The Creative Righters Journal
Memoirs
Nightmare House
Charlotte N. - Age 10
For the first time, I held my dad’s life within my tiny 7 year old hands. On top of the rickety roof, the wind blew violently and shook the tiles like loose teeth. Shivering, my dad bravely climbed up the roof only with a deteriorated soggy rope tied around his waist. The string which held my dad from falling off was tied onto the balcony door and was slowly starting to loosen. I grabbed onto the rope like it was the end of the world. “It’s too dangerous Daddy! You have to come down now!” I screamed to my dad. He continued to climb up and said, “I’ll be fine Childe.”
Wait, you must be wondering how I got here. Well, it all started when my dad and mom had an idea to build a dream house for our family. This home was supposed to be a gathering area for everyone in our big family, including my grandma, Ama. My parents decided to buy a worn out house, tear it down, and make it the house of our dreams. I thought to myself, “This is crazy!”
A couple months later, I visited the worn out house to see nothing there at all. All that was left was an empty hole in the ground where the old house used to stand. My dad had the construction team destroy and remove the entire 120 year old house. I was so surprised, I couldn’t believe it. How were we going to finish this house? There was nothing left for us to build on. We had so much to take care of already. My grandmother had become bedridden and ill and we had my little 1 year old sister to take care of.
How could anything get worse?
Of course, it did. Coronavirus came and the construction workers were forced to stop building the house. My dad couldn’t stand looking at the half built home we had been working on for already 2 years. It was such an eyesore to him that my dad decided to work on it himself with the help of little old me, a 7 year old who had taken 1 summer of wood shop classes at the YMCA. I knew I could help build this house.
So, he took me to the balcony of the wrecked home and tied a string around his waist. “ Do you see this?” He pointed to the dreary rope and said, “I’m going to tie the other end onto the balcony door and climb up the roof so I can paint it.” That’s how we got to the rooftop.
Anyways, let's continue.
As the wind roared, my dad tripped on the rooftop with the bucket in his hand, and was about to fall down head first. He recovered his footing, to my relief. My dad began to work, painting the roof tiles quickly, so he could move onto the next. Covering every little crack with black paint, his hands shook with nervousness, in fear of falling. Every time my dad moved, his heart made a loud thumping sound. After feeling satisfied with his work, my dad cautiously climbed the ladder to get back onto the balcony. I was so glad he made it back alive that I screamed with tears of joy in my eyes.
We left the ‘dream house’ to go back and check on my mom and Ama. But, instead of seeing their happy faces, we saw a doctor talking to my mom. I went to wash my hands when I overheard a little bit of the conversation. The doctor was shaking his head and whispered, “She’s not going to make it. Your mom doesn’t have much time left.” The doctor swiftly walked out of the door with his group of nurses. My mom was holding in her tears, trying not to cry. I was too and I could see my dad was also trying to hold in his tears. The dream house didn’t seem to matter at all anymore.
A couple weeks later, the builders were allowed to start working again and we were making lots of progress. The house was a month away from finishing and my mom told me to stay at my other grandma’s house for a week. I said goodbye to Ama knowing it would be the last time I could see her. I walked to the car with tears in my eyes. Helping my baby sister into the car, I looked back at the window seeing my mom wave back at me with a sorrowful look in her eyes. My dad, sister and I didn’t say a word as we drove to my other grandma’s house.
When we finally reached our destination, my dad's mom warmly welcomed us in. Even though her welcome was sweet, it couldn’t shake my sadness. Every night before I went to bed I would rock myself back and forth thinking about how Ama was.
When we finally came back to see mom and Ama, the house felt dark and grim with a smell of depression in the air. My mom welcomed us back and said,“Ama was suffering a lot, but now she’s feeling better. Even though she isn’t here with us she doesn’t feel any pain anymore. ” As she said this, tears started to steam down her face.
We all cried for a long time and held each other.
When my mom said that, I knew what she was trying to sugar-coat - Ama’s death. Before this, we had spent every day talking to Ama about the blueprints of the house, showing her every detail. Everytime we did, she would say, “Oh this house looks so great! Which room is mine? Give me the biggest room please.”
Now, when I think about it, she had been so excited for the house. But, she passed away right before we finished. Our family had been crushed. The biggest dream we had was living together with Ama in this house - to spend good times with people close to her. But we were too late. Ama had died 1 month before the house was finished.
My dad was so depressed. My mom was anxious and mad, but I couldn’t do anything. My dad said, “ What a terrible idea this was, building this house. We should just sell it.” My mom said, “ Why did we even do this? We should have just spent the rest of the time we could with Ama.”
