Georgia Gempler

My local Hollywood Video store was just a few blocks away during my entire childhood, but back then renting movies was only an occasional pleasure.
I had always been a movie fan, but I didn’t always have access. As I got older, I was allowed to walk places by myself, take the city bus, and just enjoy more freedom in general.
Little did I know what was in store.
The summer before freshman year, everything changed.
My mom was working during the day, and my sister and I had to stay home by ourselves. It was great. We read, played games, stayed out of each other’s way, and did art projects in the back yard.
We also rented movies.
My mom would leave us money in a Mason jar to rent movies or go to lunch. I, wanting to get out of the house a bit and exercise my rights as a teenager, opted to walk to Hollywood Video, a mere three blocks away.
I went nearly three times a week, spending hours at a time picking just the right love story or sci-fi adventure. I also frequently perused the classics section and even made it my goal to try to watch every classic in stock. I never did.
I soon learned that Humphrey Bogart really wasn’t that romantic and Audrey Hepburn had an annoying accent. So enlightened, I focused my attention on Cary Grant, Deborah Kerr, Shirley MacLaine, Judy Garland, Gene Kelly, Jack Lemmon, Dick Van Dyke, William Powell and Myrna Loy. For me, their work truly defines early American film.
The employees of Hollywood Video have seen me countless times since that summer. I think it’s safe to say I’ve become a regular. I know exactly where each section is, how the movies are arranged, the names of the employees, and how much it costs to rent five movies at a time.
But yet again, all that has changed.
A few weeks before school let out this summer, I found out Hollywood Video was closing. It wasn’t just the store, it was the entire franchise.
Words cannot describe how betrayed, disappointed and furious I felt.
I still feel that way.
That store is a community within itself, a place that has shaped the last few years of my life in a way that almost no one can understand.
I have developed a personal relationship with each and every shelf. I know my way around all the racks — from the movies on sale and the comedy section.
I usually screech to a halt at the classics after making my routine circle around the outer walls looking for decent new releases. I know the way the carpet feels as I sit on the ground poring over the contents of the bottom shelf.
And I love the way I feel when I find anything with Colin Firth or Alan Rickman in it.
One might ask, “Why don’t you just go to Blockbuster? Or sign up for Netflix? What’s the big deal?”
For me, that sense of community will be lost.
I’ve been preparing myself for weeks now as Hollywood Video has been selling its entire inventory. Everything literally not nailed to the floor is available. My family has gone to the sale at least four times, first grabbing the movies we absolutely had to have, then waiting until the prices dropped to find some hidden treasures.
There are just a few days left until the store goes for good. Discounts are down to 70 to 80 percent, and everything is $2.99 or less. You can get 10 movies for $10.
Having purchased close to 40 new movies, our home library now consists of 161 DVDs and 185 VHS tapes.
Looking back, I realize I have learned to appreciate the true artistic value of a good movie. Some of my friends — even friends’ parents — call me for movie advice.
Hollywood Video has taught me how much seemingly insignificant places can change a person, and how frightening it can be when they go away.

— Georgia Gempler is an incoming junior at Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Hannah Besso

Well, that’s it. Five months of confusion, five months of growth, five months of happiness.
Five of the best months of my life.
Last spring, when I decided to go on a five-month exchange program to Salta, Argentina, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. In fact, for a while before I left, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go, afraid I would miss my friends and family too much.
But right now, looking back, I can’t seem to believe that I ever had a doubt.
During my time here in Salta, I have felt such a mix of emotions — from uncertainty to fear to joy — and now I know that all of it was worth it.
Although I had taken a year and a half of Spanish classes at Davis High School,  I hardly understood anything when I first arrived. I had to ask people to repeat — or say it slower, or explain it in another way — so many times that I wanted to cry. I guess I’m not used to being looked at like an idiot.
That lasted for about two or three months.
And although there were some really fun times mixed in there — like a few fancy birthday parties and just hanging out with my host family — for the most part, those first few months were pretty tough.
But then all of a sudden, I could understand when people talked at a normal speed. I could join in conversations and not have to focus all my attention on not losing track of what people were saying. I could start building relationships and really getting to know people.
It feels amazing to be able to listen to the same sounds I heard five months ago and now understand their significance. When I have something to say, I can go ahead and say it instead of searching for vocabulary I don’t know.
I think this and my relationship with my host family have been the best parts of my trip, along with the suuuuuper good food — like empanadas (pockets of meat, cheese or vegetables), locro (sort of like a stew with beef and vegetables), asado (grilled beef), and Argentinian ice cream — great times with the friends I’ve made here and
Not to mention the confidence I’ve gained from becoming so close with people who don’t even speak my first language.
Before I left Yakima, I knew I was going to be homesick for the U.S.
And now, before leaving Salta, I know I’ll be homesick again.
But this time, I’m going to be homesick for a new home. My home in Argentina.

