Connections: Rebirth, Spring 2023

Letter from the Editors

Dear Reader,

Connections began this year by welcoming back dedicated members of our team, and by welcoming in new members equally dedicated to our mission. This year, we had a defined process for how to create our magazine and our new mission was to expand our presence and create opportunities throughout the semester for students to get involved. We also wanted to choose a theme that spoke to us in ways that differed from previous years. While our previous two editions focused on the sentimental value of our homes and past, this year we wanted to focus on the beauty of transformation in the present, and thus: Rebirth.

Connections has expanded in great ways. We hosted our first workshop event with BAASA in the Spring semester! We modeled it after a tea party with snacks and prompts to spark inspiration amongst those who attended. It was also a chance for Connections General Board members to meet and talk with BAASA members. We also kept busy planning social media collaborations in order to grow our social media presence. We collaborated with local food businesses to offer free food giveaways. The Connections Team also wanted to emulate BAASA in supporting an Asian focused charity during our launch party. This year we are raising money for MAP for Health, a charity that focuses on supporting the health and wellness of LGBTQ+ AAPI youth around Boston. We hope this will be the first year of many that we can support the community with our launch party.

This year is also bittersweet as we say goodbye to our three senior members: Amanda, Hannah and Claire, who have been with us since the start of our journey. We want to thank them for their dedication and the hours of work and love that they have put into this magazine over the past three years, and for trusting the rest of the team to carry on.

We thank you for picking up this edition of Connections, and we hope that you are able to find the same beauty in change and rebirth as we do.

With Much Love, Allie and Amanda

A Special Note From Amanda:

My 3rd and final year of Connections has felt like the breath you take after a leap of faith; it is wonder at what has been created, disbelief at the fact that it is already over, and excitement for the future.

A Special Note From Claire:

Since its inception, Connections has been filled with extraordinarily talented, passionate and kind people, all of whom have poured a great deal of love and care into producing inspiring work. For the past three years, I have been incredibly proud and fortunate to call myself a member of the Connections Team. It is a true gift to be a part of an Asian-American literary magazine, but an even truer one to be a member of a community so deeply invested in sharing our most precious, most vulnerable, and most beautiful stories.

Rebirth Introduction

Cover and Theme by Hannah Park

When we first came together to discuss the theme for this year’s edition, we all agreed on straying away from cooler colors such as blue and green. Using warmer colors and obscuring the color of the water, I hoped to show that rebirth can be shown in a variety of worldviews and color palettes, especially in focusing on water being the main symbol of “Rebirth”. The figure is purposefully emerging from the water, looking hopeful towards the sky, ultimately symbolizing the beauty of rebirth. Seeing how to embed the symbolism of water and the purple and orange color scheme allowed me to have more creative freedom when creating a cover that reached the Asian American and general BIPOC community at Brandeis. To me, “Rebirth” symbolized that there is no limit on the individual or time when finding new opportunities for growth. As an Asian American student, my community of passionate, creative, and innovative Asian and Asian Americans constantly inspire me to see how I can be the best version of myself and strengthen the connection with others and my cultural identity. Coming into my third year as the Creative Director for Connections, I feel fortunate that I got to see the Connections Team grow from when they first started to reviewing submissions, and to the launch party itself. Being able to contribute to the team through my art with the cover has been an honor, especially in talking with the team on what they hoped to see in the colors, motion, and symbolism.

Mission Statement

Connections aims to create a multicultural network of BIPOC artists and writers and illuminate their voices. We are committed to fostering a community where Brandeis students feel empowered and can claim their identities proudly. We hope to be a safe space for students of varying identities and experiences to share their stories, because we believe it is our connections that allow us to heal and move forward.

