By Amber Boze
Teen Correspondent
Buckle up! It makes it harder for the aliens to suck you out of the car.
The problem with life is…
there’s no background music!
Life: sexually transmitted and always fatal.
By Kayla Lemar
Teen Editor
I sat up tonight and thought about it all: the past, the future, and how where I am now relates to it all.
Sound familiar? Every column I write anymore is about this. It’s the only thing left on my mind.
There’s a family friend that always says, “You can only give what you’ve got.” And all I’ve got is a monkey-barrel full of questions. It’s all I have to give, too.
I look up. Why’s the sky blue? I look down. Why’s the grass green? I look straight at the mirror. When did this happen to me? Who’s she?
I’ve never seen anything other than a child in the windowpane. And now the reflection’s different— older.
The other day my Mom moaned, “You look like an adult!” I had rolled my eyes. I don’t look like an adult. I look like a kid.
But I really don’t. I really don’t. Not anymore. I’m not a kid.
I wear straight-leg jeans. And my kicks are black with Teenager. Danger. written on them. But I’m not really a kid.
In fact, the only reason I even got those silly kicks was because I wasn’t intimidated by the word teenager like I used to be. I was growing out of teenager, growing into adult.
The word lost its power… that rebellious, self-assertive connotation. It lost it’s reality. Because I was becoming an adult. So I bought the silly kicks. And I love them. Even though they say teenager.
I don’t act like a kid. I don’t look like a kid. I don’t take kid strokes with my paintbrush. I don’t write kid sentences with my pen. I’m not a kid. And I’m pretty sure I don’t smell like one, either.
Actually, I’m pretty darn sure about it, because those kicks I was talking about… they’re pretty new. My smelly kid tennis shoes… I got rid of those a while back.
So what’s next? Where am I really going? Because I spent my whole childhood trying to get somewhere, and the last two years trying to avoid that somewhere, and now that somewhere is here. Adulthood.
Everyone’s got an opinion on it… where I should go, and what I should do next. When I tell them, I get that Man, you’re just a kid, you don’t know what you’re talking about look.
But man, I’ve prayed about it. And let me tell you, there’s no creative allowance in a statement of prayer. No, sir. When I say I’ve prayed, I mean I’ve prayed. And guess what? I know where I’m going.
I don’t.
But I do.
It’s weird. Hard to explain. Maybe I sense where I’m going. Who can really know when you’ve not been there, really?
<You going to El Dorado?> <Yeah.> <What’s it gonna be like?> <I don’t know man! I ain’t got there yet!>
But it’s still this: I’m the only one left deciding. And honestly, I’m not a kid anymore.
Kayla Lemar is a Senior at OHVA. She can be reached at teenadvocate@dailyadvocate.com.
By Sam Armstrong
Teen Advocate
The Man, the Musician
walks along,
carrying a
(Red Drum is strapped to his aching back)
and a Cymbal.
Rhythm, time;
marching knees.
Big brass buttons
and harmonies.
The Man, the Instigator,
walks along,
clashing his
(Cymbal, which is battered, but glad to be of use)
Accompanied by a drumroll.
Trumpets, metaphors;
feathered hats.
The beat is wrong
(but just forget that)
And the Musician
leads his monotonous life
through the tattered edges
of the Drum,
the Sticks,
and the Symbol.
The Beatles Slept Here
Presented by the Arcanum Drama Club
By Jackson Aukerman
Teen Copy Editor
Picture this. The Penny Lane Hotel with an owner named Sgt. Paprika who hates the Beatles; his scheming sister Clarabell who wants to tear the hotel down; the hotel auditor Eleanor who loves the Beatles and wants to know the secret behind the Sgt. Paprika’s hate; and a bunch of high school students working on a project for their sociology class.
The kids soon discover a secret that Sgt. Paprika wants to hide; the Beatles had
stayed at the Penny Lane Hotel. The Sgt.’s mood isn’t helped when a Beatles fan club books rooms at the hotel, and the fact that his sister is trying to get the hotel taken from him. Will Clarabell’s plan succeed, and what’s up with the art thief and his henchmen that are hiding stolen paintings in the hotel?
