Teen Leadership Council

What Are You Fighting For?0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 7th, 2008

By: Kayla

Why are we here? Is this really worth it? What are you fighting for?

These questions eternally circle through my head, and listening to the responses is something quite amazing. We all think, live, and battle differently. Listening to people talk about what’s important to them, what they’re willing to stand up for, is inspiring. The way people talk about their own lives and the lives of everyone else differs so much from person to person. There are the people that care, the people who are passive, and those who live in a happy medium of both. I’ve heard people tell me that they fight for love, or whatever comes closest. Other people have told me that fighting for “love and peace” is too cliché, too broad, not a personal enough battle. How can it be that an idea means so much to some people and is so fake to others?

Another somebody once told me that they feel fighting for the weak is one of the most important battles you can commit to; fighting for the people that can’t fight for themselves, using your own strength to carry somebody along. It sounds great and can truly inspire some people, but there’s always a pro and con to every idea. I’ve been told that everyone should fight only for themselves, and that way nobody is depending on other people to live life for them. Truly deciding what to do for these must be case-dependent because I cannot imagine only fighting for one type of person my whole life.

Some of us fight endlessly for what we want to achieve. Those people struggle against the odds and try to make things happen for themselves. Others would rather wade in the shallows, and let life come to them because whatever happens, it happens right? These two different mindsets are ones I see in my peers every day. I know somebody that is such a hard worker at everything she does, and although her achievements aren’t perfect, the effort put into everything she does is sincere and brilliant. Then there’s another girl I know, she’s brilliant and talented, and life seems to come to her with little effort. She was born into convenience, and she lives life with everything at her hand. Despite these differences, both of them are just people, their life situations are not that different from each other at all, but who they are changes everything that they feel is worth fighting for.

People everywhere stand up for what they believe, and ideas every place are unimaginably contradicting. It’s a cycle that moves us all forward in eventual time, and a difference I see in everyone I know. So tell me, what are you fighting for?

Youth Voice: What’s It Worth?0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 7th, 2008

I have been working with Teen Leadership Council for seven years. When TLC started, I was interested in bringing forth the authentic voices and perspectives of young people into our community. Not simply as an “exercise” to help them develop leadership skills, certainly not as a patronizing way of encouraging kids to parrot back what I or others wanted them to believe, but as a way to help young adults grapple with issues that are important to them in a safe environment and to present their points of view after careful consideration and critical reflection. And, more importantly, TLC was a way to expose adults and the community at large to the perceptions and outlooks of the younger generation—to the “truth” of how some kids feel and think. As one of my early mentors once urged me, youth voice must be part of the conversations of our times.

TLC is also a learning lab to help us explore how to have more open minded conversations. In our group, we have discussions about issues that stir up opposing perspectives. We work to listen to others’ ideas, not simply develop a way to shoot down a different point of view, but to truly understand where the person is coming from. To hear the “truth” in what the other person is saying. Oftentimes we fail miserably. But we keep talking. Imagine how difficult this kind of conversation is, with a group of impassioned adolescents. Imagine how different the debates of our times would be if we listened to one another in a way that provoked understanding instead of righteousness.

Throughout the last seven years, I have often been challenged by the question of whether or not to publish something that may “ruffle some feathers”. There have been times when a youth wanted to write about something that was controversial, and even offensive to some. When this arises, I’ve had to ask myself and the author, “Why is this important to publish and is this perspective worth the backlash it might provoke?” I often tell youth that anyone can provoke an argument, that’s easy. As we all know, arguments rarely open minds. Arguments only embed us deeper into our opposition. So, can you tell this story, or present this idea or attitude in a way that opens others’ minds to your point of view? Can you present it in a way that invites others to think about it differently? In the end, I simply ask them to give me a high quality submission that is worth me fighting for it to be published, uncensored.

