Social Awareness Project

Content-

Poem- I wrote a poem describing my experience at The New York City climate march which was my first protest and my first experience as an activist.

Short Story- I decided to write a story that takes the reader through the experiences of a girl whose mother passed away in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911 and her actions to stop poor working conditions.

Entry- As a teen, I spend a lot of time on line and have witnessed cyber bullying. I wanted to explain the various forms of online abuse.

A First Step for Change

A balmy day,

September twenty-first

Hundreds fighting to prevent a curse

That fossil fuels and oil pools

Were bringing upon our small chunk

Of the universe.

An energy buzzed through the sweaty masses

People hailing from all social classes

Yelling with care and rage intertwined, 

The BOOM BOOM of their stomps

Bringing an elephant to mind.

This was no parade

But a march of shame,

Change had to come

Energy from the sun

Save the bees!

Take away guns.

I marched at first,

Clapping my hands

The distant tunes of a marching band

Mixing with the shouts

Heard all about.

The pace was slow

And the space completely filled

I pushed my way to the sidelines

As others continued to sluggishly rush by.

Everyone there had pure, passionate spirit

But there were so many clumps

Could anyone hear it?

The United Nations surely would pay attention

The voices of New Yorkers surely worth a mention.

After that day, I really do hope

That all of our efforts 

Will let the government see through a new scope.

In the thick of it all,

The order seemed tall

But as Doctor Seuss said,

“A persons a person, no matter how small.”

And people have opinions!

That they admirably fight for

Whether its climate change, animal cruelty or war.

That march was just a beginning 

Of fierce tension brewing.

A melting pot of people, 

No longer just stewing.

Flimsy

        That morning, I didn’t understand why my mother went to work. It was a Saturday and that week she said that we could go to the zoo. I wanted to see the monkeys so badly, they didn’t have a care in the world. They swung from branch to branch, seeing their mothers everyday, not having to worry about money, not having their mothers come home depressed with needle pricks covering her hand like a  lace doily.

Mother left a note on the dusty kitchen table for me, it said she was sorry but our rent day was coming up and we needed the money. Disheartened, I spent the rest of the day reading in my room. Mother had bought me all of the classics, in secondhand paperback form, of course. Mother wanted her little girl to be smart and go to college. She wanted me to get a good job, not like her factory job with a hundred other ladies like her, fresh from Europe. The Triangle Shirtwaist factory she worked at seemed to exclusively hire single women like herself, desperate for pay, as low as it was.

Mother told me a lot about Poland, how they always ate heartily and children could run freely through fields. But she also told me of the lack of structure in her village. How drunken men walked through the town, yelling charming rhymes to young women like my mother. She told of her stupidity back then, how she flirted with the intoxicated fool and was like a fly in honey when she tried to push him away. 

Mother’s parents banished her from their house and as soon as she heard rumors of a ship leaving for America, she gathered her meager savings and left the only place she had ever known for a land where she could support herself, or rather, where she could support us.

I was halfway through Pride and Prejudice when I heard the sirens. At first I didn’t think much of them, maybe there was an accident or a mugging. But, when the smoke drifted up my nostrils I left my cramped room to look outside. A huge cloud of smoke loomed about six blocks away and grandmas and babies were wailing into each other. I ran outside and tugged on Mrs. Rabinowitz’s arm. She was a friendly old lady who made challah every Thursday and gave some to us in return for watering her flowers while she was at synagogue. 

“What’s going on?”

“Oh child, oh yakirati, theres been a fire at the factory.”

“What factory?” I asked with dread for her answer. She continued sobbing and I practically shook the answer out of her.

“Tr-triangle, oh your poor eema.” The words didn't register at first and a certain numbness overtook me. No, no, this wasn't happening, it couldn’t, it didn’t. This blind hope grasped my mind with such a strong grip that only the timid words of Officer Stein could break.

“Miriam, your mother, she didn’t survive the fire. I am so sorry for your loss.”

