Dear Teen Me Read online

  Who forgets Nazis?

  ***

  This is all they’ve told you: Your dad was six—or maybe seven—when the Nazis came. His house was in Alsace-Lorraine; or no, it was Schneidach; no, your half-cousin said it was in Munich. Anyway, the Nazis took them all: mom, dad, grandmother, and your father—then just a little kid. The family bounced around from camp to camp to camp.

  Then…everyone died. Well, everyone except your dad. Somehow he ended up in Delaware. The rest of his family was gassed in Auschwitz. Period, end of story.

  When you ask for more, you’re told there is none. Dad doesn’t remember…No, he doesn’t want to talk about it…No, no, it was all so long ago, and anyway, don’t you have some homework to do?

  Some things don’t add up. For one thing, your dad doesn’t have a tattoo. You’ve looked. For another, your dad loves German shepherds and Mercedes-Benzes, and what gives with that?

  Only…your dad also guards his food. He really does. And talk about a temper. A couple times, your mom’s had to pull him off you. Once, you even thought he was going to hammer her. Step out of line and everyone pays.

  So there’s this dangerous guy with no past…And now, as a result, you’ve made up stories to fill the gaps. He and his father were resistance fighters; no, they broke out of camp; no, his father smuggled your dad out so that he could continue the fight on his own. It’s all a little fuzzy, but you’ve turned your father into Batman, Superman, and the Lone Ranger.

  And now, right there, is the knife that proves it.

  ***

  Here’s what you do.

  You leave the knife and, flushed with excitement, run inside: Dad, Dad, I found this knife, this Nazi knife!

  ***

  This is what they do.

  Your mother freezes. Your father stares at you from the couch. Neither says a word. There’s a very long moment, a very pregnant moment, when you wonder if you should repeat what you’ve just said. Maybe your dad didn’t understand? Maybe heat stroke cooked his brain?

  Then your father sits up, very slowly, and swings his legs down. “Let me check this out,” he says. “You stay here.”

  He heads for the garage; your mom stays mum; and you do what you’re told. But you’re beside yourself. You’ve been vindicated: Yeah, s’plain that, Lucy! Finally, the family room door opens again and you look up, thrilled, because now he will have to tell…

  But his hands are empty.

  “Where is it?” You’re almost tempted to look behind his back, like you did when you were little and he made things poof for peek-a-boo. Later, you duck out to the garage yourself, and when you don’t find anything you start to wonder if maybe you really are the idiot that he says you are. “Dad, where’s the knife?”

  “There is no knife,” he says. His face shuts down. “You made a mistake. There’s nothing out there at all.”

  ***

  That is where this memory ends, like a film that’s been snipped before the third reel. You never forget the knife, though, despite the fact that for the next forty years they’ll continue to deny it ever existed in the first place. When they finally do fess up—many years later—they say: Oh, we didn’t think you needed to know about that.

  Some stories don’t end as conclusively as we’d like them to, I guess. But now you’re a shrink. You understand how much your dad’s survival has cost him, and you understand the necessity of the fictions that both of your parents still have to tell themselves in order to keep on living.

  Today, what you wish you could tell that poor twelve-year-old kid—the one who spent so many years hurting, and doubting herself, and feeling so damned stupid it took a superhuman effort some days just to breathe—is this: all the people who come after your dad now to get his story—the historians, the scholars, the merely curious—they just don’t get it.

  What the Nazis did to your father lives in him, and always will. That kind of damage is permanent.

  But this is important. Pay attention now. What your parents did then was not about protecting you. It was about protecting him. And that makes you stronger than him. It makes you better. It means…the truth about that knife is yours, too. Never swallow a lie and ask for seconds. Don’t believe a story that isn’t yours. Your words are the knife, real and tangible, and they carry a terrible weight. You are the author of your life, and the knife is yours.

  It is yours.

