Conversatio 2016: Diversity
Danielle Sondgeroth ’18 Letter from the Editor: During their accreditation visit, The New York State Association of Independent Schools certainly noticed and appreciated the diversity of Notre Dame’s student population. Ethnic, cultural and socioeconomic diversity has always been a hallmark of our school and a source of pride. Here at Notre Dame, we value the understanding that diversity can bring. As a way of celebrating this, we have chosen Diversity as our theme for the year and thus as the theme for the 2016 issue of Conversatio. As you read, you’ll discover fascinating stories from around the globe, which serve to highlight that our mission is being lived out each day here on W. 13th Street. These stories echo the words of our mission and are brought to life through our student body who create “the rich cultural, racial and ethnic mosaic” that is Notre Dame. Kevin McDonald, Religion Department Letter from the Art Editor: Art acts as a mirror that reflects who we are. At Notre Dame, that mirror shows the diversity that is integral here at Chez Nous. In this year’s installment of Conversatio, you’ll see that diversity on display. While the freshman created hand art that showed new friendships made at Notre Dame, the sophomores investigated the diverse ways that we choose to style and present ourselves. As you look through these works of art, you are invited to consider the artists who made the art and their diverse backgrounds. Katie Walters, Art Department
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Table of Contents Literature
Art
Kendal Colon ’19 ................................................... 4 Amelia Balik ’18 ..................................................... 6 Olivia Halstead ’19..................................................9 Jade Jarencio ’19 ..................................................10 Angelika Adwalpalker ’19 .................................12 Julia Betancourt ’17 ............................................14 Pearl Gee ’16 ......................................................... 16 Kymberly Pryce ’16 ............................................. 18 Danielle Vazzano’ 16 ...........................................20 Maria Sciancalepore ’16 ....................................22 Mariya Semchuk ’19 .......................................... 24 Kathleen Valonis ’16 .......................................... 26 Genesis Vasquez ’16 ......................................... 28 Yamilex Tavarez ’16 ............................................ 30 Elizabeth Sullivan ’19 ........................................ 32 Nneka Nwaokorie ’16 ........................................ 34 Tiffany Melendez ’16 ......................................... 36 Arielle McKeever ’18 .......................................... 38 Madison Marino ’16 ............................................40 Maria Hayakawa ’17 ...........................................42 Olivia Franz ’18 ....................................................44 Mia Del Borello ’19 ..............................................47 Nia Ayala ’19 ......................................................... 48 Sophia Cardona ’16 ............................................ 51 Angela Perez ’16 .................................................. 52
Danielle Sondgeroth ’18 ..................................... 1 Britnney Ron ’17 .................................................... 3 Victoria Karpowicz ’19 ......................................... 5 Amelia Balik ’18 ...................................................... 6 Elena Ghitan ’19 ..................................................... 8 Elisa Sikula ’18 ......................................................11 Amanda Msallem ’18 ......................................... 13 Tiffany Melendez ’16 .........................................15 Sofia Postell ’18 ................................................... 17 Lievine Maes ’18 ................................................. 19 Chelsey Leveque ’19 .......................................... 21 Evelyn Cooney ’19 .............................................. 23 Dominique Trucchio ’17 ................................... 25 Carolyn Smith ’16 ................................................ 27 Srigita Saha ’16 .................................................... 29 Emilia Muga ’17 ................................................... 31 Yuan Sciscent ’16 ................................................ 33 Emma Makin ’18 .................................................. 35 Pauline Predko ’19 .............................................. 37 Caroline Bozzuffi ’16 .......................................... 39 Julia Rivera ’18 ..................................................... 41 Sagar Ndao ’17 ..................................................... 43 Delilah Vargas ’18 ............................................... 45 Nicole La Greca ’16 ............................................. 46 Taimar Leslie ’16 ..................................................50
Cover, Morgan McDermott ’16 Inside Front Cover, Sarah Trieu ’19 Inside Back Cover, Violante Masetti-Zannini ’16
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Britnney Ron ’17
First Day She stood outside of a large brick building, tears rushing down her cheeks “I don’t want to go,” she cried. The three-year-old was not ready, and her parents knew that. Her mother kept smiling at her, and asked to take a picture of her with her father. Kendal put on a fake smile as her mother clicked the button, capturing a moment they could never return to. The little girl walked over to her mother and grabbed her hand, hoping they would climb back into the car and return to the safety and familiarity of home. Looking up at her mom, Kendal told her the car was the other way; her mother laughed and continued to walk toward the large brick building. As she approached her preschool classroom at St. Aloysius School, Kendal felt her heart racing. She noticed she was shaking, but not only from fear--from excitement, too. The three-year-old Puerto Rican girl walked into a room full of different people of different sizes and different colors, and, most importantly, with different toys! Kendal was introduced to her two teachers, Ms. Nicole and Ms. Maria and was then asked to go with them. Although it took some convincing, Kendal finally followed them inside. Kendal went to her seat at the orange table. A couple minutes later a little girl with a purple shirt walked in. Kendal was confused. Why wasn’t this girl crying for her parents? Why didn’t she seem nervous? Why was she telling her parents to go? As the little girl in the purple shirt took her seat at the orange table, Kendal sat by herself with her salty tears still dripping down her face. “Why are you crying?” the girl in the purple shirt asked. Unsure of how to answer, Kendal simply started playing with the girl. After of couple minutes, the girl in the purple shirt looked at Kendal, and said, “My name is Victoria. Do you want to be my friend?” On September 9, 2004, Kendal made a lifelong friend. As children, we don’t care about what people look like, or what color they are. We just want to have someone by our side. We want someone to be there for us. Kids don’t leave people out because of the color of their skin, their weight or height. Going to diverse schools all my life, I’ve learned that everyone is the same no matter what they look like. My best friend may not be the same race as me, or have the same complexion as me, but I will always be there for her no matter what. Diversity is a special thing, and so are the students at Notre Dame. This school is truly a home away from home. We are all Chez Nous sisters. Kendal Colon ’19
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Victoria Karpowicz ’19
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Amelia Balik ’18
Call Me Weird My mom has always told me: “Say ‘thank you’ if someone calls you weird. After all, ‘weird’ is just another word for ‘different.’ ” My mom taught me from a young age that there is beauty in diversity -- not just in terms of ethnicity, but in every aspect of life. She helped me realize that seeing the world through a unique lens is not something to be ashamed of, but something to be embraced. In grade school, it was pretty common to be called weird, but I would take my mom’s advice and respond with a sassy “thank you.” I’d smile at the confused looks on the boys’ faces when they informed me it wasn’t a compliment. But I knew better. I was unusual compared with the rest of the students in of my class. At recess, I read a book. I didn’t keep up with the latest songs or fashions. I was the strange girl who didn’t eat meat or wear leather. My school was small, which made disappearing almost impossible -- so, I didn’t. Gradually, I learned to accept my “weirdness.” Rather than try to blend in, I stood out. Being true to who I am isn’t always easy, but the reward is beautiful. I have a unique view of the world, and though I don’t always agree with other people’s views, I am open to diverse thoughts and beliefs. It is my diversity that gives me color. I have always been different, and if that is weird, then call me weird. Amelia Balik ’ 18
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Elena Ghitan ’19
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One Li le Girl in One Li le Church