All of this and more will occur during the Arcanum High School Drama Club’s newest production, The Beatles Slept Here. The play opens on the 19th at 7p in the Arcanum High School Auditorium, and will be shown again on the 20th, same time, same place.
Admission is $3 for students, children under four and seniors free, and $5 for everyone else. If you like anything to do with the Beatles, or you just want to have a good laugh, The Beatles Slept Here is something you’ll want to see.
By Majennica Nealeigh
Assistant Teen Editor
Four years ago, my little bro started a KISS tribute band called KIDS. In those years of playing the drums for them I have heard stories from a lot of people that have a MAJOR misunderstanding about KISS. So I thought I’d clear it all up for everyone. –The members of the rock group KISS are NOT saints, by any means…however, they are one of the most misunderstood bands of all time!
A lot of popular rock bands have a “theme” that centers on evil, or cult worship. For example, upside down crosses on the album covers, song lyrics talking to or about the Devil, etc. Some of these bands actually believe in this stuff. KISS, however, has NOTHING to do with that kind of thing.
In the 1970s, a rumor started saying that the letters in the word KISS stood for “Knights In Satan’s Service.” A church group later admitted that they were making this up to get publicity. Unfortunately, many people,(who don’t know the true story) still believe it to this day.
When the KISS band members originally heard about it, they laughed and joked: “KISS actually means ‘Keep It Simple Stupid’. It’s advice not to take ourselves too seriously.”
In many interviews over the years, KISS has been asked about the “hidden meaning” behind their strange make-up and their stage show, which usually consists of fire breathing, blood spitting, guitar bashing, and drum levitating. KISS has always seemed surprised that anyone is looking for “hidden meanings.” In fact, they say, “We’re stupid. We don’t pretend to be able to tell anyone about things like religion or politics. We’re just rockers. We want to put on a rock show like you’ve never seen before and have a great time doing it. That’s it. We don’t want to tell you what to believe or how to live your life. We just want you to get your money’s worth when you come to our show.”
Many skeptics point to Gene Simmons, the band’s blood spitting bass player, and say that he is proof that the band is demonic in nature. Actually, the bat wings in his make-up design was meant to represent his favorite super hero, Black Bolt. It was the fans that later came up with names for the KISS characters, and name him “The Demon”. All of the band’s make-up was based on their own individual interests. Paul Stanley wanted to be a famous star; Ace Frehley was into science fiction; Peter Criss grew up around the street gangs of New York and figured he must have had “nine lives” to survive it; and Gene Simmons was a comic book nut. Gene Simmons, by the way, does not drink or do drugs at all. Although he does not go around telling people what not to do, he makes it no secret that he has never been drunk, and will not have anything to do with drugs.
Any modern hard-core rock N roller will tell you that KISS is a “tame” group. Meaning that you won’t hear them using extremely foul language on stage or in their songs (even though nowadays it seems that bands think they can’t sell CDs unless they have a certain number of “F- words” on it), you won’t hear them singing put-downs about religion or politics, and their live audiences are made of generations of fans, from Grandpas to 4-5 year olds.
A lot of musical people state KISS as an influence. Look at any KISS Tribute CD and you’ll find musical artists from such genres as country, classical, jazz, Motown, pop, blues, and more. My dad was heavily influenced by KISS. He was very much into superheroes as a kid, and discovered KISS in the mid 70s. It was superheroes AND a rock band at the same time! He went on to play music in rock bands, country bands, jazz bands, college symphony orchestras, and choirs. He has written church cantatas, started kids church choirs, and played the piano in hundreds of church services. He started a private music studio here in Greenville and teaches musicians of all ages the joy of music in any genre. All this by somebody who listened to KISS as a child. So now you know the truth about KISS. It’s great to have an opinion on things, but it’s always best to do some research on it, like I’ve done. The members of KISS are not saints, and they’re not demonic, like people are sometimes led to believe, they’re just musicians that want to have fun!
