Tag Archives: Capital Area School for the Arts

“With Child:” An essay from a student writer at Capital Area School for the Arts (CASA).

Quadriya Cogman

Quadriya Cogman

In my school, I knew at least one student pregnant with her first child.

Society would lump her into the category of “teen mom” and be more likely to judge and dismiss her without digging deeper into her story. The notion that a teenager, pregnant or not, could be that easily dismissed bothered me enough to gather a panel of fellow teens to discuss teen pregnancy. One of the members of the panel appeared visibly nervous. When she noticed my notebook, she took a few deep breaths to prepare for the interview.

Basketball all-star MW enjoyed life as a normal teenager, but a doctor’s appointment changed all that. During a routine physical, the doctor pronounced her to be eight-and-a-half-months pregnant. Denying that she had only a few weeks to prepare for a newborn, the 14-year-old didn’t know what to do. She said she had no symptoms whatsoever. Knowing only how to be a teenager—showing up for practice, studying, socializing—she didn’t know if she wanted to take on the role of motherhood.

“When I found out that I was expecting a child in a few weeks, I started to think about my consequences. I started to wonder what people would think of me. I didn’t know if I could handle being judged,” she said.

Teen pregnancy is defined by the University of Maryland as pregnancy of a girl under the age of 20. Teen pregnancy remains the highest in industrialized countries. Almost 85 percent of these teen pregnancies are unplanned, meaning that 820,000 teens under the age of 20 become teen mothers each year. They have to drop some of the things they never thought they would have to let go of, so soon in their young lives.

As I wrote down the young mother’s answers to her shocking story, she lowered her head. I knew something bothered her because feelings of another participant during the interview became tense.

“I had to sacrifice a lot in life to care for my child. Even if it meant basketball, friends, or being a party girl.”

She sounded like a sad tune ready to burst when it hit the high note. “I chose to keep and care for my daughter,” she said. When a teenage girl becomes pregnant, she only has three options: abortion, adoption or keeping the baby.

Discovering and going through a pregnancy forever changes a woman, both mentally and physically,” said Dr. Stephanie Diamond, my pediatrician. “Many teen girls who believe they are not capable to care for a child will choose abortion or adoption. Looking from the outside in, teens who are so wrapped up in their teen lives don’t want to throw it all away only because they have a child. So, to avoid all the motherhood behaviors, they abort them. Many teens who do birth their child prefer to keep it because they can’t see themselves giving away a human they’ve grown attached to. Teens who believe that they cannot meet the satisfaction of a child financially, emotionally and physically will sometimes choose adoption.”

Dr. Diamond emphasized: “Newborns require your full attention day and night.”

On his website, FindYouthInfo.gov, Dr. Stanley Swierzewski discussed the effects of teen pregnancy and how it complicates a teen’s life. “Teenage pregnancy is an important issue,” he said. “Having a child can cause stress and low energy.”

Due to the human body not having enough hours of sleep, teen moms can become associated with low income, substance abuse or falling behind in school, Swierzewski said. The website shows how a child of a teen mom can greatly complicate life with behavioral problems or repeating the cycle of the birth parent.

Most teens are friends, or have been acquainted with, a teen parent. When I entered the lunchroom, a group of girls sat at the lunch table giggling and having fun, so I asked what they thought about teen parents.

“Sometimes, people seem to jump to conclusions when this topic is brought up, but I wonder what their story is?” said Caitlyn, a senior at CASA.

I asked what if you were to see a teen mother emotional and helpless? “Well, there’s not much you can do, but show them your support instead of standing there judging them on what may or may not have been their fault,” Brittany, a junior, stated.

As I questioned them, I noticed the young girls looked puzzled. I could tell they wondered why I chose this specific title. I told them I wanted to get the viewpoint of how others truly see teen moms rather than how society views teen parents.

“In the United States, the title of ‘single mother’ creates several assumptions about the mother’s ability to care for her child,” according to the website www.2.websters.edu.

Teen parents struggling to stay out of poverty settle for a minimum wage job to support their children on her own, but it may perpetuate the stereotypes of teen mothers, like becoming a high school dropout, which could lead to poverty, substance abuse and irresponsibility. These are some stereotypes that teen mothers face in today’s society, according to www.babygaga.com.

Most people enter parenthood with dreams about satisfying, rewarding relationships with their child as they grow and develop successfully,” stated Fredric Reamer, Ph,D., at the Rhode Island College Graduate Social Work Program.

“A struggling teen can feel like an assault on a parent’s dreams, abilities and confidence,” he said. “A parent who has a daughter who’s a teen mother often second- or third-guesses their decisions and judgments. They tend to abandon their rich fantasies and learn how to accept and honor the real child they have. One of life’s greatest challenge is accepting painful truths.”

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“I, the Runt:” Short fiction from a student writer at Capital Area School for the Arts (CASA).