All these negative ideas circled the family like a never ending storm. I felt like I wanted to do something, but I was helpless. I walked up to my dad as he was rocking back and forth in a chair and said, “ You can’t give up now Daddy, we're so close. Even if Ama isn’t here we still have to finish it. Let’s make her dream come true. We can do it together."
My dad looked at me with shocked eyes. I thought he would yell at me. But instead, he couldn’t believe the words I had just spoken. “You know what?” he said. “You’re right Childe.”
After weeks of hard work we finally finished and moved into the dream house. It was almost perfect - multiple bathrooms and bedrooms for everyone. It would have been perfect though if Ama was there to see it with us. Even though there were times where we wanted to just sell the hole in the ground and give up, we pushed through and overcame all the challenges.
The other day, my dad came up to me and said, “ Thanks Childe.” I looked at him in confusion and I said, “ For saving you from getting blown off of the roof?” He chuckled a little and said, “ No silly, for keeping me from giving up.”
Lost and Found
Madeline R., Age 13
The carousel slowed down. The music stopped. After a dizzying spin, kids hopped off their wooden horses, laughing and cheering. But not Laura. Six-year-old Laura, head still spinning from the ride, searched through all the strange faces. But none of them was her Mommy. Panic swelled into her throat. A tight knot wrapped within her stomach. Hot tears blurred her eyes and the colorful carousel turned instantly into a haunted house. Lauda stood frozen, a tiny island lost in a sea of legs.
Then, a loud voice shouted through the roar. "Laura!"
It was Mommy. Her voice was heavy with worry. Finally, Laura could breathe again. Relief washed over her warm and soft. She turned and finally saw Mom, pushing through the crowd.
Mom scooped her up in a crushing hug. Tears spilled down Laura’s cheeks, hot and sticky, but this time, they were tears of joy. Buried in her arms, the chaotic carousel disappeared. She was safe, with her Mom, and everything was okay again. The Spinning Carousel …never again.
The Racist Warehouse
Alicia B., Age 14
It was a beautiful August morning. The sun was brightly shining on my sunglasses while my mother drove the U-haul truck to a warehouse in Santa Ana, California. As my mother drove down the streets of Santa Ana, I looked out the window and began to realize that the mixture of people was no longer a mixture; there was only white.
When we arrived at the warehouse, I had to peel my arm off the side of the hot door like a burnt sausage off a skillet. There were not many cars in the parking lot, and I could see the heat waves. As we walked up the boiling pavement, it felt like we were walking through a scorching desert. When we walked into the warehouse, there was a variety of electronic appliances to choose from, and about three-fourths of them were white (of course).
About every 15 minutes, a salesperson followed us around and asked if we needed help, as if we didn't belong there. My mother really dislikes it when salespersons constantly ask if we need help; she feels if she needs their help, she’ll ask for it. Finally, after about two and a half boring hours of looking for any scratches or marks on the dryers and refrigerators that might fit best in our new apartment, my mother picked a dryer and refrigerator that were just right. She then let the salesperson know, and he replied with a smile, “All right, you can pick up your items in the back in about five minutes.” My mother said, “Thank you,” in a nice, friendly voice and walked across the scorched pavement to drive the truck to the back.
When we got to the back, there were about three open spaces for picking up appliances. My mother chose the first parking spot she saw, which was by a white family’s car. Then she showed the employees the receipt for the appliances she had just bought. They said, “All right, we’ll be with you in just a minute.” While I waited for my mother, I looked over and smiled at the white lady in the next car, but instead of smiling back like a nice young woman, she frowned at me like I had something hanging from my nose. At first I thought, “Well, maybe she is having a bad day.” Then a few minutes later the people working at the warehouse started to look at my mother and me in a mean way. Then I figured that maybe something was on my face, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw nothing. At the time, I had only spent nine years and some months on this planet. I didn’t know racism was still around; I thought that situation had died along with Dr. King.
Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. We sat there watching people get their appliances and leave. We seemed invisible to them. As I sat in the car, burning up and listening to one of the most boring radio stations my mother could possibly like, I was thinking, “We’d better leave or else I’ll go ballistic!” After 30 minutes had passed, my mother got frustrated and politely asked to have our items loaded. Five more minutes passed, and she asked again with an attitude. They replied, “We’ll be with you in a minute, ma’am.” I could tell she was beginning to get upset because she started to get that “don’t bother me” look. Five minutes later they finally packed our appliances on the truck.
