Revere’s Young Artists and Authors Celebrated

The Paul Revere Middle School literary anthology was the brainchild of parent Eileen Savage and literary coach Margaret Conroy (a retired teacher) in 2005. At a party to celebrate the initial book, student authors read their selections aloud to invited parents and guests. Savage produced the anthology for two additional years, while her daughter, Nicole was at Revere, then passed on the popular program to seventh grade English teacher Eric Wechsler. This year, more than 250 pieces were submitted for the anthology through sixth, seventh and eighth grade teachers, after they had whittled down their choices. ‘I served as editor,’ said English teacher Andrea Goodwin, who grew up in the Palisades, attended Corpus Christi, Paul Revere and Palisades High, and graduated from UCLA. Her parents, Frank (who taught Spanish at PaliHi for 30 years) and Marilyn Almeida, still live in the Palisades. Goodwin thanked other Revere English teachers for their help and allowed Palisadian-Post staffers to select favorite poems, autobiographical tales and fictional narratives for this page.

The Finger

By GABE WACHTEL (7th Grade) In August 2000, I chopped my finger off. I was three. I was with my sister, Natasha, who was seven, playing in our backyard. Queens and servants and, like always, I was Natasha’s servant. She ordered me around like a queen not to go on the roof of her playhouse, which was like her private headquarters. I had to get her toys and try to push her on the swing. I was three. I couldn’t push her that high. Natasha ordered me like a queen would order a servant To get the long, old wooden folding chair that had bright red new cushions. The cushions made it so it didn’t look as old. This chair was meant for a queen. As I was trying to fold the chair to make it easier to drag, The hinge as sharp as a samurai sword sliced the tip of my finger off, down past the nail. It hurt as much as Romeo’s heart when he found out he couldn’t be with Juliet. Screaming and wailing as loud as a heavy metal rock band, my dad rushed me to the hospital. In the emergency room Dr. Kao, my surgeon and hero, said to my dad, ‘We need the finger tip to sew it back on!’ My dad rushed back home, scared and worried my dog had eaten the finger. Luckily he hadn’t. My dad put the fingertip in a bag of ice and rushed back to the hospital. He ran though the hospital doors, the bag of ice with my finger in this hand. Everyone thankful that the dog hadn’t eaten it. As Dr. Kao was sewing my finger tip back, I turned to my dad and mom and said, ‘Daddy, Mommy, this isn’t fun.’ The Queen felt really bad, and still does, But all is forgiven because the finger is fine and she’s my sister.

The Golf Cart Debacle

By KEVIN ROSEN (7th Grade) Line it up’ a large expanse of green all around me. All the way back’ the smell of freshly mowed grass wafting through the air. Swing’the feeling of everyone watching me. Hit, and now follow through’ the sound of a golf cart starting up. I was six years old and playing golf with my family for the first time at Holmby Park. We were on the back nine and so far I was pretty decent. It was my mom’s turn to hit and she was in the middle of the fairway. My annoying, bossy, eleven-year-old brother Jared and I just finished a little argument about golfing skill. Except for another golf cart starting, it was silent. My mom was just about to swing when we heard a woman yell, ‘No, come back!’ I was inspecting my clubs and wasn’t paying attention to anything. Jared started running at me full speed, then BAM! He hit me and sent me flying. Shock and pain convulsed through my body. Angry, and thinking it was a continuation of the argument, I turned towards him, and watched a golf cart run over the club that had flown out of my hand. A curly-haired screaming kid was alone in the golf cart, which was completely out of control. If Jared hadn’t hit me the golf cart would have. The cart eventually stopped and the mother was angry with a red face. She ripped the kid out of the cart and sprinted over to me to make sure I was unscathed. Then with that calm mother voice that makes kids nervous, she started reprimanding her son. I had a few bruises but at least I wasn’t flattened. I guess even though we fight sometimes, my brother actually does like me.

The Cute Comment

By GREER KING (7th Grade) ‘Do you want to go into the water?’ I asked my seven-year-old brother, Gus. Our family was at the beach at low tide. Wind blowing in his hair, his feet deeply buried in the sand, he answered, ‘Sure!’ I stared at him in disbelief, because Gus and I rarely agreed on anything, we usually bickered. ‘Almost every conversation we have ended in an argument. ‘But I was trying to improve our relationship and had been going out of my way to bond with Gus by reading him books and doing soccer drills with him, to no avail. ‘We were both pugnacious. Gus and I skipped into the water, going deeper and deeper, until Gus was up to his neck in the murky, choppy waves. ‘ ‘Gus!’ I shouted. ‘Hold my hand so you won’t drown!’ His hand in mine, as warm and sticky as a lollypop, the smell of salt and sounds of seagulls hollering, he asked, ‘Do I have to hold your hand?’ ‘ ‘Yes,’ I murmured, smiling. The truth was he didn’t actually have to hold my hand. He could still stand, but I liked it.’We almost never held hands. ‘ ‘So, if there was a tsunami, they’d find us at the bottom of the ocean holding hands?’ he asked sweetly looking up at me with a questioning smile.’ I felt my heart swell up like a balloon as I answered, ‘Yes, Gus, yes they would.’ I turned away, smiling ear to ear. I have thought about this day many times, and will never forget it. ‘The way I felt, after Gus said what he did, helped me realize how much I really love him.