I understand that I am an adult working with young people, and I take seriously my responsibility to guide them and help them make safe choices. I also recognize that if we adults want to have honest, open conversations with our youth, we must start with listening to them to understand their points of view. Only then will they listen to us and be open to our influence. The Platypus is one place where youth have an avenue to tell you what they’re thinking about, how they feel and what they believe about the world. We don’t pretend to be the only voice, or the comprehensive voice, but a voice for some young people. What kids think and how they feel and act reflects much information about the times we live in. Youth are an integral part of our community. The voices of young people represent a perspective that we must call forth—even when their words are hard to hear.

I Think It’s The Weather0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 7th, 2008

By: Anonymous  

t’s not that I wasn’t fed the proper amount of string beans when I was a newborn. I can’t use those as excuses. I don’t lack anything except for subtlety and, well, that’s not why I am who I am either. It’s not that I was born into a family that isn’t entirely “there,” and even though that very well could explain why I’m not altogether “here,” that too isn’t why I am who I am. It can’t be blamed on my habit of staying up until midnight; turning the radio dial until I find a song that no one’s heard since the late eighties, by a band that no one’s heard from since their last attempt at a reunion tour in the early nineties. All that really does is give me red puffy eyes and although that does explain the reason why people believe I smoke more then I actually do, that isn’t the reason why I am who I am. It couldn’t be that in fourth grade I bought a ceramic miniature of a duck and pretended to be married to it for half the year or that I broke it when I punched a kid in the stomach when he told me that Santa wasn’t real and the poor ceramic duck crushed in my fist. Although that duck does explain why I think of ducks whenever anyone suggests Christmas. It could be explained by my family’s history, but no one in my family tells the real truth about what they’ve done and about the history they’ve made. It can’t be any of these things even though they all contributed to form me into who I am, and they still do.

The only reason that I can think of is that when my mother was pregnant with me she slipped on a patch of ice and fell down knocking a strand of my developing DNA out of place, thus ensuring that I would forever be the way that I am. So the way that I am can’t be explained by my mother or father’s parenting skills—or by my lack of green beans. It can be blamed on a piece of ice. In fact that’s how I respond to people when they ask me why I am the way that I am – all I can fathom to say is “I think it’s the weather.”

I shouldn’t even have to think about why fate had placed that piece of ice so dangerously close to my mother’s pregnant feet. I should be able to accept the way fate wanted me. I shouldn’t have to fight everyday to be proud of something as trivial as my sexual orientation. Having to fight for that seems to me almost as ridiculous as having to fight for your right to live because of your ethnicity, or eye color. I should be able to blindly accept it, realize that I was made this way and be able to embrace it. So I’m telling you right now, I’m gay in two senses: I’m attracted to men and I’m happier than I’ve ever been before. And I don’t need a reason for who I am. Even if I’m almost positive that it’s the weather.

The Inevitable Struggle0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 7th, 2008

By: Alishya

Each person’s beliefs are like finger prints; they’re unique. We all have different views. To eliminate conflict would eliminate what I find to be one of the most beautiful things about humanity: individuality. There will be conflict as long as our society and culture preserves a sense of diversity.

If one wants to make a change or be heard, she/he has to approach it with fists up. The ones that are recognized are the ones that have fought to the top. World peace is impossible, unfortunately. We have to start conflict to make changes in the world and our lives.

Among other things, humanity needs to learn how to pick their battles, and learn when to fight and when to keep quiet. We must learn and acknowledge that we are all individual, and we have a wide range of views. People must at least tolerate each other’s differences if they want society to be more susceptible to change.

Acceptance is the key to a better and more conflict free nation. Conflict is what a lot of people thrive on. Although this is true, being open to a new idea, and admitting being wrong will help us all be better people.

One Life0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 7th, 2008

By: Zach

The clink of a metal lighter echoes through the barren room, a metal chair scrapes the floor. An inconsistent flickering of the fluorescent light above my head attracts moths in from the open window. My shadow is convulsing on the floor. The stench of cigarettes drifts through the room, clinging to my striped vest, and black tie. I cough once and stand from the rusty, metal chair. The room grows quiet with anticipation, all eyes turn to me. One of the three sitting around the collapsible card table follows suit and stands, putting his cigarette out in a coffee can. As the smoke winds through the air, I hear a stifled scream.