  Ilsa J. Bick is a child psychiatrist as well as a film scholar, a surgeon wannabe, a former Air Force major, and an award-winning author of dozens of short stories and novels, including the critically acclaimed Draw the Dark (2011), Ashes (2011)—the first book in her YA apocalyptic thriller trilogy—and Drowning Instinct (2012). Ilsa lives with her family and other furry creatures near a Hebrew cemetery in rural Wisconsin. One thing she loves about the neighbors: they’re very quiet and only come around for sugar once in a blue moon. Visit her at IlsaJBick.com.

  DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION

  Marke Bieschke

  Dear Teen Me,

  You’ve just turned sixteen, and pretty soon, on a random Saturday night, you’re going to roll your mom’s car out of the garage, start it up down the street, and sneak off to a tiny downtown Detroit nightclub. That night is going to change your life. And no, it’s not because on your way back you make an illegal left-hand turn into the police chief’s personal car and get totally busted for taking the car without permission—although that certainly throws a monkey wrench into your summer plans.

  But that night, with two misfit friends at your side, you discover an underground world where you’re accepted for the fantastic little freak that you are—a world that expresses itself though music, fashion, and dance like you’ve never heard or seen before. It’s full of outrageous and outspoken weirdos who love art and books as much as you do, and who want to hear what you actually think about things. This world is completely opposed to your everyday high school reality, where people beat you up because you dye your hair and listen to bands from England.

  You’ll end up sneaking out again and again, of course. You’ll spend your days fantasizing about the next club night, figuring out what you’re going to wear, what you’re going to say, and how you’re going to dance—not to mention how you’re going to get there. You’ve finally found a place where you belong! (And where you’re not the only one who’s gay.) You treasure every second in this world, and eventually it won’t just be your passion; it will be your career.

  Looking back, however, you realize something else: Taking the car and getting caught were part of a pattern of behavior that was more or less directly tied to your father’s alcoholism. You had no clue what was going on at the time—your mother’s largely successful attempts to hide his disease will implode a year later, when your dad shocks you and your sister by bravely and successfully checking into rehab. He didn’t beat you or anything, and you were always provided for. But he did shut you out in weird ways—ways that made you feel you had to struggle to be heard, and that amplified both your loneliness and your independence.

  You knew something was going on, but what? By taking the car you were crying out for attention in a perfectly teenage way, but you were also escaping an incomprehensible situation, trying to break the silence about something you felt sure was there, but which was never discussed. You were looking for a family that could openly express itself.

  In a way, the whole experience was a good thing. It all turned out okay—great, even. Your father has been alcohol-free for almost twenty-five years now, and the two of you have grown close. When you were struggling with your own chemical dependency issues, his recovery served as a model for your own. When some of the dear friends you met at the club that fateful night started getting sick with AIDS, you recognized the harmful effects of silence and started speaking out. You’ve learned to trust your instincts, and you know that friendship and success are there for you, as long as you have the courage to reach out for them.

  Marke Bieschke, aka Marke B., is a coau
thor of Queer: The Ultimate LGBT Guide for Teens (2011). He’s the managing editor of the San Francisco Bay Guardian and writes the weekly nightlife column Super Ego. His writing has appeared in the Best American Music Writing series, and he covers dance music for XLR8R magazine. He lives in San Francisco with his husband and goes out clubbing almost every night, although he no longer dyes his hair.

  FIRST KISS…ISH

  Joseph Bruchac

  Dear Teen Me,

  You didn’t believe that what your grandmother kept telling you would ever come true. You couldn’t. But when you hit your growth spurt you really hit it. Suddenly, you were bigger and stronger than all of the guys who used to bully you. You’d been fired after your first day as a caddy because you couldn’t lug a golf bag, but now you’re the right tackle on the football team, and a varsity heavyweight wrestler.

  However, I’m sad to say that despite the growth spurt that transformed you from a bullied brainiac into a major jock, you’re still not about to get the girl anytime soon. Partly, yes, because you lack smoothitude, but also because you’re not willing to settle for just anybody. Your grandmother taught you to respect women as actual human beings (and not to look at them as objects), and you learned that lesson well. Your grandmother was one of the first women to pass the bar in New York, and even though she never worked as an attorney, she definitely knew how to “lay down the law” on your behavior.