— Hannah Besso is an incoming junior at Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Georgia Gempler

There’s hardly anything more interesting than listening to your neighbors on an airplane.
Whether they’re arguing, chatting, getting to know each other for the first time, being reunited or communicating in silence, there’s always something to be learned.
My interest on a recent trip was sparked by the two gentlemen behind me. I can honestly say I have never encountered two people who have gotten along better. They had been chatting it up non-stop since we boarded.
The conversation ranged from one topic to another — from love to dogs to cats to family to girlfriends to foreign countries to retirement to hospital visits and much, much more.
It was very clear they both loved to talk about their wives. Throughout the flight, I heard my wife this and my wife that.
Their stories were sweet and annoying, dull and strangely personal. The odd thing was, from my position as eavesdropper extraordinaire, I got the impression these two men had just met.
Now, personally, when I fly next to strangers, or even my family, I don’t talk that often. Most people don’t.
If you were a flight attendant, the only conversations you would usually hear would be between families, lovers, friends, and strangers working out how to adjust their seating positions so the person next to the window could get up to go the bathroom.
Of course, there are the expected pleasantries.
“Where are you going?” “Oh, how interesting.” “Do you have family there?” “How long are you staying?” “Have you been there before?”
But usually, it’s pretty quiet.
I don’t know the reason for this mass silence. I’ve always assumed it was part of flying etiquette, sort of a “Don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you,” policy. Maybe the roar of recycled air and uncomfortable proximity to strangers causes one to retreat inside themselves.
In any case, I know the kind of conversation I had been listening to doesn’t occur often. It’s rare when two people find enough in common, personality-wise, to keep up such a long talk, especially in our current world of impersonal technology.
Maybe the two men behind me could no longer suppress the desire to share their lives with each other. Afterall, their elbows were connected on the armrest.
Maybe they just needed to fill the silence. Maybe they were afraid of the silence or couldn’t stand the awkwardness.
Or, maybe they genuinely wanted to get to know each other better. They certainly had ample time on the four-and-a-half hour flight.
Whatever the reason, those two had completely mastered the art of conversation. And it was a wonder to listen to.
They took turns swapping stories, even sculpting their anecdotes to fit something the other had said.
Their conversation ended naturally when one of the men got up to use the restroom. When he returned, they both dropped off to sleep.
In a way, it’s sad to me that I can write a column about something as unremarkable as a good conversation. But the reality is that anymore, especially on airplanes, connecting personally with a fellow human being is just not done that often.
I wonder how we’ve  come to this?

— Georgia Gempler is an incoming junior at Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Jenna Davison

There are very few times in a person’s life when you truly feel a part of something.
Relay for Life, a 24-hour event held last month at Yakima’s Zaepfel Stadium, was one of those times for me.
Sponsored by the American Cancer Society, Relay for Life raises money for cancer research and cancer patients. It also aims to spread awareness, celebrate survivors and remember those who lost their lives to cancer.
I was on the team called “Shayla’s Powerhouse,” named for the older sister of my best friend, Sadie Holwegner. Shayla was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a form of bone cancer, in 2007 and passed away in December 2008.
I never knew Shayla. But what I do know is that she was a beautiful person who touched many people’s lives. And being a part of something that included her is what made Relay for Life all the more special.
The team had been working a few months in advance to raise money and sell luminarias. We were required to raise at least $100 each, and our team’s goal was $1,500. Before the event even started, our team had managed to raise a little more than $2,000.
And nearly everyone on “Shayla’s Powerhouse” team stayed at Relay for Life, held June 12 and 13, for the full 24 hours.
“Walking 24 hours symbolizes the nonstop fight for people going through cancer,” says 17-year-old Sadie, our team captain. “They never get to take breaks. We are here to raise money towards cancer research.”
Here’s a look at my experience at the event.

