Description: My DD had to write an article for her school paper on Teen Drinking. This is a very hard subject for anyone to write about. When I read her article I knew I would make a page for her. This is one of those Proud Parent moments! There is no better way to honor a grandparent. I love this Kid. The article is long but worth it!!! TFL I almost sacrificed my credibility. I almost lied. And I’ll admit it. In the original copy of this column, I had a stream of witty puns about how irresponsible teenage drinking is and how “I’m above all that.” But all the stuff I wrote had nothing to do with me. It was nothing but a mess of satire. The truth is, I don’t detest alcohol. I don’t frown upon those that do decide to drink. But I don't. I think it's something that we can all relate to. Everybody has someone in his or her heart. Everybody has a memory or a voice that affects every decision they make and every thought they think. This is my memory. This is my voice. I never thought I’d publish this. I've never even told this story aloud more than twice. But if this is the only way I can delve into my soul before my peers and maybe affect them, I’ll do it. I think it's necessary. Five years ago this month, my grandmother passed away. She struggled with breast cancer for much of her adult life, going in and out of remission every few years. My grandma was stronger than death. But eventually the cancer spread and she stopped reacting to treatment. She couldn't fight anymore. The year she died, I had a metallic silver jacket. She loved different textures of fabric and asked if she could touch my sleeve. I remember reaching my arm over her hospital bed, trying not to cry. It would be the last time I’d see her, the last time she'd touch me. She didn't look at my glittery arm. Her big blue eyes stared into my own as if she saw something shinier inside of me. She turned to my mother and said only two words. But these words had an intensity and an honesty unparalleled to any I’ve ever known. "She's perfect," she said. I couldn't stop the tears now; the floodgate opened. My mom told me to go to the waiting room and I was glad for that. She died a few days later. But I know she’s still with me. She is my voice; she sees me in all that I do, all that I say, and all that I am. So I keep my grades up and I respect my parents. I don't have sex. I don't do drugs. And I don't drink. Every time I think about alcohol, I think about losing control, losing my self-pride and my self-discipline. And I'm not okay with that. I'm not okay with letting go. I'm not okay with not remembering. I’m not okay with my grandma seeing me that way. There are more important things to me than a cold beer and a carefree mentality, a lapse of memory and a headache. There are the five little gymnast girls that I coach two nights a week. They look up to me. And there's my little brother that sees alcohol, sex, and violence plastered everywhere. He was only three when my grandma died; he doesn't have her memory to live for. He has nothing but my example to lead him. Then there's my parents and my teachers and my peers. They believe that I’ll be somebody someday. They think I'll make a difference. But I can't do that without uninterrupted determination. I want no lapses in memory; I want no vacations of thought. Because my grandma believes I’m perfect. And I may not be. But I have to try. My life will be lived by me. I'll pursue my dreams and I’ll reach them, and I wont resign myself to alcohol holidays. It’ll be me, all the way. Wouldn't everything mean more then? Wouldn't it mean more to your voice? To your memory?