  In the eternal meantime, you’re on your own, and you are not getting it on.

  It’s senior year after a big game. You’re eating pizza at DeGregory’s Restaurant with your football buddies. Someone comes in and says in an excited whisper: “Linda S. is in a car out back. She’s drunk and willing to make out with anybody.”

  Linda S. is a pretty blonde girl two years younger than you, a shy country kid who lives only a mile from you. You don’t remember getting up or going through the door, but the next thing you know you’re in the alley beside that car. You push past two other guys, grab skinny Sammy Carson by his belt and toss him to the side. But then, instead of climbing into the back of that wide-seated ‘58 Buick, you take Linda S. by the arm and lead her, her on unsteady legs, to your car. Other guys step aside when they see that look in your eye.

  She’s crying now. You give her your handkerchief. As she leans against the car door you remember what she looked like five years ago when she was playing hopscotch, all skinny-legged and gangly, on the sidewalk outside School Two. You drive her home. The light outside the old farmhouse reveals the fact that her mother’s been waiting up for her. You walk her to her door, and she kisses your cheek and whispers, “Thank you,” before she goes in. It’s your first kiss—although you won’t realize that or even value what it means until a lot later.

  What I like about you in that memory is not just what you did, but the way you did it. You didn’t think of yourself as a hero. You didn’t do it to prove anything. In fact, for many years afterward you wonder what was really going on in your head back then: Did you have the urge to climb in that car with Louise yourself? (You didn’t.) Did you do the right thing? (You did.)

  If you had to define what you were feeling at that moment, it was probably sadness, more than anything else. Until this letter you’ve never mentioned what happened that night to anyone—not to the guys who avoided you as you walked down the hall on Monday morning, not to Linda S., not even to your grandmother (even though you know she’d have been proud of the way you followed the path she put you on). But you didn’t do it for her approval. You did it for the person you wanted to become.

  Joseph Bruchac lives in the same house in the Adirondack foothills town of Greenfield Center, New York, where he was raised by his grandparents. He’s the author of more than 120 books, ranging from picture books to plays, nonfiction, poetry, and novels for middle school, high school, and adult readers. His writing often reflects his Abenaki Indian heritage. That is even true of his new YA novel Wolf Mark (2011), a paranormal thriller with an American Indian take on shape-shifting.

  TRUST IS AS IMPORTANT AS LOVE

  Jessica Burkhart

  Dear Teen Me,

  You’re eighteen, and you don’t trust anyone. Your father—an abusive con man—taught you that lesson. His fraudulent investment schemes, in which he used you and your family as bait, made you profoundly suspicious of other people’s motives. But hold on: An opportunity to escape is coming. The thing is, it depends on something you don’t really have—trust.

  The next year, your life gets both better and worse simultaneously. You get a book deal. Your editor, Kate, becomes your best friend—she becomes the big sister you never had. The connection is immediate—one you’ve never had with anyone before. Soon, you love each other. You never question this. Even though Dad swore no one would ever love you, someone does.

  Every day he talks about how your only responsibility is to “the family.” He says that nothing is more important; nothing should make you want to leave. And frankly, it seems impossible to you that you could ever manage to get away from him.

  But Kate’s going to tell you something unbelievable: She wants to help you escape.

  You have one opening. You say yes to Kate’s offer. You’re supposed to go from Florida to New York with just a single suitcase. No Mutzie (the stuffed puppy you slept with every night); no dog-eared copies of your precious Black Stallion books; no photos of your brother.

  I know that this decision will seem to be the hardest part, but I’m afraid it’s not. You wobble—and the fear almost destroys you. You won’t be able to eat or sleep for weeks.