Connections Team

Co-Editors-In-Chief

Amanda Lui ‘23 & Allie Smith ‘24

Creative Director

Hannah Park ‘23

Senior Advisor

Claire Hou ‘23

Assistant Copy Editor

Alicia Wu ‘25

Copy & Graphics Team

Vi-Yen Blackwood ‘24

Amanda Chen ‘25

Gianna Everette ‘25

Iris Li ‘25

Vincent Lian ‘25

John Mauro ‘25

Katherine Hsu ‘26

Jess Lin ‘26

Gretchen Wang ‘26

Table of Contents

Thinking of Oranges | Zada Forde

Side Order | Vincent Lian

Daily Emotions Record | Liwei Xu

My Porcelain Teapot | Juliana Taomin Giacone

My Mother’s Car | Mike Wu

What It Means To Be Me | Grace Wang

The Lotus and the Moon | Ida Jia

| Amanda Lui

| Hannah Park

| Alicia Wu

Eclosion, Emergence | Allie Smith

pov: you’re a young gay princess waiting for your enemy mermaid girlfriend | Grace Danqing Yang

Next Up | Mina Rowland

Rice | Christine Le

Ode to Der Tod | Michelle Zhang

Toxic Friends | Xavier Butler

| Grace Danqing Yang

fire and flames; water and waves* | Alicia Wu

CONTENT WARNING: this magazine deals with sensitive topics such as homophobia, racism, violence, fire, drowning, suffocation, and death. Pieces which chose to include a content warning are noted in the Table of Contents with an asterisk (*). Please proceed thoughtfully.

Thinking of Oranges

Zada Forde ‘25

Side Order

Vincent Lian ‘25

I’d like to think she ended up in one of those paintings, maybe one by Claude Monet, the serene lilies dotting the surface of the water top. She would walk on water the same way she would on stage, her dress barely glancing at the surface as she approached the piano.

But Mom was never a fan of Monet. Dad said his strokes were too messy for her liking, one that invited no room for clarity. I suppose being a trained practitioner of classical music, she had no taste for the blurry.

Did my dear daughter wait long? he asked as he sat down next to me. 1855, A Pic Nick by Jerome B. Thompson, a classic picnic painting. Have you taken an interest in classic American art?

A little bit, I replied. I just thought Mom would like this painting a lot.

It’s quite a peaceful image, and its composition is lovely, fitting the casual scene. It was added to our collection a century later after its creation.

Interesting.

Do you want this piece? I can produce a replica.

Isn’t that illegal?

Perhaps you prefer the actual piece here?

Isn’t that still illegal?

He laughed and produced a drink from a plastic bag. Taro with boba, he handed it to me.

I thought no drinks were allowed in the gallery. He produced another bubble tea from the bag and casually jammed the straw through the lid. You’re welcome.

Even after all those years, father was easy to read. Not an open book, but a painting, one that tried to hide its subject under layers of motifs. He now spent all his time in a studio apartment near the museum and joked that the art studio there would be his retirement home. He handed the keys to our old house to me, which I only visited when I needed to store some things or do some baking.

I still think you’d be a nice fit as an art professor, he said, sipping on his straw.

I’m quite busy with lab work. Busy enough to have time for Paris? How was it, by the by? Well, thanks to your European citizenship I got free access to the Louvre.

Your access ends when you’re twenty-five, you know. Thank you for that valuable information. What was your favorite piece?

I thought the Mona Lisa looked ugly. No eyebrows. Your mom said the same thing.

The seasons changed when I visited him again. The leaves opted to coat themselves in red, blending with the lazy sun. During fall, Dad loved to point out that the moment that the sun sets is the “golden hour,” the prime time for photography. He would drag Mom and me to the park and then explain in meticulous detail how to perfectly frame and capture the sunlight with the camera, and had mom be his muse, instructing her how to pose by bringing up various paintings. Pose like Mona Lisa, he would yell, or like Madame X. I was four and was busy chewing on a wooden stick that I picked up.

A different subject this time? he asked when he sat down next to me. His face looked a bit disheveled. His few strands of white hair were dully illuminated by the light above, the bulbs humming along with the theatre.

