The dinner was just being cleared away and already Grampa Cuozzo was yelling, “Time for poker!” At family gatherings, poker had become a tradition among the grandparents. Although some of the players might vary at these card games, two players always remained constant, my Grampa Cuozzo and my Grampa Robasco. And whereas my cousins couldn’t wait to leave the dining room, I always stayed behind, a quiet presence. As soon as I was tall enough to peer over the table, I had watched these games. Over time I had not only learned the basic rules, I had discovered there was a psychology to the game. The complexities of the game could often mystify me, but there was one thing I knew for certain: the victor always took the pot.

Now, hours later as I watched the last hand of the night being dealt, I looked over my Grampa Robasco’s shoulder as he fanned out his three jacks for me to see.

“Not bad,” I thought.

“I’ll see your dime and I’ll raise you a quarter,” my Grampa Cuozzo announced. When it was time to trade in cards, my Grampa Robasco wanted two more cards. That was understandable, I reasoned: he was keeping his three jacks. But my Grampa Cuozzo only wanted one card. His smug expression caused everyone to fold, but my Grampa Robasco. I scurried around the table, and was not surprised to see he held nothing: obviously another famous Cuozzo bluff. “Last hand,” my Grampa Cuozzo announced pushing all his change forward. “Winner takes all!”

“Too rich for my blood, I’m out,” Grampa Robasco responded, to my utter shock.

As my Grampa Cuozzo triumphantly collected the pot and left the table I had a moment alone with my Grampa Robasco. “You had a winning hand! Did his bluff get you to fold?”

His response came with a wink. “Naw, I knew. It’s just that I know how much it means to him to win.”

The different approaches my two grandfathers took when they played poker were characteristic of their entire personalities. Whatever hand my Grampa Cuozzo was dealt, whether in cards or in business, he played to win the pot, while Grampa Robasco never cared about the pot. He owned a small gas station on the corner his whole life. It wasn’t an Exxon or a Mobil, as it might have been had my Grampa Cuozzo owned it. But Grampa Robasco saw success in a different way. He was a mechanic who would advise his customers how to get the cheapest job possible, even if it meant sacrificing the sale.

And so the final question: what kind of poker player would I be? I already knew that I could play like a Cuozzo. I knew I had the attitude, the drive and the confidence to win. I knew how to play my hand. And if I wasn’t dealt the cards, I knew how to put on a poker face and bluff. One way or another I knew how to win the pot. But on that day, I learned an even greater lesson from my Grampa Robasco.

My grandfather’s ability to put winning in perspective made him the real winner that day. He knew that sometimes it is more important to let someone else walk away with his pride intact. Although I had always been proud to be a Cuozzo, on that day I was just as proud to be a Robasco. In his subtle way, my Grampa Robasco left me a legacy that I would carry with me forever. I will still always strive to win, but I now know that the true victor doesn’t always come away with the pot.

I used to think becoming an adult meant figuring out some way of controlling my emotions. That was before my friend Dorian Lopez committed suicide. No one saw it coming. He never showed bitterness or any inner anger, and he certainly was never distant the way suicides are supposed to be. Dorian was the clown of our sophomore class, constantly joking or manufacturing some hilarious noise that seemed to come from nowhere. Making other people laugh seemed to be his personal duty. That he of all people would hang himself? The possibility never crossed my mind.

To tell the truth, when I heard the news that April 1st, I thought it was a joke. I was in Florida with the baseball team, in line to use the pay phone when my friend Rob turned around and told us. I actually laughed until I saw his tears. My whole body felt like it was set in stone until our coaches officially chose to share the information they’d been privy to all day. When my tears began to flow, they did not stop for days.

Brother Maus was just as shocked as we were to hear of the news that Dorian had committed suicide, but unlike our other teachers when we’d returned to school on Monday, he erected no façade, When he’d attempted to start class as he normally would, with a prayer, we could see his tears.

Brother Maus was not your typical teacher, or Brother for that matter. All the other Christian Brothers wore tight high-collared dress shirts; he wore a loose top and long skirt. “Anything goes” was the motto of his religion class. We discussed subjects with him that normally we wouldn’t discuss with any other teacher—or adult: alcohol, drugs, and what we did at parties. Dorian especially had thrived in the freewheeling atmosphere; you could tell they had a special bond. For every wisecrack Dorian made, Br. Maus sent one right back, each one funnier than the last. One day Dorian threw a bag of orange peels towards the front of the room, and it accidentally hit Br. in the face; he never missed a beat. Just as Br.’s class was normally a sanctuary from our school’s rigorous routine, he announced that today the school chapel would be our sanctuary from the agony of knowing that Dorian was not with us.

That night Br. called me at home to see how I was doing, and I told him not too good. Coaches who withheld the truth from us “for our own good”; teachers who were full of pious prescriptions about what prayers we should be saying, I could understand Dorian’s steering clear of them in his time of need. But Br. Maus? Why hadn’t Dorian turned to him? “I hate Dorian for doing it!” I raged. “I hate God for letting him. I hate you for not being able to save him. And I hate myself for having such twisted feelings.”

“You aren’t supposed to feel a certain way,” Br. said. “How you feel at a given time is the right way to feel. No one can say why Dorian did not have the strength to go on living. In the end, we each must find a way to plumb the depths of our despair. As for surviving it: that choice is yours alone to make.”

In the ensuing weeks after Dorian’s death, I chose to meet the struggle with everything I had. I experienced every emotion I have ever felt and some I didn’t even know existed, like emptiness and mental pain. Some days it hurt to be awake and living. I learned how to deal with all these emotions mostly on my own, and sometimes with the help of others who cared about me.

Sometimes I resent having had to grow up at such a young age, but, in the long run, I know it will serve me well. I used to think becoming an adult meant figuring out some way of controlling my emotions. I now know it means having the courage to accept them.