Cindy Wen, Casey Guilland, and Kimberly Greenough, all 17 and students at Eisenhower High School, glance back while walking the track during Relay for Life at Zaepfel Stadium on June 12.

June 12
11:30 a.m. — I arrive with a pillow, sleeping bag and backpack with my shoes tied to it. I’m wearing track shorts in light of the fact I want to be comfortable.
I hope I’ll get through the entire 24 hours.
“I feel like I’m a hiker,” I tell my friend, 17-year-old Kim Greenough.
We receive our “Shayla’s Powerhouse” shirts with the symbolic “Shayla Star” in deep purple emblazoned on them.
Noon — Relay for Life officially begins, and we take our first lap together as a team. Some link hands, others arms. As a team of 16, you can tell we’re happy to be together with each other.
The weather is pretty hot, around 80 degrees. The team begins to load up and slather on huge amounts of sunscreen. I put on a baseball hat to block my face.
1 p.m. — Our team sells iced teas at $2 each to raise money. I am put on iced tea duty with some anxiety. I have never made iced tea in my life.
Turns out, it’s easy! Iced teas slowly become a huge seller throughout the day. And by slowly, I mean it literally takes two hours for someone to buy an iced tea.

"Shayla Stars," small metal pendants. Proceeds go toward the Shayla Fund, which benefits cancer patients like Shayla Holwegner who died after a battle with the bone cancer osteosarcoma.

We also sell “Shayla Stars,” metal pendants. The proceeds benefit the Shayla Fund, which assists student athletes who find themselves in circumstances similar to the one she endured.
And we sell raffle tickets for the piñatas a few of the team members had made the days before.
Between 1 and 2 p.m. — I walk six laps around the track with my friend, Faradeh Rehfield, 17. At some point, we start talking about Southern cooking and our great love of baked beans.
2:30 p.m. — Lunch arrives!
There are sandwich goodies along with fruits and vegetables. But there is one problem: We don’t have a knife to spread mayonnaise. Quick fix: We comically use carrots to spread the mayo on our bread.
Around this time we find out our team is “silver,” which means we have raised a specific level of money, around $2,500.
3 to 4 p.m. — As we volunteer for walking duty, I find myself, once again, drifting ahead with Faradeh. We meet up with some friends from Eisenhower’s Interact club, Brian Griffith and Philip Celerian.
We tell stories of the past and plans for the near future. Finally, Brian buys an iced tea, and Faradeh and I decide to check out a giant tent that dwarfs ours and every other one nearby. Teams put up tents to provide shade and rest areas during the 24-hour event. Some tents also serve as stands at which teams sell items as fundraisers.
6 p.m. — My family comes to walk with me for a short time, and they take me to get Chinese food from Safeway. I get through the line quickly, and pretty soon I’m back at Relay for Life, where everyone has begun to take off their shoes, even slouch in chairs.
Over the speakers, it’s announced that our team has gone gold! Later, we learn “Shayla’s Powerhouse” wins the Youth Team Award for raising the most money, more than $3,400.

A full view of our tent shows raffle items, piñatas and iced tea supplies. Team members that aren't walking the track lounge on chairs, or any comfortable place they can find, in the back of the tent.

7 p.m. — Some members of the team relax, others walk. I share a few fortune cookies with my friends. The yawning process begins, and nap time ensues.
I play soccer with friend, Casey Guilland, against some boys. We are surprised by our still-existent soccer skills, and take over.
Then, my friend, Jaziel Rodriguez, 17, joins the other team, and we are brought down to our regular “I haven’t played soccer in years” mindset.
8 to 9:30 p.m. — I walk for a short time just with a few friends. Then, the most monumental part of the night takes place, the luminaria walk. It is a special hour at night during which all the luminaria bags encircling the inner rim of the stadium’s track are lighted, brightening the darkness. The bags are decorated with the names and photos of people who have survived, are fighting or who have lost their lives to cancer.
For me, this is the most memorable and inspirational part of Relay for Life. Our team links arms until we make a wall. Together, we support each other as name after name is read. Some begin to tear up, and after Shayla’s name is read, we break into smaller groups, celebrating the kinship we share as friends.
11 p.m. — Mr. Relay begins. This is a competition between boys on different Relay for Life teams. They dress up as women, make up funny fake names and see who can become the better girl.
Our team members, Phil Ostriem — aka Shaniqua — and Josh Thomas — or Foxy — take center stage with high heels, dresses and some fruit put in interesting places. Neither Phil or Josh win, but our team gets some good laughs.
June 13
Midnight — We take part in midnight volleyball. The tournament doesn’t go as well as planned. We quickly get over our loss and move back to the tent.
2 a.m. — Sleep! I take a much-needed rest in a fold-out chair.
5 a.m. — I have drifted in and out of sleep most of the night, waking up to find Phil and Josh gone. They have traveled to Safeway to get us doughnuts. Josh apparently runs into a door on the trip, but who can blame him when we are all so tired. Phil gets excited because the barista put an extra shot in his coffee.

