Writing Lesson To Evoke Empathy and Emulate Voice:

Three middle-school writers chose to respond to the following prompt in my summer writing workshop based on Sharon G. Flake’s YA novel The Skin I’m In. If I hadn’t observed them writing their poetic pieces on Zoom, and hadn’t seen them revising onscreen in response to the questions and comments I was leaving in the margins of their documents, I would swear these writers had been transcribing part of a conversation they had had with the fictional protagonist Maleeka herself!   

 

Prompt 8A: Reread pages 73-74 (69-70 in newer edition), when Maleeka recalls her momma’s        response to grief over her husband’s death. “When my daddy died three years ago, Momma fell            apart. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep…. I was ten years old and brushing her teeth, feeding            her oatmeal like a baby. She cried all the time.” Write a short descriptive scene or poem about            this time in Maleeka’s life. Try to use Maleeka’s point-of-view and voice. 

 

Here are the three poetic creations by Nakita Ray, Resha Shukla, and Ryan Hu—whose artistry is equaled by their obvious empathy.  

 

Tearstains are left on my cheeks.

Yet it’s nothing compared to Momma.

She looks like she’s been crying a river.

Their bed has not been slept in ever since he was declared dead.

Instead he’s lying in a box that’s underground, six feet deep.

Every time I check on Momma at night, 

her eyes are open like she’s dying of fright.

Daddy’s ghost looms over us like a shadow that never leaves. 

Needles pierce my heart and I feel so much agony.

I’m shaking but Momma looks like a wreck compared to me.

Getting up from the ball I was in, 

I stand up to help Momma all that I can.

Holding up a spoon of oatmeal,

I’m pleading to Momma to open her mouth,

But she looks so lost.

Her eyes gloss over the spoon and me,

Looking behind, seeing an endless path,

Momma reaches for something that she cannot have.

A dream of paradise with Daddy alive,

I see it, too. (seemingly dictated by Maleeka to Nakita Ray)

 

It’s morning, and the last thing I want to do is get up. After last night's fiasco of hauling Momma up to her bed, my limbs are about to turn into mush and give out. Doesn't help that I ain’t that strong anyways. Momma’s like a lifeless body, but somehow, she’s still got some life in her, and I'm sure that that's all that's keeping her from collapsing. For the past week, mornings have been the same. Get up, make me and Momma some breakfast, drag Momma downstairs, feed her (even though most of it don't even make it into her mouth), and eat my own share while Momma stares out the window, not saying a word. I'm getting sick of this, every day I follow this stupid routine and then leave Momma alone in her thoughts until it’s time for another meal or sleep. The main problem, though, is how quiet it is. Momma don’t try speaking, and I can't seem to find the right words to say. No words are spoken in this house, and it seems like with the way our family is functioning, in the future there won't be any either. It would’ve been fine cause I know that Momma's brain is never gonna stop thinking about Dad, but the silence and lack of words is leaving me in my thoughts also. And to be honest, I don't wanna be left alone with my thoughts at all. ‘Cause I'm afraid, I'm afraid that I'll become like Momma. And then there'll be no one left supporting us. ‘Cause it feels like I'm facing this problem alone, even though me and Momma need to work through this together. And I know for a fact that Momma won’t start getting better on her own. She's in her own bubble, a bubble of despair, grief, regret, and pain. Momma don’t trust me with needles, so I can’t burst her bubble like that, but I have my own, intangible needle. And it’s the only thing I can use to bring Momma back to life. “So, Momma, what do you feel like having for dinner?”

(from a fictional interview transcribed by Resha Shukla)

 

 

 

Helpless

By “Maleeka Madison”

 

Momma’s mouth does not take anything

Her head won’t rest onto her pillow

Her lips are motionless

Like a hand 

snatched the spirit she used to have

It ain’t fair at all,

Daddy’s gone

And momma’s been useless,

For almost two years now,

I wonder every day,

If the hand will return her spirit the next day, 

But I know the hand ain’t ever gonna hear my voice begging,

A hand don’t got ears anyways.

“Momma open your mouth, please…”

Her eyes are remote, her thoughts are, too

 She gazes past my spoon of oatmeal, 

Her mouth muttering.

 Occasionally a tear drops down into her lap;

I turn my back to her naturally.

At times, I want to sob with her, 

Or shake her violently,

And scream at her to come back.

