She laughs and tells me I’m supposed to breathe through my nose.

David Diaz

FIRST AWARD WINNER

• Kevin Alexander
• Age 16
• Mission Bay High School
• San Diego

I had experienced many of them in my eleven-year history of life, but I knew there was something beyond these gestures of love which I so carefully witnessed each day. I began to study how the famous ones did it on television. Romeo and Juliet, Rhet Butler and Scarlet O’hara, and of course, Mike and Carol Brady.

Charles Hasse, Jesse Bie, Benjamin Herrera, Michael Blake

Photo by Jim Coit

They did it with such elegance, passion, and most importantly, length. All of mine had lacked any sense of dignity. They were short, meaningless pecks that seemed to only come my way when the bottle did.

So began the search for my first real kiss. I’m in the sixth grade now and practically a grown man. I attend Montgomery Middle School, which is my only source to this intriguing being, known as the female, and is located in the cow fields of El Cajon. School opens, and I find myself attracted to this girl named Beth. Within a few weeks I ask her “to go with me.” Whatever that means. I’ll never know, but I didn't get a kiss when I asked her.

Sridevis Rao, Kevin Alexander, Erin Sullivan

Photo by Jim Coit

My next opportunity with Beth was to come a few weeks later at a High School football game. It was a night game and very cold. At half time, we left the game for a walk through the nearby school. Myself in search of my first real kiss, and she, because I promised I'd buy her a hot chocolate when we returned. Along the way, I carefully untied my shoelace with my other shoe, and brought our stroll to a halt. It just so happens we’re standing between two bungalows, all alone. The time is perfect. A car’s headlights from a nearby street shine upon us, and I see the deadliness in the glare from her braces, but that wasn’t about to ruin my dreams. It was one of those “stop and go” kisses, like in the movies when he comes forward, stops, and looks deep into her eyes, and they finally come together for their real kiss.

Well, it didn’t work out so well in my situation. I reached my halfway point and stopped. I looked as deep as I could into her eyes, and we came at each other. I guess we had too much momentum, because when we met, it was more like a crash. After it was over, I was sure I had a chipped tooth or at least a bloody lip. I backed away and my exact word was, “yuk!” I think she heard me because she wouldn’t speak to me for a month, which ended our so called relationship.

It was an average day. Just like the one before it, and the one before that one, except that it was to change all the future ones. Her name was Lynn, and we ate lunch together. After we ate, I knew she was the girl I’d get my first real kiss from. It was just one of those things you have an inner feeling about, and I knew I was going to get my first real kiss from her. I had a baseball game after school and she was there. We lost 7-0 and I didn’t play at all. She said I did really good, so I felt a lot better and bought myself a snow cone. She asked me if I wanted to go over to the elementary school playground. I agreed, and we started towards the school.

While walking, I realized that she was about two inches taller than me and quite well developed. This was kind of shocking, but I said to myself, “You can handle her — you’re a man, and besides, you just turned twelve,” When we reached the play ground, she sits in the far back corner. So what’s going on? I thought we’re here to swing or something. About this time I started to get a lot nervous. So I decide to play it cool. I walk around, get a couple drinks of water, play with my snow cone, throw it away, and finally I get the nerve to sit down by her. About six feet away though. My heart is really throbbing now. I look up and she’s smiling at me.

I confront my mind again and ask, “Why is she smiling? And why at me?” I’m afraid to look up again, but I do. She’s coming at me! I’ve got bottomless stomach syndrome and mile wide eyes. The next thing I know, she’s kissing me. I don’t believe this! I didn’t know this kind of stuff went on behind real kissing, but I sure like it. It’s been over 10 seconds now. I think this is a real one. It’s been about 15 seconds now and I know this is a real one, but I’m in need of air.

I hang in for 20 seconds, just to make sure, and back away gasping for oxygen. She laughs and tells me I’m supposed to breathe through my nose. I had learned enough for the day, and didn’t think I could handle much more. So I said goodbye, and couldn’t quit smiling as I rode my bike home as fast as I could. Later that evening, I tried to fight the whole neighborhood because they wouldn't believe me, but I knew then, and I know now, that it really did happen, and I’ll never forget my first real kiss.

SECOND AWARD WINNER

• Benjamin Herrera
• Age 14
• Montgomery Junior High School
• San Diego

I knew something was wrong the moment I boarded the plane. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake. Fear. My grandmother was trying her best to soothe me. It was all in vain. You see, I was on vacation in Phoenix, and my father had called, telling me to come home. He had just come from overseas bearing a dreadful message along with the summons home. My mother was going to leave, for good.

I wanted to cry.

My name is Benjamin Herrera, I was twelve, and this is my most unforgetable day.

I sat in the plane, looking out the window. I was wondering why this had happened. Had God condemned me? I was dreading the moment it would come, when I would say goodby. Yet it was torture waiting for it.

I was trying to fathom the person in fault. Was it I? No, I didn’t blame myself. Then I remembered a man, Rey. He had come over many a time acting as though we were friends. How naive I had been! If only I had seen through the guise of deceit and destruction. It was he I blamed for taking away my mother, for terminating a family. It was he I hated.

Thinking of it was killing me, so I stopped. What was the use?

By this time we had reached San Diego. When the plane landed we got off, found our luggage, and exited the airport waiting for my father in the parking lot. As we waited, I glanced toward my grandmother, she was almost at the point of tears. It hurt me to see her so. Mom, why?

My father soon arrived. He didn’t say anything. He just helped put the luggage in the truck, helped my grandmother in, and then we left.

It seemed like a long drive home.

It was as if he were in a trance. It was like his soul had been tom asunder, for in reality, hadn’t it?

When we arrived at my house my father went to his room. As I was getting our luggage, I saw my brother and sister. They too were quiet.

Entering the house I saw my mother. I hugged her then went straight to my father's room. He was sitting on the bed as I entered. “What’s wrong Dad?” I said.

“I pleaded with her to stay, I said I would leave. I said stay here with the kids, they need you. But she wouldn’t listen, she wouldn’t stay. She chose him over you. If only . . .” He broke off and started to cry. I hated her for this. She made my father cry. I had never seen him cry before. I held him, for it was all I could do, but it was enough.

Confusion was the state I was in. I loved her, yet hate was also lingering its filthy presence above my heart.

I hated her for this. She made my father cry. I had never seen him cry before. I held him, for it was all I could do, but it was enough.

I ran outside, tears streaming from my eyes. I didn’t care what happened anymore, I just wanted her gone.

Now was the time that had haunted me from the beginning, it was time for her to leave. My brother and sister were the first to say goodby. Next was my grandmother. When my father came out, she wouldn’t let him touch her. That hurt.

My turn was next. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to touch her either. She understood, I guess.

Waving goodby, she got into the car and drove away taking my heart with her.

That day as I watched her drive away, I could not feel, for all feeling had gone. She had picked him over us. Him over us.

I would remember this day forever. I wish I would forget.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Sridevis Rao
• Age 15
• Crawford High School
• San Diego

Ascending up the slopey hill, I reached our picnic ground on Presidio Park. People had already clustered into little groups. The children cheerfully raced across the grassy landscape. Here and there, women were jovially accustoming each other and setting up an array of a variety of foods on the wooden table. All around, the park was decked with the warm beauty of sprightful autumn colors. A feeling of merriment stirred in me as I looked around, as soon as I was joined in a company of children playing tag.

My mind became flushed with the colors that painted the landscape. Bushels of yellow, orange, and brown tinted leaves fluttered helplessly with the rhythm of the swaying wind, as they gradually landed on the warm grasses, tugged by sunny shadows. Others hung loose on the branches moving to and fro — as if awaiting their ultimate destiny. The sunshine poured through the leaves which hung like soft chimes under the branches of the eternal sky. I was lost in this endless play of delight. “Ah, how everything is clustered in a harmony,” I thought. The trees and bushes comprised most of the surrounding landscape. A stone statue stood almost hidden by bushes at a far end across the gray footpath. At such a moment, all nature seemed to be in a wide enamoured pause! My five senses opened like the full bloomed petals of a lotus as I wandered in airy sport with the restless wind.