Clutching my head, I ruffle through the pockets of my aged, leather jacket. The scream I heard didn’t come from the busy streets of New York outside the window, nor the room itself, it came from inside me. My fingers touch a small plastic tube. I pull it from my pocket only to discover that the bottle is empty. Cursing under my breath I sit back down caressing my temples. “There are lives at stake…we can’t just sit around the table.” A muttering of agreement. Making an offensive gesture to the speaker I take a bottle of aspirin from my jean pockets and pop two. “Alright, then let’s go and stop talking about it.”

Groaning as I stumble out of my seat, I see two shadows in the alley below. Stopping only for a moment the pale street light catches a woman’s face twisted in fear, and a man with a knife at her throat whispering threats into her ear. In my left ear I hear the three men rushing me, in my right I hear the quiet pleas of help. “Just a damn minute!” I watch the scene in the alley for a moment more, and then divert my eyes. Hundreds of people were supposed to die tonight if I didn’t get a move on, but a woman would be scarred for the rest of her life if I didn’t do something now.

The honking of a car horn brings my senses back to reality. I grab my wilted fedora from the table and shove it onto my head. I take one look back at the alley, the two shadows are gone. From outside the sound of tires rolling on gravel makes my headache return. “Those boys are gonna pay.” I take a seat by the window pull out a single flaccid cigar and light it. The silhouette of a woman blocks the light from the street; tears are running down her face. In her hands is a pair of crumpled jeans. I look at her face… it belonged to my sister.

Everyone To Their Own0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 6th, 2008

By: Kayla

Every person is born into their own battle, their own conflict between good and bad, cool and uncool, or just the everlasting external battles of the world. Everyone has a different story; in a way, each one of us is a story. We start out as screaming infants, greedy and self-absorbed. By instinct, all we do is want. It is how we survive, our only conflict being the next time we’re fed, who is going to take care of us. We do not fight for ourselves.As we grow older, each one of us develops a more personal battle, an internal struggle. For some people, the silent battle is a war of mind versus body. The mind is fighting to be beautiful, to look socially acceptable, the body is just there, living and breathing, and perhaps not as perfect as the mind thinks it ought to be.

Regret is another fight that people often deal with in their everyday lives. They are fighting to forget, to let it go, to move on with life. But when you truly regret something, the sword it spars with is as sharp as the memory. Other emotions close to regret, things like sadness and hate, do this too, and when anyone lets it get the best of them, they can surrender their happiness and themselves to a problem that may only be temporary. For some, the battle is eternal.

The battle can be won. We can defeat ourselves in a way, or rather all of our self-doubt and internal conflict. It’s amazing to be comfortable in your own skin, and live as one person, not the protagonist and antagonist sharing one mind, and no longer a mind versus body. With defeat of the inner sadness, perhaps we can be completely content with ourselves, perhaps we will smile.

Mirror0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 6th, 2008

 By: Kayla
A twitch of the hand, a wink of the eye
These things I seem to recognize
The cold in the air, a mirror, over there
I cannot help but notice these, oh tell me,
where am I?

I look in the mirror, full length and standing
I see only myself, so clear and unbending
But what I see in the mirror,
I see in myself
A world full of lies and doubt without help

I reach to the mirror and brush it gently
These hands, so cold, so weak, so trembling
The glass is speaking to me without words
It’s telling me lies and all the unheard

“It’s true” I mutter, kneeling down
Curling up on the ground
These things I see in the mirror ahead
It is my reflection, the one in my head.

This never-ending dream of me
In this room with the mirror
I see Is it real? Is it not?
Is it merely made of thought?

