THE PIGEONS LISTEN TO US

CONVERSE
By: Roberto Amato

The pigeons listen to us converse.

We talk about things that are almost impossible:
the open-air theatre of Terpsichore
the sated man who is nonetheless a model of virtue
the trilogy of Parmenides (who was not a philosopher
but a Byzantine topographer).

Pigeons are highly intelligent notwithstanding their tiny heads

which wobble.
At a certain point they block our path
and start to question us subtly.
Yes
they’re right: Terpsichore had to do with dance
and the sated man didn’t actually have celestial revelations.
Parmenides divided the world into three slightly unequal parts.

(and it marked the beginning of disaster).

 Slow Dance
By: David L. Weatherford

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?

Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
You’d better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short,
The music won’t last.
Do you run through each day on the fly?
When you ask "How are you?"
Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores running
through your head?
You’d better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last.
Ever told your child, "We’ll do it tomorrow?"
And in your haste, not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time to call and say "Hi?"
You’d better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift…
Thrown away.
Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before your song is over.
 Sparrows
By: Gary Emmette Chandler

The Sparrows fly today, but this time it’s different; I’m not in the audience. This
time I’m standing with my brother’s troupe at the edge of Mexico City’s Olympic
Stadium, as the world watches and waits.
But I can’t jump. I can’t even move.
One by one, I watch as the others approach the edge and tumble off: Eli, Natasha,
Xien, Adam.
All I can think about is my brother, David: his body darting about in a flash of
green, perfect in every movement; then, after the car accident, his body crushed
and broken — unfamiliar as it lay on a cold table, in a cold room.
I was training as David’s understudy when he was killed. Even then, I couldn’t fly
like him — no one could.
Erin pauses at the edge and turns to me, smiling.
“You can do this, Jacob,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I know you
can — we all do.”
Then, arching a yellow neocite wing to the sky, she drops into the wind and
vanishes from sight.
In the distance, my brother’s face grins back at me from memorial posters held by
grieving fans — somewhere, by our parents.
It was supposed to be my brother standing here today — not me. And I just keep
thinking that I’ll crash into the safety net below; that I’ll fail.
What sort of Sparrow hesitates before the fall?
***
The first time I watched a troupe of Sparrows perform, it was at an abandoned
granite quarry in my hometown. I was twelve, and David was still alive.
Summer came early, shattering every temperature on record, and our parents
nearly kept us home, citing reports of heat stroke on the news.
“It’s just a silly air show, for god’s sake,” my mother said, exasperated.
But it was so much more than that to us. My brother and I shared a room, and
Sparrow action figures hung suspended from the ceiling, parallel to posters of
Alice Zheng — the first American Sparrow to become an Olympic champion.
We had grown up watching the miracle of human flight, but this was our first
chance to see it with our own eyes — not on the internet, or the television.
In compromise we arrived caked in sun block, armed with a liter of water each.
We waited in line, then squeezed into a spot on the sun-scorched aluminum
bleachers.
When the show began everything else seemed to vanish around us: the Sparrows
burst into the sky, diving and looping about the quarry in a pinwheel of color.
It looked effortless, the way they danced through the wind. One moment they
were soaring. The next they were hurtling back to the granite below, only to
extend their wings an inch above the ground, returning to the sky above the
quarry.
It was mesmerizing; after that, there would be no keeping us from the wind.
***
What we learned from our first flight test:
Homemade neocite is a poor substitute for the real thing; the space from the roof
to the ground is much further than you’d think; broken bones take months to
heal; a parent’s trust takes longer.
When my collarbone shattered after that first jump, I thought I’d never fly again.
David was four years older than me, and my parents blamed him for the accident.
“Grounded for life,” he said when he came to see me in the hospital. “Want to
trade places? Can’t be worse than the way Mom keeps looking at me. And Dad…”
I laughed and reached out to punch him in the shoulder, but there was a flash of
pain, and I cried out.
“Oh man,” he said, grimacing. “I really messed up, didn’t I? I just thought you’d
want the first go at the wings — honest. I thought they’d work.”
And I never doubted that — not for a moment.
***
I didn’t get the chance to try a real set until David came back from his first
semester at college.
“Do you miss it here?” I asked after he had settled into his old bed across the
room.
I lay there in the silence, watching one of the action figures turn slowly in the air.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he hopped out of bed and put a finger to his lips,
motioning for me to follow.
We crept outside to his pickup and drove for a long time without talking.
“I don’t miss it,” he said at last. “All the heat and dust. How nothing changes. But I
do kind of miss you.”
I smiled and watched the headlights bounce along the back roads.
We parked near the quarry and David hopped out, tugging a large bag behind
him. After a moment he tore it open and held a Sparrow’s uniform up against his
body.
“How did you get that?” I asked, gawking at it.
It looked like a bobsledder’s suit, except for the decorative plumage at the top,
and the long, flexile wings that extended from the arms. It was green, and it
reflected the moonlight like a lantern.
“Student loans,” David said with a shrug.
He stripped naked and began fitting himself in.
“Wait,” I said, panicking. “It’s dangerous.”
At that, David just laughed.
“Everything is dangerous, little brother. Besides, it’s easy. Just like walking in the
air.”
Grinning, he stepped off the edge of the quarry and let the wind take him in its
hands.
***
I look at the world below — at our troupe soaring through the sky — and think of
David.
Everything is dangerous.
David spent his life plunging through the air, but it was a car that ended it. Just
one careless moment on the road.
Closing my eyes, I picture him in the quarry, fearless, darting about like a small
green flame. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen — and all I ever wanted
to be.
“Just like walking in the air,” I whisper.
Then, lifting two green wings above my head, I take a breath and fall into the
wind.
Chemistry Experiment
By Bart Edelman

