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Today is the day. Me and my twin sister's twelfth birthday, the birthday we have been looking forward to since we were six. It is a day of adventure, too. August 31, 2021—the day Marisol and I get to go into the Majikoa Woods. I have heard the legend a thousand times. Every time I visit my grandparents' house, or one of my mom's friends comes over, someone tells me and Marisol the story of the Wishing Tree, found in the Majikoa Woods. It is said to be just half a mile north from my house. Mom has never let us go into the woods because she doesn't believe in the Tree. She says she doesn't want us to be disappointed when we don't find it. But we kept asking and asking to go. When we were eight, she gave in and told us she would let us go when we turned twelve. She has always hoped and hoped we would grow out of believing in the Tree, but we never have. We are determined. The Wishing Tree grants one wish to anyone who comes. Marisol and I have had the same wish in mind for ages—I want Dad to come back. He left for Afghanistan seven years ago to fight. I can still feel the warm bear hug he gave me at the airport, trying to silence his tears. I can still see his green and brown camo uniform moving through the gate room. Marisol and I have never told Mom our wish—we have always told her we wanted to wish for money or new makeup. We didn't want to make her sad by telling her what we wanted most was Dad. She can't stand seeing us missing him and being upset. When I woke up today, just a few minutes ago, I jumped out of bed and tumbled onto my sister's, Marisol's, bed. I landed on her arm, so she groaned and pushed me away. She massaged her arm and quickly realized what day it was. A humongous, excited smile spread across her face. Now we are running down the stairs towards the kitchen. Mom hands us plates of pancakes and a platter of bacon. Marisol and I wolf down our meal, excited for the day to come. We don't want presents for our birthday. We don't even want a party. All we want is for Dad to come home. After breakfast, Marisol and I slide into jeans and T-shirts. We tie hoodies around our waists in case we get cold, and we put on our timberland boots. It is not long before Mom woefully says goodbye and we walk out the door. It is quite warm outside. There is a breeze that blows my hair around. I take a hairband from my wrist and tie my hair into a low ponytail. Marisol and I face the woods, giddy and excited. “Let's go, Lucille!” exclaims Marisol. I nod. We sprint to the tree line and then start walking north, careful not to trip on any logs or rocks. The view from the inside of the woods is amazing. The trees are everywhere, overlapping each other, which makes the woods more like a forest. The sunlight becomes tinted green when it passes through the trees' canopies, illuminating everything with a soft, chartreuse glow. Dragonflies and bees zoom through the bushes and trees, trying to avoid the slow, fluttering butterflies. According to the legend, the Wishing Tree is taller and thicker than the other trees, adorned with pastel pink flowers. When you make a wish, you're supposed to place your hand on the trunk and tell the tree your wish. Pretty simple. After about twenty minutes of walking, I spot a thick tree trunk in the distance. “Over there!” I yell, pointing. “Look!” We jog to the trunk and look up at the branches. I cannot explain just how much excitement I feel when I see the trademark pastel pink flowers that bloom on every inch of every branch. We found the Wishing Tree. It really does exist. Marisol outstretches her hand to touch the tree. I stay silent, watching her. She closes her eyes and says, “I wish for Dad to be home.” I swear I see the tree sparkle a little. Marisol removes her hand and motions for me to make my wish. I then place my hand on the trunk and close my eyes, just as Marisol did. The bark is rough and scratchy, like any other tree in the woods. This is the moment I've always been waiting for. “I wish for Dad to be home,” I say. I remove my hand and smile. Marisol and I bow to the tree, just as the legend instructed us to do. We begin our journey back to the house, following the same route we took to get to the tree. I only had one wish, and I used it for the biggest desire of my life. Now all I can do is wait. When Marisol and I reach our house's yard, we see a taxi pulling out of our driveway. They probably went to the wrong house. I turn the doorknob and I am surprised to see my mom hugging someone in an army uniform. Dad. Marisol and I run up to him, our eyes flooded with tears. He encases us in one of his signature bear hugs. I breathe in his warm scent: apples and cinnamon, with a hint of pine. It is a familiar scent, one that`` I smell when I bundle myself in his old, fleece blanket at night. Love and happiness course through me, overpowering everything else. My dad is home. My family is whole again. Wishes do come true.