The sun now shed its brightest rays across the grassy slopes. The food and the refreshments had added extra fervor to the restful bodies, and once more, people of all ages retired to their former diversions or recreations. I myself, being weary of the play, found repose under a shady tree with a massive foliage.

Suddenly, amidst all gaeity, I heard a slow trampling, a slow stirring through the withered leaves.

I glanced around and a sense of mute pain swept through my senses — my mind and eyes became blurred by strange bitterness.

All life shuddered with a strange felicity as a ragged man (probably in his early 30’s), slowly advanced through a trackless path as the withered leaves made a crispy sound under his foot-steps. Nobody seemed to notice him. He walked past by me, but didn’t seem to be aware of anything around him, as his eyes stayed fixed upon some thought, a mute pain . . . Placing on the grass a brown paper bag, his only possession, he sat a few yards away from me under a bare tree. His unkempt brown hair and ashen face resembled the naked earth. The sight of his eyes left my mind possessed with an unbearable rupture, as his dark engraved eyes stared fixed as if into empty space. The gravity of his expression was submerged into the brink of unspoken loneliness. My whole attention was captured by his presence; his eyes had the weakness of a beggar, yet pierced through my heart and sinew like a serpent’s venom. My heart was lost in empty despair — incomprehensible. I gazed and gazed at him as if hypnotized; he too sat motionless — his heart riven with the world’s agony.

Looking at this lonely man sitting calmly on the bedded grass, thoughts gathered in my mind, each quivering with the tumultuous motion of the heart that resounded in my ears. “Who was he? Where was his home? What sorrow, what tempest blow lay hidden amidst his despondency? What passion or hope was it that inflicted such a wound upon his bleeding heart? Why does he not change his expression? What did he possess in that brown paper bag? . . Yet, in vain I sat there listening to my own thoughts — thoughts that pierced through my heart deeper and deeper.

I looked around as these thoughts forever patched the sight of this man in my mind’s eye, though he still sat there with an unbroken silence. All grace and charm was lost from beauty, as the vagrant shades of the sun’s radiance fell weakly on the grasses. How could I perceive beauty when my mind was striven with this one man’s agony? There was a strange inarticulate beauty in his eyes, in his being, that trapped itself within my heart — all else seemed to be hostile powers ruling the broken and degraded hearts.

The monstrous branches from the tree trunks reached out like inverted roots into an upper region of flame

The whole existence of this world was a cursed and damnable chamber of fabricated beauty blazing with inexhaustible passions set up by the Sirens.

— the leaves wriggled helplessly like defunct butterflies for greed of a sip of blood! — all life was stained with sanguine droplets dripping their way through the pores of the hearts! All the brightness of autumn gazed into my eyes like the ravenous drunken eyeballs of a gigantic monster — all life crowded into the pits of arcane macabre, as they ignorantly awaited death — their ultimate doom. The fiery branches, boughs, and foliage transformed into a forest of apoplectic portent. Yet, all life went on, waging on its silent war on the earth’s battlefield of spirits, ignorant of the silent and lonely cries amidst the forest of unchaste darkness. They have not the will to care for a pierced and bleeding bosom for fear of sparing a sanction of the bloody glory that doesn’t and never could rightfully belong to them. They know not that there is love in the heart when the eyes shed blood. The whole existence of this world was a cursed and damnable chamber of fabricated beauty blazing with inexhaustible passions set up by the Sirens.

There was no life, only birth, growth, and death. What beauty there was, if there was any, was lost from the eyes of the beholder. Yet, this was life, this was reality, and there was none to be blamed. I could not indulge in grief with such matters. All was left within the hands of the Unknown. Yet, if I could offer away my heart, I would — but no such offerings could be made under the present circumstances. But perhaps I shall someday . . . when my conscience does not bind me. This was only one man . . . who knows how many there are, bearing such agonies upon themselves? How many more suffer such misery, consoling themselves — for nobody cares to help them. These thoughts drifted by . . .

The time had come for the picnic ground to be left bare and desolate, once again, as the setting sun peeped through the sunless forest of trees. I followed along by my parents, unaware of the whole affair about the picnic. Silently, I walked down the grassy path with a feeling of the mere consciousness of existence.

The last rays of the sun quavered through the dusky skies. “Yet, the man still must be sitting there,” I thought. As I reached our car, a spray of cold gusty wind swept over my heart, once more . . . The lotus flower drooped, as its petals, heavy in bloom, hung there — without breaking.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Charles Hasse
• Age 16
• Mission Bay High School
• San Diego

Whoever said counting sheep would make someone fall asleep? It was my last resort in trying to get some rest. I had already tried sleeping in every position possible. Even keeping my eyes open until they were too heavy, failed. Every howl from a neighbor’s dog, or the screech from a distant car, prevented me from sleeping, causing me to remember that hot summer day which would have been routine except for a strange twist of fate. I was to determine whether a person would live or not.

As I reached the beach, a familiar contentment filled my mind, knowing that I was at a place where I felt safe from any problems going on outside the secluded Marine St. beach. My only concern at the time was whether the waves would pick up for good bodysurfing, or if my friends had raised the volleyball net. I found a prime spot on the beach and did a shoulder dive to my sandy destination. The first priority of the day would be to take a nap. Kicking back in the sand, something was preventing me from my slumber. An unfamiliar wind from the east was whistling over the beach. Since I couldn’t sleep, I lifted my head to watch the waves. They were extremely stormy, due to this bizarre east wind. “Wanna go wompin, Chuck?’’ interupted my blank stare at the water. Without turning my head, I returned the question with an “Okay’’, and ran down to the shore with my friend, Greg, ready to challenge the well known Marine St. waves.

The waves were stormy and unpredictable, as crashing sets kept barreling in from the horizon. Strength and vigor were especially required so that I wouldn’t get caught by the ten foot monsters that were ready to swallow me up, then spit me out again in a matter of seconds. After body surfing for some time, Greg surrendered to the waves (temporarily) and went back to shore. I decided to stay in the water just a little bit longer. While floating in the water, I noticed how far the rip-current had carried me from the place I started at. All my friends were little dots, barely visible from the wiggling screen of heat rising from the sand. I then decided to swim to shore and tromp back to my spot. Swimming back to shore, I watched another bodysurfer catch a huge wave about 100 feet away from me. He was swimming far too slowly to catch and ride it correctly. He caught the wave at the top of its lip and went on to tumble over the pouring falls. At first, I thought it was funny, watching this guy mess up so badly. But, when he didn’t appear again, I began to worry. No one else was in the water except for me and him. It was up to me to look for him myself, which was extremely difficult because the waves kept on crashing around me. I went to the exact spot where he was and scanned the water. Then, just to the right, about 10 feet from me, was this brown sphere floating in the water. Swimming closer to it, I noticed that the brown sphere was connected to a neck and arms! I found him. His head and arms were just floating on top, with his face under the water, just bobbing up and down in the ruff ocean. I swam over to him and nudged his shoulder, to make sure the person would not just look up in curiosity (although that was what I hoped for). Turning the body over, I saw that the boy's face was tanned except for the purple bruise on his forehead. He must have hit rock bottom when he went over the falls. Awkwardly, I took his head under my arm and dog paddled the two of us back to shore. That was to be the longest paddle of my life.

