Thankful

 I am thankful for many things. I'm thankful for my family, my friends, and all the wonderful people around me. I love my family, their quirks, their funny little ways of making life interesting. I am so grateful for my parents, who took the time to help me learn and have fun. I'm thankful for the time spent with my siblings, when we weren't fighting, when we had a lot of fun together. I'm grateful for my awesome aunts and uncles; they tickled me and teased me, talked with me and taught me. I'm so thankful for my adorable little cousins. They run around being cute, squealing and laughing and hugging and being so sweet. Without my friends, I would be quite sad. I'm so glad I have so many great friends who support me and help me when I need them. I'm thankful for our lovely home and that it has enough space for all of us, that our yard is big and beautiful and lets us roam around and do what we please. I'm so grateful that we're well provided for, that my dad has a job, and we're well off. I'm very thankful for all the great things in my life.

More About Me

 When I was little, I thought that when I was older, I would be so smart and life would be so wonderful. I looked up to the sixth graders in my elementary school, but soon in kindergarten I realized that we were better behaved than they were. We had to walk single file down the hallway on the third tile away from the wall, silent, with our hands behind our backs. The sixth graders, though, stood wherever they wanted in line and chatted with their friends and were loud. It gave me some pride that I was better behaved than them, and a little excited for when I could talk in line and not have to stand rigidly with my hands clasped behind my back. I also thought I would be able to stay up so late and get to watch more movies. I figured that I would be able to do whatever I wanted, because I would be so grown up.

 I don't know what the best thing I've ever done is and I'm not sure what the worst thing I've ever done was. I feel bad for teasing Thomas when he was little and am regretting not being nicer to him now, but I don't have one specific huge regret.

 I worry about my intelligence. Not really, but sort of. A little. I don't care enough to do anything about it, so I guess I don't care. I care enough to worry, but not do anything. I don't really care about my grades, so I very rarely study and I'm usually surprised when I walk into class and it's set up for a test. I am happy when I get a good grade, and a little sad when I get a bad grade, but I just get what I get. I compare myself to my brother, Thomas, a lot, which my parents always protest about how horrible it is to be comparing myself to him. Because I'm in MathCounts, I'm constantly comparing what I got to the leading student, this obnoxious sixth grader, my annoying brother. It doesn't help that he gloats that he got all of them right, again, or got the most out of anyone.

 I worry about my family and friends. I worry for their well-being and how they're doing, especially when my friends tell me that they're fine when they've shown signs of someone who's not okay. I also worry about if I've hurt my friend's feelings or if I've done something wrong. I worry about the large and lurking future and what is hiding in it's foggy mists.

 I am the happiest when I'm surrounded by my extended family, usually around holidays. There's such a warm happy feeling when we're all together. My little cousins running around, my aunts and uncles laughing and talking together, a general fun-filled place. I love waking up from a nap and knowing that I can go out of my room and play with my adorable little cousins or go help someone fix up a snack they're making, or have an intelligent discussion with one of my aunts or uncle.

Growing Up

 My first stuffed animal was a little giraffe, which I loved, but I had a large collection of stuffed animals and I didn't have a favorite. I remember lining them all up and playing school or zoo or other random games with them. I would always have a stuffed animal with me, wherever I toddled around the house.

 My favorite book when I was little was Stellaluna, a pretty picture book with lots of words about a bat who was raised by birds, trying to copy their ways. I would read it over and over to myself. When I was a little older, I really liked Ender's Game, The Hobbit, and the Harry Potter series. My dad would read books out loud to my brother and I when I was three or four. We would bug my dad to read more, more, more!! until he would, and if we got bored when he wasn't home from work yet we would take the book and read it ourselves. My favorite TV show when I was really little was Teletubbies, I have no idea why, and when I got older I liked Cyberchase. I don't know why. They're so weird. I guess I liked the bright colors...