I never do though,

Because there is a heavy blanket I cannot see

that wraps around me,

and reminds me of daddy’s arms,

Hugging me,

And telling me to stay strong.

(Maleeka’s words channeled by Ryan Hu)

Using Students' Works To Prompt Other Students' Writings

May 7, 2020

The following poem, by my student William MacLeod, uses a metaphor to make a statement about people. Write an E-IEI-O analysis of his poem. Then write your own metaphorical poem to represent a personality.

 

THE WORM

by William MacLeod

 

“I won’t leave my garden,”

Says a worm.

“There is plenty of dirt here.

Out there are birds.

Out there are moles.

Everything is alright in my garden.

Why would I leave?”

 

 

In response to the prompt above, two of my fifth-grade private writing students, Ethan and Lino, wrote these essay-style paragraphs, using my E-IEI-O format, to analyze William’s poem:

 

The poem “The Worm,” by William MacLeod, uses the worm to describe a person who loves to stay at home. The worm says, “Why should I leave?” because he is an insect who likes to stay out of danger, in a safe place, which in this case is his home, the garden. In today’s situation, the moles and the birds could be the coronavirus who comes to hunt us down, and the only place where we are safe is in our homes. In conclusion, the poem “The Worm” teaches us that we should stay home during this time of danger, so we can be safe and healthy.

 

*                *                      *                      *                      *                      *

The poem “THE WORM,” by William MacLeod uses the metaphorical image of a complacent worm to show the idea of someone who does not want to leave their comfort zone. The last line of this poem is “‘Why would I leave?’” These words show the reader that the worm is happy with what he has and does not want to explore the unknown. The reason William MacLeod used a worm to explain the behavior of staying in your comfort zone is because worms are known to stay underground, safe from all of the danger around them. The worm represents people who do not like to take risks and suggests that staying safe is more important than adventure.

 

Using students’ works to prompt writing by other students has served as a very effective motivational tool in my extracurricular writing program. My students see admirable and relatable writing by peers, as role models, and they immediately want to display their own understanding of those words. They also aim to be the next featured young author to inspire fellow students. Maybe once the fifth-grade literary analysts do the second part of the original prompt, which asks them to write their own poems as homework, I will have more excellent poems to motivate other young writers!

Emulation Exercise To Prove to a Student that He IS a Poet

          Before he started private lessons with me, Ethan, a fourth-grade student, hadn't written or studied poetry. So I introduced him to Sharon Creech's brilliant, middle-grade novel-in-verse Love That Dog.  In that book, the narrator, like my student, is a boy who initially looks at poetry as merely a language arts class unit that is somehow related to his literary education. Through emulating the poems presented by his teacher, the fictional boy, Jack, soon finds his own style and voice, and discovers some important personal truths that he can now express poetically. Ethan enjoyed Creech's book a lot, and when I assigned him a prompt from my book Writing Success Through Poetry, he emulated Jack by emulating me. Adapting my poem's structure and style to express his own feelings about the intangible value of a personal treasure, he created "My Soccer Ball." His poem appears just below the prompt, my poem "Nana's Ring."

                        

The very fact that Ethan willingly typed this poem and proudly offered it to me to post here--not to mention that he clearly understands the difference between tangible and intangible value--is proof enough of the benefit of encouraging emulation by young writers. Please feel free to leave comments for Ethan below.

Student Response to "The Animal School," by George Reavis

     

"The Animal School," a fable by George Reavis is one of my favorite prompts for middle-school students (click on the story title to read the short text, which I first read in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book). The story teaches a lesson about teaching lessons--to animals. The animal students find themselves in a school that forces them to learn athletic skills that contradict their natural abilities--like the duck who is forced to keep practicing his running on the track, and discouraged from focusing on swimming, in which he excels. Torn webbed feet and low self-esteem certainly won't motivate such a student. This fable is about teaching to students' strengths, rather than highlighting their weaknesses and setting them up for failure; it's about designing lessons to suit individual learners' needs; and it's about self-directed learning and the importance of nonconformity to inspire students to reach their full potentials. 

After discussing the story, I assign two possible writing prompts: 1) students can write their own story about an animal NOT mentioned in "The Animal School" who rebels against a teacher who ignores abilities and needs in favor of a "one size fits all" approach to education; and 2) students can write a persuasive letter to the head of the Animal School to demand changes in unjust curriculum requirements. Oliver, a 12 year old, found a unique way to complete both prompts and link them together. I was so impressed by the voice, humor, and description in his story, and by the clever letter that he wrote from the principal to the complaining parents, that I asked him to send me his final draft for this blog. Below is Oliver's tale of a fish who attends the Animal School, and makes waves, so to speak, first by beating his swan teacher's record in swimming, and then by questioning an oblivious teacher who tries to force him into risking his life by running on land. I hope you enjoy and admire his work as much as I do. Please consider leaving a comment for Oliver, below this story.

