Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II (40 page)

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Authors: Jack Canfield,Mark Victor Hansen,Kimberly Kirberger

BOOK: Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II
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Page 217
The game would never end, until they made him cry. 
And just when a tear had formed, 
He heard a voice speak out from behind. 
"Leave him alone you bullies, 
Because he's a friend of mine." 
He turned to see poor Sarah, 
Determination on her face, 
Sticking up for one of her own tormentors 
And willing to take his place. 
And when his friends did just that, 
Trying their best to make poor Sarah cry, 
This time he didn't join in, 
And at last understood exactly why. 
"Treat others with respect, son, 
The way you'd want them treating you. 
And remember, when you hurt others, 
Someday, someone might hurt you." 
It took a lot of courage 
But he knew he must be strong, 
For at last he saw the difference 
Between what's right and wrong. 
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

 

Page 218
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.

 

Page 219
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?"

 

Page 220
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

 

Page 221
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

 

Page 222
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.

 

Page 223
"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 me to the doctor, who said it was nerves. After all, I
was
"emotional," a word they used instead of "troubled." But the pain got worse and my stomach bloated.
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

 

Page 224
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 school
all
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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