 I don't really remember any of my firsts, because Thomas always seemed to get there ahead of me. I remember my first story I wrote with a plot, in kindergarten. I was so proud of myself. It was two pages long and I had an illustration to go with it. It was about a unicorn trying to find a place to sleep. It wasn't that great of a story. But at least the unicorn had a problem, tried to fix it, and ended up with some things that weren't her solution. The first time I rode a bike without training wheels was when I was nine. We didn't bike very much, and only when I protested that I still didn't know how did my dad teach me. I rode my bike around and around in our driveway, then went around Lake Artemesia with my dad.

I don't remember having a favorite birthday, most of them were fun little parties when I was little, then going down in frequency to every other year, when I was nine. My last birthday was fun because I got cute, thoughtful presents I really liked and had a quiet birthday where I just sort of stayed up in my room and read. The next day, I had a party where my friends walked home with me and we just sort of hung out, ate pizza, watched a movie, and roasted s'mores.

My Name

 The name Tyra is Swedish, said tee-rah, said like the way you would pronounce Tyr, that god of war, but then with an a at the end. Tyra means battler, warrior. I guess my name sort of fits me, but I'm not that violent. Also, I'm quirky and...different. I have many different personalities, depending on who I'm with, just like how my name is pronounced or written differently by many different people. My parents didn't know about Tyra Banks when they named me because she wasn't that popular yet, and I am forever correcting people on the pronunciation of my name. I don't really have a nickname, but my aunts and uncles sometimes call me Teezeranne, strangely combining my first and middle name, Zanne. My middle name isn't actually a name, but just my mom's thinkings of liking the name Anne and the letter Z. I got the last name Draper because the king's drapers lost favor with the king. He needed new drapers and some of my ancestors filled the position.

 My parents were thinking about naming me Hannah, but when one of my grandmas remarked about how happy she was that she could help them choose the name Hannah, they decided to not name me that because they didn't want to keep hearing about how she helped name me. I think Hannah would've been a good name, but I'm not sure if I have one name that I really love and wish I had been named. I used to love the name Jane, but when it became my littlest sister's middle name, the name Jane lost it's appeal. I don't really have any favorite boys names. If I had been a boy, my name would have been Thomas, after my dad and grandpa. It's sort of a tradition to name the first son Thomas.

 I don't really think that I would be different with a different name because people come to think of your personality when they hear your name. Even if I had been named something else, say, Beatrice, then the name would stretch to fit my personality, or produce a nickname that better suits me.

Thoughts about family and where I live

 I was born in Silver Spring, Maryland. I lived most of my life in Berwyn Heights, Maryland. I lived there until I was 11½, when we moved up to Skillman, New Jersey. I've liked New Jersey better because here I have more friends and I know more people, whereas in Maryland, there were only about seventy kids in my grade. Also, in Berwyn Heights, I didn't live very close to any of my friends and we lived on a busy road. We lived right across from the elementary school, so I didn't have any bus experience (other than on field trips) until we moved here. The school was tiny, so there weren't really any extra-curricular activities, and for band or chorus we had to be pulled out of class. I would literally read through all of class, and still get straight A's. I didn't study, and am still trying to get in the habit.

 My fondest memories from my childhood are mostly playing with my siblings. We had a big backyard and we'd explore “The Bamboo Forest” together, which connected the backyards of neighbors four or five houses down, and to the houses on the street behind us. We'd also play in our sandbox and “paint” the benches with sand and water mixed together. We'd play carnival on my brother's big bed with him giving rides to my sisters and me playing games with them. Oh, what fun we had before we detested each other.

 As far as I can remember, I wasn't a huge troublemaker, that was my brother's job. I teased him, of course, and my parents said they always warned me not to. I kept teasing him and eventually, when he was, like, four or five he teased me back and I was shocked. I stopped, but he's been bugging me for as long as I can remember. I have a brother and two sisters. I'm the oldest child, and my brother is second. I sort of like my position because I get to babysit my siblings and have more...benefits, but I'm also expected to do the most. It isn't fair because my brother gets to do everything good I do, except he doesn't have to do as much work because he's younger. Also, he'll always side with my little sisters against me whenever I've done any little thing and get me in trouble.

