The Power of the Pen
Woman must not accept; she must challenge. She must not be awed by that which has been built up around her; she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression.
Margaret Sanger
The very first speech I ever had to write changed my life more than I could ever have imagined. I was a third-grader when I chose Susan B. Anthony to be the topic.
When I got the assignment, I went to the library and began researching the Women’s Fight for the Right to Vote. I learned that Susan B. Anthony led the fight to give women a say in our society. She overcame a lot of obstacles in order to do that. I never really thought about a time when women had no voting rights and that their opinions didn’t count.
It was sad that Susan fought so hard for women’s rights and never got to vote. She died fourteen years before the passage of the 19th Amendment that gave women the right to vote. But she knew that her goal would be achieved. She said that “failure is impossible,” and she was right.
About a week after giving my school speech, my mom read a newspaper article about “The Group Portrait Monument,” a statue honoring Susan B. Anthony and other early women’s rights leaders. The problem was that few people ever got to see the statue. It was dedicated in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda in 1921, but within twenty-four hours it was taken down to the Capitol basement and stored where it had remained for nearly eighty years.
When I read that article, I was furious! This statue belonged in a place of honor. I felt that it should be in the Rotunda, along with the statues of Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr. and George Washington. Do you know that there are no statues of women there?
The article asked for donations because it would take $74,000 to move the thirteen-ton statue out of the basement. I decided to write a letter with a self-addressed envelope asking my relatives and friends to send a Susan B. Anthony coin or a $1 bill to me to contribute to the Women’s Suffrage Statue Campaign. I really wanted to help get that statue moved out of the basement.
Every day I ran to the mailbox after school. Every night, after my homework, I wrote more letters at the kitchen table. Pretty soon the whole family got involved in the project. My seven-year-old brother, David, licked stamps and envelopes. My mother and grandmother found addresses for people I wanted to contact and my dad drove me around and gave me tons of encouragement when I spoke to big groups. I passed around a piggy bank for donations at the end of each speech. I sent more than $500 to the fund in the first three months. Pretty soon, I had raised $2,000. I began visualizing that statue up in the Rotunda next to the greatest Americans in history.
I was discouraged when I heard that four other times, in 1928, 1932, 1950 and 1995, people had tried to get the statue out of the basement and had failed. I learned that the House and Senate would have to vote on relocating the statue. More determined than before, I spent three weeks writing to every representative and senator in the United States, urging them to vote yes on the bill to relocate the statue. This was not about politics. It was about respect and responsibility. Susan B. Anthony fought for my rights, and now I was fighting for hers!
The Senate unanimously voted to restore the statue to the Rotunda, but Newt Gingrich, the Speaker of the House, didn’t want to use any tax money to pay for the cost of relocating the statue. Even if we raised enough money, the statue couldn’t be relocated without a unanimous vote in the House.
There was only one thing to do . . . write more letters! I wrote a letter to Mr. Gingrich every other week for an entire year! Boy, did that try my patience! I sent about twenty-five letters to him before I got a reply. He finally wrote a letter saying that a committee would study the issue.
At that point, I figured that I had better write to every member of the House again. By now I had mailed more than 2,000 letters!
My grandmother helped with postage costs by getting her friends and church groups to donate rolls of stamps to help me with the battle. I got writer’s cramp from writing letters and discovered that it takes a lot of work to bring about change. But if you believe in something, it’s worth the hard work.
My biggest boost came when I was interviewed on radio and TV shows. Then, a bunch of newspaper and magazine articles came out telling thousands more people about what I was trying to do. As a result of all that attention, I was invited to speak at a fund-raising event for the Woman’s Suffrage Statue Campaign in Washington, D.C., in July of 1996. I had never flown in an airplane. My whole family got to go and my brother had a great time. He thought that was a pretty good reward for licking all those stamps!
But the best part was getting to see the statue, even if it was in the smelly old basement. I thought it looked really beautiful. I’ve heard people say that they think that the statue is ugly. To that I say—it was an ugly time! The three women in the statue have their arms pinned in marble because they were trapped by “slavery!”
I spoke from my heart when I talked to all those people and received a standing ovation for my speech!
After I got home, I continued to write letters. I wouldn’t give up! It took women seventy-two years to win the right to vote, but they didn’t give up until they reached their goal . . . and neither would I!
On September 27, 1996, House Resolution 216, the bill to get the statue moved, passed unanimously. My mom and I jumped up and down in our living room when we heard the news. We just kept screaming, “We won!”
The statue stayed in the Rotunda for a year and then was moved to another place of honor in Washington, where everyone can see it. It will never go back to that awful basement again!
I’ve learned a lot from this experience . . . mostly about respecting people who fought for rights that too many people take for granted. I’ve learned to have more patience. If there is a problem, don’t say “someone else will fix it.” You have to do it yourself.
