Oh look at that! Poe took his friend Will out for his birthday. How nice!

That's right, everyone's favorite Bard turns 445 today! Hooray! Happy birthday, old friend! How should we celebrate?

Well, we can listen to READ's associate editor, Audra Pace, give a dramatic performance of a monologue from A Comedy Of Errors.

Well, we can talk like Shakespeare for a spell.

We can watch this very cool iambic pentameter scene from the movie, Renaissance Man. Bop bada bop bada bop bop bop bop! 

We can go crazy with Hamlet.

Or, we can watch this super awesome Macbeth rap! Enjoy!

To learn more about READ's electronic issues, email us at read @ weeklyreader . com (no spaces).

When I was a little kid, about four, five, or six, I used to play Cops and Robbers with my brother and cousin, along with whoever wanted to play that day. I lived by West Side Middle School, in Branford Manor, to be exact. When I played, I always chose the robber team along with my brother and cousin. We were never the cops. We were only by ourselves against everyone in the neighborhood who played. I remember buying popsicles at the grocery store and having to wash my blueberry-stained lips.

   - Devon

In the current issue of READ, we have excerpted a few Ellis Island interviews. This week we have posted the full text of these interviews. Enjoy this finale. And God Bless America.

IRELAND

Emanuel “Manny” Steen

Born June 23, 1906

Emigrated 1925, Age 19

Passage on the Caronia, Cunard Line

My parents were married in Glasgow. They weren’t Scottish people, but they were married in Scotland in 1894, and they lived there. My father came to Glasgow from London. And before London he came from Turkey. He had escaped from the Cossacks in 1891 during a pogrom in the Ukraine, in a village near Odessa. His parents and most of his family were massacred. My father and his kid brother escaped. They hid out and they took a ferryboat to Constantinople. They worked there for a short while, got a job aboard a merchant vessel as seamen, jumped ship in London, which was typical of the time. A few years later, they got to Glasgow. My father was about nineteen, twenty. His kid brother was about fifteen, sixteen, and they got work in Glasgow. My father lived in a boardinghouse. That’s where my father met my mother and fell in love with her. I wasn’t around yet. But three of the children were born there.

My mother had a separate adventure. She and her parents were from a village near Warsaw, Poland. In the 1880s, refugees from Poland and from eastern Europe walked across Europe to the port of Hamburg and immigrated to, they hoped, America. What did happen was there were sea captains with boats totally unseaworthy. They promised to take the refugees, supposedly for twenty dollars, to America. You had to provide your own food and bedding. They supplied water and toilet facilities. So they crowded these horrible little vessels in the port of Hamburg and set sail for, ostensibly, the United States. Once they got out in the harbor everybody got seasick. They couldn’t care less where they were. These captains of these illegitimate boats dumped a load of refugees on the east coast of Scotland during the night in a little seaport. They just dumped them and they said, “This is America,” and they took off. The people didn’t know any different. They couldn’t speak any English, and here were these peculiar-looking men in kilts. They had never seen anything like it. I mean, men wearing skirts. They thought they were in America.

The Scottish government was very nice. They permitted these people to stay. My mother’s family was one of the families that were dumped there, and the Scottish government agreed to permit them to stay, provided they did not become an economic burden to the government. They agreed to be self-supporting. There’s a big Jewish settlement in Aberdeen and Edinburgh, and finally, they made their way to Glasgow, which was an industrialized city. And they rented a huge apartment, and her family lived in two rooms and rented out the others. This was typical there. But also in the United States, in New York, down on the Lower East Side. That’s the way they made a living. When my father and his kid brother went to Glasgow, they went to the Jewish section. They got a room to stay in and there my father met my mother.

After a few years, after three children were born, a depression set in Glasgow, which was a big shipbuilding port. So my father took a ferry from Glasgow to Dublin. And as soon as he saved a few dollars, he got an apartment and he brought the family over, and the other five children were born in Dublin.

In those days you took a job at anything, as I did when I came to America. I mean, I worked for twenty-five cents an hour when I came to America. Anything. It didn’t make any difference. I have my father’s marriage application and he was twenty-four at the time and it said his occupation was “aerated bottle washer.” He cleaned seltzer bottles. My mother is listed as twenty-one and a seamstress, whatever that meant.

From that apartment in Dublin, we moved to a house when I was about six, which is what I remember. All the children then were born by midwives at home. The midwives wore a shawl and a bonnet and carried a black bag. Children were not born in hospitals. That was only for very wealthy people. We were five boys and three girls, and I remember waking up one morning and all the boys were chased out of the house, and my mother was screaming and crying, and here I’m on the sidewalk in front of the house. It was a residential, working-class neighborhood in the south part of Dublin, called South Circular Road. And I was terrified. I mean, my mother never cried. But she was in childbirth and I didn’t know that. And then my sister’s shouted, “Come on in and see your baby brother.”

The house was part of a row of narrow, adjoining red-brick cottages. In front was a small garden and fence. The house was one floor with two front rooms, a parlor, and a dining room. Then the kitchen and four bedrooms. There was a long, narrow backyard, and behind that backyard, and alley lane, where everything was delivered, such as coal for the winter. The coal would be brought up the lane and dumped in our backyard.

But remember, we were eight kids. My father and mother was ten. My bachelor uncle was eleven and my grandmother, my mother’s mother from Glasgow lived with us. Twelve people! My grandfather died in Glasgow. I never knew him. The boys slept four in a bed, toe to toe. The girls slept three to a bed. It was rather crowded, but it didn’t feel that way because everyone was in the same situation.

There was one tap, running water if you wanted to take a bath. But there was no toilet, just an outdoor john. And each room, of course, had a potty. My job as number seven in the family was to empty the potties. I remember that because it was a terrible job. The youngest one always got the dirty job, you understand. There was no central heating. Each room had a tiny fireplace and an hour before we went to bed, one of us would light the fireplace in each bedroom with a few pieces of coal. We were poor people, not dirt poor. There are different levels of poverty as I see it now. We were poor, but we ate.

My first recollection of my father, he was working in a sweatshop as a tailor making about six dollars a week. I used to walk three or four miles and bring him his supper in a tin can. My mother would make a soup in the bottom layer and the one on top would be a little meat or potatoes. He worked from sunup to sundown, I mean twelve-, thirteen hour days. And he would stop and eat his supper, and I would take the can back home.

My mother used to cook herrings. The Irish were great herring eaters, both fresh and salt herrings. It’s really funny when you think about it because salt herrings you associate with Jewish people, but no. The herrings were salted and pickled so that they would keep. Salt herring on potatoes was a very typical Irish dish, because it was cheap. You could feed a family on it until your belly was full, so that took care of your needs.

About two miles away, in an area of Dublin called Clanbrassil Street, was the Jewish section: a Jewish butcher, shoemaker, draper, bakery, etc. And I used to go there on Friday. The entrails of a cow were considered garbage food for cats and dogs. Humans did not eat the liver, the heart, lungs, and all that stuff. My mother was too embarrassed to ask, so I used to go in. She said, “Tell him you want two pennies’ worth of meat for the cat and the dog.” God forbid you said humans. We were going to eat this stuff. I’d go in there and the butcher would take a big knife and cut off maybe half a liver, throw in a heart, a couple of lungs, and she’d say, “Don’t forget to ask for a couple of soup bones.” That was it. The butcher would put it all in a newspaper and I’d have an armful of stuff for about two pennies, three pennies. And my mother would make a kidney stew. Boy, we fed the whole family for two or three days on that.

My Uncle Jack contributed to the family. He worked. I don’t know where. I don’t know what. You didn’t ask. He was just there, you know. He loved the kids. I remember sitting on his lap, and he would tell us stories. He always wore a shirt and a tie, neat as a pin, and had a derby hat. A real character. To this day I don’t know anything about him. He was just part of us.

The community was Orthodox Jewish. Very religious. Not many people realize this, but there is such a thing as an Irish Jew. It was a small Jewish population, and everybody went to synagogue. The synagogue near us was jammed every Saturday. There was another one on Clanbrassil Street in the Primary Jewish quarter, the main synagogue in Dublin, a beautiful structure called Englisher Synagogue. It was very high-class. On Saturdays, the big shots wore fancy suits, and tall hats like Prince Albert, we called them. In our temple people wore working-class suits. I was bar mitzvahed there.

When World War I broke out, it was 1914. Ireland was neutral and the British government was short of metals. Another uncle of ours, who lived in the neighborhood, had gone into what they called the waste trade business, which included scrap metal. He had a contract with the British government which needed scrap metal for ammunitions. So he approached my father, that it would be better than working in the sweatshop. My uncle taught him the business. In Ireland Gypsies were called tinkers and my father opened a shop and bought scrap metal from the tinkers.

But what happened was the 1916 revolution broke out and there was holy hell. I remember it very well because I remember hearing all of the shooting. Around the corner from our house were British military barracks, the Wellington Barracks. I remember the name. I used to play with the soldiers and the tanks in the barracks. The rebels took the general post office and a couple of the main hotels. I remember my mother went out to the back-yard to get a bucket of coal and some sniper took a pot-shot at her. Next morning we found a bullet hole in one of the windows. After that, we moved from Dublin to the town of Sligo, in northwest Ireland, right on the border of Donegal.

Shortly after we moved, my mother died of kidney disease. That was 1917. I remember when they came to take her away in a horse-drawn ambulance. Soon after my grandmother died.

