Dear Erin Hunter,

            There are many books in this world that are life changing, and your book, Into the Wild, is one of them.  It certainly had a great impact on my life. 

            Before I read your book, I knew many kids who loved to read, but I was not one of them.  My posse of friends and I often made fun of “the readers”.  We would tease them and call them names.  Truthfully, I just hated reading and could not understand why anyone would want to do it.  It bored me so much that I would never read in my free time.  I would rather play video games, go skating at the skate park, or just chill with my friends.  However, all that changed that fateful day my mom showed me your book, Into the Wild. 

            I was lying on the couch, playing my DS, when my mom tapped me on the shoulder.  She showed me your book with its green forest background and a rusty red cat.  Normally, I would have just ignored the book and tossed it into the cardboard box of forgotten books that I kept under my bed.  Except at that moment, the box was overflowing with unread books.  I knew that if my mom saw me ditch the book, she would probably go into a fit about how I never read, and how it would raise my IQ, yada, yada, yada.  So instead, I took the book, intending to skim it until she walked away.  But, I thought, “what the heck.”  I might as well read it and get it over with.  That began what has become the greatest adventure of my short life.

            As I read the book, I became part of Fire Paw’s story.  I hunted with the Thunder Clan.  I swam with the River Clan and despised Blue Star with Shadow Clan.  I was not there in body, but I was so there in spirit.  When I finished reading the book, I was astonished.  Done already?  How could that be?  I was just getting started.  In that moment, I experienced something I didn’t even know existed, the hunger of the next story.  But, what could I do?  I just had to wait for the release of your next book, Fire and Ice.  When it finally came out, I grabbed my bike and peddled as fast as I could to the bookstore.  I couldn’t wait to sprawl out on my couch, open the crisp new pages, and let the characters rush forward to greet me, their long, lost friend.  After that, I devoured every book in the Warriors series, and I didn’t stop there.  It was as if I had become a reading machine.

            From then on, I have read everything I could get my hands on.  When my old friends found out about my new passion, they made fun of me.  I shouldn’t have been surprised.  They just did to me what we had done to others in the past.   Only now, it was me being the one teased.  I quickly realized how hurtful teasing could be.  I apologized to all the kids I had teased, and believe it or not, I even became friends with several of them.

            Now, I am in the 6th grade, and I am still reading like a maniac.  My old friends still make fun of me on occasion, but I don’t care.  Instead, I focus on becoming a better reader, and I do everything I can to achieve it.   Besides, a book can be the best friend any guy ever had.  Your books have certainly been there for me, and I consider Sunrise, Darkest Hour, and of course, Into the Wild, to be some of my closest friends, and they will live on forever in my heart.  I am truly grateful to you for turning me on to reading.  Without your books, I might still be that ignorant bully, teasing kids and missing out on one of life’s greatest joys—reading.  

Taylor Mathews

Dear Mr. Spinelli,

          Hector Street - the long divide. Until now, I can still imagine a long, wide, and desolate divide because sometimes I feel like I am standing there. In your novel, Maniac Magee, only a few had the courage to cross from one side to the other. Those were the characters that did not recognize or accept any difference between races. Outward appearance meant nothing. For Jeffrey Magee and Amanda Beale and her family, the divide was invisible.

          Last year, I started wearing a head cover, or hijab. Of course, it was my choice. Naturally, as a Muslim I was excited to cover. I could see myself growing up. My modesty and identity were all wrapped up in this elegant piece of material. My older friends were already wearing hijab, and they looked so beautiful. Wearing hijab as a young Muslim woman ensures that people will respect me for my mind and not my appearance. There was just one problem; no one ever told me that others would judge me based on my religious beliefs. Many times I wished that my divide was invisible, but as I walk through the mall in my head cover, I sense the divide. At first I was innocent; I didn't know how to interpret the less than friendly stares. Then the comments began: "Aren't you hot?" Lastly came the changes in behavior: some people went from smiles to disapproval. Sadly, discrimination is real.

          Maniac Magee was white, but I don't think he ever considered that a problem even while in a black neighborhood. He judged people based on their character alone. I just loved it when he took a big bite out of Mars Bar's chocolate. It was like he took a big bite out of the long divide. Maniac breaks all the rules. Actually, he lives by the rules that I believe to be important.