The man and the woman, a union ordained for bliss Bliss ethereal yet tangible, like the honeyed taste of a kiss But this bliss is sent to hell, when the man says he is a beast Of course not with his mouth, but when his pride becomes his fist. Iya Bisi said "For my children I will stay". "I need to be around to get the daily bread in place". Really, she had hidden fears about what people would say If she fled for her safety, away from Baba Bisi the Great Should we wait until her eyes are swollen and black? Before we see that our vision is blurry and dark Mandela's hands in the air spoke of a freedom age Why do the hands of our brothers speak of bondage? Zainab swore she would go to the university But Hassan came with naira for his bride Thus scissors went into her private princess parts Another child has become wife. Bolanle's oranges were neither ripe nor exposed And her thighs were warmed by a baggy pair of clothes She was three days in as the latest teenager on the street Then three rounds of rape sent her hanging on a rope. The pandemic strolled into our world Then quarantine drove us into our homes But Ogechi's home was a prison, and she was a detainee She lived in a ring with a stronger opponent and no referee In fact if their common name was Floyd, He would be Mayweather and she would be George. She was one woman with one thousand responsibilities. Everyday came with reasons to stretch her abilities. But even elastic strings have their limits Maybe hers would be the day her heartbeat is quiet. This message to our society must go viral. We must wake up to cherish our women. We are blessed to have these living, breathing temples Who are we to desecrate deity?!

ESSAY FOR THE BIOPAGE COMPETITION I am delighted to participate in this contest that Biopage is organizing to encourage aspiring writers and writing enthusiasts in general, and particularly in this time of the pandemic. I would like to share my writing experience as a new writer, author, bakery/pastry student, and full-time mom who finds voice, joy, fun, and comfort in writing. This is the opportunity for me to showcase my abilities through literature. In high school, I liked Haitian and French literature, sociology, the Bible and I had very good results in these subjects. In other words, I love everything about literature, but I never knew I was passionate about writing until I immigrated to the United States over ten years ago. years old and passed a Harvard Extension Intermediate English Level essay competition in the spring and summer of 2008. When I write in my journal, I often express my ideas, inspirations, and frustrations, but this year my writing skills and abilities have taken a new step. They have reached a deeper level that allows me to write cultural and fictional books for adults and especially for children of which my daughter is the main source of inspiration. During the pandemic, like everyone is aware of the current situation which is a global health crisis in the history of the world, but it also came with positive results of which I am among them. It allows me to have more time at home to write. Even though this pandemic has turned the world upside down, so many lives have been lost and their souls rest in peace, but it also brings joy and laughter for some. This is the reality we live in. You can regain your voice, well under bad circumstances even if he/she is not the cause. This means that I really take the opportunity not to get tired of this virus, to write my ideas, inspirations that I have transformed into little books. I am also grateful and very fortunate for the health of my family and me during this time of the pandemic. If either of us were diagnosed with Covid 19, I couldn't think clearly and positively. I wouldn't find the strength to write so many little books in such a short time when I was in school full time and taking care of my daughter either. So far, I can say that everything is happening for a reason. This pandemic period also helps me realize that life is so short and so precious at the same time. I felt like I was managing my time really well because tomorrow is not guaranteed and not mine either, so I should make good use of my time not to hand it over which I don't do by chance, but every second count. This is the reason why I was able to write so many short stories in a short time. I kept getting inspirations, ideas from my daughter and myself, so I put them in writing so that I could put them to good use later. Even though I couldn't find a job due to my daughter's schedule and mine, but I didn't let it affect my mental state. On the contrary, I changed it into positivity, into writing, by creating new things. So, I had to stay home with her most of the time because the schools and daycare were physically closed and practically open. As a stay-at-home mom writing was my first option to kill free time even though I barely had it. In other words, the writing was the best option for reducing academic and parenting stress for me. So, I thought to myself that I had to find something very interesting to kill the free time that I will be spending at home with my daughter. Therefore, I stayed home with her the entire time that I finally realized with Covid that this was something I was supposed to do, especially with my sheet music and my interests in writing