It’s well drawn. The fruits look pretty, I replied.

Oil painted - its rendering is superb. I believe Monet painted it in 1864, and it’s well known for its technical innovations. Strong bold brushstrokes make up most of this piece.

You sure do know your paintings.

I’m a curator for a reason. So, how did your application go?

I think the professor liked me. I handed over his name card to him. He said he knows you.

He still works there? he laughed. I thought he hated the younglings.

What do you mean?

You don’t remember him? You used to call him Sir Santa all the time when he visited our place.

Sir Santa? I asked.

Because of his round stomach.

Oh.

Always loved playing with you, that guy. I’ve been meaning to contact him.

How did you two lose touch?

He thought for a moment. Let’s just say I wasn’t in the best shape when all that happened.

I remembered - when her prognosis came out, he transferred me to boarding school and kept me in the dark about everything. Regardless, he continued, I think he wouldn’t mind if you called him Sir Santa.

I do have to give a mock presentation on a painting in front of him, you know.

So like a tour guide?

If you phrase it like that.

Need me to call Sir Santa to give you a pass?

I’m in my twenties, not two.

We moved out of the gallery and into the museum cafe, populated by a lone janitor. The museum was closed to visitors, but my Dad ordered us two cups of hot chocolate and a peach pie. You still remember? he asked.

About what?

Your mom’s sliced peaches.

Of course, I do.

She would apologize by leaving a plate of fruits by your door, he laughed.

I think it took her too many years to realize I had no talent for the piano.

It’s because she believed. She always thought you had talent. Well, she was wrong.

That’s just the way she loved you.

Life used to be lazy. I had spent my middle school afternoons walking around the neighborhood, trying to collect the most “pesticides sprayed” signs from the lawns so I could avoid the piano practice. My Dad and I would spend winter break watching Christmas Hallmark movies loaded on aged VCRs. Sometimes, at Mom’s insistence, Dad and I would watch old Chinese dramas instead, to “make up” for the lack of Chinese school over New Year’s.

Dad “compromised” by showing me artsy french art house films, translating play-by-play as I didn’t speak French. We ended and started movies between mom’s rare trips home from her concerts, and she would interrogate my Dad if I had continued to play the piano diligently in her absence. She gave me a list of things for my Dad to pay attention to: were my notes clear? Were the sixteenth notes played clearly? Was the rhythm on track with the metronome? Did I use the pedals effectively? She also requested my Dad send her audio files of my piano sessions, or if she was worried, she would call Dad and have him set his phone next to the piano as I played.

I ordered another slice of peach pie, but he decided to order the whole pie. For me to take home, he justified.

What have you been working on recently? he asked me.

It’s quite depressing.

I always want to hear what my daughter’s working on, he chuckled.

It’s called Chronic Wasting Disease. It’s a rare and contagious disease but only limited to deer and moose.

Interesting.

It happens when the protein misfolds and replicates, without being removed. Sort of like cancer.

What makes it different?

Well, the misfolded proteins, prions, can spread throughout the body. So proteins may start misfolding in the leg, so the deer starts limping, and then the eyes, so it goes blind.

And then the brain, he deducted.

Yep.

The body killing itself. Quite gruesome, he chuckled, and then he dug into the pie. Almost like her.

He slowly walked me to the museum’s front entrance, greeting his coworkers warmly, and then proceeded to gush about me to them if he could.

When’s the new gallery opening? I asked him.

Hopefully the next season.

Is it permanent?

He sighed. I have been talking it through with the director, but she’s not too optimistic about the reception of foreign art in the museum.

Ah. Well, I suppose it makes sense.

Don’t worry. Some of the art will be added to the main collection, some

of your mom’s favorite ink paintings.

I’m quite busy at school.

I see. Well, know you’ll always have free admission. You always give me free admission.

Why shouldn’t I? Just like Mom.

Mom?