I went to a Catholic seminary in Sligo called Somerhill College, as a day student. We were the only Jewish family that ever lived in that part of Ireland. I enjoyed life very much there. It was lovely, wild country. I was there until 1919. The war was over. My father’s contract with the government stopped and he came back a man of means. Because of the war, he had done very well. We came back to Dublin. He bought a small factory that made trousers and walking britches, with about ten workers, and bought a duplex apartment right in the heart of Dublin. The family remained intact, ten of us now.

We had about eight bedrooms. We had the second and third floors in the apartment house. It was a big place. My father bought it completely furnished. Downstairs were two stories, a greengrocer and iron monger, or hardware store. The people who previously lived there were going to America so my father bought the whole thing lock, stock, and barrel. And behind the apartment building was the rear entrance to the factory.

I was entering college, Saint Andrew’s College in Dublin. I was fourteen. But the college system was different there. You didn’t have to graduate high school to go to college. You could start college at six years of age and go right through. I was studying pre-med. That was the ultimate direction.

I went there and in 1921, my father died in an accident. He was eating at a friend’s house, and they were joking and kibitzing, and he choked on a piece of meat. By the time the horse-drawn ambulance came, he was gone. I remember the day. It was a Saturday, and I was home doing my homework when the police came, and it was a terrible shock.

My uncle Jack assumed command of the family, so to speak, and he said. “We can’t go on.” My father had lived it up and, after he died, we discovered that there weren’t any reserves and I had to stop college. So I took a crash course in wireless telegraphy. I had to have a trade. I took the Postmaster General examination from London and passed. Now I had a certificate as a wireless telegraph operator, Morse code.

So my uncle says, “The economy is nothing, we’re all going to America. That’s all there is to it. You’ll apply for a passport and a visa …” Which I did. We had no money. Ireland was going through a terrible state. By 1921 civil war had broke out, and it was awful. There were street ambushes and killings and murders. Unemployment was rife. So he thought coming to America would be the panacea.

In the meantime, my brother Lou, who was a year and a half older than me, had gone to America the year before. He was a wild one. He was a nice chap, but he just didn’t behave. He [had] a wanderlust. He had Gypsy blood in him, so to speak. My father was still alive then, and [Lou] said to me, “Listen, don’t tell Pop, but I’m running away.” So he ran away with the Gypsies, the tinkers, and he traveled Ireland and finally wound up in New York.

While we were waiting for our Visas, we paid of our tickets in installments. But we didn’t go all at once. The same year after Lou went to New York, my brother Henry went. Then my sister and my kid brother came. Then in 1924, another sister, Eva, and two more brothers. Finally, in 1925, I came with my sister Bertha. Everybody was already here, but they were scattered. It wasn’t a unified family. My brother Lou was now a cowboy in Wyoming or something; one of my sisters married some chap fro London and moved there, etc.

I was nineteen. I had no ties and looked forward to America as an adventure. My brother Lou was writing, telling me all about the wonderful things he was doing as a cowboy and how he was with Barnum and Bailey’s Circus as an equestrian. I knew so little about America. For me, America was cowboys and Indians and streets paved with gold… I only had the good news, you understand. What I did know was poverty wages were big wages for Ireland. I remember this bank manager in Dublin was getting like twenty dollars a week, and that was considered great. In America, you said, “I raise my boy to be president.” In Ireland you said, “I raise my boy to be [a] bank manager,” because that’s the highest you could realistically hope for.

I bought a secondhand cardboard suitcase for two dollars, which I later donated to the Ellis Island Museum. All I had was a suit of clothes, an extra handkerchief, and a pair of socks. I also had my stamp collection in there, a crummy little collection of stamps, and a few family souvenirs. I didn’t fill the suitcase. We were required to have twenty dollars to show financial independence. Would you believe it? When I came through Ellis Island I had twenty dollars. I had it in my shoe so I shouldn’t lose it or, God forbid, lose it gambling on the ship.

I left from the port of Liverpool with my sister Bertha. We had cousins in Liverpool, so we stayed overnight with them and boarded the Caronia the next day. The ship was jammed. We came third class. It was four bunk beds in a cabin. Two up and two down with a tiny washbasin. Toilet was down the hall, a shower, and they served three meals a day. The men and women were separate. My sister was with some other women in their cabin.

It was the first time I had ever been on a ship that size, know what I mean? There were no amenities, none. But you could hear the second-and first-class passengers having a great time up there. But we didn’t care, I mean, it was ten days. A ten day ride. I was a good sailor, so I had no trouble. But a lot of people were sick. As a matter of fact, I came down one day for breakfast—nobody. The whole dining room was me.

The food was very plain. You didn’t have a choice. They gave you a menu but you didn’t have a choice. You just ate what was on the menu, and it was all right. I mean, as far as I was concerned it was very exotic because after my mother died my sister Bertha did the cooking, and she was probably the word’s worst cook, you know what I mean? She was a great gal, but she was a terrible cook, and so this stuff tasted great to me, you know.

I arrived in New York Harbor August 1. It was a Wednesday, Wednesday morning. I remember about six o’clock I heard the lookout say, “Land ahoy!” Everybody rushed up on deck to see land, the first sign of America. I remember rushing up. I couldn’t see a … thing. I mean the horizon was the sea. Then, as we sailed closer, New York slowly emerged, as though it were coming out of the sea. And the first thing I saw was the Woolworth building. That was the tallest building in the world at the time. So the first thing you saw sticking out of the water was the top of the Woolworth building. And as we proceeded, of course, the building came out of the water. [Laughs.]

Everybody was cheering, “America!” My God, everybody was yelling and crying and kissing, and who could remember? There must have been two thousand people on the ship. You weren’t aware that this was a historical moment, but it was. As we came in, of course, Manhattan Island started coming up, and the Statue of Liberty was. I mean, there it was. I didn’t understand too much about it. I knew about it in vague terms.

The boat anchored mid-harbor, and then they tendered us from the ship to Ellis Island by the hundreds, suitcases in hand. The ferry had to go back and forth a few times, and we landed. Of course, the wharf and the whole area there was not like it is now. There was no grass or nothing. The main building was grimy on the outside. We got right off the ferry and went right into the main building. That day there must have been three, four ships. Maybe five, six thousand people. Jammed! And remember, it was August. Hot as a pistol and I’m wearing my long johns and a heavy Irish tweed suit. Got my overcoat on my arm. It was the beginning of fall back home, see. And I’m carrying my suitcase. I’m dying of the heat. During the day that hall became so hot and all they had was a couple of rotating fans, which did nothing except raise the dust. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Immigration officials slammed a tag on you with your name, address, country of origin, etc. Everybody was tagged. They didn’t ask you whether you spoke English or not. They took your papers, and they tagged you. They checked your bag. Then they pushed you and they’d point, because they didn’t know whether you spoke English or not. Understaffed. Overcrowded. Jammed. And the place was the noisiest, and the languages, and the smell. Foul, you know what I mean? But I was nineteen. You can stand a lot at nineteen. Then we had to go through the physical. I think, frankly, the worst memory I have of Ellis Island was the physical because the doctors were seated at a long table full of potassium chloride, and you had to stand in front f them, and they’d ask you to reveal yourself. Right there in front of everyone, I mean, it wasn’t private! You were standing there. And the women had to open their blouse. This was terrible.

I had to open my trousers and fly, and they checked me for venereal disease or hernia or whatever they were looking for. I was a young buck. I was in good shape, you know, but just the same I felt this was very demeaning, even then. I mean, it’s terrible with women, young girls, and everyone, you know. And we had to line up in front of them…Years later I just thought they didn’t have to d it that way. But this was the height of immigration. We were coming in by the thousands. And again, you’re not aware this is historic, and this is something you’re going to tell your grandchildren about…

Afterwards, we had customs immigration and we had to show our financial security of twenty dollars. I didn’t realize until sometime later, but what happened was a lot of guys on the ship were gambling. Some of the guys lost their twenty dollars. But there was a little racket there, you see. There was a wire fence and you had to go through the customs officers there. Now in order to go through, you had to show your twenty dollars. But a little further back on the fence there were a couple of guys making money. They would loan you the twenty dollars. Cost you two bucks, follow me? And they would loan you a twenty dollar bill, and you’d go to the gate and come through the gate, and the guy would be there to take the twenty dollar bill back from you. Cost you two bucks. For two bucks you could show twenty. Whether the guy was splitting it with the guard I don’t know.

I almost died of thirst. Couldn’t find the fountains. Cold hardly find the restrooms…Finally, Bertha and I got through, and my brother Henry was supposed to claim us. Our claimant. You had to claimed by a responsible person. But Henry didn’t show up, so we’re waiting. They wouldn’t let us on the ferry until we were claimed, and it’s four o’clock and the island closed at five and the staff went home. So they shipped us over to the depot on the other side of the island, the ferry building, and we were held in a group pen for unclaimed, but okayed immigrants. I don’t know how many because you’re concerned about yourself. You couldn’t be less interested. Bertha and I were wondering what the hell we were going to do. We didn’t have Henry’s phone number. We didn’t know where he lived. Are they going to send us back?

