The Dome
A Journal of Art & Literature
Spring 2024
Managing Editor
Catherine Yan '24
Editors
Angella Ma ‘24, Ellie Grimmett ‘25,
Michkael McKenzie ‘25
Kim Cooper Faculty Advisor
Cover Artwork:
Khiara Threets '24
Back Page Artwork:
Angela Pham ‘25
Editors’ Note
Dear Reader,
When you turn this page, you’ll land in the lap of this line from Jo Brinkerhoff: “I do a sort of unraveling in the safety of good company / one by one, layers of jaundice / of ugly corpse like skin / rotting from old neglect–/they come off slowly.” And so begins your journey through this edition of The Dome, which, I hope, will be similar to the speaker’s journey in Jo’s poem. Art is at its best when it unravels its audience, when it gives them permission to shed old skin, to make themselves raw and open, ready for something new. The writing and art collected here is evidence of that. Consider yourself, as Jo writes, “in the safety of good company.”
It was remarkable to see the throughlines appear as this year’s collection came into view. Though we did not ask for writing related to a specific theme, the writers themselves answered anyway, revealing urgent questions and exclamations that, as Helena Hu writes, serve as “a reminder of life’s fragility and the unspoken strength in our silent unity.” Here we have writers contending with questions of lineage, of ancestry, and identity: who am I if I came from you? Who will I continue to be–grow to be–because of you? The answers–if there are any–are within these pages; they’re within Sun Davis’ “soft-skinned space” of their ancestors, in Catherine Yan’s declaration that the “weight of [her] collective history isn’t a burden but a spindle, spinning the material of [her] past into the yarn of [her] present.”
It’s not surprising that many of the pieces here have echos–either subtle our loud–of this generation’s experience with the pandemic. Maybe we will forever be trying to understand the weight of all that loss, all that isolation and fear. What I do know is that I’m grateful to these young writers for being brave enough to look it in the face, to make art out of what would otherwise be, well, mush.
The artists surprised us, too, with the unity that emerged in their work. As you flip through these pages, notice how many times you see hands as a central focus of the piece. What story do they tell you? I can’t help but think about hands as a symbol of connection, that the hands in these pages are reaching for something beyond the limits of their canvas, are reaching for us, the consumers, to make contact. Look at our desperation, they say, our beauty, our defiance. For me, the hand in Chidera Okeke’s “Complexity of Knowing” does it all: it’s both part of, and removed from, the rest of the figure; it has swagger and charisma while its lines suggest a work in progress; it has ease and sadness. It is, in some ways, the story of this edition.
One morning, somewhere in the process of building these pages, I called a friend to read her “Tell Me When Womanhood Ends and Old Age Begins.” Look, I squealed, the kids are alright! Poetry is alive in their hands! It was cheesy–yes, of course it was–but I meant it. So go ahead, turn the page and find out what I mean: the poetry is alive in all of it.
Cheers,
Kim Cooper, Faculty Advisor
Wound Up - Poetry - Jo Brinkerhoff
Ceramics - Khiara Threets
Leotard - Art - Catherine Yan
Tell me when womanhood ends and old age begins - Poetry -
Sun Davis
Enough - Art - Lena Smith
Ceramics - Khiara Threets
In the Shadows - Nonfiction - Helena Hu
The Complexity of Knowing - Art - Chidera Okeke
Heir - Poetry - Lily Truong
last seen over 30 days ago - Art - Angella Ma
Moments Left in Drawers - Nonfiction - Ellie Grimmett
4 Frames - Art - Catherine Yan
Jack - Nonfiction - Stella Howard
Angels All Around - Art - Angella Ma
Communication - Poetry - Gabe Dahari
Zhou
Speechless - Art - Katy Gappa
Silent Suffering - Poetry - Michkael McKenzie
Bad Apple - Art - Chidera Okeke
ABG - Nonfiction - Catherine Yan
Pandora’s Box - Art - Emily Yang
Princesse Orpheline - Photography - Zarah Caso
Silhouettes of Stranded Silence - Nonfiction - Helena Hu
High Tide - Art - Angella Ma
A Literal Toxic Atmosphere - Fiction - Claire Kim
Stitched Silence: Gestures of Commerce Amidst Nature’s Bounty -
Art - Hannah LaPier
passing through the woods - Poetry - Claire Yoon
Poses - Art - Catherine Yan
Thunder and Electricity - Art - Emily Yang
Intestinal Ache, Love your Umma - Poetry - Sun Davis
Elegy: a Melancholy Meditation on the Future - Art - Hannah LaPier
Wound Up
Jo Brinkerhoff ’24
I do a sort of unraveling in the safety of good company;
One by one, layers of jaundice, Of ugly corpse like skin
Rotting from old neglect–
They come off slowly.
Tears may come with Flowing
I am not sad Promise
Break it - but I can't remember why I promised in the first place.
I am not sad with you I will say instead.
I will say hold me
I will say hold the parts of me that come calcified with dirt I will ask nicely
Like a polite girl.
You let me unravel in front of you
That is quite nice of you
But you do me no favors, No pities,
You simply hold
I am cleaner underneath my layers
Raw with hope
My skin is tender with you
I trust you
Won’t press too hard
I trust
I won't bruise with you
Ceramics
Khiara Threets ’24
Leotard
Catherine Yan ’24
Studio Art
Tell me when womanhood ends and old age begins
Sun Davis ’24
I would like to see more 65-year-old women taking pole classes–
To see cellulite dripping from chrome like saltwater pearls on a string,
Because when I was twelve, I watched my mother stand naked
Before the bathroom mirror and gingerly grab her stomach fat. You took my prettiness
With you when you left the womb– but I am so happy about it.
Thick white lines peppered her belly, epithelial canyons whose curves created
A silvery silhouette
Around the six-inch scar from which my damp, blue body crawled
I thought her softness made her lovely– a symbol of devotion etched into the skin stretching across her bottom-heavy breasts. But I remained blurry in the background,
And she continued staring until her fingers turned white from pressing.
Now, I pray to women with crow’s feet and varicose veins–
I grind my knees into the Earth and hope to catch a glimpse
Of the secrets tucked into the folds of their transparent skin
As they kick up their legs and throw open their small mouths, swallowing the cosmos.
When I look up, I hope to see women with abdominal scars like my mother’s
And women with violet bruises like her mother’s
Beaming down at me, dangling from red silks bound to the ceiling
Like constellations reaching toward one another
Across soft-skinned space.
When my ancestors appear to me, clad in wrinkles and glittery pasties, I will understand What it is to be woman.
Lena Smith ’26
Studio Art
1
Khiara Threets ’24
Ceramics
IN THE SHADOWS
Cover picture by: Kim Kyung-Hoon
July 2012
Within Macau's intricate maze of alleys, we discovered our path to a miraculous second chapter.
In a time when single-child families were the norm under the regulations of the one-child policy, my family's narrative took an unexpected turn with the arrival of my brother a delightful surprise.
As the firstborn, I was the child who aligned with the expectations set by China's one-child policy; my arrival was marked by the usual documenting process. However, this would not be the case for my brother.
