Slam What?

     What do Shane Koyczan, Sarah Kay and Katie Makkai all have in common?

     They are slam poets. Now, most people may not even really know who these gifted people are. These people are part of the brilliant world of Slam Poetry. For those who don't know, a poetry slam is a competition where poets gather and perform and recite their original poetry. Members of the audience are selected at random to judge both the performance and the poem on a numeric scale of one to ten. Now, one may think to themselves: "What is so interesting about people reciting poetry?" But these poems aren't anything like those "roses are red, violets are blue..." poems, or just a piece of writing that rhymes like most people seem to associate "poetry" with. In fact, since slam poetry is spoken word poetry it's entirely different than just a regular poem. Slam poetry often resembles a speech, but what's different about them is not only the way it is written (often with rhythm or rhyme) but the way it is presented. These three poets use poetry to express themselves. They use words to create and inspire. But most importantly, they do not just stand on the stage and recite. They perform, and engage the audience. They have a gift, and they deserve to be known.

     Katie Makkai recites a poem called "Pretty". She uses the power of her voice to tackle an issue many young girls can easily relate to. A question that fills, or at one point has filled up their minds like a thick, black cloud of lethal smoke; "Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Pretty? Pretty." This poem is inspirational, and Makkai does an excellent job of showing the world that the word "pretty" is nothing more than "a five letter word." Many young girls at younger and younger ages find themselves "stung-stayed with insecurity"; Over analyzing and questioning themselves, as if their entire lives depend on whether or not they have "porcelain skin", Disney princess hair, or the body of a Victoria Secret model. She makes it clear that the word pretty is "unworthy of everything [girls] will be." The poem has a strong, clear message: that pretty is just a word that has no significant meaning. Where's the happiness in life if one spends their entire time trying to do everything to make themselves "pretty". Learn how to wear joy, and discover that pretty means nothing if not immediately followed by words like "intelligent", "creative" or "amazing". One should never settle for "merely 'pretty'."

     Sarah Kay performs a beautiful poem called "If I Should Have a Daughter". In the poem, Kay talks about positivity, and things she will say to her future daughter. She makes it clear that "this life will hit you, hard, in the face. Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air." She uses an extended metaphor throughout the poem. That one day her daughter will realize that "wonder woman isn't coming. But when that day comes, she will realize that "she [won't] have to wear the cape all by herself." Or that when one day when she'll "step out of the phone booth and try to fly [...] the very people [she'll] want to save will be the ones standing on [her] cape." But nonetheless she won't be alone. And even when life gets her down, she will realize that "those are the very days [she] has all the more reason to say 'thank you.'"The theme in this poem is beautiful, it's positive. The poem itself is inspiring, and it reminds the audience that "this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it." And that even when life becomes difficult or unbearable, there is always a lesson to be learned, and beauty to be found.

     One of the most powerful and influential spoken word poets is a man named Shane Koyczan. His words reach into the reader, and pull out emotions like no other poet. Beauty doesn't begin to describe Koyczan's writing. Shane is best known for "To This Day" a poem he wrote about the bullying he faced as a child. But there is more to Shane than just "To This Day". "The Crickets Have Arthritis" is a poem about a nine year old boy who he meets during a short hospital stay. The boy is visibly sick, and he "doesn't have to ask what he's got- the bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes." Ultimately, this young boy changes his life, with his smiles and his patience. A patience he'd "never seen in someone who knew they were dying." Beautiful isn't a strong enough word to describe this powerful piece. The poem has a tenacious message- that courage is often found where no one is looking for it. Koyczan, before building a relationship with the young, wise boy, was "afraid of a fifty-seven pound boy, hooked up to a machine." But as the story goes on, the young boy helps him find courage, and "bravery in this world." He learns that "there's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath [people] take has to be given back."