As a fish, I love swimming; I mean, it’s one of the only things I can do. Then came September 2, which was the first day of Animal School. I was so excited to meet new friends and learn new things. When the day finally came, my Mom woke me up early in the morning and brought me outside. 

“Sorry, son,” Mom apologizes, “I can’t swim you to school today, so I signed you up to swim with the duck family.”

“That’s fine,” I respond. 

“Okay. Have fun at school.” Mom hugged me goodbye.

I swam up to the surface to meet the duck family. The little duck was Kevin, who was going to be my classmate. We spent the entire swim to school talking. It was nice to have someone to talk to other than my parents. There weren’t really any other fish or animals around where I live. When we arrived at the school we were greeted by the principal. An old bulldog with tiny spectacles, he had a large head with a soothing smile. 

“Good Morning everyone, I am Principal Hank,” the bulldog announced. “I just want to say that today everyone's first class will be Swimming with Mr. Swanson.”

Mr.Swanson wanted to start the year off by assessing us. I thought it would go fine. Except there was one problem: we were being graded. This made me nervous, I didn’t know how he was going to grade us without a standard. What made me more nervous was that I was first. What if I was a slow swimmer, compared to the other water animals? Well, at least I knew how to swim. Jones the squirrel was scared out of his mind. He paced back and forth and winced at the sight of water. For the assessment, we had to swim along the shore from point A to point B. Mr. Swanson demonstrated his swan dive and finished with a time of 24 seconds. What if that was the standard? Do we have to beat that impossible time to pass?

 I was at the starting line. The instant I heard the word “go”, I swam as fast as I could. There was still a chance of beating the record. I shattered Mr. Swanson’s time with 16 seconds! I could hear the entire class cheering; Kevin was screaming his head off. A wave of relief came over me. I knew that no matter what, I would get a good grade. Kevin was next, finishing with a time of 21 seconds. Mr. Swanson was so shocked at this that he came over and high-fived Kevin and patted me on the head.

“What a relief! I think it's guaranteed we get an A. We did beat the Instructor,” Kevin laughed.

Swimming makes one less thing to worry about--or so I thought. The rest of the class was made up of land animals, except for an eel. Jones the Squirrel sank like a rock. When Jones finished, it was Fluffy the Cat’s turn. Fluffy screeched after putting a toe in the water. All of us saw the disappointment in Swanson’s face. Mr. Swanson assumed everyone was a water and land creature like himself. When he saw that only 4 out of 32 could swim, he gave the rest of the class a 1/20 while giving us a 20/20. The water animals felt awful for our classmates, so we all agreed that tomorrow we wouldn’t try, so the animals could get a good grade. It was unfair to grade like that, but before we could talk with Mr. Swanson, the next class was announced: Running! My heart sank to the back of my chest. 

Everyone is nervous on the first day of school, but this feeling was different. This feeling was dread.

“You can just talk with the teacher and you’ll be fine,” Kevin comforted.

“Al--Alright,” I respond.

Kevin walked with me to the teacher, Coach Jack.

“Sir?” I asked nervously. “Do I--Do I sit out for running class?”

“Do you have a doctor’s note?” Coach replied. 

I started to tremor and swim back and forth. “Umm, Sir—Sir… ”

“But he’s a fish!” Kevin talked for me.

“That means he is a water animal. Are you discriminating against his kind? Just because some fish can’t walk doesn’t mean all fish can't walk,” Coach Jack said sternly. 

“Are you crazy! All fish can’t run!” Kevin yelled.

“See what I mean? That is stereotypical. And watch your tone there, young man!” Coach yelled.

“I can’t run knowing my friend is going to fail because of a clearly oblivious teacher!” Kevin exclaimed. Coach Jack was swelling up with anger.

Before Coach Jack could say anything, the eel from swimming class joined in: “I can't either.”

“This is outrageous!” Coach Jack stomped. “You three just earned yourself detention after school!”

Coach Jack was in the opposite of a fantastic mood, especially when I stayed in the water. He constantly tried to drag me on shore to run. When the other students saw this, they knew something was wrong.