We ventured to Macau to secure legal documents for my brother, ensuring his birth was recognized and legitimate, circumventing the strict mainland regulations
Alleys, Macau 2022
1
The Beginning
China’s lost daughters
A personal account: Whispers behind closed doors
The scars left behind
2019 by Helena
Shanghai, China
Hu
The Beginning
Sep 25, 1980
The One Child Policy was China’s drastic measure to control the country's rapidly growing population. Yet, its implementation, coupled with traditional biases favoring male heirs, has cast a long shadow over a generation of Chinese girls. Reports from rural areas, where the desire for a male child is particularly strong, reflect a harrowing reality where baby girls were either abandoned, hidden, or worse, killed.
The Chinese government officially announced the One-Child Policy on September 25, 1980.
Tiananmen, China 1980 by Anka Wong
Ladies and Gentlemen, Comrades and Friends,
In the heart of Beijing, our capital, Tiananmen Square, a grand symbol of unity now sets the scene for the OneChild Policy's introduction.
As families across the nation adjust to a future of smaller households, Tiananmen stands as a silent observer, quietly witnessing a shift from the vibrancy of collective gatherings to the calmness of smaller families.
Today, we stand at a pivotal moment in the history of our great nation.
For decades, we have witnessed an unprecedented increase in our population. It is a situation that demands immediate and decisive action.
In the spirit of foresight and responsibility, our government has decided to implement the One-Child Policy. This policy is not just a measure of population control, but a step towards a sustainable, prosperous future for all. Together, we can ensure that our children inherit a China that is strong, stable, and sustainable.
As we embark on this path, we call upon every citizen to understand its necessity and to contribute to the bright future of our country.
Together, for a better tomorrow.
China’s lost daughters
The words “one-child policy” were first introduced to me when my grandpa was reading the newspaper in 2015.
“Little girls, like pandas, are therefore becoming endangered species...” This striking analogy, once casually remarked by a local official, encapsulates the unintended yet devastating impact of China’s One Child Policy on its female population. In a country where this policy has reigned supreme for over three decades, a deep-seated cultural preference for sons, underscored by the old saying '嫁出去的⼥⼉泼出去的 ⽔(1)' has led to a disturbing trend of female infanticide and a skewed gender ratio This preference echoes the fear of '断后(2)' , where the absence of a male heir is viewed as a family's failure to secure its future Under the shadow of these cultural beliefs and a stringent population control policy, little girls became the silent casualties.
Alleys, Macau 2022 by Helena Hu
Glossary:
(1) 嫁出去的⼥⼉泼出去的⽔：A married daughter is like spilled water
I can still vividly recall my aunt’s marriage, for the wedding host said something like: “Now, the bride shall take one last look at her parents”.
I don’t quite remember how old I was, but as far as I know, I was clinging on to my mom and declared with certainty that I’d never get married.
断后：
(2) To cut off ones lineage
I remember a family friend once expressing concern to my parents, her voice tinged with worry and a sense of scorn. 'You only have a daughter,' and I swear she was scrutinizing maliciously towards my mother who was holding me.
But then I heard the gentle and firm words from both my uncle and my grandpa:
‘She is more than enough’
WHISPERS BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
Something that I really feared when I was 6 years old, was door knocks.
The apartment, filled with warmth and laughter, was pervaded with the smell of hot soup from the kitchen, Grandma's hands moved skillfully across the stove, while I was on the sofa, anxiously waiting for the upcoming dinner.
Then came the knock, loud and authoritative. "Open up! Census inspection!"
I could feel my mother's gaze, heavy with unspoken fear, yet her voice was steady as she whispered urgently, "Hide, quickly!"
My little brother, too young to understand, clung to her, his eyes wide with confusion. The inspector, we knew, was aware of his existence, but my presence was a secret kept within these walls.
With practiced speed, I slipped into the bedroom, my heart pounding against my ribcage. The wardrobe, a massive old thing that smelled of mothballs and memories, was my refuge. I squeezed into the dark space behind my father's coat, the fabric brushing against my face.
Macau 2022 by Helena Hu
The door opened, and the inspector's voice filled the room with a cold, demanding presence: "We have records of a birth for a boy."
My mother's voice, laced with an edge of fear, responded, "Yes, just the boy."
Outside, I could hear the inspector's heavy footsteps, a predator searching for its prey. I curled myself tighter, my breaths shallow and silent. My thoughts were a tangled mess of fear the fear of being discovered or killed.
The inspector's search continued, each step echoing like a drumbeat of impending doom. But he found nothing, no trace of my existence in the place I called home.
Finally, the door closed, his footsteps receding. I waited, breath held, until the echo of his departure faded into silence.
Emerging cautiously from my shadowy haven, the world seemed to shift back into place. The embrace of my family was a sanctuary, yet, in their arms, a mix of relief and lingering fear crept up on me a reminder of life’s fragility and the unspoken strength in our silent unity.
The Scars Left Behind
Families that had more than one child often did not register the births of additional children, leading to a significant number of undocumented individuals. These children faced challenges in accessing education, employment, and other social services.
The policy contributed to a rapidly aging population in China With fewer children being born and life expectancy increasing, a significant portion of the population became elderly, leading to concerns about their support and care, as traditionally this was the responsibility of the children.
The Chinese government officially announced the One-Child Policy to be over on October 29,2015
The shadows of the One-Child Policy cast long over families like mine, leaving indelible scars within our hearts. My aunt (姨婆) recounts her past with teary eyes and how she was forced to abandon her newborn. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done, but we needed a boy to carry on the family name," she whispers. Her story, while uniquely hers, reflects a shared experience, a common narrative of loss and pain, yet also a flickering light of the love and sacrifice that many mothers across China have endured
Guang Zhou, China 2022 by
Helena Hu
The city of Guangzhou, close to Macau where my family's roots are mingled with history, is a place where the echoes of our past, both bright and shadowed, are reminded.
Years later, while traveling through rural China, the words of my Grandpa became palpably clear to me:
The value of a child, boy or girl, lies not in the views of others but the light they bring into our lives.
Propoganda, China 1982 from Alamy
The Complexity of Knowing
Chidera Okeke ’26
Studio Art
Heir
Lily Truong ’26
My grandfather dreamed of an heir for fear of the inevitable end. A descendant that prolongs the family line.
For my father – that is a man, futile of a true heir.
Đời chỉ được làm cha nhưng không được làm nội. 1
For my mother – that is a woman, her kindred will never be recorded. As the ancestral line stops at her name.
I eat cold rice, and sleep elsewhere 2
I fear-
I am no heir of theirs.
In life, he can be a father but never the paternal grandfather (the English language does not distinguish between maternal and paternal grandparents) 1.
“con gái ăn cơm nguội ở nhà ngoài” is an old saying meaning daughters only eat cold rice from other people’s houses. (Meaning it’s not worth having a daughter) 2.
last seen over 30 days ago
Angella Ma ’24
Studio Art
Moments Left in Drawers
Ellie Grimmett '25
The smell of day-old Thanksgiving meals and Dove body wash infiltrated my nose as I sat beside my grandmother on her couch, cushions sinking in from the stack of photo albums we flipped through. Pictures of my father as a child, wearing a cowboy hat bigger than his face or his basketball uniform. Pictures of my grandfather as a young man, a reflection of the man I once knew, long before his hair had gone gray and his skin had grown soft with age. Pictures of his big hands holding my once small father, my grandmother sitting atop the hood of a car nearby. These albums captured moments long forgotten by my father and grandmother, and by the time I left my grandmother’s apartment that day, my fingers were raw from flipping the thick plastic-lined pages and my stomach hurt from laughter.