     Spoken word poetry is powerful. It opens hearts and it opens eyes. It allows for the audience to see things in new perspectives, and learn things about themselves. Makkai, Kay, and Koyczan are extremely talented artists, and their talents deserve to be shared with the world. Slam poetry is beautiful. It's an art. And it never ceases to touch the hearts of the audience.

     

     I walked into the hospital waiting room and sat down desperate to hear some good news about my brother. Initially, I heard nothing but the alarmed, rhythmic pounding of my heart. I stared only at my mother, hoping to see any suggestions that perhaps something had changed since she called me and informed me of the accident. But as I had predicted- nothing. She looked more fearful than she sounded over the phone. Not saying anything, I began taking in the environment in which I was placed. 

     

     The hospital room smelled like a synthetic, clean death.Crowded, the waiting room was filled with several, diverse groups of people. The sick, the impatient, the distressed. A variety of emotions across the board.

     In the corner of the room, where the glare of the florescent lights on the tile floor seemed to glow brighter than any other square inch in the room, sat a boy and a girl playing with the toys supplied by the hospital. 
      Sitting across the room from the children, on the chairs directly across from the television set, sat an elderly couple. The man was attached to a device to assist him with his breathing, his facial features twisted and contorted demonstrating both the pain he was in and the fear that had, apparently, been recently bestowed upon him.  

     Beeping. Constant beeping. Whispers, cries, distressed breathing. Moans and groans, prayers and arguments. A woman's nails tapping on the screen of her phone as she sends a text, a man's newspaper rattling as he turns the pages of the local paper. So many different sounds were heard. The more I focused on them, the louder they became in my ears. The more I focused the more I heard. The sizzling of a pop can being opened, the rattle of a chip bag being opened or the remains of a sandwich wrapper being balled up and thrown in the garbage. 
     There are the sounds of a pen clicking. The soothing voice of a nurse trying to calm down a man, drunkenly slurring his words and looking around him in a state of panic and confusion. Distant sirens, distant coins clinking in the vending machine. All these sounds, built up in my mind, making me go crazier and crazier as I awaited the news of my brother's state. 

     Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore, and I rose abruptly, startling my mother. I told her I was going to get myself some coffee. I walked the short distance down the hallway and through the automatic sliding doors. I was then in an area with a variety of vending machines and a "bar" to make coffee and tea. 
     Once my coffee was ready, I poured the steaming liquid into a styrofoam cup, added my regular amount of sugar and cream, and made my way back to the waiting area to rejoin my mom. As I walked back, I remembered how uncomfortable the metal chairs were, and I found myself dreading going back into the waiting area, for more than one reason. The plastic, thin padded seat offered little to no comfort for the back and the derrière. I returned to my seat and immediately began crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to find a comfortable position despite the cold metal armrests the dug into my forearms, painfully. 
     Giving up on finding a comfortable position, I carefully took a sip of my coffee, looking forward to tasting something good, considering everything else was going bad. However, rather than tasting something sweet, and wonderfully caffeinated as I had been expecting too, I tasted something extremely watered down, bitter, and all around lousy. Making a sour face, I swallowed despite how badly I wanted to get up and spit it out, and I placed the cup behind the leg of my chair, leaving it there. 

     Just as I placed my coffee cup down, a nurse walked into the waiting room and asked for the "Ricciardi's?"
     My mother and I looked at each other and raised our hands. The nurse slowly walked over, looking down at the notes from the doctor on her clipboard. She was only a few steps away and in reality it only took her a couple of seconds to reach us, but it seemed like an eternity. She opened her mouth, took and breath and spoke to us the words we have been waiting all night to hear. 

     "He will be fine."

I Have a Dream

     Four years ago, I took my first steps through the double doors of Princess Margaret. Four years ago, I began my journey into the abyss that is high school. My life went from watching Hannah Montana every day after school, to studying, to working, to rehearsing every single day. My life completely changed.

     Since high school has begun, I have initiated a collection of dreams.