Last year on Christmas Day I finally grew into my room. It started with a very early phone call. “Cara, Cara! Omigod! Guess what Santa brought me!” My eyes weren’t even open yet. Shouldn’t a best friend know that when you’re Jewish, Christmas is a great day for sleeping in? “A brand new computer with a flat screen monitor, a CD burner, a cable modem and a printer...”

“Gee...”

“Wait, wait! There’s more: I also got a digital camera, a Tiffany’s necklace, and a set of keys to my very own brand new turbo-engine silver Jetta with black leather interior. Well, gotta go. My dad needs the phone line to start hooking everything up.”

I thought about what I had gotten for Chanukah: a Mighty Brite reading light from my mom. Still lying in bed, I turned my head and opened one eye. There it was all right, still in its packaging sitting on my nightstand where I’d deposited it two weeks before. “It’s for studying!” my mom had said. “Your reward for coming up with color coding to organize your notes at school. It’s even pink, the accent color you picked out when you designed your bedroom.”

It had been my physics teacher who’d suggested the note-taking strategy that had turned my academic life around. Until then, I had been writing down notes and assignments on stray scraps of paper. Mr. Vanskike showed me his notes with his color coding method: “Electromagnetism” in red, “Circuits” in blue, green for assignments, and black pen for emphasis. He also showed the flexibility I could have simply by substituting a binder for a notebook. For the first time I saw the control I could have over the seemingly random information of a lecture and the specific concepts I’d be asked about on tests. My colors were aqua, hot pink, violet, and the results I gained were dramatic. Better still, I began to see that I could extend this same simple solution to other previously disorganized aspects of my life.

The trouble with the lamp was it didn’t have a base. It was designed to clamp onto a desk, something I had never had. My eyes traveled across the room to my grandmother’s vanity. It had been already here when my parents had “exiled” me to this former storage space five years ago to make room for my sister. For years I would just stick things in its drawers and pile stuff on top of it. But just now it had dawned on me that down there somewhere was a lid that, when raised, revealed a well wide and deep enough to serve as a desk...onto which I could clip my Mighty Brite.

First I got a big plastic garbage bag and began to throw away old tests, homework, notes on a jillion little scraps of paper. In went old junk mail, old scrungies...an old popcorn bag? It smelled like old seaweed, and sure enough when I looked inside, it was full of seashells. I remembered when I’d collected them on the vacation we had spent in Florida. They were conch shells, each one perfectly beautiful in its own way, without a crack. It amazed me how selective I had been at the age of ten.

Now that I’d cleared everything away, I could see the vanity as a whole. It had a light wood color, and its curvy design was highlighted with gold trim. I never met my namesake Grandma Charlotte who had owned it first; she passed away one year before I was born. My mother always tells me how I am just like her. One drawer still contained her perfume. Its scent was just like the pictures I had of her: elegant.

Then for the first time ever, I lifted up the lid. I hadn’t known about the mirror inlaid on its underside. In its reflection I could see the pastel yellow color I had selected for my walls and my periwinkle blue carpet. I have a cream colored canopied day bed that I got because it matched the vanity I had somehow always known I would grow into. I removed the pink Mighty Brite from its casing and clipped it to the open lid, where it was clearly meant to be—the simplest adjustment that pulled everything together.

Still, for all that, something wasn’t finished yet. I thought about the other things in my life that needed tossing: the non-mutual friendship with my early caller; the dance company that had grown too-binding, and the continual pain I’d been suffering in my knees. I looked into the mirror and could see someone capable of handling whatever needed to be done.

In the newly discovered space beneath the lid there was a glue gun, probably used before I was even born to secure a wayward drawer knob. I used it to glue onto the mirror’s frame all the little treasures I knew that I would be keeping: my perfect shells from Florida; ribbons that had come with presents from many former birthdays; a button from my very first sweater that was hand-knitted by my great-grandmother; and a hand-painted picture of a dancer, since dance is my deepest love. Finding memorable things within my own experience made me realize that my life has gifts more valuable than any unearned shiny gizmos.

It occurs to me as I write this now that next year I will not need my desk. My dorm room at UConn will already have one. So here is what I plan to bring instead: my passion for dance, which I hope to share as a member of UConn’s dance team...my involvement in Jewish life at UConn...color-coded study skills...and of course, my Mighty Brite.

“In the light you will find the road…”—Led Zeppelin

It’s a straight road… I can’t see the end of it… I’m at the beginning… Ever since I first heard “In The Light” by Led Zeppelin, it has been my favorite song. All of Led Zeppelin’s music has always taken me to a magical place inside my head. But there are two things I especially like about “In the Light.” Not many people know about it. Most people listen to Led Zeppelin I, II, III, and IV. But, then, I’ve never been “most people.” Mainly though, I connect to the song’s lyrics: I’ve always known that I have an unusually acute sense of direction. I never really get lost. I just instinctively seem to know where I want to go and how to get there. When I’m in the middle of figuring something out, I’ve always been able to tune out everything and everybody around me and train my mind solely upon arriving at my goal.

It operates for me on a physical level, too, especially when I am playing water polo, a sport at which I excel. I see the ball passed into the 2-meter position. I swim at my guy, and then dodge to the left, and swim by him. I take several strokes, lift up my head, look at my 2-meter man, check if I’m open, and then call for the ball. It’s a fast moving, constantly shifting game, so by the time the 2-meter man reacts and passes me the ball, of course, I am crashed—forcibly submerged by two defenders. My head is still underwater from the defenders on top of me, but in my mind, I see a flash of the goal, and instinctively, reflexively I shoot at it. I literally enter a mental zone in which I see the goal illuminated with laser-like clarity, even when I’m not directly looking at it. My ability to function consistently at this level has resulted in my scoring 88 goals this season. I hear the awed roar of the crowd and can tell my shot went in.