Those pictures surfaced feelings and memories that had been buried for almost 40 years and made my grandmother reminisce on a life that seemed to pass her by. Those memories that we recall when our skin has grown soft with age account for so few of the moments we swore we would never forget. So, take pictures, write down your days, and find some way for those fleeting moments to linger a little bit longer. Find a way to cherish this life while you’re living it. Because it truly does pass us by, life, we so often hear adults say, “Cherish these moments, they’ll be gone in a flash” but we never really pay attention until we realize it’s too late.
That’s why that day with my grandmother was so special, she was remembering the many days she had forgotten, the days that had seemed significant when she was living them but ultimately only made it into a photo album sitting in a drawer. When my grandfather passed, the dementia symptoms my grandmother had been hiding for so long became evident and got significantly worse. But the day we flipped through photo albums, she seemed to remember everything she had forgotten with such clarity as she looked at my father and said, “I should have cherished those moments with you more before you packed up and moved away.”
Life comes at us so quickly, one day we are small children, learning to tie our shoes and that pavement on fragile skin hurts a lot. The next we watch as our grandchildren come home for Christmas, arm and arm with their spouses, and as they move the conversation from favorite movies to politics. One day, you’ll look through the pictures you’ve stored all these years, pictures of moments you never thought you would forget, and you’ll wonder where the time has gone, wonder how you missed so much of your own life.
The picture right after the ones I took of the photo album that day is one of my grandmother, posing on her couch, a huge smile plastered on her face. If you were to hold up a picture of her 40 years ago, she would be smiling the same way, posing that same way, arm laid with a certain carelessness across the cushions, she would be the same person. But in one picture her hair is gray, her skin soft with age as my grandfather’s had been, in one photo, you will see that life has passed her by and left her with only a few fleeting memories stored in her mind, the rest remain locked in a drawer there for the rare occasion she needs reminding how fast life passes us by.
4 Frames
Catherine Yan '24
Studio Art
Jack
Stella Howard '24
When I was a young boy, my father gave me a pocket knife for my 13th birthday. Resting in a black box with a logo embossed, it shined at me. The knife was tiny, with a grooved wooden handle, all four blades barely large enough to widdle the bark off a branch. We sat in the two front seats of my father's blue Toyota, parked in the driveway. I remember him looking at his hands resting on the wheel and saying something about “responsibility”, maybe, but I was focused on the blade, taunting me. I would call the knife Jack and he would be my acolyte.
Jack stayed with me through our first house, a grayish-blue one with overgrown window boxes and a decaying garage. When I wasn’t pressing pennies on the train tracks next to the house, Jack and I were cutting wood together. It became a rather religious habit, my thumbs growing tough with the practice. We cut Birch, Oak, and Maple, both of us becoming quite skilled. Much of the wood in our yard was dead, the trees still alive were far too tall for me to reach. I quickly grew bored with my options so I decided to cross the train tracks with my eyes on an evergreen sapling barely my height. I put Jack to work, but something was wrong. The Sap! I had not considered The Sap. It worked quickly, forcing Jack back from the flesh of the tree, freezing his fingers, locking his jaw, and making him close. Was this what my father meant when he told me all those things in the car? It's on the tip of my tongue, what he told me.
When the second house came around, Jack was fading. After The Sap, we had grown distant. Jack didn’t say much anymore, and when he did it was slow and without a point. He spent most of his time alone on my dresser sinking into the cheap vinyl. My thumbs grew soft again. At 15, sometime in the spring, I lost track of my boyhood and the religion Jack and I had made. I even lost Jack himself. Jack was a gift in service to my becoming a young man and when I told him I could not, he left me. I went two years without cutting any wood.
Finally, the third house showed itself. This one tall, with a yellow door and solar panels buried in evergreens. At 16, I have killed the dream of manhood. Even my father has certainly forgotten Jack. Jack! We reunited under the bed, he was dusty and delirious. Jack must have found a vacant space in the moving boxes, or maybe back in the black embossed box. When we met again, he was still locked and sticky, even after all these years. He took his time, but he came back, and his resurrection was glorious. Jack is my witness and my friend, who would not give up on me no matter how many houses, or how much Sap. Jack is my calendar and my clock, my faith, and my pain. Jack is my pillow and my dreams, the ones I kept dreaming about who I am. Jack is every disciple. Jack is my body and my boyhood, my kid years. Or, maybe Jack is just a passing whim and I am simply thirsty for something in the nothing. After all, Jack is a pocketknife and I am a woman.
Communication
Gabe Dahari ’25
Language.
A necessary invention, yet one that continuously hinders the interconnectivity of humanity.
How can there be so many words for my emotions, but you still can’t understand what I am saying?
How I’m feeling? What I’m seeing?
There are 6,500 Languages. That’s 6,499 more than I am able to comprehend.
Maybe if I learn another.
Maybe if I learn another, I can look past the guise of similes and metaphors and finally learn
Just the right combination to break open the unbreakable. With my ear pressed against your chest, I strain, Listening, Hoping,
To hear the subtle click.
The opening of your heart, Of your mind.
Letting me in.
Maybe if I learn another.
Maybe if I learn another, I can finally explain color To the blind man.
“Is your red the same as my red?”
We need to recognise that your head is not the same as my head. I can try to tell you how I feel, I can try to show you how I feel, We both have words for how we feel but we do not feel the same.
Maybe if I learn another, I can finally use those words, My words, To plant my image in your brain. Your brain.
A garden already so fertile, So full with its own life. The seed of my thought will only struggle Struggle to be seen by your glorious sunlight. Struggle to get any nutrients among thousands of blooms. Struggle. And fail.
My words recite the crystal-clear photograph seen and stored inside my memory. But you have nothing to grasp onto. With no photograph of your own to visualize, You do your best to conceptualize, You compile your visions into something, anything, to make sense of. An image forms, A compromise… You raise your camera, but the photograph’s taken a thousand miles away from mine.
All it takes is a few toes in the water.
For my words are a soft, but persistent Unceasing stream.
The water is a little cold
But please, Give it a chance. Give me a chance.
All it takes is a few toes in the water. If only you were seeing Past your own reflection. Does the mirror image of your being, Make my stream look black?
Look foreign?
Look cold?
Look different?
Be bold.
All it takes is a few toes in the water.
I am held captive in this prison called communication. In a world with so many others, how can I feel so alone?
My cell,
As large as my vocabulary, Only growing by the day.
But there’s a wall everywhere I turn.
My cell,
As small as my vocabulary, Crushing me
With its inadequacy .
8 Billion
37 million
714 Thousand
9 hundred 47 people.
That’s 8 billion
37 million
714 thousand
9 hundred 47 prisoners.
Stuck inside our cells,
Stuck behind the bars of our truth.
Stuck using these public words For these private affairs
If only there was a way For me to reach into your brain, For me to conduct your train of thought. To push all the right buttons, Pull all the right levers.
How can I wave away the illusion Of some irrelevant conclusion?
There must be some way to avoid the confusion And steer you back on track.
So help me understand, Use your words.
How much gets lost in my translation?
When I attempt to share my feelings, my information, No, my truth, My mind’s reeling, reeling with the realization that I am not you. You are not me.
