National Honors' Letters

 LAL is pleased to publish this year's winning letters on the national level. As you read, please note the sincerity of the message, the risks these children took to express themselves so openly and eloquently. Note, too, their ages.  This is indeed an impressive collection.  Following the 12 national honors' letters from 2010, we have published the national winning letters from the previous year, 2009. Enjoy!

Letters that took state prizes are also published online and can be found by accessing the various state center for the book webpages. You can find the URLs for each state center under CONTACT US button on the menu.

2010 National Honor Letters

Level 1 National Honor:  Eliana Kahn, MA

Dear Anne Frank,

I struggle a lot with being Jewish.  Every year around Christmas time, I feel like the only one who’s not talking about Santa and Christmas trees.  There are Santas around every corner saying “Merry Christmas,” and through the windows of houses I can see big tall trees with glittering ornaments and happy presents just sitting there waiting to be opened.  Every magazine I open says “Get your Christmas presents here.”  Even the job listings say things like “Have the chimney cleaned so Santa will have a clean landing!”  I feel like I am surrounded by people who don’t know what the word “Hanukkah” means.  When I was younger, I felt jealous.  Now that I am older, I realize that I just feel lonely.

I could always join the crowd.  It’s not that hard to pretend.  All you do is, when kids talk about Christmas, smile and laugh and talk about what is on your wish list.  I get really tempted to do this.  But then I think about you.  My grandfather gave me your book last year.  At first I did not want to read it.  I was tired of having to think about being Jewish.  It was part of me that others did not really want to look at and see.  My parents told me that The Diary of a Young Girl was a really important book so I doubtfully started to read it.

At first, your book seemed to be about normal teenage girl thoughts.  Then it turned upside down.  Your story – well, your life – got really gray and dark and scary.  Jews weren’t allowed to go to stores or movies.  Soon you couldn’t even go to school.  Then you weren’t allowed outside.  Your diary changed, and it seemed as if it was written by a completely different person.  I think that it was written by a completely different person – someone who was allowed only to be Jewish.  I can hide from being Jewish.  You couldn’t.  You were really proud of being Jewish.  You would have rather died as a Jew than lived behind a mask.  You gave up so much.  It makes me want to carry on your name as a young Jewish girl. 

I’m studying for my Bat Mitzvah, and whenever I study the Torah, I always think about you and how you never got to have one.  On the day of my Bat Mitzvah I hope you will be there, standing right next to me, reciting and praying along with me.

Eliana Kahn

Level 1 National Honor: Imani Jackson, MO

Dear Maya Angelou,

Your poem, “Phenomenal Woman” really changed the way I look at myself and helped me overcome a lot.  Lots of people used to pick on me, and it would really bother me.  Now whenever someone points and laughs at me, I just smile at them and walk away.

The first time I heard your poem, I was coming home from school crying because people were making mean jokes about the way I dressed on the bus.  I came into the house with a river rushing down my face.  My mom asked me what was wrong.  I told her what happened on the bus.  She told me to take a nap and she would wake me later.  When something went wrong, my mom always told me to take a nap so that she could find a way to make me feel better.  When she came back to wake me she had a piece of paper in her hand.  It was your poem.  She read it to me with so much expression that she sounded like she had been living the story of this poem all her life.  She told me that everyone has different opinions on everything.  They laugh at you because you’re different, but you laugh at them because they’re the same.  Those words stuck with me that whole day.

Now every time I read your poem the words become stronger and more meaningful to me.  When I’m beating myself up about the way I look or about my weight, it tells me that I don’t need to be skinny to fit a supermodel’s size, or that I don’t have to fit in and be like everyone else.  I just have to be me and that’s all.  I would recommend this poem to anyone who is having social problems or feels like they can’t make it.  Now when people make fun of me for standing out, I just recite your poem in my head and it’s as if I have a shield blocking me that shoots the hate right back at the person who tried to bring me down.

Thank you for writing so many encouraging poems.  You truly are a phenomenal woman. Your Fellow Reader,

Imani Jackson

Level 1 National Honor: Davis Klimek, OH

Dear Mr. Hiaasen,

Two years ago, I read your book Hoot. The whole Mother Paula’s Pancake House being built on the site of endangered burrowing owls, and the kids actions in the book to prevent it, made me realize two important things: One, the cost of development to wildlife and wildlife habitats can be devastating and irreversible. Two, even kids can make a difference when they stand for what they believe in.

For several years, I have been going with my family and grandparents to Sea Island, Georgia, for vacation. One of the best parts of Sea Island for me is going to the beach and seeing the wildlife. Sea Island is an important nesting site for endangered loggerhead sea turtles, an animal that I love. The loggerhead sea turtles return year after year to the same nesting spot. Recently, Sea Island had a big expansion and a new pool, movie theater, and several other buildings and condominiums were added. Most people see these developments as a good thing, but I know that the expansion has hurt the wildlife and destroyed helpless animals’ homes. There is now less shoreline for the loggerhead sea turtles to nest on and more noise and brighter lights on the beach which will scare the sea turtles from coming on shore to nest. Like the kids in Hoot, who would rather see burrowing owls than a pancake house, I would rather see endangered loggerhead turtles instead of a movie theater.

I have not done anything dangerous or illegal to stop the development but like the kids in Hoot I am trying to make a difference. I have become friends with the Sea Island Naturalist and I go on all of the late night and early morning turtle patrol walks that I can. During turtle patrols we use special red lights and search for new sea turtle nests which we mark with identification stakes. One morning I saw a baby loggerhead turtle hatch and make its way to the ocean, it was an incredible experience! I have also helped pass out fliers that encourage beach property owners to shut off their outdoor lights at night. This way the female turtles won’t be scared to come on the beach and newly hatched baby turtles won’t be confused and head away from, instead of towards, the ocean. I have also become a member of the Sea Turtle Center, which saves sea turtles and nurses them back to health.

Mr. Hiaasen, you have opened my mind about what can happen to wildlife when there is development. People are not thinking about what they are doing to the environment when they build new buildings or destroy shore-lines. The book Hoot inspired me to act, and I now know that it doesn’t matter if you are big or small. If you stand up for what you believe in you can make something happen.

Davis Klimek

Level 1 National Honor: Sydney Hodgin, SC

Dear Mr. John Howard Griffin,

Your book, Black Like Me, has inspired me in so many different ways. It has affected how I have chosen my friends, the church that I attend, and also how I interact within my community. Your book reinforced what my parents have always taught me: skin color does not make a difference in how you should treat people and that what makes a person is what they have on the inside.

I live in South Carolina, in the southern part of the United States. Racism is a big part of how many Southern families live. It is passed on from one generation to another. Many kids where I am from are raised thinking that African-American people are different from themselves. Some parents believe that their children should not date, be friends with, or talk to African-Americans. I totally disagree! We are all the same and equal on the inside, but different on the outside. God created us this way intentionally.

God also created us to be individuals. Some people have accents, some have special talents. Others may be poor, while their neighbor wealthy. Every individual is different, no matter what color they are. Some of us love basketball, while others enjoy playing tennis. Some of us participate in swimming meets often, while others dance at competitions.

I think it would be interesting to be a different race temporarily. You could see howdifferent people of different backgrounds treat and react towards each other. This topic should not have to even be brought up today in our world, but racism seems a daily thing I witness. I really respect your courage when you disguised yourself as a "colored" person and traveled around the South proving that African-Americans are treated differently, still. It truly is amazing how you get treated and hospitalized differently based on your race, religion, and other reasons.

At my school, there are lots of racist people. They really get me charged up because all I am thinking to myself is, "Why?" Judging someone just because they look different than you has no logical value. Your book helped me to see and feel how African-Americans feel when they are treated differently.

For example, when my family had a sign in our front yard that supports President Barrack Obama, kids made fun of me. One of my friend's parents will no longer let them watch the reality television show, American Idol, because one of the judges is gay. Another example of racism that my sister witnessed is when a high-school girl confronted her and said, ''The only reason Obama won the presidential election is because all of the ignorant black people voted for him just because he is black." All of these reasons lead up to why I love how you have written your book. It has helped me greatly in understanding the sad reality of racism.

Sincerely,

Sydney Hodgin

Level 2 National Honor: Caroline George, ME

Dear Robert Frost,

Your poem, “Mending Wall”, grabbed my imagination and held it captive! Maybe you should have your poem published with a warning in bold on the top: CAUTION! MAY CHANGE YOUR VIEW OF THE WORLD! I read your poem one morning at school, but it wasn’t until I went into the cafeteria for lunch that I experienced the alarming side effects. I was stunned to see a wall winding throughout the whole cafeteria, a beautiful New England stonewall, just like in your poem. I could see in some places the wall had been carefully taken care of, and in other places stones had fallen haphazardly on either side and left the wall with gaps. The wall wound around the popular kids table and encircled the geeks; it ran past the football players who were animatedly discussing the latest game.

As I stood in the doorway, I watched a group of girls point at a boy on the other side of the wall. They giggled and whispered as they haughtily added jagged, sharp rocks to their tall and imposing section. I wondered at the irony of the neighbor’s comment in your poem when he said, “Good fenced make good neighbors.” I was pretty sure I was looking at a boy who would not agree.

I saw that the wall prevented us from getting to know out own classmates. For a popular kid to meet a geek, they would have to climb the wall. Everyone would laugh and make fun of them because they didn’t belong on the same side. Though my friends and classmates couldn’t see the wall, they knew it was there. They didn’t know how much it was restricting everyone, though. They couldn’t tell it was creating unspoken and ridiculous rules. They simply knew that a geek and a popular kid couldn’t get to know each other.