After dragging the guy to shore and laying him down, I wondered what I was going to do with him. Since I was the only person at this end of the beach, I was going to have to do C.P.R. I had taken Health and Safety last year and learned the procedures, but my memory just failed on me. I screamed for help which, for some reason defogged my mind. Talking to myself or to the victim was the only way I was going to get through this. While babbling a bunch of meaningless words to the body, I proceeded to clear his mouth of water or any other substances. I then checked his pulse by pressing two fingers next to his adams apple. His blood was circulating! I was so relieved. Fifty per-cent of the job seemed to be completed. I said to myself “O.K now, check for breathing.” There were no breaths. I had to remember what to do when a person stops breathing. I yelled for help again while trying to keep a clear mind. I had to think fast,

“O.K. tilt the head back and blow into his mouth”. I went on to do that, but it wasn’t working! The air just blew back at me through his nose. I knew I forgot something, I had to plug his nose. I said to myself “Tilt head, plug nose, then breathe”. Success, his lungs expanded! I kept up the breathing with a count “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three — breathe . . . again, one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three — breathe”. “Charlie, what are you doing?!” It was Greg, he finally heard me. I yelled “Get a paramedic, hurry — two-one thousand, three — breathe”. Greg darted away as I kept administering breaths. Doubts began to fill my mind. I was wondering if this was ever going to work. Within the next minute, a crowd of people were surrounding me, just starring at me and this poor guy, laying there in his turquoise and yellow bathing suit. “Here, do you want me to take over?” I thought I was hallucinating when I heard that. It was too good to be true. “Yes, After this last breath — two-one thousand, three — breathe.” After I administered the last breath, this man about in his mid-thirties took over and continued C.P.R. I had only administered about 5 breaths, but it seemed like 15,000. I learned later that the man who took overs name was Kenny. He kept up about 5 more breaths then stopped. After all that work, the guy couldn’t be dead. Then Kenny said “He’s breathing on his own.” A gasp of relief came from everyones mouth at once. Two seconds later, the paramedics came with their stretcher and took control. They went over the same steps I did, but a lot smoother, then lifted him into the stretcher and carried him away. People were asking questions, left to right,

“What happened?,” “Where was he?” etc. I was too busy telling the crowd what had just happened to comprehend what I had just done. It was fate that I found the young guy in the turquoise and yellow bathing suit. Nevertheless, I felt really proud of myself for doing something that I thought I would never have to do. It was a good thing that I knew C.P.R. That’s something everyone should learn. I never saw the guy in the turquoise and yellow trunks again, but that didn’t matter. I was just glad that I was able to do something.

With that in mind, I shut my eyes and slept like a rock.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Michael Blake
• Age 13
• Muirlands Junior High School
• La Jolla

Unforgettable days are not everyday occurrences. Why, I can barely remember one single day from 1975. My only real unforgettable day from that era was an embarrassing incident in a nursery school involving nudity (mine).

I haven't had all that many unforgettable days in San Diego, as I have only been here for three months. I moved here from my native Canada on August 17, 1984. Moving here was one unforgettable day in San Diego, but not my last. Ah, my most unforgettable, you say? Easy. September the fifth. It was on this day that I started Muirilands Junior High School in La Jolla.

Sure enough, I saw a long line. Could this be the fabled lunch line? I got in and was pushed and prodded towards a door. I now know why cows moo. What the heck else are they going to do during a stampede?

The first thing you have to realize before I tell you about day 1 in La Jolla is that Canadian Schools are the antethisis of American. From grade 1 through grade 8, students are children — from grade 9 and on, they are adults. That unpleasant “teen-age” period is winked out of existence by the school board. In grade 7, my last year in Canada, all students had to take the same courses, with no special ed. or advanced classes. So perhaps you might understand why it was with trepidation that I approached this “Junior High School” (gads, what a phrase!).

But approach it I did, with shadows like New Orleans under my eyes. It was 7:30 in the morning, (these people are savages!) a far cry from the 9:00 school in the Great White North. I had butterflies the size of King Kong’s pet rabbit in my stomach. Would I make friends? Would I make A’s? Would I pass? Would I find the bathroom?!!

I went to my first period, met my teacher, learned some names, heard the bell, ran like the flying Kaparazov to my next class. I consulted my map and realized I was in the wrong place, turned around and ran like the flying Kaparazov’s grandaddy. Multiply this whole algorithm by 4 and you have my morning.

But lunch! I had heard that people down here could actually buy their lunch from the school! Of course, I didn’t really believe that, it was too incredible. But I decided to take some money — just in case, you understand. Sure enough, I saw a long line. Could this be the fabled lunch line? I got in and was pushed and prodded towards a door. I now know why cows moo. What the heck else are they going to do during a stampede? I was shuffled and shuttled down the cafeteria and desperately grabbed at some food I saw, threw money at a cashier, and was kicked back out into the lunch area. These California schools are like totally advanced!

My afternoon went the same way, with a small problem finding my seventh period class. I went home, had a bite to eat, and sat. Just sat, trying to digest the day’s activities. Even on day 1, there was homework to be done. Then, it was dinner. My parents, of course, wanted every detail. Nosy, eh? Just because we’re their flesh and blood. I watched some T.V. and went to bed, listening to my heart beat in the darkness. Even unforgettable days have to end sometime.

You know what? I don’t think I was able to shut my eyes once all day.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Erin Sullivan
• Age 13
• Oak Crest Junior High School
• Encinitas

When he pulled up to our house on Seabright Lane in Solana Beach, I thought he was the water man. When he came to the door, I looked more closely.

“Hi, Honey; I’m your dad.”

I ran to get the picture from the photo album. I compared the two.

He was laughing, just like in the picture with Grandpa and the big fish they caught.

I had never known my father. When I was a baby, my mother and father divorced. It was here in San Diego County that we were reunited. Like thousands of other women, my mother, with me, had come to San Diego to start a new life. My father, not knowing that we were here, had come to seek a fresh start with his fresh new family.

Now a short, blond second-grade Brownie from Central School, I was overjoyed to see him. In the years that followed, my attitudes changed many times. After we were introduced, I began to know my father, not always liking what I saw. He did drink a lot and had a short temper. I wondered why my father had come to see me in the first place. I had not seen him in seven years, and for him to just show up, came as a big surprise. My mother told me later that he had thought he was dying, felt guilty, and wanted to make it all up to me. As it turned out, he just laid a big guilt trip on himself, and was wrong about dying.

My father introduced me to his new family, one boy and a girl. Patrick, named after my father, was a happy, bubbly, blond, brown-eyed one-year-old miniature of me. I’ve always loved young children, and Patrick was a great new addition. Shawna, tall for her age, shy but never mean, was two years old. She was not really related to my father or Patrick. Father met his wife, Kathleen, when she was already several months pregnant. Always yearning to be a hero, he leaped at the chance to play the role of the white knight. Everyone called Patrick Argook because Shawna couldn’t pronounce his name. We all did! I don’t think Patrick knew his real name until he was much older.

I enjoyed the time I spent with my father and his family. He did all of the things that daddies are supposed to do — the Wild Animal Park, the San Diego Zoo, and Balboa Park. However, he never quite cut it. I often got the feeling that he wanted me to live with him, but I really didn’t want to leave Mom. However, I did think that he cared.

Then he moved. For one full year,

I had no contact with him at all. Suddenly he called and said that he wanted to see me. Florida! He called from Florida! As expected, he apologized profusely for not calling, and told me that they had a new boy, Michael. My mother agreed to a trip, although she made sure that I had a round-trip ticket and had memorized my telephone number and address.

In Florida we had fun. However, I soon found out that he was not what I had hoped he would be. He had a tendency to make people, especially his children, feel insecure to build up his own self-esteem. I did not agree with the way he dealt with the misbehavior of Shawna, Patrick, Michael, and me. Of course, he never did anything mean or unfair, but his reasons, at least to me, were a little off-the-wall.

When I returned safely home to San Diego County, I assumed that my father and I would keep in close contact. Boy, was I wrong! I waited four years until he called again. During those years, I wondered where he was, and how all of the kids were. Four birthdays passed, four Christmases and four of everything else. I think what hurt me most was that I never received one card from my dad.

Then, last September, a few days before my thirteenth birthday, he called! I couldn’t help myself; I cried. I was very angry and confused. I talked to him for a long time, but I think he was drunk because what he managed to say between breakdowns made very little sense. When my mother talked to him, she emphasized the point that he never sent any money. After bragging about raising horses and living in a real nice house, he complained that he didn’t have any money to send us. Talking with him again hurt because he never mentioned my birthday. I know all his kids’ birth dates. He must not be sure when mine is. That hurts!

I’m sure that knowing my father, and living with his constant desertions, has helped my feelings mature. I am glad that I got to know him — his good sides and the bad. But for now, I’m perfectly content to stay along the Pacific shores, while he, and his current family, live on the Atlantic.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Jesse Bie
• Age 16
• Sweetwater High School
• National City

Simple physical contact, one of the most simple, yet complex of actions, an action which can bring two people closer together or drive them apart. It can be utterly sensuous or disgusting. Yes what I describe to you is the magical power of the kiss or more specifically, the first kiss of a young teen’s life. I’m sure many of you remember that, most unforgetable experience. It wasn’t what you expected, was it?