 I used to have a beta fish named Ruby. I named him when I was eight, and called him Ruby because he was reddish purple and had pretty flowing fins and tail. He lived for about 2½ years, when I had to be the one cleaning out his tank and remembering to feed him while my sisters got to have a pretty little pet. He died when I was eleven, and I'm sorry to say that I was rid of my duty to him.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton

 Elizabeth Cady Stanton inspired many people to fight for women's suffrage. Her childhood as a daughter of a lawyer and judge helped spark her desire for equality for all. Her organizational skills helped unite women. Her dedication to the women's suffrage movement never ceased, even in hard times. This amazing woman was the first women's suffragist.

 Even as a child, Stanton tried to right things she saw as politically wrong. She was born in Johnstown, New York on November 12, 1815. She would read her father's law books and if she found a law she thought unjust, like that married women couldn't own property, she simply cut it out of the book. Her father had to explain to her that just because the law wasn't in his book didn't mean that it was gone altogether and that they didn't need to abide by that law. When her brother died, her father told her that he wished she was a boy. Stanton studied classics and learned horseback riding to try to be more like a son for her father. She wanted to go to Union College, where her brother had studied, but was instead sent to Emma Willard's all-female seminary for three years. Stanton studied hard there, even though she disapproved of single-sex education. Later, she met Henry Stanton, an abolitionist. Disregarding her father's objections, they were married and went to the World Anti-Slavery Convention in London for their honeymoon.

 Stanton worked her whole life trying to get rights for women. At the World Anti-Slavery Convention, she met Lucretia Mott. They worked together to hold the first women's rights convention in 1848. Stanton declared that women and men were equal and that women should be able to vote. Stanton wrote articles on women's rights and through the paper, met Susan B. Anthony. Together, they organized the Women's Loyal National League in 1863.

 Stanton is remembered as the “brains” of the women's suffrage movement. She wrote and spoke out for women's rights. She contributed a lot to the movement. Even though she had seven children and a house to tend to, she still found time to write and make speeches, and go to conventions. She wore a short skirt over trousers, even though mocked by many, to make a statement about women's rights. Stanton's feminism led her to oppose the fourteenth and fifteenth amendment because they extended the rights of African-American men, but excluded women. She even wrote and published The Woman's Bible, where she tried to correct what she saw as a degrading view of women in the scriptures. Stanton continued to put forth her opinions and stayed up to date with women's suffrage until she died in 1902. She didn't live to see the amendment passed, but she helped tremendously in bringing it around.

Stanton is known as the founder of the women's suffrage movement. She dedicated a lot of her time to convincing people that women should have more rights because they are equal to men. Through many speeches and conventions, she influenced many people. Her life is a testament to what one person can do to change the world.

The Locket

The cacophony of the forest quieted placidly, as if time had stopped. The only aberrations were the small ripples gliding gracefully away from the luminous necklace sinking slowly into the watery depths of the pond. Glittering and glowing, the necklace drifted softly to the muddy pond floor. Even the trees seemed to sense the moribund evil pulsing from within the locket. The bottom of the pond soon became desolate, and within a couple inches' radius of the necklace only blackened clumps of algae remained. Only one morbid fish dared to venture down to the gleaming chain, and the seared, acrid corpse crumbled as soon as the malevolent, dark particles reached into it's heart.

**********

“Sara, look at this!” crowed Michael, “I think it's some sort of coin.”

Sara ambled over to where Michael stood, stopping to giggle at a couple of squirrels chasing each other around a tree, one deftly eluding the other. Squinting into the pond, she could faintly make out the innocent and now lackluster shape of a heart.

“No, it's a locket, silly,” proclaimed Sara, “It's all dirty, too. I wonder what it would look like, all cleaned up.”

“I'll go get it for you,” Michael said amicably, “but mother would be upset if I got my clothes dirty again,” he worried, remembering what had happened the last time he had returned home in repugnant, dirty, stinking clothes.

“Use my butterfly net,” suggested Sara with innovation, “It's getting old, anyway.”

Michael took Sara's butterfly net and dipped it into the pond, sending ripples across the previously still water. The stiff hoop knocked the rusting metal out of the silt and decaying algae and into the white net. Michael flipped the contents of the butterfly net onto the grass. Both children stared.