I closed my eyes and shook myself hard to free my imagination from the grip of your poem. When I opened my eyes I was relieved to see my school’s cafeteria had returned to normal. I could no longer see the wall dividing the cafeteria, but I felt it, and still do. I began to think about other walls, walls that had divided people throughout history.

I realized that one of the largest and saddest walls was made right here in the United States. The wall between African Americans and white people was much taller and much more menacing than the one in my cafeteria. The Jim Crow laws dictated how people could and couldn’t interact. This is similar to how, on a much smaller scale, the popular kids and geeks have rules on how they can and can’t interact.

Your poem also triggered thoughts of the wall Adolph Hitler constructed. One by one, he lifted the crude, heavy stones of hatred. One by one, he balanced the shiny stones of jealously onto each other. One by one, he raised the rough and secluding stones of distrust. He encouraged people to add the cold, rounded stones of hostility to this terrible, murderous wall. They did.

It wasn’t until I read your poem that my eyes were opened to the fact that in Germany, a wall made it so religion decided weather you would live or die. In the United States, a wall made it so the color of your skin determined how you would live. In my cafeteria, a wall made it difficult to get to know other kids. Each wall is hard to knock down, and each wall leaves deep scars.

I now notice walls almost everywhere I look! Your poem showed me that with every difference comes a wall, and with every wall, heartache. I have been inspired to knock down a few stones from the wall each time I enter the cafeteria. Thank you for changing my view of the world with your poem…though I still think you should consider a warning on the top!

Caroline George

Level 2 National Honor: Daniel Flores, OK

Dear Joseph Bruchac,

Growing up as a poor Mexican kid with a slightly darker skin tone than other kids is difficult for me. The majority of kids I meet won’t talk to me after they’ve met me. They don’t want to get to know me, and they don’t even acknowledge me sometimes. I feel as if I’m not as good or as capable as the other kids because I’m different. It seems to me that some people don’t like me and won’t accept me because of my darker skin. It just doesn’t seem fair for people to judge me by my skin color without even knowing me on the inside.

Your story, Code Talker, helped me to realize that the color of my skin and my nationality don’t make me less capable than other people. At first the Navajos were put down and insulted and were told that they would never amount to anything as Navajos. Although they were told that being differed was wrong, they knew that they wouldn’t let their heritage be taken away from them. The reason I admire the Navajo people in this story is because they stayed true to themselves. They were specially selected to do a task that only they could do, to be Code Talkers, sending secret messages in their native language across the Hawaiian Islands in World War II. One of the many reasons I admire those brave Navajo men is because they left their families, their friends, and everything they had to give it all for their country. They made a huge difference in the world by being Navajo, and for that I will remember them. I greatly appreciate you telling the story of Ned Begay and the Code Talkers and how they made a difference in the world by using their native language to help win the war.

I respect those brave Navajo men for fighting the battles from Iwo Jima to Okinawa as U.S. Marines and especially as Code Talkers. Those battles will always be inspiration to me because I look at them like the battles I face and the ones I have yet to endure. To me, a struggle I sometimes face is not having any friends outside my brothers and sisters, and sometimes it seems as if I can never truly fit in. Although I’ve never had to endure any struggle as large as the battle on Iwo Jima, I still often face small battles with self-esteem and making friends. Because they won their battles on those islands they give me hope to overcome my own.

But it makes me sad to think that even after those courageous Navajos had fought in WWII, and served their country that some people still treated them poorly and with disrespect. Although there will always be people that judge me because of my skin color, I now know that I should not be ashamed, but proud of my heritage. This book has also helped me learn to never give up, that eventually, by being myself, I can someday make a difference.

Thank you for writing such a capturing and eye-opening novel that changed my point of view of the world, the people around me, and myself. Even though your main character, Ned Begay, is fictional, he told me an inspirational story of fighting for respect, and winning recognition. To me, this book is an inspiration to be all that I can be.

Daniel Flores

Level 2 National Honor: Thanh Nguyen, PA

Dear Barbara Park,

A pale girl sat silently on a red furry carpet.  Her kindergarten teacher was reading a Junie B. Jones book as she sat in her almighty teacher chair with her legs crossed.  The girl stared in amazement at the book, interested in every word.  The twist was that she couldn’t understand any of those words.

The girl was a Vietnamese immigrant who didn’t know a single word of English.  Her dad would read to her every night and teach her how to pronounce words, but school was the most helpful.  Reading for her was like solving a puzzle with over 1,000 pieces, slowly putting them together.

Struggling to understand what was happening in Junie B. Jones’s life in a new language was of course difficult.  But that unclearness and mystery made her determined to be able to read Junie B. Jones books herself.  Until then, the girl’s teacher would break down what was happening to Junie and that made her understand and learn more each day.  That frustrated and determined girl was me.

When I was in second grade, I was forced to pick books with yellow stickers – the thin books with big words and pictures.  I felt worthless and thought to myself that I was a horrible reader who would never be fluent in English.  I couldn’t catch up with my other classmates who were mostly reading the “thick” books with small print and longer words.  Some were actually reading chapter books like The Magic Tree House series.  But every time I picked up a yellow sticker book, I knew it was going to help me get closer to read the Junie B. Jones series!

During that summer, preparing for 3rd grade, I sat long hours trying to decipher a Junie B. Jones book called Junie B. Junes is a Beauty Shop Guy.  I stuttered and sounded out each word until I got it.  I would read a chapter over and over again until I understood what was going on.

I laughed at Junie when she had to wear so many hats to hide her haircut mistake.  But I felt bad when she didn’t know how to explain her problem.  In the end, she ended up with a new haircut same as mine.  Sometimes my dad would help me along the way and ask me questions to see if I understood.  It was like trying to find my way out of a foggy thick tropical rainforest!

When third grade began, I proudly held that Junie B. Jones book I had read over the summer in my arms.  A few months later, my class was divided up into reading groups.  There was the group who had to read the thin books which I didn’t want to be in; the group that read the almost thick books, just with smaller words; and finally the group who read the chapter books.  When my name was called out, I was shocked.  I literally cried.  I was chosen to be in the chapter book group. 

I felt that the Junie B. Jones series built so much determination inside of me and helped me become the strong reader I am today.  I want to thank you for writing such a great series that kids in elementary schools, or some people who are starting to get better at English, could enjoy.

Sincerely, the pale girl,

Thanh Nguyen

Level 2 National Honor: Stephen Hitchcock, WA

Dear Mr. Verne,

When I first had a major bullying issue, I could only think of one fair outcome for that problem, the bully would be revealed as the person he was and thus be denied any chances in life, and everyone would be sympathetic of me, the victim.  I could not conceive how anything else could be fair, as it was obviously his fault, thus he should be the one paying the price.  For a couple of years I lived under this thinking, which drove me to become a tattletale, as it was how I thrived, how else could the culprits be punished?  By reading your book, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, I saw that bullies can be the victims and deserve just as much of chance to prove their true potential as I have.

While I was reading your book, I found myself marveling at Captain Nemo.  He was an amazing genius with the potential to change the world.  Captain Nemo also proved he had bravery, a skill well revered by his fellow man.  Such was demonstrated in the squid attack, when Nemo did all he could to save a fellow crewmember.  While Captain Nemo had all he could want, he was hurt very deeply inside.  Such turned him away from the rest of mankind.  He found them to be uncivilized, incapable of holding the inventions and wonders he had at this fingertips.  Nemo began a mad rampage, terrorizing shipping lanes as a “sea monster,” destroying the seeds of war before they could germinate.  To the other people of the world, those bullied by his actions, this would seem tyrannical and unfair.  They did not hold the same beliefs as Nemo, and therefore could not justify his actions.  But Nemo wasn’t a tyrant.  He was deeply saddened by the fact that he must resort to this.  After taking a ship he would often sit in his room for days on end, emerging only to pour his soul out on the organ.  He hurt others because he was hurt, and he felt he could justify his actions because he deserved to bully the world back, why should he be the one to pay?  He needed something to fill the void in his heart, the place that mankind had ripped out of him.  What he began to realize was that killing couldn’t fill the void in his heart.  What Captain Nemo needed was love.  He needed someone to be there for him, to help him through his hard time.  After understanding this, I realized the bullies only bullied because they had been the victim, and they needed more than ever to have someone to help them.

I still am occasionally bullied and I am almost positive I will always be bullied but now I am willing to look past a bully’s thick shell and have compassion for them, as I know something is not right for them.   I have found myself more willing to let things go as I know that they don’t necessarily mean to target me personally, they just needed something to fill their void.  We must realize that as long as there are victims in the world, there will be bullies.  But while there are always bullies, there can always be someone there for them, to close the void in their hearts.

Stephen Hitchcock

Level 3 National Honor: Michael Egan, CA

Mr. Gaiman,

To begin:  I was the boy with the book.  I was the one that the teachers would reprimand for reading under the desk, the one that would casually allow his eyes to slip from equations on the chalkboard to the sunlit window, the one that would dreamily pick at flowers and grass in far left field while the other players went on with their game.  That was me.  I believed in books the way a priest believes in paradise.  They were a promise that elsewhere, in some impossible elsewhere, things were different; ten-year-old children had adventures every day, saw things and did things and fought things and learned things that I only dreamed of.  I was convinced that one day, without warning, I would be whisked off to untold lands and endless wonders, on my own adventure.  I was waiting for the moment that I would discover a magic doorway, or find an enchanted sword in an old pawnshop, or discover an ancient pirate manuscript in an old sea chest, or unlock the secrets of the eldritch glyphs on the wall of the boy’s bathroom, or be accepted into a mysterious company of knights that would appear one morning, tapping on our old screen door, asking for Sir Michael the Wise. 