We listened intently to the professor,

Followed each one of her instructions,
Read through the textbook twice,
Wore lab coats and safety goggles,
Mixed the perfect chemical combinations
In the proper amount and order.
We thought we were a completely success.
And then the flash of light,
The loud, perplexing explosion,
The black rope of smoke,
Rising freely above our singed hair.
Someone in another lab down the hallway
Phoned the local fire department
Which arrived lickety-split
With the hazardous waste crew,
And they assessed the accident,
Deciding we were out of danger.
It was the talk of the campus,
For many weeks afterwords.
We, However, became so disillusioned
The we immediately dropped the course
And slowly retreated from each other.
The very idea we could have done
More damage than we actually did--
Blown ourselves up and the building
From the base of its foundation--
Shook us, like nothing had before.
And even now, years later,
When anyone still asks about you,
I get this sick feeling in my stomach
And wonder what really happened
To all the elementary matter.
 “The Ancestors”
By: Laurie Tom
Every Chinese family celebrates Ching Ming a little differently. Not everyone burns paper
money at the cemetery like they teach us at Multicultural Day at school.
My family has a barbeque at the beach where we sail paper ships out to sea. The Pacific Ocean
reaches from California to the coast of Canton, so our paper boats are how we let our ancestors
know we have not forgotten them. That’s what Dad told us.
This year Dad and my uncles let us kids put the boats in the water, having us wait until the tide
goes out so the little ships will be pulled out to sea. My kid brother Paul flails about in the water
as he tries to push his boat out faster than mine.
Grandpa is not here to complain. He is frail with bowed legs that barely carry his weight. The
bags under his eyes have started sagging into his cheeks and he is always muttering in the
Chinese my cousins and I barely understand.
Once Uncle Jim gets the firepit going, the aunts crack open the coolers and spread the food. At
sixteen I’m one of the older kids and have to help cook the chicken. My cousin Keith roasts a
fish he caught off the pier.
By the time the food is ready we can’t see our boats any longer, lost beyond the waves.
So I’m surprised when Paul trots back after dinner with a wet paper boat in his hands. It is his.
He’d colored it when he made it, so the ancestors would know it was from him.
“Did they not want it?” he asks.
Uncle Jim takes the boat, unfolds it, and we lean close to see what’s inside.
A gold ring.
“The hell?” I say.
But Uncle Jim has already closed the paper around the ring and he jogs over to Dad and the
uncles, calling to them in Chinese.
“There’re more boats,” my brother says.
He’s right. The waves have deposited three more.
We scoop them up and shake them apart. I find a gold chain and an earring; my brother
another ring.
“Bring them here!” shouts Dad, waving his arm.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Gifts from the ancestors.” He grins. “They haven’t responded in a long time, but I think they
know it’s been almost twenty years.”
“Is this some old custom you never told us about?” I picture the uncles slipping away and
packing little boats to wash up for us. But Paul’s boat had been his.
“You’ll see soon enough. Roast some marshmallows with your cousins. It will keep you warm
until Uncle Richard comes back with Grandpa.”
“I thought he didn’t like traveling anymore.”
“He’ll come to meet the ancestors.”
“This is weird,” I say to my brother.
But we roast marshmallows anyway. My cousin Dana is a college freshman and says this might
be some Buddhist thing. I don’t think so. I’ve never seen Grandpa pray to Buddha. He keeps an
idol in his home, but it looks like a weird fish.
Uncle Richard returns and opens the side door to his mini-van. “Grandpa is here, kids! Come say
‘good-bye!'”
Shouldn’t it be “Hello?”
Then something pale and squat slides through the door, covered loosely in a fraying bathrobe.
It is Grandpa. I know from the horrible bags beneath his eyes. His hair is gone, and his skin slick.
He waddles two steps and raises an emaciated hand to greet us. His fingers are webbed.
Paul whispers, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Grandpa is getting old and it’s time for him leave us,” says Uncle Richard. “He will go with the
ancestors.”
Go where? It is dark, and very late. There is no one on the beach but us.
The bathrobe slips from Grandpa’s shoulders revealing a boney torso and pale, oily skin. He can
no longer stand straight, his legs bent and protruding like a frog’s. In a gurgling voice he speaks
Chinese to his sons and their wives. My cousins, brother, and I huddle together.
“Something about letting us know,” says my cousin Heather. “They want to take us to the
water.”
I look to the surf, where waves have deposited another five boats on the shore. Shadows bob in
the darkness, just out of reach of the firepit’s light.
“Mom, what’s happening?” I ask, when she comes over to us.
“When your father’s line gets very old, the sea calls to them,” she says. “I know it’s a little scary,
but it’ll be all right. The ancestors are generous and they’ve allowed your dad and I to have a
good life.”
“Then one day Dad will go like this?”
“And you will too.” She gives me a kiss on the head. “But it’s all right. That won’t be for a long
time.”
The shapes drift closer, coming in with the tide. I see pitch-dark eyes, hear the slap of water
against webbed hands. I don’t want them any closer. I back away and bump into Dad.
“Come on,” he says. His hand closes around mine, inhumanly strong. “It’s time to meet the
ancestors.”
 The Road Not Taken
By: Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
 Young Adult Science Fiction in the Post-human Age
By: Jeffrey S. Kaplan
In “Is He Still Human? Are You?”: Young Adult Science Fiction in the Posthuman Age,”
researcher Elaine Ostry analyzes science fiction texts, written for young adults, which deal with
the tenets of our new biotechnology age: cloning, genetic engineering, prolongation of life, and
neuropharmacology. She discusses how texts—young adult literature concerned with
bioethics—use the possibility of biotechnology as metaphors for adolescence. Specifically,
these new engaging reads for young adults discuss in vivid and clarifying detail the ethics
implied in the study and practice of biotechnology—such as the creation of a super class of
human beings and the delicate crossing of the boundaries between human.

