ROSHNIE RUPNARAIN
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Stuyvesant High School
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Gold Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: It’s hard for me to click with someone during an initial meeting, but with Marissa, I had the most comfortable first meeting ever. I’ve never been genuinely confident in my writing, so when I had to show Marissa a piece of mine, I held the moment off for as long as possible. Inevitably, she read it and truly loved it! In that moment, I felt accomplished. She has given me some of the best advice for my writing and has helped me through my toughest moments. I’m incredibly grateful for Marissa and her guidance toward a better me.
MARISSA SILVERMAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Associate Professor of Music, John J. Cali School of Music, Montclair State University
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Gregory Haimovsky: A Pianist’s Odyssey to Freedom; Music Matters: A Philosophy of Music Education
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Meeting and getting to know Roshnie has been an incredible blessing. I have learned so much from her. She has taught me to live authentically and, important, to be true to even the hidden layers of myself. Roshnie has a strength, courage, and “go get ’em” attitude that is as admirable as it is inspiring. Yet she is also notably sensitive and soulful. All of these dispositions come out in everything she does, including her writing. When I grow up, I hope to be just like her.
This piece is inspired by my own experiences as a female martial artist. It’s related to the theme Ctrl + B, because it’s bold to do what you love no matter what others say.
I-I can’t breathe. In and out through her nose, she tries; her lips spread, her mouth unavailable, full with a mouthguard. In: one, two, three, four. Out: one, two, three, four. In: one—oh, forget it! This isn’t working.
Today isn’t Riley’s first fight. It’s not the first time she’s standing in this very position, eyes narrowing, nose flaring at her opponent whose own features morph into that of a prey who has just noticed her proximity to a hungry predator. She appears intimidating and it works; it helps give her a head start before her challenger gains a bit more confidence. Riley’s strategy is to attack then lay low, act like she’s already worn out, like she isn’t who she seems to be. But she’ll give off death glares before the fight begins. She uses these moments of defense to find her opponent’s mistakes. When a fighter gives her all, Riley learns where the weaknesses rest, then charges those vulnerabilities until the fight ends and she wins.
Even with years of experience, Riley can’t control her body this time around. Her heart pounds in quick succession: da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Her nose is bone dry from huge intakes of chilled oxygen. Dew forms at her temples, and the frigid, Hawaiian air-freshener-scented arena of the ring cools the sweat, sends shivers throughout her entire body. Despite what’s about to happen, she can’t stop thinking about that stupid teenager. This boy, a few years younger than her, thinks he knows everything! He came here with his parents to see the women’s kickboxing championship; he had the nerve to tell her that she can’t fight because she’s a girl.
Standing in the center of the ring like a cat ready to pounce, Riley remembers facing one-sided comments from many men and even some women, those saying she should do Pilates or yoga, recommending that she should stay far away from sports meant for men. How irritating and pathetic, she thinks; yet, how disheartening, too. The more fights she wins, the more famous she becomes, the more backlash she receives from the public.
Riley recalls when her resolve broke and she stopped kickboxing altogether. Her coach furiously berated Riley, but she was even more vexed with herself. Months passed. She constantly questioned quitting. She remembers wondering: Why quit after so much progress? Fighting made her a warrior in her own life, each and every day. Plenty of women fight; gender doesn’t determine the worth of a champion. What matters is to be motivated by love, and Riley loves kickboxing. After three months of being away, she contacted her old coach and starts training again.
Now she is in this ring, twenty seconds before the referee calls her fight to begin. Her first match after a year of absence.
Riley tries her breathing exercises again, counting to herself. Yet, her mind interrupts: What if I lose? She wonders whether she’ll face even more hate. But something is different about this fight: it’s a competition for women. Only. Oh, my goodness, Riley realizes, they must experience the same sorts of doubts I do. In that moment she ferociously concludes: She will invalidate the haters. She is meant for this. She’s earned the right to be here. There is no way she will back down now, not after experiencing people trying to tell her how to live. No matter if she wins or loses this match, she prevails because she’s not backing down. Riley vows to herself that she will prove to everyone that it’s okay to do what she loves. A woman can kickbox, and she’s about to do just that.
Riley’s eyes graze over her opponent’s body. Where is she open? Where can I attack? She thoroughly examines her opponent’s fighting stance, the placement of her hands, elbows, and legs; how her torso twists and how her chin tilts. All important in surmising her rival’s sparring style. As she falls into her old routine, the one she completes ten seconds before a match starts, her breathing evens out, the familiarity of the situation encompassing and protecting her; her own personal shield.
“Tap gloves!” The referee calls. Riley raises her black, twelve-ounce gloves to quickly brush the ruby red ones of her challenger. She stares deep into her adversary’s eyes, noticing a mischievous glint. Riley chuckles to herself. Her opponent thinks she can beat Riley. She doesn’t know Riley’s tricks, nor does she have her experience. She may be rusty after a year but she will fall right back into it, no doubt. She glances around at the thick red ropes, the shiny black mats, and the blinding lights overhead that filter her view of the spectators. She fills with an intense readiness to fight. This is what she’s been missing for the past year; this adrenaline rush is what she needs, no matter what anyone else says. She’s got this.
“And … begin!”