Our words expect others to become one, so, It’s no wonder that 67 percent of divorces are due to A failure of communication.
“Communication is key”
But where’s the key to communication?
Homo Sapien 200707211165 -
Subject
Andromeda Foundation Laboratory 27, Human Life Form Research Center
SUBJECT: Henry Zhou
Observation Notes Henry Zhou ’26
IDENTIFICATION: 20070721165
CLASSIFICATION: Male Homo Sapien
DESCRIPTION: Male, dark hair and irises. Hair loss (possibly significant) on the top of his head. Overweight. Average height.
TEMPERAMENT: Aggressive around peers, timid when confronted with authority.
CURRENT STATISTICS:
HEIGHT: 183 (CM)
BW: 95 (KG)
BF: 26%
MM: 45%
IQ: 143
DOB: July 21, 2007
Addendum #1: Expanded upon a few years that seemed more important in the human development of the subject. Added possible points of interest and researcher’s notes.
Addendum #2: Multiple years with less updates of notable interest have been condensed. Namely: [#1 & #2], [#3 & #4], [#14 & #15]
THE DEVELOPMENTAL YEARS - UPDATES:
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 0 (2007):
Hongyi Zhou and Helen Hu decide to have their children in Hong Kong in order to give them the best passport.
Hongyi and Helen move to Hong Kong for a few months.
Henry (Hereafter referred to as “Subject”) was born in Hong Kong on July 21st of 2007 AD, to his loving parents who are both entrepreneurs. At 2 months old, he is moved to Mainland China to start his life.
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 1-2 (2008-2009):
Subject has started talking. A warning of the terrible human that has been unleashed upon the world. He is still squirming about like a normal baby should.
Hongyi and Helen move back to Hong Kong with Subject. Subject’s sister is born. She is named Risa and is objectively one of the cutest babies ever. Subject is again moved back to Mainland China.
SUBJECT
OBSERVATION YEAR 3-4 (2010-2011):
Subject has entered kindergarten. He shows an unnatural fascination with brushing his teeth. He has so far displayed good behavior.
Subject has switched schools. He has met a few new friends.
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 5 (2012):
Subject has a rough relationship with his father. He is borderline abusive at times and struggles with his anger. Helen is considering moving to Singapore for an English environment to raise the Subject in. Point of interest: At this point in time, Subject’s behavior started changing. Perhaps influenced by his dad?
THE MIDDLE YEARS - UPDATES:
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR
6 (2013):
The Subject, Risa, and Helen have moved to Singapore. The dad visits once every 2 weeks. Subject has gotten a weiner dog named Cutie and made “friends" with a boy named Greg.
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 7 (2014):
Greg was not a friend. Greg was a traitorous little guy . Subject now hates this creature with every fiber of his being. Point of interest: Subject emptied his entire water bottle onto Greg’s back at the end of the school year. Misbehavior observed. Potential consequences?
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 8 (2015):
Subject has started to experience family issues. The dad is tired of traveling to Singapore every couple of weeks, and his workload is piling up. Subject did not help with the situation because he was too young and stupid and focused on playing and not considerate enough of his father’s feelings. Subject seems to be willing to move back to China, though. Perhaps due to repairing of relationship with his dad?
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 9 (2016):
Subject has switched schools from UWC to Dulwich. He was so out of it during this time that he was sent to the head of year ’ s office nearly every week. However, the plan to move back to China is finalized. Point of interest: Subject getting in trouble so much might have caused some issues that he was unwilling to come to terms with. Perhaps it partially explains his weight gain during this time?
SUBJECT
OBSERVATION YEAR 10 (2017):
Subject has moved back to China. He now goes to the school Dulwich Beijing. However, this is his first time being in an environment with other Chinese kids. He is disliked and treated with what could be considered as coldness by the majority of them. To a certain extent, however, it is his fault. He is not very sociable, and Chinese international school culture is very different from British school culture in Singapore.
SUBJECT
OBSERVATION YEAR 11 (2018):
Subject encountered a robber in his house and successfully managed to defuse the situation. He has also started to fix his image in school and people have warmed up to him. His family situation is also getting better. Things are looking up for the Subject. Point of interest: Subject is able to remain calm under pressure. How did he develop this skill? Will look further into this later.
SUBJECT
OBSERVATION YEAR 12 (2019):
Subject started the weekly word, a rumor mongering newspaper very popular among his peers that got him into a huge lot of trouble. He further builds a decent image and forges connections with his classmates. He also meets a young man named Daniel Li, who becomes the Subject’s best friend.
THE TEENAGE YEARS - UPDATES:
SUBJECT
OBSERVATION YEAR 13 (2020):
Subject has decided to try and go to America. He seems to have accomplished what he wished for in Dulwich. He reacts positively to the Covid lockdowns. Point of interest: Subject reacted positively to isolation during the Covid lockdowns. Perhaps it says something about his personality? Further examination required.
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 14-15 (2021-2022):
After a year of lockdowns, Subject leaves Dulwich, seemingly happy. He has one fall out with a friend, but things move fast and that is brushed aside. Subject arrives at boarding school in the USA. He is still homesick sometimes. Point of interest: Subject exercised his influence within the Dulwich community by excommunicating that friend. It took a neutral third party repairing their friendship for the other child to be included again. Perhaps a sign of too much power and not enough responsibility?
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 16 (2023):
Subject’s parents get divorced. He’s somewhat sad about it, but he has also known that it was coming. His mother has full custody of him and his sister, but he still has a good relationship with his dad. Subject is spending more time on schoolwork in the hopes of satisfying his parents’ demands and getting into a good college.
SUBJECT OBSERVATION YEAR 17 (2024):
As it is only the beginning of 2024, there is nothing of notable importance that has occurred in the Subject’s life. Subject re-evaluation has been scheduled - further updates will be added soon.
Speechless Katy Gappa ’25
Studio Art
Suffering in Silence- The Reality of My American Dream
Michkael McKenzie ’25
The corners of her eyes shine a light shade of red.
She’s been crying.
She shuffles some papers.
The endless shuffling of papers beat a slow melodic rhythm. This rhythm repeats for days, months, and years.
I listen to the same rhythm everyday, never stopping to read the music on the score.
She’s been crying.
She still shuffles the papers.
However, this time, the circles around her eyes have also darkened, her breathing has quickened, and her smile has faded.
I view a white hand above her head, plucking at the strings attached to her body. A puppet.
I view the lifeforce being sucked out of her body, but from what?
I can’t tell.
“Hey is everything ok?”
“Yeah don’t worry Michkael, just had a hard day at work today.” She smiles.
She’s hurting. Why are you hurting? What’s wrong?
She’s been crying.
She shuffles the papers.
Wait. She’s still shuffling?!!
The rhythm bellows a more painful tune this time. It’s unbearable. Stop! Stop!
I pull the papers from her.
The white hand vanishes.
Light bill, Gas bill, Water bill, Electric bill, so many bills.
She sits in her chair motionless. Awaiting for her next command, waiting for another way to pay the bills.
I rest the papers back in her hand.
The white hand appears and pulls on the strings of her body. She shuffles the papers. America.
You did this to us, you did this to me. It all started with the savior of our land.
Christopher Columbus.
Praised as the founder of America.
Praised as our savior.
Praised as an outright God.