The once time honored “stuff of science fiction novels”—cloning, genetic engineering, etc.,—is
now the everyday realities of young people’s lives. Everything from artificially created limbs
to designer babies is very real for today’s adolescents, bringing into question the eternal
question, “what does it mean to be human?”
and animal, and that age-old fascination, human and machine. Ostry raises a number of
startling questions and propositions in regard to the promulgation of young adult literature
which examines in full glory the outlines of a new and ever stranger adult world and concludes
that most of these contemporary adolescent fictional texts place “nurture above nature” and
promote a safe and traditional vision of humanity. Still, danger lurks. As Ostry writes, the
potential of biotechnology to change human form is ever present in young adult literature that
recently has seen science fiction come to life. What their parents and grandparents had always
thought of as science fiction, says Ostry, are now realities or possible realities. The once time
honored “stuff of science fiction novels”— cloning, genetic engineering, etc.,— is now the
everyday realities of young people’s lives. Everything from artificially created limbs to designer
babies is very real for today’s adolescents, bringing into question the eternal question, “what
does it mean to be human?” After all, if biotechnology can change the human form and mind,
and machines can become a reasonable part of the human body, then the term post-human
body or “techno-body” is a distinct entity. And with the lines crossed between organic and
inorganic, Ostry asserts, the word “human” may never be more challenged, manipulated or
questioned. Clearly, scientific advances have changed the map of young adult literature. Young
people on a quest to define their identity, Ostry writes, have never become more soul-
searching and desperate. After all, if we as a society are altering our definition of what it means
to be human, we can only begin to understand the relevance of our desire to truly understand
ourselves in light of our newfound technology. Today, thanks to advances in DNA labeling, we
can determine much of a person before he or she is even born, or created by other means. And
most science fiction for young adults attempts to mediate the post-human age to young
audiences. What are the pros and cons of cloning? Of what value is the human versus the new,
“improved” human? And how can young people really know what it means to be fully alive if all
they know are people who have been genetically engineered? As Ostry insists, these are all
intriguing questions and all indicative of how much young adult literature has changed
dramatically in the last twenty years. The trope that all young adult literature has in common is
the search for identity. The dilemma, though, is that in our new posthuman age, young people
are often questioning not only their emotional identity, but also their biological identity or just
“what does it mean to be conventionally human?” As Ostry points out, in the Replica series by
Marilyn Kaye, the young protagonist Amy is assigned to write her autobiography in her high
school English class. Gradually, Amy begins to realize, though,
In the Replica series by Marilyn Kaye, the young protagonist Amy is assigned to write her
autobiography. . . . she sends off for a birth certificate and, to her surprise, finds that there is
no record of her birth. Moreover, her file at school is empty. Only the discovery of a baby
bracelet that reads “Amy #7” provides her with a clue about her odd birth: she is a clone.