People filed into the little church and walked down the aisles. A small blond girl was sitting and watching everyone attentively as they entered. She noticed how each person walked in a different way: some slow, some fast, some alone and others in a large groups. She thought about how each person who walked in had a story, and how their stories were what brought them all together. In search of acceptance, everyone had gathered that day for help and guidance from a community and from God. A mother and daughter she knew caught the small girl’s eye. They weren’t your average family. The mother is Irish; the little daughter, Guatemalan. The small blond girl remembered when the daughter was first adopted and how the church community welcomed her with open arms. Another family walked in, pushing one daughter in a wheelchair, the other daughter walking beside them. The little blond girl smiled and remembered how kind the two sisters had been at the previous week’s Sunday school. As the pianist walked down the aisle, hurrying toward his piano to get ready for the morning service, the small girl’s mother told her about his family. After their house was destroyed in Hurricane Katrina, they came to this little town of Hoboken in need of a home and a job. He joined the church community, and once again they welcomed him and his family with open arms. The small blond girl sitting off to the side with her mom, dad and twin brother loved how everyone had a different story. Every week she could learn something new about someone else and see how everyone lived different lives. When the service started, she sat there surrounded by this diverse community. People coming from far away, people of different races, and people with unique families. This group had come together in the small All Saints Church in Hoboken, New Jersey, in search of love, acceptance and diversity -- in search of God. You might have guessed, that the small blond girl is me. That little church has helped shape the person I am today. Olivia Halstead ’19
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Miniskirts in January In May 1970, a plane from Manila International Airport in Manila touched down on the runway of John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City. A 32-year-old Filipino man arrived on the East Coast of the United States to make a better life for his wife and kids back home. Everything was new and unfamiliar. He stayed with some friends on the Upper West Side while he tried to find his way in his new country. The streets were crowded and filled with young adults just like him hoping to make the American Dream a reality. For two months, this man, my grandfather, Edgardo Jarencio, searched for a job. Finally, he got a position as an architectural designer for Paul Chen, and a part-time job selling dishes at Gimbels. Then, in the January of 1972, his wife, Teresita, arrived to join her husband. She came to America wearing a miniskirt and carrying a Filipino broom in her hand, not knowing anything about the weather or easy access to brooms. She was nervous, optimistic and freezing. From New York City the couple soon moved into a small apartment at 44 Newkirk Street in Jersey City, N.J. They both worked hard and made enough money to bring their kids from the Philippines to America. At first, they brought only their older child, an 8-year-old girl named Jocelyn, and left their younger, Joseph, back home. Finally, in 1974, their son, who was 6 years old, joined them. He came to the U.S by himself, wearing a sweatshirt that had his name, address and telephone number imprinted on the front. In 1978, my grandparents moved to a new house at 58 Broadman Parkway in Jersey City, where they still live today. Teresita and Edgardo now go by Tessie and Edgar, and they work hard and sacrifice much to raise their reunited family here in America. Today my father and his sister, my aunt Jocelyn, are Filipino Americans who grew up in New Jersey -- just like me. They take pride in being American and coming from humble beginnings. My cousin and I are third-generation Filipino Americans, and we are still enriched by our Filipino culture. It all began with my grandparents, who had the hope and courage to move across the world for a better future. Jade Jarencio ’19
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Elisa Sikula ’18
All in the Family When I hear the word diversity, I think of different countries, cultures and people from around the world coming together and uniting as one. For some people, this is a fantastic dream that will never be realized, but for me, it’s my family. We are many different pieces, yet somehow we fit together to create a most beautiful mosaic. My late grandmother lived in the the Indian seaside village of Goa, which was occupied by the Portuguese. Growing up there, along with her sisters and my granduncles on my father’s side, she learned to speak fluent Portuguese at school and spoke Konkani, a mixture of Portuguese and Hindi, at home. My aunt Sharon is married to a Frenchman, Laurent Baumgartner, and their family lives and works in Hong Kong. She can speak, write and read Cantonese, English and Hindi, and she speaks fluent French. Sharon and Laurent have three children, Matthieu, Caroline and Alessia, who are trilingual and attend a French school in Hong Kong. Caroline and Alessia take lessons in classical Indian dancing; Matthieu plays soccer and cricket, sports the English brought to India during their occupation. My other cousins live in Abu Dhabi in the Middle East, and attend a British-English school. They can read, write and speak Arabic. My aunt Monica lives in Zurich, Switzerland, and she can speak Swiss German, Italian and Swahili. She grew up in Mombasa, Kenya, and then moved to Florence, Italy, to attend culinary school. After college, she found a job as a chef in Zurich, where she married a Swiss German man. My grandaunt Pepe grew up in India and then moved to Germany, where she married a naval officer, Jorge Schinzer. Jorge is an accomplished sailor who has circumnavigated the world in a sailboat many times. Pepe and Jorge both speak fluent English, German and Japanese, which they learned during Jorge’s 10-year posting in Japan. Pepe, we notice, speaks in Japanese only when she is mad at my uncle, and he practically stands “at attention” during her scoldings. It’s quite a sight and gives us a laugh when we recount these stories, which is often. My family has not only different ethnicities, but also different religions, too. My mother’s side of the family is Roman Catholic. You should see us when we go to Church in India! We have to take about four cars, and even then, the cars are packed. My father’s side of the family practices Hinduism. When we visit Goa, on the west coast of India, we visit the Lord Shiva temple deep in the forest. There, a Hindu priest hums and chants prayers. If you listen closely, you can hear him incorporate our names into the prayers, which lets us know he is praying for us. My grandmother wears a bindi on her forehead and a sari, both symbols of Hindu culture. Before our family makes a journey, she takes us to a shrine in her house and she and my grandfather pray for us. They give us their blessings and we all touch their feet in respect before we step out of the house. Lucky for me and my immediate family, New York City is my extended family’s favorite destination. They say that they never feel like tourists here because New York is such a diverse and welcoming city. Throughout the year, for different holidays and
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especially over the summer, we have relatives from all over the world visiting us by the dozens. The whole family is thrilled whenever someone calls and says that they are coming, as this means fun times, and a lot of homemade foods from different parts of the world. Breakfasts and dinners at our house during these visits are noisy with laughter, people asking for seconds and arguing about plans for the day. Soon, these arguments become heated, with everyone speaking in their respective native languages while my family and I just sit there and stare because we have no idea what they are saying. When things cool down, I ask my aunts and cousins why they resort to their native language when they argue. They all say that it’s because they can express themselves much better in their own language than in English, especially in the heat of the moment. People from all over the world, coming together as one, is what makes New York City so great. And, like my family, bringing all of these people together can be overwhelming, and lead to some firey squabbles, but the fact is, that is what a family is. That is what my family is. Thanks to the wonderful cultures that surround me, I have learned to accept people the way they are, no matter where they come from or how they look. I marvel at the sound of different languages, love foods from all over the world, and enjoy the different customs and rituals that we get to share with one another. Angelika Adwalpalker ’19
Amanda Msallem ’18