“What are you doing?” Jones the Squirrel questioned.

“He won't--won’t participate in running,” Coach struggled, trying to catch me.

“Stop, I can’t—I can’t breathe on land,” I protested.

“Stop with the excuses! I’m not in a good mood, just cooperate,” Coach responded.

“But fish can’t swim. Stop it!” Jones exclaimed.

“What is wrong with you children!” Coach Jack gave up.

The rest of the students were crowding around Coach, trying to protect me. Tim the Turtle hid me under his shell, while George the Eaglet snuck behind Coach.

George was always a bit of a trouble maker, and now was no exception. This time he was doing it to help me. George picked up Coach Jack with his talons and dragged him away.

“How does it feel?” George taunted.

This unruly event became the start of many complaints and, some might even say, a rebellion. Weeks later, Coach Jack was fired and everyone tried to forget the events that happened. Complaints were still being sent and the school seemed as if it were about to come to an end, until Principal Hank sent out a letter.

* * * * *

Dear Parents, and Guardians of Animal School Students,

We have heard your complaints about our educational system. The system comes with many pros and cons, so try to see the situation from our perspective. We believe our children should be well-rounded, instead of being like a one-trick human. This opens a plethora of skills and opportunities for the kids (not just goats). The most important would be for safety. Who knows when the children might have to climb a tree to escape? Maybe they fell into a lake where they could drown, or even fish could wash ashore. The skills taught at Animal School would prepare them for those situations. Safety should be a priority for a parent, right before happiness. Our children need to discover what they love. 

When I was a young pup, my favorite activity was running. I would always race to the top of a hill with my friends or play games like Tag. One day my friends and I raced around a lake. I was so scared of falling in the lake that I didn’t pay attention to anything in front of me. Ironically, I tripped on a tree root and fell into the lake. I started to kick my legs frantically and swung my arms, and I found myself swimming. I loved it. Even today I swim every weekend at that same lake. This is the reason I created Animal School, to help children learn their true potential. Perhaps I shouldn't have to push the kids to do the impossible. Next school year, I will implement new classes personalized for the students. Fish no longer have to take running or climbing, but will learn jumping out of the water. Ducks will be able to take modified running, and no longer need climbing. I hope this satisfies your complaints, but just remember to encourage your children to learn new things. 

Sincerely, 

Principal Hank

Clearly, Oliver thoroughly understands the messages of the original story, and I applaud his sequel, which is more memorable even than the original story!

Essay Writing with "E IEI O" Structure!

          I have focused many of this summer's private lessons with middle-schoolers on strengthening their essay-writing skills. No amount of outlining or filling in graphic organizers has as much influence on my students as deconstructing sample body paragraphs based on my E-IEI-O mnemonic device for the five essential elements of every body paragraph:

          I provide examples of both weak and strong paragraphs, and read them aloud with my students. I then give them a checklist that calls their attention to each of the five structural elements above, to consider in terms of: vagueness versus specificity in word choices and examples; whether each sentence builds upon the preceding one; unnecessary repetition of words or ideas; clarity of assertions and examples; smoothness of transitions; inclusion of contextual set-up for quotations; and the overall power of the writer's insights. After this editorial exercise, which empowers them to fill the margins with notes guided by the checklist, I assign a single paragraph response to a short story or a poem. The students may write about the theme of the literary work, or focus on the style and power of the writing. Full of the desire to emulate the strong essay paragraphs that made them exclaim, "Ah, I didn't see that!," and the even greater desire to avoid emulating the weak essay paragraphs whose margins they filled with questions and critical words, they write. 

          Today I have created this example paragraph below, for students to emulate, based on a poem from my book, Writing Success Through Poetry, which you will find on page 52:"Thirsty Plant and Cloudy Sky." This would be helpful for a middle-school student to read and study, along with the poem (so get yourself a copy of my book with a quick click on the link embedded in the title above). 