how little she knows about herself and her family. With little help from absent parents, she
sends off for a birth certificate and, to her surprise, finds that there is no record of her birth.
Moreover, her file at school is empty. Only the discovery of a baby bracelet that reads “Amy #7”
provides her with a clue about her odd birth: she is a clone. Amy is stunned, and the
ramifications are many in her desperate search to find her true identity. Likewise, teenagers
Mike and Angel team up in Nicole Luiken’s Violet Eyes to figure out why they have so much in
common. To their horror, they discover that what they think to be true is not. They are living in
the year 2098, not 1987 as they suspect. Moreover, they are a new subspecies of human, Homo
sapiens renascentia, thanks to the injection of “Renaissance” genes that make them
exceptional. Other examples of young adults finding their true identities in a post-human age
abound in young adult literature. As Ostry indicates, in Neal Shusterman’s The Dark Side of
Nowhere, Jason’s father tells him that they are actually aliens who have taken over the genetic
structure of previous inhabitants of the town. In the Regeneration series by L. J. Singleton,
young Allison, a genetically designed baby, blames her distant relationship with her parents on
her origins—she wonders was there something genetic in her clone DNA that made her
troubled and distant from her family and friends? Or, as her fellow experimentee Varina says,
am I a troubled kid because “I wasn’t the product of two loving parents, but the result of
experi-
If being human means feeling emotion, continues Ostry, then losing control over one’s
emotions or having them controlled for you, puts one’s humanity in direct confrontation with
the concept of human freedom.
mental science” (Regeneration, p. 140). And in Carol Matas’ Cloning Miranda, young Miranda
learns not only that she is a clone of a dead sister, but also her parents have had another clone
made so that she would always have perfect matches for her transplants. Understandably,
Miranda is angry with her parents for their implicit deceptiveness and does not forgive them
easily. To be sure, these stories are wild and fanciful in design, but they all, according to Ostry,
have one primary element in common; the young adults in these books feel estranged not just
from their parents and from the society that would likely shun them, but from themselves as
well. They feel that they are not real because they are clones—or otherwise, genetically
engineered. “To find out your that your life is a lie is one thing, but to find out that your own
face doesn’t even belong to you,” says Jason angrily in Shusterman’s The Dark Side of Nowhere,
is to realize that you are living a disguise, “down to every single cell of my counterfeit body”
(Shusterman, pg. 61). Fears about the new biotechnology generated world permeate new
young adult literature. As Ostry writes, the linkage between human being and machine is
always called into question. Inevitably, the question arises: Are we developing a race of super
humans? There is a striking example of genetics creating a class system of super humans in The
Last Book in the Universe by Rodman Philbrick. In this provocative read, the world is divided
into “normals” and “proovs” The proovs are genetically improved people, who live in Eden, the
only place where blue sky and green grass are found. The normals live in the Urbs, concrete
jungles of violence and poverty. The narrator, Spaz, is even less than a normal; as an epileptic,
he is a “Deef,” or defective. Philbrick’s work is the inevitable conflict that arises when two
human beings compete for superior status. In the end, no one wins. If being human means
feeling emotion, continues Ostry, then losing control over one’s emotions or having them
controlled for you, puts one’s humanity in direct confrontation with the concept of human
freedom. Books using neuropharmacology, as Ostry writes, exploit this idea. Upon reaching
puberty, the young adults in Lois Lowry’s The Giver must take a pill that suppresses sexual
desires. Jonas, the story’s protagonist, is uncomfortable with this ruling, and secretly stops
taking this pill. Suddenly, Jonas discovers that all emotions become heightened. Similarly, the
female leaders in Kathryn Lasky’s Star Split stop taking the substance that calms their emotions.
In Peter Dickinson’s Eva, a mother’s concern for her daughter’s happiness is answered by a
doctor’s order for a “microshot of endorphin” (Dickinson, p. 10), as if mere chemicals could
alter happiness. And in Philbrick’s The Last Book in the Universe, the human mind is completely
mediated by chemically induced sights and emotions. This new reality, Ostry insists, is
becoming more and more real to young adults as the world outside their classroom door
becomes more science fact than science fiction. And this new reality lends a new breadth and
depth to young adult literature that heretofore, has only existed in the realm of fantasy. Most
of the characters in these post-human science fiction books for young adults, writes Ostry, face
choices that determines the level of their humanity. The young protagonists display a
considerable energy and wit in their defense of humanity. They label themselves as human,
using the standards of morality set by the liberal humanist model. They recognize the humanity
of others, tolerating others’ weaknesses and rejecting the supremacy of the post-human body.
In these books, Ostry underscores, scientists are seen as fallible. In Marilyn Kaye’s Amy, young
Amy’s adoptive mother Nancy says that she thought that by engaging in scientific
experimentation with her daughter that she was doing something pure and noble and good.
Instead, they learned how dangerous playing with human life forms could really be. In Margaret
Peterson Haddix’s Turnabout, the unaging drug is supposed to be arrested by another drug at
the age desired, but, unfortunately, the first person to try this medical wonder pill crumbles
into dust. Only the young protagonists Melly and Anny Beth ultimately survive the experiment
as all others choose suicide or dwell in severe depression. Similarly, in
As Ostry finishes, although these post modern writers may push the envelope in young adult
literature in the subject matter and grotesque imagery, most of these writers play it very safe
by showing the post-human body as comfortingly familiar—something which may be as far
from the truth as can possibly be imagined.
Frank Bonham’s The Forever Formula the aged “gummies” or old people without teeth and wit,
suffer from malaise and beg to play “suicide bingo.” And the positive characters in Nancy
Farmer’s The House of Scorpion are disgusted by the old men who prolong their lives past the
age of 150 years by means of continual implants from clones. The message that these books
give to young readers, Ostry concludes, is a reassuring one: human values and human nature
will prevail no matter what changes the human body endures. These values are what
literature—and the adult world in general—attempt to inculcate in young people. Still, Ostry
insists, for the most part young adult writers are playing it safe because inevitably, the real
world is highly more complicated. The future of science and the body is much less certain, Ostry
asserts, than most young adult novels would have you believe. No one knows for sure what the
personality of a clone would be like. Free will itself may be a combination of genetic factors, yet
these possibilities, writes Ostry, are too complicated and radical for the typical writer for young
adults today. They stray from the perceived notion in young adult literature of the need to
provide a clear moral structure and a hopeful, if not happy, ending. For, as Ostry finishes,
although these post modern writers may push the envelope in young adult literature in the
subject matter and grotesque imagery, most of these writers play it very safe by showing the