     For starters, I have a dream that rather than spending my evenings struggling with the force of writers block, coming up with cheesy writing assignments for English class, I can be completely honest in my assignments; and tell you that I would much rather be discussing Pretty Little Liars plot twists in my jogging pants than trying to invent dreams worthy of a speech.

     I dream of weekends where I can fully relax and enjoy dinners with my family, and not be conjugating Spanish verbs between bites.

     I dream of a day where my 95.2% will be enough. Where I don't obsess over getting enough volunteering done, to prove to universities that I am a well rounded person. Where I don't obsess over getting that extra 0.8% in a class. Where I can fill my mind with thoughts other than history facts and synonyms. Where I can worry about things other than how high my GPA is.

     Will I get into university without knowing how to graph polinomnials?
     Will I be able to break down these walls of intellect, and for one class, one hour, one minute, not worry about what "shortly" means according to UVic and Canada Post?
     Will Mrs Grant kill me if I forget another line?
     Will she really, in the end, make me wear that dreadful hot pink wig?

     I dream of a day that I have dreams worthy of a speech. Of a day that my dreams grow to be as bold, as inspiring, as significant as those of Martin Luther King Jr. Of a day that my dreams are worthy of a national holiday.

     But for now, I dream a different kind of dream: Inner peace and money for Starbucks. I dream that the voices in my head will cease to debate: do I buy that Mustang Egger or do I save every dollar, every penny, and buy that perfect prom dress for that perfect night?

     I wish for day that I am not working for minimum wage and can afford some of my bigger dreams. Like the hundreds of shoes on my list or that plane ticket to Europe.

     I wish for a day where I don't waste time worrying about what my future holds, what I can do to perfect every project that I work on, and what my next scholastic step is. That I can be true to myself and give myself the spontaneous, adventurous life style I have always craved.

     I especially wish that Mr Van Camp will grasp the importance of this speech, not only for semester 1 English, but for my entire scholastic career; and will help me reach my wish of a golden 96% average shining bright in my hands as I hold my report card on November 8th.

     My name is Giorgia Ricciardi and I have many wishes. I wish that one day some of my more trivial dreams will be fulfilled, and I will allow myself to follow the dreams that continuously grow inside of me. I wish that I will allow myself to free the worries that anchor me down to the ground everyday. I truly wish that when that day comes, I too will be standing before crowds of people, inspiring others to dream as large as I do.

 

    

George looked up from shoeing the horse to see the outline of Curley's wife in the doorway of the barn. They were alone.

George's eyes widen in utter shock. He drops the hoof knife and quickly brings his hands to his eyes, rubbing them as if to wipe the image away. When he opens his eyes again, the hour glass figure is still standing in the doorway.
     "Hullo George." she purrs.
     "It... it... is you! This can't be real! They tol' me you was dead. I woulda bet all thumbs that yous was dead!" hollered George
     "Keep ya voice down will ya, you gon' wake the entire town up with ya thunderin' voice." she calmy replies, angering George even more.
     "How can it be. Yous was dead. I'm imaginin' things now, I'm imaginin' things." he frantically repeats. "How are ya here. Ya here to teach me some sorta lesson or somethin'? Ya here to tell me I was wrong for shootin' my best friend? I didn' wan'ta, I'm tellin' ya, I didn' wan'ta."

Curley's wife is now slowy walking into the barn. Every step she takes toward George is a step he takes away from her. Part of him knows very well what he is seeing is as real as the crow flies, but still he isn't able to brush off the fact that he swears he saw her dead as a doornail. 

     "I was fakin'-"
     "Why you're crazier than a loon!" interrupts George, cold as ice. 
     "Change your tune George, ain't ya happy to see me? I did it for us. We can run away together, me 'n you. Dontcha want that? Ya told me yourself you was attracted to the danger of bein' with me. Well now you can be with me. This is a get outta jail free card." Curley's wife justifies.
     "I killed my best friend. I killed him because everyone thought you was dead, and they all thought Lennie was the one who don' it. We may have had our little love affair, but lightening never strikes the same place twice. Now I'm gon' lay down the law and you're gon' save your breath and shut your trap."