and literature. during my high school years in Haiti. Here I just have something to talk about a little bit about my first project which is a songbook I created for my community churches, parents so they can teach their children good manners through songs religious. Bible verses, a story, and prayers that I wrote. My biggest inspiration has been the community church I attend. It's a small church, but full of interesting and intelligent children. They are eager to learn the song in languages other than English, for example, Haitian Creole, my mother tongue, French and Spanish learned in school. Whenever I had the chance to work with them in the children's class, I would do my best to teach them at least one song. One Sabbath, I even typed three songs to teach them in class. From there, the idea of writing a songbook reappeared and I decided to do something more professional. Fortunately, with hard work and dedication, I have created a devotional book that contains more than ten songs with prayers, bible verses, story, a puzzle with words related to the songs. It took me at least a year to write this book with the writing, design, and everything about books, but it's worth it.

My first job was at a popular, upscale local restaurant that shall remain nameless. I had the distinct honor of greeting our guests at the door and finding suitable accommodations for their dining needs. I was a hostess. A menu and silverware slinger. The face of the business and the keeper of the wait list. While the place was classy as hell, the owners were unbearably pretentious. Designer clothes, artificial (or at the very least, enhanced) facial features, and a beyond extravagant lifestyle set these folks apart, and in their minds, high above, the majority of the business owners in our area. That mood permeated the entire place. Never mind the fact that we were in southern Oklahoma and not Beverly Hills. Never mind the fact that most of our patrons drove pick-up trucks and not BMWs. This was true of the owners, the managers, servers, cooks, host/hostesses, bussers, and perhaps most importantly, the customers. I was joined in my greeting duties by two alpha females from my school. At school, they were not extremely popular, but also not outcasts. They had an adequately sized group of friends, composed mostly of fellow athletes that they could successfully intimidate and boss around. They were abrasive, aggressive and grossly lacking in class. All of these details, however, did not prevent them from feeling superior to the common folk they were forced to walk amongst. It was as if simply being employed by this elitist establishment, simply receiving a W-2, was the only license needed to belittle and shame others. It was not attractive. Obviously, my kind heart did not last long. After parting ways with my first source of income, the rumors at school began to swirl. It was sophomore year, and I was on top of the world. I made excellent grades, participated in several extracurricular activities and was not too many rungs down on the social ladder. I was a well-behaved teenager who was terrified of the consequences of getting into any significant trouble. As such, I was surprised when I began to observe that the gossip-filled notes being passed fervently across the room from student to student managed to pass over me. I was not included in the latest buzz, and by my fellow student's reactions, I could tell it was juicy. Feeling left out, I complained to my current best friend after class. Her eyes immediately fell on her shoes, which began awkwardly shuffling weight from one to the other. She bit her lip, then cautiously raised her eyes to meet mine. “You know why they skipped you, right?” she said. “The notes are about you. Apparently, there's a rumor going around that you are pregnant and your parents made you quit your job.” I couldn't move. My stomach dropped, my heart rate increased and suddenly I was finding it difficult to find air to fill my lungs. How could anyone possibly believe this? I was sixteen years old, my own mother was currently 4 months along with my little sister! “AHA!” I thought to myself. That was it! Someone must have seen me buy a pregnancy test (for my mom) several weeks back and assumed the worst. I began to relax. Once people realized that my mom was having a baby, they would feel silly and the rumors would stop, I was sure of it. The relief was short lived, however. As I looked up, I saw a trio of fast-moving bodies coming toward me down the hallway. It was my boyfriend of 2 years, flanked by two familiar and angry alpha females. I'll save everyone here the drama of the back and forth, voices raised, he said/she said drama and just let you all know that everything turned out well in the end. I convinced my boyfriend that I was not going to be giving birth to his offspring in the coming months. My very pregnant mom came to school events frequently, showing everyone that my retorts to their claims were valid and true. There is one twist to this story, and it gives me profound joy to this very day. On the day of graduation, a little over two short years later, the sun rose and shined on my life with endless promise and possibility. Those two alpha females joined me in celebration as we walked across the stage and received our diplomas; both in their third trimester.