posthuman body as comfortingly familiar—something which may be as far from the truth as
can possibly be imagined. This is the world Ostry dares to paint. Stretching the Boundaries and
Blurring the Lines of Young Adult Genre In “Stretching the Boundaries and Blurring the Lines
of Genre,” authors Lester Laminack and Barbara Bell focus on the confusion regarding the term
“genre” and attempt to define and stretch its boundaries. According to Laminack and Bell,
genre is typically defined as a way of organizing or categorizing literature, “a way to group
books with similar style, form, or content “ (Laminack and Bell, p. 248). Yet, in today’s
diversified and multicultural world of varied dimensions and rationalities, the lines, as said,
between and among genres often become blurred, calling for a re-examination of what is
meant by the young adult genre. In particular, Laminack and Bell point to the continued
popularity of memoir as a popular genre in books for children and adults. But, can it really be
called memoir? Memoir books, typically, tell of a specific moment or brief span of time in the
writer’s life. Many times, Laminack and Bell stress, these books are written in the first person,
and the matter recounts the events by reflecting on what has long passed. Stories written as
firstperson narratives, Laminack and Bell continue, can share these qualities, allowing them to
assume a “memoir-like” feel. And unless, as the authors note, the author of the memoir
specifically says that the book is a “memoir of real life events,” the reader may not be able to
determine whether or not the events actually occurred in the life of the writer. This confusing
dilemma manifests itself in a few recent works, most notably, Claire Ewart’s The Giant, Ann
Rinaldi’s Or Give Me Death: A Novel of Patrick Henry’s Family, and Maria Testa’s Almost
Forever. Each book illustrates how blurred the distinction between true-to-life memoir and
creative fictional license can become distinctly and unintentionally blurred. In Claire Ewart’s The
Giant, a young girl tells in a first-person narrative about the loss of her beloved mother. Though
she and her father have the farm chores to keep them busy, the young girl continues to look for
the “giants” that her mother told her daughter would always look after her. All through the
seasons, from planting to harvest, she searches for evidence of her giant—only to discover him
in the face of her father. Illustrated handsomely by the author, the reader is left with a vivid
portrait of an endearing loss and love, but still confused if the story is an account of her real life
loss or a beautiful fantasy of what might be. Again, is this poetry, narrative, memoir, or just a
lush and rich children’s bedtime story? Ann Rinaldi is known for historical fiction. This, in and of
itself, is a mixed bag—because the reader is left wondering—did this really happen, or is the
author inventing this for pure dramatic effect? In one of her latest works, Or Give Me Death: A
Novel of Patrick Henry’s Family, Rinaldi asks the central question, “when do you tell the truth
and when do you lie?” Do you lie to protect someone? Is it wrong to keep a secret, when, if you
tell, someone gets hurt? These profound and eternal questions are at the heart of this historical
novel about the family members of Revolutionary War hero, Patrick Henry, who must wrestle
with a host of family problems—each of whom must face a test in her young life as they
struggle to bring a new nation to the birthplace of freedom. With a mother prone to madness
and an absentee father, Patrick Henry’s family must cope with larger-thanlife questions as their
father faces the impending American revolutionary war and they must decide what actions they
should take in his absence and in his defense. Central to the novel is the potential strength of
the human spirit to conquer all odds. Yet, although this biography-like novel is actually
historical fiction, it is based on true information and reads like the biography of the family of
Patrick Henry. Clearly, this can only confuse the uninformed reader. Finally, Maria Testa’s
Almost Forever is beautifully written lyrical novel told from the six-year-old daughter’s
perspective. It is the moving story of one family’s experience when the father is sent to Vietnam
for a year during the Vietnam War. The young girl believes her father shouldn’t have gone to
war because he is a doctor and doctors don’t fight, they heal. She fears that her father will
simply disappear from her life, especially when the letters stop coming. Told in haunting poetic
language, the author evokes a mood that is both real and dreamy. The reader experiences the
emotions of the child, yet simultaneously, longs to know how much is the author’s life, how
much is written to evoke a mood, and how much is simply a well-constructed poem? Granted,
the effect is the same, but again, the work becomes difficult to classify. These examples, write
Laminack and Bell, are but a few of the many works designed for young adults where the
genres are blurred, the distinctions many, and the story painfully true—on many levels. And as
Laminack and Bell contend, in a day and age where young people are becoming more and more
sophisticated about the ways of the world, they increasingly need to know what is fiction and
what is fact. No longer content to accept the world as it is, young people hunger for readily
identifiable markers so they can explore and define their ever-changing and cyberreaching
universe. Truly, the lines are blurred as we enter the 21st century. Exploring Identity
Construction in Contemporary Young Adult Fiction Finally, in “Developing Students’ Critical
Litearcy: Exploring Identity Construction in Young Adult Fiction,” authors Thomas W. Bean and
Karen Moni challenge how young adult literature is traditionally read and taught in most
secondary classrooms. As Bean and Moni state, most adolescent readers view characters in
young adult novels as living and wrestling with real problems close to their own life experiences
as teenagers. At the center of all these themes are questions of character and identity and
values. They argue that an alternative way of looking at these novels, and perhaps, a more
engaging technique in a postmodern world, is an exploration through a critical literacy
framework. Bean and Moni argue that a critical stance in the classroom empowers students to
consider “what choices have been made in the creation of the text” (Janks and Ivanic, 1992, p.
316). Their argument is that, through discussion of such choices, young adults may also better
understand how they, as teenagers, are being constructed as adolescents in the
The apparent need to shape a different critical look at young adult literature, insist Bean and
Moni, is driven by, of all things, dramatic world changes. The world globalization of markets,
they underscore, has resulted in the challenging of long-established ideologies and values
related to the traditional ideals of work and family.
texts they are reading, and how such constructions compare with their own attempts to form
their identities. The apparent need to shape a different critical look at young adult literature,
insist Bean and Moni, is driven by, of all things, dramatic world changes. The world globalization
of markets, they underscore, has resulted in the challenging of long-established ideologies and
values related to the traditional ideals of work and family. In a world of constant movement
and flow, media images of advertising and commerce seep into our lives and strongly influence
identity development. Hence, young adult literature and our interpretation of it as a genre of
literary study have been profoundly altered as a result of this dramatic shift in world affairs.
Bean and Moni begin their intriguing look at the changing nature of critical theory and young
adult literature by first examining the many theories of identity development prevalent in
