A suitcase stores more than just shirts, dresses and pants. A suitcase stores memories, smells, emotions. It tells stories of trips across the globe. It tells the story of a family who leaves without knowing why. Or the story of the mother and father, who run away, swim across cold waters, pass through mountains and hide from gunmen to cross the border. Or the story of a confused, young bride, who leaves her widowed mother to see things she has never seen before.
Inside this suitcase, lie secrets, untold tales and pieces of the past. We’ve carried them with us all our lives, through crowded airports and planes, through unfamiliar towns, through valleys and streets.
Mother is leaving tomorrow. Her red suitcase is already packed, ready to cross the ocean, ready to tell another story, store another memory and unveil treasures. Mother is leaving and her suitcase sits by the door…when will we stop repeating stories?

She smokes about twice a week. Her friends tell her it’s too much, too often. But she doesn’t listen and doesn’t think she’s overdoing it.
I listen as they argue back and forth.
It’s sad. It’s just really sad. But what can you do? How can you tell someone that drugs don’t really answer anything? The thing is you can’t. After you’ve done your part of the talking, it’s up to her to decide what’s good for her. As much as you want to help change the world, change the way teens behave, change the way they deal with their depression, or anxiety, or day-to-day problems, you can’t just talk and expect to be heard. You just can’t expect that.
Her friend sits across from me and doesn’t look too happy. I can see the pain in her eyes, the kind you get when you know you can’t help your friend, the kind you get when you feel like you’re losing someone precious. She’s not mad; she’s just disappointed. She is disappointed that smoking is now turning into a habit.
I’m disappointed because I can only write about it.

Mom and I were driving down the road. We drive together often and although years apart in age, and different in too many ways, there is one thing that always connects us back together. There is one thing we share and that is how we got to where we are today. “How did I get here?!” I asked, laughing, “can you believe I’m graduating already?!”
and she said, “when you came here you were only in the sixth grade.”
“That was a difficult time…I don’t wanna remember it…” I said.
She didn’t want to remember it either. Neither of us wanted to go back to the memory of that unfamiliar, empty apartment that we had to sleep in every night. Neither of us wanted to remember the walls that we couldn’t break, the rooms that we didn’t want to unpack in.
“Is it going to happen again? Will there be more of those times?” I ask, more for myself than for her.
She said the hardest part was not knowing the language. Language is the basis for staring a life in any country.
But was it more than language? Would it have been easier if I were older?
Mom kept driving. We didn’t talk about it anymore. We passed through the traffic just like we’d done six years ago.

It’s another Sunday and it’s time to wash a pile of dirty sheets. The laundry room is empty. I look outside the window and I see a girl plucking her brows by her window. I’ve done that many times. Suddenly there is a connection between us, or is it between our threads and mirrors?
I watch the washing machines and the dryers. A week ago, I would have wanted my thoughts to be cleansed out in these big machines. Not today though. Today is sunny, my thoughts are lost, and these sheets will soon dry…

My hair smells of cigarettes from last night. I was at a club in D.C., surrounded by large men in black suits, who watched the underage kids like hawks. The man at the front door marked my hands with two big, black X’s so everybody would know I wasn’t 21. I’m still struggling to wipe off the X’s.
In the midst of neon lights and the deafening music, it’s possible to let go and get lost. Sensation. Ecstasy. Not being you is too easy. Just be. Be a dancer, a drinker, a guy passing, a watcher, an observer or a lonely recluse, sitting on a couch…
There are men who watch your every move, your hips, your legs, your arms, your eyes…
There are men who come too close, crossing every boundary, leaving no room for you, trapping you, putting their arms around you…do you let them? Do you turn around and look away?
There are women who dance without defining it. There are no rules in this wild, colorful, fantastic fantasy…there are simply no rules.
I dance…and the rest is forgotten…

It’s 7:20 am and in our small classroom, there are a few outspoken teens who have not yet fallen asleep. These young men and women join in the many discussions we have and use their personal experiences to interpret literature.
Among them is M, an intellectual young man with a big passion for music, money, shoes and big dreams. He never carries much with him; it’s usually just him and a set of earphones. He doesn’t always do what teachers ask of him, like the homework assignments or other tasks that to him are a waste of time. But I admire him and I think even his teachers are struck by his young, yet mature mind. I admire his intellect, his wit, his respect for family and his passions. When he speaks, you can’t help but listen to him. And if you listen to him carefully, in between his mumbling, you’ll hear his interpretive thoughts and ideas. You’ll hear and you’ll know that he is not a slacker and that he’s not just sitting at a desk for nothing. You’ll know that he does have inspiration and that he is trying to put a little extra effort to make it through high school and the tedious assignments.
The last bell rings. In his $400 sneakers, M walks to his locker, still thinking about his future and his dream music studio.