She shakes her head no and opens her mouth as if to say something, but George looks at her through evil eyes and she quickly slaps her jaw shut.
   
     "You're lower than a snake's belly for doin' what ya did. I could never be with someone as twisted as you. Because of you my companion is gone." He clenches his fists, knuckles turing white. "Now I could kill ya, but two wrongs don't make no right. So today you're lucky. But get out. Go far, far from here. And I swear by the life o' me  if you come back or if I ever see ya again on God's green earth ya better wish on the stars I spare you your life a second time. Now go." George says, out of breath from his rampage.

Stunned, Curley's wife slowly backs away; her face pale, her eyes wide in disbelief and her knees trembling. She reaches the doors to the barn and stops. George takes one step toward her, both fists still clenched. She jumps and before she turns and runs away in the dark of the night, she whispers "Goodbye George." and disappears.

All for one and '1 4 all.

     
      Ever since I completed my very first day of school, back in September of 2001, I have heard everyone around me say "Enjoy these years while they last. Before you know it you'll be walking across the stage, diploma in hand, wondering where the time flew."

     Every year seemed to drag on and on. Then I reached high school, where my link crew leader told me the same thing. "Enjoy these next four years at Maggie, because before you know it, it'll be your last year and you'll be wondering where the time flew.". Based on previous years, and how it always seemed to be an eternity before the school year ended and summer rolled around yet again, I naively didn't believe her. Now three weeks ago I found myself walking through the double doors of Princess Margaret Secondary School, on my last first day thinking to myself: "wow... turns out they were all right. How am I already here? I am now a senior student. Top of the school. It's my very.. last.. first.. day."

   They say this is the year. This is your year. Make it worth it. Cherish it.
If I could go back in time and tell myself one thing it would be this: take their advice. Listen to what they have to say.. because believe it or not, when you find yourself facing your final year (which you will before you know it) you'll regret not playing messy musical chairs in the common area.. or playing rock 'em sock 'em with your best friend. Just get involved, as much as you can.

   The scariest thing about grade 12 isn't who you're going to go to prom with.. or whether or not you're going to trip on the stage on your way to collect the diploma you've been dreaming of since the first day you stepped into a school (well.. this might be a bit of a lie.. it is a pretty terrifying thought.). It's not even filling out the university applications, or the hours spent on your laptop trying to find the perfect 325 words for that scholarship essay you have to write. To me, it's wondering how the years have managed to, as the cliché goes, fly by. It's wondering what the future holds for me, now that I'll be leaving not only the comfort of home, but also oddly enough, the comfort of high school.. never thought I'd be saying that. But then again.. grade 12, already, seems to be making a huge impact in my life, and has me considering things, feelings things, and wondering things I never thought I would have.

Giorgia on my mind

      Globetrotter. Bi-Lingual. History geek and in her eyes a photographer. Born in '96, during an icy winter. Perhaps the bitter cold she faced as a newborn has something to do with how quickly she grows tired of the crisp months and the way she finds herself craving the long, peaceful summer days again.

      Her name is Giorgia. The name is, literally, like a melody. It always causes people to sing that Ray Charles song. The name that she has never been able to find on a keychain or a magnet. The name that is almost always misspelled. Giorgia is in many ways an average teenage girl. She hates Monday mornings. She loves starbucks. She's got a bad case of the 'like' disease and she loves to shop. But in many ways she's far from ordinary. She's been to Italia a grand total of 6 times, and seen 6 different European countries and she hasn't even hit 17 yet. In her free time she gets a kick out of watching youtube videos on how to speak various languages. Hej, jag heter Giorgia, och youtube som lärde mig grundläggande svenska. Jag älskar språk!
Her iPod is filled with music that isn't English, and she is capable of taking hundreds of pictures in one day.