There has always been another zone in which my ability to hyper focus has led me to function with ease at an elevated level: the domain of higher math. Very early I discovered that I could perform complicated mathematical maneuvers in my head. I can see the numbers flash; I see the answer. As the math gets more advanced, the formulas of calculus provide me with a stabilizing framework, in which 3-dimensional vectors literally assume length, breadth, and depth of the world of physics. Game theory comes naturally to me. So does decoding. I probably could thrive in the field of engineering, but so far the zone I foresee myself immersing myself in, and shedding light upon, is the one that flickers and streams across an electronic tickertape. In both grades 5 and 6, a unit in math invited us to track the stock market. Both years, I made the most money in my class. From that time on, the area of finance within the field of economics has been my unswerving academic goal.

There is a name for my ability to selectively hyper focus to the exclusion of all else. It’s sometimes known as ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, for want of a better label. I was first tested and diagnosed at Yale University’s Center for Pediatric Medicine after I entered kindergarten. All through elementary school, middle school, and half of high school, the label and the state it described, made information delivered orally seem to be a solid wall past which I could not as yet gain access. Within the conventional classroom, I would sit at a desk, which sat in a straight row, trying to make sense of a wall of “information.” A lot of times in the middle of that impenetrable barrier of verbiage, I would not hear when teacher gave assignments and said when tests were. For a long time, teachers, whose method of teaching English and Social Studies was to lecture, made me feel frustrated, because the information they attempted to convey did not generate the flash I found so readily within math and science. I’ve gradually learned that I do best with teachers who write a lot on the board, because just like the formulas of calculus, this allows me to access essential data according to my learning style. I’ve learned what support I need, and where to go to get it. I further learned that once I’ve found the key to breach my former academic walls, I make up for lost time fast.

Take reading. In second grade I could not read, but in third grade I was reading at grade level. Even still, I never found reading to be an activity I would voluntarily pursue. Then last summer, something finally flashed—not so oddly, when I think about it—through the Harry Potter books. I had just seen The Sorcerer’s Stone. My friend Tom said, “The books are even better than the movie.” To make up for lost time, I started with the last and the longest of the four, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Once I opened it, I didn’t put it down at all. Then, I went back and read the other three.

Through reading, I learned to factor in and respect that, for me, some things simply take their own sweet Time—the fourth dimension in my ADHD, selective hyper focus zone—but, when they do, an illuminating flash of interconnectedness occurs.

“In the light you will find the road…”

“A thousand more beams arced high over Harry and Voldemort, until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light… And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air…. It was coming from every thread of the light-spun web…It was the…phoenix song…. the most beautiful and welcome thing he had ever heard in his life. He felt as though the song were inside him instead of just around him…”

J.K. Rowling had perfectly described the zone I entered during my own powerful moments of lucidity! Next came Lord of the Rings. I read the whole trilogy within a month. And then came…

One last, previously impenetrable, school-related wall remained. Until I went to write this essay, I never felt comfortable with the process of accessing and setting them down on paper my most important thoughts and feelings. I now know that the first stages of the writing process is akin to the march of random data across an electronic stock ticker, which when seen within my hyper focus zone, reveals a deeper logic I can then translate and shape.

My growing confidence in my ability to understand and use my ADHD as a tool to scale my former academic walls now sets me on a fresh path of self discovery: it lies situated around a beautiful lagoon and is flanked by the Pacific Ocean. Thanks to my sister, who graduated from UCSB last year, I already know my way around somewhat. Here is where on campus I will soon be spending a lot of time: UCSB’s Economics Department in North Hall (You take Mesa Road to Ocean Road…) Here I can immerse myself in UCSB’s Business Economics program. The library is a little to the right; the pool is just past Old Gym, a little to the left; and right across the street from it, in Building 300, I know where to go for any academic support I might want.

“In the light you will find the road…” It’s a straight road… I can’t see the end of it… I’m at the beginning…

I genuinely love playing the trombone. If that sounds obvious, it isn’t. I’ve seen what can happen if that passion isn’t there. Last year, one of the best players on our band was accepted early to Ohio State. If he’d had the same sheer enjoyment of music and his instrument, I doubt he would have coasted through his senior year to find that OSU had changed its mind.

Why do I love the trombone? Because it’s the only instrument that has a slide and that makes it unique. You’re always moving. You can play high pitches and low pitches on the instrument depending on what kind of player you are. It’s a low brass instrument, but at times you can play high pitch parts. I love trombone because it’s so versatile, perfect for a marching band and at the same time, just right for jazz. My dad first introduced me to jazz music when he played his Miles Davis and Dizzie Gillespie records. My favorite jazz trombonist is Phil Wilson, especially his jazz version of The Wizard of Oz. I especially love how I’ve learned how to use music to tap into my feelings and lift my spirits. I may start out feeling blue, but when my music picks up tempo, in no time I’m on top of the world.

Music is also a way to express my independence. I don’t go with the flow. I genuinely love all music and can play a variety of themes: classical, show tunes, circus pieces, marches, Latin, Russian, any type of piece from any country. ’“I march to the beat of my own drum. “Just because I like something doesn’t mean other people have to like it, too.

“Learn to be happy and think of life as a terminal illness, because if you do, you will live it with joy and passion, as it ought to be lived.”
—Anna Quindlen, A Short Guide to a Happy Life

Many experiences have helped to shape my perception of my mother. However one stands out in my memory, which especially demonstrates her tremendous courage. We were finally celebrating my fourteenth birthday one month late. But the celebration wasn’t the only thing in our life that had been on hold. Four years before, my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d had massive surgery only to learn that it had moved to the other side, necessitating still more surgery as well as months of chemotherapy. During that time, it was as if I had fallen into a dark endless hole and there was no way to escape. Now, my mother had just learned that she had conquered the disease. This was the first time she and I had had a chance to have an outing as a normal mom and daughter.

“How does Saks sound?” said my mom.

It was a beautiful spring day. I could smell the chestnuts roasting. The sidewalks were packed with people trying to get to work on time, scared of what their bosses would say if they were late. Car horns honked so loudly anywhere you were, this noise seemed to pierce the entire city. It made me realize just how silent my life had been while my mother’s life hung in the balance. Nowadays, you hear of more women getting this disease, but when I was younger, it was not something that was talked about openly, because the survival rate was so low. I’d heard how my great uncle, a heavy smoker, had died of lung cancer, but he was in his seventies. My mom was in her early 30s.