Preached through America’s “Bible” in Chapter 14 verse 92 His testimony has reached the very depths of our land.
His lies have been embedded into the very core of our land.
This land was made on the back of slaves.
This land was formed from the blood of the Native Americans.
The rain that soaks this land stems from the nights of torment solicited by his men. The horrid screams of the Lucayans erupt, as one man destroys their land.
Filth. That’s what you really view me as.
We have been fighting for so long, and I’m tired.
But for what?
I’m so tired.
I’m tired of the target on my back weighing me down.
I’m tired of living as a modern day slave, exploited by my oppressors.
I’m tired of having to put my hands on the dashboard of the car, when in the presence of a police officer.
Why is it that everytime I watch the news, my people seem to be suffering from oppression or financial instability?
Aren’t there more of you than us here?
Why is it that even though we eat the same food, I can't sit at the same table as you.
They say We should not be a country of segregation but a country of integration. For we are the Melting Pot of the world, we are America.
“One nation, under God, Indivisible, with liberty and justice for…”
…Who?
I mean, I know it’s not us.
Because they’re killing us.
They’re killing ME.
They’re killing me yet they want to call this the land of the free?
The very ground you walk on was built on the blood, sweat and tears of my people.
These monuments were built up on the piles of bodies of MY people.
On February 26, 2012 Treyvon cried February 23, 2020 Ahmaud cried March 13, 2020 Breonna cried
On May 25, 2020 George cried I cry. I cry.
Yet, I’m Helpless.
My tears only stain the surface of my computer.
My screams fall on deaf ears as I try to reach out behind the screen.
Statistics show that the oppressive nature of American society has resulted in 1 in 5 of us dying faster than our white counterparts.
Don’t you see me? I’m deteriorating. I’m dying. Don’t you see it? We are dying.
But I’m not understanding why? Someone please explain it to me.
We barely account for 14 percent of the US population yet we are being killed at twice the rate as you. It hurts.
I cannot escape the feelings of fear that, that I too, will soon fall like my fellow brothers.
Everyday I wonder If I will live to see tomorrow.
I just want to live.
I'm a kid, just like the rest of you. I deserve the right to dream too, right? Right?
One day. One day I hope that I too, just like you, get the right to dream. One day.
The endless shuffling of papers beat a slow melodic rhythm.
This rhythm repeats for days, months, and years.
Tired of listening to the same rhythm, I finally stop to read the music on the score. I’ve finally come to understand why she was crying
“Mom, I understand now!”
She can’t hear me, Why can’t you hear me? Why can’t they hear me? Why?
She sits in her chair motionless. Awaiting for her next command, waiting for another way to pay the bills.
She’s tired.
She hands me the paper.
And I start shuffling.
Bad Apple
Chidera Okeke ’26
Studio Art
ABG
Catherine Yan ’24
The phrase and concept of ABG live in my mind rent-free. If my mind is a room, ABG is a jasmine-scented candle infusing the room with its fumes. When I wake up in the morning and think of how to dress, I ask myself: is this something an ABG would wear? When I talk to people, I hope to carry myself with the confidence of an ABG. If people are not treating me the way I want them to, I ask myself if an ABG would put up with their behavior
I was on my laptop in my middle school bedroom in Beijing, scrolling through YouTube videos by East and Southeast Asian influencers that taught girls how to do makeup ABGstyle, when I first learned of the phrase. In their videos, they would describe and exaggerate the characteristics of an ABG. They teased themselves for being boba addicts and more importantly, many of them talked about finding a makeup style and identity that was uniquely Asian-American and fit their features.
Not to be confused with arterial blood gas, ABG is the acronym for Asian Baby Girl. ABGs have a few common characteristics, according to the top definitions on Urban Dictionary, which are constantly evolving:
1.
The ABG is hot, yet effortless, usually associated with piercings and tattoos: “ABGs are also known for dying their hair a lot. From blonde to black. They have many piercings: multiple on the ears, and stomach/lip. They probably have teased hair, bangs, and have had extensions at one point or another Could also have painted nails and tattoos. ABGs are super hot, but you would probably get jumped if you tried to hit on them.”
2.
The ABG is a party girl, bold and rebellious: “Normally seen at raves, parties, and clubs… ABG culture is very predominant in California.” “ABGs like to hang with gangsters and wear thin (slutty) clothing. They like to jump other girls who talk shit and make out with their boyfriends 24/7...”
3.
The ABG LOVES boba, shopping and all things girly: “There are different types of ABG’s, and all of them are bad asf The most common are the ones who are obsessed with fashion and shopping, drink boba, wear fake lashes and nails, and their makeup and outfits are always on point.”
According to these definitions, an ABG is a girl of East Asian or Southeast Asian descent living in the United States. An ABG can be a Chinese Bay Area rave girl. An ABG can be a Vietnamese girl living in Vermont with blond hair and perfectly applied lip gloss
An ABG can be a Filipina with a perfect French manicure working towards getting her doctorate.
More importantly, though, the concept of ABG represents a rejection of the stereotypes against what an Asian girl should be: a rejection of the submissive, quiet book-smart nerd girl; different than the Asian FOB, or someone who is Fresh Off the Boat and inexperienced. In a way, the ABG movement and identity rebel against these limiting stereotypes to empower Asian women to embrace their individuality and break free from the confines of those preconceived notions
In the media, think of Devon Aoki as Suki in the Fast & Furious movies or Lucy Liu as Alex in Charlie’s Angels. Both Suki and Alex are strong and highly talented individuals. Suki is a talented street racer, while Alex is a skilled martial artist and a top-notch private investigator. Both Suki and Alex are independent women who can take care of themselves and make their own decisions. They are not reliant on others for their success or safety. This was a far cry from the idolized, infantilized female celebrities in mainland China who were popular when I was in elementary school. Instead of putting absurd amounts of effort into looking presentable and perfect, Devon and Lucy were not afraid of stray hairs and tan lines. Instead of staying out of the sun or caking on makeup to make their skin paler, Devon and Lucy wore their freckles with pride. Instead of talking with their hands in front of their hands and looking down and blushing, Devon and Lucy looked people in the eye and stared into their souls. Instead of being given princess treatment, Devon and Lucy were go-getters
When I first saw them on the silver screen of my childhood apartment living room, I knew that this was who I wanted to be. I did not fit the beauty standard mold of having pale skin or big eyes; but I did not desire these features anymore–for I became fascinated with the feeling I got when looking at these two beautiful women. Their confidence did not detract from others’ beauty; instead, they enhanced the confidence of everyone around them. They were not stingy with their beauty because they knew that there was enough of it for everyone. I knew that this was the route of beauty that I wanted to follow They represented something so true and passionate, just the kind of girl that my mom wanted me to be. They had the confidence to wear skirts the size of a belt and butterfly hair clips on numerous occasions, and I knew that confidence was what I needed.
So I went with the strategy of “fake it till you make it” in middle school. Trying to imitate the ABG look, I filled my parents’ online shopping cart with hair dye full of hydrogen peroxide, eyebrow pomade, false eyelashes, and lip gloss. Every day after school, I watched tutorial after tutorial on how to apply makeup like the women I idolized. However, it is hard to imitate something you are not. Confidence cannot be faked. I was a poser and I knew it, which further detracted from my confidence. I could not go to school without eyelashes on, and I had become such a tryhard–the antithesis of the seemingly effortless ABG.