Team members Faradeh Rehfield, Kimberly Greenough and Cindy Wen, all 17 and students at Eisenhower High School, rest in fold-out chairs after walking duty. The three are wearing Shayla's Powerhouse T-shirts with the symbolic "Shayla Star" on the front.

6 a.m. — I get up to walk again with Kim, Casey and Faradeh for an hour. Kim’s mom brings us coffee, right about the time Phil and Josh come back with doughnuts. Perfect timing!
7 to 10 a.m. — Our team is lucky enough to have parents come and walk for us in the morning, one of those being my dad! As our parents are busy walking, we sit in a circle just talking and sipping coffee.
10-11 a.m. — We take down our tent, and everyone gets their things together in preparation for the end of the 24 hours and our final lap together as a team.
The Culligan man offers everyone cold water. We slurp it in delight.
11 a.m. to noon — This hour seems the longest of any hour throughout the event. I pace back and forth, eventually finding some shade in that gigantic tent I went in with Faradeh the day before.
Noon — We take our last lap as a team and bask in our happiness of making it to the end.
From the 24 hours, I learned a cancer victim’s fight is long and hard. But by doing fundraisers and events like Relay for Life, in which all proceeds go toward the American Cancer Society, together we can make that fight a bit easier.
Together, we can make it a fight that can be won.

— Jenna Davison is an incoming senior at Eisenhower High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Georgia Gempler

The baby in front of me had just fallen in love.
I know that may seem like a somewhat strange statement, but there it is.
The little boy was sitting in front of me with his mother on a shuttle bus traveling to Seattle.
Having witnessed their goodbyes from the back seat of the bus, I know he is well-loved. His parents are the type of people who look to be the typical eco-friendly parents. He’s probably being raised on organic baby food and the home-puréed vegetable goo so typical of that stereotype. (By the way, if I were a parent I would be in this category as well.)
During the first half hour of the trip, his mother held and cuddled him in a soft white blanket. He was glaring at me from between the seats the entire time.
His little blue eyes gazed back at me with confusion, completely understandable for 5 a.m. But then his cute little eyebrows bunched together in a completely different expression: Dislike.
I won’t say hatred, because it wasn’t. I wouldn’t want to accuse such an innocent being of such a vile emotion. But this baby just did not like me.
Usually I’m great with kids. I like them, and they like me. So even though I didn’t really take it personally, a small corner of my heart died inside.
That was fine. Really. I didn’t even know the kid. And then I realized what the problem was: I wasn’t his type.
Directly across the aisle from his seat were two teenage girls, about my age. They were either sisters or good friends, because they were giggling and carrying on, even at such an early hour.
As soon as the little baby boy was finished with his latest round of eyebrow-bunching at my smiling face, he turned 90 degrees to stare at my competition. In the span of a few seconds, several discouraging changes occurred. Baby’s eyebrows un-bunched, his eyes sparkled, and his little frown turned up-side-down.
These girls, being more awake and coy than I care to be at what was now around 6 a.m., captivated the baby fully. He was enthralled. I was nearly livid.
He crawled down from his mother’s lap and settled down sideways in his seat, all the better to view the girls of his dreams. Of course, they didn’t care. I doubt they even noticed the smiling little cherub gawking at them like a cupid who fell on his own arrow.
After that, things were relatively uneventful. Baby’s love affair lasted 10 minutes maximum, which on one hand made me feel better, and on the other made me glad I hadn’t invested in a long-term relationship.
We all fell back into our respective worlds. The girls giggled and carried on, baby played with some brightly colored balloons (ignoring me), and I sat, thinking about my unusual close brush with the trials of love.