As we passed through Saks’s revolving doors, the scent of Mom’s favorite, Chanel #5, drifted over from the perfume counter. Signs inscribed with gold hung from the ceiling, telling you where you were headed, and somewhere on the floor someone called out “Size 8, p-l-e-a-s-e!!”

My mom headed straight for “Millinery,” purposefully cutting her way through the crowd with such efficiency I had to “kick it in” to keep up with her. On either side of the path she cut, I could see people gaze admiringly at how fashionably slim she was, how immaculate her coiffure.

By the time I caught up with her, she had three hats picked out. “Which one do you think?” she said.

“Don’t you already have a brown one?”

“No, I mean do you think they will fit on my head? You know, this summer when it’s hot? I don’t want to have to wear my wig.”

“I guess...”

My mom swept me over to the nearest mirror. “Here! Hold this!” she said.

“What?” (Hold your wig!? I thought. Can’t you buy all three and try them on at home...return them if they don’t fit?)

It was a bad dream happening in real life as she reached her hand onto the top of her head and grabbed the roots of her artificial hair that hid the ravages of her chemotherapy. The wig tippled down her smooth scalp. It was OFF! My mother had just gone from a full head of hair to displaying what now looked my grandfather’s shiny bald one. Everyone in our vicinity gasped in shock...and once again the silence I thought I’d gotten past descended. I felt pain, and then I realized it was not the pain of humiliation a teenager would feel when her mother has done something terminally embarrassing. It was a maternal feeling of protectiveness; I did not want her to get hurt.

Then I heard her chuckle spontaneously, and as the frozen scene came to life again, it was with heightened consciousness in all of us.

As we re-emerged onto New York’s bustling sidewalks, it was as if my mother had this magical bubble of life-affirming laughter around her. She had always had it, even when she’d battled for her life, but I hadn’t realized until now this rare ability to chuckle was what kept her going. Now, as she strode around the city with her head held high, it was not with haughty pride, but because she knew she was going to be OK, and live each day as if it were her last.

My mother’s action taught me to take note of simple gestures: how the doffing of a hat--or wig--and the resulting sound of laughter can be merely that—or signify so much more.

If you were ever in middle school, you know the back of the bus was only for “cool people,” but it was also the worst place to sit because (1) you got off last, and (2) you inhaled all the exhaust fumes. In middle school, I had a traumatic experience on the back of the bus.

During the seventh grade, a “cool person” harassed me for the entire year because I was Chinese. “Chink…Round Eyes…Rice Picker,” he’d say. On Halloween, he threw eggs at my house, trashed my mailbox, and sprayed SillyString all over our cars. I almost got into a fight with him once because he wouldn’t knock it off, but I didn’t because, in my ancient culture, we have evolved beyond that. The thing that hurt me the most was that everyone on the bus just sat silently as this was going on.

When I went to China two summers ago, I also had to take a bus to get around. People looked at me differently because I didn’t speak Chinese. When talking to my sister, I spoke to her in English. I could hear people whispering in the back, and I understood them. I’m torn between two worlds. I don’t quite fit in because I’m a minority.

People judge me right off the bat and approach me with these Asian stereotypes—everyone’s heard them before.

“Do you know Kung-Fu?” No.

“Do you use chopsticks at home?” Yes.

“Where are you from?” Connecticut.

“No, really, where are you from?” Uh…Connecticut.

“Fine, then where are your parents from?” Taiwan and Hong Kong.

“Can you see out of your eyes?” Yes!

After 9/11, I heard a story about a hate crime against a Sikh man. He was on the ground level of the World Trade Center, talking in Hindi on his cell phone to his family, telling them he was okay. A group of men approached him, threw the cell phone to the ground, and began to beat him. The worst part about it was that he was not Middle Eastern. In the Oklahoma City bombing, many of the people assumed that people of Middle Eastern descent were responsible for this atrocity. They were shocked to see that it was a Caucasian who committed this heinous crime. After 9/11, I analyzed myself. I realized that I am truly different from everyone else. I look different from most people in my town. The truth is people do judge others based on the way they look. Usually this fact is of relatively minor consequence, but sometimes it can be lethal.

I joined Diversity Awareness Club at school soon after 9/11, because I feel that it is so important for people to accept and tolerate each other. I’m a Chinese-American growing up in America. English is my first language, but my culture is Chinese. To some extent, it’s simply an existential conflict everybody grapples with. By joining Diversity Awareness Club and leading it this year, I’m fighting this conflict, not physically, but through my words and actions.

She had a pink shirt on which had a bright yellow stripe, bright blue Spandex and orange socks and sneakers. Her hair was in a pony tail but she had missed some...Her name was Kathleen and she was maybe six, since, when she smiled, I could see that telltale gap that’s left when you lose your four front teeth. She was smiling now, and holding up a board game.

I came to ‘Kids in Crisis’ from a different world. Or so it seemed at first. I was not a foster child, abandoned at birth, shipped in and out of six foster homes as if I were a parcel. I was a well-off teenager, from a stable loving family, living in one of the most affluent suburbs in the country, who wanted to see what it might be like to be of service. Today was my first time here.

There are pictures on the box lid of candy people and little cards painted to resemble colored tiles. “Do you want to play a game?” I say…

…When I was maybe six, I too was treated like a parcel—nothing so traumatic; it was only for a day. My mom was having the house cleaned and I would have been in the way, so I was sent to Mrs. Naumann’s. She had baby-sat for me before, and I knew I didn’t like her. But up until that day, I did not know why.

It wasn’t that she was old, maybe 75. Or that her house was inhospitable to children: its every horizontal surface was lined with fragile figurines and brittle glass picture frames; her only playthings: some plastic produce she kept in a carton underneath a cabinet.

