Imagination
He didn’t have a name but he followed me everywhere. He built a house in my head and he would come out to play; pillow forts were his favorite. He’d sit in the caboose of trains made with Little Tikes cars tied together with jump ropes and eat plastic grapes with me lying on Buzz Lightyear picnic blankets.
When I learned to read, he became an actor. I’d curl up on the couch with the blanket that smelled old in a good way, hugging a book my dad had loved and read more than once. And we were off. We stole gold back from pirates wearing my mom’s old high-heeled shoes and tamed T-Rex dinosaurs with my little brother. I knew all the characters from the R-T isle in the library on a first name basis and so did he.
We longed for adventure and were curious always. He understood that rain was for dancing and the tree house was for stargazing and asking questions. We threw purple bouncy-balls high into the sky and wondered if they would ever fall down. (They always did, so we wondered why.)
I’m older now, but I still visit him up in my mind’s attic—he sleeps curled up with too many pillows in that lopsided yellow tent. There’s no jumping rope or bouncy-balls anymore. But his creative spirit is with me whenever I think, pondering problems and searching for solutions together over coffee sipped from our old finger-painted mugs.
Miranda Rosenblum
He didn’t have a name but he followed me everywhere. He built a house in my head and he would come out to play; pillow forts were his favorite. He’d sit in the caboose of trains made with Little Tikes cars tied together with jump ropes and eat plastic grapes with me lying on Buzz Lightyear picnic blankets.
When I learned to read, he became an actor. I’d curl up on the couch with the blanket that smelled old in a good way, hugging a book my dad had loved and read more than once. And we were off. We stole gold back from pirates wearing my mom’s old high-heeled shoes and tamed T-Rex dinosaurs with my little brother. I knew all the characters from the R-T isle in the library on a first name basis and so did he.
We longed for adventure and were curious always. He understood that rain was for dancing and the tree house was for stargazing and asking questions. We threw purple bouncy-balls high into the sky and wondered if they would ever fall down. (They always did, so we wondered why.)
I’m older now, but I still visit him up in my mind’s attic—he sleeps curled up with too many pillows in that lopsided yellow tent. There’s no jumping rope or bouncy-balls anymore. But his creative spirit is with me whenever I think, pondering problems and searching for solutions together over coffee sipped from our old finger-painted mugs.
Miranda Rosenblum
Spaceman
The first time he visited, I saw him enter through my bedroom window, take off his helmet and start humming to himself, as if he didn’t know I was there. I faked sleep, until I decided to see what a real spaceman looked like from up close.
I crept out of bed, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced myself. But he just asked me if I knew the song. I shook my head no, and taught him how to dance instead.
After he’s done dancing, he jumps out the window and blasts away. He won’t even tell me what planet he’s from.
For the longest time I thought that spaceman was testing me, trying to see if I would care to tour the universe with him, then I realized how absurd that sounded. But why would he come to my room every night so often just to dance with me?
It made me think he must just like it here. And I can’t really blame him. I like it here too. Here’s not such a bad place if you can learn to forget everything for three-and-a-half minutes.
Anna Allen
The first time he visited, I saw him enter through my bedroom window, take off his helmet and start humming to himself, as if he didn’t know I was there. I faked sleep, until I decided to see what a real spaceman looked like from up close.
I crept out of bed, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced myself. But he just asked me if I knew the song. I shook my head no, and taught him how to dance instead.
After he’s done dancing, he jumps out the window and blasts away. He won’t even tell me what planet he’s from.
For the longest time I thought that spaceman was testing me, trying to see if I would care to tour the universe with him, then I realized how absurd that sounded. But why would he come to my room every night so often just to dance with me?
It made me think he must just like it here. And I can’t really blame him. I like it here too. Here’s not such a bad place if you can learn to forget everything for three-and-a-half minutes.
Anna Allen
Model No. 1228
Everyone at the plant is pleased with how she looks. Exquisite, one intern admires. Well, I’ll be damned, says another.
Lucille wants to smile, but the engineers have screwed her jaw shut. Her face is now plated in metal, with splotches of gold where the uneven surfaces are patched together.
Her right hand is a claw. Her left hand, a magnet. Her knees no longer bend. Instead, they are sealed together and spray-painted gold to match her face.
Lucille wants to speak. She wants to say that she too thinks she is beautifully crafted. But just as the metal begins to creak near her jaw, the head engineer tightens another screw.
She looks at her reflection in her arm. There is only one rough spot on her forearm from before the engineers removed her tear ducts. She’s rusting the metal, one had said.
Lucille imagines a day when they will take off all of the metal and find something behind those perfected plates. But more often, she hopes they never do.
She reasons there is a fair chance they would find nothing whatsoever and she would surely disintegrate.
Anna Allen
Everyone at the plant is pleased with how she looks. Exquisite, one intern admires. Well, I’ll be damned, says another.
Lucille wants to smile, but the engineers have screwed her jaw shut. Her face is now plated in metal, with splotches of gold where the uneven surfaces are patched together.
Her right hand is a claw. Her left hand, a magnet. Her knees no longer bend. Instead, they are sealed together and spray-painted gold to match her face.
Lucille wants to speak. She wants to say that she too thinks she is beautifully crafted. But just as the metal begins to creak near her jaw, the head engineer tightens another screw.
She looks at her reflection in her arm. There is only one rough spot on her forearm from before the engineers removed her tear ducts. She’s rusting the metal, one had said.
Lucille imagines a day when they will take off all of the metal and find something behind those perfected plates. But more often, she hopes they never do.
She reasons there is a fair chance they would find nothing whatsoever and she would surely disintegrate.