     She is full of dreams and knows where she wants to go in the future. Ambitious, head-strong, and determined, nothing will ever get in her way once she sets her mind to something. These are traits she has carried with her from an early age, and traits that -hopefully- will never leave her.
 
    She's just an old sweet song, with a desirous heart full of dreams, adventures, and wanderlust.

She used to think.

     
      She was an average little girl. She played with her barbies, her collection of the "perfect" pretty skinny little blond dolls growing over the years. She ate her daily portion of fruits and vegetables, just like mommy told her to. She went outside and played with her neighbor, whom she was also supposed to marry when she got older. And, she watched TV. She loved watching tv... as a very young girl when she wasn't watching Disney movies, she was watching the Winnie the Pooh tv show, or Barney. Then she hit 6 years old, and she started watching some other things.. like Much Music, that had guests like Britney Spears and other famous celebrities of the time. She became fascinated by the story and the fame of these celebrities, and she started noticing them on the covers of magazines on the shelves in grocery stores. She noticed they all had something in common: they were beautiful, and they were skinny. Now as a young girl she was slim and the smallest in the class. But suddenly she became afraid of putting on a few pounds and not being beautiful like all the women she saw on the covers on magazines and in the tv shows. She used to think that being skinny was being beautiful. And the older she got the more obsessed she became with wanting to be "beautiful".

        There was always a little voice in the back of her mind telling her that she's not beautiful. That she's not skinny enough. But she was always strong enough, or maybe just too scared to really do anything about it, until she hit the teen years. She used to think that being skinny was being beautiful. And now, she would do whatever it took to be pretty, skinny, beautiful.
Do you really need to eat that?
Don't accept the ride home, you can walk, who cares if it's all uphill, you want to lose weight.
You ate too much today. Get rid of it.
You can go to bed hungry, it's okay.
Skinny.
Pretty.
Beautiful.
You want a "bikini body"
You want clothes to look good on you.
You want boys to think you're,
pretty.
skinny.
beautiful.
She used to think so low of herself. She used to think skinny. It took her a long time to pull herself up to a better place. She still fights it from time to time. But skinny is just a word. And she doesn't want to be just... pretty.

      She used to think being skinny was beautiful. The words floated around her head like something you'd see in a cartoon... skinny... pretty... beautiful... skinny... pretty... beautiful...
But now she thinks there's more to her than just her looks. She won't let the media tell her what beautiful is. She will make her own definition.

Erica Jong said, “If you don’t risk anything, you risk more”.

      "If you don't risk anything, you risk more."
       What could this possibly mean? How are you risking more if you don't risk anything at all.. wouldn't that just be the safe way out? If you don't take the risk you have nothing to fear... right?
Wrong. If you don't take the risk now, you could end up facing something that will follow you and haunt you for a very long time to follow.. Regret.
"Why didn't I go on that roller coster in Disneyland... what if I never go back, and I never have the chance to go on it?"
"Why didn't I talk to that cute boy? He seemed interested, but I got too nervous and walked away.. maybe that simple 'Hello' could have turned into something really amazing."
"Why didn't I tell my parents the truth when I had the chance too.. I know I would have gotten in trouble then, but now they've found out on their own, and I'm in even more trouble than I would have been if I just told them myself."
These are just a few examples of how not taking a risk could result in regret, and risking more for yourself than if you just took the risk when you first had a chance to. When opportunity knocks, open the door! You never know what amazing opportunity could be on the other side. Maybe it's the chance to go on your dream vacation.. Or maybe it's just the mailman. But if you don't allow yourself to take that risk, you'll never know what truly magnificent things you can experience in your life.

How are you similar to one of the main characters of your novel?