Now it’s five o’clock, and they’re closing up. So I explained all this to the guard who called up HIAS, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. The idea was we would be turned over to HIAS, who would be responsible for us. About fifteen minutes later this little short, chap came in, and the funniest thing is, knowing we were Jewish, he insisted upon talking Yiddish. We didn’t speak Yiddish. We spoke English, a little Gaelic, but I did understand German from some college courses I took.

So we got along and he took us by the ferry to Battery Park, and we started walking to HIAS headquarters on Lafayette Street. Bertha and I were dying. It’s hot. We’ve had nothing to eat, just a little water, and we’re getting a little weak, and he’s in a hurry because it’s pushing seven o’clock, and this is a chore, and he wants to get home, follow me, follow me.

He takes us to the subway. I had never seen a subway. We knew there were such things as underground trains, and we go down the steps to the noise, the flashing lights. In those days there was no air conditioning. They had little fans in the trains. And I remember sitting in the subway car with my suitcase ad Bertha, and this guy who paid no attention to us whatsoever, and we’re dripping! I must have lost ten pounds that day. And those days I was only about 130 pounds.

It was just one or two stops and we got off. It was one floor up. We could barely climb the stairs. And we came to the HIAS office, and he took off. There was a woman there. “Will sassem?” she asked. Do you want to eat? And she took us into the dining room with long wooden tables, nothing fancy, and brought out a big bowl of cold soup, a milky substance, with some green things floating in it. “Bertha,” I said, “what do you think this is?” “I don’t know, eat!” It turned out to be spinach soup. I’d never seen it before, but it was cold and it was wet and it was delicious, and she brought in a big pile of fresh pumpernickel and a big pile of butter and, Jesus, we ate everything.

When we got through, Henry comes in the door. I hadn’t seen him in four years. He had gone to the island, traced us back. “Where were you?” I asked. The boss wouldn’t let him off. Henry was a tailor. The boss said, “You want off? Don’t come back.”

We took the subway to a three-room apartment on the 118^th Street and Third Avenue in East Harlem. In 1925, East Harlem was a mixture of Italian and Jewish. About fifty-fifty. No blacks. And it was a very friendly neighborhood. Everybody ore or less knew each other. As soon as we arrived, Henry said to me, “Get those long johns off and throw the goddamned things out. They stink like hell,” and he loaned me a pair of BVDs Oh, boy! It was like getting out of jail.

He had an icebox, I had never seen one, with a big chunk of ice in there. That was a tremendous novelty. And a modern cooker, and a bathroom with a shower. This was the height of luxury, you know what I mean?

Next morning, I’m up bright and early. It’s like seven o’clock and Henry is up, too, and getting ready.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I gotta go to work.”

“What will I do?”

“Today you take off,” he says. “Tomorrow you get a job.”

“All right.” He’s the older brother so he’s the boss. I was accustomed to accepting authority, see. So I said, “What’ll I do?”

“Take a trolley car and go downtown. Take a look around.”

“What’s a trolley car?”

“Tram. That’s what they call them over here. Trolley cars.”

“How much it costs?” because in Ireland we had a zone system. You go from one zone to the next, you pay so much for each zone. “No, there’s no zone,” he said. “One fare all the way.”

“How much?” You know, I had never seen a nickel. I didn’t know what he was talking about. So he goes in his pocket and he takes out a coin, a five-cent piece.

“That’s a nickel.”

“Why do they call it a nickel?”

“Figure it out. I gotta go to work,” and he took out another one. “See this one here, the little one. That’s called a dime.”

“Why?”

“Look, I can’t stand here all day arguing with you. That’s five cents. This is a dime. Two of those nickels make one dime, see? You go downtown. It will cost you a nickel, follow me? But remember, only pay one nickel each way.”

Then he hands me a quarter, the big shot. Not the most generous act he ever did in his life. He was a tight bugger. Anyway, he says, “That’s a quarter. That’s a quarter of a dollar. Twenty-five cents.” So anyway, now I had twenty-five, ten cents, and a nickel and he said, “Go downtown and take a look.”

So I go to the corner, and the trolley cars were open trolley cars. And it’s bright, sunny. The trolley car stopped, and I got on, and I sat down, and the conductor, he had a big, leather pouch, and he came over. The conductors on the Third Avenue trolley were all Irish immigrants. And he says, “What are you doing, young fella?” And I, at that time, spoke with a brogue. And I says, “Just taking a ride downtown.”

“Is it Irish you are?”

“Aye,” I says.

“When did you get here?”

“Yesterday. I just got off the boat!”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he says, “I wouldn’t have charged you the nickel.” He sat down beside me, and there was nobody else. It was about ten o’clock and he’s pointing, giving me a free tour all the way down Third Avenue. He’s pointing out the buildings, the Singer building, and I was fascinated. Hey, America is a great place. I’m here one day and this guy is giving me a royal reception.

I got off at City Hall Park where the trolley terminated. I saw City Hall. I was feeling very adventurous. Here it’s a beautiful day, and I’m wearing thin underwear, and I’m beginning to feel comfortable now, and I walked across the park, and I looked up and there’s street sign. It says, “Broadway.” Well, I want to tell you, that was one of the most exciting moments of my life. Broadway! I’m only one day in American and I’m on Broadway! I mean, it may sound like nothing to you, but I got so excited. It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed, because the traffic was going in all directions, and I was so confused, watching to the left, to the right.

I started walking down Broadway to the Woolworth building. What an exciting experience to see the bloody building. When I looked up, it was a funny thing, the building looked like it was teetering forward, you know what I mean? Of course, it wasn’t falling, but I had a feeling of hallucination that the building was going to fall down so I kept going to Battery Park, where I had come across from Ellis Island the day before. “How do you like that?” I thought. “One day in America and I’m right back here where I started from.”

Fantastic! I walked across the park and sat down on a bench and nobody was bothering me. No one could identify me as a foreigner, you know, and everybody’s acting like I’m a full-blooded American.

There was a guy with a pushcart selling hotdogs. Now I knew about hot dogs from watching American movies in Dublin. I knew that the people ate this thing here. They didn’t have hot dogs in Ireland. They had sausages. But it was only five cents, so I figured I would speculate. I asked for a frankfurter and he gave me a frank and he wanted to put all this stuff on it. “No, no, no,’ I said. And the people there were buying. They were scooping mustard on it, and I was accustomed to English mustard, like Coleman’s mustard, that’ll burn your guts off. So I said, “How can these people eat with all that mustard on there?”

I didn’t have anything on it. I ate it and it tasted nice. It was garlicky, you know, and it had a nice taste. And there I was eating my hot dog and taking the world in with my eyes and I thought, “I got it made,” you know. I walked further and I saw a guy selling ice cream sandwiches. Nickel a sandwich. I speculated once more, and I had a ball. It was a great feeling. Absolutely.

I felt like I had the world on a string. I mean, this was my day, see what I mean? Well, I figured I had to remember how to get back And I was trying to remember different marks of identification to make sure I got on the proper trolley car. I finally got back to East Harlem, and it was late afternoon when I got back, and my brother came home, and I told him about my day. He thought it was dull and dumb, but it wasn’t to me. It was one of the most exciting days. And that was my first day in America.

In the current issue of READ, we have excerpted a few Ellis Island interviews. This week we are posting the full text of these interviews. Enjoy. And God Bless America.

In the current issue of READ, we have excerpted a few Ellis Island interviews. Today through Friday we are posting the full text of these interviews. Enjoy. And God Bless America.

SOUTHERN ITALY

Peter Mossini
Born July 8, 1898
Emigrated 1921, Age 22
Passage on the Pesaro

In them days, there was two classes of people in Sicily: the rich and the very poor. My family was very poor. I never went to school. I started working from before I was ten years old. My father and mother, they send me to work to make maybe ten cents a day. I was working in a lemon factory. I work from one o'clock in the morning to about two in the afternoon the next day. Eleven, twelve hours. Them days, if you make ten cents a day, that was a lot of money. There was no time to play. For fun, I play boccie or soccer maybe. But we have no ball. So we used a lemon.

My father was also working in the factory and my younger brothers did, too, later on. My mother no work because we had a big family, you know. Eight children. And there was no work for the women. Even if they wanted to work, there was no work. So my sisters stay home. We had only two bedrooms. Today, if you got four children, you got four bedrooms. Them days, if you had four boys, they all had to sleep in the same room or if you had four girls, same thing.

To feed the family in winter, my father would buy a hundred kilogram of dried beans. My mother would soak them the night before and the following day get some macaroni and that’s how we fill the family. And naturally, she baked her own bread. The flour came in fifty, seventy-five pound bags, and she bake maybe seventeen, eighteen loaves of bread each week. The oven was outside the house, a communal oven.

The first few days the bread was pretty good because it was soft, but after a week the bread was like a rock and many times I remember we had to soak the bread with a little water and rub it with garlic and that’s what we were eating. That and fish. Fish was cheap.

The day before Christmas we always had fish and on Christmas day, maybe my father go with the butcher shop and buy a couple pounds of pork, you know, and we mixed sauce and we have a dish of spaghetti. Over here, even my own children or my grandchildren, you buy steak, cost you five dollars a pound and they say, "Who wants that garbage?" Over there, if you had a piece of fat you was lucky, and by, it tasted good, too. There was no gift. There was no money. What gift? You was lucky if you can buy a loaf of bread.