literary circles. Enlightened views of identity development, as Bean and Moni write, are based
on the somewhat fixed social structures and actions of class differences. The “enlightened
myth” of the rugged individualist struggling to get ahead in society has been the predominant
social and literary theory of the modern age. Bean and Moni, however, conclude that in recent
years, this rugged individualist stance has been challenged by a postmodern view, almost
Marxist in its orientation, that says that power is the driving force in shaping identity.
Furthermore, Bean and Moni argue, even this proposition has been somewhat challenged by
cultural theorists who argue that the quest for power has been successfully supplanted by
consumerism. “We now live in a world dominated by consumer, multinational or global
capitalism, and the older theoretical models that we relied on to critique established systems
no longer apply” (Mansfield, p. 163). Urban teens navigate through shopping malls, train
stations, airports, freeways, and the Internet. As Beam and Moni write, these fluid spaces are
disorienting, dehumanizing any fixed sense of place, and subsequently, this feeling of emptiness
and displacement spills over into adolescents’ interior worlds. Institutions like family, schools,
and communities are being replaced by malls, television, and cyberspace. Identity in these
contemporary worlds, writes Bean and Moni, is constructed through the consumption of goods
with selfhood vested in things. And because these worlds are ephemeral and ethereal, feelings
of panic and anxiety flow into teens’ lives. The question for Bean and Moni is that, given this
postmodern world of convenience and transience, how do young people find themselves? For if
traditional avenues of self-expression are no longer valid—home, school, church, etc.,—how do
young people find who they are if they live in seemingly rootless social world? In essence, write
Bean and Moni, youths no longer live life as a journey toward the future but as a condition.
Young people today live in two different worlds—the world of home and school and the world
of culture and commerce. Although in America this has been always been true, today, Bean and
Moni insist, this chasm between conformity and modernity is ever more present due to the
conflicting social arena in which most teenagers live. Bean and Moni focus in on life for the
urban Australian teenager in their discussion of the aimlessness of today’s youth, but their
observation can apply most anywhere. Young people face a world where unskilled laborers
rarely can find meaningful work. Instead, in a postmodern world where the stability of life as a
factory worker as experienced by their working class parents or life in a town where everybody
grows up and nobody leaves, has been replaced by a life of constant change and uncertainty.
Much of contemporary teenagers day, write Bean and Moni, is spent in “non-places,”— like the
mall and cyberspace. Moreover, assert Bean and Moni, the places in which teenagers dwell are
sanitized and kept free of the poor. Thus, for many young people, their displacement as
marginalized members of society is only aggravated by the increasingly complex and global
world of market-driven consumerism. This, as Bean and Moni insist, might seem miles away
from the world of young adult literature, but they conclude, its influence cannot be denied.
Literacy, they write, especially through multicultural young adult novels, provides a forum upon
which teenagers can build cosmopolitan worldviews and identities. In today’s times, teenagers
do everything on the run. Hence, this new dynamic—true, always present in the lives of young
adults since the end of the second World War, but now ever heightened by modern
technology—governs their lives. So, this new life-force of power shaped by social forces beyond
traditional boundaries, as Bean and Moni underscore, demands a new language to interpret
what students are reading, and more importantly, how they interpret what they read. The
language is embedded in a new dialogue for literary interpretation called Critical Discourse
Analysis (CDA). CDA asks the reader to look at the novel as a novel, and not just a work in which
to identify with the lead characters. In a new postmodern age, where cyberspace is often more
important than “real” space, readers are asked to look at a novel in much the same way that a
contemporary teen would look at a computer—not as a living, breathing thing, but as a
machine with moving parts capable of transforming their temporary world into an ever-
engaging ethereal world. The novel becomes, thus, a vehicle for transformative change, and not
just a search for identity. True, there is nothing dramatically new here. As Bean and Moni
assert, critical analysis of novels has long been a staple of literary critics. Yet, what makes
Critical Discourse Analysis so vital to today’s young adults is that the context in which they live
their lives—electronically, globally, and instantly—makes this an even more imperative
approach to understanding who they are in their search for personal and spiritual identity.
Asking questions about the novel itself—where does the novel come from? What social
function does the novel serve? How does the adult author construct the world of adolescence
in the novel? Who is the ideal reader of the novel? Who gets to speak and have a voice in this
novel—and who doesn’t? How else might these characters’ stories be told? And these
characters inhabit certain places and spaces where they construct their identities. What
alternative places and spaces could be sites for constructing identity? These intriguing
questions are different from the standard fare of asking students if they identify with the
characters in the story and why. They presuppose that students are sophisticated enough to
look at a novel as an object in a given time and place, filled with all settings and vagaries of the
particular time frame in which the novel occurs. They also assume that young people can
examine a work of art as both a thing of feeling and a thing of context. To be sure, this is no
easy task, but as Bean and Moni assert, in today’s contemporary world of ever changing
dynamics and global constructs, of technological marvels and instantaneous gratification, and
of changing lifestyles and alternative world views, perhaps, it is time that the young adult novel
be analyzed in a new light. Perhaps, young people can see art for what it is—a reflection of the
times in which we live.
Conclusion
These three articles all have something in common. They underscore that the outside world in
which young people spend most of their waking hours is different from the world inhabited by
most protagonists in young adult novels. Yes, the dilemmas, as these researchers insist, are the
same, but the dynamics of their own lives— the lives of the teenagers who are reading these
good works—have dramatically changed. Today’s young people are the generation who live
truly in a new and alternative universe. Technology has made it possible for them to
communicate with people around the world in the blink of an eye, and to gratify their every
wish— from musical taste to hidden desire—with the flick of a switch or the move of a mouse.
This new normal, the world of cyberspace and cloning, of blurred genres and conventions, and
of critical discourse and contextual analysis, is what drives young adult literature in a new and
specialized arena of complex thought and ideas. What this portends is that the young adult
novel is still growing and becoming, and that the teenage angst expressed so well in The
Catcher in the Rye, The Outsiders, The Pigman and The Chocolate War is still present, but just
manifested in a world these authors could never imagine. For imagine, if you will, would Holden
Caulfield have been a different person with a computer? I wonder.
 The God Who Loves You
By: Carl Dennis