When we left the warehouse, I described to my mother what the other people were doing. She explained, “They were racist. They didn’t like us because we have different skin color.”
That was my first encounter with racism. It was just a small slice of reality—that everyone isn’t going to be as nice as you, your friends, and your family might be; and that just because you look nice and politely smile at others, it doesn’t mean that others will treat you the same. This situation made me feel very out of place and confused. I didn’t expect those people to react as they did. We are all civilized, intelligent, caring, peaceful people . . . or at least that is what I had believed.
Jinx
Anna B., Age 13
On a gloomy, rain filled afternoon, I sat on the couch feeling lonely.
But I wasn’t alone. A wet nose massaged my hand. There, looking up at me with sad brown eyes, was Jinx, my sweet little terrier.
Jinx isn't just a dog. She's my best friend for life. With a whine, she hopped onto the couch, burying herself under my arm. Her warmth poured into my bones. It was a silent comfort. I wrapped my arm around her, rubbing my face in her soft fur. A happy sigh escaped her, and a choked laugh grew in me.
Jinx has this magical ability to sense my emotions. When I'm down, she becomes a furry shadow of support. When I'm happy, her playfulness arrives - her tail wagging a joyful pattern. We chase each other through the park, her barks echoing my laughter.
Jinx may not understand my words, but she speaks a language far more important – the language of loyalty and friendship. When she cuddles me, I have the strength to face any challenge.
With Jinx near me, I can find rays of sunshine even on the rainiest of days.
Super Duper Pizza Party
Alison C., Age 10
Attention young chefs!
Let’s make the best meal ever: pizza! It's like a giant edible canvas. Are you ready to make your own masterpiece?
First, grab some pizza dough. Mix flour, water and yeast, if you want to be extra awesome and make it from scratch. Or, use a slice of white bread if you don’t have it.
Now roll the dough out and make it thin and round. Twirl it in the air a couple times like a real pro, but don’t drop it on the floor. If you do, take a napkin and wipe it clean and pretend it never happened!
Now comes the fun part: toppings! Use tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and pepperoni slices. If you don’t have any pizza sauce, use a packet of ketchup. If you don’t have mozzarella cheese, use a slice of Kraft yellow cheese. Trust me, it sounds terrible, but it’s still good. Sprinkle some oregano seasoning if you don’t have pepperoni.
Once you've chosen your toppings, help spread the sauce on the dough. Then sprinkle on the cheese and pile high your favorite toppings.
Finally, put your masterpiece in a hot oven until the crust is golden brown and the cheese is all bubbly. Yummy!
Giving Life
Julie F., Age 13
It was a hot summer day.
My dad and I were getting ready to go out for a ride on the boat with my friend Katie and the dog. That’s when the phone call came, the call that made that bright, beautiful day a cold, dark, gloomy one.
I had just put on my suit, shorts, and tank top, and packed my bag with sunscreen and everything else I would need for the day. I ran into my parents’ room to find Dad. When I saw him on the phone, he was crying. I’d never seen my dad cry before. My heart sank. What possibly could have happened?
“Max, I’m so sorry,” I heard him say. That’s when it hit me. I knew that Suzie had died.
Max has been my dad’s best friend for years. Suzie, his daughter, had a rare disease that mainly affected her body. Her brain was OK. She knew what was going on; she knew that she had problems and was different than other kids. Once she told her dad that she wished she could die and be born in a different body. Yet although she couldn’t live a normal life, she was still happy.
When Suzie and I were little, we spent quite a bit of time together. As we grew up, we grew apart. She lived in New York, and I lived in the Midwest. When Suzie was ten she had to live in a hospital in Virginia. About eight months before she died, Max gave us her number at the hospital and we talked at least twice a week until the end. Suzie was always so excited to talk to us and wanted to know every detail about my life. She wanted to know everything I did and everything I ate. In a way, she lived through me.
After we found out about her death, we made our plans to go to New York for the funeral. When she was alive, I sent her a Beanie Baby and she sent one back to me. I had bought her another one but never had the chance to send it to her, so I took it to put in her casket.
Her funeral was very different than any funeral I’d ever been to. After they lowered her casket, each one of us put a shovelful of dirt over her. I remember crying so hard, I felt weak. My cheeks burned from the tears. My whole body was shaking as I picked up the shovel, but I’m glad I did it.
When Suzie and I first started calling one another, I thought it would be more of a burden on me, but I was completely wrong. I learned so much from her. She gave me more than I could ever give to her. I will never forget her or the talks we had. I now know that I must never take anything for granted, especially my health and the gift of life.