In the meantime, I dreamed.  I drew pictures of mighty, scowling warriors wielding ferocious swords of all shapes, sizes, and varieties in the margins of homework assignments and on my brown-shopping-bag book covers.  I drew maps of the mystical lands that I would explore, and I named the towns and cities that dotted them – Grassland Town, Destrier, St. Martin’s Vale – during math lessons.

Mostly, though, I would make lists of all the things I would need to bring (a sturdy rope and pocketknife were utter necessities), of all the people I would meet, of the various magical flora and fauna that I would have to be aware of, of the best ways to appease the creatures that I half-remembered from mythology books and Harry Potter stories.  These lists covered the backs of texts, scraps of notepaper torn from composition books, the inside flaps of book covers.  The lists made me feel prepared, ready for that moment when something magical would happen and my adventure would begin.

“Instructions” is a genetic match to those childhood daydreams.  As I read the poem for the first time, I laughed aloud in the silent library, a grin splitting my face wide.  A librarian turned in my direction, but seeing my expression, she just smiled and lifted a finger to her lips.  I sat down and read the poem twice more.  Everything was there.  There were the monsters that I had dreamed of facing, witches and giants and a River Styx-esque ferryman; the realms of danger and mystery and beauty; and best of all the unexpected, grasped-at beginning, the door that I had dreamed of so often, that throws the reader into the wonderland.  The poem doesn’t give you the adventure trussed up and ready to read, it actually allows the reader to have the adventure himself, to experience a hundred different ways with every new reading.  I reclined cozily in the library chair and remembered the adventures I’d dreamed of, and the adventures I’d lived out myself.

I’ve learned the secret that I had almost grasped in my days of daydreams.  I’ve learned that the endless lands of adventures can be found in a single sheet of blank paper.  I can have the adventures I’d dreamed and share them as well, by writing them into stories and poems and songs as they come to me.  I was a better writer at eleven than I ever could be today, but while I can I’ll do my best to trap what childhood remains in me, and enjoy it to the fullest. 

But that’s all just to pass the time while I wait to find the door in the wall I never saw before, that will lead me on to adventures unknown.

Michael Egan

Level 3 National Honor: Austin Helmink, IA

Dear Jeffrey Marx,

I worry. I worry about what my obituary is going to say, what my legacy will be. Will there even be one? Will people remember my name when all that is left is a headstone? Will my life have mattered in the overall scheme of things? Will my life be just another couple of lines in the obituary column? But these are good concerns because I am not lying on my deathbed wondering them. I am doing so as a fifteen-year-old with my entire life ahead of me and a chance to shape my life any way I choose. Your book, Season of Life, gave me my decision. I want to be a man built for others; I want to make a difference.

Before reading Season of Life I would have thought that football, a sport I play, and love had absolutely nothing in common. They couldn't have been more incongruous. Isn't the whole idea of football to hate your opponent and try to bury them in the ground? Your book showed me that while football is about knocking people down, it can also be about helping them up. You have used a violent sport to show how men and boys should not dare be afraid to look for love.

Through sports and entertainment my culture teaches me that to be a "real man" I must be strong and athletic and have the most girls and money. I didn't believe this before, but reading your book added a different insight. Coach Joe Ehremann's message was built around striving to be men built for others, to be other-centered. He talked about speaking at funerals and having to manufacture something good to say about the person. I don't want my eulogy to be "manufactured." I want it to celebrate the true impact I had on people and give my family comfort in thinking about the difference I made. But this is much easier said than done.

As I read your book I did a lot of self-examination, searching for Joe Ehremann's aspects of a true man in myself.  According to him, being a man means emphasizing relationships, having a cause bigger than myself accepting responsibility, and leading courageously. It means that empathy, integrity, and living a life of service to others are more important than points on a scoreboard. It means understanding the pain of others and what causes it. I agree wholeheartedly that true masculinity is all of these things. The academic and athletic awards sitting in my room, the number of admirers I have, and the amount of possessions I own are not going to be remembered nearly as long as my actions that impact others. Why is it that people are willing to spend several thousand dollars to attend the Super Bowl, or that Hollywood is dishing out tens of millions to create the next blockbuster? I now realize just how skewed my culture has become. I now understand that my trophies will end up dusty and uncared for, my admirers long gone, and my belongings dispersed, but my actions could live on in the lives of others.

Through your description of the extraordinary football program of the Gilman Greyhounds these messages really sank in. I realized that the key to being a successful team is the same as the key to life: love. One of the characters, Napoleon Sykes, is a perfect example of the transforming power of Coach Ehrmann's philosophies.

After Napoleon broke down in the middle of the Mount St. Joseph's game because of the death of his friend Ryan, Coach Ehrmann took him aside and prayed with him. Napoleon then proceeded to dedicate the game to Ryan and haul in a 67-yard interception. This was inspirational in itself, but during halftime Napoleon's teammates told him how much they loved him, and this again shocked me. This was football?

Your book, Season of Life contained messages of masculinity, love, and making a difference that will be sifting through my mind for a long time. The path of a true man is narrow, but in the end it will be worthwhile. Thank you for showing me the simplest answer to what it truly means to be a man: love.                                                                                  

Austin Helmink

Level 3 National Honor: Amy Grant,

MN

Please note:  LAL honors our young readers’ request, if made, for privacy. Although judges read Amy’s entire letter, by her request we have excerpted the letter for publication here.

Dear Silvia Plath,

. . . Not long ago, my literature teacher recommended that I read your novel The Bell Jar. I was soon so enraptured that I finished the last one hundred fifty pages in a single sitting at my kitchen table. Hours disappeared while I hardly felt the passing of a moment. The details were vivid, the characters were memorable, and the story was refreshing, especially considering the miserable folderol that’s presented to my generation as entertainment. However, my reasoning goes a little deeper than that. I found a great deal of comfort in Esther Greenwood, your charming, heart-wrenching, and completely insane protagonist…

 . . .  Also, I too find myself on the cusp of adulthood. Like your poor heroine, I am standing before a tree of figs and possibilities that are slowly starting to shrivel. That’s okay, though. I know what it’s like to starve, and I’m not eager to do it again. I’ll just reach for whichever fruit is closest. It might not be the sweetest or the prettiest, but it will be enough to let me survive. Besides, if I keep the seeds, maybe I could grow another tree and have not just the fruit but the flowers. If the fig that I want doesn’t show up in that tree, I will simply plant more, and soon the world will be covered in paths to the future. Doesn’t that seem like a good idea? . . .

Ever so sincerely,

Amy Grant

Level 3 National Honor: Malli Swamy, TN 

Dear Paulo Coelho,

It is a very difficult thing to do, to delve deep into one's soul and think, "What are the things that have changed my life?" While many things may come and go, only a select few have a chance to influence someone so completely and so profoundly that the effect is irreversible.  Your novel, Mr. Coelho, has done just that. It has played such a pivotal role in my life that I will never be the same. The Alchemist has changed me.

How?

What kind of a person was I before? When I was younger, I remember, I simply went about my life, unaware of the world's vastness and splendor, thinking about my dirty laundry or the next day's violin class. While these commonplace thoughts do deserve some time for consideration, I have learned that there is much more to living.

I first received The Alchemist as a birthday present when I was nine years old.  My parents and I were in a bustling Indian airport, and just before we left my cousin placed the novel in my hands.  "Read it," she simply said. "I know you'll love it."  I decided to save it for our last connection; I then read it, smiled, and placed it on my bookshelf when I got home. I thought nothing more of it. I had felt only the slightest tremors of the novel at that age. The tsunami was yet to hit.

 All my life, I have been told that I will be a fabulous doctor. If I perform a tender act of kindness, my mother tells me it is the first and foremost quality a doctor should have. If I do well on a biology test, my father tells me that I have a natural tendency to the subject. My father is a doctor, and my eldest brother is a doctor. My other brother, four years younger than the eldest, was also a doctor; he passed away in a car accident some years ago.

That car accident has played a pivotal role in my life. Even years after his death, my parents have a picture of him outside their bedroom door, a candle glowing next to the frame. After he died, I felt the obligation to try and replace him; my parents want me to be a doctor, and he was a doctor. Therefore, I should be one too. Sometimes, during conversations with my parents, one or the other would suddenly stop and say, "Oh, my god. Jay used to make that exact same face. Could you do that again?" As I write this, I feel as though my throat is burning, but my heart says that this is the right thing to do. After all these years, it is still enough to make me cry... but I digress.

I usually responded on a whim, indulging them only when I felt in the mood. After each episode, however, I was always left with a bitter aftertaste. I felt trapped on a road with cement walls on both sides, and barbed wire swirling over the tops. There was one path for me to follow, and I, not knowing anything else, continued trudging on. Whenever I was compared to him, I felt a warped sense of pride. I could please my parents by smiling like him, dressing like him, but in the end I knew it would never be possible; I am no one but myself, with my own dream and my own destiny.

I realized this fact the second time I read your novel. When I had been trying to turn my bookshelf into a miniature library, I stumbled upon it once again. My room was a mess anyway; the piles of books on the floor could wait. I picked up The Alchemist and turned to the first page.