“What happened to my net?” cried Sara.

The bottom of the net had a heart-shaped burn. The once verdant area around where the locket landed was now full of crisp and blackened strands of grass. Wisps of acrimonious smoke drifted from the scorched soil and made Michael's eyes sting as he bent over the necklace.

“This is really weird,” whimpered Sara.

“It's okay. It's just a necklace,” murmured Michael benevolently, but unknowingly erroneously. He knew Sara would probably impugn his reassurances, so he reached down to pick up the locket to show her that it was harmless.

“Wait!” shrieked Sara when she realized what he was about to do, but she was too late. Michael's fingers closed around the burning metal heart and instantly turned black. The voracious blackness consumed his arm and over the rest of his body, not allowing Michael any time to scream. The black started flaking off to reveal a deep, pulsating, glowing red. Michael writhed and made muffled sounds of agony, then rolled into the pond to trying to relieve the incisive pain penetrating deep into his heart and ripping across his skin.

As soon as he hit the water, most of the scorched skin peeled off and the glowing red subdued to an ashen gray. Michael rolled out of the water and stumbled over to Sara. She stared at his vacuous gray eyes, not seeming to focus on her or on anything.

“How could you let this happen to me?” the now pugnacious Michael shouted hoarsely. He stepped forward belligerently and menacingly, black flakes swirling off his skin.

“I didn't burn you, the loc--”

“Why are you blaming it on the locket?” Michael thought it was ludicrous of Sara to think that the silly little locket had anything to do with anything. And why was she looking at him so strangely?

“Are you okay?” Sara questioned, then realized that there was a very obvious answer, “No, evident that you're not. Your skin's gray and you're acting strange.”

“Let's see how you feel!” Michael exclaimed as he hurled the locket at Sara.

“No!” she shrieked, but the blackness was already spreading.

Sewer Girls: Chapter 9

When the soldiers gather up enough people, they order us all out of the horrid room. I stare back longingly into the emptied room, now thinking that that place of despair and sorrow is actually better than wherever the soldiers drag us. We shuffle out, accepting the fact that we're about to be killed. Many of the ghostly pale faces in our lonesome group no longer hold any emotion, while others are filled with grief and sorrow. I look at the haunted faces of people peering out of doors and windows. They look sorry for us, but too terrified to do anything about our impending deaths.

My eye is drawn towards a very familiar shack. Mother is standing in the doorway, her eyes searching through the crowd, her tear-streaked face creased with ainxiety.

“Mother!” I shriek. She looks at me and a fleeting expression of joy passes over her face, soon replaced by shock, then horror.

“No!” Mother wails, “No, please!”

Izabella turns to see Mother. She gasps, and her eyes open wide to memorize the last image of her mother. “I love you forever,” she cries out.

“I love you my darlings!” Mother calls out, her voice cracking, “Never forget it!”

“I love you! I'm so sorry Mother. I shouldn't have--” A soldier pulls me away from Mother's shack, dragging Izabella and me roughly back to the group. I stumble into Izabella, then grip her hand, still murmuring “Sorry, sorry Mother.”

They take us out the gates of the ghetto, and guide us towards the forest. A giant hole has been dug into the ground. I stare in horror. Surely they don't mean to fill all of it with our corpses.

“I love you, Sara,” Izabella sniffles.

At the mercy of the soldiers, who look more menacing and purely evil than I've ever seen them before, we stand by the edge of the pit, awaiting death.

“I love you too, Izabella,” I whisper as I squeeze her hand, letting her know that I'll always love her, and always be there for her.

Then a bullet rips through my chest.

With my last strength, I pull Izabella to me as we both fall into the pit, encircled in each other's arms.

Sewer Girls: Chapter 8

“Okay Izabella, you can come,” I whisper, pulling her hand.

“I'll be a really good girl,” she says proudly.

“You'd better be, otherwise we'll get caught,” I say. “Be quiet, now, we don't want to be heard.”

