"The Hill We Climb" Contest
In this contest, taking place in Spring of 2021, students were tasked with writing a piece of original poetry or fiction inspired by Amanda Gorman's "The Hill We Climb."
by Latoya Kibusi
The difference between you and I
Is how many scars and black eyes
We come across a day
The difference between you and I
Is you don’t feel the ghost of dead black men
Pass through your thoughts
The difference between you and I
Is you get bored listening to the news
I get my happiness sucked away
The difference between you and I
Is you have the power to kill
I have the power to get killed
The difference between you and I
Is your degrees feed your kids
food stamps feed mines
The difference between you and I
Is you get doors built for you
I get men sexualizing my dark skin
The difference between you and I
Is that you can be a woman
But I’ll always have to add black before woman
The difference between you and I
Is you get to climb a hill
But I’ll always have to climb a mountain to climb your hill
The difference between you and I
Is you’re fighting to climb his hill
But I’m fighting to climb a hill
So you see “the hill we climb.”
Is just you washing away my trauma
To make it look like we in the same struggle
But I’ll play along and call my mountain a hill when I am with you.
The difference between you and I
Is how many scars and black eyes
We come across a day
The difference between you and I
Is you don’t feel the ghost of dead black men
Pass through your thoughts
The difference between you and I
Is you get bored listening to the news
I get my happiness sucked away
The difference between you and I
Is you have the power to kill
I have the power to get killed
The difference between you and I
Is your degrees feed your kids
food stamps feed mines
The difference between you and I
Is you get doors built for you
I get men sexualizing my dark skin
The difference between you and I
Is that you can be a woman
But I’ll always have to add black before woman
The difference between you and I
Is you get to climb a hill
But I’ll always have to climb a mountain to climb your hill
The difference between you and I
Is you’re fighting to climb his hill
But I’m fighting to climb a hill
So you see “the hill we climb.”
Is just you washing away my trauma
To make it look like we in the same struggle
But I’ll play along and call my mountain a hill when I am with you.
by Casey Vieira
i hit the gates of horn and ivory the other night,
met some stranger, daggered with some dying sacrament.
he muttered, “scarcity”
“loose ends”
“lack and want”
and slowly took my shape.
i crossed the gates of horn and ivory just last night,
thick and soaked with a pursuit
i never knew the name of.
i sit in the sun and nose-bleed for days,
and listen to lectures from a man
who knew of cathexis
and knew of me
and knew of my type
and knew of cathexis.
i fell in love with the promise of a requiem.
she sits pretty on a calendar
(one wherein the dates ahead fall off,
never coming to fruition.
or perhaps they were never written in,
i come to find
in some passing moment of quiet)
awake, i didn’t choose this fervency.
maybe dreaming, maybe by another name.
but i think i could die honest in it,
or else wither in its commitment.
hit the gates of horn and ivory the other night,
met some stranger, daggered with some dying sacrament.
he muttered, “scarcity”
“loose ends”
“lack and want”
and slowly took my shape.
i crossed the gates of horn and ivory just last night,
thick and soaked with a pursuit
i never knew the name of.
i sit in the sun and nose-bleed for days,
and listen to lectures from a man
who knew of cathexis
and knew of me
and knew of my type
and knew of cathexis.
i fell in love with the promise of a requiem.
she sits pretty on a calendar
(one wherein the dates ahead fall off,
never coming to fruition.
or perhaps they were never written in,
i come to find
in some passing moment of quiet)
awake, i didn’t choose this fervency.
maybe dreaming, maybe by another name.
but i think i could die honest in it,
or else wither in its commitment.
i hit the gates of horn and ivory the other night,
met some stranger, daggered with some dying sacrament.
he muttered, “scarcity”
“loose ends”
“lack and want”
and slowly took my shape.
i crossed the gates of horn and ivory just last night,
thick and soaked with a pursuit
i never knew the name of.