I’ll turn eighteen in a few years and will be able to vote in the year 2005. When I vote, I’ll silently thank Susan B. Anthony for her fight and for helping me discover the power of the pen.
Arlys Angelique Endres, thirteen
As told by Carol Osman Brown
Tough, Sturdy and Triumphant
The mind can have tremendous control of the body;
very few ailments can defeat focused energy and a determined spirit.
Katherine Lambert-Scronce
Tears filled my eyes as my parents told me why my arm had been in so much pain during the past three months.
“You have leukemia,” my dad explained.
I didn’t know much about leukemia, but the words still plunged deep into my heart like knives. My parents told me that I had to go into the hospital to have a metal cylinder called a medi-port put into my body. A medi-port has a line through which the doctors would give me medicine to fight the leukemia cells.
I found out that leukemia is a type of cancer that only one out of ten thousand people get. Bone marrow starts making leukemia cells, which take over good cells. Why did this have to happen to me? I wondered.
My whole family went with me to the hospital. My parents told me they’d see me after my surgery. Some doctor hooked me up and made me put on some funky clothes. Then they rolled me into the operating room.
I was so scared. All of the doctors had on masks. They attached sensors to me and assured me that nothing would go wrong. They put a mask over my face, pressed a button and I fell asleep. When I woke up, the surgery was over. I had to stay in the hospital for four days. My doctor told my parents I would have to come to the hospital every other week to stay for four days so that I could get treatments. I had to do this for one entire year— twelve months!
When we reached home, I couldn’t believe how much I had missed it. People brought over presents, balloons, cards and food. My teacher came over and gave me a stack of letters from my classmates. I read them over and over. All of them had cried, especially my friends. I didn’t get to see my friends anymore and felt sick practically every day. But I
got tons of letters from them all the time, and they kept me going!
I have survived this last year, but I still have a lower blood count than healthy people. I have only two more years of treatments to go, and from now on, the treatments won’t be so heavy.
I have been overwhelmed with support and prayer. My mom told the Make-A-Wish Foundation how much I loved castles, and I was granted my wish to see real castles in England and Scotland. My whole family gets to go with me and Make-A-Wish is paying for everything!
I know I didn’t get through this by myself. My friends and family have been with me every step of the way. I look back and see how far I’ve come. I will fight this and triumph.
Even though I’m different than most kids because of the leukemia, I’m as tough as a general leading his men into battle, as sturdy as a wall and as triumphant as a man beating an army. I have been able to do this thanks to everyone who has helped me through, and especially to someone in a high position. Where there is life, there is hope for even the most hopeless.
Elijah Shoesmith, thirteen
[EDITORS’ NOTE: At the date of this printing, Elijah is fifteen years old, and is in remission—due in a large part to sheer will and his determination to beat his leukemia. For more information on leukemia, lymphoma and other blood-related cancers, call The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society at 1-800-955-4572 or log on to www.leukemia-lymphoma.org.]
8
ON CHOICES
Peer pressure is a thing that every child goes through.
But you have to remember that to yourself you must be true.
Know that there are times to follow and there are times to lead.
Do what you think is right, do things at your own speed.
Don’t worry about what others think, don’t worry about being cool.
Focus on friendships and the grades you get in school.
Jaimie Shapiro, twelve
Forever Stay in My Heart
In loving memory of Cassie L. Sweet
It was late when I heard the phone ring
I didn’t know then the grief it would bring.
She was killed by one thoughtless mistake
That a few of her friends decided to make.
I can’t understand what they had been thinking
The driver of the car she was in had been drinking.
All I do now is think about her and cry
And ask myself again and then again, why?
I cherish all the memories that we shared
And remember how much she loved and she cared.
She is gone now, and yet it’s still hard to part
So that’s why she will forever stay in my heart.
Jillian Eide, sixteen
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For information about underage drinking, drunk driving and other destructive decisions, contact SADD (Students Against Destructive Decisions) at www.SADDonline.com.]
Two Tickets to the Big Game
I discovered I always have choices, and sometimes it’s only a choice of attitude.
Judith M. Knowlton
Two tickets. Only two tickets to the big quarterfinals basketball game.
Three pairs of eyes all focused on the tickets in Dad’s outstretched hand. Marcus, the oldest, spoke the question running through everyone’s mind: “Only two tickets? But, Dad, which of us gets to go with you?”
“Yeah, Daddy, who gets to go?” repeated Caleb, the youngest.
“Dad, can’t you get any more tickets?” I asked. I might be the in-between sister, but I was just as eager as my basketball-crazy brothers were for a night out with Dad.
“I’m afraid not,” Dad answered. “Mr. Williams only has two season tickets. He was thoughtful enough to offer the tickets to Saturday’s game to me when he found out he’d be out of town this weekend.”
