CONGRATULATIONS to the winners of the 3rd Annual Be the Star You Are! Essay contest sponsored by American Freedom Group. Many thanks to our generous sponsor for making this contest possible.

We had incredible entries and it was difficult for the judges to make their choice. For future essay entrants, it is important to note that a few essays were disqualified because they either failed to submit an entry fee even after being reminded or they did not include their name or contact information, which meant we had no way of contacting them.

The First Prize Winners and Honorable Mention Winners all followed the contest directions.

WINNERS ARE: Tie for First Place:

Touching Joy by Sylvia M DeSantis, M.A.

Audacity by Nancy Wick

Honorable Mentions include:

Maybe Someday I’ll Use This by Linda Oatman
High Supporting Cast by Lois Elfman
You’re a Riot Alice by Roseanne Boyle
I am a Survivor by Vicki Craig
Shade by Mike Broemmel
I Hold the Power by Shirley Cheng
A Meaningful Life by Angela Berquist
Babe by Gerry Di Gesu
Christmas Visits by Floriana Hall
My Role Model by Adra Young
My Role Model by Patricia D’Ascoli

FIRST PLACE WINNERS:

Touching Joy by Sylvia M DeSantis, M.A.

The pizza scalds the inside of my mouth. Mom stares at her piece thoughtfully and then begins to eat it the way she always does, cutting it with a knife and fork. For a second I consider teasing her, but her eyes look too tired for that tonight, so we eat in silence, piles of books waiting to be shelved all around us.

I’m sitting with my mother in the back while she takes her dinner break.

I have begun to meet Mom after school in the library where she works, and the strong, silence presence of so many books in one place nudges something inside me. The building’s gentle aura suggests a quietly drawn breath. Spending time here the month after my older sister has died and right before my parent’s impending divorce brings an enormous sense of relief that comes from being around so much quiet knowledge. So much peace and calm. Everything here feels different than our rage-filled home. Even at my age, I know the word: sanctuary.

Everything within the sacred space brings me joy. The crinkly plastic coating on the book jackets. The papery smell of the library’s hushed air. The bumpy, thick volumes waiting to be opened. The space grants me physical, emotional and spiritual sanity, a reprieve from a house boiling over with pain.

I spend whole evenings greedily browsing titles, deciding which to check out, forgetting for a time who I am. Once home, I secret myself away into warm corners with a snack to spend time inside another girl’s world. I consume these stories with an intense hunger and always feel at a deep and profound level that, although the careful arrangement of words brings me great satisfaction, the joy resides not in the books themselves but instead flows beneath the bridges created by these stories.

Inhabiting the pages of a story replicates the safety of being inside the quiet library building. Both states of being, though fleeting and temporary, feel glorious, precious. Libraries still, in all their forms, bring me peace.

That night as my mother sat with me, a scared twelve year-old, I felt a safe joy surrounded by all the smells of worn leather and old paper.

Surrounded by my mom.

I remember it clearly like a sharp, colorful dream: Mom looks at me lovingly, tired but content, the books a paper fortress around us. And I feel sure, right in this moment, that we will be safe, happy, and whole again. That Mom and I are touching joy, together, as we weather our storm.

BIO:

SYLVIA M. DeSANTIS is a teacher, writer, and certified Reiki Master. Her recent work includes Chicken Soup for the Latino Soul and Summer Shorts.

TIED WITH...

Audacity by Nancy Wick

The newspaper editor gestured to a stack of papers on his desk, maybe 12 inches high. "These are resumes," he said, "all from people who have a journalism degree. Why should I hire you, when I could hire them?"

I recoiled as if he’d slapped me, tears I was ashamed of filling my eyes. What could I say? "Because I want the job very badly?" That would sound like begging. "Because I know I can do it, degree or no degree?" That would sound arrogant. Aloud I said, "I have some writing samples I could show you."

He smiled, seeing this as a way to get rid of me. "Okay, leave them with me and I’ll let you know if I’m interested." He stood up. I stood too, handed him the samples, said thank you and turned to go.

Back in my apartment I contemplated my situation. It had been nearly a year since I’d quit the job I had taken because my degree was so impractical. I was going to get a writing job or nothing, I’d told myself. That was what I wanted to do with my life. Since then I’d worked temporary jobs to pay the rent and applied for the kinds of jobs I wanted. I’d had a few nibbles but mostly rejection. I needed to do something different.

Then I had an idea. When I’d met the other newspaper editor in town, he had been kinder than this one. He’d looked at my writing samples, said he’d consider me. But that was a month ago, and I hadn’t heard from him. I would invite him to speak to a group I belonged to. If he said yes, that would give me a legitimate excuse to see him and talk to him again. I dried my tears and took a deep breath, then dialed the phone before I could change my mind.

He said yes to the speech, and when he came I greeted him warmly. "Are you still looking for a job?" he asked. I told him I was, and mentioned a few interviews I’d had. "Well," he said, "I read your clips, and you do know how to write. I’m sure you’ll find something."

A few weeks later his managing editor called me. "We have a routine job doing the TV schedules and a little Q&A column," he said. "Would you be interested?" Of course I’d be interested.

From my first day in the newsroom, I knew I had found my calling. Six months later I had moved to the Copy Desk, and I later became a reporter and columnist. Two things had given me what I wanted: the ability to put words on paper and the audacity to call a stranger.

Bio:

NANCY WICK is a writer/editor at the University of Washington in Seattle. She has been a journalist for 30 years, even though she never did get that journalism degree. Contact Nancy at Wicknb@juno.com