We never miss church. We was all baptized, confirmed. Madonna Mount Carmel. A big church. The church, I would say, was three miles from where we was living. So we walk to church to church because there was no transportation. I’ll be honest with you, my first pair of new shoes I had on my feet, I was sixteen years old. Every time I had a couple penny, I had a place in the wall where I put the money. And there was a shoemaker. He was making a pair of shoes for himself. And when I see the pair of shoes I ask him how much they cost. He says, "Sixteen lira," and I try them on my feet. "I’m going to get the money." I went home, and got the money from the wall. My piggy bank. I went back and I says, "Now you're going to make another pair for me." He says, "A lot of work!" I says, "I'll stay all night with you." We stayed there all night and he work all night to make the shoes.

I wanted to come to the United States because my father did. The first time my father come was in 1901. He went to Pennsylvania and he was working in the coal mines. Every once in a while, he send a few dollars. He was there about five or six years. Then he come back to Sicily. The last trip he made to the United States was in 1912. He stay one year. But there was no work, and he just had enough money to pay his fare and come back to Sicily. By that time, the family started to get a little big. So we no starve, my brothers were working. So we all pulled together.

During the First World War, I was in the army, and I held to my idea about coming to America. Then, in 1919, my sister Josephine came. I was very close to her. She was the oldest in the family and I respected her like a mother, because she was like a mother to me. She came by herself and she got married. She was doing very well over here. And I wanted to build myself a new life, better myself. Eventually, all my brothers and sisters came to the United States.

So I saved my money because my father, he couldn't afford to pay for my trip. I don't remember exactly what I pay. As soon I got out of the army, I apply for the passport. That took about four, five months, because they started closing the immigration.

I took a little suitcase and I had just a few pairs of socks, couple of handkerchief and couple of underwear and a couple of shirts. There was me, my cousin--he was only sixteen years old, I guaranteed for him--and this friend of mine. He was about nineteen. They’re both dead now. And we left from Naples the nineteenth of March 1921.

The boat was Pesaro. A German boat. Italy got it after the First World War and there was no cabin, no first, second, or third. There was just one class in them days. Steerage. One floor. One room. There was bunk beds. And in the morning, you had to get up because the crew had a firehose and they washed the floor.

I remember as soon as we left Naples they gave you a pillowcase. Inside that pillowcase you had your aluminum dish, your fork, knife, spoon, and a metal cup. When it was time to eat, we lined up and got our stuff. We ate twice a day. They gave you a cup of soup, piece of meat, piece of bread, and cup of coffee. Then we had to find a way to sit down because there was no dining room. This was a troop transport boat.

When we reach New York, I thank the good Lord. It was early morning, the Fourth of July. We was on the deck like a bunch of sheep. Everybody had a suitcase, dragging their suitcase, and I remember the first meal they gave us at Ellis Island. They give a sandwich, white bread with a piece of cheese and a piece of ham and it tasted so good. It tasted like a nice piece of cake. That was something new for me. I never seen sandwiches in Sicily. They examined if you had lice in your head. If you did, they shaved your hair. I remember that. There was a lot of bald people. And if you had some kind of disease in your eye, they send you back.

We left that night by train from Pennsylvania Station to New York. We went to Portage Pennsylvania. It’s between Altoona and Johnstown. Western Pennsylvania. My sister Josephine lived there with her husband.

Them days, the train stopped every station for the people who worked in the coal mine and the railroad and the factory, every station. By the time we got to Portage, no one was on the train. Just us--me, my cousin, and my friend. We didn’t know where to go. None of us spoke English, and it was April, kind of cold. We had the Italian clothes on, very light, because Sicily’s warm like Florida. And we see an old man inside the station house. He was making a fire with coal to keep the station warm. He sees us with our suitcases.

"Hey, where you going?" he asks us. We don’t know what the hell he says. "Italiani?" Oh God, my heart went. He spoke Italian! We say, "Si, si!" Then he asked us where we supposed to go and we give the name of my sister and my brother-in-law. He says, "Oh, yeah. I know them." He got in touch, and then my brother-in-law come, thanks to God.

This was the trip.

Deer Hunter and White Corn Maiden is a Tewa myth about the most beautiful and talented youths in the village who fell so deeply in love with each other that they refused do anything but be together. Deer Hunter no longer hunted even though the tribe needed food and White Corn Maiden no longer worked her pottery. On top of that, they ignored the tribe's traditions and avoided special ceremonies to protect the tribe from angry gods. Because they wouldn't listen, the gods turned them into stars in the night sky; one chasing the other, forever together and forever apart.

My favorite part of the Deer Hunter myth is the image of the dead White Corn Maiden chasing her husband around the village because he didn't want to be near her smelly, decaying body anymore! I also like how the spirits have such an interest in the tribe's everyday life; so much so that they come down and talk to them.

In issue 2 of READ, our theme was Caribbean Stories. At the end of our Readers' Theater play, Before We Were Free, we asked you to send us your thoughts on freedom. Did you think the price the de la Torre family paid for freedom was worth it? Here are two responses from Mrs. Heinzel's 6th grade class in Creston, Iowa.

Darian Huff, Age 11
This story changed the way I think about freedom a lot, because it made me think about how much I appreciate it. I loved the way the de laTorre family stood up for their freedom. They stood up for what they thought was right, even though it ended up getting them hurt or having to move. This play made me appreciate our freedoms and realize how lucky we are.

Alex Fargo, Age 11
This story changed the way I think about freedom, because now I know how it can be in other countries that don't have the type of government we have. Now, I feel like I have been taking my freedom for granted. I'm lucky to be in a country where people even have a chance at becoming a citizen. There's an old saying that "things will get worse before they get better" and I think that the de la Torre family took a chance that things would get better, and it was worth it.

Send us your own thoughts about Before We Were Free... or about freedom in general. Email to word@weeklyreader.com. Put "Freedom" in the subject line. Or click on the comments section below.

Click here for Student Writing Showcase 2008.

That's not much fanfare! Well, I could tell you about all the great student writers we have showcased this year. I could discuss the wonderful authors who have leant their voices and commentary (like M.T. Anderson, Karen Cushman, and Cynthia Leitich Smith). I could describe the way neat-o video version of 1,000 Words. I could tell you all about the Letter To Self article and writing prompt. I could write up a super-duper self-promotion that shows in detail how each one of these things makes for a really cool place to chill out, read some excellent student writing, get inspired, and moves you to write whatever your heart desires! I could... and I kind of just did... but I think I'll just pipe down and let you check it out for yourself.

AND if you do get inspired and DO write something. Send it to us at word@weeklyreader.com. We're always looking for the best student writers to publish right here on WORD!

Cheers mates! Enjoy!

In a recent Animals issue of READ, we asked you what you thought about the play, Babylon's Ark. Here are a few 9th graders' responses from Bourgade Catholic High School in Phoenix, Ariz.

The Babylon's Ark story was harsh. What they did to the animals was mean and not healthy. The people trying to help them were very kind and respectful but the owner of the zoo didn't care.
     Animals should just be treated as humans. Be kind to them because they have a life too. They live on earth not just to be treated as a pet that you can kick around. They are here to bring life to us and joy, and they are friends.
     -- Jennifer Guzman

The animals are sick, hungry, and dehydrated. The Iraqis took over the zoo and they are making it a base. This was all caused by war. Now with the Iraqis out of the zoo there are people from the U.S. that are trying to help out the animals. They are having a tough time because most of the animals are really sick.
     I think that it is a great thing that people are helping out the animals at the zoo. Now with the troops helping them out there will be no more Iraqis able to enter the zoo and kill the remaining animals. I still think it is dangerous for the people at the zoo. They hear a lot of guns and one of those bullets can hit you and you can die.
     If it was my zoo I would have bulletproof walls and it would be blocked off so no Iraqis can come in and use it for a base. I would also put bombs where there are no animals because that is were the Iraqis would hide and it will blow them up.
     -- Blake Comella

If it was my zoo I would never abandon my animals. I would always care to them and make sure they are getting the same requirements as other zoos or better. So if someone tried to take over my zoo and turn it into a base. I would do everything in my power to stop them and make sure all the animals are safe.
     -- Vince Fielder

I would set a zoo up by, first hiring people that love animals and are not scared of them. Second, they have to be cheap And third, they have to know what there doing... if not, get out of here. I would set up some crazy electric fence so no animals can get out and no one can get in and steal any either. 
     -- Kristopher Verdugo

If I had a zoo I would separate the animals into groups and give the animals a theme I would pick the theme depending on the animal. I would keep the birds in one big cage so they can fly around. I would also have timers for the food so every three hours the food will fall on the floor.
     I would put the fish in a clear tank and make it look like the ocean, and I would also clean the tank every three days.
     I would clean the zoo every Sunday and clean the cages every day. I am going to give the animals a good meal and feed them lunch and dinner.
     I would hire trainers to train the animals so they can not attack the people. I would throw toys in the cages for the animals so they can play with them. I would give the animals a bath and dry them. I would also hire veterinarians to check the animals health, and make sure they have all there shots.
     -- A.J. Magdaleno

In the January 4th issue of READ, we presented a Charles Dickens classic called The Child's Story. The ending was a little difficult and we asked you to tell us what you thought of it. The following is an interpretation by student READer Maggie Smith.

In Charles Dickens's short piece titled The Child's Story, a lone traveler walks along a road and interacts with characters that represent stages in his life. Each of these characters call to the walking man, and invite him to join them in whatever activity or occurrence sets apart that particular age, such as learning as a child or teenager, or being in love like a young adult. At the end of the short story, the narrator speaks directly to the traveler as a grandchild to his grandfather. This surprising point of view makes the piece take on new meaning.