It was some awful barren emptiness, where conversation consisted of: “No, Miss High and Mighty, I don’t have a VCR.” and “Just to shut you up so I can watch The Price is Right, I might as well show you how to knit... Can’t you count? You dropped a stitch. Redo the last five rows.”

Finally, plaintively, I had to beg her: “Can’t we play a game?”

Grumbling, Mrs. Naumann hoisted herself out of her chair and unearthed the game of RummiKube. She placed a tile holder in front of me. The tiles themselves were unappealing earth tones, but on each surface, I could see all the various ways to categorize them according to their shapes and colors, and still more ways I could build upon the melds Mrs. Naumann put down on the table. In no time, I was down to my last tile. Ker-plink! I won the game!

I looked up expectantly, waiting for Mrs. Naumann to deal the tiles again, but her eyes were narrow slits. “Play with such a sneaky little cheat?” she said through gritted teeth. “Pick up every single tile. Put them away in order, exactly how they go. Play a game with you? Go knit until your mother comes."

…Kathleen and I are playing Candyland together, a game of happy colors, and a path of optimistic possibilities that leads you on a quest across gumdrop bridges that span lemonade lakes. Spontaneously, as she makes her way, her hand reaches out for mine to squeeze it, hoping it will bring her luck. When she wins, she stretches her hands up high as if she had just finished a marathon, as if she had never won at anything before. Then she reaches her arms toward me to embrace me. I hug her back and pick her up. It is impossible to remember when I have ever spent an afternoon filled with so much fun.

It is surprising how easy it is to touch someone else’s life. All you have to do is sit down together. The connection made by two people simply being open to each other makes you feel good about yourself for the rest of the day. It makes you feel as if you cannot do anything wrong. One afternoon spent with Kathleen, and the afternoons that followed, gave me a chance to disperse the residue of awful emptiness I’d experienced at Mrs. Neumann’s.

Just like Candyland itself, I learned it really is quite simple: Saying yes to: “Will you play with me” is all it really takes to keep a child, any child, from becoming a kid in crisis.

What else more should we know? Tell us something about yourself, explain an interest, describe a talent, or raise an issue of concern. Anything goes!

Football, like all sports, shows what kind of character one has. Winning requires each individual team member to dedicate him/herself to grueling weeks of preparation so that, on the playing field, he/she can push him/herself to his limits and beyond. Athletes who perform at this level experience a feeling unlike any other. There is a release of energy and personality in pure form at that opening kickoff that does not let up until the game is over. This pursuit of absolute physical and mental excellence drives the athletic spirit. I know. I play football.

When I take the field, I know the other team has been training just as hard and wants to win every bit as much as we do. At the same time, everyone recognizes that in the heat of play, excesses occur. That is why football, like all sports, requires referees. The referee monitors football’s boundaries and absolutes. The black and white shirts referees wear could not make this role any clearer, or illustrate more graphically, the fragile nature of this equilibrium. All it takes is for an official to fail to call one penalty to drive a field of twenty-two players into a frenzy, to push the purity of execution into the gray zone of the late hit, and unsportsmanlike conduct of every kind. I know. I play football.

What happens when another variable gets introduced, one that is “all black” and” “all white” in quite a different way? I mean the demographics that exist from town to town, from school to school within Fairfield County. Football teams in well-off school districts like New Canaan, Darien and Westport have no black players. Football teams in the poorer inner cities such as Bridgeport have no white players. Even at schools in Stamford, Norwalk and Danbury, where there is some diversity, not one team’s racial mix comes close to 50-50.

During our championship game against Weaver High last year, nobody had any way of being sure who threw out the first racist remark, but once the fire is lit in a game like football, it escalates. To an outsider, it was a clear case of the worst side of human nature run amok, with the Darien players being likened to the Klan. The story made the pages of the New York Times. But on the field itself, it played out very differently. I know. I was there. As a junior and one of the younger players on the field, playing outside linebacker on defense at the time, I truthfully was not participating in the exchange, although, on occasion, certain phrases were tossed in my general direction. The fact is: Weaver High was killing us—for an excellent reason: they had a running back named Johnny Weaver. His size, at about six foot tall and 200 pounds, was not especially remarkable, but he had qualities athletes dream of possessing. His speed and shiftiness far outmatched anyone on our team.

I was on a stunt when I tackled him, with a swarm of my teammates assisting from behind. At first I did not realize it was he. It was clean hit, one of our few bright spots—we would lose the game 66-28. My teammates had already untangled themselves to head back to the line of scrimmage, leaving us for one unforgettable instant all alone. ”Nice hit,” Johnny Weaver said, as I stretched out my hand to help him to his feet. This athlete was an extraordinary person, especially talented in football, and from the way he’d been outfoxing us all day, obviously smart. As far as I could see nothing really divided us except for the color uniforms we wore. Throughout this so called hate-filled game, all I know is what I personally experienced: that both of our teams were caught up in a desire to win. When that gets frustrated, no question, it can give rise to the worst in every single one of us. That’s why there are referees. But it can also give rise to a moment of great grace that epitomizes the very best in all of us. I know. That’s why I play football.

To think that what started as a fun thing to do after school would teach me what it means to take my true priorities seriously.

I was born in Guatemala. That meant that when I first came to this country, my classes in elementary school and middle school were all ESL. By the time I was in eighth grade, I had worked my way into mainstream classes. There I saw a familiar face, Joan, who comes from Haiti. At first we would just talk during school, then over the phone. We are now best friends. Pretty soon, I got to know all of her friends, kids from many different countries—Japan, Germany, and Sweden. Now they are my friends, too. At Joan’s urging, I went out for track

When I started, running track was hard. I felt as if everyone was fast except for me. But after putting extra time and concentration into my sprint workouts, my speed started to increase. So did the joy I felt when I started to win races, got a medal or a trophy. The greatest joy of all came last spring when I made it to State Opens and FCIACs, received the Coaches’ Award of the Year, and was named captain of the indoor and outdoor track teams.