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American Dreams I’ve had many dreams at night. All of them crazy. The first of these dreams involved crocodiles eating the bean bags I had just brought home from my parents’ workplace. Another one of my early dreams involved a man kidnapping me and putting me into a bag with a bunch of video game characters. I’ve dreamed about leading a rebellion against an evil king who tried to sentence me to death, and also about a building catching fire while my little brother was inside. While I still have crazy dreams at night about crocodiles and kings, as I mature, I also have daydreams and hopes for my future. First I want to attend Columbia University; then I want to marry a wonderful man and start a family while pursuing a career as an author/writer. I’ve had daydreams about this perfect life since I was 4 years old. And I hope to one day live it. These daydreams are very different than the dreams of my ancestors. My great grandfather had daytime dreams that were a lot like my nighttime dreams. He dreamed of kicking the Spanish out of Cuba so that his children would not have to grow up under tyranny. He dreamed that he might be able to see his children, who were being raised in an orphanage after his wife’s death. My grandparents daydreamed about escaping the overpopulated cities of Havana, Caguas, and San Juan. They wanted to come to New York and earn enough money to return to Cuba or Puerto Rico and farm the land. My parents’ daydreams were to become teachers so that they could move out of Harlem and Washington Heights and into a much nicer neighborhood, where their children could grow up free of worry about violence on the streets. Without the daytime dreams of my ancestors, my daytime dreams might still include evil kings or escaping violence and poverty. Their dreams were achieved so that I might be where I am now, receiving a great high school education and preparing for a top university, so that I might work using my brain rather than brawn. My ancestors worked as farmers, soldiers, factory workers, waiters, and cab drivers so that I can dream of being a writer -- not as some sort of far-off fantasy, but as an attainable goal. I want to do the same things my family did. I want to be diligent and ensure that I achieve my dreams. In doing so, I will also achieve the dreams my ancestors had, in which their children and grandchildren could have dreams that involved more than escaping the poverty that surrounded them. One day, I hope for all of our dreams to come true. I think of my great-grandfather, who came to America for a short time in the 1890s just before he fought a revolution. I think of my grandparents, who came looking to make enough money to return to their homes, but were forced to stay because of wars and children. I think of my uncles, who went from cleaning latrines to owning land, and of my parents, who worked hard to make sure I would not fear for my life when I went to sleep at night. Reflecting on this, I can’t help but think that the American Dream is not just to work hard and be successful, but also to make sure that your children never experience the pain and suffering you did. Julia Betancourt ’17
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Tiffany Melendez ’16
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ETata and MeNEEDED When asked my ethnicity, I feel like an imposter saying, “I’m Polish.” Biologically, yes, I am, but I don’t speak the language and I’ve never been to my so-called “homeland.” I even stumble over the names of the Polish dishes that I cook, dishes that I discovered on my own out of curiosity because I like to cook, not out of some nostalgia for Poland. My father passed his Polish nose and Eastern European features down to me, but since I grew up eating chicken cutlets and baked potatoes instead of golonka and kartoflanka (dishes which, I might add, I asked my grandmother to spell for me), I think of my physical appearance as the extent of my ethnic identity. The closest I’ve ever come to my roots was eating dinner with my father. Unfortunately, he could not cook, and by the time I’d arrive at his house and he’d serve dinner, my plate was piled with a convoluted array of overcooked, underseasoned, half-Americanized, quasi-Polish food. Then one day, he reached out for help. My father is my best friend, but he is a man of few words. When he speaks, every word carries several meanings, and there’s a struggle between his own will and that of his words. Sometimes he opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it because the words won’t come out. So, when I got a call from my dad asking me to help out before dinner, I didn’t know what to expect. I arrived, I thought, an hour before we were meant to eat, but the kitchen was still and my father was putting on his Carhardt. “Come on,” he said, so I did, but my belly was already nagging me to feed it, and it had a sinking feeling that we were only now starting to buy groceries. “We need to walk to Brighton Beach, “ he said. “That’s where my butcher is.” We walked in silence for the whole two miles, partly because that’s what we always did, and partly because I was still speechless that my father had a butcher. When we arrived, I understood why the butcher was “his.” The shop was a little hole in the wall, no bigger than a single dorm room, and it was decorated just as poorly, with glossy posters printed in unrecognizable letters covering the walls. There was one man wearing hairnets both on his head and over his full, graying beard. He recognized my dad immediately. He came out from behind the glass meat case and shook my father’s hand. Then they started speaking to each other, and the words rolled off of my father’s tongue like they’d been there the whole time, just waiting to come out. The bearded man handed my father a kielbasa, and after more dialogue, begrudgingly passed me the last cookie from a box behind his post. The language that flowed so naturally from my father’s mouth was unfamiliar to me, but his voice was the same deep, unwavering affair that it’d always been. I exited the store silently, my thoughts yelling and running. “Hey,” my dad nudged me, “you’re hungry now.” He said it more as a statement than a question, grabbing my cookie and handing me the sausage. I realized, only when he said it, that I was starving. I took a bite of the kielbasa and it was exactly what I wanted. We spent the next hour sitting on the dock of Brighton Beach (quietly, of course), with the sun having gone away and the water reflecting the moon like it always had. That night I learned more about my heritage from those gibberish sounds than I ever had from my own language. Pearl Gee ’16
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Sofia Postell ’18
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E Yo Peudo ComprenderteNEEDED No one in my family speaks Spanish. I am the first one to take up a foreign language. My journey of learning a new language began when I was a freshman at Notre Dame. Now, I know more than just the basics of hola, adios, and gracias. I can write, speak, and read in Spanish (although I am not entirely fluent). One of the benefits of learning Spanish is that it allows me to connect with my Spanishspeaking friends even more. In ninth grade, when my friends would converse in Spanish around me, I found myself asking, “What did you say?” or “I don’t know Spanish. Can’t you please speak in English?” But now that I have studied the language for four years, I can start impromptu conversations and speak to my friends in Spanish. As a result, I not only practice and improve my speaking skills, but I connect with my friends on another level because I speak their language. Now, I also listen to Spanish music and can even translate some lyrics into English, showing how much I have learned over the years. Another positive effect of learning Spanish is that when I walk through the streets of New York or ride the bus to and from school, I am more aware and inclined to read Spanish advertisements because I can understand what they say. I attempt to understand the central messages of the notices, even if I can’t read them verbatim. I believe that learning a new language is important in today’s age. Along with the many benefits that are acquired from speaking a second language, being able to talk to someone else in their language is diversity in and of itself. Bilingualism allows me to connect with different people, and understand their culture and background. I can understand and appreciate a culture that is different from mine through its music and writing. In addition to Spanish, I hope to learn other foreign languages such as Japanese, Italian, and Arabic; perhaps someday I’ll even become a polyglot. I aspire to study abroad in different countries; I can diversify my circle of friends, immerse myself in different cultures, and gain a greater understanding of the world around me. Kymberly Pryce ’16
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Lievine Maes ’18