By Amber Boze
Teen Correspondent
The sound of your heart is the most significant sound in my world.
Without you I’m only incomplete!
You be my dairy queen & I’ll be your burger king. You treat me right & I’ll do it your way.
Kayla Lemar
Teen Editor
We’re at El Camino, my family’s favorite restaurant. And here comes the new waiter to take drink orders. He’s very polite, with accented but sound English, and this other little thing that I can’t put my finger on.
By the time he’s delivered the drinks and taken meal orders I realize why he’s so funny. He understands the American art of…
Sarcasm.
A Mexican who understands sarcasm! The thought, for a moment, was invigorating.
My family has eaten at El Camino since it opened (before it moved from 49 to 36), and we’ve eaten at almost every other Mexican restaurant in the country by now, I’m sure. (El Camino is still the best.)
But in all my visits I’ve never heard a sarcastic Mexican, especially not a funny sarcastic Mexican. And so I’m thinking, I like this guy… a lot!
and I put him on the mental list of my all-time favorite waiters.
Of course this got me thinking… particularly about how our waiter perceived sarcasm. He obviously used it kindly. Is it obvious to all Mexicans, thought, that a lot of American don’t… use it kindly.
Some sarcasm is humorous and light-hearted, like the jokes made by my Mexican amigo. But then there’s that other type of sarcasm that’s rooted in bitterness. It comes out when you’re offended and either trying to laugh it off or hint to someone else that you’re steaming like fried bologna.
Sarcasm has always seemed to me like an innate part of the English language, or at least the American version of the English language.
Trying to remove it would be like trying to remove an allele from the human genome.
(I wish I knew how to speak Spanish so I could tell you whether sarcasm is a natural part of Mexican culture, too, but I can’t because I skipped out after my first year of Spanish to find a language without rolled r’s… like German.)
But for the sake of my idea, whether right or wrong, let’s assume that the Mexican waiter learned sarcasm from Americans. Or at least uses it because of Americans and not his own culture. To which I’d feel honored.
The Mexicans I know have left their lives to come and bleed in restaurants for a couple years in order to send money back to their families.
They are hard workers, usually happy to be here. And that makes me feel honored, honored that they would adopt American customs, adopt language… even sarcasm, because they like America.
But I had never thought about how my actions, my sarcasm, might make Mexicans perceive Americans. What kind of sarcasm did I want them hearing from me? Hearing from fellow classmates? Hearing from my community?
I started debating with myself. Sarcasm equals good? Sarcasm equals bad? And I started going through my list of Internet resources.
Oh, the fateful remark in the movie Becoming Jane! Jane Austen, played by Anne Hathoway, makes a witty (and sarcastic) comment to her lover’s uncle… an uncle who has control over his nephew’s future affairs, including marriage. The Uncle replies, “Sarcasm is falsehood with a smile.” And as Jane defends herself, you know that the fate of her and her lover is sealed: they will never marry, for the Uncle dislikes Jane Austen’s sarcasm.
Then there was that time I met some new friends at a conference, a family of five kids raised in an upright and conscious family. When I spin a sarcastic yarn they look at me like I just stepped off a flying turkey’s back. They are such honest people, sarcasm isn’t on the grid. Hmm…
Is sarcasm really falsehood with a smile?
And if it is, why would I want a Mexican amigo, someone I honor for their commitment to their family and someone I feel honored by because of their commitment to adopting American culture… to learn that art of falsehood from me? Why would I want to responsible for encouraging someone to lie… even elegantly?
Sarcasm is a puzzling thing, I’ve concluded. Is it all good? Certainly not! Is it all bad? I don’t think that either. Because my Mexican waiter was sarcastic, and it made me smile, it encouraged me, it made me feel that other cultures honored my culture in a way I seek to learn and honor their’s. He was not lying; he was joking.
So is sarcasm right or is it left?
Maybe it’s like a lot of things in life… sarcasm is neither good nor bad in itself. It is the spirit from which were are sarcastic that makes it one or the other.
