After a long silence, we’re so excited to share with you our fall/winter edition of The Raven! This year we’ve created a magazine offered both digitally and in print. Flip through below!
Come back soon to browse the website for exclusive content, including interviews and personal essays from BAL’s non-fiction writers. We’ll be sharing a series of new work in the next few weeks.
Bronx Academy of Letters is kicking off another great year in writing! This semester we’ve got two Non-Fiction elective classes busting their bums to create some magic on the page. While our newspaper staff is still assembling, in the meantime, meet some of the writers you’ll be hearing from!
Bronx Academy of Letters Non-Fiction Writers Profiles!
RYAN J. GARY
Bio: I guess I’m just a regular kid. It’s rare when I’m not hungry because for some reason my body sweats a lot of calories out. My father is Black and my mom is Puerto Rican.
What is the story of your name?
My name is commonly used in Ireland but is also quite known here. It means “Little King.” My parents chose the name Ryan because it was hard to find a name that matches with my last name. Also my sister actually chose my middle name and she got it from retired pro basketball player, Michael Jordan.
What is your earliest memory?
My earliest memory isn’t the best but more traumatic. I was four years old at the time and eating an orange in my house. Next thing I know, I’m choking on one of the seeds and start running to the toilet to vomit.
What do you love to do for fun?
What I love to do for fun is play sports or play video games. Sports are just the best and I loved to play them since I was a little kid. Video Games are also amazing too because you get to do whatever you want in them, like in Grand Theft Auto, it’s your own world to control or be apart of.
Do you believe in love at first sight?
I would have to say yes because I believe that love at first sight can be real. Whether it’s a lot or a little is totally up to the person. Just like when I was in kindergarten and got my first dogs. It was love at first sight.
What are you dying to try?
What I’m dying to try is to go to a gun range. Hopefully when I turn fifteen, I’ll go just like my cousin. Something that I will never do is go skydiving. With my luck, I’ll probably have a parachute malfunction.
By Shania Russell
It wasn’t the brightest of days, so it had quite an unhappy feeling accompanying it. It was one of those slow, sunday afternoons – the kind where everyone seemed like they were in the same dreary haze of tiredness, not wanting to think about the week to come. It was the kind of somber day that stopped even the most devoted Christians from going to church, simply because of how tired they felt. Nobody could escape gloominess on a day like this, and yet everyone in the middle car of the two train making it’s way deeper into the Bronx was wide awake that afternoon. Each and every person sat up, alert when the man in the dark coat pulled a gun from his pocket.
by Stephanie Uraga
The wind whistle stopped, as well as the cricket’s chirps. It has sent a sudden chill up her spine, as she was knocked out of her daydreaming. The taste of something metallic began to spread in her mouth, realizing she just bit her tongue. She did not know what to do at first. It was just supposed to be a scary story that her mother used to tell when she walked out of the house. “Hija ten cuidado, no te vaya agarrar,” be careful, daughter, don’t let it catch you, her mom warned as Cristina mocked her voice. But now it was actually happening. She was expecting to see her father walking up the dirt road with a stern but welcoming smile. He, too, had warned her about being in the night alone. It was not her first time out, but it might be her last.
by Amera Attalah
Street harassment is large problem that make woman feel helpless and weak. This is true because men are seen as more dominant, which most woman see as taking away their equality. Street harassment may seem like a compliment for men, but it is a proven system that oppresses women. This can be even more dangerous in countries other than the United States — often law enforcement doesn’t take the issue so seriously. For example, picture Fakeda Allen, a nineteen year old alone and defenseless in the Tel Aviv airport. She has that typical teenager look. Black tee-shirt, faded jeans and worn out Converse shoes. Fakeda was coming from America, waiting for her husband to pick her up.
by Christian Lee Rivera
Walking down the crowded streets in the Bronx, Uca suddenly stops. She gets blinded by sunlight, and the people next to her continue to interrupt her conversation on her daughter’s success in work. Through the phone, her daughter asks if she can babysit her child. She can barely hear her over the teens shouting and yelling about high school drama. Uca starts to feel an unpleasant pain in her head. She is slowly walking her way to the bus stop. She tells her daughter that she will call her later. Uca suddenly collapses to the floor and does not respond. She hits her head to the floor and not even a scream from her voice occurs. Uca floats in the middle of two worlds, life or death.
By Olivia Glover
One thing about women in media is that they magically disappear around age forty. Apparently, women are not supposed to age, and therefore the media tells older women that they still need to look young. This is a double standard: while men can age in media, women cannot. When older women are portrayed, they are usually negative stereotypes. Basically, our society does not respect older women anymore — we tell them, “Your wrinkles look ugly! You should go fix them with this product!” or, “Those roots are visible!? NOT going to happen.” And the everlasting favorite, “Is removing dead skin on your feet hard? Well not anymore!” This has also affected younger women due to the media’s claim that aging is the absolute worst thing. Maybe this is why Grandma cares about her beauty so much.
by Yarelys Encarnacion
Jose Perez, a hardworking man and loving father, walked through the streets of the Dominican Republic one typical Sunday morning in 1988. The sun was beaming, the wind was traveling, the sidewalk cracked because of the uneven payment. He dreamed of walking down the streets of New York, of immigrating to the United States, leaving his abusive sister behind and opening the window of opportunity. Eighty-eight years old, Jose was a tall, dark-skinned man with pimples on his face. Glasses covered his dark brown eyes. The sun warmed his cheeks. This is how I imagined my great grandfather before the wheelchair.
by Salimata Cherif
Malick is a tall, boney, wide-eyed man in his early thirties with honey brown skin. He wears a tiger striped cloth vest and matching pants. He sits in Port Bouet Airport. Beside him is Sita, his wife, a handicapped dark skin woman with short hair. She is wearing a purple pattern cloth dress. She whispers in his ear, “Pardon! Mon bebe, don’t go!”
by Kevin Paredes
On a sunny morning on the shores of Los Angeles in a small house, a young boy of 11 years named Jason Smith wakes up to the smell of bacon. He rises from his bed, rushing downstairs to the kitchen, not caring that his blond hair is a mess, or that one side of his shirt is tucked and the other isn’t. The minute he gets to the kitchen he sees his mother in a bright yellow sundress, her long blond hair loose. As she turns around with a plate filled with bacon pancakes, Jason can’t resist smiling uncontrollably. When Jason sits, his mother Diana says, “Good morning,” and Jason responds, “Good morning mom.” As Jason enjoys his breakfast, suddenly he hears a loud noise. His mother is lying on the floor unconscious.
The Raven 