I find a dagger on the floor
I realize what I’ll do once more
The lying mirror, it soon must perish
I’ll set myself free from this madness

I stab the glass and watch it break
The lying mirror a shattered fake
For what I saw, I see no more
I see only myself, doubtless and free.

The Struggle0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 6th, 2008

By: Mollie

So you think you’re in love?
Scoffs the old women,
carefully eyeing the flesh which clung tightly
to the bone,
the wrinkle free eyes and rosy cheeks.
You don’t know what love is,
you don’t know until you’ve fought teeth and
claw,
Fought until the exhaustion beats you if the
pain doesn’t,
only to lose it, because it was already lost.
A withered hand rises to a flailing chest,
her heart heaving with the sheer burden of the
fight for breath. I
t’s a fight just to fight now.
As her eyelids flicker like moths without light,
dying in the darkness.
Her wedding ring chipped and unpolished,
because some things cease to matter,
just as some things matter more,
and it may not be the best excuse,
but it’s an excuse all the same.
They cannot know,
but we can’t forget.
And it leaves a bitter taste,
as the curtain falls, and her small hands envelop the forsaken tired
ones.
We can’t keep resetting the scales,
and misery doesn’t wait for kings.
Her eyes close for the last time,
as she recalls the violence of the struggle,
and remembers,
it is not for her to fight,
anymore.

Free Speech0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 6th, 2008

By: Mollie

Words likely to offend, enrage. Words which or jealous minds. It is becoming our sad attempt to can challenge someone’s very way of life. Words shock people, to get their attention no mater what the that when used correctly can open someone’s eyes to means, or the point. As a teenager it’s easy to ignore a possibility otherwise clouded. Words which spark this constitutional, or arguably God given right and intellectual dispute, lively debate. Words which are so lash out for lack of ways to express ourselves. It is challenging in their nature, there are no other options easy to be convinced we have no voice, at least no but to challenge them back. This thing we call free voice that matters, that holds any sort of validation by, speech, this thing we so often take advantage of, those who were lucky enough to be born before us. Its mutilate, abuse. It has become a rug we step on every easy to give up and think, I guess I’ll start making a day, background noise to the current conversation. difference later, give it a year or two, or a decade. So This thing our forefathers died for, fought like hell for, all we can do is do what we can and hope it’s enough. we now pitifully utilize to make our own weak points, I guess we’ll find out if it’s worth it when we grow if used at all. It has become a tool for personal attacks, older, when it all makes sense. an outlet for the anger festering inside the discontent

The Old Man0
FleetusMcGee posted in The F*-Word on April 6th, 2008

By: Eli West

There was a man taken away today. He had long, dirty, graying hair, which complemented his long, dirty graying beard, which went down over his ripped and faded army jacket. His hair was done in knots and specks of grime were to be found in it. All you could see were his eyes and they were so clouded over with fear you could hardly tell them from a wild animal’s.

He looked away and started yelling, “Please don’t take me. I have a life, or I did. I’m aware that no one loves me but I love myself. I have a choice of whether to create or destroy but really they are both the same thing. I realize that everything is alive but part of living is killing. I need things to survive and I may have to murder other beings to get them. Death and life go hand in hand. We give and take but when we only give, people only take, and when we only take, well then we get so caught up in greed we forget about love. And well, love and life are the same thing. Most don’t get that humans have no reason to survive, but greed is something that makes us thrive. Yet, we can take love from greed and that’s…that’s worth having. I’m aware that there are social classes so I guess that makes me a social class drop out. I have no tattoos or political buttons and I don’t own a gun. I have no cares and I have no worries except for one and that’s tomorrow. I tried to be perfect but perfection in itself is a flaw. I’ve traveled the world and I’ve seen women sell themselves and pretend it was love. I’ve seen greed and hate and passion and freedom and then I saw you. So please don’t take me. I’ve lived my life but it can’t be over yet. There is still time for me to smile. So please, please don’t take me.”

He was thrown in a truck and hauled away.