i sit in the sun and nose-bleed for days,
and listen to lectures from a man
who knew of cathexis
and knew of me
and knew of my type
and knew of cathexis.
i fell in love with the promise of a requiem.
she sits pretty on a calendar
(one wherein the dates ahead fall off,
never coming to fruition.
or perhaps they were never written in,
i come to find
in some passing moment of quiet)
awake, i didn’t choose this fervency.
maybe dreaming, maybe by another name.
but i think i could die honest in it,
or else wither in its commitment.
hit the gates of horn and ivory the other night,
met some stranger, daggered with some dying sacrament.
he muttered, “scarcity”
“loose ends”
“lack and want”
and slowly took my shape.
i crossed the gates of horn and ivory just last night,
thick and soaked with a pursuit
i never knew the name of.
i sit in the sun and nose-bleed for days,
and listen to lectures from a man
who knew of cathexis
and knew of me
and knew of my type
and knew of cathexis.
i fell in love with the promise of a requiem.
she sits pretty on a calendar
(one wherein the dates ahead fall off,
never coming to fruition.
or perhaps they were never written in,
i come to find
in some passing moment of quiet)
awake, i didn’t choose this fervency.
maybe dreaming, maybe by another name.
but i think i could die honest in it,
or else wither in its commitment.
by Althea Culaba
Swish… swish… swish...
A twiddling of thumbs, a fiddling of fingers, a piercing gaze upon that which is being observed. Flitting eyelashes await bated breath, a clear hesitancy behind their actions. Spinning in callused fingertips lies one particular Hibiscus syriacus. The very existence of the blossom has left a certain soul stagnant, unable to elucidate its significance. Of course, there was nothing distinctly extraordinary about the plant: it delicately spun in a blur of light pinks, with darkened magenta pigments converging in the center.
An outsider may have thought that perhaps it was the twirling movement of the pollen stems that enraptured the individual, but the intentful, pondering features indicated otherwise.
“Tell me, friend, who are you?”
Swish… swish…
“I...”
…
Bright pinkened rays of midday now illuminate a not-so-barren cafeteria. It is a year before that certain question transpired, but its relevance remains evident. The individual in question sits in troubled thought, their mind blossoming with unwanted weeds. Every present detail became increasingly apparent: the white noise inundating all discernable sound, the judgemental scowls of privileged peers, the silent, mutual understanding of their own alienation.
Brown hands fly up to meet small, dampening eyes and rosy cheeks.
Needless to say, such features were a constant subject of discussion. Those like them were attacked, denounced, and blamed for things that they could not control, their peculiarities regarded with distaste. It was unnerving to see how they would be harshly mocked, their characteristics then stolen by petty appropriators, and the significance of their origins lost in the process.
These cultural thieves thought themselves akin to royalty, and boasted upon their alleged individuality and nonconformity. Yet, what good is individuality if the so-called idiosyncratic features were stolen off the bodies of wronged kuyas and ates?' Their effects could be seen now, in the way that these thieves would reshape and line their eyes into squinting almonds, or how they would aestheticize and sexualize the garments that had held so much cultural significance.
The distressed soul looked out the window, resting their thinned, tormented eyes on the smallest of flowerbeds. A scattering of coral hibiscuses laid amongst clusters of ivory weeds, grimly reflecting the situation in which the individual found themselves in.
They couldn’t help but flash a bitter, arduous grin.
While they gazed upon a garden of flowers, they likened each species to individuals. Pinkish blossoms would flourish as tended by specialized gardeners, but diminished in number in the presence of invasive weeds—much like the way of their people. The intensity of the ivory pigments were overwhelming, intimidating all to conform. With each passing day, they observed the space as it became slowly occupied with oxeye daisies, pepperweed, and multiflora roses, until the beauty of the saturated pink hues were all but diluted specs in a sea of white.