When I barge into English on early mornings, he’s usually sitting behind his desk, busy with papers that need to be read with scrutiny. I’m not a big talker so the first thing I say is, “hey, could you read this?” And he always does.
I look for signs of approval on his face. I look for a smile or a simple nod. I just need one sign, a sign that will tell me I wrote well, or that I did a good job. I need approval; I need to regain my confidence. If people don’t remind me that I can write, I find myself in doubt. Then I begin digging and searching for some sort of compliment.
We all want to belong. Maybe you want to belong to a club or an organization. Maybe you want to belong to a sisterhood or a sports team. No matter where it is, we all want to be accepted somewhere, don’t we?
I want to be accepted by other writers. I want to be accepted by a reader who won’t be bored by what he reads.
What’s going to make him want to read the words I write? What’s going to make him care for what I feel, how I live my life, how I see things, what I hate or what I like? What’s going to make him re-read the sentence he just read a second ago?
I fear everyday that I don’t write. I fear and I want to scream and I want to close my eyes and…
I leave English class, smiling inside. But I’ll be coming back, soon…

DELETE is the easiest button to hit on nights like these. Nights that end while still unfinished. Nights that make you smaller than ants that crawl on walls. Nights that make sleeping a difficult task.
When you’re 18 and your expectations exceed the limit, and no one listens to you when you need them to, simple things no longer make you happy. Simple things become ordinary and boring. Your mind expands its imagination capacity and fantasies suddenly become musts.
I used to be at the top. I used to be up. I used to be happy with little things.
Now it’s time to have more. I’ve turned into a displeased, greedy 18 year-old and…
I can hit DELETE and get rid of these useless words, but I’m not going to.

Americans are scared. They’re scared because they feel vulnerable. They are scared because terrorism isn’t supposed to be an issue for them. Because they were always safe and what happened in other countries was only five minutes of news on their TVs. But today, they fear everyday. They’re no longer safe and they know it.
“Terrorism scares us because four men in casual suites can bomb a bank. The weak are the ones who we have to worry about now and that’s what scares us. The rich do it with war, the rest do it through terrorism,” Ms. L says.
As a group of 16-18 year-old students, we argue back and forth on whether war is the same thing as terrorism. We try to figure out situations in which killing becomes okay.
Is it ever okay to kill? Haven’t we been killing each other for centuries? Why is terrorism any different than war?
Back in the day, terms like sex and birth control were taboo. Today, it’s things like gay marriage and terrorism that incites controversy. But we can’t just walk away from these issues. We have to talk about them, discuss them, and look for ways to change them and learn about possible solutions. We need to stop whispering. We need to stop changing the subject. We need to stop changing channels to watch our favorite soap operas. We need to start looking for solutions. We need to talk.
I admire Ms. L because she decided to make a difference by teaching. After years of actively participating in rallies and protests, she saw that the only way she could do something was to teach. She didn’t stop her activism. She didn’t stop believing that there was a solution. She simply chose a different method, one that made sense to her. And it’s working. She is making a difference everyday.
In a world where there is war, crime, corruption, and a list of other things we rather not think about, there are people around us that strive to make change. Ordinary people do great things everyday and that is something we shouldn’t forget.
***
Class ended with an unfinished discussion and a variety of answers and questions marks. But we talked. That’s a good start for now.

What’s great about America is that you can have your coffee ready at a nearby Starbucks or 7-11 as early as 6 or 7 a.m. What’s great about America is that when you buy a shirt that doesn’t fit or that you simply don’t like, you can return it, which may or may not require a brief note of explanation. What’s great about America is that you can get a job at 16, go to school, play sports and watch R-rated movies on Friday nights with an adult. What’s great about America is that you don’t have to be GREAT; you can be a drug dealer on the streets, selling dope and still be satisfied.
What’s not so great about America is how easily kids drop out of school, how you can start smoking at 18 and drive under the influence of alcohol. What’s not so great is how half the magazines in bookstores are about celebrities, models and ads that make women sex objects. What’s the message, if the article is about a girl who isn’t just a pretty face, but has brains and a 4.0 GPA, when the ad right next to the page is a half-naked girl next to a Budweiser?
What does it take to be successful and rich in America? Does it come with a red lipstick and a pair of jeans with “Booty” sewed on the back? Does it come with your eyes or what you write? If you don’t make your life a reality show for the whole world to see, who’s gonna notice your talent?
What does it take to make it in America?
But for better or for worse, I do love America. In sickness and in health, I do take my Grande Late. For richer or poorer, I do want the Chevy Convertible.
I do love Hollywood and happy endings…
I do…’till death do us part…