During the Summer of eighth grade, in the lobby waiting for the registrar line to go down at a boarding camp I was attending, it was like a tunnel of purple smoke clouded my vision, blocking everything in sight except for the first ABG I saw in real life–a living, breathing archetype outside of the silver screen.
It was the first time I saw someone in real life pull off the look and vibe of an ABG. I was blown away. She was the encapsulation of the ABG energy that I had seen from Hollywood. Never before had I seen a girl so sure of herself. I glanced in awe at her perfect, long undyed black hair that always looked like it was moving in slow motion. She was everything that I hoped to look like through my experimentation. I saw her flash me a smile, so confident and unwavering, and in that instance, I knew that I wanted to be friends with this girl
At first, I thought she looked intimidating with her lip gloss and jean shorts, but I soon found out that she was a sweetheart when she held doors open for everyone. I plucked up the courage to go talk to her. It was like I was in a trance, drawn by an invisible magnetic force to her. I admired her, and I think she sensed it. She took a liking to me and took me under her wing.
She would hang out with me in the dorms a lot after classes. Maybe it was because she thought I represented the homeland that she felt disconnected from. She was kind but a bit hard to read because I didn't know whether she was truly effortless or if she was just really good at faking it.
During classes, she was always the first to speak when instructors asked a question. She always answered in such a likable way too. She knew she had a voice, and she knew how to use it. Her duality was astounding. She epitomized the saying of having both beauty and brains.
She was two years older than me–a big sister figure to look up to. Her name was Helen, she told me, because her parents wanted her to be like Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in Greece who was important enough to start the Trojan War
She said she liked her name, but that she felt strange that she accepted it and related to it more than her Chinese name. She was fascinated that I came from her motherland, and could read, write and speak in Chinese To adapt to her parents uprooting themselves from their mother country and settling down in New Jersey, her perception of her culture had evolved into something different than if she had grown up in China.
She didn’t understand some of the parts of Chinese culture. She wore outside shoes in her room and didn’t make people take them off at her dorm room door. However, after a week of my insistence, she would place her rows of air forces and Jordans at the doorway. She didn’t understand why Asian beauty gurus would use double eyelid tape and skin whitening products. We bashed these beauty standards together, even though we were appealing to American ones We talked about beauty a lot, but we ultimately could not decide whether Asian or American beauty standards were less self-hating.
But she loved being American. She loved blasting pop music early in the morning during her shower. She wore cropped t-shirts, had a diamond navel piercing, showed me pictures of her tanning on the beach on vacation, and painted her nails glossy white. She represented something uniquely American to me. I learned through observation that a pearly-white smile is a better solution than words, and that pleases and thank yous–sometimes neglected in daily Chinese dialogue because it is hasslesome and cold–go a long way in America. She was so sure of herself, and because she had confidence, every time she spoke, people listened. I envied her American-ness, and how she wholeheartedly embraced it. I felt I did not fit into the mold of Chinese or American because I had the emblem of China printed on my passport, yet I connected more with the American feeling of carefreeness and freedom.
But she was also soft-spoken and vulnerable In the dorms late one night while she was painting my nails glossy white to match hers, she whispered to me “I don’t know if I feel Asian enough.”
At that moment, I felt like I had a halo above my head. This big sister that I looked up to was now looking to me for reassurance and guidance. We sat in silence.
I racked my brain for an answer to reassure her, but my thoughts remained elusive, a blank canvas void of comforting words. Fumbling for solace, I retraced our past conversations, the unspoken exchanges about self-perception that lingered in the spaces between our words.
We had never openly admitted our shared, deep-rooted insecurities to each other before. It felt like uncharted territory, an elusive realm. The weight of our unspoken fears hung in the air, palpable yet unaddressed
Years later, reading Eric Liu's essay "Notes from a Native Speaker," was like discovering a key to unlock the unspoken complexities of a past silent exchange. There’s a passage that perfectly translated our feelings into words, encapsulating the complexities of identity. "[Helen and I] do not have white skin or white ancestors. [We] have yellow skin and yellow ancestors, hundreds of generations of them. But like so many other Asian Americans of the second generation [or Americanized kids like myself], [we] now bear a strange new status: white, by acclamation."
Helen had, in a sense, "achieved whiteness," yet the threads of her heritage clung to her refusing to be erased. It manifested in the details, from the untouched hue of her hair, a rebellion against hydrogen peroxide, to the jade pendant draped around her neck, a cherished relic from her grandpa. Even in the everyday choices of jasmine-scented toiletries and matcha-flavored treats, she asserted her identity, resisting assimilation.
As I grappled with these thoughts, the elusive words to reassure her remained just out of reach, lost in the chasm between understanding and articulation. Our shared silence spoke volumes, echoing the unspoken understanding that transcended mere conversation. At that moment, the weight of our shared history, insecurities, and unspoken truths hung heavily in the air, binding us together.
I thought about how even in her attempts to ground herself in where her parents came from, she still told me how she felt like she was a fraud and too whitewashed, but that being whitewashed was like her shield; she even used it as ammunition at times. Like when dining at a high-end Italian place, she understood what her parents saw as floating words on the menu, and could guide them through what to order. I felt that deeply as I did the same thing for my dad as we passed through customs to take me to the very Summer camp where I met Helen.
I thought about Helen’s clean-cut younger sister, who, she told me, was nothing like her. She knew more Chinese than her and could communicate with their parents on a level that Helen felt like she never could. I think of my sister, who is learning more Chinese in elementary school than I did in middle school. Even though Helen looked confident, there was insecurity bubbling beneath the surface I thought about all of this and finally found something to say.
“So what?” I said. And I mean it earnestly and defiantly.
Helen and I giggle at my abrupt answer. We put on our shoes, arranged neatly in a row at my prior insistence, and walked to dinner
As Eric Liu says, in every assimilation “there is a mutiny against history but there is also a destiny, which is to redefine history.” The ABG essence in itself was earned by countless East Asian and Southeast Asian women to be seen as more than FOBs.
In the dim glow of our shared struggles, the realization dawns forging our history is akin to threading the needle through life's labyrinth, with every tear, every rebellion, and every shared laugh becoming the resilient, unbroken string that stitches together our fabric.
Helen and I navigate the chaos as weavers crafting the cloth of our existence. Our moments are threads, entwining to form our identity. In the often silent battles against expectations, we're not just breaking free; we're braiding strands of our resilience.
The weight of our collective history isn't a burden but a spindle, spinning the material of our past into the yarn of our present. It's messy, unpredictable, and at times, downright chaotic The narrative we're weaving isn't a neatly packaged tale it's a patchwork of defiance, a rebellion intricately etched into the warp and weft of our being.
Amid this weaving, Helen and I emerge not as a neatly tied conclusion but as threads coming together in the undulating motion of the string. It's not about the end product; rather, it's about embracing the rhythmic dance of string. Our threads intertwine and weave together; it is resilience, redefinition, and the courage to string together our own history.
Pandora’s BoxThe Covid
Emily Yang ’27 Sculpture
Princesse
Orpheline
Zarah Caso ’25
Photography
Silhouettes of Stranded Hope
Helena
Hu ’26
I awoke to the soft chime of my alarm. The disorder that had overtaken Macau made our Macau residence feel like a haven, a tremendous contrast. For weeks my family — my parents, my younger brother, and I —had been stranded in Macau, unable to navigate our way back to Shanghai.