I’ll just bet what you were waiting for was fire to run through your veins, the earth to move, the ringing of bells, the very heavens to burst out in peals of celestial thunder and the archangel Gabriel to come down and proclaim you a man or a woman. But what did you get? The pressing of two wet trembling lips upon yours and maybe the violent thrust of something into your mouth and worst of all, none of the aforementioned events took place, not even 1 small earth tremor. And I’m quite sure your partner wasn’t pleased either.

Ah, such a paradox, and in such a time as this it cannot exist.

But maybe it can’t exist in its original form, it, as all things must evolve, as I was to discover one time. And though I cannot disclose the identity of my companion, I can say that she is a very close friend.

It happened one time as we walked along the beach, enjoying ourselves, merely frolicing in the water playfully. I don’t know what happened, maybe there was something in the water, but we hit it off almost instantly. And I found that she was the girl of my dreams, beauty, both inner as well as exterior and a fine intelligence and a sharp wit. She had a traditional type of values but was a bit more outgoing than I was. Also, not to forget her dazzling beauty; her silky black hair, her mysterious black eyes, her slightly, well, more than slightly flat nose, her pouting mouth, the curve of her shoulders, the shape of her . . . well, we’ll leave that out.

We sat together on the sand, just talking and I must say, I’ve never divulged such intimate secrets to anyone, it was just so simple to talk to her, and being that kind of girl, she reciprocated and told me things I never dreamed that she was possible of. Our mutal friends, unknown to us, we were oblivious to everything, the only thing which could’ve brought us out of each other’s web would’ve been a nuclear bomb, were behind us, cheering us on. It soon became obvious that we needed more intimate surroundings so we walked along the beach until the waves grew lonely for lack of human companionship and the only orb watching us was that of the sun’s.

Now at this point in time we were completely absorbed in each other, we were growing closer together. Everything at this moment was perfect; it seemed as if God had made this moment especially for us. We held each other close, trying to find some position in which our noses weren’t in some awkward configuration, each could feel the warm breath against the skin and the beating of two hearts, the moment was right.

We were drawn together, the pull was irresistable; I jumped head long, in my childish innocence and nativity and she in blind trust and confusion, or was it the other way around?

As for that kiss, how does one put into words the experience of flying free, your soul soaring, carefree among the clouds, or the feel of the tumultuous waves of the ocean as it washes over you and sweeps you away? That lasted for one second as what would come next would taint and poison my first kiss like arsenic.

She looked deeply into my eyes tenderly yet with a look of a child ashamed of some naughty deed, and said, “I already have a boyfriend.” Now I wasn’t about to show any of my shock or sorrow at that moment, or at least I didn’t mean to, I was trembling as I said, “its okay.” and tried to put up a mask of manliness and bravado. We walked back, slowly building a wall of lies between our new found intimacy. I never told my friends what happened, nor, I doubt, did she.

I guess it was my fault, me and my foolish notions of romance. I guess I expected too much, for a girl like that to have no offers of any type of relationship.

That day I spent just looking out at the ocean, not thinking, or remembering anything, just looking. Who knows, in a couple of years, I’ll just look upon this as a learning experience, but at that moment, I tried to push thoughts of suicide back where they came from.

NOTEWORTHY

• Helen Lea Veinbergs
• Age 16
• Crawford High School,
• San Diego

La Jolla Shores. The words just seem to paint a picture, in most minds, of hot sand, huge waves, loud music, and lots of people. But for me, this stretch of beach was a hard teacher, who at times seemed just as unmerciful, as it was compassionate.

My friend and I had once spoken of how the ocean was a lot like love.

It sounded corny, but we had talked about how both draws people of all ages and backgrounds to it. You never knew whether a wave (or a loved one) would give you security, peace, and joy, or instead crush your body against jagged rocks and suffocate you. Nevertheless, humans seemed drawn to that risk.

It seemed fitting to be going to the Shores that night with Jan.

Jan and I had gone out to dinner at Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, to celebrate before she left for college. We had been best friends through some of the worst and best times of our lives: phone conversations at three o’clock in the morning; skipping stones at Torrey Pines; sharing a picnic of Oreo cookies with peanut butter; putting slices of cucumbers over our eyes, and laughing until it hurt; Jack’s death, and crying until we couldn’t see; Jan’s family problems; my first love — Mike.

All these feelings and memories seemed far away at dinner, though. We talked about the college Jan was going to, and how ready she was for this change in her life. We weren’t kids tonight. We were distant, uncomfortable teenagers, too quickly becoming adults.

After dinner we went back to Jan’s. Her family was on vacation, so we had the house to ourselves.

Jan had even picked up a bottle of white wine at the local liquor store. Luckily she looked old enough that the salesperson hadn’t asked for any I.D. Although neither of us were drinkers, or had been drunk before, I guess we were feeling the freedom of summer. Probably for the first time in our friendship, we felt we were growing in very scary and different ways, and needed something to share and lift our spirits; but the bottle was never opened.

Jan mentioned another friend’s beach party at La Jolla Shores that night. She just wanted to drop by, if it was okay with me, but we didn’t have to.

Like an old musty attic, there seemed to be a room in my heart filled with pieces of the past. La Jolla opened the door of that room and released a million different feelings.

Jack had drowned there. I had been truly infatuated with him, and his death ripped me away from who I thought I was, and therefore, from all the people around me. A year after his death, when I had mustered the courage to go back in the waves, Kristen and I were almost killed in a rip tide. I had learned to resent having the water even touch my feet.

There were other memories: of fun days with Jan, carefree, warm hours of playing, and sentimental dates with Mike.

I wanted Jan to stop in at the party, but more importantly, I felt myself mysteriously drawn to La Jolla that night. It was as if there was an invisible string around my soul, pulling me toward a predestined fate.

I insisted that we go to the beach. I could tell Jan was worried about me. Maybe — somehow — she knew . . .

When we got there, we greeted Jan’s friends. I remember the sound of the fire crackling, a sound that had once been comforting, but now seemed irritating and painful, like somebody cracking their knuckles.

The beach was crowded, and I felt crowded, too. I wanted to run away and be alone.

The beach was lit with bonfires that generated an ominous brightness, like swirling lights on an ambulance. I don’t remember a moon or stars, so the water looked black and eternal.

Jan, Meg, and I walked up and down the shore. I would step back whenever the water came too close to my feet. They talked — I recall hearing their voices — but I couldn’t, or didn’t want to understand their conversation. I felt detached.

I happened to glance up onto the sand and I saw Mike’s family. Of all people to run into — there they were. Half of me wanted to hug them, but the other half thwarted me, and I was reminded that Mike was drifting away. I didn’t know how his family felt about me. Seeing them was the “last straw”.

Too many things were changing too fast. Jan and my sister were going away to college. Mike was moving further and further from me. My own school year, with all its pressures, would be starting soon. I felt alone and lost, but it was as if I was watching another person suffering the pain that was mine. Through a fog-like vision, I saw it.

I couldn’t stand the emptiness anymore. We had returned to the party, and people were all around me — chatting. Suddenly I had to run. It was almost like I was late for a very important appointment. I told Jan that I had to go on a walk — alone.

She hesitantly nodded.

I walked down the beach at a pace quickened by insecurity, loneliness, and confusion.

I stared at the water with tears streaming down my face. All I could say was, “God, God, God. . I was exhausted — like I had been frantically searching for a home that I now realized, no longer existed. With firm, but almost unconscious steps, I splashed into the water.

“It could all be over in minutes,” I thought, as the water touched my ankles, “they’d never know what happened.”

I walked out to my knees. I could hug Jack tonight, and never again have to wonder what he thought of me. This was the place I was being drawn to by that string around my soul. — I was sure of it!

I wasn’t running away, I reasoned,

I was running to something. — I was running home!

I slowed down as the water reached my waist. I wasn’t crying anymore. I felt a calm come over me that I’ve never felt before, or felt since. All of my hurts and losses disappeared for those moments. I could finally breathe, because the weight of my pain was lifted. It was the kind of peace that comes only from God. He gave me something out there. I don’t remember the gift. It’s been buried by the hurt I was to encounter when I came back out of the water, or maybe it was the strength to live through those times. But He gave me this gift, and then gently turned me around. I just remember facing the ocean one moment, and the shore the next. I didn’t feel rejected as much as disappointed. I guess God was telling me I had some things to finish before I came home. I had to bear the weight for awhile, and even grow under it — so I walked out of the water, and back to the group of people Jan was with.