But running track meant more to me than individual recognition. We had such a small team. I felt that if we had more school spirit from other peers, we could have evened it out with the other teams. Individually, we were great, but as a team, not good enough. I found myself working three times harder and I tried to make sure everyone else on the team contributed an extra piece of effort.

Such single-mindedness does not come without a price. My parents and my friends began observing I no longer had enough time to be with them. I didn’t go to my junior prom—I was still in training. Grades had never been a problem for me before. All it ever took me was a little of my concentration and the results were like magic; I would instantly see how much I’d improved with the effort I invested. I’m not boasting when I say I’ve always been a smart kid, just stating a fact. So I never expected that my GPA would ever be of any concern to me. I guess when you put your all into one thing, it’s hard to keep the bigger picture in perspective.

When you set such high standards for yourself, it’s not easy to just let go of a position that you’ve worked so hard to earn. It’s really hard to say, “I’m not running track my senior year.”

I don’t see any other way though. Having bad grades will get you nowhere. I know I have to work hard to maintain my GPA. Without an education you can’t move ahead with your life and make something of yourself, especially if you’re a Latin girl in a foreign country. Especially if it’s your goal to be the first member of your family to go to college. It’s my goal as well to make my parents so proud of me that they just want to cry, just as it’s my goal to have my sister look up to me and follow my good steps, not my bad.

Above all, it’s my goal to restore my GPA by midterms. Achieving, then balancing, academic excellence with athletics means more than all the individual trophies and medals in the world. To me, it’s the true definition of what it means to be a leader.

On a rainy day last week I caught a trace of something in the air that for a brief instant reminded me of camp. It could have been the squeak of soggy sneakers traversing a bare floor or the sight of hooded yellow slickers. Then I looked again and there was no mistaking where I really was: in the Student Center of my high school.

What is it about this square acre of space that always gives me pause? Is it the way the pneumatic door hisses shut to keep the clamor here from disrupting Calculus and Honors French? Is it the compartmentalized grouping of the tables: jocks and cheerleaders epoxied over here, movers and shakers over there, the arty set here, international students over there? To a casual observer, the Student Center seems to be a tableau of division. But because of the five years I spent at summer camp, I know that these students have more in common than they realize.

•

We had been hiking for three hours. A layer of sweat and dirt covered our bodies but did not manage to hide our smiles of achievement as we reached the top. The breathtaking view and the cool breeze were our rewards at the summit of Mt. Greylock. That afternoon, we had all the time we wanted. Instead of going to the rest stop center, the eight girls in my bunk and I chose a pristine patch of towering grass off to the side and sank into the green, forming a tight circle. Then we each took turns sharing why each of us was special. At first, I was unsure how I would go about this. I knew everyone in the circle was unique, but I didn’t know how I would find the words to do each person justice. Then my heart began compiling a long list. To my surprise, everyone else’s list was just as long. Carly thanked Molly for leaving a special note on her cubby on a discouraging day. Ali thanked Amanda for taking hold of her hand during their walk to the pool because she was feeling homesick.

•

The afternoon had an enormous impact on me. Our differences did not divide us. Instead they did the opposite. Our differences complemented each other and forever bonded us as friends. The essence of the afternoon remained in my soul so vividly I was certain camp was the only place on earth I could ever hope to recapture it.

This past summer, eight years later, I spontaneously paid my camp a visit—just an afternoon—to see if this place at which I’d spent five summers of my life really was as wondrous as I remembered. Yes, the tennis courts, the theater, the art center, and the bunks were just the same. Even my Tevas made the same crunchy sounds on the pine needles as I followed the familiar trail. What shocked me was the dining hall. It was not solely the small size of the cozy room. It was the inclusive way that the tables were aligned to welcome campers—without barriers or empty space. The space was the total opposite of the Student Center at Greenwich High School.

As I went outside, the creaking door of the dining hall slamming shut behind me made its solid friendly thud. There before me on the field, I saw campers playing basketball and soccer; girls with friendship bracelets walking arm in arm. Camp was still the same. I still felt the same. And yet what I saw before me was not the idealized frozen moment I had attained atop Mt. Greylock. New campers were here now; others would come to take their place in the future. As I looked at their unfamiliar faces I began to cry, although I was not sad. I only realized that what I had been seeking in the circle on the mountain was already part of me.

Someone drops a tray a few feet away from where I sit in the Student Center, shattering my reverie. I gather up my books, take a last sip of my Snapple, and head to class, musing how it might be if more of the movers and shakers, jocks and cheerleaders seated here and over there, also had a memory of camp on which to draw.

I’m sitting in the car waiting for my cousin when this guy in a suit comes up and drops a small paperback book in my lap through the half open window. I’m all set to chuck it back at him, when I read the writing stamped in gold on the orange vinyl cover: The New Testament. Great, I think, now I have to keep it; it’s a religious item.

It occurred to me I’d never really taken a good look inside a Bible.

The Gideons’ introduction definitely caught my attention: distributed to every hotel, motel, hospital, penal institution, barracks, school, and public health nurse in 170 countries? Translated into over 1100 languages, including Tamil, Swahili, and Sinhalese? Then came the “user friendly” concordance of specific topics to which I might turn if the need arose. I flipped right to “Lust.”

Much to my distress, I found out looking at women—even thinking about them—is a sin! To stop myself from committing this sin, I would have to cut out off my hands, and if that didn’t work, the Bible has an even better solution: cut out my eyes so I can’t see any women. The Bible has stern guidelines! The little orange book also had some unsettling words—in Revelations—about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: War, Conquest, Famine, Death and Judgment Day. The Bible mentioned how only the good would be saved and the sinner would be punished.

The sea gave up the dead who were in it, and Death and Hades delivered up the dead who were in them and they were judged, each one according to his works. And Death and Hades were cast into the lake of fire…And anyone not found written in the
Book of Life was cast into the lake of fire.
—Revelations 20:13-15

I’m definitely not one of the 144,000 selected as the warriors of Christ. My heart began to pound. The Millennium is right around the corner. I began to worry for my soul.