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“E-IEI-O” Example Essay Paragraph About the Theme of a Poem: “Thirsty Plant and Cloudy Sky,” by Susan L. Lipson

Structure of a theme-based paragraph about literature

E-Establish theme

I-Illustrate theme with quotations from text, set up in context

E-Explain what illustration/quotation shows the reader

I-Interpret implications of the quotation that expand on established theme

O-Overall “take-away” lesson for broader understanding of theme

“Thirsty Plant and Cloudy Sky,” a poem by Susan L. Lipson, presents a metaphorical conversation between two personified friends--Plant and Sky--in which Plant offers comfort to his “blue” friend, but not solely out of love for Sky. Plant initially exhibits compassion: “Now sob, my friend; release a thunderous yell! Shared tears help friendships grow….” But then Plant adds quietly, “And ME as well--truth to tell!” The murmured confession of the ulterior motive alerts the reader that Plant may be encouraging the Sky’s sobbing--that is, rain--to quench his own thirst and boost his growth. Although the reader may doubt the Plant’s love for his friend, viewing Plant as a user more than a giver, no harm has actually occurred, only a mutually beneficial rain. Thus, the poem teaches a lesson about the codependence between friends and the importance of looking at the outcome of our interactions as well as the intentions behind them. 

Notice especially that the essay paragraph provides enough information about the poem it discusses that you don't have to read the poem in order to understand the paragraph. Also note how the "Overall sentence" broadens the topic established in the first sentence, and how the "Interpret line" offers an opinion based on "reading between the lines" (not based on the text itself, but on an opinion of what seems to be implied).

Choosing Specific Words To Establish Tone and Set a Mood

     After my 10-year-old student Lisa learned about how she could affect a reader's experience by choosing words to connote a particular tone, she took it upon herself to send me these contrasting depictions of "The Waking World"--showing both a positive and a negative connotation. As you will see, Lisa clearly understands the power of words upon the mood of the reader, as well as the mood of the fictional characters. Lessons on "connotation" and "tone" are usually reserved for high school English classes, but I have seen, again and again, with students like Lisa, that avid readers of any age can comprehend word power in a metacognitive way. 

The Waking World (Negative)

Cold dawn light filtered through the gray, cloudy sky. People slumped their way into coffee shops. The gaunt peoples’ spirits were as transparent as a ghost. Rusty cars sat on the dark road, and their headlights, almost like eyes, looked menacingly at the passing pedestrians dragging their bodies across the sidewalk. Empty cans thunked against the ground and echoed the hollow feelings of the town. Children walked their bikes across the dead grass and didn’t stop to say a word to fellow classmates. Dogs barked at approaching cats as they hissed scornfully. Fungi grew on almost every tree and the trees seemed to say, “I am not a happy tree, I am an ugly, sad tree.” Flowers drooped and mosquitos bit into the unappetizing, but only food--the grumpy humans.

The Waking World (Positive)

Warm dawn light seeped into the air of the town. People emerged from their houses and breathed in the air as if God were standing right there and they were trying to breathe in the sweet scent. Coffee sellers came out to greet people with their coffee and maybe a pleasant “Hello!” Children skipped in the front yards, getting their bikes and pedaling off to school, and women pushed strollers across the streets, with babies echoing the cheers of laughter and happiness. The flowers stood proudly, fanning out their vivid colors and leaves. The trees stood tall as if they ruled the world. Cats purred and dogs wagged their tails. As the sun rose over the green mountain peaks, everyone set off happily to enjoy the rest of the day.

LEARNING TO WRITE FROM EMOTIONAL, EVEN IF NOT PERSONAL, EXPERIENCE

            Personal ads, written by lonely people seeking connections or reconnections with others, offer an emotional treasure chest of possible stories—both fictional and factual—to a creative, introspective mind. We need not have experienced the same kinds of losses, joys, fears, or regrets that the ad writers express to be able to awaken similar emotions and weave them into original fiction, memoirs, or poems. For example, a couple of wistful lines from the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist prompted me to spin a story of romantic obsession between fictional characters who have nothing in common with me except these emotions: artistic passion, self-doubt, and a yearning for meaningful connections with colorful people. Emotional authenticity turns stick figure characters into fully fleshed out human beings. These are the lines that evoked my story:

                        “I shouldn’t remember you. Maybe you will fade now.”

            From those pained words, I wrote “Awaiting Fading,” a short story about a young artist who can’t erase the memory of a shopping experience at an art supply store, where she found herself enchanted by an employee with whom she shared glimpses of their respective artworks on Instagram before insecurity transformed admiration into intimidation, making the customer feel so unworthy of the new friend that she ran away from the store, as well as from her own feelings of inadequacy. The story begins with the lines from Craigslist, as the narrator stares wistfully at the now empty store, permanently closed, and realizes that she has no way to reconnect with the artist employee.