I warmed my cold feet at the fire, and then Jan and I left La Jolla Shores. In the silence on the way home — I longed only to be hugged, or hear a gentle voice saying I would be okay, but I couldn’t even hear my heart beat. The sound of the distance growing between my old friend and I froze the air.

I reluctantly stepped from the innocent child’s world of ever smiling dolls, and “happily ever afters”, into the cold, realistic world of the adult.

NOTEWORTHY

• Beatriz Chairez
• Age 16
• San Dieguito High School
• Encinitas

My most memorable experience, and a pleasent one at that, started when Lucy had told me about a dude she knew and wanted to introduce to me. She was telling me that her boyfriend had a friend that wanted to meet me. I kept saying no, because i wasn’t in the “meeting mood”.

Then the night of Mariela’s Halloween party came, and Lucy’s boyfriends where there. The dude was so nice looking that I figured he could never be a jerk. So while Lucy was in the house, I came up to her and asked her who the dude was.

“He’s standing in front of you!” she screamed.

“Yeah, well introduce us”, I said, while trying to play it off. So when Lucy, Richard, “the” dude, and Rafael, Lucy’s boyfriend, came out she whent up to me and introduce us. Everything could have been fine and dandy, but after he started talking to me I found out that he didn’t get along with the dudes from this town.

“Yeah, well. The last time some dudes from this town went over to Carlsbad they threw some bottles at one of the homeboy’s car. The dudes from Mesa did that same thing, chale! That’s why we don’t get along with Mesa Y with Encinitas,” Richard explained.

“But what do you have to do with that? Was it your car?”, I questioned.

He continued, “Well, it’s this way. Last time que I went to la Mall de Carlsbad, some dudes de Mesa where there. They were looking for trouble, but the security guards stopped us from throwing down there and then.”

Well, as soon as I heard that I just kept telling him not to mad-dog the other dudes because they were on familiar and friendly grounds and he wasn’t. Later Richard also told me that his friends had come down to Encinitas and messed up a couple of

cars too. So I guess war had been declaired between Carlsbad, Mesa, and Encinitas. War involves weapons, and Barrio Encinitas has and a lot of, but boys will be boys. Fortunatelly the police authorities had been notified. The problem was that all the police did was to ask the music to be turned down and all the dudes that where kicking-back in their cars to go back in the party.

The hosts had a solution for keeping the music to a dull roar and that was to put the DJ in a storage-like room, in the backyard. So when people wanted to dance all they had to do was go into the room. I guess Richard was in the danceing mood or had a death wish, because he wanted to go to the room. From where we had been standing outside we could see that all the dudes where on either sides of the door. But we went ahead and went ahead and entered. As soon as we passed, the dudes at the door they stuck their feet out and kicked Richard. So, I guess, now he had a reason to throw down with Encinitas.

While we were dancing, the hosts came by and told me my dad had arrived and was waiting for me. So on our way out of the dance room, again all the dudes at the door kicked Richard. I said good-bye and nice to meet both Rafael and Richard. On my way out of the party a dude from Encinitas, also called Richard, stopped me and asked where the dude I was with was from.

“Well, I didn’t realy have time to ask!”, I said trying to look innocent. But wearing a mini-skirt, ears, and a tail 1 looked more like a tiger than innocent. He looked hard into my eyes as if he was trying to read my mind, and went back into the party.

Two days later I met up with Richard and Rafael at Lucy’s house, there I found out that the dude at the dudes at the party where going to do more than kick Richard. Because what Lucy and Rafael had seen while Richard and I where dancing was that some dude had pulled out a knife and another had a chain. I guess we had just been lucky that Richard didn’t lose his temper, because that was the dudes' set up, to let Richard try to attack them. But this is not the whole story, because I still haven’t mentioned that Lucy’s house and mine are patrolled nightly to check for intruders from Barrio Carlsbad to Barrio Encinitas!!

NOTEWORTHY

• Kim Riggs
• Age 14
• Standley Junior High School
• San Diego

January 28th started out to be as any other ordinary day. In the afternoon my mother came home from a friend’s, Barb’s, house. She told me she had heard there was an accident down the street from Barb’s house. Her boys went out to see who was in it and what has happened. They came back and told me Anita and Anna, good friends, were in a bike-car accident. I didn’t know what to do, it was as if I wanted to help so badly but there was nothing I could do except say my prayers.

Later that evening, I called Anna’s parents, her sister was the only one home. I asked if Anita and Anna were all right. She said “Thanks for calling, but we’ll keep in touch.” I prayed everything would be all right.

I couldn’t sleep that night, I just worried and said my prayers.

The next morning, Sunday the 29th, I woke up early and got ready to teach Sunday School as usual. I ate breakfast, showered, got dressed, and waited in the car. My mother was coming out the door, when we received a phone call. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Mother called out to me to come and get the phone, but I ignored her as if I never heard a word. 5 minutes later, she screamed to me, “Kim, get in here, your friend didn’t make it!”

I stormed in and grabbed the phone. It was Anna crying. “Hello,” I said. “Anita didn’t make it, she died last night at 8:00!” It hit me right then and there and I burst into tears. “I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry!” I gave my sympathy and hung up. My mother comforted me. I called some of Anita’s friends and told them. Nobody could believe it. I went to church and said a special prayer, one that I had intended to say earlier, it was too late. I couldn’t save her, no one could. I realized she was gone and I had to accept that fact.

At church everyone gave their sympathy and for which I was greatful for. I didn’t eat or say much that night. I mumbled “She was so young, why so young?’’ I asked myself time and time again “Why her?” Why should anyone so young die; “So young?”

The next day at school was a sad one. My friends and I wept and thought of old times. We showed each other pictures of Anita and ourselves, together. We were having a great time! I came home from school and Anna called me to give me a date for the wake and funeral.

The wake was held the 31st. I left at 7:00p.m. with my mother and sister. We arrived and signed in. I glanced over in the little room next to me and saw some people who looked familiar to me. I walked over and there laying next to me was a white coffin, with white lace on it and within the coffin was Anita lying with her hands crossed, her head upon a big pink pillow with roses scattered throughout the coffin. It really didn’t look like her! She looked like a mannikin doll! She just wasn’t the same!

My mother whispered “It’s not her, Kim, It’s just the outer body, but the inner soul is where it belongs.” I cried in reaction to those words.

They seemed so sad, but so true.

This was the image, the outer part of a friend which I had lost, and my loss was so painfull, I had to stay! I hugged with my friends as we all cried together. I walked up, very close, to my friend, who now was so very dead, I said a small prayer. I touched my hand to hers and said “Goodbye.” She was so cold, yet so visable. We then left. How much I wished, hoped, and prayed that I could see her smile one more time, but I was dreaming. One more time was totally; Impossible!

The first of February was the funeral. I went again with my Mother. The church helpers and family members brought the coffin down the aisles. I cuddled next to my mother. They had a ceremony and it was over. The people took the coffin out. At this point, my mother was holding me, trying to keep me from screaming. I was crying so loudly, my mother was about to take “me” out of the church, so I calmed down. The burial service was after that.

My mother didn’t want me to go but I did anyway. I had to. I went there with some friends and their parents.

I looked at the coffin, hugged Anita's parents and son and left feeling as if I had lost a part of my heart. I was not the same, I guess I will never be the same. My life isn’t the same without Anita. She was such a down to earth person. I’ll never forget her, for she has a part of my heart. I’m still holding on to the other part but I’ll never be able to recapture the other one-half.

NOTEWORTHY

• Kevin Krohn
• Age 15
• Mission Bay High School
• San Diego

It was through large, pretenaturally bright eyes that the youngster gazed at his surroundings — the buildings, both ominous and inviting, the tables and benches unscathed by the generations of bustling behinds, and the towering metal sprouting from the asphalt like giant plants sprouting chain-link flowers for the children amidst them to throw their basketballs at. These images, being vivid and profuse, were but faintly absorbed by the gawking child who stood dwarfed by it all. Despite the bright sun and the warmth of the day, he shivered.