It must be troubling for the god who loves you

To ponder how much happier you’d be today
Had you been able to glimpse your many futures.
It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings
Driving home from the office, content with your week—
Three fine houses sold to deserving families—
Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened
Had you gone to your second choice for college,
Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted
Whose ardent opinions on painting and music
Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.
A life thirty points above the life you’re living
On any scale of satisfaction. And every point
A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.
You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you
Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments
So she can save her empathy for the children.
And would you want this god to compare your wife
With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?
It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation
You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight
Than the conversation you’re used to.
And think how this loving god would feel
Knowing that the man next in line for your wife
Would have pleased her more than you ever will
Even on your best days, when you really try.
Can you sleep at night believing a god like that
Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives
You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is
And what could have been will remain alive for him
 Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill
Running out in the snow for the morning paper,
Losing eleven years that the god who loves you
Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene
Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him
No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend
No closer than the actual friend you made at college,
The one you haven’t written in months. Sit down tonight
And write him about the life you can talk about
With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed,
Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.
 The Phone: A One-Act Play
by Irene Lau Oi-Yan
For those who miss the little things in life
And those who talk as if they haven’t

Setting: Two public telephone booths stand alongside Nathan Road, one of the busiest roads in
Hong Kong. On one of the booths is a sign saying ‘Out of Order’.
Lights on. The booths are unoccupied. A Filipino MAID enters with a plastic bag of coins. She
wears a sweater and an ankle-long dress of dark colours. She approaches the booth, places the
little plastic bag on top of the telephone and starts her long-distance call.
MAID
Maligayang…
She continues her chitchat in Tagalog when HUSBAND enters and queues up after her. He
frowns as he sees MAID talking non-stop adding coins one by one. He checks his pager again
and stamps his feet in impatience.He strolls to and fro between the kiosks and stares at the
out-of-order sign on the other telephone booth. He tries that phone, and soon puts down the
handset roughly. After some time, MAID leaves. HUSBAND hurries to make the phone call.
HUSBAND
Yes, Ling, it’s me. Oh, what’s the matter? You left an urgent message… Oh, I’m on my way back!
I had a meeting – you knew about it already. What? Where am I? I’m in the street!… Why late?
Oh one of those Filipinos was making a damn long distance call . . . (raising his voice) Cheating
you! My god… oh my god… certainly not. . . (he pauses for several seconds) Don’t holler like
that!
GIRLFRIEND and BOYFRIEND enter, walking hand in hand. They wait behind HUSBAND for the
phone. They whisper to each other.
HUSBAND
I say – I’m not… Hey, don’t roar at me again! I told you – I’m not hiding anything! (he notices
the couple queueing behind him and lowers his voice) Don’t have such an imagination! I say . .
. (he pauses for a few seconds) We’ll talk when I’m back, all right? . . . What do you want?
Somebody’s waiting for the phone… Okay, okay… be back in half an hour, alright?
HUSBAND hangs up the phone, sighs deeply and leaves. BOYFRIEND smiles at GIRLFRIEND
BOYFRIEND
Hope you don’t do that to me after we’re married.
GIRLFRIEND (punching his arm)
What idiot would promise to be your wife? Shhh, keep your voice down. (she dials a number).
Well Mom, yes… I’m leaving school now . . . yes . . . coming back. Where am I? Hm… Hennessy
Road. Yes, I’m in Causeway Bay…about to take the MTR. Yes, of course I’m alone.
BOYFRIEND (laughs secretly and speaks softly)
Ha! You liar . . .
GIRLFRIEND (puts her hand across his mouth and shakes her head)
Alright, I’ll be quick, right . .. I’ll be careful . . . yes . . . bye Mom. (she hangs up and turns to
BOYFRIEND) I told you to shut up. What if my mom heard your voice!
BOYFRIEND (jokingly)
Ha! How could she? I can’t even hear what I’m saying!
GIRLFRIEND (angrily)
You – are – just- making – excuses!!
She turns and leaves.
BOYFRIEND (chases after her)
Oh, wait a second, darling…
BOYFRIEND leaves at the same time that HOUSEWIFE and MAN enter from separate directions.
MAN bumps into BOYFRIEND, who gives him an angry look in return. HOUSEWIFE takes
advantage of the situation and rushes toward the public telephone.
HOUSEWIFE
Hi, Mrs Wong. You know how I managed to phone you so quickly? . . . No, no . . . I didn’t jump
the queue… Ha, I can run faster than a man… ha, that’s right.
She glances back. MAN waits for her and gives and her and annoyed look. HOUSEWIFE turns
back, slowly.
HOUSEWIFE
Ha ha… that’s it. Ha… right. He’s stupid… Ah yes, the shop, right at the corner, remember? Yes,
the earrings and necklaces are on sale! Ask your husband to go with you . . . Ha, that’s true . . .
Then ask his money to go . . .
MAN clears his throat repeatedly
HOUSEWIFE
Oh… is it? I must try that… You’ll go with me, won’t you? How about tomorrow… yes, afternoon
tea. The usual restaurant. Today? That’s great… You bought the new currency? Ha, me too!
What’s the name? Europe New Union?. . . I can’t remember, either.
MAN makes louder sounds. The HOUSEWIFE looks at him with a victorious smile, and turns
again. She laughs into the phone
HOUSEWIFE
Your guess is correct! Absolutely. . . Oh . . . did you hear the “beep”? We’ve talked five minutes
already! Got to go. . . ha. . . yes. . . or I’ll be cut off, you know. . . okay, see you later.
HOUSEWIFE leaves. MAN lifts the phone, holds the receiver between his chin and shoulder and
then searches in his pocket for coins. He frowns and pulls out a small leather change purse and
searches inside it.
MAN
Oh shit! God damn it!
MAN kicks the kiosk hard. Another YOUNG MAN enters. He picks up the phone after MAN
leaves.
YOUNG MAN (in an annoyed tone)
You hung up the phone before I could finish! I know I’ve said something wrong, but you’ve got
to respect me! (he holds the phone away from his ear and listens for twenty seconds) Okay, I
know, I’m wrong again!… Yes I know… I shouldn’t have shouted… Jessie, come on. Please don’t
cry… okay? Please… I’ll come pick you up… No? Oh no… please… don’t be angry with me… I’m
sorry for that…
MAD MAN and GIRL enter one after the other. YOUNG MAN notices them waiting behind him
YOUNG MAN
There’s a lot of people waiting. I’ll pick you up then . . .(raising voice) What?… It’s not on
purpose! I’m not telling lies! There’re already two people queuing up . . . (lowering his
voice) Okay, okay. . . Jessie?. . . Jessie! Hello? . . . Are you there? Oh. . . Shit! (speaking to
himself) Hung up again!
YOUNG MAN leaves
MAD MAN enters the booth and presses the numbers without inserting any coins. GIRL watches
in disgust and steps back.
MAD MAN
Hello… Yes… This is Pizza Hut… No, it’s the Mongkok Police Station. Who are you?. . .(smiles to
himself) From heaven? You’re in heaven? Have you seen my wife and children? They’ve all gone
to heaven! No… no? (laughs bitterly) They’re all nice and kind.. . . They should be in heaven,
unlike me . . . (he pauses a while)I’d only go to hell . . . that’s why they jumped. . .
(GIRL looks scared, her eyes wide open. MAD MAN is murmuring too quietly to hear)
MAD MAN (shouts suddenly)
Oh!! I won’t talk to you! You’re cheating me!
MAD MAN drops the phone and runs away. GIRL watches MAD MAN leave. She picks up the
phone and examines it for a few seconds.
GIRL (speaking softly)
Hello! Jimmy? Oh. . . I’m in Tsim Sha Tsui, yes, Nathan Road… Oh, you know what – I just saw
met a cuckoo… you know, that kind of man… He’s really insane… He was talking on the phone. .
. yes, before me. . . with nobody! He looks like a beggar. . . yes of course, and smells. I’m so. . .
frightened. . . Yes, I know. . . I know you’re here. . . “there’s nothing I fear”. . .(she sings a few
lines of “My heart will go on”, theme song of the movie Titanic)
Two boys enter, separately. They are followed by a family of three: DADDY, MOMMY and SON
GIRL
Oh honey. . . I miss you too. . . What’re you doing? Oh, writing poems! You great writer! . . .
That’s for me? Oh. . . no, I wouldn’t believe it . . . What did you have for lunch? . . . Basically
nothing? Oh . . . How could you. . . ? I’ll look after you next time . . . (She blows a kiss)
I miss you darling. I’ll phone you soon . . . as I come home, okay? . . . Bye.
GIRL leaves, humming the song she has just sung.
BOY1 (watching GIRL)
Oh, what a bitch! (he picks up the phone) Mom, yes, it’s Ming. I’m not coming home for supper.
Yes. . . I’ll be late. . . Yes. . . no. . . no. . . yes. . . Bye!
BOY1 hangs up the phone and leaves. BOY2 picks up the phone.
BOY2
Hello John. Yes, Samuel. I need the past paper of Economics. . . which year? What do you have?.
. . hm. . . 95-96 please. Yes, only the MC part. Could you photocopy it for me? Thanks!… Oh?
Chemistry?… Yes. . . I have that. . . but the answer is at home. Yes, I’m at Nathan Road
something. (he nods) Alright, I’ll phone you at home. You try it first, it’s tricky. . . and yes, cool.
BOY2 hangs up the phone. DADDY picks its it up.
DADDY (inserting the coin)
Mommy, what’s the number?
MOMMY (grins)
You always forgot. . . 23423411.
DADDY
Hi, it’s Herbert, Father. We’re coming for dinner. Yes… No problem, your favourite beer, right?
Fine, I’ll get it… Jane? She’s here… of course she’s here.
DADDY gives MOMMY the phone
MOMMY
What’s that, dad? Yes, we’ll come back early. . . Oh. . . don’t tell me to buy or bring you
anything – tell Herbert. . . Ha. . . I’m not spoiled. I used to be like that!. . . Talk to Billy? We’re in
the street. . . you’re stirring things up. . . Alright, okay. . .
MOMMY passes the receiver to SON, about three. And she uses her eyes to indicate that
DADDY should insert another coin
SON
Grandad! Yea. . . Bill . . . Billy. Billy learns a song, shall I sing to you?
SON sings ‘Row, row, row your boat’, but the words are difficult to recognize. MOMMY takes
back the phone.
MOMMY
Alright Dad, we’ll talk when we get there. Bye.
The three leave and YOUNG MAN enters.
YOUNG MAN
Oh Jessie, don’t hang up on me again this time. Listen to me first . . . I apologize. . . But it’s really
very hard to find a phone here. . . I will.. . . May I pick you up somewhere?. . . Oh please don’t . .
. oh. . . no. . .(raising voice)I’ve done all I can! What else do you want? (silence for several
seconds). . . Hello? Hello? Jessie? (He throws down the reciever and leaves)
The two telephone booths stand still on the stage. The receiver of the phone that is not out of
order swings. It soon stops and hangs motionless
VOICE (off stage)
Hello? Hello? What’re you talking about?.
~Irene Lau Oi-yan (Hong Kong)
 A Prayer From The Womb
Poem by Saju Abraham