Yeah. It was the reason why she fell in love with me. You’re kidding.

It’s one way to a woman’s heart.

Ugh.

We met at the Louvre actually, he proudly boasted. He told me he will tell me the exact details when I have time.

Do you still have her number? he asked.

Mom’s?

He nodded.

I still call her sometimes, just to hear her. Her voicemail box is still active?

Yeah. It’s just nice to hear her voice.

Right, he paused. It has been a while. He handed me the plastic bag. I requested extra cinnamon.

You don’t want any?

No, you can have it all. As you always do.

I was finishing my lab report when he emailed me a long summary of how they met. She was on break from the orchestra tour, so she had time to explore Paris a bit, and dedicated her time to the museums. She was homesick, away from China, Dad said. She and Dad first met in the long lines in front of the Louvre Pyramid, and she was excited to meet someone who she could speak in her native tongue. He said they hit it off, had many dates in the Louvre, and in his words, it naturally evolved into something beautiful.

I called him later to ask for details.

It was snowing actually when I proposed to her, he started. You’re then going to tell me you two fell in love and were wearing green and red sweatshirts.

And we then shared a tender kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower and ate escargots and many delicious hors-d’œuvres.

And then you two had me under the Eiffel Tower?

We had you when we moved to America. And before, our seven-day honeymoon trip around Europe.

Just in Paris?

Go to all the restaurants, of course. And museums, he added. She said she wanted her child only to eat the most nutritious and amazing delicacies, so you will grow up to be wonderful and talented. His words, not mine.

He attached a recipe for Peach Clafoutis after he had finished sending his long summary.

She loved you a lot, more than me I would guess, he joked. She never gave me any sliced fruits.

I had not checked her page in years. Her Wikipedia page was the same, listing all her awards and recognition. The big photo plastered at the top was her wide smile, wrinkling her eyes into a crescent.

She is survived by her husband and one daughter.

I lay on my bed and called her number and waited, for her thick accent and meek English. The phone beeped, and beeped again and again, and fell silent.

I’m sorry, the person you are trying to reach has a voicemail box that has not been set up yet. Please try again later.

I imagined she was away, busy at a picnic. Her tender fingers picked away at the fuzzy peach skin, which she would then slice neatly, spreading them in a crescent shape on a plate.

“With cinnamon, your favorite.”

Daily Emotions Record

Liwei Xu ‘26

My Porcelain Teapot

Juliana Taomin Giacone ‘23

There’s this delicate porcelain teapot that is sheltered from dust, enclosed in a wooden cabinet with glass doors, in my dining room. Surrounding the teapot which rests at the center of the top shelf are large serving trays and sets of matching plates, bowls, cups, and silverware. On one side, the teapot’s cobalt blue and white design shows a scene of children playing together by the river in an ancient Chinese village. On the other side, a young woman sits in a garden, dressed in elegant robes, her eyes focused on the strings of her harp-like instrument.

Because of the teapot’s intricate detail, it stands alone, distinct from all the other items in the cabinet.

My father and I found the teapot on a road trip we had taken a number of years ago, somewhere in a small town in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. I remember it was raining heavily that day and there wasn’t much for us to do, so we went into an antique shop. As my eyes scanned the room for something worth my superior heckling skills, I came across the teapot. I think I loved it immediately because it reminded me of my mother. My mother would have loved it because the joyful, rural scene in China would have reminded her of her own home in the countryside in the north of Jiangxi Province. She had complicated feelings about leaving China and her family home, where her parents still tend the farmland. She had been raised in that home with her grandparents, parents, and five siblings until most of them moved out to go to university and explore city life. After college, she would often return to her village and continue to spend time with her family, but when she met my father, she traded in terraced rice fields, for the rocky Maine coastline.