Dad scratched his head. “Caleb, don’t you think you’re a little young to enjoy a professional basketball game . . . ?”
“Am not! Am not!” Caleb insisted. “I know all the best shooters! I know the team’s record! I know. . .”
“All right, all right,” Dad finally had to agree. He shifted his focus and tried again. “Jill, since you’re a girl. . .”
Before I could respond, Mom came to my defense. “Don’t you dare say ‘because you’re a girl,’” she said to Dad. “Jill’s out there practicing at the hoop with Marcus and all of his friends, and she’s better than quite a few of them, too!”
“Okay, okay,” Dad held up his hands in a “time-out” signal. “I guess I’ll have to figure out a fair way of choosing between the three of you by tomorrow morning. I’ll have to decide who deserves it most. Let me sleep on it— okay, guys . . . and girls?” he added quickly before Mom and I could correct him.
The next morning, Marcus hurried into the kitchen and plopped down at the breakfast table. “Where’s Dad?” he asked as he reached for a box of cereal.
“And ‘good morning’ to you, too,” I responded in between sips of orange juice.
“Sorry, but you can guess what I was dreaming about all last night,” Marcus explained. “So—where is he?”
“He and Mom went to pick up some books from the library,” Caleb answered, digging his spoon into a mound of cereal.
“And he said we should all get started on our Saturday chores as soon as we finish breakfast,” I added.
“Chores! He’s got to be kidding,” Marcus said as he set down his glass of milk with a thud. “How can we concentrate on chores when the big game is a mere eleven hours away?”
“Parents! They just don’t understand!” I agreed, popping the last piece of English muffin into my mouth.
“I’m going for the morning newspaper,” Marcus announced. “There’s probably a preview of tonight’s game in the sports section.”
“Wait for me!” Caleb added, slurping the last of his milk and dashing after his brother.
The back door snapped shut as the two boys trotted down the driveway. I looked at the breakfast table in front of me: tiny puddles of milk, bits of soggy cereal here and there, a small glob of grape jelly melting in the morning sunlight. Well, I thought to myself as I pushed my chair away from the table, looks like Saturday morning chores start right here.
A few minutes later, as I was washing off the kitchen countertops, I heard the familiar “thump . . . thump . . . thump” of the basketball bouncing off of the driveway. I glanced out of the kitchen window and saw Marcus practicing his hook shot while Caleb cheered him on. Frustrated, I knocked on the window three times. When the boys looked up, I meaningfully held up a kitchen sponge and dishtowel.
Marcus casually nodded to me and held up five fingers. Taking his cue from his older brother, Caleb did the same.
Sure, five more minutes! I thought to myself. I’ll just bet. I opened the lower cabinet and tossed an empty muffin package into the almost-full wastebasket. I reached for a twister to tie up the plastic liner bag and carted it out to the garbage container outside the back door.
“He dribbles . . . he shoots! If I make this next shot, I get the tickets to tonight’s game,” Marcus teased as he shot for the hoop. “Hooray! Two points! And I get the ticket!”
“Do not!” Caleb shouted.
“You guys, Mom and Dad will be back any minute,” I reminded them as I lifted the lid on the garbage container and placed the full plastic bag inside.
“Okay, we’re coming in to help,” Marcus said, dribbling the basketball around and around Caleb, who tried again and again to steal it. “Just one more minute.”
“Yeah, just one more minute,” Caleb added as he finally managed to tip the ball out of his brother’s grasp.
I shook my head from side to side as I began to replace the lid on the garbage container. Then a flash of white on the inside of the heavy black plastic lid caught my attention. A white envelope . . . it must have stuck to the lid by accident. But then I noticed that the envelope was actually taped to the inside of the lid, and someone had written the word “Congratulations!” on t
he front of the envelope, too.
I lifted the flap on the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “To the one who deserves to go,” the paper read, and inside of it was a ticket to the basketball game!
I don’t believe it, I thought. I’m the one that gets to go! But how did Dad know?
Then I thought back to Dad’s comment last night: “I’ll have to decide who deserves it most.” I smiled. Leave it to Dad to figure out who the most deserving kid really was.
By now, Marcus and Caleb had worn themselves out. They shuffled toward the back door. “Come on, little brother, we’d better get started on our chores if we want to have a chance at getting that ticket to the game.”
I turned in their direction and held up the ticket, the note and the envelope. “It might be a little too late for that,” I said with a sly grin.
Marcus and Caleb looked at each other with question marks in their eyes, as Mom and Dad’s car pulled into the driveway.
That evening turned out to be as special as I’d imagined: Two seats at center court, and a dad and his daughter cheering their team to victory. It was a long-remembered lesson in responsibility from a dad who let his kids make their own choices and earn their own rewards.
J. Styron Madsen
Fireplug and Dad
You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
Dr. Seuss