— Georgia Gempler is an incoming junior at Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Hannah Naughton

There’s a famous black-and-white photograph in the Naughton family.
Just about every family member has a copy of this picture, and everyone smiles at it just the same. It captures perfectly the spirit of a hard-working Irishman, with a cigarette in his mouth and a Guinness held high in his hand.
The crooked smile and eyes full of laughter belong to the man I am proud to call my grandfather: Michael Naughton. (When pronouncing the name, one must do so with a heavy Irish accent, putting a harsh stress on the “gh” of Naughton).
I don’t know anyone who could better represent my Irish heritage or the true aura of the Eire than Mike Naughton.
His father, Peter Naughton, was married by arrangement to Hannah (McManus) Naughton when he was 40 years old and still managed to father 12 children. The first child was born when he was 44, and the last child was born when he was 62.
Peter was a farmer in Athlone, Ireland, on land that he inherited from his father. This land is now divided up among my father and his four brothers. It was a hard life for a poor farmer in Ireland with 12 starving children to support.
When I was 8, my shoes squelched in the grassy mud of that land. My fingers touched the peeling white paint of the house. My nose crinkled at the smell of burning peat and cow manure. I remember chuckling at my little sister Lily’s question: “Is this the play house?”
There we sat, on a mossy log with our picnic lunch, listening to the stories of our roots. Of my great-grandfather’s 12 children, there were five girls: Genevieve, Margaret, Mary, Hannah, and Lily; and seven boys: Kieran, John, Peter, Edward, Malachy, Thomas and Michael (my grandfather).
Some of them were not so lucky, as John drowned in the Shannon River at age 8. And at age 3, Peter died of consumption in my grandfather’s arms. To escape a life of poverty, Genevieve, Hannah and Margaret all joined convents when they were 15. Lily started the nun process but never took her vows, married, and had three children, all of whom still live in Ireland.
When I was younger I used to brag about having nuns as great aunts, all retired in the English countryside near London. I described Hannah, for whom I was named, as the “most hilarious nun you will ever meet.” I used to imitate her high-pitched chuckle and talk about her willingness to play tackle football out in the yard. Every time I watch “The Sound of Music” and hear Mother Abbess sing “Climb Every Mountain,” an image of Genevieve pops in my mind.

My grandfather, Michael Naughton, in a pub in Ireland.

Hearing all of these stories about my family and the hard life they had in Ireland makes me wonder how my grandpa still had jet black hair, with no trace of gray, at the age of 80. In 1949, at 23, my grandfather left Ireland to escape the homestead. He saved about $50 for a steerage pass on the Titanic’s sister ship, the USS Aquatania, to travel from England to Toronto.
He arrived and worked in Toronto in a Goodyear tire factory for one week. Then he quit and worked in construction plastering. He moved to the U.S. illegally. In 1954, he got married and became a citizen. His brothers, Edward (“Ned”) and Kieran, followed him to Rochester, N.Y., some eight years later.
With his beautiful 18-year-old wife Margaret, he had eight children, one of whom was my father, James. Many bedtime stories originate from my father’s childhood in Rochester. He would imitate my grandma’s yell to round up all of the kids: “Peggy! Kevin! Michael! Jimmy, Johnny! Mary! Eileen! Patrick!”
I heard stories of baseball and soccer in the backyard. I heard about the time my father lost his thumbnail when collecting firewood. I heard about Uncle Ned wrestling the family’s pet pig to the ground in order to slaughter it with his knife.
I heard about my dad pushing his identical twin John out through a glass door. I heard about the time Michael got run over by the tractor. I heard stories of hopelessly laughing altar boys, Sunday morning breakfasts, and spontaneous trips to Disney World.
These stories will be passed on to future generations as new memories are made. It’s these simple things that bring the Naughton family together. Being Irish is more than just a love for Guinness, potatoes and the color green.
It’s the sheer joy brought by the food on the table and the love of family. I take pride in my ability to speak in an Irish accent. I cherish every single freckle on my face. I smile when my 9-year-old sister Fiona quotes Braveheart.
That black-and-white photograph of my grandfather explains the spirit of the Irish in one snapshot.
So I raise my glass and say “Sláinte” because my Irish eyes are smiling.