My father immediately questioned the practicality of buying the teapot. It was fragile, and it could break in the car. “You don’t even drink tea,” he argued. I didn’t tell him that it reminded me of Mama. I rolled my eyes and said, “It doesn’t matter if I use it. It has already been used by other people.” I held the teapot in my hands, hugging it close to my chest, and firmly claiming it, as I got in line to make my purchase.

My father shrugged his shoulders.

My mother would have loved the teapot for all the reasons that my father didn’t. She would probably have said something like, “I wonder where this little teapot has been before? Imagine its previous owners … I bet they lived in a mansion! Imagine what this little teapot has witnessed in its lifetime!”

She was quite the character, with a neverending imagination. But I think that when she came to America, over time, some of her ability to imagine faded. She told me once, “My dreams took flight before I secured a place for them to land.” As playfully imaginative as she could be, she could also be cryptic and philosophical when she was emotional and pensive. She would mask her sadness by looking blankly into the distance, and mumbling a phrase like this. It would be accompanied by an intense gaze, where I could almost see the mechanical wheels and gears spinning in her head.

I never fully understood what she meant, but what I did know was that life in America, more specifically, life in an affluent suburban town had not been what she expected. And at the time, I could not understand why my mom did not have any friends. When I was younger, I thought there was something wrong with her. But now I realize she struggled to find her own sense of home here, not just because of her slight difficulties with English, but because of the way that people perceived her and what she represented to them. My father was a contributor to these narrow perceptions. My father would always ask my mother to play our grand Steinway piano to entertain guests when we hosted parties. Each time, he would make some version of a speech about how thankful we were for the welcoming community, and he would introduce my mother before she would begin to play great pieces. She could effectively pretend she had studied Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven for her entire life. She was an excellent sightreader and could play anything on the piano as long as there was sheet music in front of her, so my dad got books of music solely for these occasions. She would play until it was time to serve dinner, while he would parade around in what he believed to be a most distinguished crowd of invited guests in an attempt to charm people who came from old money. About an hour into these parties, my mother’s novelty dissolved, and she would be swallowed by a sea of strangers. She became the background noise of the ambient buzz in our parlour room, among people clamorously telling eccentric stories, drinking and laughing,

and having heated conversations about local politics. I would hear guests whisper about how pretty and how talented his “little Chinese wife” was, and some men would leer at her when they thought nobody was looking. Most people did not talk to her, with the exception of some “well-intentioned wives”. They would offer to share their classic American recipes with her that they were sure my father would appreciate after an overload of traditional Chinese cooking, to which she responded sarcastically with a forced smile, “Oh I cook hamburgers and hot dogs every weekend on our outdoor grill, as long as the weather is nice. And my traditional Chinese cooking? Why, I thought you knew … that’s the only reason he wanted to marry me!”

Porcelain will crack and blacken if you try to use it like an iron kettle to boil water over the flame of a stove. Because it is so delicate, it requires a lot of care. Any amount of extreme heat can damage it. Sometimes though, I wonder what would happen to the teapot if I did put it over the heat of a flame. In the worst case, I imagine it exploding, just as the water is about to reach the boiling point, leaving shards that puncture every part of our house after years of suppressing its anger. This porcelain teapot, unlike some modern tea kettles, does not have a whistle to announce with a glaring siren-like sound when the water is boiling. This type of teapot isn’t built to scream, even if it wants to be heard.

I wanted to believe that the teapot did not find its true home until I brought it home with me. I had a lot of trouble finding a proper place to put it so it would be safe. I thought of putting it in the cupboard with our regular dishes, but it seemed like I would be hiding it.

My father suggested we put it in our dining room cabinet, with the glass doors – on display, for all to see.

I agreed that this was its right place, not so everyone could see my teapot, but because I knew it would be safe behind these glass walls. I could really care less whether other people saw it or what they thought about it.

It was to my great disappointment one day, years after I had declared it was mine and brought it home with me, that I found a small engraving on the base of the teapot that said FABRIQUÉ EN FRANCE. Somehow, I had missed it. I felt somewhat betrayed by the seeming authenticity of my “Chinese” teapot which was essentially a fraud.

