Meeting with Rachel has led to many breakthroughs in not only my writing, but in my views of myself as a writer. I have become more conscious of my role as a constructor of worlds simply through the sharing of my lenses of my surroundings and experiences. This act of openness had always seemed daunting to me before, and through a closer and continuous relationship with a mentor who is a writer herself, I can feel myself becoming braver and more bold.
RACHEL SHOPE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Associate Editor, CB Insights
BORN: Chapel Hill, NC
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I always look forward to meeting with Brianna, because it’s magical every time. Whether we’re tucked in a corner at the public library or sharing red-velvet cupcakes in a café or snagging chairs at a random Whole Foods, we connect as writers and friends. I am constantly struck by her talent and brilliance. I leave each of our pair sessions with a renewed sense of creativity and hope for the future. Being her mentor has made me a stronger editor, a more disciplined writer, and I think just a more positive person overall.
Musings from a Lost New York Native
This poem explores the process of getting to know oneself when given the freedom to do so. More recently, I’ve noticed aspects of myself mirrored in the city, and I want my work to reflect that.
I don’t want to put on a hat.
My ears are so cold
they burn.
But I won’t do it.
I can’t.
Warmth feels unnatural now.
Let the air prick and my hair
run loose in the
wind,
slipping into my eyes,
out from behind my ears.
I left my scarf at school. I’ll
probably never see it again. The cold
bites into my skin as I gaze skyward,
to the tops of the buildings that
I pass.
The night swallows every
building I pass. They are
frigid and invisible in the dark, only
light can unfreeze them.
My hair could stand on end in this cold . . .
it feels like it is.
It’s late now,
and only the top of
the Empire State Building
matters anymore.
The bottom half of my head
stays cold and forgotten too.
The dark wanders along beside me
in this big city.
It’s a larger than life
kind of town, so many eyes to watch
what belongs to me,
let them see.
I don’t want to put on a hat.
Let the air prick and my own hair
bite into my skin as I gaze skyward.
My hair could stand on end in this cold,
but only the bottom half of my head
belongs to me.
Let them see.
This poem is about finding your place, and feeling so strongly that you belong there that it seems like you’ve been there before. It is about the connections we share to our past, previous generations, and the homes that we choose for ourselves.
Standing in the Great Hall,
I know
I have been here before.
I heard the echoes
when they were voices.
Smelled the ink and the anxiety
of the stamp poised to grant entry,
to give permanence.
Or something like it.
I had a different face then.
A different posture.
I was carried in the blood
of my great-great-grandparents,
tucked between
the fibers of their coats,
folded into the spaces
left by the letters they erased and
the new ones written in,
making them blend,
making them American.
I am familiar with starting over.
That is a language I still know.
The assonance of your few possessions
in one trunk—they mean
everything and nothing.
You cling to them,
but wonder if you could bear that loss.
You are almost tempted
to