For example, the clever narrative explains the grandchild's understanding of the grandfather's life, and how he or she knows that their grandfather loves to remember and to enjoy simply being with his family, and they love him back. When I read this passage, I envision a grandchild telling the story to his beloved grandfather as their happy relatives look on. The line "because this is what you do to us, and what we do to you" explains the close relationship this family has.

Also, the grandchild narrator mentions several events that explain the grandfather's life. The mention of the young man falling in love just as "somebody I won't mention did with Fanny" is clearly the child hinting shyly at his grandfather's wife, presumably named Fanny. In addition, all of the children of the middle-aged "always busy" gentleman leave to go to sea, India, abroad to seek riches, and Heaven. These specific examples are probably the grandchild's way of mentioning his aunts and uncles.

Lastly, the narration in Charles Dickens's story sheds light on how young children view life in simple stages that seem vastly far away. The grandchild uses simple language and foreshadowing, while never exactly stating what is going on. The reader must deduce the meaning of each character and event by themselves. Also, the child's mention of the journey as "magic, and very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through" emphasizes the simple, sparse viewpoint of the child.

In conclusion, this revealing and surprising narration in The Child's Story is bright, beautifully simple, and uses small clues to illustrate both the child's and the grandfather's lives. Charles Dickens used this to his advantage, and this story still rings true even today.

If you haven't yet read Dickens's story, you can find it on page 14 of the January 4th issue of READ... or here.

In the January 4th issue of READ, we presented a Charles Dickens classic called The Child's Story. The ending was a little difficult and we asked you to tell us what you thought of it. Here are just a few of your responses.

The last line of the sstory did surprise me a little because it sounds like one of those stories that tells you a lesson, and usually someone older tells you something like that. I think that I understand some parts of it. One part I believe I understand is throughout the story it is telling you what is important to people at each age. For example, it was important for the child to play, and for the young boy to learn, and so on. The child could be telling the story of how they thought their grandfather watched them grow up, and watched them go through those phases in life. Plus, he won't be able to find them becouse they grew up, and are "gone" forever. Only when he wants to remember them, is when he can see everyone again. I hope that explanation made sense, because it did to me. :)

Later today... come back to WORD to read Maggie Sullivan's extremely thought out and insightful explanation of Charles Dickens's The Child's Story...

In the meantime, if you haven't yet read Dickens's story, you can find it on page 14 of the January 4th issue of READ... or here.

Ladies and Gentlemen!

Boys and girls!

Children of all ages!

READ Magazine is proud to present...

THE ONE...

THE ONLY...

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!!!

(See this is where you applaud madly and scream with glee.)

Click here for Willie's goodness.

Really? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. That's a shame. I'll tell you what though... why don't you check out Issue One of Writing. The entire issue is devoted to helping you through your angst. And if you don't already receive Writing in your classroom, ask... no... beg your teacher to click this link and order it for you! In the meantime, read how Tommy Angelopoulous feels about the subject.

Why I Hate Writing

by Tommy Angelopoulous, Grade 11

"I used to think I could write good." That one sentence is the backbone of why I find the idea of writing so absurd and pointless. It would be one thing if I were to be free to express myself in any writing form...

Like this!!!!!

Or this.

oR tHiS.

But that is incorrect. "The formatting is all wrong!" My teachers say, yet I find myself asking, why? Why are there rules that we have to follow when trying to express ourselves? Why is it improper grammar to be able to "write good?" I say if you have understood what I am trying to say, then I have wrote right.

If you asked someone if a certain action went "good," no one would reply, "What, I don't understand the question, what do you mean 'good?'"  If they have any common sense they would let the grammar mistake slide, because they know what you're talking about. However, if said person is brainwashed by the incoherent idea of "grammar," they will most likely reply in a condescending attitude, "WELL."  And you now feel stupid because this person has beat into you their knowledge of grammar.  By the way I'm talking in first and second person to be ironic, because this, as well, is taboo in the writing world.

The concept of grammar does make sense to me, don't get me wrong, I understand grammar completely. It is the idea behind the invention of grammar that makes me question our values as a society. I don't understand why we need it. Why put rules on something as pure and as open as writing? Writing should be a way of expressing yourself in whatever way you want. I bet before the invention of grammar, writing was intelligent, well thought out, and creative, because writers didn't have to worry about someone criticizing their lack of  grammar skills. What bothers me most is that as I am writing this, I am thinking of all the ways I should (will) be corrected according to the almighty rules for writing, because I too have been indoctrinated by that which they call, "grammar."

Now you've reached my conclusion, and no, I am not going to restate my thesis. I don't even remember what my thesis is at this moment but I will tell you this: I do not care for writing. I do not care for the way it has been ruined. I do not care for the way teachers grade my essays. I do not care for how we are "supposed" to write. I do not care for how we are graded on our writing, when it is the teachers who have taught us how to do so. I do not care for the past present participle. I do not care for the indicative. I do not care for anything I read anymore, because I'll have to write about it later in the semester. I do not care for repetition. I do not care for footnotes. I do not care for indentation. I care for creativity.

The following work of non-fiction was originally going to be included in our latest electronic issue, Student Writing Showcase. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, we had to cut it from the project. However, we are pleased to present The Music of Love, here on WORD. It is a wonderful piece of student writing that should be read and celebrated by as many people as possible. After you have finished reading it, talk to your grandparents and find out their true love story. Then write about it and share it with us. You can send your work to word@weeklyreader.com.

The Music of Love

by Polina Senderova

I glance up at my grandmother.  She is staring at the passenger seat, though I don't see anything very interesting on it, or in it.  She bends forward and mutters something to my mother.  Something about my grandfather. 

I pull on her sleeve, and she turns to me. "Grandma, how did you and Grandpa meet?" It was a random thought, though I admit I had been interested in it in the past.

She sighs.  "It was long ago."  She looks back to the front seat and gazes at it for a second.  But I am already too curious to let it go.

"But how?" I plead. "Tell me!"

"It will be hard. The memories are harder to remember than to forget." But I knew by her tone that she would try, that she was glad I asked.  "It seems like only yesterday," she begins.  "I was young, new, fresh. Alive." She has a distant, far-away look in her wrinkled, cerulean eyes as her story begins.

-----------------

She was 16 years old when her violin instructor told her that she was ready for what was perhaps the most thrilling voyage of her life.  She was to journey to America to attend a music festival in New York City.  It was the experience of a lifetime and one she knew she'd never forget.

She arrived at her room in the dormitories. She had no roommate, and she was in a large room, big enough to fit a football team in, all by herself.

Her first day there was the first in the country, and, of course, a lot went wrong. She had several near-vomiting experiences of the strange American food, and a few conflicts with some complicated technology she did not know how to use. 

The year was 1938, and the small village in Russia from which she came was completely behind in the development of society, especially in comparison to the U.S. Her first day, she had a private lesson and signed up for recitals, competitions, and master classes. She survived breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and heard a few concerts. Once, she thought she heard someone else conversing in Russian, in the cafeteria. It was during lunch, and she got so excited that she spilled her glass of water on the floor and did not get a chance to say anything. Her teacher, however, did speak Russian so she was able to communicate with her.

"Maria," she told her, "your hands are too tense to play."

It was fine to play with tense hands in Russia, she thought.  The tension was what kept her in tune and in rhythm. 

After a long and tiring day she dropped on her soft, high throne of a bed and fell fast asleep, with dreams full of memories of the friends she missed and of the little everyday traditions America just did not seem to hold.

The second day she had chamber for the first time, which is where she first met him.

"I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on your grandfather.  He was--" she paused dramatically, "--he was shy, out of place, and lonely.  Just like me."

He played first violin, and she was second. They also had a violist, a cellist, and a pianist, but she didn't get to know them nearly as well. It was a flea of a room, disproportionately small in a large building, in which the six of them were forced to squeeze like freckles on an otherwise pale face. 

Their teacher was a short, stump woman with a large suitcase full of scores for them all, which obviously weighed her down even more than her enormous glasses.  She handed out a Dvorák quintet, a very quick-paced piece full of tricky rhythms and very high positions, especially in the first violin part. 

"Richard, Maria, Cathy, Jordan, Anna," she called out, addressing all of them in position order in her strong, conspicuous Korean accent.  "In this class you will learn to play together, in tune, in tempo, in time. There are five of you here and only one of me, so please try to cooperate and this will be easier for us all."

My grandmother, however, had not understood a word of what she said and had a Russian translator later clarify it. But at that time, she merely smiled and nodded, deciding not to give herself away.

As they began to play, she looked around, observing the others. She was not the only nervous one; the first violinist, my grandfather, was also quite flustered, (although he still played exceptionally well, whereas my grandmother's insecurities tangled with her performance.)

After they sight-read through the piece once, the teacher provided them all with comments, but Maria, of course, couldn't understand them, and it seemed that Richard didn't either.

They went on to the next movement, where the two violinists played a solo together.  Maria felt the bond between them, through their violins and the music they played.  He felt it too, and he gave her a timid smile when they ceased.  Their teacher let them conclude and the others left while Maria and Richard walked to the cafeteria together. 

"You--you like play?" Maria struggled to say something he might understand.