Do we Americans want other cultures to adopt sarcasm, only to find out that we’re often making snide remarks in a two-faced way? Or do we want them to know the type of sarcasm that is playful jest and encouraging?
Because, as Americanized and sweet as our waiter was, I wouldn’t want anyone with a VISA learning how most Americans use sarcasm.
Kayla is a Senior at OHVA. This is her second column in a series on racial differences. She can be reached at
teenadvocate@dailyadvocate.com.
By Jackson Aukerman
Teen Copy Editor
Last issue: Thursday 4th
Classmates Jake, Josh, Jessie, Dana, and Dave are off to work on their community service project for Mrs. Wright’s Life Success class: ghost hunting. Sneaking in at night, the five work all the way through the school with their PKE meters, but not ghosts. Just as they’re about to give up… the menacing Mastermind appears, and he plans to escape at midnight and destroy the world…
Light erupted from the Mastermind’s claws, sending cascades of silvery blue lightning bolts through the hallway. Some of the bolts lingered, casting a silver glow on the terrible scene.
“Aren’t you quaking in fear?” the Mastermind chuckled. “Don’t you want to run and hide?”
Jake smiled slowly, “I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost!”
Jessie turned to look at him, “Please tell me you did not just quote Ghostbusters!”
Jake shrugged, “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”
“Silence!” the Mastermind roared and threw bright blue balls of fire at the five kids.
Dave ran and ducked beneath a table as the other four grabbed onto their proton packs.
“Ready?” Josh cried as they faced the Mastermind.
“1…2…3, blast him!” Jake cried and they all pulled the trigger.
Four bright blue beams shot out of the nozzles, all blasting the Mastermind in different places.
He fell back a little, but then threw the beams off of himself and came back full force.
The four scattered as the Mastermind threw bolts of electricity in their directions.
Josh tried to hit him with a proton stream from the side, but the demonic spirit simply raised his palm, lifting Josh off the ground and pulling his proton pack off of his back. The proton pack was flung into the left corner of the room as Josh was thrown to the right.
Dana and Jessie hit the Mastermind with two beams, but he raised his arms and threw those two back as well. Only Jake was left standing, and the Mastermind was in no hurry to end this fight.
“I must say child,” the Mastermind gloated as he slowly advanced, “you’ve given me more entertainment tonight than I’ve had in 300 years!”
He raised his arm once more and threw Jake into the left corner of the room. Jake stayed face down as his enemy approached.
“Trick or treat?” the Mastermind cackled as he hovered over Jake.
Suddenly Jake whirled around, holding both his and Josh’s proton packs in his hands. “Trick!”
He pulled both triggers and two powerful proton streams shot out, combining in mid-air and slamming the Mastermind right in his scaly forehead.
The Mastermind screamed as light poured from his mouth and nose. The noise built to an almost unbearable volume, but then the
Mastermind’s body exploded in a flash of light, leaving only fading screech and a memory of those terrible red eyes.
The five friends rose shakily to their feet, looking at each other in shock, barely able to believe the battle is over.
They walked to the center of the room as the lights flickered back on and still they were silent.
Finally Dana broke the silence with a small chuckle, “So, you think we’ll get extra credit for this?”
Jessie and Jake both glanced at each other, then turned to Dana and said simultaneously, “Doubtful.”
The five friends burst out laughing as they walked out the front doors and headed home, happy with what they had accomplished for the night.
They were so busy laughing and talking, they didn’t notice the black mist form around the doorway, with two glowing red eyes at its core.
Keep your eye out for more of The Ghost Hunters in future editions of the The Writes of Expression.
By Kelsi Meyer
Teen Advocate
Think you’ve got life figured out?
All the cracks are sealed,
All the fog is removed from shaded corners.
No question is left unanswered.
Places where when you smile you’re euphoric.
A place you don’t give up; you’re always tenacious.
Somewhere you can fall asleep without waking up screaming?
Well there’s always pain, always a crime. Never a smile unplanned, never an accident. No perfection, no sleeping.
Forever eye opening, forever falling apart. Aggravated rips, aggravated tears.
Saddened looks, and saddened fights.