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Wonderful World Thump! Thump! Thump! As I trudge up the subway stairs with my hefty backpack in tow, a hodgepodge of people scramble down the stairs around me to catch the incoming trains. It’s a rainy Wednesday, and some people are closing their wet umbrellas as they descend, showering me with rainwater, while still others are walking up the stairs and poking me with the thin metal skeletons of their dime-store umbrellas. During the winter, white powder conceals the ground. People who are leaving and entering the train station try to avoid slipping and sliding on the snowy stairs. In the warm and sunny months, I notice people rush up and down the stairs to seek cool, air conditioned rooms. Day after day, I take the A train from the 14th Street station after school to get home to lower Manhattan. Day after day, I became aware, both consciously and unconsciously, of my surroundings. People of various races, religions, ethnicities and lifestyles roam the bustling city streets. There are vendors at small stands yelling to get the attention of passers-by so they can sell their various wares. “Any goods you want to buy?” “Buy some of the best products you have ever laid eyes on!” I pass hats, scarves and vibrant colored plastic toys. As I weave through the crowds of people, I catch snippets of their conversations in Spanish, French, Italian, Chinese and English. The door of the barbecue restaurant near the train station opens and a spicy and sweet scent drifts through the air. A little farther down the block, the aroma of fresh coffee beans from the coffee shop wafts over me. As I continue my journey to my apartment building, I am introduced to scent after scent and a mixture of people. I pass people who are young, old, short, tall, petite, frail and robust. Hair the colors of the rainbow captures my attention. Blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes and honey eyes glitter with excitement as the pedestrians take in the city around them and decide where their journey will lead them. T he five-minute walk from the train station to my house allows me to reflect on my day. Sometimes I think about what the future holds for me; other times I contemplate my actions from earlier in the day. While all these gears are moving in my brain, I find serenity in people-watching. I look at the world around me as I walk the block of the subway station to my apartment complex. People of various races and ethnicities cross my path on the trip home. I see a melting pot of people, all so different yet all so alike. New York City is a special gem, a place where we all can be accepted for who we are. There is a nonjudgmental bond with everyone you pass in the street. As the people hustle and bustle around me, I think to myself -- what a wonderful world. Danielle Vazzano ’16
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Chelsey Leveque ’19
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An Italian Stride “John, why do you always walk so slow?” Every time I take a simple stroll with my parents, my mother always asks my father this question. My mother was raised in a family of determined and fast-paced walkers, while my father comes from a long lineage of calm and relaxed walkers. Despite the fact that both my parents came from Molfetta, the same small town in southern Italy, my mother’s side of the family has adapted to the fast-paced American atmosphere more quickly than my father’s. Although sometimes I can not catch my breath, I am used to walking with my mother’s side of the family. Trips to the grocery store with my uncle take less than 10 minutes, and walks on the beach with my cousins are a blur. Even though my mother’s walking habits seem so clear to me, I cannot decode my father’s. I had never met most of his family, because almost half of them were still 5,000 miles away in Italy. T he first time I traveled to Italy, I realized that Italians are 10 paces behind Americans. Coffee breaks are slower, dinner service is unhurried and public transportation can take an eternity. The first time I met my father’s family, we were visiting Molfetta. The town looks like it comes straight out of a travel magazine or old movie--with cobblestone streets, clotheslines hanging from apartment buildings, young teenagers on scooters and grandmothers carrying grocery bags home, preparing for Sunday dinner. My father spent his childhood summers in this town until he graduated college and started work, and was swept up in the fast-paced city that seemed to walk at the speed of light. When my father saw his cousins again for the first time in 19 years, he felt like a little boy again, spending his summers in this small apartment in Molfetta. After I officially met my cousins, they decided to take us on a walk and show us the extensive history of the town. My father walked beside his cousin, talking in a mix of Italian and southern dialect, with me behind them observing silently. Since I couldn’t add to the conversation, I had time to think and take in all of my surroundings, something I usually don’t do when walking in New York City. While I was walking behind my father and his cousin, the “walking” enigma began to unravel in front of me. My father’s gait matched his cousin’s, down to the very motion of their swaying arms. To them, walking wasn’t a chore or a method of transportation, it was a dance. At that moment, I realized that each thing we do, no matter how small, is a reflection of who we are and how we choose to live our lives -- even a simple manner of walking. My father can be an enigma, but he is a reflection of his own gait: calm, steady and equable. Maria Sciancalepore ’16
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Evelyn Cooney ’19
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A New World As I walked the crowded streets of New York, my heart raced faster and faster. I was in a world of the unknown. For the first time I saw what had been hidden from me for years: people running to their jobs; cars and trucks passing by like wind; pedestrians lost in their own thoughts. As I walked farther I found a city filled with music, laughter and happiness. Everyone was different -- different religions, different perspectives, different traditions, different shades of skin and eyes and hair, making the gray city look alive and filled with vibrant colors. Only hours before, I had been in my small hometown in Ukraine. Only hours before, I hadn’t known what it was like to be surrounded by throngs of people from all over the world. In Ukraine, I had a great life. But every person seemed the same. Every person followed the same traditions, the same religion; everyone had the same nationality and lived the same life. Because of these shared traditions, it was difficult to express individuality without insulting our tradition. Now, three years after my first day in New York City, I’ve found a new family of people who are different from me in many ways. In America, I’m able to keep my traditions from Ukraine and add to them. My life is filled with so many happy memories, and with fantastic friends who accept me the way I am and understand that although we are all different, we are all family. We are equal no matter what we look like or how we think. Now I can experience what was hidden from me all those years; through diversity we can be a part of something different, special and unique. Mariya Semchuk ’19
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Dominique Trucchio ’17
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Rolling Along The chair arrived wrapped in a shiny plastic material to protect the motor and the leather seat. My family gathered in awe of it, poking and prodding the different buttons, peeling the bubble wrap off its arms. Cautiously, my father sat down on the leather seat and powered it up. All of us, my mother, my brother, and I, stood back as my dad gave the chair a test drive in the hallway of our apartment building. I was in the third grade when my father received his first motorized wheelchair. My dad reveled in the power his chair gave him as he zoomed down the hallway, chuckling at the loud buzz the motor let out every time he sped up. After 10 years of canes and crutches, my dad had finally buckled down and bought a motorized wheelchair. Suddenly, he wasn’t limited to the diner across the street or the pharmacy on the corner. He could go to the farmer’s market in Midtown or the bookstore in Greenwich Village or his pain management doctor in Harlem. I saw my dad get an invaluable part of himself back that day: his mobility. He used it for the everyday reasons: going to doctor appointments; picking me up from school; taking my brother to his baseball games. But the chair transcended its own practicality. “It healed me in more ways than one,” he said, gesturing to his bad leg. “I used my independence to spend time with my family.” And he did. In his first week with the chair, my father and I rode the M11 to the Museum of Natural History. In the second week, he took my brother and me to a bakery in Columbus Circle. In the third week, I dragged my dad to the most recent Harry Potter film. In the fourth, my dad introduced me to his favorite German restaurant in Midtown, Hallo Berlin, and every time we went back there, my dad would insist, “The roast loin of pork is to die for.” By the end of that first summer, I had done more with my father than I had in the previous five years--and it was all thanks to a chair with wheels. As I’ve grown up, our choice of outings has evolved, too. We’ve branched out to more pedestrian places, like the post office and the grocery store. And every now and then, we go to the movies to decompress and enjoy each other’s company in the relative silence of a filled theater. Afterward, on the way home, my dad and I chat about my classes and my last year of high school. We stop at a red light, and he tells me I should study hard and stay committed to my aspirations of higher academics and new experiences. I tell him I will. The light turns green, and we keep rolling along. Kathleen Valonis ’16