But I soon realized that it did not matter because I had already taken

care of my teapot for so long, for reasons that went beyond its origins. I loved it even after its truth had been revealed to me.

I came to understand just how resilient the teapot truly is despite my initial impression of its utter fragility.

My Chinese teapot has survived much longer than I have. The pot is likely to outlive me and my own children. This pot has found many homes, and it will find many more to come. The scenes it depicts might not be entirely real, but its artwork is based on the very real ancient Chinese history and culture that it preserves by simply being passed down from one caretaker to the next, from generation to generation.

I was ignorant to believe that I was the only person to have ever provided my teapot with a home. But I do wonder if I am the only one who will ever truly cherish it.

My Mother’s Car

Mike Wu ‘24

My mother’s car was always full.

She was always in the driver seat Both hands gripping the steering wheel, Eyes wide and fixated on the road ahead of us, Despite how little she slept last night, Right foot forever on the accelerator, Until we reached our destination. She’d stop to get gas if she needed to.

In the passenger seat sat my sister. A miniature version of my mother, she was just as attentive, Although she’d usually doze off. She traced the maps for my mother, But she was directionally challenged. She would offer to take over driving, If she knew how to.

Behind my mother I sat, Forehead resting against the glass, Carving temporary friends into my own condensed breath, Mesmerized by the world around us flying past. Wherewerewegoing? I never knew. After all, I couldn’t even see the map from where I sat. All I asked for was more leg room.

I used to be the self proclaimed king of the backseat, But I always knew I’d be overthrown some day

By the clutter around my feet and by the mess in the trunk, This excess baggage my mother always carried with her, From overseas to her hospital bed,

From the workplace to the dining table. Artifacts of her past we weren’t allowed to touch.

Sometimes, my sister and I would add to the clutter, Which would anger my mother, Such as when I brought aboard my favorite t-shirt, White fabric soaked pink with my own blood, After an older kid busted my nose with a stick. I didn’t understand why she blamed me, But there was no room for pity or apologies in her car.

Finally, we reached one of our many destinations. And as we left for the next, I indulged in the little extra space for me to stretch my legs.

What It Means To Be Me

Grace Wang ‘23

The Lotus and the Moon

Ida Jia ‘25

In the tranquil hours of twilight

the lotus and the moon, creatures of day and night fell in love between waking and sleeping. At dawn, the lotus opened toward the sky her graceful petals, which the moon remembered as she dimmed her glow to slumber. At dusk, the moon casted on the pond her tender glow, which the lotus cherished as she folded her petals to dream. Across hundreds of thousands of li and opposite times, the elegant flower of the lotus above water and the radiant near side of the moon facing the earth appreciated each other’s beauty. Yet after many tranquil twilights their love dwindled as both were enervated by obscuring the sides unseen, which gave them more unease than the barriers of distances and times.

In the tranquil hours of twilight

the lotus and the moon, creatures of day and night finally find the courage to confess stories of their sides unseen.

The moon recognized that the roots in the muddy waters shared a seed with the flower that bloomed daily and emanated fragrance far. The lotus realized that the far side covered by craters shared a core with the near side that shined nightly and illuminated the dark. The moon understood the mires the lotus had dragged through,

and the lotus witnessed the bruises the moon had sustained. The lotus became less afraid of the muddy waters, for she cannot avoid struggles down the roots. The moon became less ashamed of the myriad craters, for she cannot prevent collisions with the rocks. So after many tranquil twilights their love rekindled as both were enthralled by the new versions of each other, which were more beautiful and whole than the versions they used to know.

Let fall the pretense of perfection, and leave some space to sorrows and scars. For each ending there is a beginning: the shadow clings to the light; the night climbs toward the day; the yin clasps around the yang. For the tenebrous and the luminous, the seemingly dichotomous, are truly indivisible and eternally joined, as the wisdom of nature has ordained.