            I presented those same story-evoking lines to some of my teenage students. I assured them that by borrowing a pair of lines, and then taking off with it, like a torch passed from runner to runner in a cross-country marathon, they would not be plagiarizing, but rather, connecting and reconnecting with readers in the same way that the author of that borrowed line wishes to have connected with the one whose memory won’t fade. I gave them about 30 minutes to whip up a first draft of a short fiction worked based on emotional, but not actual reality. The teenagers were pleased and surprised by their own creations. 

          The on-demand short fictional works included: one story about a border security agent who can’t get a tiny Mexican boy out of his mind after the agent intentionally broke the law and allowed the boy and his family safe, but illegal passage into the US; another story about a person who once witnessed a woman jumping from a high-rise to her death, and now yearns for that death to stop haunting her; one poem about a witnessed act of charity in India, between a rich woman in a car and a child begging at her window; and another story about a soldier at war, forced to kill a fellow soldier who defied regulations. Each story's personal emotional reality gave texture to the purely imaginary characters and settings. 

(painting by my son, Ian Lipson, just because I find it inspiring...)

          Two sample short stories follow, one by Daniel and another by Liam, ages 15 and 16, respectively.

BITTERSWEET CANDY

By Daniel

            I don't know why I remember you. You, of all the people who passed through these gates. What made you so different from that mass of huddled souls?

            I can see you still. Your unbuttoned collar. Your untied shoes. Your toy bear, hugged tight against your chest.  I sometimes wonder what made you come here.  I remember stamping your passport for tourism. Your family said that you’d stay for just a few weeks. To see your relatives, then leave. I’ve gone and checked your records. You never did leave. 

            I sometimes wonder where you are now. I know that I should have reported you as soon as your visa was up, but I didn’t. I wonder why. What made you, of all people, so different from all the other I flagged and sent back?             

            Perhaps you’re not here anymore. Perhaps you were only passing through on your journey to who knows where fleeing from who knows what. You certainly don’t know, or didn’t at the time. Your father didn’t look at me. Your mother left so fast that she left a pair of pants behind. They’d fallen out of her luggage. I called her back, but only you turned to look at me.

              I still remember what was in those pants. They were blue jeans. Made in Malaysia. In the pockets were a crumpled up receipt and a candy wrapper. Caramelo agridulce. I asked my coworker what it meant. Why anyone would enjoy bittersweet candy is beyond me.

              Sometimes I think that I remember you for a reason. After all, God does not play dice. Why should your memory persist? I’ve seen countless deportations, telling myself that it was for the good of our community. I somehow always find myself looking out for your face. You must be grown up by now. It’s been ten years since you passed through our checkpoint. I wonder what your life is like. Do you go to school? Do manual labor like your father did? (The callouses never lie.) Perhaps I should have stopped you. Pulled you and your family over. I knew what was happening. I don’t know why I didn’t.

* * *

I Shouldn’t Remember You

by Liam

          I shouldn’t remember you. Maybe you will fade now…as so many of the others have done. 

           You never really did fit in with us, having nothing to boast, no stories to share, never understanding the jokes we told. I remember the nights you sat alone at the fires, staring off into the distance, as if grasping for a lost memory, while the rest of us huddled close in the winter nights, discussing battle plans and sharing tales of our women and children, thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

Every so often, one of us would call out to you, “Come join us, laddie, tell us of your deeds. We’ve got a lot more wine to spill.” Yet, you never did join us. Instead, your sole response would always be some clever excuse to get away from our reeking breaths.

“Damn rebs,” you would say, in your best impression of a grown man’s voice, “Someone had better keep watch.” And so the nights would go on.

We kept our steady march, until the day we finally reached Bunker Hill. Then came battle day, our valiant countrymen, charging up the slopes, straight into the Americans’ grapeshot and musket balls. Our comrades, who endured so much alongside us were ripped apart, blown to shreds by the merciless rebels above the hill. Then came our turn, our regiment’s attempt to secure the fort. As we charged out into the open field, only you stayed behind, clutching the seams of your bloodstained jacket, crying for mother, crying to be taken back home.

I had to do it. It was my job. One that I had done countless times before. Yet, when I called your name, and stated your crimes for cowardice, I could barely force myself to raise my gun. My hands trembled as I poised the barrel of my flintlock against your temple. “I had to do it,” is what I now tell myself. “It was necessary for the discipline of the men.” But every time I close my eyes, I think to myself, “I am the man who murdered a boy crying for his mother.”