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Carolyn Smith ’16
Two Worlds Bound Together I grew up proud of my heritage. My mom is Aztec Mexican and Mayan El Salvadorian. We are descendants of warriors and shamans; we are a people with pride running through our blood. My mom and aunt always told me to take pride in my culture. But when I got older, they said I wasn’t really a native like them, because of my father. My blood had been tainted with his culture, a Caribbean culture. Pain was like a close friend. My father is Afro-Puerto Rican. His Caribbean family was proud of their deep Native and African roots. My mother’s family told me to ignore my father’s and grandparents’ skin color -- I wasn’t “really black.” They told me to forget about it. But I knew that forgetting about it would mean forgetting who I am. Racism is a dark and unspoken secret within the Latino community -- never admit your black roots. But we, as Central Americans, share so much trauma with our African brothers and sisters. Our lands were invaded and taken from us. Our people were enslaved and killed by the millions, and now we have to live with the consequences of these crimes that were supposedly “for the greater good.” Caribbean Latinos have deep roots in the slave trade; this makes it difficult to hide our African ancestry. When the Spaniards took over the islands and enslaved the native Tejanos, they brought thousands upon thousands of African slaves with them. Our cultures intertwined to make the unique and beautiful culture we have today. Puerto Rico is rich with African and Tejano traditions. Today I am proud to call myself Afro-Latina, because it connects me to both of my roots. As I’ve grown older, my Central American family has become more accepting of their connections to the African community -- even finding out that my grandfather’s father is actually a descendent of African and Aztec slaves. They never would have known this if I hadn’t begged them to find out more about our ancestors after seeing my great grandfather’s dark black, leathery skin. So at the end of the day, we are all a united people, connected one way or another. As the generations pass and more Latino children respect and acknowledge their African roots, the disconnection and guilt dissipates. We should keep an eye on the past as we move forward together into the future because we will never rise up while pushing each other down. Genesis Vasquez ’16
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Srigita Saha ’16
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Museum of Diversity The hallway is swarming with dozens of girls. I hear shouts of excitement, whispers, along with groans and complaints. I see a girl with big, orange-red, curly hair, then one with very short and flat hair, then another with her hair barely contained by two buns. There’s not one color, one hair style, or one culture to describe this group of girls. I will come to know them as my sisters, the girls who make up Chez Nous. In Inwood, where I was raised, there was only one culture that surrounded me. Loud screaming with Spanish music in the background was my childhood. I live on top of a Spanish club and its constantly blaring bachata and tipico music roars so loudly that my bed seems to dance with the vibrations. At times, I find this cacophony soothing. I may even get out of bed and dance, counting to myself as I practice in the mirror, a broom as my dance partner, just as it was when I first learned how to dance bachata. Other times the vibration of my bed prevents me from getting a good night’s sleep. Then, in the middle of the night, as the music subsides, I’ll hear the inevitable arguments in Spanish: about why one man was looking at another guy’s girl, or because someone was too drunk and refusing to leave the club. At Chez Nous, I am at last liberated from the madness I once accepted as normal. It turns out people aren’t constantly screaming at the tops of their lungs! I discovered something called an “inside voice.” At home, a typical conversation between my mother and me could be heard down the block. At Chez Nous, I can’t even hear the lesson of the teacher in the next classroom. I’ve learned that people can communicate without yelling. At Notre Dame, I’ve learned more than simply how to speak without shouting. Before Chez Nous I had never been to a museum. One day at school I noticed a poster from the Rubin Museum near Ms. Walter’s art room, and I overheard girls talking about how much they loved going there. I was intrigued. Later, I asked my friends about it. They were shocked that I had never visited a museum. We soon made a point to take trips to museums throughout the city, including the Rubin, the Whitney, the Guggenheim and MoMa. If it were not for Chez Nous, I would still be in Inwood, surrounded by my fellow Dominicans, chitchatting and missing out on some of the city’s most culturally enriching experiences. I used to think I was diverse because every now and then I spoke with people who weren’t Dominican. But to truly experience the diversity New York City has to offer, one must enter the melting pot and be open to making emotional connections -- whether with Dominicans on the stoop, our Chez Nous sisters or the latest exhibit at the Rubin. Yamilex Tavarez ’16
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Emilia Muga ’17
Mamas’ Girl Sometimes people ask, “Which one’s your real mom?” My answer is simple. My real mom is the one who helps me with my homework, feeds me when I’m hungry, and takes care of me when I’m sick. Oh wait, that’s BOTH of my moms! Yes, I have two moms. It can be a challenge growing up in a nontraditional family. When I was younger, my moms sent me to a socially progressive grammar school in Park Slope called The Children’s School. Everyone knew both of my moms and no one seemed to notice or care that I was from a nontraditional family. However, when I began middle school in Bay Ridge, things changed. I became self-conscious about telling people about my family because I feared that I would be treated differently. I didn’t invite friends to come over to my house because I was afraid they would “find out.” In school, people would sometimes use slurs and say things like “that’s so gay.” At first I just tried to ignore it, but as the school year went on, people started to say even worse things. Sixth grade was particularly awful. But in seventh grade I made some new friends and had an easier time adjusting. Finally, in the eighth grade, in the last month of school, I told my best friend, Charlie, that I had two moms. His response changed my entire middle school experience: He didn’t care. After telling him, I began to realize that most people really don’t care if you have two moms or one mom or no moms at all, that telling the truth really can set you free. To this day I still have trouble telling people -- I get uncomfortable when people ask me about it -- and when I try to explain “I have two moms,” people get confused and I just end up saying “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” But it does matter. People should be more open-minded to the many faces of diversity. “Diversity” isn’t only about where you’re from or what skin color you have; it’s about recognizing all kinds of differences and accepting people no matter how much they differ from you. Now, as a ninth grader at Notre Dame, I see so much diversity around me, so many people with so many different stories. Coming from a nontraditional family has given me a strong sense of social justice. It has made me truly empathetic toward people who experience prejudice of any kind. It has also taught me that women can do it all, because my moms do it all. From building a room to running a business -- there’s nothing they can’t or won’t do for me. I may not always love my situation, but I will always love my moms. Elizabeth Sullivan ’19
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Yuan Sciscent ’16