The second time, the book took on an entirely new meaning. It was more than just the magical fable it called itself; it was an entirely new, unfamiliar perspective. I felt the cement walls crumble a little with this particular passage:
    "What's the world's greatest lie?" the boy asked, completely surprised.
    "It's this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of what's happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That's the world's greatest lie."

My heart lurched. Did I believe a lie? I paused and contemplated what had just happened. For a moment, I was almost frightened to continue; by this point I realized that if I finished, I would not be the same. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and decided to read on.

That day, the cement walls were permanently damaged. While breaking them down entirely would take additional time and effort, I could see the world outside through the cracks; that was enough to teach me about all the other roads jut beyond the one I walked.

Your novel has taught me that the most important aspects of life are the simplest. Through the adventure of a Spanish shepherd boy who followed his dream to the deserts of Egypt, you have taught me the wisdom of listening to my heart, discovering my destiny, and, above all, following it.

Jay was a traveler like the boy Santiago, and I know that I am, too. I want to see the world not because of him, but because of the world itself. Thank you for letting me know that it is waiting for me.

Malli Swamy

2009 nATIONAL WINNING LETTERS

National Winner, Level 1

by Taaja Draughn

Dear Sharon Draper,

Thank you for writing Forged By Fire and understanding what I'm going through. My father departed from me when I was 2 years old. I am hurt by his absence every day.

I never had father- to- daughter talks like my girlfriends. Some girls can call their dad in times of need. They have their fathers to give them a hug and say "Everything's going to be ok." But not me. Instead, my mama and I would have those talks. Even though my mama tries, I still feel like there's something missing. While Mama tries to comfort me, deep down I want my dad to be the one to tell me how to handle so-called friends and peer pressure.

One day my mama was talking to me about one of your books. Honestly, I didn't think I would like them but I went to the library and checked one out—Forged by Fire. After reading the first two chapters, I just couldn't keep my hands off of it. I was scared for Gerald when his house was on fire and he was left there alone. I was mad at Jordan because Gerald's aunt Queen died at the hospital and all he cared about was the baseball game.

As I got deeper into the book my dad popped into my head. When I am able to visit my dad, we don't have much time to spend together and very little privacy. So, we don't get to finish our conversations or I can't say what I want because someone may be listening. After our visits, my dad will send me a letter reminiscing on our chat. Or he may have some questions to ask me about something I said. My dad's letters make me feel comfortable and happy. To me, his letters show that he was listening and he cares. Sometimes, he will send me "just thinking about you cards" and Bible verses he wants me to memorize.

When I finally finished your book I understood the meaning of forgive and forget. Forgive means to apologize. Forget means to move on with your life. I used find it hard to forgive my dad, then forget what he has done (or is unable to do). Forged by Fire taught me to release old pain because I will miss out on my dad's love. Gerald and I couldn't release old pain because we were hurt so badly in the past. At last we see there is a way to throw out our old pain and finally forgive and forget. I finally understand that love can do this.

That's why I'm going to forgive and forget that my father can't be around in my life because he's been in prison for the last nine years. Thank you for understanding,

Taaja Draughn

 "I didn't even believe it at first," said Caroline Hoskins, a sixth-grader at Lausanne Collegiate School. "It was such a big honor."

National Winner, Level 1

by Car0line Hoskins

Dear Cynthia Lord,     

It often seems to me that nobody understands my problems, that I am the only one in the world who has difficulties, and I am trapped in a cement box with no way out. Reading your book Rules helped me look at these situations in a different light.     

Just like Catherine in Rules, I have a sibling with Autism. Just like Catherine, for pretty much all of my life, I have had to face therapy sessions, sacrifices, and being embarrassed to have my friends meet my sister, Julia. I was worried that Julia would make my friends think I was weird. All the time, people of all ages would come up to me and ask me the same question: “Are you Julia’s older sister?” This really bothered me. I felt like a nobody in a world circulating around Julia. It seemed to me that I didn’t have my own identity. I told myself that I didn’t care, but I lied. Reading Rules helped me realize that I am not the only person in the world that has these kinds of problems.

No, the therapy won’t stop. No, I won’t ever stop sacrificing, but after reading your book, I realized that having Julia as a sister is amazing, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. I realized that if my friends can’t accept my sister as she is, then they aren’t really my friends. But most importantly, I realized that I am my own person. My identity is not “Julia’s older sister.” I am Caroline Hoskins. I am me.

Thank you, Cynthia Lord, for writing such a beautiful story that includes problems that kids these days actually face. You are an amazing author, and Rules is a simply wonderful story. It helped me through my problems, and I am positive it helps kids all over the world every day.

Yours Truly,

Caroline Hoskins

National Winner, Level 2

by Cori Anne Mazer

Dear Lois Lowry,

Even though the word “government” is never mentioned once in The Giver, your book forever changed the way I think about government.  Before I read The Giver, government was just a tedious topic endlessly discussed by adults.  I realized only after finishing the book that the few, mysterious people making all the decisions for Jonas and his Community were actually the government.  Why did they have the power to withhold all of the bad memories, which were so vital for the citizens to be able to live fully?  Even though these memories were incredibly painful, was that the right decision?  Would I want my government to make such decisions and to have such power? No!  A government should serve its people, not shield them from basic human experiences.

Because of The Giver, I started paying more attention to news stories about governments.  I learned that there are some governments that regulate the kind of clothing a woman can wear and who can receive an education.  There are governments who rarely tell their citizens the truth and punish them for attempting to discover it on their own.  I heard stories about abuses of power in my own government: bribes taken and ethical lines crossed.

Still, I realized how lucky I am to have a government that strives to bring such abuses out into the open.  I realized what a priceless gift this is, one that must be nurtured, appreciated, and above all, never taken for granted.

I think the best way to help ensure this is for me to be the best citizen I can be.  I will keep my eyes, ears, and mind open to learn more about my government:  how it runs and the decisions it makes.  I will encourage everyone around me to do the same, especially my peers.  And on the day I turn 18, my most cherished birthday present will be the privilege to register to vote.

The Giver showed me how critical it is to have a voice in the government.  Maybe if enough citizens take this right seriously, my government can serve as a positive example for other governments.  Eventually, I hope no one has to live with a government that has claimed too much power, like Jonas’ in The Giver.

Thank you for writing such a thought-provoking, moving novel that has changed the way I think about the world.

Sincerely,

Cori Anne Mazer

National Winner, Level 2

by Kailey McCoy

Dear Blake E.S. Taylor,

I absolutely loved your book, ADHD & Me, because I am growing up with ADHD and this book really helped me to accept the fact that I have it. I am a 13 year old girl and I am also hard of hearing and wear hearing aids. A double bummer, as you can imagine. You book helped me to see that there are other people like me out there who have done some of the same crazy things I have.

I thought your book was funny because you lit a fire at the dinner table. I did that too, in Las Vegas. I actually stuck my napkin in a candle and before you knew it, our table was on fire. I was 4 years old. But my fire setting problem didn’t stop there. When I was seven I fell on our BBQ and caught it on fire. My mom had to get the fire extinguisher to put the fire out. There are so many stories of things I’ve done when I’m distracted; I couldn’t possibly list them all.

I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until I was in the 3rd grade, a year after I got my hearing aids. I have spent my childhood trying to find ways to deal with both disabilities. Like you, I have forgotten to take my medication before an exam and I was distracted and worried. I can really notice a difference between when I take my medication and when I don’t. Let’s just say everyone prefers that I take it.

When I read your book, I felt like I had come home. I took some of your advice on how to deal with distractions and stress and it has really helped me. I decided to join a softball team, started making bracelets, learned how to sew, and started meditating. All of these things helped me with the distraction and stress. That’s not to say everything is perfect now. I am still struggling with some of my grades. It is difficult when you can’t hear what a boring teacher is saying and you are distracted. Needless to say, I am working extra hard to pass science this year.

The other part of your book that really made me think about my life and how I see it was the part about the “Gifts” of ADHD. It is difficult sometimes, when everyone is telling me to focus, to listen, to be serious etc… to see what my gifts really are. I know that I am intelligent, funny, energetic, creative, adventurous, honest, passionate, and I sure as heck am spontaneous, but it was really nice to see that there is research to prove it.

My Mom bought your book for me because she thought it was funny that you set a fire at the dinner table too. She had no way of knowing how much your book would really help me. I want to go to college someday. The fact that you did it gives me faith that I can do it too. Thanks so much for writing such an honest and amazing book about what it is like to live with ADHD.

Sincerely,

Kailey McCoy

National Winner, Level 3

by Joshua Tiprigan

Dear Rudyard Kipling,

My dad is a six-foot tall, deep-voiced, husky eastern European rock of a man.  In fact, all the men on my dad’s side of the family are a bunch of Romanian macho hunks with bulging biceps and visages as stony and solemn as a statue.  Genetically, I have these same features yet, because of my mother’s influence, I am much softer on the inside. Instead of wrestling or boxing at family gatherings, like my cousins so often do, I would much rather read a book or talk to my older relatives. Although to him I seem quiet, unaggressive, or all together “unmanly,” father has consistently tried to instill a sense of being a man in me ever since I was very young. When I reached the age of twelve he began taking me to his auto body shop, which he built up from nothing as an immigrant entrepreneur. He told me this tough job would build me into a man of character. I would work hard grueling hours sanding cars and preparing them for paint. My dad also urges me lift weights to make me strong like a man. My perception of being a man has mostly been molded by how my rugged dad portrays himself. But this all changed a year ago when my mother passed away and I stumbled upon your poem, “If.”