Once, We Were Small

Amanda Lui ‘23

Once, I was small so that my head fit in your palm, the crown rubbing against thick calluses. Your hands numbed to the forceful heat of fire, Responded to my slightest needs.

Once, I was small so that you could swing me up into the sky, Fingers clasped together and giggles charging the air. Your iron grip built up by controlling fire hoses, Focused now on corralling boundless energy and simple curiosity.

Once, I was small so that you could catch me, as I fell climbing a tree on Easter Day, as I tripped over a sharp corner stone, as I went down a metal slide too fast and too hard, as I tried to keep up with my brothers, and I started to grow up.

I feel big now, Big uncontrollable unconstrained emotions which travel across the country to be heard by you. Big lofty goals and dreams which you aligned the stars for.

And, while calluses deepen into wrinkles, And you cradle my face in two hands now, I will always remember, Once, we were small together.

We Can Go Home Again

Martina Liu ‘25

“Do you remember this photo?” He suddenly held his phone out to me in excitement, “I took it right in front of this fence!”

It was me in the photo, me 5 years old, me 14 years ago, me standing in the same spot as we are standing at this moment. He droned on and on about how the photo was shot, how I grabbed my mom’s parasol and sunglasses, how he put me on the stone in front of this fence, and how they still keep the dress I was wearing. Staring at the little girl with the big smile in the photo, I was in a trance.

It was in this city that I spent the happiest days in my memory. Every night, my dad would watch cartoons with me, cosplay Winnie the Pooh with me, and say “I love you” to me each night before bed. It all came to an abrupt end when we moved to a different city and I started settling down for school. He changed jobs from city to city, just never being able to come home every night. Sometimes he came back for a weekend, but more often than not—my superhero showed up less and less.

Probably because his appearances were so rare and precious, the whole family anticipated his every return as if he were a guest. Mom would cook exquisite dishes that she didn’t often make, no one would scold me for not getting good grades at school, and my dad would bring back gifts that I can show off everywhere. But it was also the guest-like way of spending time together, where he no longer knew what clubs I’d joined, how my mind had changed, and who my friends were. Of course, it was a waste of precious reunion time to talk about these.

One day he came home and never left again. He started cooking for us, picking me up from school, dissatisfied with my choice of major, and criticizing me for losing the tenderness “like a lamb” five year-old me had. Unemployment brought him back to our petty life, and we presented each other with characters that had long been changed after 14 years of separation. I became a belligerent debater, seizing every opportunity to contradict him, laughing at him for trying to boss me around when he clearly knew nothing

about me. Even when he offered to take me back to the city I grew up in at 5, I turned him down instinctively because as people always say, “you can’t go home again”. The days of love and intimacy that we had, would never return. Can we ever reconcile? Are we just going to get further and further apart? Perhaps I WAS the one who was so eager to deny him. It was me who refused to give him a chance to get to know me again, like I didn’t even think I should get to know him again, too. I should have shown him more patience and curiosity, like an anthropologist encountering a different culture. I should have had more faith in him about his never-changing concern for me and his expectation of a father-daughter relationship.

We kept walking forward, and I halted suddenly. Why don’t I take another photo in front of that fence? Maybe we could start over, or maybe nothing had ever changed.

To My Ex Best Friend

Catie Lee Bellone ‘24

To my ex best friend,

We’re a plane ride away from home, but you’re only 10 miles down the road. Yet, I haven’t heard from you this entire year. I saw you when I first stepped foot in Boston because I was the one who reached out, but not again since. I remember how ecstatic I was three years ago when I first learned we would end up in the same city. We said it was you and me against the world. The heartbreak still hasn’t dulled.

You were a large part of me realizing what it meant to be AAPI. My first real Chinese friend in our city which is 3% Asian, you helped me embrace instead of shrug off what made me different. You taught me our culture. You brought me into a community I thought I had no part in. Then, I introduced you to my Cantonese relatives, which meant the world to me. They still ask about you to this day, and it always stings.