Why did you tear me off you,

When you knew I’d die without you?
I promised you peaceful sleep,
But you wouldn't hear me.
You were in the midst of planning your future.
I promised I wouldn't pull at your gown,
Nor test my vocal cords when I'm hungry.
But still you didn't let me be.
I promised I would behave when your friends visit,
And when you're on the phone or in the kitchen.
But you still threw me out of your system.
Why mama, why? Am I so unagreeable?
I don't keep it against you mama.
I know that now you know.
A Letter from an Unborn Baby
Hi mom! How are you? I am doing just fine, thanks. Only a few days have gone by since I was
conceived and I am now growing in your tummy. To tell you the truth, I can’t explain how
happy I am to know that you are my mom. It also makes me proud to know that I was conceived
out of love. I’m sure I am going to be the happiest baby alive.

Mommy, a month has gone past and I have started to notice how my body is forming. I know I
am not much to look at now but just wait and see – I’ll make you so proud! Even though I am
feeling happy, I sense that something is wrong! You seem to be having strange thoughts that
leave me restless and worried; but I am sure everything is going to be okay! Don’t despair!

Two and a half months have gone by mom, I now have hands that I can use to play with. Oh, I
am so happy! Mommy, please tell me what’s wrong? Why are you crying so much lately? Why
do you and dad argue every time you meet up with one another? Don’t you guys want me
anymore? I’m going to do everything I can to make you want me…

Three months have now past mom, but you still seem to be so sad. I am not sure what is going
on… I am so confused. Today we went to see the doctor and he booked an appointment for you
tomorrow. I don’t understand why I am feeling so good and you aren’t mom!

Mommy, where are we going? What’s happening? Mommy, this is not normally the time that
you take your afternoon nap; don’t lie down. Besides, I am not tired! I still want to play! Uh!!!
What is this thing doing inside of my house?! Is it a new toy? Hey! It’s sucking up my house…

Please… don’t tug at me! No… don’t hit me! You’re hurting me! Can’t you see that I am still
small?! I can’t defend myself! Mommy!!! Stop them – that’s my hand!!! Mommy, my leg… they
are ripping it out!!! Defend me, mom!!! Help me, mom!!! Tell them to stop, I promise I’ll stop
kicking them if they do. How is it possible that someone can be doing this to me? Oh mommy, I
can’t go on anymore… h-he…lp me…

Seventeen years have gone by since you made that fateful decision. Now you still suffer over the
very thought of it. Please don’t cry… I know you’re still hurting but you are not alone. Mommy,
if you are still sad, you can visit Rachel’s Vineyard. They give you a chance to get away from all
the daily pressures of work and family, and let you focus on the hurt you’re feeling. They
provide a safe and comforting environment for you to find forgiveness and reconciliation. It is
a 3-day retreat and I know it will take a lot of work and courage to go through. But, mommy, I
know you can do it. When you are ready, just contact info@rachelsvineyard.sg. They will take
very good care of you.

Remember that I love you and I’ll be waiting for you with open arms.

Love you lots,

Your baby.