“My first day of Junior High in San Diego” the boy whispered, as if afraid to hear what that sentence implied. Kevin could no longer contain his fascination and curiosity, and so he finally approached his first classroom, gathered all the courage he could muster, and walked shyly inside.

That day, the first of Kevin’s experiences in the place he was to later call home, was the culmination of all his phobias (and mine, for I am Kevin) and proved the turning point in my life. In the four years that have passed since then, I’ve gotten into High School at Mission Bay with relatively few scrapes and bruises, and this city — so alien and bizarre when I first got here — has become a warm haven that has enriched my life along the way. I will never forget that first day, because it symbolized my initiation into San Diego’s society and provided me with a scale society to adopt to.

Of course, I didn’t just “appear” in San Diego — rather, my life was dealt a few twists by Fate that put my former environment into disarray.

My family was beset by divorce, strife, and the burden of a child (myself — not quite so innocent a lad back then), and my father thought it best to create a refuge in the strange-sounding land of “San Diego.” I was, naturally enough, completely mortified at the thought of leaving my one acquaintance behind (I wasn’t a popular guy), but he assured me he'd be fine, and so I left for whatever this place had to offer. At the time, the place my father had described (“. . . beaches, surf, and girls . . .”) might as well have been in Timbuktu, for all I knew about those things. I was leaving Los Angeles.

When I first arrived in “San Diego” (I couldn’t quite pronounce the name back then), my eyes nearly burst from their sockets as I beheld a sight completely new to me — a body of water greater than that in a bathtub called “Mission Bay.” I was amazed and horrified to think that I would be living near this dangerous place — a scant block away from the place where sharks, goblins, and killer whales as big as yachts lay in wait to trap hapless children (I had just seen the informative movie documentary “Jaws”, so I knew I was in real trouble then) and chew them into mush. I wailed, I protested, and I threatened never to clean my room, but my all-knowing father was inflexible. Drowning out my lingering cries of “Sharks! Sharks!”, he flatly stated, “Kevin, this is your new home, and that (indicating the irredescent surface of the water).is where you will be swimming very soon if you don’t SHUT UP!!” Needless to say, that sounded like a convincing enough argument for staying, and I forced myself to adjust. I did manage to make a great show of pouting and cringing my way around the house, though, as a matter of justice. . . .

The next day was an important one for me, as it was my first attempt to contact the new society around me.

My father had made an appointment for me to meet with the man who was to be my counselor for my life in junior high. The strangeness of the atmosphere was palpable as we drove in silence up the main boulevard (“how do you say ‘Ingraham’, dad?”) towards my new school — the pervading atmosphere of oddities threatened to snuff out my very existence. In all the eleven years I had lived in Los Angeles, I had never seen so many different colors, lights, and diverse people in such a small area. Bathing suits (I blush in remembrance) were more scant than spider webs, and the sight of people walking around with large boxes on their shoulders blasting noise into their ears made me wonder at the anatomy of the people in this strange land. As I was pondering this last thought, my father pulled to a stop and urged me out of the car (“Will you please let go of the seat, Kevin?!”) I was ushered through forbidding doors marked “Counseling”, and my ordeal had begun.

The inside of P.B. Junior High was nice enough — with modern chairs and clocks and (ugh) bright orange and yellow walls. The one thing that made me sweat was the fact that people were walking into little cubicles and not reemerging. Instinctively, I knew it was my doom to enter one of those colorful boxes, and I started to panic. Just as I was to mention this oddity to my father, however, the light was suddenly eclipsed by a towering figure clad in shirt and slacks. The figure, leering horrendously, extended one enormous paw as if to grasp my frail body and fling me to my death. Closer it loomed, and closer. . . .

“Hello,” it said, “and welcome to P.B. Junior High!” I blinked my eyes a few times and tried vainly to control my reaction as my hand disappeared in his. He gave it a few hearty pumps that I feared would rend my arm from my torso, and then continued. “I’m Mr. Burke, and I’ll be your counselor while you attend our school. And you must be Kevin?” I nodded dumbly, trying to raise my eyes up his gigantic frame and only barely attaining his smiling face. He seemed blithely unaware of my discomfort, and he guided me over to one of the ‘‘cubicles from which no one returned” (to my relief, it was just a little office, but I sat near the door just in case) and gestured for me to take a seat and relax. He told me all about the school (. . . . ‘‘and a lot of girls . . . .”) and went over my program, assuring me that I would have no problems adjusting. I managed a feeble smile at that ridiculous statement, and when it was over, thanked him gratefully. He was now my counselor and only friend, and I knew I had someone to run to and complain now.

My first encounter with the native life forms completed, I proceeded to go out to the car with my father and go home to prepare for the next day — one of the biggest events of my life. My first day of school was just around the corner, and I was determined not to make a fool of myself. I was going to make my father — and myself — proud that I could survive change, and move into the adult world.

The big day arrived. I was (despite the night before’s resolutions) terrified to the depths of my L. A.-born soul. All the plagues of adolescence came rushing to my head in one tremendous flood, and it took every ounce of my strength to keep from falling straight through the floor. Suddenly, my hair, my face, my clothes, my body — everything I had failed to notice before was suddenly so flawed that I wondered how God could let someone so deformed even live, much less go to school. I quailed at the thought of actually committing myself to such public shame — but, my father charged in to the rescue.

He brushed me out the door, into the car, and out into the schoolyard before I could so much as scream or threaten at all. Before I knew it, I was face-to-face with the object of my horror — the hallway. I walked falteringly down that dimly lit corridor, hearing above the patter of my feet the thumping of my heart.

Swallowing bile and fears alike, I steeled myself for the worst, pushed open the door to my first class, and — with one fleeting glance of longing towards the air outside — walked into the room to enter school at last.

Well, needless to say, I survived my first day at school and did not (despite my fears) melt to the floor when my fellow students first looked at me. Throughout the rest of that year and the years to follow until the present, I grew into the tight-knit society of San Diego until I became a part of it — friends were now a major source of support and enjoyment, and school lost it’s mystery (though not its challenge).

The one thing that had made it possible, though, had been that first day at school — where I was finally forced to abandon my former life and absorb the new environment laid out before me. It was my challenge, my goal, to become a part of this beautiful town; all those feelings of kinship surged up as I left the hallway that day to behold a creature of this town, such as I hoped to be — and as the seagull that was perched there on the lunch table spread its wings and launched himself into the cool San Diego sky with a cry like “I belong! I belong!”, I knew I wanted to be just like him. And, I promised myself, some day ... I will be. □

NOTEWORTHY

• Sara King
• Age 16
• Coronado High School
• Coronado

On the afternoon of September 20, 1983,1 approached Laura’s house with a piercing nervousness in my stomach and an exhilarating excitement growing. The three of us prepared ourselves in Laura’s bathroom, chatting incessantly.

Camille had released her Black hair from its confined state and it spewed everywhere, a wild afro. Laura wore a cloak of multicolored patterns, like stained glass jewels it displayed flaming reds, pinks, purples, blues and black. Her long, bleached hair was ratted till it stood in a mane around her head; her eyes were masked with eyeliner, her lips painted blood red. Camille wore an army jacket, sleek black gown, and pointy black shoes. Her beautiful Black complexion was enhanced with very flattering makeup. I gazed at her enviously. “You look so pretty, everyones going to admire you at the show,” I raved. I donned a black ball gown with straight, tight, long sleeves, fitted bodice, and sexy scoop neck with a ballooning skirt of many layers of some kind of material that whispered as I walked. The rustling sound was intriguing. I teased my long blond hair and sprayed numerous black streaks throughout. I applied a layer of makeup and an assortment of jewels. Suddenly Laura marveled, “You look just like Exene, man. You look so great.” “Thanks”, I said, wondering if I really did.

The three of us embarked the five o’clock bus. On the way to the bus stop we caused quite a disturbance in Coronado among those who witnessed the three apparitions strolling along the street, all of us in silent euphoria. We sat in the back of the bus, amongst a few men who were aghast at our appearance. “You girls going out tonight or something?” someone inquired. “Yeah, a concert. X.” She replied, and we all grinned. Camille whispered, “I can’t believe we're already on our way. We’ve been anticipating this for like a month.”