Fortunately, the Gideon concordance also provided a long list of annotated antidotes: “The Power of Prayer,” “Humility,” “Hope,” “Faith.” There was uplifting poetry in the Psalms, words of wisdom in Proverbs, and words for patching up a quarrel with my girlfriend. (“Judge not that ye be judged...”) Most relieving of all: under “Pure Thinking,” there even were words to combat the temptations of the flesh.

I’m as rational as the next person. Ergo, as a pre-pre-med student, I believe in the scientific method to determine truth. By every conceivable classification, the Bible qualifies as Great Literature, especially with language such as this:

For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time
of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land…
—Song of Solomon 2:11–12

I can also attest that the Bible stands second to none as a purveyor of highly persuasive rhetoric: the afternoon I first read the consequences of the sin of lust, I went to Confession for the first time in many months!

Maybe my receiving the small orange book was a sign, an admonition direct from God to mend my iniquitous ways before 12.31.99. Maybe not. However, for the first time I utterly comprehend—from Alpha to Omega—the power of the written word, and how the language in a book can inhabit a domain beyond all definition for those prepared to make a Leap of Faith.

“The key to success is to get up one more time than you have fallen.”

Every Wednesday and Sunday, I would visit my father’s grave and weigh his solemn legacy. When lymphoma cancer left him nothing of himself, he saw the world to come in me. “Promise me, Kit, you’ll do well in school, open every door and place others before you, live life for the very essence each and every moment has to offer.” Tears always came to my eyes when gazing at the inscription of his date of birth and of his death.

October 30th. 4:30pm.

Within the space of time that my mother’s first tear left her eye and hit the floor, my mind froze. I lost myself in an abyss of disbelief and denial, questioning the value of what was left of my own life. Previously, I had lost my favorite CD—and within an hour bought a new one. I once lost $200—and within a week earned it back. I lost my journal of poems—and within a month rewrote them. But now, I had lost my Papa and within infinity I could not replace the warmth of his presence. Over the next year, without a father to teach me and only a mother to love, I lacked the motivation to accept reality, and denial forced me to view life as a blur.

One year later, October 1998, I fell twenty-five feet, a freak accident, through a glass skylight. I felt no resistance as the glass gave way. Within that split second of my descent, time fell away as well, as I began to recollect upon what my denial had kept hidden.

“Kit, look inside the volcano,” my father smiled as our helicopter hovered over Maui’s Mount Haleakala at the end of the last vacation we spent together. Descending into the arid crater where life cannot exist, cancer was all that came to mind, for I already knew he did not have long to live. As the helicopter lifted over the rim of the volcano, the sight of the lush greenery encompassed by clear turquoise water represented the better place he would be entering when he died. Since his death I had not allowed myself to think of this happy time , but rather each morning I thought only about the days I had ahead without him.

BOOM!!! My hip smashed as I landed on the brick floor of the Mall. I could hear the murmuring of people in shock as they walked by. “Is he dead,” they said? I tried to gasp a second of breath, but adrenaline merely got me to my knees. At thirteen years old, I never thought I was going to die, but now ironically when I was feeling most complete, I knew my naive assumption had been wrong. Now, laying in the broken and shattered glass amid my healing and mended memories, I realized that this sure comprehension of the meaning of my own mortality was actually the antidote to appreciating what I still had. To my amazement, my lungs opened! Within those thirty-life suspending seconds, fate’s erratic course taught me the sacredness of my life.

I awoke the next morning in the Stamford Hospital to voices just outside of my room. ”Your son has broken almost half of his body; it will take a couple months until the bones heal.” My mom began to cry. But I had already began to smile. After a year of mourning, my blurred vision had cleared. I was no longer in denial and accepted my father’s departure into heaven, even as I also gave myself permission to live my own life to the very fullest. I knew the beauty of life did not leave with the death of my father, but rather remains, magnified, by the memories of him when he was here. Memories of my father and me have become my daily guide in appreciating, not the sorrow brought upon by his death, but the amount of love he left in his wake. Eleven days later, although with crutches, with the strength of success, I got up one more time after falling, knowing that my father’s true legacy resides in all I still must do.

Several times a month, I visit my father’s grave and tell him of my progress, in school, helping others, life in general. Although I will never understand why my father, so great a person, nor any other one of God’s gifts, should chance to be unwrapped so early, a smile always comes to my face when I gaze at the inscription on his tombstone. I no longer see the date of birth or date of death but rather the—hyphen—in between.

I got my dream car for Christmas, a 1996 Nissan 240SX. It is maroon, not the fastest car (yet), but it’s great looking. Known as a Silvia in Japan, it was only manufactured in this country between 1994–1998. My friend Greg, who lives across the street and shares my love of cars, first told me about it. Although its book value is $9000, he knew the owner would sell it to me for $5500, along with $3000 worth of wheels and tires. I just had to have it! I’d been delivering newspapers from the time I was eleven, and I already had over $1000 in the bank. To build my account, I started doing yardwork and took on a job in a specialty toy store. I wanted the car so badly I even sold my beloved dirtbike.
First, you have to understand the role cars and gadgets play in my family. My father, born in the age of the “muscle car,” has always been a major car enthusiast. We still sit down together on Saturday mornings and watch what we call the “line-up,”— one show after another featuring everything from classic cars to modern-day imports. My mother’s father, my Papuli, is legendary in our family for his refusal to read directions whenever he assembles anything, resulting in a few extra parts left solo on his workbench. He’s done that so often my family calls it “pulling a Papuli.” He showed me how to “build” stuff.