He looked at her for a moment--straight into her eyes while his own scrunched up like a napkin--then nodded his head and exhaled.  "I like play."

She beamed and he led her to the cafeteria where they sat and ate lunch together.  They did not say a word the whole time.  Maria often considered other things that she could try to say, but eventually gave up in despair.

When they were finished eating, they walked outside and both sat on the steps with their cases.  "Play?" one of them said.

Five minutes later, they were both in Maria's room, practicing their instruments. It was their only common language--the song they played.  They played it over and over again, each time feeling closer to each other.  Before they knew it, it was late and they found themselves running to the cafeteria again before it closed.  They each consumed one small piece of bread and half a drumstick. They implicitly decided to go to a recital playing that night, with a guest musician from northern Europe. They both enjoyed his repertoire and his interpretation of the song.

The next day they sat together on the bus to the school in which their orchestra rehearsals took place. She stared out her window at the windmill they passed and sighed. Two days in America, and she already had a friend.  She turned around to look at him and he smiled. 

They arrived at orchestra and she opened her case, putting aside the Russian flag she used to cover her violin. To her surprise, he opened his case and she saw a German flag sticking out of it. She stared at it for a moment, mesmerized, until she blinked and returned to her own instrument. 

They played Schubert's infamous Unfinished Symphony, along with a Mozart concerto in which they were accompanying a girl who won first place in the previous year's competition.  

And so it went on for the next few days, which turned into weeks, as both their concerts loomed closer and closer.  Before they knew it, they were all dressed up and standing backstage, silently wishing each other good luck for their final concerts, in both chamber and orchestra. 

The orchestra performance went smoothly, and no mistakes were heard, at least not by the audience. Then came chamber, and the five artists were waiting backstage for the previous group to end. Finally, the anticipated applause came, and four small girls exited the stage, beaming at the world and wishing Maria's group good luck.

They walked out onto the spotlight: Richard, followed by Maria, and then the others in their order. My grandparents exchanged a look before they started to play. It was part of the plan, they were supposed to, but there was something more in that look than was required. It lasted forever, seconds broadened into weeks, into years. Richard took a quick breath, their cue for an upbeat, and they began...

They began to play, and Maria, at that moment, saw and heard nothing more than him as her violin expressed how she felt: vibrating as she tore through the strings with her bow. 

The concert ended (they closed it) and the crowd went wild with applause.  They all bowed synchronously, grinning at each other in triumph, and exited the stage. 

That night, all of the other children threw a party, but Maria and Richard decided not to go, and opted instead to spend their last night on the continent together. They walked outside, where it was getting dark and the stars were just coming out and winking upon the couple. They looked at each other, joyful, yet still miserable deep inside that they could not use words to tell each other how they felt.  They couldn’t make a promise to come back to America next summer or even to visit each other. They weren't even able to express their love to one another.  Not with words, anyway.

That night was when my grandparents shared their first kiss. It was a spontaneous kiss, with no warning or words before it. They both simply bent in after walking a distance and connected.

It was their last day before a year of no contact, for they had no way of keeping in touch.

-----------------

"Those were hard times for us all." My grandmother tells me. "After we parted ways, I had no way of knowing if he was even alive." Her voice turns forlorn, and I realize how hard the memories must be. "But then, finally, after a long, presumably endless year, we met again."

-----------------

Maria was split right in half trying to decide what to do.  Half of her wanted to race to that camp faster than the swiftest bullet on Earth and waste no time in trying to find him. But the other half was more cautious, more hesitant, more afraid of disappointment. During that year, she had taught herself a bit of German with every hope of being able to speak to him. She wanted nothing more than to surprise him with his familiar language, a feat she knew he would love.

She breathed slowly and impatiently as her train came closer and closer to her destination. She stared out her window as she passed animals, farms, and people, living their own lives. As she came even closer, the familiar windmill which she so acutely remembered welcomed her back. 

She couldn't help jumping off the train when it came to a halt, regardless of the heavy bags that weighed her down. When she arrived at the campus (she had to walk), she stepped inside the office to check in. 

The receptionist recognized her from the preceding summer.  She received the key to her new room, and made her way upstairs until she saw her door. Suddenly, she heard someone say something, and she could have sworn that it was in Russian. She turned around, hoping perhaps her roommate was able to speak it, but instead, she saw another. 

As her head turned, she realized something, and her eyes widened. She knew that voice--as little as she had heard it, she had dreamed of it every night for a year. She turned fully around and nearly banged heads with Richard. Her heart danced around in her chest, full of life, harmony, and completion. Her eyebrows camouflaged into her copper-colored hair as she desperately tried to think of something to say. 

What was the word she had memorized on the train ride? What was that phrase her German acquaintance had told her to say, should the need arise? She could not remember a single word of the language which she spent every waking moment of the past school year memorizing. She stuttered something in gibberish as she looked up at him. He, however, was smiling, as he repeated, perfectly and clearly in Russian possibly better than her own. 

"Welcome back," he had said, "I missed you."

Absolutely perfect Russian! Better than even mine, she thought. "Me, too," she answered in her native Russian, then shook her head blinking and repeated the phrase in German: "Me, too."

-----------------

"I doubt anybody was more surprised than I was," my grandmother tells me. "All the obstacles were put aside and we were able to truly communicate. In my whole life, there was never anything nearly as magical."

Today, February 12th, is Abraham Lincoln's Birthday.

The following story of historical fiction was written by 17 year old Sarah Solomon. Excerpts of Sarah's story were published in the February/March 2007 issue of Writing Magazine. Today, we give you the complete and unabridged version of...

John Wilkes Booth
- By Sarah Solomon

April 14, 1865

The sun was a dull yellow against the tops of the buildings across the street, sifting into the hotel room on the sixth floor of the National Hotel. John Wilkes Booth snapped his eyes open and adjusted them against the morning blur as the image of Lucy Lambert Hale arranged itself in front of the half-illuminated window. She stood to the left of the window, slightly behind the plush red armchair which was subtly covered in cigarette burns and tears, and lightly brushing the white curtain in such a way that it swayed every few seconds at her touch. John instinctively ran his fingers through his mustache and let his feet hit the floor.

"You're up I see," said Lucy, as John approached the glass and peered outside.

"Up and ready. What a beautiful day," said John. He took a step closer, took one glance at her back and put his hands on her waist. "Beautiful day."

"I thought we'd go get some tea at the Whitefield's down the street. Then I've got to get going… father said he wanted me home by two o'clock, and I've still got to buy a train ticket down at the station. But we have time for some breakfast."

"Tell Mr. Hale you're stuck in Washington D.C. doing business. What did you tell him you were doing again?"

"Picking up paper work. The other senator from New Hampshire is giving him some trouble."

"I would be too if my partner was preaching abolition left and right, like it had any worth or actual merit."

"Choose your words wisely, John. One day the whole world will turn its back and set on a completely new path, and you and your morals will be left behind, with no one watching but yourself, stranded in flames."

"No need to be so histrionic, darling."

"Speak for yourself."

The sun had fully risen by the time they found themselves on the northeast corner of Sixth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Whitefield's was down the street, located directly center in the sun's glare, as if it had been transformed into a stricken target of light. To its left was Booker and Stewart's barbershop, and to its right an empty store front window, with dust gathering in the corners and a stray black cat scratching its back against the door.

They sat down for tea. Lucy dangled her tea bag in and out of her mug, mindlessly watching the ripples expand and break at the gray ceramic. Her train was due in twenty-five minutes. They sat in the silent hum of the café, one or two men setting tables for the hopeful day's work.

John said, "Michael O'Laughlen is in town."

Lucy dipped her tea bag back into the murky depths. "He said he might stop by."  She took it out again, a soggy bag dripping steadily onto her saucer.

"Well I said he could. He's going to be at the National Hotel in a couple hours. I wanted to get my hair cut before then so I'd better get a move on."

"I'll walk myself to the train station."

"Are you sure? I've got a couple minutes."

"Yeah I'm fine. I have quite a headache anyhow."

They said their goodbyes outside the café, not knowing they would be the last, and Lucy hurried off downtown. John felt movement at his feet, and looked down. The black cat was weaving its way around his legs, staring up at him with huge neon eyes. He peeled his eyes away from the creature and headed toward Booker and Stewart's.

"Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture, but our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done"

***

After a brief cup of coffee, Michael O'Laughlen left John's hotel room just as the maid walked in, wearing a crisp white apron that looked like it would crunch if folded.

John took a good look in the mirror; his eyes rolled over his black shirt, how the unfastened top button glimmered in the glare from the morning sun. He hastily flattened his mustache. He reached over to the mahogany closet and took out his tall black silk hat he had bought up in New Hampshire the last time he had visited Lucy. He carefully balanced it on his head, artfully flattening down a cluster of dark curls onto his forehead.

As he headed for the door, he slipped on his beige gloves, and snuck one more glance in the mirror.

John Wilkes Booth: the illustrious American actor.

He walked the few blocks down to Ford's Theater, a mysterious new spring in his step, as if something wonderful and unforeseen awaited him just around the next corner. In the shadows. Hiding. He walked through the back door of the theater and headed toward the mail room. He placed his bony hand on the iron cast doorknob just as someone opened the door from within. It was Henry Clay Ford.

"Hello Mr. Booth. Good morning?"

"Yes, thank you Henry."

Ford seemed to balancing on tiptoe, rocking back in forth in what was obviously a weak attempt at concealed excitement.