You go outside in the rain to hide your tears and they freeze to ice.
You fall for the guy who falls for someone else. That’s nice.
You go running to escape your fears and end up tripping two steps back.
Sing away no one will hear, call out a name and see if they appear.
There’s not a place you can hide forever.
No escaping the unwanted misery can’t plan to ignite the pain.
No score when you make it right.
Stuck on replay without a stop button.
Replace dead batteries and start again. Be yourself.
By Kayla Lemar
Teen Editor
I was ten when I realized the world came in colors.
Of course there were a few African American, Indian, Asian, and Hispanic kids I knew in elementary school, but most of them were jocks or
emos, and I was in the book-worm crowd. I knew their names, but I didn’t really know them.
Besides, race never mattered in elementary school because we’d never heard of segregation or Jim Crow laws or whether or not there should
be men with rifles on the Mexican border. We were just kids.
Living in a predominantly white community, (from a white girl’s perspective) us kids didn’t really think about race. The color of someone’s skin
was like the color of someone’s eyes. It didn’t matter. I noticed it, but I didn’t notice it.
It made for a shocking experience the first time Daddy drove into Dayton. I was, suddenly, a minority.
I looked out my window and realized that the people in the car next to me were black— all five of them. That made three more than me and
Daddy.
I thought that between today and fifth grade, I had made it past all my racial discomforts. That was until we took a family vacation to Myrtle
Beach this winter and had Sunday Brunch at The House of Blues.
The Norwegians staying near us in the hotel hadn’t bothered me. The Austrians at the pool had a funny accent, but I thought that was cute.
The Mexicans in the Italian kitchen struck me as odd, but I like El Camino, so Mexicans must like Italian, too. The Indian family at Starbucks—
that was even slightly normal because we grew up with some Indian friends.
But put me in an entire room full of black people, making me and my white family the minority, and the temperature jumps four degrees. I
start sweating.
It was like the eyes of every black person in there— which was everyone except a couple of random waiters— was looking at us.
I was scared, like… I know we totally missed the sign that said “Private Black People Club, No Whites Allowed” on the door, Daddy, but I still
think we should leave.
It didn’t seem to bother Dad. Here’s this big ole’ guy parkin’ it in the middle of the aisle to inspect a piece of art, his bubbly wife chirping
about it as he takes his glasses off for a closer look, and his four squirming children behind him (me the worst).
I was shouting inside myself, Maybe we could sit down so we won’t be quite so OBVIOUS!
I kept singing, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight. Jesus
loves the little children of the world.”
That song meant something a little different to me in Sunday school where there wasn’t anyone of any other color around. I was the white
majority, so it meant, “Love the other little kids no matter what they look like.” But in the white minority, it was something like, “Please don’t
hurt me. Jesus loves me, too.”
It was in those cramped quarters, where ‘whiteness’ was rather obvious, that I finally figured it out: there are colors.
Martin Luther King didn’t march on Washington, plowing through Civil Rights issues, so that blacks had the right to be white, or that whites
would have the right to be black. It was so that everyone, no matter what race you were, had the right to be proud it.
It took me the first thirty minutes of the three hours I spent at The House of Blues to overcome the jitters.
Once I did, I discovered that I could beat-bop around with the rest of the choir-singing Mamas in there. And I did, as the Gospel group
played.
I calmed down enough to appreciate all the pieces of African American culture, too— drawings, paintings, sculptures— that were mounted on
the walls. I even studied them, circling around the room to analyze technique, while I had them at hand.
Being faced with minority status, it took me a while to discover that it was okay to be who I was, even in a room full of blacks. Because I knew
in my heart and I knew in my head that it was just color, that it wasn’t that I had ever seen anyone as inferior, but that I was scared of being
inferior myself.
But when I was able to put my own inferiority on the shelf, and look at who they were and who I was side by side, I figured out that everything
was really okay.
“Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world…”
Kayla is a Senior at OHVA. This is her first in a series of columns on racial understanding. She can be reached at
teenadvocate@dailyadvocate.com.