The situation was crazy. We just finished one quarantine. Now, we were on the verge of another.
Macau's zero COVID policy meant we had to leave. The world had changed, and Shanghai, our home, seemed like a distant planet we could no longer reach.
When I opened the curtains and stared out of the window, all I saw was a once vibrant, bustling city transformed into a ghost town; the crowds with music and noise vanished, and now, even the streets remained silent. The relentless rain only added to the desolation, casting a veil of melancholy over the landscape. The normally inviting glow of the casinos was replaced by boarded-up windows and locked doors. The uncertainty that had settled over the city was palpable, like a thick fog that refused to dissipate.
My parents, who had always been a source of unwavering support and reassurance, were visibly drained. The pressure of wasting a great deal of time away from home seemed to be reflected in their fatigued eyes. My younger brother, usually full of energy and enthusiasm, now appeared subdued. It was heartbreaking to see our family's spirits gradually wear down.
During lunch, we discussed our predicament. Our hope of securing a hotel room in Zhuhai, just across the border, was dwindling and the urgency of our journey back to Shanghai was further amplified by the pressing need to be there for my Grandpa. The surgery was a critical step in his path to recovery, and we knew that our presence and support were vital during this time.
The knowledge that he was waiting for us, relying on our presence and support during this challenging time made the promise of reuniting with my grandpa the beacon of hope that kept our spirits alive.
The constant refreshing of the iPad screen the previous night had left us mentally exhausted. It seemed like an impossible task to secure a room, as countless others were in a similar situation, vying for the same scarce resource.
The news on television only added to our anxiety. Reports of the virus spreading further and the uncertainty surrounding travel restrictions were constant reminders of the situation we were in. It felt as though the world had become a hostile and unpredictable place.
The digits on the clock ticked ahead mercilessly as I stared at the iPad, hitting “refresh” again and again until my fingers ached. For three hours I had been glued to this screen, watching the precious hotel rooms in Zhuhai pop up one by one in the lottery system and vanish instantly, snatched up by other desperate travelers.
The television kept playing: The images of healthcare workers in protective gear, overwhelmed hospitals, and the rising death toll were a stark contrast to the peaceful silence of our room. Each report added to the weight of uncertainty that loomed over us, stressing the urgency of our situation
My younger brother and I exchanged glances, the weight of our predicament etched in our weary eyes. With each passing minute, our hope dimmed a little more. My eyes strained as the night grew darker and deeper. But giving up wasn’t an option. These rooms were the only tickets my family had back home to Shanghai. My brother was losing hope, and so was I. But we returned to the maddening lottery cycle.
Finally, the moment we had been waiting for materialized on the screen
My fingers moved in a blur, terrified of losing to another unseen competitor. I hit “confirm” and nearly collapsed in relief. My heart leaped as I tapped “book” furiously, rushing to my parents. A glimmer of hope had finally broken through the dark clouds of uncertainty.
After days of frustration, it was that one room, miraculously available on the right date, that had me running from the iPad to my parents. I burst into the kitchen, my face flushed with exhilaration, and breathlessly exclaimed, "I got it! I got a room in Zhuhai, and it's for the right date!”
The astonishment spread like a virus in our home, my brother, squealing in excitement. My parents, their faces a mix of astonishment and relief, scrambled to find their credit card. The red timer on the iPad's screen ominously reminded us of the limited time we had to secure the room. As they hurriedly entered their payment information, a new obstacle loomed before us. To cross the border into Zhuhai, a 12-hour negative result COVID test was required. I glanced at my watch, we did our COVID testing this morning but clearly, it's not enough to satisfy the 12-hour requirement. The testing station would close any minute. We grabbed our IDs and ran out into the rainy city.
We watched as taxi after taxi passed us by, their red tail lights disappearing into the distance. Each passing car left us with a sinking feeling as if our chances of securing a ride were slipping away with every missed opportunity. Our desperation grew, and we raised our hands in vain, hoping that one of these fleeting taxis would choose to stop for us.
We were extremely aware of the ticking clock that was counting down the minutes till the testing station would close Time was ruthlessly against us
Finally, when it seemed hopeless, a taxi pulled up to the curb. The weary but kind driver gestured us in. Rain-slicked streets and the quiet hum of the taxi's motor blurred together on the way to the testing station. We felt as though we were traveling closer to our target in a dream due to the captivating glow that the red taillights of the few cars ahead of us projected on the wet pavement. With unwavering faith, the taxi driver steered us past the winding streets, standing as an unspoken guardian of our hopes and reassuring us that we were indeed going in the correct direction
As rain fell outside, he spoke with a warmth exceeding a typical ride. "We are lucky, " he said with a half-smile. "Many people are still stuck here, running out of supplies, unable to go back."
His words struck a chord with us. We were heading to Shanghai to reunite with our loved ones. He went on to share his own story, "Many of us lost our jobs because they didn't give us passes to drive." He smiled gratefully, "I was fortunate. My company got me a pass to keep working. It's been tough, but at least I can still do my job.”
In that split second, the taxi driver's story became intertwined with our own. He painted a vivid picture of Macau, a place where hope still managed to spark in the darkest of times.
The taxi continued its journey through the rain-soaked streets as we listened to the driver's words with a sense of kinship. The raindrops on the window vaguely reflected the shared emotions that filled the taxi.
The ride, which had started in uncertainty and desperation, had transformed into a moment of connection. It was a reminder that there was still something beautiful that remained. The taxi driver dropped us off at the testing center with a parting smile and a wish for a safe journey.
We stepped out into the rain once more.
High Tide
Angella Ma ’24
Studio Art
A Literal Toxic Atmosphere
Claire Kim ’26
I ignore the alert notification on my phone and continue to listen to Dad lecturing our family about the origins of air pollution. I nod, but his words break apart before it enters my head.
Each day, my patience is decreasing I watch the news in the morning, futilely hoping to hear that the pollution lockdown is over. Mom tells me to stop counting the days we have been in quarantine, although she knows how obsessed I am with time. Since I was five, I derived happiness from running in harmony with the sun and wind. Wearing a mask during practices had nothing on me, for the enormous joy I felt when I strode past the city rivers and tall buildings was enough As I grew more in love with the sport and joined a competitive crosscountry team, time management and discipline guided my life. A specific time would direct me when to eat lunch and when to go to practice. Now, I wander around the house feeling worthless and insecure. Even after two years of witnessing the wave of dust slowly dominate the whole world, I still get excited at 2:30 pm, looking forward to feeling the breeze tickle my legs as I run up the first hill of the course.
Would it be that bad to take a short run? After all, I would wear a mask, even two or three layers, if I had to Is there a secret police force guarding each apartment, vigilantly waiting to see which rebellious teenager decides to break the law? I suppress my growing urge to unlock the front door and sprint to the nearest trail. It would be for one hour, no, thirty minutes. How much longer can I tolerate the annoying itchiness in my feet?
Around 4 pm, my phone begins to blow up. Instead of the usual emergency alerts, I find my Instagram DMs spamming me with messages. It's a relief to discover my friends experiencing the same uneasiness as me, sharing our desire to step on concrete and not squishy rugs at home I jokingly asked them if they would run to Lain River at 5 am with me to watch the sunset, and as expected, they laughed at the unfathomable idea. The more we discuss missing our everyday lives, the more restless I become. My heart races in an irregular rhythm, longing for the day our coach messages the group chat, "Practice is back on starting tomorrow!"