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A Souvenir From My Homeland Before my recent trip to Nigeria, the last time I’d been there was when I was 6 years old. On this trip, I wanted to explore and get to know the culture of my ancestors, but my mom didn’t have the time to take me sightseeing. So, when my cousin was going to the market, I decided to tag along. The market was called The New Market. It was a large, open-air food market and within it were smaller, canopied shops that sold clothes and accessories. My cousin, Faith, who is 19, needed to buy food to make dinner for my family and me. Because I didn’t remember Faith from my past trip, it was like I was meeting her for the first time. I was excited to buy something I could bring back to America as a memento of my trip. Along the way, we saw men chasing large cars and banging on the windows. They were trying to sell anything they had, like bananas, peanuts, and even Nigerian money (naira). This was their way of making money. It was thought that people with big cars were either from America and had plenty of money or were rich. The men were having fun, laughing and carrying on as they ran alongside the black sedan, and I enjoyed watching them. We saw young boys, usually with no shoes and no shirts, running after chickens in their yard. As we continued to walk, a couple of men were dancing and playing music. Behind them, their dilapidated house looked as though it would fall apart, but they didn’t seem worried about that. When we reached the market, I saw that there were many tiny stands with people selling different things: meat, bracelets and jewelry, peanuts, fruit, vegetables, fish and more. I regretted wearing white shoes here because the ground was very sandy and people were continuously stepping on my feet. A man selling bracelets immediately knew I was American when I said hello. He said, “Why do Americans speak through their nose?” I laughed, to which he then replied, “and laugh at everything?” On our way home, we took a taxi, which Nigerians call a keke napepe. The taxi was small, black and yellow, with curtains as doors -- essentially a golf cart. I sat in the back and gathered my thoughts as we careened down the dirt path. I realized that although many Nigerians live in dilapidated homes, walk miles to stores that sell only a fraction of the things we can buy here in America, Nigeria is one of the world’s happiest nations. Nigerians are exceptionally happy and believe that though things are bad, they’re looking up. It was then I realized I’d forgotten to buy a keepsake to bring home. For a moment, I was sad. But then I realized that I would be taking home something far greater than a disposable keepsake from a Nigerian marketplace. I would return home knowing that happiness is not always found in the external world around us but in our interior world. That’s when I knew that things were looking up. Nneka Nwaokorie ’16
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Emma Makin ’18
Where I Belong As I looked around the large room, something became apparent to me. I was the only Hispanic person there. In that moment, I felt how important it was to succeed so that I could be a beacon of hope and inspiration for Hispanic girls just like me. This room, full of respected and intelligent people, is where I wanted to be. It was where I belonged, and others like me should be there, too. During my seven-week internship at the mayor’s office, I worked diligently and had many exciting experiences. I was even given the opportunity to be on a conference call with Mayor De Blasio himself. To be in a room surrounded by successful people made me feel mature and helped me see that I belonged. I had done internships elsewhere, and I copied papers and opened mail and had other typical intern tasks. At the mayor’s office, I felt like the work I did actually mattered and positively impacted my city. There, I conducted several phone interviews for the Civic Corps Program, an organization run by NYC Service that seeks to unite a diverse group of professionals to serve full-time with partner organizations, working to build sustainable volunteer initiatives and directly serve the community. I didn’t just open mail -- I had a voice. My time in the mayor’s office made me think about my future and consider all of the options I had. I am interested in pursuing a degree in law. As an attorney, I will be able to positively impact society by bringing justice to those who need it. My mother’s dream was also to become an attorney, but her mother died suddenly and she became a single teen mom. She was not able to pursue her dreams, but that didn’t stop her from working hard. She took on several different jobs, took night classes at Marymount Manhattan College, and was able to graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree in 2007. My mom had to sacrifice a lot for me so that I could attend amazing schools and be able to follow my dreams. I want to live out my mom’s dreams so that I can show her that all of her struggles and sacrifices were worth it. Through my internship at Mayor De Blasio’s office, I realized what I wanted for myself and what I needed to do so that I can be proud of myself. I am now ready to make adult decisions about what I want to do for my career and how I will do it. I have set my goals and made a plan so that I can be able to achieve them. I hope that one day I can inspire a young Hispanic girl to reach for her dreams and know that, with hard work, her dreams can come true. Tiffany Melendez ’16
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Pauline Predko ’19
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A Moment of Diversity Mohandas K. Gandhi said: “I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stifled. I want all the cultures of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible.” Gandhi’s words perfectly describe what diversity means. This past August, I experienced a memorable moment of diversity. It was a Sunday morning in Rome. I was with my family at the Vatican waiting to see Pope Francis and hear him say the Angelus, a Catholic devotional prayer in memory of the Incarnation and recited by the Pope at the Vatican on Sundays at noon. It was unbearably hot -- at least 100 degrees. The sun was directly above our heads, beating down on us and making the marble gleam a blinding white. All around me were pilgrims who had traveled from all over the world to experience this moment that would last maybe 10 minutes. People had come not just from Italy, but also from places like South America, Europe, Asia and Africa. There were youth groups and nuns, adult church groups led by their parish priests, and families with strollers. One couple from Spain asked us if we could take their photo. In that moment I realized it didn’t matter whether we were American or Spanish -- we were all there to celebrate our faith. Even though everyone had gathered from around the globe, we were all standing in silence waiting for a moment of a lifetime, together. There were barely any conversations; even the children were quiet. All of us were waiting for the Pope to come out and deliver his message. As he appeared, you could hear and feel the love and compassion that each person had. They were proud to represent their country in that moment, and so was I. At that moment, the Vatican was like the house that Gandhi imagined. Everyone there was different, but we were all as one. Standing in St. Peter’s Square, I felt that we weren’t “walled in on all sides.” “All the cultures of all lands” were being “blown about the house as freely as possible,” just as Gandhi described. Our Pope helped create an atmosphere where diversity is welcomed, not stifled. I believe that the freedom to come together and celebrate our differences is the true meaning of diversity. Arielle McKeever ’18
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Caroline Bozzuffi ’16
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One Out of Many “Alright, girls! Everyone ready? Let’s go!” From Day One of September through the first week of November, this is how Tuesday and Thursday afternoons begin. I look around at the faces I see and check off the names in my head. Once I confirm the whole team is present, and hear the excuses about who is not, we march out the doors and turn right. T he field is not too far from school, about 14 street blocks and one avenue. I typically lead the pack with the other seniors. I imagine we look like a very disorganized blob of green or white, depending on our uniform. Whether the noise we make is caused by the shuffling of our feet or our obnoxious singing, I can’t predict from week to week. What I do know is this: a walk could feel like an eternity has passed, or it could be over in the blink of an eye -- it all depends on the company you keep. There is always something exciting happening within the giant green (or white) blob that strolls down 10th Avenue. While one girl is screaming the lyrics to her favorite Justin Bieber song, another is laughing loudly with the girl next to her; at the same time, three more girls get stuck at the crosswalk, having come close to walking into oncoming traffic! This routine walk is NEVER routine, not even for a second. Now passing 17th Street, I discuss college applications and current homework with my fellow seniors, but then I am interrupted by the burst of laughter coming from the quartet of freshmen behind us. I can’t help but think, What I would give to be a freshman again, worried merely about making new friends and passing biology. Then, I quickly remember the immense relief and pride that comes from being a senior. It is nearly impossible to think deeply on a walk like this, but I find a brief moment between 21st and 22nd Streets to remind myself of every application due date for every school on my list, and then again on 27th Street, right before we get onto the field, to take a few calming breaths because I will get into college. In these waning moments of the walk, I put my headphones in and, keeping my head forward and my eyes focused on the field ahead, I take the time to get my game face on. The walk of many green-uniformed girls turns into the walk of a single green-uniformed girl. Just for that one quiet moment, a walk of many becomes a walk of one. As the wave of teenage girls approaches the field, I can see it. We give ourselves a moment and we get focused on playing the game. The walk soon turns into a jog around the field, followed by some warm ups, and finally the whistle that begins the soccer game. “Alright, girls! Everyone ready? Let’s go!” From Day One of September through the first week of November, this is how Tuesday and Thursday afternoons begin. Madison Marino ’16