— Hannah Naughton is a 2010 graduate of Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Manny Rodriguez

Growing up in not only a Mexican home — both my parents were born in Jalisco, Guadalajara — but also a predominantly Latino community, I often wondered why we listened to Spanish music on our drives to the Valley Mall. Or why we regularly attended quinceñeras — which seemed to serve not only the same purpose, but also the same meal: Frijoles, carnitas, and sopa de arroz. Or why we celebrated Cinco de Mayo, watched novelas, and broke piñatas on birthdays.
I was quite the inquisitive child. In fact, that’s a characteristic I still carry.
Along with all the questions came a lot of personal discontent. By the time I hit second grade, I began to simply dislike the fact that I was Mexican.
The reason behind this bold statement? At 8 years old, I quickly took notice of the few characters on TV and in books who looked like me or spoke the same language I spoke with my parents and some friends.
Being Mexican-American was difficult because although I loved my parents and felt grateful for what they provided for me and my sisters, I knew I didn’t want the jobs they had. My dad was a struggling welder, and my mother worked in the fields when she wasn’t taking care of her kids at home.
Even after I joined a folkloric dance club at school and sang mariachi for a little over a year, I was still sadly ashamed of my Mexican blood.
I’ve always been opposed to the idea that people have the ability to “act black” or “act Mexican” or “act white.” But by the time I was in fourth grade, I had decided to affiliate myself in as many activities surrounding white people as possible.
Teachers told me I could be anything I wanted to be as long as I set my mind to it, and yet I had convinced myself that being Mexican would amount to being a janitor, having a thick mustache and heavy accent, even ending up in jail — all the worst possible stereotypes of Latinos you can imagine.
The dissatisfaction continued through middle school. On several occasions, I wanted to avoid the sun as much as possible, for fear I’d become moreno. I wanted my skin to be as close to white as it could be because, at the time  — and I never dared to tell my parents this — I strongly believed being Mexican was an illness.
I thought white meant power, white meant handsome, white meant success. I began speaking to my parents completely in English, and even lied on standardized tests when asked to check a box describing my ethnicity. Sometimes, I even made up a new name that sounded more Caucasian.
Fast forward to the summer between eighth-grade and my freshman year in high school, when I attended Power of Hope, a life-changing summer camp.
Since 1996, Power of Hope has been offering “arts-based experiential learning programs to teens from diverse cultures and socioeconomic backgrounds,” according to its website.
Power of Hope was the perfect place to find role models to stand by me and help me understand where my people come from. I finally I learned to love myself and my Mexican roots in a world that doesn’t always foster that.
From that summer on, I was free. I was no longer ashamed of my culture. I felt like I was re-discovering myself.
Since my revelation, I have grown passionate about my roots. I have never been so thankful to be Xicano.
I’ve learned Cinco de Mayo is not Mexico’s Independence Day (that’s actually Sept. 16). Cinco de Mayo commemorates the victory of 4,000 Mexican soldiers against 8,000 French forces  — talk about being the underdogs! — on the morning of May 5, 1862, in Puebla, Mexico.
And when I attended the sixth annual Latino Conference at Eastern Washington University on Cinco de Mayo this year, I was astounded at all the beautiful brown people around me. The glorious sounds of trumpets and mariachi singers — not to mention the taste of all the aguas frescas — made the trip that much more gratifying.
At the conference, I went to workshops that explored the hardships of the Mexican-Americans who came before me and their fight for equal rights. It was humbling to hear personal testimonies from individuals who shared triumphant stories of how they embraced their Mexican roots even when they faced adversity.
These days, there is so much I appreciate about being Mexican.
For instance, as many people are discovering, being bilingual in the work place is definitely an advantage, and being biliterate is even more of an edge.
I’m taking a Spanish class — which I absolutely love — and I’m helping to organize a Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan, or MEChA club at Toppenish High School.
I might even minor in Spanish in college.
Acknowledging my roots has changed my life forever. It seems nearly impossible to express on paper how blessed I feel to know that I learned to love where my people — the indigenous people of Mexico, Spain and Portugal — come from.
There is a Mexican saying, “No hay mal que por bien venga,” meaning that for everything bad that happens, there is also something good. Always look for the positive in things.
Even though I felt ashamed of being Mexican in the past, the journey was my wake-up call. I now realize my Mexican culture is the widening of my mind and spirit.
I hope to always celebrate my roots with pride.