         When you decided to write this story you must have sensed that this was a common problem. Realistically, I do not think my divide will disappear anytime soon, but Mr. Spinelli your courageous story allowed me to see that not all people discriminate. I found hope. Now as I look through the crowds, I believe there are some people who mirror the characters in your book. I am always looking for the Jeffrey Magees or the Beales, but no matter who I see, I smile and hope they smile back. Like Maniac, I choose to throw caution to the wind.

Thank You,

Maryam Salah

Dear George Selden,

            Imagine finding yourself trapped in a temporary prison, then ending up in a frightening world filled with unknown dangers.  That is what happened to Chester in your children’s classic The Cricket in Times Square.  And it’s exactly what happened to me, too.  Except instead of being transported to the strange, scary world of New York City like your little cricket, I woke up one day in the terrifying world of pediatric intensive care being treated for cancer and relying on oxygen tubes to breathe.

            In your book, Chester had to face some mighty tough obstacles for such a small cricket.  Trapped inside a picnic basket, he was left on a train bound for the middle of New York City.  Alone and lost, he had no idea where he was.  Then Chester met up with a cat named Harry and Tucker the mouse, who took the cricket “under their wing.”  He learned to trust them both, along with a boy named Mario, who helped out at his father’s Times Square newsstand.  Eventually, Chester adapted to his new life.  He made the best of the situation, creating music for each passerby and learning more about his surroundings.  Through it all, he felt lucky to have such fine new friends to help him until he could find his way back to where he really belonged: a sunny field in Connecticut.

            Like Chester, I too had to struggle through a situation where I felt desperate and alone.  For the first few nights in the hospital, I had no idea where I was; between the very aggressive chemotherapy drugs and painkillers to handle the excruciating pain, I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my eyes.  But, like Chester, I soon met some new friends whom I quickly learned to trust.  They knew the ins and outs of the hospital and medical protocols, the best treatment plan for me, and the right medications to prescribe.  Even though I was little, I instinctively knew that I would have to rely on these kind of strangers to help me recover, clear my body of cancer, and get back to where I truly belonged:  my everyday life as a kid growing up in Ridgefield, Connecticut.  

            Chester would not have survived in New York City if it hadn’t been for his friends.  He was just a tiny fellow, and there’s no way he could have faced and conquered the challenges of city life all by himself.  I can say the same thing for myself: I wouldn’t have survived my battle with cancer if not for the many doctors and nurses who took me into their care.  Most people never think twice about how important strangers can be in their lives; Chester and I, on the other hand, will never forget them.  Without the kindness and wisdom of these trusted new companions, neither of us would ever have made it back to where we longed to be.

            The ending of The Cricket in Times Square was both happy and sad at the same time.  Chester had to leave behind Tucker, Harry, and Mario, with no way of knowing if he’d ever see them again.  But Chester also regained a home that he loved, a familiar place where he could make his cricket music with others like him.  Likewise, my final departure from the hospital was bittersweet.  After being in and out of the hospital for more than two years, I had developed some incredible friendships with the people who gave me my treatments, handled all of the side effects and set-backs, and cared for me afterwards.  Like Chester’s new friends, they had saved my life.  But as my treatments grew fewer and farther between, I knew that I would eventually leave the hospital for once and for all and might never see them again.  While that thought was troubling to me, I also knew that I had something wonderful to look forward to: a normal kid’s life, without needles, pain, sickness, and worried looks.  Chester and I both found our way back to where we belonged, back to where there were others like us, waiting for us, ready to welcome us home. 

            As if by fate, I read the book The Cricket in Times Square at the beginning of fourth grade, right before I got sick.  My diagnosis in the middle of one scary Saturday night whisked me away from everything familiar to me without warning.  Thoughts of Chester surviving in his new world inspired me to fight with all my strength and to keep fighting through the long haul.  Chester and I not only survived, but thrived, despite the terrible odds against us.  And, along the way, we both made some incredible new friends.  Mine included a brave little cricket, and for that, I thank you.

With gratitude,

Christian Lusardi

Dear J.M. Barrie,

            I believe that magic is important.  It gets you through boring moments and helps you during sad times.  Magic isn’t just superpowers or unnatural happenings; it’s happiness, wonder, love, and imagination.  Every little petal, leaf, and pebble is like a little miracle exploding with magic. Children can see the magic better because we don’t have as many responsibilities and hard choices to make.  Some people lose touch with the magic in their lives as they get older. Peter Pan reminds people of the magic in their lives.