"Are you alright, Henry?"

"Oh yes, yes. Yes, definitely." His cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. "We've got quite some company tonight! Yes. Quite some company!"

John had a sneaking feeling. It has finally happened...

"Anyone I would know, Henry?"

"Yes, yes, quite! Now I know he's not a favorite of yours, Mr. Booth, and for god's sake don't try any funny business! But it's Mr. Lincoln, you see, Mr. And Mrs. Lincoln!"

John felt like his stomach had unleashed writhing snakes into his body, filling him with an excitement too deep to measure, a delusional feeling, now so infused in his blood, too hard to pinpoint.

"Ah, the Lincolns."

John Wilkes Booth: the imminent future of America.

He said a hasty goodbye to Henry Ford, and waited in a dark corner until he was sure of Ford's departure. He then made his way into the theater.

The crimson curtains hung down ominously, spanning the entire back wall of the theater. The seats were sorted into balconies, staggered slightly so that everyone would have an appropriate view of the stage. To the right of the stage was the President's box, draped with white linen, trimmed with regal gold stitching.

So it's "Our American Cousin" tonight. So the best time to get him would be when Harry Hawk is alone on stage, receiving all the laughter. That will be at approximately 10:15 tonight...

He scanned the room again. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit.

With a swish of his coat he walked back up the aisle to the doors, which he clicked shut with a bang.

"Though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness. Tonight I try to escape these bloodhounds once more."

Click the image of President Abraham Lincoln's assassination above to read the entire story.

- Essay by Zara Fishkin, Grade 10

Hey, my name is Zara Fishkin, and my toothbrush is purple. Right now, I am talking to you from my computer during my writer's workshop period. I just want to speek to you about the beauty of the arts. Most people would tell me not to include myself in this piece, but I think that it is as much about where the opinions are coming from as it is about the topic. So while you, the reader, might not normally care what color I see when I brush my teeth every morning and night, this is my way of communicating to you what it's like in my world. 

Interestingly enough, that is what I feel the essence of art really is. No, it is not about my toothbrush. It is about how the composer is able to communicate a message, a feeling, or a sense of understanding. In the same way that a successful writer expresses these things, so can a painter, sculptor, musician, dancer, or even an athlete. As the late, great runner Steve Prefontaine once said, "A race is a work of art that people can look at and be affected in as many ways they're capable of understanding." Running was what he was good at, and so that was the art form that he chose. 

The whole meaning of the work is what the reader will most likely be affected by. For example, while you may not remember word for word, everything that I am sharing with you, or that I spelled "speak" wrong in sentence three, it is my hope that you will comprehend and understand some of the same thoughts that I'm sharing. In the case of a musician, a person may not recall whether the "B" was flat or sharp, but the feeling the composer was trying to convey when the work was created, the listener most likely received. This is how I think that all the forms of art are connected: they are what make us not alone with our thoughts, but part of a community. I believe that a truly skilled artist is one who gives the clearest idea of what he or she is thinking, whether it be a thoughtful message, or simply a whim of the imagination.

Essay by Tasha Fisher, Grade 11

I can remember as a child tossing and turning in bed for hours and hours praying to God I would fall asleep. "Please God, let me fall asleep, I have a big day at school tomorrow, and I need some sleep. I promise I'll be a good girl for mommy." Every minute I would check the clock and hope I would fall asleep that minute. Minutes turned into hours, hours turned into morning, and then it was time to get up.

In my family falling asleep was not an issue. My dad could fall asleep instantly; in a movie, in church, in a graduation ceremony, you name it, he's snored up a storm there. My mom well she's just exhausted by the end of the day. Once her head hits that off white temperpedic pillow she's asleep. Then my sister, she doesn't have any problem sleeping either. In fact in pre-school she would fall asleep on that uncomfortable hard as rock no support, pokey "carpet" during story time. Me, on the other hand, sleep has and will be a problem I battle my entire life.

Review by Steven Levine, Grade 11

Obie Trice was brought up like many rappers: in the ghetto of an industrial city, in this case, Detroit.  His hard knocks life taught him at a young age that hard work and determination could lift him out of his struggle. Marshall Mathers, a.k.a. Eminem, inspired Trice. Eminem's success in the underground scenes of Detroit encouraged Trice to meet and impress his role model. It didn't take long. Obie's career skyrocketed after a personal introduction to the Detroit rap legend himself. Eminem was so impressed by Obie's sampler, as well as his work ethic, that he signed him on the spot. Three years later, Obie released his first album, "Cheers," which received highly regarded praise around the world.  Trice just released his second album "Second Round's On Me," which clearly demonstrates the maturation and professional talents that Obie has at the microphone.

Obie Trice has a presence and style all his own. Plain and simple. Nobody with any experience with rap music could ever mistake Obie for another rapper. His incomparable voice has the ability to take center stage, but not overshadow the music. He can also blend into the music for a good boost. All rap sounds the same. No it doesn't. Obie Trice has proved that in 2003 and now again in 2006. 

Since 2003, Obie has matured as a lyricist as well as in production. As a boy, Trice always wanted to connect with his icons. Unsurprisingly, a goal he had on this album was to connect with his listeners.  He has successfully achieved this goal through unparalleled lyrics and song structure. His great flow and rhythm complement the beats of Eminem and his other qualified producers. Not only that, this album can stimulate anyone to feel all types of emotions. For example, "Lay Down" is a song designed to amp up the listener as Obie displays well his quick skills as well as his rhymes. The chorus contrasts Obie's quickness with a slower power-punched feature that can bring anybody's heart rate up. 

Trice brings down the curtain on his sophomore album with "Obie Story." The tone of this song goes from upbeat, to depressed, and then it tops off with an optimistic feeling.  What makes this song is how the mood changes when the lyrics and beats change, accurately showing how the music can affect a listener's perception of meaning just as easily as lyrics can.

Obie Trice was determined to avoid the curse of the sophomore slump with the release of his second album, and he has succeeded in style.  "Second Round's On Me" shows all the fine qualities that Trice possesses in the rap business. If you enjoyed "Cheers" then you are bound to love this album. Even if you have never heard the work of Trice, you should give this album a listen because it is truly phenomenal.

I was 10 years old on that late summer day in 2001. It seemed to be just another school day. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary, that is until around the end of the lunch period. I was about to throw away my garbage when my friend Amber came up to me and said, "A plane just crashed into the Twin Towers and now one is headed for the White House, I think." I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I could not eat another bite.

- Essay by Paul Swinehart, Grade 8

On September 11th, 2001, I was awakened from bed early by my Mom. On the television, I saw two skyscrapers in New York on fire. They had been hit by airplanes.

Of course, I was very sad, but I was mostly very angry. I was only 8 years old. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know who could have done such a terrible thing. When we found out that it was the Taliban, people from Afghanistan, I was wondering where the country was. I finally found it on a map. My immediate reaction was anger! I was prejudiced - I thought that everything and everyone that came from that region was bad. I realize now that you can't label an entire group or race of people as being evil. Still ... I can't help wondering where the masterminds are right now and when they will be caught. I can't wait until that day comes, because I will know that justice has finally been served.

- Essay by Jackie Kimmel, Grade 10

This day was like no other; a day of unforgettable feats and unbelievable sadness. The day of September 11, 2001 is one of the many pages in the book of America's history that will never be lost, just like the days of Pearl Harbor and even back to the civil war. These events are all remembered and known clearly just as the day of September 11th is to me.

Coming from the mind of a 5th grader, nothing seemed worse than having to sit through a full day of school, but little did I know I was about to find out how wrong I was. Sitting in my homeroom class I suddenly realized that many of my classmates were being mysteriously dismissed from school. I secretly envied them, wishing that I could leave also. From the time of the first dismissed student to the unveiling of what was actually happening, is a time I regard as one of dumbfounded and complete mystery. To me it seemed as if everyone knew a secret and was intentionally keeping me out of the loop. I can remember hushed whispers in the hall from one teacher to another. As more and more students started being picked up by their parents, I became more and more worried, what exactly had happened and what was going to happen to the rest of us students that were still at school?

- Essay by Gretchen Smith, Grade 10



September 11th, 2001 started out like any other day. I was in 5th grade. I woke up, went to school, and talked to my friends. Later that day, a little after lunch, things started getting a little suspicious. Teachers were talking quietly, parents were coming to the school and pulling kids out of class to take them home. Then rumors of attacks started going around the lunch area. We had all heard that we were getting out early. I remember I was really worried. Since my Mom is a teacher I went to her room and asked her what was going on. When she told me, I was very shocked. Shanksville is only about five miles away from us. 

This is not a story of heroes or of courage. This story does not have any bells or whistles. It is not meant to entertain or inspire. It is not a story of personal loss or global understanding. All it is is an account of how the terrible events unfolded to me on September 11, 2001.

Click on the "comments" link at the bottom of the entry to read more of what students around the country have to say about 9/11, or, to share your own thoughts.

One Tuesday in New York
- Essay by Bryon Cahill

Now first off, I acknowledge that the retelling of events as they happened through my eyes is as wildly arrogant as it is unimportant. The entire world witnessed the horror of that terrible day. I am certainly not here to ignore or lessen anyone's tale or emotions. But here, at the 5 year anniversary of 9/11, I feel the overwhelming need to try to say something.