— Emmanuel Rodriguez is an incoming senior at Toppenish High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Jenna Davison

I never really knew my grandfather.
What I do know is that I sometimes have his quick temper, I am just as stubborn as he was, and I affectionately called him Papa.
But to really get to know Richard Burns, my mother’s father and the man behind the knee I sat on at the age of 2 — according to a family photograph —  I had to dig deep, all the way back to my roots.
My great-grandfather Harry Burns came over from Ireland and met my great-grandmother, Laura Gaudette, who was French. Her father, my great-great-grandpa Gaudette was one of the first workers at Boise Cascade in Yakima.
Laura and Harry married and had Papa as well as twins who died shortly after their birth.
When Papa was 2, Laura died of heart problems. These problems would later foreshadow Papa’s own death.
Harry, being the stereotypical drunken Irishman, gave Papa to Laura’s family in Yakima after her death.
It is said that Harry eventually remarried and had another family. So somewhere there are probably people I am related to who still live in the Yakima Valley, cousins who perhaps got to know Harry, a privilege Papa never experienced.
Papa went to Marquette, a local Catholic school, and was an athletic star in both football and basketball. There, he met Grandma, Kathy Staudinger, at a basketball game in which he starred.
“He was a good player,” Grandma Kathy recently recalled with a smile.
They married when she was 17 and he was 19.
Papa joined the Coast Guard, and after he completed his term he went to barber school. He was a barber for the remainder of his life.
Grandma Kathy worked at Yakima’s St. Elizabeth’s Hospital her whole life. Her story and roots go all the way back to Germany.
Grandma Kathy’s grandmother and grandfather, John and Alma Schmidt, lived in Germany until the early 1900s. The two came to North Dakota, where the Schmidts farmed Arabian horses.
They had five girls, including my wild-child great-grandma, Bert. Her mother died of heart failure when she was very young, and her father died in the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918. All the girls were doled off by their step-mother to work as servants. Great-Grandma Bert was sent to a shoemaker.
She settled down with her first husband, John Staudinger, also a full-blooded German. They divorced after 25 years.
In all, Great-Grandma Bert had five husbands. Her most famous words to my mother were, “If I had had more husbands, Honey, you could have had more rings.”
Ironically, she and her first husband John had neighboring rooms in the nursing home at the end of their lives. They both died oddly close to each other.
Great-Grandma Bert was really spontaneous. I see that quality in myself. And, though not as wild, I think I also inherited her outgoing personality.
Grandma Kathy, on the other hand, wants things to be just right. And I get that characteristic from her, too.
I’m glad she’s here to tell me stories about Papa and our family’s past.
Even though Papa died of a heart attack when I was 2, not long after that photo of me sitting on his lap was taken, I still have the picture with which to help remember him.

— Jenna Davison is an incoming senior at Eisenhower High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

Colleen Fontana

There are many things important to Italians. The top three, however, are family, religion and pasta.
Great-Grandpa Fontana ate pasta every day of his life.
My Italian ancestors, the Fontanas and the Bonanos, came to Louisiana from the Italian island of Sicily — like most immigrants — in search of a better life for their families. They brought with them their traditions and lifestyles.
We still celebrate feast days, such as St. Joseph’s Day, like they did. We also value our family and our faith, and — though my ancestors’ Italian has been replaced by English — my uncles can still imitate their thick accents.
As a kid, I never quite understood what was significant about such traditions. Even when the teacher instructed us to go home and ask our parents about our relatives and map out our family tree, I still wasn’t aware of how unique my identity is.

Peter Fontana, my great-great-grandfather, on his birthday in South Louisiana in the late 1930s.

It wasn’t until my family and I visited Louisiana a few years ago, when my grandmother passed away that I truly discovered an appreciation for the sacrifice and the integrity of my family.
We sat around the living room of my father’s childhood home, telling stories and recounting memories of my grandma and grandpa. As is the custom in the South, neighbors brought food throughout the day, so there was never a chance we would get hungry.
MaMa’s funeral was well attended, mostly by people I had never met. They greeted me with hugs, as though we had known each other all my life.
I realized that day that this is what makes me uniquely and individually me. My future will be inextricably affected by my past and by my family’s past.
I realized how proud Great-Great-Grandpa Fontana would be of me. How Great-Great-Great-Grandma Bonano would smile to know I’m going to college. How my Italian cousins will always share my love of lasagna and cannoli.
Accepting my past means creating my future on the foundation of all who have come before me. I now treasure who I am, who the past has made me.
My father moved away from his family for work, coming to Yakima instead of staying in the South like the others. However, as with any good Italian family, weddings and funerals often bring us together.
It can be difficult to hold onto one’s roots, especially when one lives so far from their family. But the ties that bind my extended family have survived the miles and the years.