            Before I was born, my Mimi and JimJim read Peter Pan to my older sister, Gwynne. It quickly became her favorite; whenever she spent the night, they would read it and play games. Gwynne was always Wendy, Mimi was Peter, and JimJim would play Captain Hook. When I was teeny tiny, Mimi would carry me around, telling Gwynne I was Tinker Bell. These games continued even after my little brother Jack was a toddler. After we stopped playing these games, Gwynne and I would go to Sherando Lake (another Mimi and JimJim tradition) and make contests out of who could find the most magical spots.  Under tree roots, the little island, and tree trunks chewed by beavers were among our favorites. We almost expected little fairy people to peep out at us. Every year our parents and Mimi and JimJim give us Christmas tree ornaments. Out of all the ornaments, half are Peter Pan related and about a third of my personal ones are fairies. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if Gwynne didn’t like Peter Pan.  My actual life wouldn’t be much different and I wouldn’t look that different, but I wouldn’t view my life the same way. I would be a completely different person; I don’t think I’d really be myself. Reading Peter Pan when I was little is a part of what makes me, me. Peter Pan taught my family to find the magic and adventure in life. Sometimes seeing the magic in life is almost as easy as swallowing candy and sometimes it’s much more difficult.

            Magic is hard to describe. When it happens you know right away though.  It makes you wonder why people fight and hate.  Sometimes it makes you feel like you can do anything but sometimes it’s like you’re frozen; when you hike in the woods and see a colony of ants walking along, each one carrying a leaf way bigger than the ant itself, you feel so big  and empowered or when you look at the stars at night and it’s cold you get this magical humbling feeling.  You just melt. It’s my favorite feeling. I have no doubt that out of all the books, poems, plays, and speeches I have ever read or listened to, yours made the biggest impact on me AND my family.

Audrey Wood

Dear Ms. Jhumpa Lahiri,

          For a few magical hours, I had the opportunity to sit in front of a mirror, and reflect on my past, my present, my future, my family, and my heritage.  No, I did not literally sit in the bathroom on a chair, but I read your personally touching novel The Namesake.  The book moved me to tears at points, thinking of how Gogol struggles to follow his culture, over his own personal desires; how Ashima must keep her culture alive as she assimilates to life in the United States; and how Moushumi has to lie to her parents in order to study in the field she chooses, changing majors while attending a prestigious university.  I see these struggles happening on a day to day basis in my life, and reading this book gave me an opportunity to look at them from an outside perspective and allow me to reflect on what truly is important in life.

          The struggles of Ashima to adapt to American society, freshly migrated from India, relates to the struggles of my mother to find her way when first moving to the states – struggling to keep aspects of her Indian heritage alive with resources available to her.  An instance that sticks out was how Ashima makes an Indian snack – traditionally found on roadside carts – from ingredients such as Planter’s Peanuts.  This imagery reminded me of the countless times my family has tried to maintain our culture with what she has available – from small changes, such as using Christmas lights for Diwali, to major ones, such as foregoing certain Poojas, simply because a contained fire was not permitted in certain areas, similar to the situation of the flameless wedding of Gogol and Moushumi.

          The thing that speaks to me most, however, is the struggle Gogol has – choosing his culture over his identity.  I empathize with Gogol’s struggles, as I am going through similar struggles myself being a homosexual Indian in a predominantly anti-gay culture.  Gogol struggles with his love for Maxine – struggles which can be rooted to the lack of acceptance to interracial marriages in his culture.  Although notions about interracial marriage begin to change in Gogol’s culture – a culture that I share with Gogol – he breaks up with Maxine.  Eventually he marries Moushumi – a young woman struggling with her own identity – but their marriage quickly falls apart.  I was dealing with similar issues as Gogol, deciding whether cultural beliefs trump personal choices.  Gogol hears stories of failed interracial marriages throughout his childhood, just as I had to live through the provoked suicides of two very close cousins – both of whom were homosexual.  I may never be able to convince my family that there is nothing wrong with being gay – and understandably so.  They have been tormented with the deaths of two of their nephews – boys they considered their own sons.  If, and when, I fall in love with and marry another man, I am unsure about whether or not my parents will be present at the wedding, whether or not I can invite members of the Indian community, and whether or not I can ever show my face at Indian social events afterwards.  These thoughts – and many more – pulled me into a deep depression from which I suffered for over a year.  My parents had no idea about the cause of my depression – they just feared that the same that happened to my cousins would happen to me.  I was able to overcome the depression; however I still was not able to figure out where my life was headed and what decisions I would make. 