  You try to act like nothing’s up. You write around the clock, watch General Hospital, and play video games with your brother. Dad continues to snatch your paychecks from the mailbox before you even see the envelopes.

  When you call Kate, you tell Dad it’s for business. From your closet, you whisper into the phone, hoping she won’t detect the doubt that’s in your voice. But of course she does. Kate knows that you want to leave with all your heart, but she also senses that you may still back out at the last second.

  Days before your scheduled departure, Kate calls, and her voice—which is usually so warm and gentle—is chilly now, and the words she speaks are even colder. If you don’t follow through, she says that she will still be your friend, but she won’t listen to complaints about your father anymore. She won’t subject herself to accounts of how a person she loves has credit cards in her name that she’s not allowed to use, how she can’t drive anywhere alone, and isn’t allowed to speak to the neighbors—not after she gave you a chance and you didn’t take it. She will love you, be your editor, and support you, but it won’t be like it was before. You swear you’re going to leave. Promise profusely. Kate says that she’ll believe you when you get on the plane.

  You cry. Hard. Hot tears. You hate her for saying those things. Support was what you needed. Or at least, that’s what you thought then. Now you know that she gave you exactly what you needed. Kate terrified you in a way that no one else ever had—not even Dad. Losing her wasn’t an option.

  That phone call gets you on the plane. Months later, Kate tells you how she agonized over that awful call, cried when she hung up, and hated every second of speaking to you that way. But threatening your friendship was the only way to ensure your safety.

  One terrible phone call saved your life. And now, you’ve gotten away. You are no longer kept.

  Twenty-four year old Jessica Burkhart (Jess Ashley) lives in Brooklyn, New York. She is the author of the twenty-book Canterwood Crest series. Jess is also working on Kept, a YA verse novel based on this essay and her post on DearTeenMe.com. With her Canterwood editor and BFF, Kate Angelella, Jess co-owns Violet & Ruby—a two-person book packager. Visit Jess online at JessicaBurkhart.com.

  THANK YOU, OILY PIZZA

  Josh A. Cagan

  Dear Teen Me,

  The cafeteria pizza at BU is disgusting, but you and the kids you’re hanging out with eat it because it’s Friday night
and hey, you’re freshmen. You’re wearing a plastic Dick Tracy movie-tie-in hat. (You’re trying to make that your “thing.”)

  I’m sure you’ve noticed that I said “the kids you’re hanging out with,” and not “your friends.” Your friends are a distant, candy-coated memory.

  Why you’re even hanging out with these kids is a mystery, because as far as you’re concerned, nobody likes you. You’re not doing great in class, and nobody else wants to talk about cartoons and Muppets—instead, they want to talk about Shakespeare and Chekhov. Everyone else came from fascinating places, they’ve had amazing lives, and they seem like they were born into a life in the theater.

  You’re some boring guy from a boring suburb.

  So for the first part of your freshman year, you try to communicate to everyone at all times that YOU ARE DIFFERENT AND SPECIAL. If you could wear a gold dookie chain around your neck that said that, you would. (Although you probably would have spray-painted it black first. You wear a lot of black, hoping you can make that your “thing.”)

  You wear a different pair of crazy sunglasses every day of the week, hoping you can make that your “thing.”

  You never work with other students unless it’s absolutely demanded of you, and instead you present bombastic monologues about murder and loneliness, hoping you can make that your “thing.”

  You work your ass off to prove to people that you are awesome, smart, edgy, and talented. You work harder at that than you do at any actual schoolwork, harder than you even work on your own art. Whether you know it or not, this is what has actually become your “thing.”

  Still, thank God you live in a dorm. Because regardless of your social status (real or imagined), if you have two dollars to throw toward pizza, you can sit in some other kids’ room and eat some of that pizza. So yeah, the cafeteria pizza at BU is disgusting, but you and the kids you’re hanging out with eat it, because it’s Friday night and you’re freshmen. And despite my earlier warning, you’re still wearing that plastic “Dick Tracy” hat. (Don’t get me started.)