My mother was my salvation from my father and was the one person who could understand me.  If I ever got tired during my work hours at the shop I could call her to come and pick me up and she would do the impossible, reason with my father.  It was my mother who instilled the love of literature and languages in me.  My mother spoke six languages fluently and had thousands of books, which still sit in the attic of our house.  It was in this “library” of hers that I picked up a book of poetry from a cold metal shelf and found your poem, “If.”  A couple of months after my mother’s death, I wandered up the cold creaky stairs that led into the attic and shuffled through some books and found a large one that was filled with poetry.  In this book, I found “If.”  As I read the poem, the words printed in black ink seemed to turn to golden truths and values that burned deep into my brain and trickled down to my heart, gently caressing some wet droplets to my eyes, but I was not “man” enough to cry so I quickly blinked them away.

Ever since the death of my mother I have felt alone, as if I belong to no family. The image of a man that I saw in my dad was completely shattered when I saw him break down and cry, which looked so pathetic and “unmanly” compared to his usual stoic and emotionless countenance. My grandmother blamed my father and me for causing the cancer which took my mother away in less than a month’s time after the doctor’s diagnosis. In return the blame was doubled upon my shoulders as my dad turned on me and started shouting more about things that don’t matter, yet I remained silent remembering the golden words: “If you can keep your head when all about you/Are losing theirs and blaming it on you … you’ll be a Man, my Son!”

“If” reminded me to remain calm and “keep my head” because I wanted to be a man and wanted to be the one supporting my family. Throughout the struggles that quickly took over my life as well as my father’s, I remained strong while he seemed to crumble and fold under pressure. Since my mother was a stay-at-home mom, I sacrificed my ability to compete in a winter sport so that I could stay home and cook for my family and clean the house in order to try and take up the jobs that my mother was not around to do. My father saw this and our relationship has grown much stronger. He finally respects me for who I am and has told me he is proud to have a man for his son. Through this poem, I realized that to be a man is not about putting weights on a barbell but rather putting the weight of others on your back.

Your poem was so much more than just a simple list of guidelines or morals that some see it as; it really changed my life and my relationship with my dad.  Because of “If,” I am able to walk with my chest pushed out like a man not because of bulging pectoral muscles but because of the heart under them.

With admiration and thanks,

Joshua Tiprigan

National Winner, Level 3

by Amelia Leuer

Dear Ms. Linda Pastan,

I am not a poet. I do not know if, when you craft words into poems, you seek to reflect your own experiences, or to affect and change your reader. Maybe both. Whatever your reason, your poetry has touched my life. Earlier this year, I had memorized and recited your poem “Caroline” in class. Originally, I had envisioned the woman described to be advanced in age and expecting death. Recently, tragically, these beautiful words became transformed to me in an amazingly powerful way.

I can’t explain how devastated I felt when I received a phone call that my younger sister, Annette, had been in an ATV accident. Annette was the star pitcher of her softball team, an aspiring piano player, the president of the girls’ choir, and an A honor roll student. To me, no one was more vibrant or invincible. My family and I were left helpless and all we could do was relentlessly pray to God for a miracle.

We spent the following days in the Intensive Care Unit, watching Annette bravely fight a losing battle. I didn’t recognize my sister behind the machines which kept her alive and beneath her swollen face. I witnessed her labored breathing, resulting from two collapsed lungs. Seizures shook her body. One thing went wrong after another, with each defeat more heartbreaking than the last. Then came the inevitable day when my family chose to discontinue Annette’s life support.

Despite the pain in our hearts, there was a quiet peace that resided within us as we held Annette’s hands and said our goodbyes. I personally attribute a great deal of that peace to your poem, “Caroline.” Your profound description of a woman readily receiving her death was in every way illustrated in the final moments spent with Annette – “as gracefully as if it were a coat she’d learned to sew.” Because of an ironic conversation Annette had with my father a few weeks before, I knew Annette would not want to be kept alive on machines. Now I saw my sister as I’d always remembered – free of tubes and quietly resting. She waited until we had left the room to take her last breath, almost as if we were meant to remember her by her life rather than by her death. Death to her was simply a graceful closing the life she had sewn: “She’d simply button it and go.”

I still face the reality of my beautiful sister’s death every day. I’m often confounded as to how my family has managed to survive this, but I realize we can endure this pain only because of small miracles we experience every day. “Caroline” is one of those miracles. Was your poetry meant for someone like me? I feel like it is. Even this letter cannot describe my emotion as effectively as the words of “Caroline” capture my heart and comfort me. I wish for you to know my gratitude in how “Caroline” has carried me through the darkest week of my life and continues to strengthen me today.

Thank you.

Amelia Leuer

NATIONAL HONOR LETTERS

National Honor, Level 1

by Clare Arlington Boyle

Dear L. M. Montgomery,

One of the greatest influences from books I’ve read this year came from your book Anne of Green Gables. Anne’s knack for turning ordinary things into extra ordinary things caught my eye. She is clever, fun-loving, creative, determined and occasionally a little bit absentminded. All of these qualities remind me of me and helped me realize that a little bit of romance, or imagination should always be a part of all of us, and can brighten up many an unpleasant day.

Creativity has always been one of my strengths, but as I have gotten older it seems as if, little by little, my imagination is leaking away. There is no longer as much fun in pretending that I am a servant in a magnificent castle, or a heroine in one of my most beloved books. Maybe I’m too old for pretending, but there is more to imagination than pretending, isn’t there?  Anne’s imagination enabled her to do so many things.  She could be anywhere, fly on golden wings. Anne’s imagination helped her find the home where she belonged and have a blossoming friendship with Diana Barry. Anne didn’t just use her imagination for herself; she could brighten up anyone’s day.  Anne taught Marilla how sweet love, childish innocence, and friendship can be.  She taught Diana’s Aunt Josephine that a little bit of energy is important.  I aspire to be just as sweet, creative and as willing to help others as she was.

Anne not only taught others lessons, but learned many herself throughout the book. She learned how important it was to be forgiving because you never know when it will be too late to forgive. She also learned to be steady and patient. Anne learning these lessons showed me that it isn’t impossible, and being able to forgive makes a big difference in your relationships with people.

Some of the most important things Anne taught me, apart from how to keep my imagination strong, were the fact that just by being herself and letting her imagination free she was very liked by the others at school. This made me realize how important it is to be yourself. Lots of adults have told me that before but it is hard because sometimes I just want to be popular, but Anne brought the message through. I admire the fact that she always set goals for herself, she always persevered at school work, even geometry, and even though it was sometimes just her way of trying to best Gilbert Blythe. I also admire the way Anne fled to Diana’s aid when Minnie May was sick, even though Mrs. Barry had forbidden Anne and Diana to see each other. She was very brave and she never quit trying to prove to Mrs. Barry that she was responsible.  These are all traits I aspire to.

After reading the first hundred pages of Anne of Green Gables I was inspired; I had become one of Anne’s kindred spirits. Anne taught me that there is a little bit of imagination in each and every one of us if we dig down deep enough into ourselves, how important it is to preserve it, and that we can find friends in the most unlikely places, especially if we never give up.  I thought you should know that. Thank you for making a character that is just as precious to me as a friend.

Clare Arlington Boyle

National Honor, Level 1

by Carolyn Propst

Dear Lisi Harrison,

I am not popular. Or at least, not the general sense of popular, like insecure-so-I-make-people-feel-bad-about-themselves-popular.  The Clique was really an eye-opener for me. I was amazed and amused by how cruel these girls could be to each other and others. I am not going to say that girls aren’t like this in real life, because, sadly, some are. These are very heart-warming stories, though. They show all of the girls that are like Claire, shy, timid, but sweet, that you can be popular no matter what you wear.

Maybe “popular” isn’t real at all. Maybe it is just our imagination that tells us who is “popular.” I mean, can you really define it? It is, I guess, just the way you feel when everyone wants to be you. When you have your special group of friends who always have a seat for you, who never leave you out. Maybe it’s how everyone looks up to you, from fashion advice to boy advice.  In their eyes, you are the most special person. You could walk down the hallway, and all eyes would turn to watch you to learn how to become more “popular.”

Maybe it is because you think—no, you know--that you are special. You have no doubts about yourself, and people admire you and are drawn to you, like Massie. Even when you put people down, they just want to be around you. Self-confidence is truly a powerful character trait. That’s what it is about girls; we all want to be “popular”. Whether it’s putting people down, or just being everyone’s friend, we all just want to be thought of as “special”.

“Popular” is a very troubling characteristic. Nearly no one understands this. For those who don’t understand teenage girls and tweens, or misunderstand girls themselves, The Clique series is exactly, well, perfect! Not all the girls are harsh and confident like Massie. Not all girls are gorgeous like Alicia. Not all girls are sporty and misunderstood like Kristen. Not all girls are health-conscious like Dylan. Not all girls are real like Claire. But The Clique series understands all of us. From the famous fashion diva, to the sweet girl next door, we’re all the same.

This is why The Clique touched me. Outside we are different, maybe inside too. All of us share one part, though. We are all girls, and we’re all special, whether the world knows it or not.

Your avid reader,            

Carolyn McKenzie Propst

National Honor, Level 1 

by Reigner Kane

Dear Mr. Brian Jacques,

Out of all the books that I have read recently, I find that your book Redwall is my favorite. I feel that although the hero, Mathias, and I share many differences (for example, he is a mouse), I also have many things in common with the unexpected hero.

In the beginning of the novel, Mathias is very clumsy. Likewise, I find myself falling and dropping things all the time.  During my huge growth spurt this year, the frequency of these happenings probably doubled.  However, this was not because my shoes were too big. In fact, many times they were getting too small.