My great-great-great-great-grandfather Pasquale Bonano, with his grandchildren in Sicily, Italy in the late 1890s.

I value family, I attend church regularly, and my favorite meal is spaghetti.
What can I say — I’m Italian!

— Colleen Fontana is a 2010 graduate of Davis High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.

My great-grandfather Tony Fontana used this truck to sell groceries in Louisiana in the 1930s. He owned a corner grocery store and also sold vegetables from his truck. The littlest child in the photo is my grandfather Anthony Fontana.

Laura Aguilera-Flemming

I remember being 3 years old when my father asked me in Spanish to tell my mom something. Without thinking, I went to her and repeated exactly what he said, but in English.
Since I was a little girl, I’ve felt very connected to my Hispanic roots. My father, Polo Aguilera, was born and raised in Torreón, Mexico, and came to Yakima in 1987 to work as a Jesuit volunteer at St. Joseph’s Parish. When he arrived, he spoke very little English and mainly socialized with members of the Hispanic community.
My mother was born and raised on the south side of Chicago. Her mom was a full-blooded Irish-American, and her dad’s ancestors came from Germany and Belgium. My mom began studying Spanish in high school, but never had contact with someone Latino or of Mexican heritage until her junior year of college, when she volunteered one summer in a juvenile detention center and community center in San Antonio, Texas.
Right away, she was drawn to the warmth and festive spirit of the Mexican culture.
After graduating from college, my mom decided to join religious life as a Catholic sister. Once she had completed her novitiate year, she was sent to Brownsville, Texas, to live and work in the community.
Being back in a largely Hispanic area made her feel at home, but she also felt something was missing. By her fifth year in Brownsville, she realized her true calling was to be married and raise a family.
My mom began searching for jobs in youth and young adult ministries in cities with large Hispanic populations. Destiny led her in 1989 to Yakima, where she met my father, who was finishing up his second year as a Jesuit volunteer. Even though my mom wasn’t Hispanic, my parents shared similar priorities. They both valued faith and family above all else.
Once my mom and dad were married, my dad’s parents moved to Yakima from Torreón to be closer to their son and his new wife.
My grandfather has always had a love for music and has written more than 100 songs in Spanish. When my dad was growing up, he and other family members would get together, play guitar and sing. My grandfather’s affection for music was further evidenced by his suggestion when I was born that my middle name should be Melody.
I grew up with the influence of music all around me. When I was a baby, my dad was a part of a mariachi group called Los Trovadores, in which he played an instrument called a vihuela, a high-pitched, five-string guitar that is played by using your knuckles.
Everyone on my dad’s side of the family grew up singing or playing guitar, which is why as a little girl I learned to sing traditional Mexican songs.
Music wasn’t the only way I kept in touch with my Mexican roots. When I turned 15, I was fortunate enough to have a quinceañera, a coming-of-age ceremony held in honor of a girl’s fifteenth birthday.
The ritual begins with a church ceremony to focus on the devotion to God and moral values that come with becoming a young woman. Afterward, a reception is held with food, music and dancing.
The girl being honored usually wears a ball gown, tiara and sash to emphasize the importance of her big day.
Having my own quinceañera helped me learn a lot about my culture and my Hispanic roots. The tradition opened my eyes to realize I was growing up and that with maturity, I had additional responsibilities.
Growing up in both cultures — Mexican and American — has made me feel a deeper appreciation for both sides of myself. Many times, I’m not perceived by others as Hispanic because I have fair skin. When I speak Spanish or dance to a traditional cumbia song, people are often surprised because they don’t expect it.
Even though my Hispanic heritage isn’t always recognized by others, it is important to me because it makes me who I am. I hope to be able to build a bridge between the two cultures, in the same way my parents have.

— Laura Aguilera-Flemming is an incoming senior at Eisenhower High School and a member of the Herald-Republic’s Unleashed journalism program for high school students.