[Y]oung Writers Project, an independent nonprofit based in Burlington, engages young people to write and use digital media to express themselves with clarity and power, and to gain confidence and skills for school, the workplace and life.
Check out the most recent issue of The Voice, Young Writers Project’s monthly digital magazine. Click here.
Each week, VTDigger features a writing submission – an essay, poem, fiction or nonfiction – accompanied by a photo or illustration from Young Writers Project.
YWP publishes about 1,000 students’ work each year here, in newspapers across Vermont, on Vermont Public Radio and in YWP’s monthly digital magazine, The Voice. Since 2006, it has offered young people a place to write, share their photos, art, audio and video, and to explore and connect online at youngwritersproject.org. For more information, please contact Susan Reid at sreid@youngwritersproject.org.
[S]ome of the best life advice given to young people is to pick the brains of the eldest members of their family – learn their histories, their funniest stories, their own advice – before that opportunity is one day lost. Shelburne writer Tess Everett seems to have soaked up this wisdom wholeheartedly this week, relaying in a short story the deep appreciation her character has for a grandmother that continues to help shape her identity.
Master of the Beach
By Tess Everett, 14
[N]ana’s always worn her hair short – short like mine, and like most of the women close to me in my family. We like to think of ourselves as trendsetters. When I first cut my hair, I could see the pride glistening in Nana’s eyes. The non-traditional tradition was carrying on. Her hair is a mix of gray and black, or salt-and-pepper as she calls it. I can see why. Unlike hers, mine shines yellow like the rays on a summer day.
Wrinkles line the creases where she smiles, the sign of a life full of laughter. She thinks old age has clouded her features, but I disagree. Age has only changed them. Once a deep chocolate-brown, her eyes now glint a blue-gray in the light, reflecting days of chemotherapy. Those days are over now. Her skin is tan and damaged from too many days in the sun. She always needs to get little spots patched up at the doctor’s. Advice is given to her to spend less time out on the burning beach, but she doesn’t listen. The sunshine is what she loves, and if she can’t enjoy it while it lasts, what’s the point of growing old? Still, she warns me about ending up with skin like hers, and always ensures I’ve got sunscreen rubbed all over my young skin.
When having conversations with her, I notice her ear leaning toward my mouth, straining to hear my words. She always makes sure to keep up with my busy life. She tries so hard to remember all my classmates’ names. “There’re too many to keep track of,” she complains.
We may have many differences, but we are also the same. While she almost yells when she talks, she tells me to speak up. While she tans just like that, it takes me a while (I usually get burned before I get a tan). Her body is worn out from many years as a mother, but her determination still shows. She’s constantly talking and never wants to miss out on a thing, just like me.
When I visit her in Florida, we always take long walks on the beach to collect unique shells and beans. She becomes jealous of how quickly I can spot the unique treasures. As her eyesight fades, mine becomes sharper.
“You’re a gem-finding master!” she exclaims to me.
“Nana, you’ll always be the master of the beach in my mind.”