The following day, I woke up to another dark grey sky hovering over the house, leaving the slightest opening for a speck of sun to greet me. As I blankly stare at my tan skin in the bathroom mirror, I picture myself skipping freely through the serene, beautiful trails behind the school A bright smile returns as I recall the liberating sensation of propelling my body forward with each cathartic step.
No, I keep reminding myself. It can kill me, it can kill me... just stay put. Recently, I have been making a mental list of all the entertaining activities available at home, attempting to distract my mind from thinking of anything related to track or running. Unfortunately, each attempt to get my mind off of running fails. A few hours later, the uncontrollable urges come back to haunt me. My head pounds loudly as the world spins around in chaotic directions. I gasp, noticing the soles of my feet shake and hearing the ticking of the clock handle bang vehemently against my ears. The minuscule presence of sunlight from the window transforms into a menacing weapon, striking the room with its unleashed power. The rhythm of my breath feels surreal and dreamlike, like my lungs are not my own. I lock the bedroom door and lie on my beanbag, trying to go back to sleep and completely forget the feeling of running outside. That life has always been like this, with nearly pitch-black, muzzy skies and silent streets occupied by despondent birds.
I abruptly wake up to the sound of my mom gasping for air in the living room. I rush out, and Dad has already begun taking out her emergency aid kit that the doctors gave us when the lockdown started. It is her third time experiencing a respiratory attack in these past two weeks, so we are getting better at keeping calm and treating her efficiently. I cannot stop getting frustrated and tearing up when I realize that air pollution is killing my mom and not me Why her? Why not a selfish daughter who spends the day going insane from not being able to run outside or meet her friends instead of thinking of ways to help her sick mother?
No matter how advanced or expensive of an air purifier we buy, it proves to be useless for my mom; her 'alveoli,' a.k a. the part of the lungs that keep people alive, have been significantly weakened since the first massive wave of pollution in 2027. I hold her two hands on the couch, assuring her that everything will be okay and that she needs to take ten deep breaths Once Mom finds her calm again, she reminisces about her high school days when people could enjoy their everyday lives without stuffy masks. She misses her healthy lungs, which allowed her to play dodgeball and four square with her friends after school. I try to focus on her health and comfort her, but the absurd thoughts of secretly escaping the house at night creep into my mind.
It's almost midnight, and I'm scrolling through TikTok like usual, watching the same old videos of "A Day in the Life in a Pollution Pandemic!" It scares me that some find this an amusing experience. Maybe they have not lost any part of themselves during COVID and don't know what it is like to be put in a mental ward for three months due to severe depression and anxiety. Maybe they would rather eat ice cream in bed while binge-watching Netflix instead. Luckily for me, I am lying in bed watching TikTok like every other 17-year-old girl at midnight, but instead of feeling relaxed, I want to throw up and punch myself in the stomach.
I clasp my ears as high-pitched, excruciating noises of five consecutive emergency alerts destroy the room's stillness I dump my face on the pillow, kicking my feet up and down on the mattress. When Mom and Dad say goodnight to me from the living room, I sigh and fake a sweet "Good night" out of me.
A little past 11 pm, I unconsciously stand up from bed. A sudden strange, tingly sensation permeates my bones like they are breaking into pieces. The trillions of dust particles lingering right outside the window wickedly whisper, "Come out, Chloe. It's okay. We will not kill you. "
Every part of my brain that is supposed to prevent me from making stupid decisions stops working. Unknowingly, I begin changing into outside clothes and heading to the door. I knock over a few books on the way out, but the sound of the covers hitting the floor does not disenchant me from this madness. Even as I watch myself in the front door mirror putting on running sneakers, I do not hear a voice telling me to go back to bed. In the deepest part of my consciousness, I sense the slightest desire to grab a mask before leaving the house, but shockingly, I turn away from the box of pristine masks in the cabinet. The clock's ticking mutes as the rest of the house blurs from my vision My heart beats faster with each second Each moment, I gradually feel more disconnected and numb. Looking at the floor, I am no longer inside the house but in the elevator going down. Ding! First floor.
Doors opening.
I smell the dust two small steps away from entering the gray world for the first time. Some dust creeps underneath the door into the first-floor lobby and climbs up to my nose. I feel faint and weak, but a potent force keeps pushing my feet toward the front door. Only as I take the first step outside do I see the bodies on the ground, other foolish people– several with ripped masks in their palms– like me who failed to resist their temptations
Still, I hold my breath and sprint to the nearest park, praying that I can endure for another five minutes.
Stitched
Silence: Gestures of Commerce Amidst Nature’s Bounty
Hannah LaPier ’25
Studio Art
Passing Through the Woods
Claire Yoon ’27
Chug, chug,
A train looking like it is dipped in red wine
Is calmly carrying my body into the woods.
Lively trees wave at me as I pass each and one of them, With their petite green fingers
But my lethargic body does not even twitch to reply, and slips into a sweet sleep.
Only my eyes wandering around in a limited space, I sense the Sun that is too shy to greet with a shine
Behind the fine aligned pines.
Now that the bright orange caught my sight, I can’t but sit up right, And begin to search for it
Hoping to find it before the night.
Time passes by,
The tick on my clock is pointing directly to the south. And I am too worn out
By all the peeks and only the peeps of the light
Only a few seconds pass, Until this Sun knocks my back
Apologizing to me for showing itself
Right before the night.
Deciding to let it slide, I slowly turn my back to the aisle
As soon as I was face to face with the Sun, I could not,
But be mesmerized by the melting Sun,
Looking just like orange ice cream drooling down the whole mountains.
Poses
Catherine Yan ’24
Studio Art
Thunder and Electricity
Emily Yang ’27
Studio Art
Intestinal Ache, Love your Umma
Sun Davis ’24
In our fridge, there sits a five-gallon jar of kimchi. It teems with life, filled With billions of microscopic probiotics and my mother tongue.
I learn our language as soon as I can stomach solid foods, I learn it
Between bites of tart, crunchy cabbage. My first word is “엄마” : mama, mother, my protector An oath, a guarantee That– despite my muddied blood– I am a Korean first.
But when I turn five, kimchi becomes too bitter for my taste. When my white preschool teacher begins teaching me English vowels, Korean becomes Too harsh for my pale yellow ears. I stop eating kimchi entirely
Because I do not know that it will take me years to reacclimate
To the scent of shrimp paste, fish sauce, and gochujang mingling together–That attempting to consume
My mother’s long-fermented love will sting my esophagus and burn my lungs, That the sensation of tapping my tongue to the rough roof of my mouth
To utter the “ eo ” in “I love you, 엄마” will become foreign– and soon
The five-gallon jar disappears from our fridge. I do not notice When I stop understanding my first language; I cannot see That I’ve cut off my own tongue (엄마’ s white child). Her Heart cracks and crumbles into rust-red dust, like shards
Of a prehistoric ongii.
I do not notice that our kimchi is sitting at the bottom of a landfill In Nevada.
Elegy: A Melancholy Meditation on the Future
Hannah LaPier ’24
Studio Art
Voices, Angella Pham ‘25, Ceramics