“I know. I'm so damn excited.” I said, aft clasped my hands together. We arrived in downtown and stopped by a nearby liquor store. Outside we spotted a young man with a bowling team shirt on, and black and white hair. He looked very interesting. “Excuse-rtfe, is there something going on tonight?” He asked politely. “Yeah, X is playing at the Fox.” I volunteered, and we all grinned again. We made idle conversation with the young man, and we smoked a cigarette outside the Fox. His name was Keith, and he was in the army for a brief while and now he was on his own. “Let me make a phone call to a friend of mine, and I’ll come back and go to the show with you guys.” He said and disappeared. We became very excited as the crowd collected outside the theater. “A lot of freaks”, I concluded to myself and grinned inwardly. Exene Cervenka was my idol, and I had fantasized about meeting her ever since I had received my ticket, over a month ago.

After a while, the grand lobby of the Fox was open for us to enter. I gaped at the majestic beauty of the theater. It put an indescribable touch of mystery to the anticipation burning in my stomach, as I depicted me seeing my favorite band. It was wonderful strolling the plush, antiquated theater amongst the freaks and feeling as if we belonged, and were the most devoted viewers. The First band was a hardcore band I’d never heard before. I didn’t much focus on them, turning my mind to the fantasy I’d developed. We sauntered through the lobby at intermission, and I felt my passionate suspense race through my veins, and my blood cascade. My heart was beating so rapidly in the stimulating environment, with the glorious release about to come. We secured our third row seats early, and speculated about the approaching moment. Before long, our agonized anticipation subsided as the lights dimmed and a silence overcame the room. I could feel the potion of the atmosphere and the excitement racing through my brain and I could barely contain myself as I saw the drummer walk on the stage. I let out a yelp of emotional ecstasy as Exene arrived. I was caught up, totally mesmerized, intoxicated, enthralled by the power of the music and the enchanting night. I escaped my seat and danced furiously at the front, near the stage.

I threw my mind and soul and body into singing, my heart aching with pleasure. It was a glorious concert.

After the encore, I began seeking entrance to the backstage area. A security guard stopped me abruptly. “Leave” he said bluntly. I stammered, “I just want to see her. Just let me see her. It won’t hurt anything. Please.” I kind of wailed.

He smiled, and I felt bright. “Nope, kid. Just take off, you can’t get back there.” Laura and Camille joined me. I felt a sob in my throat. “I want to see her, that’s all, just get her autograph. Don’t be so strict. We’re not going to do anything.” Some of the guy’s security guard buddies joined him. “Beat it, kids. Concert’s over.” I felt defeated. Laura and Camille looked at me like I was stupid as I felt myself begin to quietly cry. I swallowed all my pride as I burst: “Come on! I’ll die if I don’t see her.”

The guard laughed. “I’ve got someone here who’ll die if she don’t see Exene.” He laughed to his friend. “You can’t get to them from here anyway. Go around back.” I said, “Are you sure?” and decided to go investigate. At the back gate a bunch of people were going in and out after they flashed backstage passes to the guard. “How do I get one of them?” I asked the guy working the gate. He didn’t answer. I asked someone going inside.

“Where do you get those?”

“From the radio station. They don’t give em to anyone, you know.” I turned to the guy at the gate again. “Why can’t I go in? I have to see Exene. I’m not going to do anything, you know. Please, I’ll die if I don’t get to see her.” I was really sobbing by now, and it felt good. Laura volunteered, “I bleed for X”, and she displayed the crudely carved X in her left hand. It was still kind of bloody. The guy looked at us scornfully and said, “Stupid kids. I used to do that kind of stuff too. You’ll grow out of it.” Another man wandering by with a pass suddenly said, “Come on. I’ll take you in with me. Hold on to my pass.”

I stood there gaping, wanting to sob again with joy as he led me inside. I turned to Camille and Laura and smiled, then we descended the stairs. I tried to wipe my eyes of the black streaks as I said in awe, “Do I really get to see her?” He said “Yes”, and led me through a maze of stairways and halls till we got to one hallway where people were loitering outside one doorway, and light emanated from it. The growing exhilaration was almost panic as we neared that doorway, that seemed somewhat forlorn and very distant from the outside that was lost in my memory. Suddenly I was faced with the singer and guitarist, John Doe. I stood there, unable to speak as he looked at me and I silently stared at Exene, absorbed in writing something, hunched over and scrawling. He tapped her.

“Someone’s here to see you.” He whispered. She turned her gaze on me, and I was numbed, in stupid gleaming awe, overwhelmed. “Exene”, I murmured like in a trance. “Would you sign this for me?” I managed to say. I handed her my ticket stub. She made a quick scrawl and 1 caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My portrayal of Exene was muddled in black streaky tears. I was a complete forlorn mess, but at least my hair stayed in tact. Everything seemed to be going very fast, and I tried to get a grip and realize what was going on. Exene handed me the ticket. “You touched me, so now the hurt’s on you.” she said as I left their small dressing room, in an intoxicated, glorified stupor. I didn’t look at what she wrote till I was again outside of the building. Now the hurt’s on you, it said in elegant, scraggly writing. I was mystified.

When I reunited with Laura and Camille, I just glared at them in ecstasy, smiled, and started to cry again. I could barely relate to them the events that had just taken place in the enclosed, dim dressing room. They marveled at me, astonished. I could barely pull myself together. “I guess we better call your dad”. I said to Laura, and laughed. I had said something that made sense. We all ran, rejoicing, to the phone booth, me still somewhat in a blind daze. Laura’s dad arrived a little after 1:00. “What the hell have you been doing, smoking dope or something”, he demanded, but in a friendly way. He was a little impressed by our tale of the evening. I gripped the cherished ticket stub, and made plans for framing it.

I lay in my bed that night, contemplating, still not knowing what the message meant for me was. But I knew someday I would have that knowledge, for there are many concerts to come.

NOTEWORTHY

• Sonya Taylor
• Age 14
• Lincoln High School
• San Diego

The sun shone bright and I felt great; anxious to have an exciting day. My best friend, Hope, had just called to let me know that Shannon and Margaret were going to the St. Rita’s Bazaar with us. I wasn’t too enthusiastic about them going, but since Hope was so fond of them, I put on a fake smile and went along with it.

My mom usually doesn’t like playing chauffeur to my friends and I, but this time she didn’t really mind because St. Rita’s was right off Imperial. Hope was looking really special. She had on burgandy cords and a pink sweater with lace around the collar. I wore a baby blue short set which I also looked nice in. Just as expected. Shannon and Margaret wore faded jeans and bulky sweat shirts.

Upon our arrival, all of us headed to the Country Store booth with high hopes of winning a bag of groceries. With no success, we decided to try our luck at the Fish Pond. Margaret was so lucky! She won on her first try. Shannon said she was starving, so we went and got some cheese burgers and fries. After stuffing myself, I was ready to try my luck at the cake booth, and it just so happened that I won this scrumptious looking German Chocolate cake. Feeling that I had just accomplished something, I joined my friends who were dancing to the sounds of the music D.J. Ron was playing. Everyone was doing the Rock, which was very unfamiliar to me. But I caught on fast While I was really getting off into the new dance, I remembered that I had to call my mom in an hour, which was 8:00 p.m. I knew this because the 7:00 church bell had just rang.

More and more people came each second. It had gotten very crowded. There was talk from several of my friends that gangs were supposedly coming to fight. I saw people getting excited about the fighting. Someone was talking of how they loved violence. My stomach was hurting and my head was pounding. Sweat had covered my entire face.

My head had really started pounding when I heard this loud noise, a gunshot. Everything was quiet for a brief second and then all the hollering and screaming began. I heard police sirens coming from every direction. Many little kids had fallen because the older ones had pushed their way through to see what was going on. When I turned around all I saw was blood. The policeman hadn’t let anyone out of the front gates to get a closer view. The paramedics had arrived and were doing their job. Finally, my friends and I had broken through the crowd and made it to the annex of the school to call my mom. We had to wait about twenty minutes to use the phone, though. Many people were already waiting in line. When I had finally gotten through to my mom, she said she’d be there right away and for us to meet her at the back street of St. Rita’s, which was Manzanares Ave.

