Cinderella 

With her strong arms 

From scrubbing the floors 

Cinderella 

With her patience 

From working with horrible people 

Cinderella 

With her kind heart 

From helping little animals 

Cinderella 

With her independence taken away 

From her 

By a prince 

Who decided that she 

Needed saving 

Cinderella's godmother  

With her idea that Cinderella couldn't save herself 

From the clutches of society 

Cinderella 

Could've moved out 

Started a job 

Traveled around the world 

If she wanted to  

She could 

Wear her gowns that she made 

Or she could wear 

Simple linen clothes 

Whatever she pleased 

Cinderella 

Fled the ball 

Because it was 12 o'clock 

But what if

She fled the ball

Because she didn't

Want to be with the prince

Who tried to kiss her

Or because she was lesbian

But the prince came

With soldiers behind him

And a demand that she

Marry him

Now we think of the prince as the hero

But Cinderella was the one

Who made the difference

Scrubbed the floors

Served the rich

Helped the animals

But the clutches of society got her

I feel bad for Cinderella

In the eyes of a coin, the life is pretty simple 

Sitting in jars filled with pennies and nickels 

Used to infer a trait of indecisiveness 

Often people only really notice their likeness 

So look a little closer and you'll find originality 

Seeking out the details, you will find some personality 

But when they're being flipped 

They all serve the same purpose 

The price they have to pay for existing 

Is being seen as only homogeneous 

It's not fair

I write in pen

to get comfortable with my mistakes

to catch all my thoughts

scatterbrained

and fleeting

pens scratch the itch to write

better than any graphite

the use of ink before pencils 

has led me to believe

that pens were made for writing

and my thoughts are most pensive.

This is an empty house, 
A house that's lost its soul. 
The laughter and joy that once echoed through it, 
Faded away with time and age. 

The driveway with bikes once lying on it  
Lies empty and forgotten. 
The yard where lifetime memories were created  
Remains brown and dull. 

The room that was once full of drawings from friends,
And childhood trinkets lies empty. 

For one day I wish I could go back, 
To wake up in that room again. 
So I could live life just like a kid again, 
Because I know I never will. 

We have hawk eyes 

watching 

for the moment when the hills 

can decidedly be called red 

instead of green. 

We have hawk eyes 

watching 

for the day when there are more leaves 

on the ground 

than in the trees. 

We have hawk eyes

watching

the thermometer

waiting for it to drop

for the frost.

We have hawk eyes

set on fall

ready for the colors

ready for the leaves

ready for the chillyness.

She sat on the steps, enjoying the brisk autumn air. It was the day before Halloween and the smell of cinnamon hung in the air. She knew she’d have to go in soon, but for now life was perfect. The browning leaves floating around her, the rusty oranges and reds that hung from every treetop, a caramel apple in her hand, yes, that was Autumn.

“From The New York Times, I’m Michael Barbaro. This is ‘The Daily.’”

Back in April 2020, I would have balked at the idea of self-identifying as a podcast fan, but by now, I’ve completely mastered the intonation and rhythm of this phrase– I actually hear it daily. And thus began my relationship with The New York Times. 

It was peak quarantine, and I, along with the rest of the globe, was sitting at home struggling to learn how to connect in this new world. Zoom classes occupied part of my day, but aside from that, it was just me, alone in my bedroom, trying to keep occupied. While my own life seemed exceptionally uneventful, the rest of the world managed to keep itself busy with Senate impeachment hearings, drone strikes in the Middle East, mass protests, and historic presidential elections. Although being cooped up in scenic Vermont sounded like a dream to many, and recent population and housing reports confirm this, I could only feel the overwhelming isolation. However, there was one thing that I always looked forward to. When my online school days would come to a close, I would put in my AirPods and play the day’s podcast. For 20 to 30 minutes, I was within the throws of it all; from Beirut to Australia to the streets of Philadelphia. 

In those brief moments, I felt less alone. I dove headfirst into the world of The New York Times, even going as far as participating in their summer writing program, on not one, but two occasions. And that’s when I discovered that I was not, in fact, the only one to have had this experience of turning to “The Daily” in a time of disconnection. When one of my mentors, Liz Robbins, mentioned that she had worked with Michael Barbaro, my whole class audibly gasped and then erupted into questions and excitement. What a bunch of nerds.

This connection facilitated by The Times is certainly not limited to the fiends so invested that they take a class during the summer. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve been in an English class and seen classmates tackling the whole slew of the day’s games: Wordle, Connections, Tiles, the Mini Crossword, the full Crossword, Vertex, Letter Boxed, Strands– even Sudoku during particularly dull classes. One of my favorite moments is when someone forgets to mute their device and, in the middle of a lecture, you hear the unmistakable “do do do do do do do do, dooo” after completing the Mini. If you know, you know. 

If there’s one gift that Covid gave me for all it took away, it’s community in the most unexpected places. Through The New York Times, I’ve connected with classmates, engaged in intense philosophical conversations about a recent story, had a reason to talk to a stranger while waiting for the bus, and especially, found lifelong friends from around the world. 

But most importantly, my passion for this newspaper led me to realize that I have a two-degree connection to THE Michael Barbaro, and I’ve found the people who think that’s pretty darn cool. So now, as I drive to school in the mornings and listen to “The Daily,” I am reminded of the small world we live in and the possibilities that abound within it.