Snapping back into reality, the despondent spirit reluctantly brought their exhausted, burdened eyes away from the scene. Their mind was now plagued with aching realizations, and they were faced with little solution. In pointing out the mistreatment of the flowers, they were discouraged by further judgement, refuted by passionate, unknowingly ignorant fools.
That was, until a certain question came into view.
“If the garden is as mistreated as you claim, what’s stopping you from restoring it?”
The sound of a flickering, newly-alighted soul now echoed off the walls.
…
“Well, do you have an answer yet?”
Swish… swish…
“I saw myself as a helpless hibiscus, amongst a sea of ivory weeds. I understand that I am but their humble gardener, in search of a more colorful flower bed.”
' “Brothers and sisters” in Tagalog
Swish… swish… swish...
A twiddling of thumbs, a fiddling of fingers, a piercing gaze upon that which is being observed. Flitting eyelashes await bated breath, a clear hesitancy behind their actions. Spinning in callused fingertips lies one particular Hibiscus syriacus. The very existence of the blossom has left a certain soul stagnant, unable to elucidate its significance. Of course, there was nothing distinctly extraordinary about the plant: it delicately spun in a blur of light pinks, with darkened magenta pigments converging in the center.
An outsider may have thought that perhaps it was the twirling movement of the pollen stems that enraptured the individual, but the intentful, pondering features indicated otherwise.
“Tell me, friend, who are you?”
Swish… swish…
“I...”
…
Bright pinkened rays of midday now illuminate a not-so-barren cafeteria. It is a year before that certain question transpired, but its relevance remains evident. The individual in question sits in troubled thought, their mind blossoming with unwanted weeds. Every present detail became increasingly apparent: the white noise inundating all discernable sound, the judgemental scowls of privileged peers, the silent, mutual understanding of their own alienation.
Brown hands fly up to meet small, dampening eyes and rosy cheeks.
Needless to say, such features were a constant subject of discussion. Those like them were attacked, denounced, and blamed for things that they could not control, their peculiarities regarded with distaste. It was unnerving to see how they would be harshly mocked, their characteristics then stolen by petty appropriators, and the significance of their origins lost in the process.
These cultural thieves thought themselves akin to royalty, and boasted upon their alleged individuality and nonconformity. Yet, what good is individuality if the so-called idiosyncratic features were stolen off the bodies of wronged kuyas and ates?' Their effects could be seen now, in the way that these thieves would reshape and line their eyes into squinting almonds, or how they would aestheticize and sexualize the garments that had held so much cultural significance.
The distressed soul looked out the window, resting their thinned, tormented eyes on the smallest of flowerbeds. A scattering of coral hibiscuses laid amongst clusters of ivory weeds, grimly reflecting the situation in which the individual found themselves in.
They couldn’t help but flash a bitter, arduous grin.
While they gazed upon a garden of flowers, they likened each species to individuals. Pinkish blossoms would flourish as tended by specialized gardeners, but diminished in number in the presence of invasive weeds—much like the way of their people. The intensity of the ivory pigments were overwhelming, intimidating all to conform. With each passing day, they observed the space as it became slowly occupied with oxeye daisies, pepperweed, and multiflora roses, until the beauty of the saturated pink hues were all but diluted specs in a sea of white.
Snapping back into reality, the despondent spirit reluctantly brought their exhausted, burdened eyes away from the scene. Their mind was now plagued with aching realizations, and they were faced with little solution. In pointing out the mistreatment of the flowers, they were discouraged by further judgement, refuted by passionate, unknowingly ignorant fools.
That was, until a certain question came into view.
“If the garden is as mistreated as you claim, what’s stopping you from restoring it?”
The sound of a flickering, newly-alighted soul now echoed off the walls.
…
“Well, do you have an answer yet?”
Swish… swish…
“I saw myself as a helpless hibiscus, amongst a sea of ivory weeds. I understand that I am but their humble gardener, in search of a more colorful flower bed.”
' “Brothers and sisters” in Tagalog