Another weakness that I share with Mathias is forgetting how old I am.  One teenage mouse with a knife tries to fend off an entire well-equipped army of sea rats and a feared warlord.  The chances of victory are about 100,000,000,000,000,000 to 1. Sometimes, I do similar things, just not in such breath-taking and suspenseful situations.

In Redwall, Mathias often acts before he thinks. Instead of forming a plan with the shrews, he goes charging into Cavern Hole, headfirst, directly into an entire army led by Cluny the Scourge.  I am part of a chess club.  I charged into my first tournament, expecting to get a perfect score.  Luckily, my opponents were normal kids, not a skull-carrying destructive warlord or an army of rats.

Another one of Mathias’ weaknesses is his stubbornness. Time after time, Father Abbot Mortimer reminds Mathias that Redwallers are peaceable creatures.  till, Mathias keeps in mind Martin the Warrior and continues wanting to be a warrior like him. I know that I am equally strong-headed.  Whenever I get into an argument, I fight for my position until there is proof found against my point of view.

Overall, I feel I have many similarities to Mathias.  Who knows, I may even become a hero like him one day.  Thank you, Mr. Jacques, for your entertaining, humorous, and inspiring series.  Thank you for creating a character so realistic that anyone that reads your book may find similarities between their lifestyle and his.

An enlightened reader,

Reigner Kane

National Honor, Level 1

by Cameron Fitzgerald

Dear Jack London,

I loved your book, White Fang. In fact, it changed me. It made me think of the difference between just being alive and living. As I read your book, I felt that White Fang was half dead most of the time. But White Fang kept holding on, hoping for something good to happen.

Before I read your book, I was alive and breathing. But after I read your book, I felt it was important to be living and have fun. Your book helped me understand that most of the time it is right to make your own choices, as when White Fang came out of his cave without his mother. This past summer, when we were vacationing at the beach, the boys and girls and grown-ups would play a ball game. I never won. I always came in second. But I loved the game, so I joined in every chance I got. It was your book that inspired me to join in and take my chances. That, to me, is the choice between really living and just breathing in and out.

Because of White Fang’s example in your story, I will always make the choice to join in and play and not stand on the sidelines.

Sincerely,

Cameron Fitzgerald

National Honor, Level 2

WRITTEN BY ELIZA DACH

Dear Mr. Greg Mortenson,

Earlier I spoke with my 8th grade English teacher about expanding my horizons to nonfiction books. When I told my mom about our conversation, she immediately pulled out your book. She said it would allow me to explore nonfiction books and that it has been on the bestseller list for 94 weeks.  That was good enough for me—even I knew that 94 weeks is a long time to be on the bestseller list. So, I opened Three Cups of Tea for the first time. The first time I opened it, I was a stranger. The second time I opened it, I was a friend. The third time I opened it, I was hooked.

Three Cups of Tea taught me to look at a problem from the victim’s point of view and from the prejudiced person’s view. It illustrated all the prejudices that Americans have but are too deep into them to see. Prejudices are ingrained into our culture, but we are too used to them to notice. Your book allowed me to see these prejudices and caused me to question many things I thought were fact. Why is the government convinced that violence is the only way to end terrorism? Have we already forgotten the wisdom of Martin Luther King Junior when he said that the “means we use must be as pure as the ends we seek?” If we want to establish ties with foreign countries, our means need to change. “Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit.  You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him.”  He said those words in an attempt to fight prejudice towards people of color.  Now we are prejudiced towards Muslims. It is another war against prejudice, it just happens to be across an ocean. Don’t those words still apply?  Never again will I take acceptance for granted. 

At Georgetown Day School you said that the number of girls being educated in Pakistan and Afghanistan has risen to eight times the original number over the last several years. That in itself is amazing, but then you said something that really made me think: no one here in America has heard about this. Why have we heard about all the harThen I realized, I had not heard about the terrible conditions these children face until I read Three Cups of Tea.  Why haven’t I heard about the education solution to terrorism before?  And more importantly, why haven’t I heard that we needed an education solution?  I never knew that children have to kneel on the freezing ground and write with sticks in the dirt to receive education. I never knew that one man could do anything about it.

Through my school I learned about many great causes and wanted to help in any way possible. However, I never did anything. I doubted my ability as a single person to affect anything happening around me. Three Cups of Tea taught me that one person can make a huge difference.  You taught me that one of the catchphrases of life, turn that frown upside down, really has a lot of meaning.  During your talk at GDS you shared with us a Persian proverb: When it is dark, you can see the stars. Mr. Mortenson, you made that come alive for me and for that I can never thank you enough.

Sincerely,

Eliza Dach

National Honor, Level 2

by Jared Dauman

Dear President-Elect Obama,

Congratulations on your recent victory to become the 44th president and the first African American leader of the United States of America. However, it recently occurred to me that I had never heard of you before the 2009 presidential election. I had no idea what path you took to achieve this amazing goal. I decided to ask my parents, and they suggested I listen to the speech you gave at the 2004 Democratic National Convention. Apparently, they knew almost nothing about you before that speech, but told me it “put you on the map.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, so I listened to your speech on You Tube and read the transcript several times. Then I got a much better understanding of who you were as a person and as a leader. And it began with your words, “Let face it, my presence on this stage is pretty unlikely.” Your story inspired me by showing how far you’ve come from where you began.

One thing that really struck me in your speech was that you are a living example of the American Dream. I was surprised to learn your father was a poor immigrant and that you had very little as a child. I realized that all of your achievements are the result of hard work and determination. Your story proved to me that anyone can achieve success if they work hard enough. When you explain this in your speech, it stuck with me more than if anyone else had said it. That’s because you, President-Elect Obama, are someone who actually had to overcome many obstacles, including racial prejudice, to reach your goals. That is the American Dream and the reason my grandparents and so many other immigrants came to this country.

Your speech made me truly believe that I can achieve my goals by approaching life and people in a positive way. This is evidence by your words, “There’s not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there’s the United States of America. We are one people all of us pledging allegiance to the stars and stripes.” Others may make statements like this, but you didn’t just “talk the talk.” You “walked the walk” four years later by running a positive campaign in the 2008 election. You stayed calm and focused, and tried to stick to the issues, rather than making personal attacks on your opponents. Your positive words and results proved to me that you don’t need to be negative or bullying to get what and where you want in life. After all, your approach got you elected to one of the most powerful positions in the world!

Your speech in the 2004 Democratic National Convention affected me in many ways. It showed me that the American Dream is possible in almost any circumstance and that people should have a positive approach in life. I was taught this not only by the words in your speech, but more importantly by the example you set in the real world. Your achievement gives me hope that we may someday be able to put an end to racism. I am excited to see that you will accomplish in your presidency.

Jared Dauman

National Honor, Level 2

by Abby Tillotson

Dear Jerry Spinelli,

Your book Stargirl changed my life. When I started reading it, it was just another book, but as I kept reading, it really made me think. When I finished, I decided that I should be more like Stargirl. I wanted to make an impression on people's lives, make them better. But where to start?

I decided on a few girls at my school. You wouldn't think there was any problem at first, but a day with them would show that these girls were really nasty. They weren't the normal type of mean person, Jerry Spinelli, they were worse. They wouldn't tell someone that they thought they were dorky, they would stare at them, then laugh or scoff. This is much worse than it seems, it feels more personal than ordinary insults, which they also threw into the mix. They would be unkind to my friends, and sometimes me. A lot of people thought they were just snobby, but I felt bad that they had to be cruel to others just to feel better about themselves.

Things were getting worse, Jerry Spinelli. Those girls were merciless. I decided that I wouldn't only have to help the mean people, but also the people they were mean to. This was a very large project, and I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I thought of Stargirl and how kind she was. It really made me sad that she was so nice, and did so much, but people didn't understand. I was certain that I could try. I could try to make other people happier.

I began with those girls whose wrath was feared by all. I would smile at them, tell them that I thought their book report was cool; sometimes I went as far as to sit with them at lunch and keep things from gossip. That part was the worst. They sort of ignored me, but you would be amazed at how kind people can be if you give them your cookie. I tried to give them positive things to talk about, too. That got easier with practice. I learned to direct a conversation to something everyone thought was nice.

The victims were easier because they were less hostile. A lot of them were friends, and that made it better. However, they were still tough because they had become so used to what the others said, they believed it. For instance, when they said things like "I'm so fat" I told them they were great and most certainly not fat. They often talked about their dislike for the other group, and I told them what was nice about them. Nobody's completely mean. That was a quality I liked about Stargirl, she saw the beauty in everything.

You wouldn't believe it, Jerry, you really wouldn't. After a while, people joined me, because they were tired of it all as well. Finally, my project paid off! It wasn't happily ever after, but it was happy. The meaner girls weren't as mean any more, and the people they victimized started to see themselves with more confidence. It wasn't like we were all best friends, but we all seemed to appreciate each other more. It seemed that there were lots more pebbles in everyone's happy wagons.

Even today, I keep Stargirl in mind. I try to make friends with people, even if they aren't that affable, because everyone deserves a friend. I'm working on practicing random acts of kindness, like cheering for the other team. Being caring is lots more fun than people think. Oh, and if you were wondering how many pebbles are in my happy wagon: mine's full.

Abby Tillotson

National Honor, Level 2

by Erikka Potts

Dear Dave Pelzer,

Like you, my mom would “punish” my older sister and me. At a wedding in a hotel, she gave me a bloody nose for pushing my sister. She told me to clean up my mess and that if there was any blood she would hit me again.  Another time she pulled out a chunk of my sister’s hair. Growing up, our life was almost like yours – but all that changed one night.