Knowing how much I wanted a car, on Christmas morning my parents presented me with a detailed five-page contract regulating its ownership —not telling me that the car I had worked so hard for was already in our garage. After my initial shock wore off, I shifted into a new state of being: the owner of a work in progress. I immediately began to compile a mental list of all the personalized modifications I wanted to make. Then I went back to work to pay for my car’s new stereo, shifter, body kit, underbody lights... The new exhaust system I was considering became a paradigm of the thin line between choosing a replacement part out of necessity, versus the desire to install the very best. After two weeks of research and a solid two months of working eight-hour days, I sprang for an HKS Hi-Power “cat-back” exhaust system—market value: $750, yet I tracked it down online for $460!

Then, in less time than it takes to shift from first to second gear, Greg and I were headed to New Jersey, where a friend offered us a garage-full of tools and ample room to install my newest acquisition. First we disconnected the hangers from the rubber bands…no problem. Then we tried to break the rusted bolts: two refused to budge despite all efforts: impact gun? Uh-uh …blowtorch? Not today! Five grueling hours, four sore arms, and three mangled drill bits later, it was time to improvise: bypassing the stubborn bolts altogether and creatively welding my shiny new muffler into place. In doing so, I found I’d pulled my first automotive “Papuli”: two bolts had been left behind.

From successfully wrestling with my car’s new exhaust system, I’ve discovered a lot about myself. I now know more about my disciplined work ethic, my meticulous attention to detail, my ability to negotiate the terms of a contract (thanks, Mom and Dad), and the true extent of my creative problem solving capabilities. I also know this set of skills will hold me in good stead for the challenges I undertake in college and the future.

Will my passion for cars survive? I don’t know. Maybe in five years, this particular hobby will end up getting left behind—in the true tradition of my Papuli—as I assemble new goals. Or, who knows? Maybe in ten years I’ll be able to afford two cars: one for pragmatic practicality and one for flat-out fun. I’ll possibly even own a franchise of exotic cars—as far as I’m concerned, the sky is the limit. What’s important now is that I have a car that’s proved to be within both my price range… and my dreams.

Across the tournament table, I could read it in the merciless eyes of my arch-nemesis: Ted’s two-card combination of “Nantuko Shade” and “Cabal Coffers” was going to absolutely eradicate me. “Two inactive ‘Roar of the Wurms,’” I could see him thinking as he peered into my Graveyard. “If this sucker plays them individually, I will eliminate them one at a time and put him in his place as usual.” He never anticipated my being able to play both power cards simultaneously—or the subtle changes that had taken place in my deck and in me, since our last demoralizing encounter.

On the surface, my rival clearly appeared to have the more advantageous position: he was beating me 20 to 10. I sat quietly, almost hiding behind the cards in my hand, trying to make him think that once again he had me. Little did he know that I held the “catalyst” to his undoing...

When it came to the game of Magic: The Gathering, for the past three years I’d known that Ted would do whatever it took to win. On numerous occasions I had actually seen him cheat when playing other people. His favorite tactics were to sneak extra cards when his opponent wasn’t looking or, more commonly, to tally scores in his favor. Those particular ploys had never worked with me, but I had experienced his thievery first hand in another form.

There had been that game a year ago, when the pot was designated to go only to the players who took first and second place. Ted had come in third, which meant he should have left with nothing. Instead of accepting the terms of his defeat, he had proceeded to lobby the inexperienced store employee who’d been drafted into refereeing, that there was, in fact, a third-place prize. Outraged, I’d tried to protest Ted’s blatant maneuver, but to no avail. That day he had succeeded in brazenly appropriating one-third of the pot to which I was 100% entitled and refused to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong.

In our most recent duel, once again I’d been in a superior position, and once again I thought I had him beaten—and yet again he found a way to gain the upper hand: “You’re the worst player ever! Are you s-u-r-e you want to make that move? the s-t-u-p-i-d-e-s-t move imaginable?” His attack took the game into another dimension: our competition was no longer about calculations and odds; it was now on a psychological level. What harm would it be to wait one more turn and observe what Ted would do next? I vacillated. And, incredibly, devastatingly, in that one turn, he had bought himself time to draw “Chainer’s Edict,” the one card that nullified the momentum I’d strategically been building up to the entire game. I had allowed myself to be shaken by the personal attack on my intellect, skill, and decision-making abilities, something that could not continue if I were to compete at the highest level. It had become apparent to me that something must change in my style of play to arm me against such unprincipled assaults. The most basic and concrete solution would be to change my deck. But how?

There are thousands of possible cards that can be used in an infinite number of combinations. Ted’s deck favored a style of play designed to win as fast and humiliatingly as possible. Clearly, I needed to reconfigure my deck to counteract that mode of play. In the past I would have chosen the biggest, nastiest card I had, a card like “Krosan Colossus” or “Gargantuan Gorilla,” but I could see such cards played too slowly. Now I found myself drawn to a most unlikely solution, “Catalyst Stone.” Now a catalyst by definition is an agent which triggers a reaction, but remains neutral itself. Not only was “Catalyst Stone” a card, I began to realize, that would strengthen my position every single time I used it, it would simultaneously place a burden on my opponents every single time they tried to mount what would have previously been a decimating attack.

It’s one thing when your friends go “Wow!” when you are blowing them away, which I began to do with regularity. But how would Ted, who hated losing to such an extreme degree, react? “

“...My ‘Chainer’s Edict’ incapacitated...!” I could see him thinking, his eyes turning from those of a predator to someone in retreat. “Any flashback card I try to play for the rest of this game or against him in the future...useless!” After the game, I tried to be a good sportsman and shake Ted’s hand but he refused, and continued to claim that he was still the best, but his words had permanently lost their capacity to intimidate me.

The game of Magic: The Gathering has turned into more than just a recreational sport for me, like playing soccer, track and basketball, which I also love. It has literally opened up my world and pointed me toward my vocation. It has given me the opportunity to travel to international weekend-long Pro Tour tournaments, such as the one I recently attended in Boston, where I matched my skills alongside some of the top players in the world. It has also offered me the chance to practice doing business: buying, selling, and trading cards at, above, and below market value. But more than that, it has taught me to trust my own instincts, and know I am capable of prevailing against all the Teds that from time to time I can expect to come across in life.