Anna Allen
My Story
I once lived in a beautiful neighborhood – the typical Nairobi estate-with a red kiosk. It was small and unassuming, simply a booth from which various goods were sold, ranging from gum filled lollipops to sodas in tall glass bottles. I frequented it as often as I felt change rattling in my pocket, my visits inspired by a taste for car shaped chocolates which I enjoyed without much thought. My opinion, however, of these simple treats was soon to change, as on my way home from the stand one evening, I was approached by a pair of younger girls. I noted their steady gazes which were transfixed on one of the saccharine delights that I was in the process of plopping right into my mouth. Slowly, I handed each girl a chocolate car, comforted by the knowledge that I carried several more, but the happiness apparent in their faces propelled me into giving away all of my sweets. Satisfied, the girls expressed their thanks and ran home. Their destination? The sprawling slums that lay across a conspicuous railroad track which served as the barrier between my neighborhood and theirs.
What an interesting juxtaposition of contradictory worlds that was, and at eight years old, I acknowledged the incongruity of the situation. Just beyond my neighborhood, with its newly built homes and successful residents, was a bustling slum that stood as the epitome of poverty. From my balcony, it appeared to be an endless river of dilapidated shacks and shelters that were running aground. How could it be that such stark differences could exist across a simple railroad track? Often, I would sit on the balcony deep in my thoughts, pondering upon this irregularity.
Growing older, I came to understand the intricate mechanism of poverty. It had a peculiar, cyclic nature that was challenging to break and discontinue. The disparity that the railroad track punctuated was a side effect of Kenya’s third world status, for which economic stagnation can partly bear accountability. My neighborhood stood as a microcosm of the country’s plight on a larger scale.
Upon moving to the United States the problems within the country I left were further highlighted. Between the both nations are differing cultural ideas and experiences of poverty. Where it is more gradual in America, it is abrupt and sudden in much of Kenya. The rift between the poor and the rich is so vast that the spectrum extends into the extremes of morbid wealth and morbid poverty. The culture of government accountability in the West flourishes as compared to that of much of the developing world where leaders abdicate their responsibilities. People have given value to constitutionalism in the West, whereas this idea cannot be properly implemented in third world nations because of corruption that turns constitutions into mere pieces of paper. Leaving one state of economic development and entering another has been a jarring experience that has allowed me to understand why certain areas exist in their current conditions and the solutions that may come about as a response to the specialized problems that different regions face.
For years, I have always craved an understanding of the steps needed for the eradication of poverty. From fanciful, childhood imaginations, to concrete, practical ideas, I have striven to find solutions to this malady from various sources. My search for answers, as a result, has led me to the most unexpected of places-the world of business and entrepreneurship. Taking a closer look, there is indeed potency within the field that can drive out this menace of civility by empowering the impoverished and opening up opportunities for the betterment of various economic conditions. The business and entrepreneurship path is one I want to pursue in broadening my knowledge concerning the cyclic nature of poverty and the means in which each cycle can be disrupted.
Joy Malonza
I once lived in a beautiful neighborhood – the typical Nairobi estate-with a red kiosk. It was small and unassuming, simply a booth from which various goods were sold, ranging from gum filled lollipops to sodas in tall glass bottles. I frequented it as often as I felt change rattling in my pocket, my visits inspired by a taste for car shaped chocolates which I enjoyed without much thought. My opinion, however, of these simple treats was soon to change, as on my way home from the stand one evening, I was approached by a pair of younger girls. I noted their steady gazes which were transfixed on one of the saccharine delights that I was in the process of plopping right into my mouth. Slowly, I handed each girl a chocolate car, comforted by the knowledge that I carried several more, but the happiness apparent in their faces propelled me into giving away all of my sweets. Satisfied, the girls expressed their thanks and ran home. Their destination? The sprawling slums that lay across a conspicuous railroad track which served as the barrier between my neighborhood and theirs.
What an interesting juxtaposition of contradictory worlds that was, and at eight years old, I acknowledged the incongruity of the situation. Just beyond my neighborhood, with its newly built homes and successful residents, was a bustling slum that stood as the epitome of poverty. From my balcony, it appeared to be an endless river of dilapidated shacks and shelters that were running aground. How could it be that such stark differences could exist across a simple railroad track? Often, I would sit on the balcony deep in my thoughts, pondering upon this irregularity.
Growing older, I came to understand the intricate mechanism of poverty. It had a peculiar, cyclic nature that was challenging to break and discontinue. The disparity that the railroad track punctuated was a side effect of Kenya’s third world status, for which economic stagnation can partly bear accountability. My neighborhood stood as a microcosm of the country’s plight on a larger scale.
Upon moving to the United States the problems within the country I left were further highlighted. Between the both nations are differing cultural ideas and experiences of poverty. Where it is more gradual in America, it is abrupt and sudden in much of Kenya. The rift between the poor and the rich is so vast that the spectrum extends into the extremes of morbid wealth and morbid poverty. The culture of government accountability in the West flourishes as compared to that of much of the developing world where leaders abdicate their responsibilities. People have given value to constitutionalism in the West, whereas this idea cannot be properly implemented in third world nations because of corruption that turns constitutions into mere pieces of paper. Leaving one state of economic development and entering another has been a jarring experience that has allowed me to understand why certain areas exist in their current conditions and the solutions that may come about as a response to the specialized problems that different regions face.
For years, I have always craved an understanding of the steps needed for the eradication of poverty. From fanciful, childhood imaginations, to concrete, practical ideas, I have striven to find solutions to this malady from various sources. My search for answers, as a result, has led me to the most unexpected of places-the world of business and entrepreneurship. Taking a closer look, there is indeed potency within the field that can drive out this menace of civility by empowering the impoverished and opening up opportunities for the betterment of various economic conditions. The business and entrepreneurship path is one I want to pursue in broadening my knowledge concerning the cyclic nature of poverty and the means in which each cycle can be disrupted.
Joy Malonza