      Death. Death is the common factor that I share with Lindsay and Buckley Salmon two characters in my book "The Lovely Bones" by Alice Sebold. Their eldest sister, Susie, was murdered, and now not only are Buckley and Lindsay left to face the hardships of the mysterious murder of their sister, but the whole family is. As a child, close to Buckley's age, my older brother passed away. His untimely passing, much like Susie's, left a huge impact on me and my family. The suffering that Susie's parents face is much like the suffering that my own parents faced. I lived through it. It's easy for me to relate, mostly to Buckley because he is close to the age that I was at when my own brother passed. It's hard to fully understand what is happening at that age... you just think that they're on some sort of extended vacation. You see everyone around you struggling to smile for you, and although you're young you know this, you know when someone isn't truly happy. You do what you can to comfort them, to make them smile again, because you miss their smile. At one point in my novel, Buckley found Susie's dad sitting on the floor in Susie's bedroom, crying. Buckley was unsure of what to do, and Susie's dad called him over and they sat together. Susie's dad clung to Buckley and reminded him how special he is to him. Buckley just nodded head seriously and kissed his father on the cheek. I did something much like this when my brother passed away and I found my mom crying on the staircase the day I got home from school. I went up to her, I hugged her and I told her everything would be okay. She tried to explain to me what had happened but I had troubles understanding her... however as I looked around me and saw my family all together in the living room, and a house full of grieving strangers I knew that something awfully horrible had happened, and that from now on our lives would be missing something. I imagine this is how Buckley must feel too, therefore it is very easy for me to be able to put myself in not only his position but Lindsay's and Susie's parents positions as well. Losing a family member is not an easy thing. Watching your family go through a loss like this at a young age, and growing up with other peoples' memories of a person you should remember, you wish you could remember, but you just simply just can't remember changes you, forever.

The perfect machine.

If an ATM machine were custom designed for me, there would be a selection of things being spewn out besides money. On the big, closet sized ATM machine there are a variety of buttons. The big pink button in the middle blasts out clothing items that I pick out on polyvore and pinterest. The little sparkling button right underneath the clothing button, is just for accessories.. rings, earrings, bracelets, hair accessories, shoes, nail polish, hair accessories, you name it! Off to the right of the big pink button, is the location of a purple puppy button. Pressing this button gives me the selection of a variety of puppy dogs. Now these aren't just regular puppies.. these puppies stay puppies forever. Once a puppy always a puppy. There are laberdoodle puppies, pomsky puppies, miniature husky puppies, maltese-poodle puppies, pug puppies, german shepard puppies, hush puppies, golden retriever puppies, labrador puppies, etc. To the left of the big pink button, lies a red button. After pushing this magical red button, you were to select any place in the world you wish to travel to, and the amount of time you wished to be on vacation for, and voilà! Out comes the (free) plane ticket to the place of your desire. I, of course, prefer to select places in the wonderful Europe. Italia, France, España, Nederland, Deutschland, Danmark, Sverige, you name it! I would also select places in Asia, and Africa for missions trips, and the Caribbean for relaxation. The final button is located at the botton of the perfect machine. This nifty beige little button gives me a selection of cameras. Vingate cameras, small cameras, polaroid cameras, professional cameras, digital cameras, water proof cameras, video cameras, all the selection you could possibly need for the highest quality photography!
All of this in one machine, just for me. The machine is programmed to recognize my finger prints, and no one else's. Therefore, no one can steal plane tickets, puppies, cameras or my perfect shoes!

Changing History

     
"Please don't do this..." I manage to say, barely audible. The officer looks down at me, his eyes daggers. "Give me one good reason not to kill you. You and your kind go against everything the Fuhrer stands for. You're filth. You're a stain on the perfect Aryan race. So tell me 4587... why shouldn't I kill you."

For a moment.. just a quick moment.. I close my eyes. I close my eyes, and I think back to what my life was like before I found myself in this horrendous place. I remember where my life began to change for me.