The next few days dragged by. Mrs. Rabinowitz kept me fed and bathed but the food had no taste and the water would never wash away my grief. It slid off of my skin like oil on tin.

But soon grief turned to anger and when my ears heard Officer Stein telling our landlord of a strike against the unsafe working conditions I pounced. I would make my mother's evil boss pay. I skipped school and marched with the other 145 victim’s families with such fury, no adult dared send me to school. Us mourners were somber, almost everyone missing his or her daughter. We yelled of the preventable past, how if there were more exits or sprinklers this would never have occurred. 

My feet burned from stomping and my face was wet with tears, but the strike yielded some worth. Seventy five dollars was given to Mrs. Rabinowitz to take care of me and over the next several months, factories across New York changed for the better. We didn’t have slogans or weapons, just cold facts and cold hearts of people missing their loved ones.

The building I work in now has fire drills and bright red exit signs. The smoke detecters are top notch, but they rarely pick up much except for the occasional cigarette. I can’t imagine what my mother felt, but I imagine it wasn’t just fear. She was a women who sailed the Atlantic in a cramped ship with nothing but scraps of bread and a swollen stomach pounding with life. I know she tried her best to get out of the building, to get back to me. At school they described how the building across the street extended ladders through the windows. Those women got out alive, got back to their families. I don’t know if my mother tried to climb across those ladders or got stuck in an elevator or was engulfed by flame. Maybe she could have gotten out if the doors weren't locked to prevent theft or if the flimsy iron of the fire escape held up.

But these are all “ifs” and I’ll never know if they hold truth. So as an adult, I’m trying to prevent those ifs from others. Working at a nonprofit may not pay a huge salary, but the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire was caused by a mere trashcan flame, an accident. But what wasn’t an accident was the shoddy workmanship and the lack of care from Blanck and Harris, the owners of the building my mother worked in, put her trust in, and died in.

Scenes/Situations

• Cyber hate (Ask.fm, To Be Rudes)
• Racist Terms (Words such as “nigga” or “cracker” are thrown around loosely)
• Dress Code (girls banned from wearing leggings/other items of clothing)
• Cat calling (unwanted attention from men or women)

Entry

Teenagers spend a vast amount of time on social media. Here, teens can post pictures of themselves, their friends, their art, whatever they want to spread across the internet. It is also easy to spread hate. There are an multitude of platforms to do this on but the most common is Ask.fm. Here, users can ask anonymous questions to another user. The asker does not even have to have an account to ask questions. On Instagram, users can post pictures with captions stating that likers of said picture will receive a to be rude, a relation of to be honest. Both sites were not intended for these purposes but have harvested them.

People use Ask.fm for multiple purposes, some people ask questions or statements they are too afraid to say in real life such as, “you’re so pretty” or “where do you get your clothes from?” Other people take advantage of the anonymous option to ask creepy questions about ones personal life or call them demeaning names. Because askers can hide behind a “curtain”, the only person affected by the cruelty is the receiver of said questions. In addition, on popular platform Instagram, users give out “to be rudes.” These are captions stating negative opinions about the way someone acts or looks. Many argue that people should just not like the picture. This is a very good start of a solution, when one liked a to be rude photo they are asking for criticism. However, the to be rude plays into natural psychology. Most teenagers always want to improve their image or social standing, and by liking the to be rude they can learn how, in one person’s eyes, they can be better. All solutions start at the root of a problem and the solution to stopping these forms of cyber hate is simple. First, don’t be a coward, express your opinions in real life if they are that dire and second, be kind. By posting something that emits the fact that one wants to be cruel, you are showing off negativity, something no one wants to see.

I have not received a vast amount of cyber bullying. One time an anonymous asker told me I was a suck up to “popular people.” I tried to respond maturely, saying that was their opinion but, to me I just spent time with people I enjoyed the company of. After I responded, some of my peers came to my defense. This showed me how while hate is never a good thing, teens raised with the internet know how to defend themselves and others, becoming on-screen activists against bullies.