We sneak out of the room, eying each window suspiciously. I bring Izabella over to the sewer. When I lift the top off, she scrunches up her nose, suddenly looking sick. I slowly ease her into the sewer, and I hear quiet coughing. I slide in after her and move the lid back into place. Izabella grabs my leg and murmurs something about being wet and scared. I grab her hand again, and begin feeling my way down the sewer with my other hand. Izabella squeezes my hand a little tighter when we meet up with the rat, but she keeps marching through the muck. We don't meet up with the body, but it has been weeks since I was last down here.

We reach the opening, and I push it up a crack. I can't see anyone, so I slide it all the way out and climb out. I turn around and pull Izabella out. She coughs and splutters coming out, but the fresh air seems to clear her up.

“Okay, all you need to do is look in the trash bins and look for food,” I whisper. “Even if it seems disgusting, we still need food. If it's edible, take it.”

Izabella shudders a little, but nods her head and runs off to find food. I look around, and all I find is a smashed pickle, which I wrap in a napkin. When Izabella comes back, she's carrying a large piece of bread, slightly moldy but good all the same, a few hunks of potato, and an apple core. I stare at the food.

“Wow. Good job,” I whisper, patting her on the back. “Let's go.”

I open the sewer and lower Izabella in, then climb in myself. Izabella moans at the stench, and starts walking with me through the sewer. She clutches her precious finds and squeezes my hand. We slosh through the filthy water together, daydreaming of freedom. I find the cover and slide it off, lifting Izabella out of the sewer gunk. I pull myself out, and start to pull the cover back over when I see them. Soldiers. Running towards us.

“Hey! You there!” one of them shouts. “What do you think you're doing? I command you to stop!”

I grab Izabella's hand and start running away. I weave through the streets and duck behind shacks, but they still keep running. And getting closer. One comes up behind me and tackles me to the ground. I hear Izabella shriek, then a sickening thud. She starts moaning.

“Let's kill 'em now,” growls one of the soldiers.

“Naw, they're doin' another shoot tomorrow.¹ We can hold 'em 'till then,” says another.

“Come on,” says a third, “Up you go,” He pulls me up and shoves me. I stumble forward and he grabs my arm, dragging me behind him. The other soldiers laugh, pulling Izabella behind me. They take us to a room crammed with young children, elderly people, ill patients, and people missing an arm or leg. I grasp Izabella's hand even tighter, not wanting her to be frightened.

Terror, dread, sadness, and despair fill the air, twisting around my heart, filling my lungs, pushing in on me. I feel like I'm suffocating in a wild torrent of emotions. My head suddenly feels groggy and clouded, and I stumble to the ground. I sit there, next to Izabella and realize that I'm going to die. Not in a exaggerated and worried sort of "die". Or a really tired kind of "die". I am actually going to die.

Along with Izabella.

How could I have let her come with me? Such an innocent child shouldn't be sentenced to something so horribly gruesome.

Then I remember.

We never told Mother.

I let out a low, moaning wail. I grab Izabella and hug her as tightly as I can. She squeaks a little, but realizes that something is horribly, terribly wrong.

1“Because children were generally too young to be deployed at forced laor, German authorities generally selected them, along with the elderly, ill, and disables, for the first deportations to killing centers, or as first victims led to mass graves to be shot” (“Children During the Holocaust” 1)

Sewer Girls: Chapter 7

I return to the sewer in a week. All goes well going there, and I find a slice of bread and a potato. I jump into the sewer again, and when the oily water washes over my legs I groan. I pull the cover back over and begin walking. I even start whistling, it's better down here in the dank, dark, dampness, than up in the ghetto. The bodies, the blood, it's absolutely disgusting up there.

“Aaaaahh!” I shriek as I tumble into the sewage waste. I try to get up again, falling over this huge thing again. “Eww...”

Then I realize that it's a body.

I scream again as I slosh away, heart thumping louder than my shrieks. I clutch the mushy potato, and I slip on the dissolving bread. I fall into the water, a rat crawls into my hair. I try to shriek again, but the polluted water slides into my mouth when I open it. I cough and splutter, ripping the squealing rat out of my hair. I stumble forward, and prop myself up on the slimy wall, clutching my potato. I burst into sobs, wailing into the darkness of the sewer.