Ms. Hernandez (7th Grade)
Art is subjective
that’s what I’ve always been told
But is it really
If its so~ subjective
then how is art in museums so “good”
You need good~ art to get into art college
You need good~ art to get into art clubs
You need good~ art to impress your friends
but how can your art be just good if its subjective
No art is good or bad, most people know that
but then what do those people think qualifies as good art
is it just what they think because then they
can just say your art is bad and you just have to improve?
subjective
subjective
subjective
subjective
that’s what the always say
but that’s never true
Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue, as far as the
eye can see.
A gentle splashing of waves rocking
the board.
The water splashes on my knees
The sound of a splash
as I jump
splash
Abby jumps.
Splash
A dive
splash splash splash
climbing on the board with a
thump.
Rowing back to shore
While I cook my breakfast
I always make, mix, flip, cook.
I do it with what I have and
my hands!
Crack, Crack, Crack
and it’s in the bowl
perfectly.
Mix, mix, mix, mix, mix
and it is a perfect egg
mixture in the
pan to scramble.
I take tortillas out and I
Cook, cook, cook, cook,
and. burn t all the
time just perfectly.
Flip, flip, flip, flip,
and I never burn
my hands.
For seconds I
would repeat.
I cook, cook, cook, cook then I flip, flip, flip, flip
till it s well cooked, and I never burn my hands.
Ms. Hernandez (8th Grade)
When I first started soccer I was nervous
The only thing on my mind was “Do good, do good, do good.”
But how do I do good if I don’t know what good is?
I’d never played soccer, or any teamwork sport before
Do good, do good, do good.
I’ve only ever thought about myself, how do
I become a team player? There was so many
negative thoughts going through my mind at the
start, I started to spiral.
Do good, do good, do good.
When I approached the field all of the nerves
went away when I saw my new friend. Her presence
brought me comfort, who cares if I don’t know
how to play. I’ll learn. My perspective changed to
I’ll learn, I’ll learn, I’ll learn.
I got my drums when I was five. I would
practice every night, my coordination increasing and
soon I knew the drums.
But soon being told to practice stopped meaning
anything
Practice
Practice
Practice
Those words became a buzz in my head
my passion lost, I would watch YouTube or
play video games instead.
Until I moved into an apartment. I practiced
at my Grandad’s because I had no choice and
my flame of passion slowly but surely rekindled
until it was a roaring fire
ever since I was little, people say
it explains everything about me
like not knowing Spanish means I
don’t care
like I refuse my culture
Like it’s a stain I can’t wash out.
Like my mouth forgot it’s homework
But I didn’t, I just learned it differently
I grew up translating tone, not grammar
I know the words now but they
roll off my tongue incorrectly.
I’m split down the middle
split like sunrise & dusk
sharing the same sky.
I learned I’m too Black when my
R’s roll wrong
I learned I’m too Hispanic when
my hair tells stories.
I learned my Spanish comes out
slow
I’m Black with Spanish stuck in
my throat, I’m Hispanic with English
bruising my tongue.
Wheels
Wheels turning down the sidewalk
The test that I had studied for a year.
Feeling the heat coming from the black leathered
seat.
My hands gripping tightly on the handle bars.
A force holding me up on a string.
Waiting for the tripwire to activate and take
liftoff.
“SNAP”
The wind crackles as I start to float.
Each gear turning
Turning
Turning
Black
The mechanical machine stutters as it stalls out.
My hands pull the bike up as I feel a burn
in my knee.
And then I’m back on the bars
My hands gripping tightly on the handle bars.
A force holding me up on a string.
Waiting for the tripwire to activate and
take liftoff.
“SNAP”
The pedals sink into my shoes.
I steer controlled
calm under the wind.
Me and the machine merge in symphony
The wind comes under the wheel
I’m flying.