          This is how your book saved my life.

          Reading your book – looking at my situation, my circumstances, and my family from an outside point of view, allowed me to really think about what was important to me.  Gogol made the mistake of not going with his heart and letting Maxine go, and in the end, not only was his heart broken, but Ashima’s as well.  Ashima did not care about the ethnicity of Gogol’s partner nearly as much as the fact that Gogol had someone to spend the rest of his life with.  Even though my parents may not ever approve of my orientation, I can say that from this novel, I understand that when all is done, they just want me to do well in life, and that they do truly care for me.  No conversation, movie, event, or story has shaped my thoughts – my life – as much as your novel has.  For that, my family thanks you.  For that, my future thanks you.  For that, I thank you.

Dhanyabaad.

Akash Kar

Dear Mrs. Piercy,

            The checkout lanes at grocery stores are always colorfully decorated with a magazine laced border. They have all different titles but the same girl; slender, tall, shiny hair, and a glossy smile. She is the ideal woman in the eyes of most people today. Those who are slightly below this bar of beauty are treated like damaged goods at a supermarket; shunned. They are tossed aside with the other imperfect outcasts and hidden away at the back of the store, while the perfect cylinder cans are kept on display. Somewhere down the twisted line of social standards, I became one of the damaged goods.

            While shopping at the grocery store with my mother and sister, a woman asked my mother if my sister was her daughter. My mom told her that both I and my sister belonged to her. The woman’s eyes bulged out as she stared from me to my mom a few times over. Then she stuck her old, wrinkly finger in my face and finally asked, “What’s wrong with her? Is she retarded or something?”

            Her acerbic words hit me hard; it was like I had crossed the street and had been sideswiped by a car that I hadn’t seen coming. I stood there, mouth agape, hearing the words play over in my head. It never occurred to me that having albinism made me one of the damaged goods of society. My mom patiently explained my “condition” as I stood there, looking like the idiot the old woman thought I was. My mind was jumbled, and I was no longer aware of my surroundings. Everything became hazy. All my life I’ve had people politely ask me about my skin condition. I was never bothered by their questions. But this one lady made me realize how I must really appear to the outside world. After the woman had left, my mom looked over at my vacant expression and wrapped her arm around me. She pulled me tight to her side, acting as a shield against the cruelty of the world but it was too late; the stinging sword of malice had seeped in through the cracks and left me wounded.

            The young girl in your poem, “Barbie Doll” was a healthy, normal girl. Her body was not a danger to her physical well-being, only her self confidence. Why was it a problem to her self confidence? Because society told her she was ugly, just as the old woman had told me that something was wrong with me. The girls on television, magazines, toys – they all fit the Barbie profile. I don’t want to live my life ashamed of my appearance as the girl in your poem did. I don’t want society only to accept me when I try to change my outward appearance to comply with societal standards. I decided that I wanted to be happy with who I am before my ending comes.

            That night my mom came into my room and asked me if I was alright. I smiled at her and said: “Mom, not many people are used to seeing a black girl with blonde hair and white skin. Trust me, I’m fine. I won’t let her get to me. I’m just something new for her to adjust to.”

            I became motivated to join more student organizations and spend more time volunteering, hoping that one day others will be more acceptant of people like me. I don’t want anyone to feel how I did that day in the grocery store. Instead of letting social standards keep me down, I wanted others to see me and become familiar with what “different” looks like. I try to educate people about differences and show them how to be more open to “something new.” I want to thank you for educating the world about the effects social standards truly have on young girls today. Maybe one day, the girl on the cover of the magazines will be replaced by someone who has Down syndrome, uses a wheelchair, is full figured, or even has albinism. Every person has something to offer this world, no matter who they are or what they look like. After all, even though a can is damaged, it still holds the same contents as an undamaged can.

Ashli Bynum