We are so pleased to share the news that two of DreamYard's ACTION seniors were recently recognized in the 2011 Random House Creative Writing Contest.  Chelsea John, 2011 ACTION Senior, took the first place prize for her piece, "Harlem Tour".  She will receive a $10,000 scholarship! Chelsea is attending Howard University this fall; she will return this summer as an ACTION intern.  Read Chelsea's award winning poem below.

Dilcia Mercedes, 2011 ACTION Senior, received an Honorable Mention for her poem, "The Language of Rebellion". Dilcia will be attending Swarthmore University in the fall.

Congratulations to Chelsea and Dilcia!

"Harlem Tour" by Chelsea John

I have and will see spectrum's of people walk past my front windows

and not one of them will stop to say hello.

They may pause

to capture the beauty of the petunias in my front yard

but never will they stay a while.

They will snap 8.2 megapixel cameras

and set off blinding flashes.

create albums on Facebook to share with friends

whose feet have never

had the pleasure to grace these sidewalks.

But no matter how many photos they take

their images will never capture the true essence of this home.

They will never walk past my doorstep

because hidden among the concrete jungles and flashing lights

lay a culture so complex that archaeologists from Persia

will be begging to unearth its

secrets.

I’ll tell you a secret.

Most of thee people will never creep past their front stoops.

They are stitched to the fabric of their environment.

They are children of the hustle.

Breed in smoke filled rooms and bathe in Hennessy.

They will never discover the other half of their borough

never less the other four.

They have become accustomed to their parents beliefs.

They find solace in normality.

So they etch gang signs into their forearms

and cling to their barriers.

The smell of their burned skin curdles in my stomach like acid

the fumes embedded in my taste buds.

My senses forge images behind my eyes

in the form of slave ships.

These neighborhoods are slave ships

Each section shackled together

rationing resources that will never be enough.

They aspire not to be doctor's or photographers,

but to slap bitches and pimp hoes.

They wield their weapons like it’s their savior.

Their dreams are silent

but their tongues move fast in their heads mechanically repeating

opinions, theories, ideas, hopes, questions.

They question why they live like this.

They question because they are the new product of their environment.

They are outcasts because this hood,

has given birth to brave new voices

This poison has created brave new voices

This home has nurtured brave new voices

and these voices are telling you

to stop taking pictures of my home.

No longer will we be silhouettes behind our curtains

because today my child died

and this story will be on national

T.V.

Emergency Broadcast

because my baby died in the name of survival

So you could hear our voices.

So put down your cameras,

come inside.

Get comfortable, and lets have a conversation.