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Julia Rivera ’18
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A Day to Remember Diversity. It is a way to describe the many different people around us. Everyone is unique, and we all have features that make us stand out from the rest of the crowd. I remember at one point in my life, I wished I was someone else. I didn’t appreciate the importance of my Japanese background and culture. I tried to push it away when it’s actually something that’s a part of me and cannot be separated from who I am. In middle school, my mom always made me Japanese food for lunch. I was always so excited to see what delicious treat was in my lunchbox. One day in the 6th grade, I opened my lunchbox to reveal a rice ball and roasted seaweed that my mom made for me. I was excited to start eating one of my favorite meals! Suddenly, everyone at my table stared at my lunch, and all I could hear was laughter. They started commenting on my food and one girl said I should throw it out. I felt as if my stomach was going to fall out and I wanted to cry. I came home hungry and embarrassed that day. I was upset with my mom for making me that traditional Japanese lunch she had made me so many times before. I made her promise that from now on, she was only to make “normal” things for lunch -- like a plain ham sandwich or peanut butter and jelly. I was trying to change who I was so I could “fit in” and be more like the people who surrounded me. When it was time for me to go to high school, I was scared. I thought to myself, What if no one there likes me? What if they don’t like who I am? On my first day at Notre Dame, I was shocked! It was such a welcoming place and there were so many kind, amazing and different people there. I met a girl who was originally from Iran and I learned so many things from her that I didn’t know before. I finally felt like I could be myself. I was no longer afraid of what others thought of me. I was no longer afraid that people weren’t going to accept me. At Notre Dame, just as in the world, we all come from different backgrounds, different places, and have had different experiences. It was so interesting to hear my new friends’ stories. I felt the true Chez Nous spirit and I was so happy. Notre Dame is a diverse community, which makes this school truly unique. I know that if the world were as inclusive as the people here at Notre Dame, we would live in a peaceful, accepting and beautiful place. Maria Hayakawa ’17
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Sagar Ndao ’17
Crossing Bridges
My father, Kenneth Franz, grew up in a sheltered neighborhood in Brooklyn. He wasn’t exposed to much diversity going to the local Catholic schools with all his neighborhood friends since childhood. He had been with the same group of people throughout his life until he turned 24. Then his life changed. That’s when he started working as a police officer in the 23rd precinct in East Harlem. This job immersed him in a new world that was foreign to him. Before his first day on the job, he was anxious. He had heard a lot of negative things about the neighborhood. As soon as he got there, he learned not to judge a book by its cover. In a short time, he familiarized himself with the neighborhood and met people who enriched his life and introduced him to wonderful things he had never known before. He experienced different Spanish delicacies and learned to appreciate new flavors. This experience did not end with food. He also learned to appreciate the music and traditions of this new neighborhood that he still loves today and encourages our whole family to experience. My father became educated in the Latin American religious traditions, and when he’s off-duty, he regularly attends the Three Kings parade on 100th Street. This has become one of his favorite annual events. The flavors, sights and sounds hold a very special place in his heart and he is thankful for the experience that enriched his life. Working in East Harlem changed my father and affected the way he has raised my sister and me. He reminds us every day to be open to new things, whether it’s people, food, beliefs or our education. I am proud that he was open to the diversity that surrounded him later in his life, and thankful that he’s taught me and my sister to be mindful of others and to embrace diversity. Olivia Franz ’18
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Delilah Vargas ’18
Nicole La Greca ’16
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Tostones and Pasta TOSTONES In my Dominican mother’s kitchen, as I stood over an ancient stove when I was 7, she took my hand and placed the fork in it. Together, but mostly with her will, we flipped the sliced plantain and heard it sizzle and fizz in the oil. We moved back in unison so as not to get burned. Smiling, she lifted me up with seemingly inhuman strength and gently kissed my cheek. Hearing Romeo Santos’s voice and moving her hips side to side, she closed her eyes and, with a faraway smile, was transported by the music. She put me down, drained the boiled plantains, and with that inhuman strength, started to mash them with a small fork and some butter. She plated the “healthy and hearty, good Dominican meal,” as my papa would call it, of tostones, queso frito, salami frito, and mangu, and sat across from me. “La comida e sagrada, Mia, se respecta,” she told me, reminding me once again that food is sacred and to be respected whether it is a simple snack or an intricate meal. We thanked God for it and I smiled, hoping one day to cook and be like my mama. PASTA In my Italian nonna’s kitchen, food is more than just a meal -- it’s an art form. As I watch my nonna mix the fresh fish with the homemade pasta, I silently ask myself if, one day, I will make a meal like this. She turns over the mussels and shrimp in silence and gives me a half smile that says, “One day you will do this, too.” From both sides of my family, I’ve learned that food really is a sacred art. It is to be treated with reverence. When nonna brings out the bowl of pasta almost double the size of my head and sets it down, no one speaks. But that silence speaks volumes. After serving myself a large bowl of pasta with extra shrimp, I look up at her and I’m grateful for all my family has given me, both Dominican and Italian. Now if only I knew how to combine tostones and pasta. Mia Del Borello ’19
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Diverse Love It was November, the leaves were scattered on the ground and the air was crisp. I could see my breath in the cold air as I walked to visit my abuelita. When I reached her house I hurried through the lobby and saw a few familiar faces. I quickly greeted them and continued upstairs. As I walked in the door, my abuelita gracefully walked toward me and opened her arms to give me a hug. After she hugged me for a good five minutes, her eyes began tearing up as she told me how much I’ve grown. I gave her a huge smile and as we talked in Spanish, I had a flashback to when I was younger -- when she would only speak to me in Spanish. When my abuelita came to America as a little girl, Spanish was her only language. Since then, she has picked up some English words and phrases but she still is most comfortable speaking Spanish. She tells me to sit down and eat because she wants to tell me a story. She begins, “It was an early Monday morning; I had just gotten off the boat that brought me to America. I was by myself; the rest of my family stayed in Ecuador. The boat ride was long and exhausting. I came in search of a better life. “ The first couple of weeks in America were tough. It seemed that no one spoke the same language. I only understood the people from my own country. I found a place to live on the Upper West Side and began to settle down. The community then was mainly Irish and Italian people. It was a bit difficult at first, but I began to understand some of their language. Much of what they were saying sounded enough like Spanish that I could figure out what they meant. “Soon, I met a nice Cuban man. I was working at the grocery store down the block from my apartment and he would visit me every day. We didn’t really talk at first; he would wait on long lines just to buy a pack of gum and a Dr Pepper at my register. It was thoughtful of him and it made me smile every time I saw him. “One day, he finally mustered the courage to talk to me. It was very awkward so I just laughed and he blushed. I told him to meet me at my apartment at 7:30 that night. I gave him my address and he went off. I smiled the whole day and as 7:30 quickly arrived, I heard a knock on my door and there he was -- with a dozen roses. I was surprised he brought a gift, but I didn’t show him. Quickly, I put the roses in a vase and we headed out. He made me laugh, he complimented me and he made me feel special. As the days went on we spoke more and we went on more dates. He would wait for me after work to walk me home. It was a perfect relationship in many ways. I was happy.