As a child, I always had really bad self-esteem. My mom was a heavy alcoholic. She blamed my sister and me for all her life problems.  I was a very hateful person inside and out because of her and from hearing how “worthless” I was and how I would end up to be like my dad, a “junkie who lived on the street”. After a while, I began thinking that I was only here to be her slave and servant, much like you did. Like you, my mom would be better when my dad came around. He was my hero and savior. But eventually my mom started hitting us in front of him and he wouldn’t say anything. After a while I didn’t even care if he did come around.

One day my sister got her hands on A Child Called It. She hid the book under her mattress so my mom would not find out about it (in her eyes we were always trying to deceive her), and we would read it at night after she passed out.  As we got further on, we realized that there are other kids who have lives like us.  With that book underneath us, we worked up the courage to seek help and tell someone about it.

The one thing that has stuck with me to this day and that I say in my prayers every night is when you say “Before I open the car door, I bowed my heard and with peace in my heart I whispered ‘And deliver me from evil. Amen.’”  Something about this quote resonated with me and now when I am scared or nervous, I say this in my head. In this quote I felt like God was trying to talk with me.  And I do feel that He answered my prayers.

My sister and I ended up telling my auntie about my mom’s abuse. Today I am in foster care alone, without my siblings, but I get to see them all the time. My mother is in rehab and has kicked aside her addiction. She is taking classes and I get to see her all the time. My foster home is my heaven.

Thank you for sharing your experience with me.

Sincerely,

Erikka Potts

National Honor, Level 3

by Xinyue Ye

Dear Mr. Fitzgerald,

I am afraid.  I am terribly afraid that my dreams will not come true.  I have always been afraid of that ultimate failure, but now I am more afraid than ever. Suppose if my life winds up like Jay Gatsby’s, suppose if I leave this world without my footprints on the earth’s soil, suppose if I lose the one and only thing I care for, tell me, Mr. Fitzgerald, what shall I do then?  Or rather, I should ask, what should I do now?

In this world, everywhere I look, I see prospective Jay Gatsbys. I look to my left, and I see my friend, cheating on her test. I turn a corner and I see my neighbor, copying homework. I look behind me and I see my lab partner faking her lab results. And I ask myself, why are they cheating?  They are intelligent people. But I already know the answer. They cheat so they can get a better grade than they deserve, so they can get a better GPA than their honest peers, so they can get into a better college than they should, and so they can get a better future than the rest of the minions. Their rise to the high end of society will be just like Jay Gatsby’s – through the assistance of lies and deceit, and under the façade of pretentious humility and affected generosity, there’s a layer of scandals and depravity.  Their American Dream is even more similar to Gatsby’s – boundless wealth and the careless freedom to squander away their money on frivolities.

I will admit to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, that that used to be my dream too. But not anymore. Not since reading your novel. I don’t want to be another Jay Gatsby. I don’t want to be bound by ropes of fantasy. I don’t want to live a lonely life, forever longing for something out of my reach.   still have a dream, and I want it to come true, but I’m afraid that it won’t. I’m afraid that I will fail to escape the grasping hands of society, pulling me into a downward spiral until I forsake my integrity and conscience to achieve a lost dream.

Yet I know that I can turn around. If I look to my right, I will see another friend, diligently studying. If I look around me, I will see my classmate writing his own essay. If I look ahead of me, I will see myself joining them.  And if I open my eyes a little wider, I will see my own happiness, my family and my friends, all enveloped in our sincere love and appreciation.  I know that I can succeed without cheating because a bright future awaits me, one that is not enshrouded by a web of lies and fantasy.

You, or rather your novel, The Great Gatsby, has warned me of the faults of the American Dream and the idolized rich, Mr. Fitzgerald. I want to learn from Gatsby’s mistakes. I want to move on from the past and I want to live deliberately free of nostalgia and regret, and I want to show you, Mr. Fitzgerald that the American Dream does not have to be corrupted.

So thank you for Jay Gatsby. He is a wake-up call, a forewarning, and a challenge.

Xinyue Ye

National Honor, Level 3

By Y Thien Hoang

Dear Catherine Sager Pringle,

I’m writing this letter to you with great gratitude for your book Across the Plains in 1844, which has lifted my soul and helped me survive through very difficult times in my life.

My family and I arrived to Oregon as new immigrants from a far land, Vietnam, almost two years ago. We came here with empty hands because our house had been confiscated by the government. My parents had to sell almost everything for the airline tickets. The only possessions we brought with us were some pictures holding memories of the past and hopes: hope for freedom, hope for a new beginning, and hope for a better life.  It is always hard to start new things and you would understand, Catherine, how hard it was for us to start life all over again from nothing.

There was the language barrier for my parents to overcome, a new culture for my brother and me to learn.  None of these was easy for me at the beginning.  One night, I was awakened by the talking of my parents, and I heard my mom crying.  Many questions rose up in me:  “Did we make the right decision when we came here?  Was it worth it to leave everything and start a new life?”  There were moments when I wanted to give up, when I thought I could not face such challenges, but your book has changed my perspective and helped me to keep going.

The moment I read your story, I stopped feeling so lonely. You and I have so much in common: both of us come from afar; you are from Missouri and I am from Vietnam. Both of us have had difficulties adapting to a new situation, and both of us have many questions and doubts about our journey.  However, I think your situation was much harder than mine. I could not imagine going on this new journey without the support from my parents, and you had to go through it without yours.  It must have been heart-breaking when your parents passed away during the journey and when your adopted parents were killed by the Indians. I admire you so much for your strength and bravery.  You have survived it all. Thanks to your book I have new strength and more determination to keep going.  Of course life is hard, but if you could go through great hazards, I believe I can too. You are my inspiration.

My heart jumped a beat when I read these lines: “There were several musical instruments among the emigrants, and these sounded clearly on the evening air when camp was made and merry talk and laughter resounded from almost every campfire.”  What a beautiful scene!  I thought I had to give up my passion for piano and music when I came here, but thanks to the help of many generous people I could keep on playing and learning.  I think music truly has the power to relieve and connect human beings.

The beauty of this land melted my heart. One of my favorite experiences since I arrived in Oregon was going hiking around Multnomah Falls.  It was a beautiful summer afternoon when I looked at the majestic view surrounding me and realized that what I was looking at is priceless, and many people had to pay for it with their hard work, and even their blood. You are the pioneer and I am the recipient of all the hard work you did. The sharing of your journey helped me gain more and more appreciation for life.

Things have settled down for my family and me now. I cannot help but love the scenes when you talked about your siblings, when you were taking care of the younger children along the trip.  Although I have adapted myself to the new life journey, I can never take anything I’m receiving in this wonderful land for granted. Indeed, I always feel the urge to give back to my community. I am using all the talents that I have accompanying choirs, churches, and volunteering at schools and senior centers. I am using my English skills to help the new immigrants who are having a hard time, just like you and me, starting a new life.

All my thanks to you and your book for giving me strength to keep going, helping me gain more appreciation, and showing me the bright side of a difficult journey. Thank you very much for traveling with me through my own “Oregon Trail.”

Truly yours,

Y Thien Hoang

National Honor, Level 3

Nilesh Raval

Dear Jhumpa Lahiri,

Roll calls make me apprehensive. Every time an announcer scrolls down to my name, I can predict that there will be an uncomfortable pause and a startled expression as they attempt to pronounce it. When I intervene to help, their anxious faces metamorphose into relieved smiles as I save them from, as they tell me, “butchering [my] name.” My name has withstood a plethora of pronunciations I never imagined a six letter word could possess. After reading your culturally enlightening novel, The Namesake, I have realized the importance of my name in Indian culture and that I am not alone when it comes to possessing an unusual one.

Growing up in a small Midwest town, I vividly remember that it was from an early age when I became conscious of my foreign-sounding name. The pediatrician’s file with my name was ruthlessly overlaid with a nurse’s phonetic version, using body parts; it became “knee-lash”. Candid as elementary school kids are, my classmates claimed I had a “weird name.” My teachers also had a difficult time deciphering it. My baseball coach, cheering me on as I hit a home run, shouted out a version of my name that rhymed with the condiment “relish.” This rendition echoed across the stadium; I was mortified. My youthful ears became antennas trained to listen for any contrived form into which my name could be conjured.

I questioned my parents as to why they gave me such a tongue twister of a name that stumped most people. They calmly consoled me by explaining how my name was based on the traditional Indian system, where the positions of the planets at the time of my birth are interpreted by astrologers. I could not even attempt to comprehend this abstract form of name-bestowal; much less appreciate it. I was so engrossed in my frustration that I bluntly ignored all their cultural explanations. There were times when I wished my parents had tweaked my name to fit in with American sounding names. What difference would it make if my name was Americanized? This chagrin remained because being an avid speller and stickler for proper pronunciation; it was very difficult for me to blandly nod at people’s feeble attempts. Once I delved into your novel, however, these vexations seemed to melt away. The Namesake revealed to me the essence of name-giving in our culture in a way that no amount of explanation from my parents would have accomplished.