When I was younger, I felt like I needed everything.. and everything needed to be extraordinary. I had so many lives in mind for myself, I could never choose which one I wanted. "Greatness" was such a selective thing to me back then.. It would be a lifetime before I realized that there are too many kinds of greatness for me to be able to explain what "greatness" meant to me. There, I had found my talent. My ability to see the greatness in all things. My passion to bring greatness out of a story, even if it wasn't mine. My love for finding greatness in what I never knew could be. It is in this life, I get to live through many different eyes, through many different stories. Through success and mediocrity. Through both sorrow and accomplishment. It is in this life that I became part of something much bigger than myself. It is in this life that I live extraordinarily.

You hear the phrase every day. When a father throws a baseball with his son, and his son doesn't throw the ball hard enough. “You throw like a girl!” When a boy is running track and can hardly keep up with his teammates? “You run like a girl!” From these examples, we gather that this phrase is generally used as an insult. Women drivers are considered to be worse than male drivers. Women are confusing, and emotional, and cry – they aren't as rational as men. Right? These are common ideas in today's society, something we don't even think twice about before saying. Why does a woman's ability to address her feelings and emotions make her lose her credibility and reasoning? Is there something ingrained in the female sex that makes being associated with them insulting? The last time I checked, a woman's insurance costs less than a man's. When was the last time you heard of a woman murdering a man because he refused to go on a date with her? The media often reports on stories of men murdering women after the men are denied something by the woman; and yet, women are stereotyped as emotional and irrational. Hearing these reports and stories -daily- you would think demeaning phrases including “like a girl” wouldn't be commonly used. But when was the last time you heard someone insult another person by calling them a boy? Personally I have never heard the phrase, “You're such a boy!” as an insult. When somebody is aiming to insult someone verbally, they always associate their insult with a woman. Why is this? The insult itself doesn't actually make sense, because there are many women that are physically stronger than men. In a sport that is dominated by strong, physically built men, Ronda Rousey has emerged as one of the biggest stars in MMA. When there are many famous women out there, like Ronda Rousey, who can dominate in a physical fight, why do people still continue to use the phrase “like a girl” as an insult? With women like Ronda Rousey, who needs Mike Tyson? She could easily put him and any professional football player in the hospital. With powerful women like Ronda Rousey, and honored soldiers like Leigh Ann Hester – who received a silver star for her heroic actions in Iraq–it doesn't make sense for women to still be the subject of degrading insults and jokes. Many women join the military every year; they receive the same training, go through the same tests, and fight the same people as men. I'm sure the men that fight in the army and alongside those women wouldn't use “You fight like a girl” as an insult with their comrades. Another phrase, one that has since been banned in many schools, that used to be used as an insult is “You're retarded”. Many people used the adjective in order to insult or shame another person. When it was brought to light that the insult is demeaning and offensive towards people that are actually mentally retarded, the phrase was no longer acceptable as an insult, and teachers in schools began to discipline children for using it. That insult was offensive towards a group of people, and it was disbanded, as it should have been. The insult “like a girl” is offensive towards a group of people, and yet it is still widely used. Unfortunately it is impossible to change everyone's opinions on the phrase “like a girl”. A single person can't force millions of people, and several generations, to stop using the phrase. However, maybe I can be one person that begins to shine a light on the subject.