Kelsee Baker

Kelsee Baker

They say the runt of the litter is the first one to die. They say it’s the weakest, that it won’t grow up and become strong like the other pups.

At least that’s what my father told me.

Me, the runt out of four older, tougher brothers who’d already learned to hold their liquor by the time they were 12. I shouldn’t have to tell you how hard it was growing up in a house dominated by this drunken, masochistic excuse of a family. It didn’t take long for me, the skinny little runt, to learn my place in the liquor-soaked patriarchy led by my father.

I kept to myself most of the time, finding solace in taking long walks down the boulevard during the day and bumming cigarettes outside of Dega’s Play and Trade at night. Tuesday nights were the best at Dega’s. Five bucks and you could get in to see all of the city’s greatest underground folk acts. Not to mention that Dega’s was the only place that had a liquor license, booze always flowing and the tunes always rolling into the night.

It was after a few of those intoxicated escapades when I started to realize how consumed I was by the environment around me. I constantly offered to buy more rounds, refused to stop downing drinks when it was time to close; but there was something else, something a little smaller and nearly unnoticeable had I not begun to tap my foot along to one of the musician’s common-time beat.

Stumbling closer to the stage, I drowned everything out and focused on his fingers picking away on his acoustic. Delving further into this musical bubble slowly encasing me, he began to sing:

“Life used to be good. Now look what I’ve done.

I’ve ruined my temple with drugs. My mind is gone.”

A whirlwind of memories started to play in my head—all the nights I’ve wasted here, drunk and falling into debt. His words sent shivers down my spine.

“How did I get this way? It’s so unreal.

I’m no longer a person. I can’t even feel.”

His stage presence was haunting. I closed my eyes to delve further into the music, shaping my fingers to each chord. I was in tears by the end of his set.

A roar of applause erupted from the crowd, and it was at that moment when I realized what I wanted to do with my life. I, the runt, was no longer going to wallow around in the filth created by my booze-laden household. I, the runt, realized what it was going to take to get me out of the shithole life I was living.

I managed to get a stable amount of pay busing tables at a diner not far from my house and began to save money for a used guitar from Dega’s. Saving money was easier said than done, as I was able to rake in a decent amount of profit only to blow it all again with drinks and cheap thrills. After an ebb and flow over three months, I was able to save about $40, not enough for a great guitar, but it was enough to get something playable.

After one of my evening shifts, I brought my savings jar home and put it above the refrigerator to conceal it from the family. I planned to take it to the bank the next day so I could be on the way to my future.

I slept better than I had in months, probably over-confident of the fact that I’d finally been able to save enough for a guitar. Filled to the brim with excitement, I bounded downstairs to the fridge, feeling my hand around for the jar, but I could only feel air.

Frantic, I began to pace around the kitchen, trying to recollect if I’d moved the jar during the night. Running about the house, I milled through every room until I was interrupted by the drunken steps of my brothers stumbling inside. I poked my head around the corner, and, lo and behold, there was the jar swinging back and forth in one of their hands.

“What the hell, you guys? Did you spend all that?” I grabbed the jar.

“Uh, yeah, we went to Dega’s and got what? Four, five rounds?” They started to laugh, drunk off their asses and completely carefree.

“It took me three months, three damn months to save all of that, and you shitheads blew it all on booze! What the hell is wrong with you?” They keeled over from laughing. Filling with anger, I clenched my hands into fists, ready to throw a punch. If they’d have been sober, there was no chance I’d get out of a fight without at least one swollen eye. But drunk, I could pack in a few before they’d have a chance to fight back.

As their laughter reach a crescendo, I could take no more. I closed my eyes and poured all my anger out through my fists, slugging left and right, not caring where the hits landed. A few muffled grunts and small screams ensued before I opened my eyes.

All four of my brothers sprawled on the floor, eyes swollen and blood flowing from their noses and small cuts on their faces. I looked down at my hands, bright red and raw from the sheer force of my bottled-up frustration. Behind me, I heard the sound of someone clapping slowly. I turned around to face my father, grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, son, I didn’t think you had that in you. You aren’t as weak as I thought.” He crossed the room and put a hand on my shoulder.

“But dad, you don’t understand. I spent so much time trying to get money for a guitar, and those idiots spent it on booze. I’m glad I did it, but I shouldn’t have beat the shit out of them like that.”

“How much did you save up?” he asked, and I explained how hard it was trying to get money in between struggling with my own alcoholism and sheer laziness. Knowing that he probably cared less and less the more I spoke, I wasn’t surprised when he stopped listening entirely and walked away. One by one, my brothers left the kitchen, leaving me with the empty jar. The awkward silence that ensues after a heated discussion suffocated me.

What else could I do at this point but move on? I was most likely going to fall further into alcoholism, end up a poor old man, and die a lonely death like all of the other men in my family. Oddly so, I felt a queer satisfaction from the thought of living the rest of my life in frustration, trying to piece together this hellish puzzle I called a life.

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