. was Chocolate City, the murder capital, gang violence and the crack cocaine epidemic swept the city. Born east of the Anacostia river, he was raised in an impoverished community yet, in spite all of the adversity, it was a time when the streets were experiencing a cultural revival. A new rendition of hip-hop was making its way through the city’s streets; a cool mix between disco and funk dubbed “Go Go” arrived and was here to stay. Dan, like many other teens at this time, found himself caught up in it all, attending “Go Gos” and other parties that played the music. D.C. was making a name for itself throughout the country and Dan was there to bear it all.

“When D.C. was the murder capital, its was a lot more fun,” said an artist affiliated with Words Beats And Life, but who asked to remain unnamed. Word Beats And Life is a non-profit organization based in D.C. that works with the city’s urban youth. ”You could get away with a lot more as a graffiti artist. It felt a little bit freer. But I guess the trade off for that was the violence. I miss the old dirty grimy D.C. That was a cool time to be around.”

Dan began “tagging”, the act of leaving your name behind in different places, in 1984. At a time when graffiti carried heavy consequences, he was known for tagging in places that were open and unconcealed. Yet very few knew the man himself, there was a mystery to him and an attractive sense of intrigue, to know the artist at the time was an honor. If you didn’t know who Dan was you just weren’t in the middle of things, you weren’t cool.

Asad “ULTRA” Walker is also a D.C. based graffiti artist and close friend of Dan. Like his friend, Asad began tagging in the 80’s. “DC was full of graffiti taggers,” and I was hooked by the name-recognition without people knowing who I really was”. Asad brought a small answer to a big question, identity meant nothing, and the tag meant everything. Asad broke down exactly how graffiti in D.C. works. Are tags enough? Asad explained, “tags have as much aesthetic value as pieces. It’s a matter of context.” When asked about Dan, Asad had great things to say about the legend. He described Dan as an “awesome guy” a guy who “struggled” but also a guy that was, he says, “not the type to give up or compromise; I think that’s a major factor in how he got to be as well-known as he is.” Today Dan still sticks to his principles of yesteryear, and this includes remaining incognito. “I would say Dan is almost impossible to reach,” says Asad. “He’s very hard to pin down and we’re really trying to help him change that.” Aside from being an artist, Asad teaches Graffiti, works with at risk youth and has also taught at the D.C. Public School’s Incarcerated Youth Program, a high school inside of the DC jail.

“Dan is up there with the greats. He is one of the few artist in the graffiti world that got massive amounts of respect, without doing crazy pieces,” said the Words Beats And Life artist. “For me he was a ghetto celebrity.” Not everyone felt the same way. Not everyone felt the same way about Cool Disco Dan. “I wanted to get him so bad” said my father, a sergeant in the Metropolitan Police Department and a 23-year veteran.

Today, D.C. is going through a transition, some things are better and others are worst. In the midst of this latest ‘revival’ the graffiti artists emerge as repositories for our cultural history, taking us back to a day when Go-go was the city’s theme song. “Graffiti to me is all about making letters look as interesting as possible with the appropriate style, in the appropriate place,” says the Words Beat And Life artist, “You’re just like any other artist, but your canvas is usually walls.”

The eighties are now over, yet Cool Disco Dan should not be considered a washed up graffiti artist. Instead, he is among the last living artifacts of the Chocolate City. Today he can be described as nomad – a phantom of sorts but his story lives on. History repeats itself, the legend doesn’t die out it multiplies itself. Dan serves as an inspiration to other street artists in the city, forever part of the story contributing to the reason why the city’s buildings remain beautifully painted.