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“One day, he picked me up and told me that we were going to meet his parents. I tried everything that I could to convince him to not make me go. I knew his parents wouldn’t like me. I’m Ecuadorian. They are Cuban. I knew that they would want him to be with a nice Cuban girl. But he convinced me to go. When we arrived at his parents’ house, they opened the door with the rudest faces I’d ever seen. They hated me without even getting to know me. I wanted to go home and hide; I didn’t want to be there. They kept asking me personal questions to see who their son had fallen in love with, but I didn’t want to answer. I got up, grabbed my things and left. I could hear him yelling at his parents and then his loud footsteps chasing me down the hall. He told me to forget about them. But those were his parents. I couldn’t just forget them. “After that day, I was ashamed of myself. I didn’t want to see him, I didn’t want to go on dates with him, and I didn’t want him to even know I was alive. As days soon turned into months he showed up less and less each day, until one day he was gone for good. I was hurt by the thought of him actually leaving me, but it was my fault for distancing myself from him. I just hoped he would’ve kept trying; I felt so alone without him. I guess it really is true when people tell you that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I missed him more and more each day. I wanted to see him again; I wanted to hear his laugh one more time even if he didn’t want to talk to me. Just to see him would make me better. “Then one Monday morning, there weren’t many people in the store. I turned on my register light and called for the next customer. A person slapped down a pack of gum and a can of Dr Pepper. I looked up with desperate eyes, hoping it was him, and I saw his crooked smile and ruffled hair. I threw my arms around him and I didn’t let go. I couldn’t let go. I missed him too much. I started to cry and he just held me there. I felt happy again. That night, we went out for dinner and we spoke about everything that needed to be spoken about. I was glad we could move forward. The days turned into weeks and we were back to our normal routine. Soon, we moved in together. His parents learned to accept me for who I am. We got married and two years later we found out we were having a baby boy! Your father. As time went on we watched our little boy turn into someone amazing, and now we’re watching you and your sisters turn into young adults. This is my story, baby girl, and I can’t wait to hear yours!” Nia Ayala ’19
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Taimar Leslie ’16
Throw It in a Bag
Things you no longer need to carry on your journey to diversity: 1. Fear: You no longer have to carry fear. Fear has two meanings. Either: Forget Everything and Run OR Face Everything and Rise. Many people tend to crawl but only those who choose to, make it through it all. 2. Insecurity: You no longer have to carry insecurity. All insecurities you find within yourself. They are what make you different from others. 3. Worry: You no longer have to carry worry. Worry is a burden. Stop worrying about the insignificant things. Things that people worry about, to carry on a common image seen in social media, you do not have to carry that burden as an individual. Things that should be packed for your journey to diversity: 1. Purpose: Your purpose in life is what makes you different from everyone else. You have been given a mission and a lifetime to fulfill it. You are the leader of the journey. 2. Vision: Many people have sight, but not everyone has vision. The way you see things and the way you picture a better future may be what set you apart. 3. Light: Everyone has light within them, even in the darkest places and the worst of circumstances. Every light is unique, because each of us has created our own. When everyone comes together, the room becomes brighter. With your purpose and vision, help shine a little light on people who are lacking in it. Sophia Cardona ’16
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Woodside on the Move It’s dusk on a cool and lazy Sunday. My body is filled with aches and pains from sleeping the wrong way, and my mind is filled with the current stresses that plague me, with college applications hanging over my head and an AP Calculus lesson that I just can’t understand. I offer to run some errands for my mother, mainly as an excuse to clear my head and calm myself down. With a loose sweater, black leggings and raggedy old sneakers, I run down a flight of steps onto the street, with scattered lonely streetlights revealing the rows of houses that I pass, and a cotton candy sky hanging over me. There is a faint rumbling in the background. As I approach Roosevelt Avenue, the rumbling became a thundering roar. It is the aboveground No. 7 train, making its way through 61st Street as it does every three minutes. Surprisingly, nearly everyone else on the street is indifferent to the cacophony, pausing their conversations as each train passes. I’m walking through the heart of Woodside, directly below the train’s path, straight down Roosevelt Avenue. The neighborhood, despite its historically Irish roots, has become remarkably diverse. Scattered between traditional Irish pubs stand various eateries and businesses, mainly Southeast Asian and South American. I pass Colombian bakeries emitting an inviting scent of freshly made pandebonos and empanadas, a Korean grocery store selling spicy kimchi that I can smell from a block away, and several Filipino restaurants serving chicken adobo and pancit noodles that remind Filipino immigrants of home. In my daily life I rarely stop to appreciate these idiosyncrasies. Instead I tend to dismiss my neighborhood’s diversity and resent that I don’t live in a more “trendy” or “cool” area. Further contemplation, though, brings me a sense of satisfaction. I live amid an amalgamation of people, children and parents, possessing different tongues and hailing from different cultures, with each neighbor admiring the other’s offerings and possessing a sense of familiarity among strangers hailing from dissimilar origins. During my walk, I make frequent stops to gather items from my mother’s list. I hunt for unbruised apricots next to a woman in salwar kameez, buy salmon from a shop owner in a sari, and mingle on line with the old Irish woman who just came from Mass. That so many different people can quietly coexist and develop a sense of community is certainly a feat. Being able to buy Malt Vinegar Hunky Dory Crisps from the Irish shop, an order of lomo saltado from the Peruvian restaurant, and then some pad Thai, all within a five-block radius, is the epitome of convenience and diversity. How privileged am I to be able to taste and experience such a myriad of cultures! By the time I’ve gathered everything on my mother’s shopping list, night has fallen. Walking back home, away from the rumbling of the train and the throngs of people, I notice that I feel calmer than when I began. I found beauty and peace on the busy, diverse streets of Queens. Angela Perez ’16
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