I immediately identified with Gogol; the feelings of embarrassment and ambivalence he had with his name were identical to mine. I saw myself in him when he struggled with his name and identity, and I pondered over the impact my name has had on my life, just as it had on Gogol’s life. Reflecting on how the magnitude of respect Gogol held for his culture and his name escalated tremendously after his father’s death, I realized that my name is a part of who I am, and that there is a minute fragment of respect for my name that is imprisoned in my mind, waiting to be freed. It has. Like Gogol, I have been reborn. I have now begun to accept my name as an integral part of my cultural identity. Looking back, I now scoff with resentment at Gogol when he goes through the process of changing his name. Did he not contemplate what effect it would have on his family? By changing his name, he was negating any respect he held for his birth name. I couldn’t have that in my life, and so I learned from Gogol’s mistakes. Now, not only do I accept my name: I cherish it, knowing that without it, I would lose my sense of self.

The Namesake has compelled me to understand that a name has an inherently profound power to shape its bearer. It has bestowed upon me a newfound respect for names in our culture. I have realized that Indian names are not just picked because of their euphony or popularity, but that name-giving is a time honored tradition, a duty not taken lightly. To fit into American culture does not necessarily mean one has to sacrifice an essential part of Indian culture. My name commands no alterations; I am proud of my name. From now on, I will make an extra effort to ensure that people pronounce my name correctly. In fact, I’m looking forward to the next roll call.

Sincerely,

Nilesh Raval

National Honor, Level 3 

by Xio Torres

Mrs. Randa Abdel-Fattah,

Last summer I read your book Does my Head Look Big in This? I can’t be sure, but I think it was a Saturday afternoon.  I remember being encircled by a plethora of snacks that I had abducted from the kitchen cabinets, swathed in a cocoon I had created out of my Harry Potter fleece blanket. I sat down that day anticipating all the cliché elements of a YA fiction:

The ever-popular cafeteria scene

• The introduction of the various cliques

• The heroine’s first kiss with the dreamy boy she had stalked since 3rd grade but never really thought she had a chance with

• The big misunderstanding that would lose her a friend

 And, above all,

• The cheerily fake conclusion of it all where everyone went home happy

What I expected was your standard, stereotypical teen novel; a watered down Gossip Girl. What I got was a wakeup call. Amal Abdel-Hakim was my wakeup call.  Amal was that little voice in the back of my head that I had battled my whole life. Amal was me:  a teenage girl trying to survive in a racially imbalanced world while striving to hold on to her identity. Amal was me, with one exception:  I had been trying to forget.

A year ago, if you had asked me about my race, I would have begrudgingly admitted that I was Puerto Rican and then swiftly changed the subject.  The truth is, I was ashamed of my nationality.  I did not want to be Hispanic. I resented the fact that I had been born into my big Latino family, so I attempted to conceal it. I did everything in my power to separate myself from the stereotypes circulating the Puerto Rican race. I paraded my obsession with rock music and my obviously punk style in clothing. I made sure everyone knew that my best friend was white and that I thought shaggy haired skaters were adorable. I straightened my overabundance of tightly curled haired whenever I had the chance. Instead of Xiomara or even my usual nickname, Xio, I demanded that everyone call me Mara because it sounded more at home among the mass of Rachel’s, Ali’s and Courtney’s at my high school. And my unbreakable golden rule . . . NEVER EVER SPEAK SPANISH.  EVER.

I was embarrassed by myself and by so many aspects of my life.  I hated my small, poor intercity school because it swarmed with Puerto Ricans, Mexicans and Cubans like myself.  I constantly and publicly put down “ghetto” kids in hopes of deflecting any notions that I myself was one.  Reggaeton, rap, hip-hop and salsa were, to me, nonexistent genres of music.  Although I never bragged, I prided myself on the fact that I was number one in my class because I felt that it somehow made up for my “sin” of being Hispanic.  When I was nagged once about learning to speak Spanish, I remember yelling, “We are in America!  Before Spanish even crosses our minds, we should learn to speak proper English!”  I was always paranoid that behind my back, someone would be judging me, stereotyping me, making jokes about me, counting me out because of my race.

What I never realized was that the judgmental, racist, hateful monster I feared was myself.

Your character Amal helped me to see that. When I finished your book, I realized that my entire life had been consumed by an endless, un-winnable race I had created.   was running from myself, from something I could never stop. I realized that my actions and attitude towards myself and towards my people as well as my entire outlook on life had been hypocritical, wrong and ignorant. I realized who I was.  I acknowledged the fact that I am and always will be intrinsically, unavoidably, undeniably and wonderfully Hispanic.  Spanish coursed through my veins and I had been blocking its path, cutting off my blood supply, slowly killing who I was.

I am Puerto Rican, and I can say that now easily, contentedly even proudly thanks to you and your book. Like Amal made the decision to wear the hijab in public full time, I now also don my own hijab of sorts. I have decided to embrace my heritage and allow it to flower inside of me as well as manifest itself on the outside, for everyone to see.  I have learned, with the help of your book, that my race does not define who I am but it will always be a part of me.  To become who I truly want to be, I have to embrace who I already am:  a tan-skinned, curly haired, rock music loving, SPANISH SPEAKING, puertorriqueña.  Thank you for the wakeup call.

Yours,

Xio Torres

 A few words from our judges . . .

It's not so easy to be

an LAL judge!

"It may sound cliche but it was hard picking who was the best.  I picked letters where the  writer's voice was fresh, snappy and unique.  . . . the ones that I loved made it all seem effortless.   Thanks for inviting me to take part - I'm truly honored and humbled.    There were a few letters in there that were much better than anything  I could have written myself."

Michael Buckley, author of The Sisters Grimm book series and a  national judge, 2010

""What a pleasure it has been to read these letters, all of which testify to the power of literature to evoke strong responses (and admirable writing!) from the state winners!  That such fine letters were written by middle school students is a tribute not only to the writers but to professional writers who inspired them and the teachers who influenced their writing.  Narrowing the field posed a challenge."

--Dr. Terry Ley, Distinguished Professor Emeritus, Auburn University, Level 2 national judge

"

A Message from the LAL National Project Director 

WHAT CHILDREN WRITE TO AUTHORS

“You’ve got mail” is an understatement for me during the months of November and December. Each year, the  post office delivers white plastic mail bins by the dozens filled with correspondence from children across the country. I am not the person to whom they are writing, but I and my staff are the ones who read their very personal letters.

Dear Ben Mikaelsen,

A student pushed a ten-year-old boy off a school bus causing him to land facedown on the ground, “just to be funny.” The bus driver drove away after asking only halfheartedly if the boy was “okay.” Imagine this same boy shoved into the corner of the school building while three students held him down, twisting and pinching his skin....The principal dismissed the actions as “just boy’s horseplay.” The boy felt scared, hurt, and alone. I was that boy.

This opening paragraph to author Ben Mikaelsen was written by a middle school student in North Carolina. The letter is about the novel Petey. It is also about something else — bullying, yes, but also adult reaction to bullying incidents.

Letters About Literature invites children to write to an author whose work has somehow changed the child’s view of the world or self. We encourage our readerwriters to explore their personal response to the work and then to express that response in a creative, original way. Do not summarize or critique the book or short story or poem, we advise. Rather, write from the heart.

They do not disappoint.

As the LAL project director, I see what the state and national judges do not — the minimal letters as well as the exceptional ones; the struggling readers and writers as well as the polished ones. I see something else, as well — a tapestry of themes, woven from New England to the South, from the Midwest to the West. The dominant themes on all three competition levels — upper elementary, middle school, and high school — is dealing with peer pressure and bullying, discovering for the first time a sense of self-worth, war and  humankind’s inhumanity to others, and coping with loss, from death, disease, or just plain adolescent disappointment. Interestingly, not one book or one author is better than another for helping young people understand these complicated issues. For the boy who wrote to Ben Mikaelsen, Petey brought back painful memories but also insights — that he is older and stronger now, and that it takes guts to look “beyond ourselves" and see the world through the eyes of others.

For Lucas, a high school student, deliverance from drugs came after reading Jim Carroll’s The Basketball Diaries. For Paul, a middle school student in Colorado, Charles Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic, as recounted in The Spirit of St. Louis, helped him rise above depression.

When I finished the last page, I closed the book and I knew that I had changed. I had been there when you took off from a New York field. I had been in the cockpit as you endured the grueling flight across the Atlantic Ocean. I had been there when you landed in France. . . . And you had been there for me. When I was ready to crash and burn, you helped me escape the abyss and get back on my wings and in the air. Your flight kept me flying, and has kept me flying still. You have helped me live a life worth living.

Over the past two years alone, 100,000 young readers have entered this competition. Each year I am impressed by the depth of meaning children have gotten from the stories they read. We need not dumb down our literature.

If what we write and publish has meaning, our children will extend their arms and reach for our words. More importantly, they’ll hold on to them. Recent research suggests that personal reader responses and reflective writing, as evident in these letters, can indeed help to produce  successful readers. And successful readers are lifelong readers.

Books are not the only venue that allow children to relate to others or to suggest a way of coping with a troubling situation. Reading a book, however, is an investment of time and concentration. “I never thought I could read a book this big,” many tell us.  For those who make the investment, the result can be empowering for them and incredibly enlightening for us.

These letters are windows to understanding this young generation — what the children think about, hope for, and fear. Recognizing that the youngest among them are just nine and ten years old makes what they write all the more remarkable. I sincerely hope you’ll enjoy the national winning letters published here. Please know that each affiliate state Center for the Book awards prizes to the top essayists in its state. We simply do not have enough space to print all the letters from children who have expressed themselves so honestly and eloquently.

One hundred thousand letters. One hundred thousand children. If we do not listen, we risk too much.

Catherine Gourley, LAL Project Director

Center for the Book in the Library of Congress

Want to

read more?

Download the 2006 national winning letters.