Shannon behaved as if something great and wonderful had just taken place. She was saying things like, I wonder if our pictures will be in the paper for seeing the murder. “Do you think that we’ll get a reward’’. Margaret and Hope hadn’t said anything. Finally, my mom arrived and kept pressuring us to tell what happened. Shannon was the only one talking, though. After taking all of my friends home, I was speechless for the rest of the night. My friends kept calling but I had told my mom that I didn’t want to be disturbed. I was going to bed.

When returning to school I hadn’t forgotten about the catastrophy that had taken place right before my eyes, especially when I had walked past the church and saw blood stains on the ground. A tear rolled down from my eyes. It was the main topic

of the whole school day. We had discussions about it in every class. All I wanted was to forget about it. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been there and witnessed it.

NOTEWORTHY

• Kathy Hobbs
• Age 16
• El Cajon Valley High School
• El Cajon

It started on the early morning of June 20, 1976. It was the day after my birthday. I had just turned eight years old. I woke up early and was playing with my birthday card, which had two pop out paper dolls in it. I had suddenly become very thirsty and decided to go to the kitchen to get a drink of water. When I got to the kitchen, I saw a lady standing there playing with the bottles we had stored under the sink. She was smiling, but she seemed very sad.

Later that night, I told my mom that I saw a lady in the kitchen. She just said, “Yea sure, go in your room and play.” So I went.

The next morning I saw the lady again, and I told my mom again. This went on for the next few days. Finally one night my mom and my uncle, Allan, who was 14 years old, were sitting in the living room with all the lights off watching T.V. My uncle was stretched out, lying down on one couch on one side of the room, and my mom was sitting on the other couch on the other side of the room. When suddenly, they both saw a grey cloud, come down from the ceiling. It looked like it had a slight figure of a person. My mom and my uncle both sat there and stared at the figure for a minute. When the figure started to go back up, my uncle was in my mom’s lap in a flash! We all slept together that night! The next day we called the cops to come and investigate. They checked up in the attic, and all they found was a newspaper clipping. The policemen brought it to my mom. She read the article, then looked at the picture and almost fainted.

The article was about a lady and her son. They were both in a car crash, and the lady was thrown out of the car and killed instantly. The boy was thrown through the front window and killed instantly. The picture was of the mom and her 14 year old son. The reason why my mom almost fainted was because the boy in the picture looked exactly like my uncle Allan!

It was apparent that the lady didn’t know her son died too, and she came back to see him.

We moved out the next day.

NOTEWORTHY

• Anna Canaday
• Age 16
• Crawford High School,
• San Diego

I will never forget the day that he didn’t wake up. His body just laid there between the crumpled sheets. He looked so peaceful and so relaxed. In a way I was glad that he passed away. He was no longer in pain, the pain that he had fought against for six months. The pain had finally won.

I had known him for eleven years and how special those years were too me. The smile he put out each day was a warm caring smile. The laughter and happiness there was between us never ended. For eleven years there was both of my parents warmth inside me. And then it ended.

I felt so sad and empty inside. It was like half of me died with him. For weeks, the tears rolled down my face. I never thought about how much I loved him until I could no longer tell him so. He was always there when I needed him. I never thought he would leave. I just figured that a father was supposed to be around until I was all grown up. I see now that I was wrong.

I would try to remember all the happy times that we had together. The walks through the park, going bowling and ice skating. Even doing my homework was something special when he was there. It was all the small events that meant the most to me. When the entire family was around I had to share him. I guess I was spoiled and jealous. Every time he paid attention to someone else I would become upset. I threw many temper-tantrums over who gets the attention. I always seemed to win. Being the smallest and the youngest may of had something to do with it, but I always felt that he stuck up for me. And all I did was stand back and cheer him on. For those eleven years he was my strength.

After my father died I was a different person. For the first time I really thought I hated someone. That someone was my father. When he died I thought it was because of me, not because he was sick. I was hurt and afraid. I was afraid of what was going to happen to me without him. His support and his love meant everything to me and I thought I would fall apart without them. After a while I found that my life was not crumbling, it was actually growing.

I knew I had to go on. Since then. I’ve come a long way.

Almost four years have now passed. I have finally accepted the fact that my father is dead and that he is never going to return. I understand now why my father died and what caused his death. He didn't die because he didn’t love me, he died because he had cancer. He fought against it but there comes a time when there isn’t any more energy to fight it. When that time comes, you must go. A wonderful man was taken from my family that February morning. This man will live forever in my heart.

NOTEWORTHY

• Vickie Potoski
• Age 15
• San Marcos High School
• San Marcos

It was actually a pretty normal day, or so I had thought. I went to school, (Junior high), and waited for one o’clock to come so I could go to my appointment at the orthodontist.

Sitting in the classroom, I recalled the nightmare I’d had that night. The same one I’d had several times over again through that particular month of Feburary. Always the same thing. My friend Johanna and I riding our bikes down the long street she lived on. Only in the dream it was dark, but even so, I knew it was daytime. As usual the strange man with dark hair and strange eyes would drive toward us. Johanna would ride away, and I trying to follow close behind, but my bike would not move. Soon, she was completely out of sight. The man would drive closer and then stop the beat up, blue Nova which he had been driving. He then got out and approached me. I could remember vividly the eeriness about him, the strange look in his eyes. A wicked, evil look. The stranger then pulled a knife from the pocket of his faded jeans and stabbed me several times. Always the dream stopped there.

Soon it was one, and time to go. I walked to the near by dentist office. The doctor fixed my braces, and I called my mother to come and pick me up. Only this time I waited outside for her. I saw my friend Lisa waiting for her mother too. We said hello, and then she went on, “Are you meeting someone here?”.

“No”, I replied, “why?” “Oh, I was just wondering, cause some man just told me to tell you to wait at the end of those stairs for him”, she said, pointing to the stairway leading to the back parking lot.

I then started to walk down the stairs, and tryed to ignore the strange feeling which had come over me. I could sense a danger. After reaching the bottom, I looked around to find no one, only empty cars. Then, I quickly ran back up the stairs.

By this time my mom had come. I told her of the man Lisa had spoke to me about. So, she drove to the parking lot. Once there, I saw him. The man from my dream, sitting in the same blue Nova. He had the same strange eyes, as he watched me as we drove away. I did not tell my mom because she would not have believed me. I knew it was him though, I could not remember seeing him before, except in those dreams of a stranger.

ABOUT 1HE CONTEST

In this issue appear the winners in the teenage category of the 1984 Reader writing contest, our first competition for young people. Included here are the first- and second-award winners, five honorable mentions, and several stories that did not win awards but which we considered especially noteworthy. Next week’s issue will include the seven winners in the preteen category and more entries we felt were deserving of publication.

Young people were asked to write stories of unspecified length about their “most unforgettable experience” in San Diego County. The response was overwhelming: we received 1691 submissions, 881 of which were written by teens (ages thirteen through sixteen), 539 by preteens (twelve and under), and 271 of which provided no information about the author’s age. Boys trailed girls by approximately 200 entries.

Most frequently cited experiences involved family outings to the San Diego Zoo, the Wild Animal Park, area beaches, and Sea World (where a number of young writers have fallen into the petting pool). Many of the entrants chose to write about the Padres’ summer successes, the Olympic torch run, or a favorite rock concert. The acquisition or demise of family pets was also a popular theme. Not all of the entries were lighthearted. We had expected a sampling of divorce stories but were surprised by the large number we received; we were equally surprised by the frankness with which these youngsters grappled with the pain of family dissolution.

Many contributors submitted more than one entry, including the preteen who, in accordance with our rule allowing for multiple entries, sent us five photocopies of her original story. One teen, obviously pressed by his third-period teacher to submit something, gave us his corrected grammar assignment, an exercise in run-on sentences. Several writers appended subtle reminders to the judges, such as, “This is really a great story!” And a number of interested parents sent along photographs of the contestants or notes vouching for the unaided literary talent of their progeny. We have edited none of these entries; they appear as they were received.

Special thanks are extended to the many teachers at public and private schools throughout San Diego County for their efforts in encouraging their students to participate in this competition. All the stories captivated us, and we sincerely thank every contributor.

Next week: A strange elevator ride, unsuccessful pollywog surgery, the joys of trashpicking, and more from the Reader's 1984 Young People’s Writing Contest.