The date is January, 1933. Adolf Hitler has just been appointed reich chancellor of Germany, by our President Hindenburg. My father does not like Adolf Hitler. I've heard him tell my mother so. I do not have much of an opinion on the man.. however I do not know his ideals. Being a 13 year old girl, I do not follow politics, nor do I have much interest in them. I prefer to read books, play my violin and go out for ice cream with my friends. My father is a smart man, and if he does not like Hitler, I shall not like Hitler either. He says now that Hitler has wormed his way into the Reichstag, he will eventually become head of state, and if that happens our lives will never be the same. He will not tell me what exactly he means by this, but he is a strong believer in it.

August, 1934. Hitler is now the President of Germany. It’s amazing how much one’s opinion can change in just 19 months. I now know how I feel about Hitler, and not just because of my father’s view on him. I fear for the safety of the Jewish people not just in Germany, but perhaps all of Europe too. I can feel it in my gut, and I know better than to go against my gut feelings. Hitler strongly dislikes the Jewish people… but for now, life goes on as normal. I go to school, I see my friends every day, I go to the movie theatre, and I have violin lessons every Tuesdays and Thursdays with a very lovely elderly German woman.

September, 1935. The Nuremburg laws are passed, stripping the Jewish people of German citizenships, causing us to lose jobs, and many other basic rights. We are not permitted to display German national colours, or the national flag, which has also been changed to the Nazi symbol- the swastika, and Marriage between “Aryans” and “Non-Aryans” is forbidden. Life begins to go downhill from here. We begin to have to wear a gold Star of David on all of our clothing articles so people can tell us apart, so we can be identified as Jews. As a stain on Hitler’s “perfect Aryan race” A sore that won’t go away. Soon we are to attend different schools. In schools they teach you “what a Jew looks like.” They tell stories depicting us as menacing, perverted, beggars, criminals.. Life begins to take a sharp turn. I begin to hate Hitler more and more everyday. What did we do to deserve this? We are people just as much as Germans are.

The date I’ll never forget. It is February 18^th, 1936.
*BANG BANG BANG* There is knocking on the door. My sister sits straight up in her bed at the exact time that I do. I am now 16 years old, and I know what is about to happen. It is the German police, I know this before my father opens the door. It is the German police, and they are here to tell us to pack our bags and go with them. I’ve seen it happen. They will tell us to pack and they will take us away. I am unsure of where, I am unsure for how long and I am unsure of if I will ever see my bedroom again. My father now opens the door, my mother hiding behind him, and my sister and I peeking from the top of the stairs.

“Pack one suitcase each. You have ten minutes and then you are coming with us.” One of the two officers says to my father.

“And if I don’t?” My father asks.

“You will do as you are asked and pack your way, or you will be unconscious and I will pack for you, my way.” The officer says, nose to nose with my father. My sister begins to cry and I hold her. My mother lets out a whimper as my father continues to stare down the officer and the officer raises his hand as if to strike him. She pulls him away to their bedrooms to pack. She knows not to tell me what I need to pack, because she knows I’ve been waiting for this moment. She knows I am old enough to handle my little sister also.

Just like I had predicted, they took us. They took us to a concentration camp.. Dachau. From that moment on my life has been a series of hard labour, sicknesses, pain, suffering, and watching my loved ones, and people around me, die. Every day, death after death after death. My sister and I are the only ones left of this family. I fight to stay alive just for her. She is growing weaker and weaker as the days pass, she needs more food. I know I have to do something, so I sneak out and steal an extra ration of bread. A guard spots me, and before I have the chance to run, I feel the sharp sting of his belt on my back. I try to run, but he hits me again, this time the pain is so overwhelming I collapse to the ground. I try to crawl but he kicks me, repeatedly, over and over again. I feel myself start of cough up blood, as he continuously kicks me.

“Please… Please don’t do this” I manage to whisper. The guard says something to me… I close my eyes and think back to before my life became hell. I open my eyes just in time to see him raise his belt high above his head. Before I have the chance to open my mouth and scream for mercy, everything goes black.