Peak

By SARA VAISMAN (8th Grade) The climber is ascending He is breathing hard The cool breeze freezes his sweat Right in his tracks He can see the snow-capped top He can smell the bitter odor of nature He can hear nothing but the panting Of his own breath With one last heavy step He reaches the limit The peak.

Simile Poem

By DOMINICK VANDERLIP (8th Grade) I drop into the Cement as if Going down a waterfall. I ride the cement wall Like a still, steep wave. I have my moves Planned out like The steps to an experiment. My moves are perfect, I set up my final trick. I go for it, Like a laser beam focused On its sights. I get into it. I feel the rhythm Setting in. But then I feel myself Falling, falling, Down, down, down. SLAM in to the concrete Like a bug hitting a windshield at high speed. I guess this is not Water after all.

Fatal Bus Crash: Found Poetry in the Los Angeles Times

By HAN SONG (7th Grade) The bus crash killed one And injured twenty-three In the San Bernardino Mountains On Monday. Apparently The bus driver drifted into the opposing lane And collided with an SUV. According to the California Highway Patrol The driver of the bus Identified as a 61-year-old Was killed when the bus Slid down an embankment And slammed into a tree. The names of the juveniles Were not released.

Dream Catcher

By BROOKE HARRINGTON (7th Grade)   ’Copy the agenda!’ yelled Mr. Schepps, as he paced quickly around the classroom. It was 2:14 Friday afternoon. ‘Could anyone tell me why Muhammad was so important?’ he asked.   Satchel Shoats raised her hand. Satchel has braces, like me, and a sense of style that made me somewhat jealous. ‘Because he was the founder of Islam?’   ’Yes!’ beamed Mr. Schepps. He was glad to know someone was paying attention. He went over to his desk and pulled a projector screen. I was hoping he would show us a movie and not ask any more questions, but instead he asked, ‘Now Brooke, could you tell me where Muhammad was born?’   The question caught me off guard. ‘Um, he was born in a place where’,’ I replied.    ‘I’m sorry I’m not entertaining enough for you to pay attention,’ Mr. Schepps said. I looked around at all the eyes staring at me, giving expressions of sorrow and indignation. I felt restless. I wanted to get out of the ditch I had dug myself into. I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around my head.   When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the class anymore, but sprawled across an unpaved dirt road. Where am I? I got up, brushed myself off, and walked over to a sign that said: ‘Mecca is the place to be.’ This didn’t look like modern-day Mecca. Then again, how would I know?    Off in the distance a man walked by. He had wavy hair and muscular legs like my dad. But my dad plays tennis, and I don’t think tennis had been invented in ancient times. He was probably the only person around for miles, so I went up and asked him, ‘Are you Muhammad?’   He looked at me with curiosity. He probably got that question a lot back when he was alive. ‘Yes, Miss, I am the Prophet Muhammad. Why do you ask?’   ’I asked if you were Muhammad because I need to know where you were born,’ I said.   ’Well, you should have learned that in school, right?’ he asked politely.   I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want a great leader like him to know I didn’t pay attention in school. So, I said, ‘ I think the day we talked about where you were born, I was sick.’   ’Ah, I see. Are you feeling better now?’ I couldn’t tell if he caught me in my bluff. He might have, for a guy of his intelligence.   ’Much better,’ I stated.   ’I was born in Mecca in 570 AD. Do you have any more questions?’ he asked.   ’One more,’ I said. ‘How do I get back to reality?’ But instead of Muhammad answering me, I heard a ringing sensation in my right ear. ‘Brooke? Brookie? WAKE UP!’ It was another classmate screaming in my face. I felt a slimy sensation rolling down my cheek. I wiped it off, realizing I was drooling and looked at the clock. It was now 2:54 p.m. I raised my hand and Mr. Schepps called on me.   ’Muhammad was born in Mecca around 570 AD. His forehead was large and prominent, his eyelashes were long and thick, his nose was pointy, and his mouth was somewhat curved. His cheeks were freckled and round and he had a pleasant smile. His eyes were almond shaped and black with a touch of brown.’   Mr. Schepps stared at me and then walked back to his desk, wrote on a slip of paper and gave it to me. Too happy too read it, I tossed it in my bag.   The bell rang and I walked out of the classroom, feeling proud of my accomplishment. While heading to my locker, I pulled out his note and read: ‘Brooke Harrington must be given one week of detention for falling asleep during class.’   I guess Muhammad didn’t help people with all their troubles after all.