I was living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn at the time. I was working as an Editorial Assistant at a children's publishing company in New York City. It was what I considered to be my first "real" job in the "real" world. And I was quite content with everything. I was young and living in the Big Apple! When I called it that, people gave me a look as if to say, "Don't be a tourist. If you're gonna be a New Yorker, be a New Yorker." But I couldn't help it. Every day as I walked through the city streets, I gazed up at the buildings that went on forever. How was it possible that I could be a part of something so huge?

Bay Ridge is about as far away from midtown Manhattan that you can get and still be a part of it all. Every morning, I would walk the five blocks from my apartment to the subway station. Bay Ridge was the very last stop on the R line, so when the train came, the doors opened, the people got out, and then it sat there. Along with other Bay Ridgers, I would find myself a seat and plant myself down, waiting patiently for the conductor to start it up again and head out in the opposite direction.

It was an hour ride to midtown. I didn't mind it much. I always had a seat and a book and I got a lot of my reading done in that two hour commute back and forth. In the fall of 2001, I was reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, a mammoth of a book if you ever saw one. It called for every ounce of my concentration.

September 11th was a gorgeous Tuesday morning. A slave to my routine, I was on the R train around 8:00. As the train started up, I was glued to my book. The people around me became shadows.

Back then, the R train passed right under the World Trade Center. It was an incredibly busy stop and one that I never got off at. That morning, my train stopped at Cortlandt Street, under the Twin Towers, as it always did. The doors did not open immediately.

"We are only picking up passengers at Cortlandt," the train conductor said over the loudspeaker. "Please remain on the train." I hardly heard him. I was buried in my book.

Only two or three people got on and I only looked up when I heard a woman farther down say something like, "A plane just hit the World Trade Center." What? What did she say? I must have misheard her. I went back into my book as the train pulled out of the station. The loudness of the train blurred the crazy woman's words and zoned out her wild, made up tall tales.

In retrospect, I was on one of the last trains to ever pass under the Twin Towers. They stopped service through very shortly after.

Six stops later, I got off the train. With my book stowed away in my backpack, I walked through the station and up the stairs. When I reached daylight, I immediately knew something was seriously wrong.

In New York City, every hour is rush hour, but at five minutes to nine, people are whizzing by you in every direction. They weren't. Not this day. On this day, traffic was either slowed or stopped. On this day, every single person was staring up at something. They were all looking at something behind me.

      We couldn’t have known that this place would affect us so profoundly—the six of us. We couldn’t have known that this place would teach us anything about who we were, what we wanted in life, what we feared, how to love. The house was nothing special, just a faded blue ranch with a finished basement that always smelled like a swamp. It was small. It was ugly. It was ours, for one year. On a sweltering June day in one of the last years of the millennium, we moved into 88 Sunset Avenue, a little blue shack planted awkwardly in a cul-de-sac on a street a block away from abandoned train tracks. Our neighbors were made up of grouchy retirees, fellow college students, and a few folks who redefined for us the word “redneck.” We were walking distance from our college campus, but we never did seem to get up in time to actually walk there. Weekday mornings were often spent frantically running around looking for keys, books, and shoes in our disastrous living room. Weekend mornings were usually spent sleeping well into the day, then emerging from our rooms like vampires from their coffins, eyes averted from the sun, arms outstretched for sustenance. Sometimes others were there too, strewn about in blankets and sleeping bags, victims from the previous night’s escapades, but usually it was just us. We liked it that way, after all. We weren’t just six people living in a house, we were Sunset. A clan. A tribe. We spoke our own language and had our own rituals. Sure we had plenty of parties and visitors, but at the end of it all, in the wee hours of the night, the six of us shared a secret world.

      Have you ever lived with people who you are not blood-related to? It’s strange how seeing each other in your pajamas and sharing the same bathroom instantly creates a kinship between people. There’s a magic that happens between anyone sharing the same roof. You hear each other snoring at night. You drink out of the same milk carton. Your laundry finds its way into the same wash, underwear and socks all happily mingling together in a sudsy pool. There is something so intimate, so personal about a simple thing like laundry sharing the same basket.

      Make no mistake; we were all friends before we lived together—me, Kerry, Bryon, Dave, Dave, and Dave. Yes, three Daves in one house. Sharing that house, though, it changed everything. The word friends became too small for what we were, yet the word family implied that we were somehow forced to love one another, the way you are forced to love your mother’s great, great, Aunt Marie whom you’ve never even met. We had chosen to live together in that hideous excuse for a house, and once we moved in together, everything was somehow new. I never had a sister, so living with a girl who was not my mom was strange for me….and wonderful. On Wednesday nights at eleven o’clock Kerry and I discovered this little known television program in its very first season. It would go on to redefine lifestyles for single women in cities all over the world, but we just knew that it was our Wednesday night-bonding time. No boys allowed. Cocktails and facemasks and girl talk. I had never spent so much time with a girl who wasn’t my mom. Kerry was the older sister I never had, there to give me advice and build my confidence when I had none.

by Taylor Masterson, Grade 7

What you do on this holiday is celebrate your name by bringing in a meal that starts with the letter of your name.  Since, my name is Taylor; I could possibly make tacos, tamales, or even toasted raviolis. When you arrive at your Name Day house you set down your dish and start talking about the origin of your name or why you received it.  So for example I would say, "Hi, my name is Taylor and my dad chose this name for me because it was the name of his favorite golf club, Taylor Made." After that you will all enjoy dinner. While you are doing that you will guess who made it depending on the name of that dish.  The person who guesses the most dishes right, will win a gift certificate to a restaurant that starts with the same letter of their name. Finally, everyone will leave and go back to their house.  While they are there you can think about how special you and your name really are.

By Michael Schwendeman, Grade 7

This is a day when kids across the world are praised for their hard work in school and in life.  All of the kids across the world ages 18 or below (sometimes the kid/young adult will decide) get to choose everything and anything they want to do this day.  All of the parents across the world have to listen to their kids and do what they say no matter what the kids want to do.  If the kid wants to go to the amusement park for the day, they the parents have to take them there.  Of course, all of the amusement parks and putt-putt courses and restaurants will be "kids ride free" or "kids putt free" or "kids eat free".  Everywhere will be kid friendly and welcome kids in whenever they want.   The hours of this magnificent day will be from 12:01 AM to 11:59 PM.  All of the kids across the world will be able to enjoy a school-free day and be able to relax.

Ashley, Grade 7

So, you get to make up your own holiday?  Why not a National No Homework Day?   Whenever you come home from school and you have a ton of homework, the first thing you say to your mom when you walk in the door is, "I wish I could just kick back and relax".  Well, this National holiday says that you can!  Every March third is now called National No Homework Day.  For one school day each year you can just put your backpack, full of books, to the side.  You finally get the chance to relax and not worry about anything, even though you have an assignment notebook page filled with things for you to do. So, just remember and wait for National No Homework day every year and wish that everyday was March third.

by Bob, Grade 7

National Ice Cream Eating Day would obviously be a day where everyone in the country gets free ice cream! Everyone would be off of school on this day. There would be ice cream stands set up all over town and kids would ride their bikes from stand to stand and try all of the flavors. 
   At the end of the day everyone able to come within the USA would gather at Queeny Park for an ice cream contest. I'd be the judge since National Ice Cream Eating Day would be held on my birthday March, 24th. The winner who made the best ice cream would get a $1,000.42 cash prize. There would be a bunch of attractions at Queeny Park, it wouldn't just be a Holiday it would be a national celebration. There would be rides, slushies, ice cream (of course), funnel cakes and a live demo from Tony Hawk, Rodney Mullen, Bam Margera, Mike Valleley, and Ryan Sheckler (pro skaters), and we'd keep adding people annually to skate. Afterwards they would sign autographs and the ramps would be free to skate by anyone who wanted to. (That's a lot of people!!!)
   At night time around 9:00pm we'd have a huge 20ft tall birthday cake for me every year I'm alive and then there would be fireworks and of course ... ICE CREAM!!!!!!!

Thanks to Gus Kihn, a 7th grade student in Chesterfield, Missouri who sent us the drawing below. In case you can't tell, it says "I love writing. I love the way it lets me peek into new worlds."

Amen, brother.

Editors' Note: We asked you to tell us who inspires you in life, who your influences are. Here's what some of you had to say.

The author who influences my writing most is Meg Cabot. I've read many of her books like the Princess Diaries Series to The Mediator. I love her style of writing, which is directed to pre-teens and teens. Her books are funny and unpredictable. Meg has written many books, which I intend to do in my lifetime. She continues to take on the challenge of being a writer. I am hoping that in my lifetime I can make a page-turner book just like she has done.

Two years ago, my mom got Breast Cancer and ever since then she has been an inspiration in my eye.  Through her worst, she stayed strong for me, my siblings, and my dad.  She made sure that I knew she would make it through this, and of course she did.

The person who has the biggest influence to me is my Grandfather, Alan Best Janssen.  His unique middle name is his mother’s maiden name. Grandpa has inspired me in every aspect of my life. He will tell you what is on his mind and he never lets anything influence his opinion. He’s one of the nicest, most thoughtful, and funniest people you will probably meet in your life time.

I have been inspired by many people in life but the person who has affected me the most is my sister Bethany, who is four years older that me.  Bethany has been a great sister all my life from playing "Monkey Mommy" when I was little, to now when she does my hair before I go out.