How do we work?

Once every few weeks a new topic will be displayed on the blog. Young people, ages 5 - 96, will submit their responses. Student writing will be posted as it is received. Know someone that would love to contribute? Pass the word.

Blog #14 Topic Choices:
Write about a place or an aspect of New Orleans that has influenced you OR use the words "Escaping the heat/to get out of the heat..." of New Orleans.

Submission Logistics: Submissions should be in response to the blog topic. Poetry and prose, up to 500 words in length, should be emailed as a Microsoft Word attachment. Emails should include author’s first name, age, and School.

Submissions can be sent to: youngneworleanswritingtogether@gmail.com
Submission due date: May 31st, 2012 @ 5pm

Monday, April 30, 2012

Emily - Home

Home of New Orleans

Getting off the plane from Denver was a highly poignant experience. The deep emotions stirred up in that moment came as no surprise to me; anyone who is arriving at the place they call home after a long absence is bound to feel that touch of melancholy that comes with ending an adventure only to return to a place of safety and comfort. But, for me, getting off of that plane was like coming from a place that was dead back to a place that was alive. Denver was lovely. Everything was big and new, and the mountains and the snow were beautiful, but there was a certain generic quality to the place that made it seem dead. Perhaps it was the dry air which caused my knuckles to crack and bleed. Perhaps it was the locals, who seemed, to me, too utterly innocent (or perhaps ignorant) to the sparkling quality of each day. The poor people may not even be the ones at fault, because there didn’t seem to be anything in Denver surprising enough to spice up my stay. The city was in a coma: alive, well rested, clean and comfortable, being well cared for by its obviously efficient local government, but totally devoid of any motion, of any change in pace. Suffice to say that by the time my vacation came to an end, I was more than ready to come home.

And as I walked into the airport from the jetway, hot and humid with the vivacious breath of the city, I was so happy—so utterly pleased—by the old, dank little airport, the tourist shops selling the same Mardi Gras beads that they would sell long after Mardi Gras had ended, and the friendly faces I passed on the way to baggage claim. But mostly, I loved the quiet Jazz melody that played throughout the whole airport. It seemed to say to me (and I hope it says to everyone who arrives in this remarkable city), “Welcome! Welcome to living.” It was in that moments, walking to baggage claim, that I became
very sure that the New Orleans International Airport, like the city to which it belongs, is truly one of a
kind. I was finally home, and I was very much alive.

Emily, age 15