I held you through your lowest times, called you every day, dropped everything to sit by your side, shared my family of unconditional love that you didn’t have. I wanted more than anything, would have done anything, for you to be okay. You have now found other people for your comfort, and I’m sincerely happy you have that. But at one point you trusted me more than anyone else, and selfishly, I can’t fathom why you don’t have space for me too.

When I told you I missed you, you said friendships ebb and flow. I took that as you moved on from me being a regular person in your life. But I still have the endless supply of green tea you brought back for me from China and the handcrafted chopsticks sitting in my dorm. So much time has passed, and you seem like you’re doing great. But I feel left behind, not ready to let these little reminders of you go.

Two years later, it still hurts more than any romantic breakup or loss I’ve ever endured. Because, you were my soulmate. And despite more and more time going by, I still can’t believe you when you said I did nothing wrong.

To my ex best friend, even years later, I still miss you more than words. I may never be a part of your life again, but I wish you nothing but joy. I will love you forever.

Hannah Park ‘23 In Bloom

Seafoam Smile

Hannah Park ‘23

this is the best i’ve ever been

Alicia Wu ‘25

singing in the bathroom late at night, wandering thoughts as i brush my teeth. it’s late september but i’m not thinking of the next month over

i can read stories that whisper about the past and i won’t cry anymore i think i’m better now.

i read a story that referenced two people a month together and thought about young love. the thought of two should have sent me south but i’m here.

i’m humming in the bathroom

your song tells of a heartbreak but i’m thinking of self-progress

maybewebroughtouttheworstineachother i can’t lie it’s been difficult

amillionfullstopsonourskin i never turned out the way i wanted

butbabythesongsthatiwroteasyourother but i’m trying

arethebesti’lleversing this is the best i’ve ever been.

Eclosion, Emergence

Allie Smith ‘24

i have never been fond of january. it’s always the month that love fleets, breaking me down until i become so fragile that just one tug, a whisper of his name, could make me unravel.

i never realized how loyal i had become to heartache until i noticed how often i was throwing up grief into the bathroom sink. and at the corner table in the dining hall. and at the train station platform. and behind my desk at work. sick in my stomach but still my favorite taste until i told myself i shouldn’t.

shouldn’tibeoverthisbynow? shouldn’t i feel different? shouldn’tsomethinghavechanged? shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t.

i did everything to try and suffocate my shame: scrubbed my skin with salt in the shower, forgot the phone number, shoved every post-it drawing and polaroid into a box, burned old memories the way wildfires spread: wreckless, and too eager to destroy. i spent so much time determined to change that it never occurred to me i didn’t have to.

dear grief, I am so sorry I tried to pretend like you didn’t exist. it’s just that no one ever told me it got better in a way that I actually believed. and to the version of myself that always felt half empty, I’m sorry I tried to convince you that I knew everything about love. and I’m sorry I tried to keep telling you it wasn’t there.

it was. it is.

it’s in the soft light of karina’s kitchen on valentine’s day, as she helps me wipe the brownie batter off of my stomach. it’s in the furrowed eyebrows of my parents as they try to help me beat my siblings at mahjong. it’s in my reflection in my bedroom mirror, as rina starts to play and I become my own favorite dance partner. and it’s outside my window, when I realize that the birds and the train passing by every hour aren’t just background noise anymore, and I can hear every sound in the universe, loud and soft, gentle and sweet, and spring hurdles at me like a child. it is there, it is there, it is here.

can I be honest with you?

I have never been in love like this before.

how wonderful.

pov: you’re a young gay

princess waiting for your enemy mermaid girlfriend

Grace Danqing Yang ‘26

where the sky meets the sea you can’t tell what’s the sky and what’s the sea; remember what we’ll be when we rule; my parents worship the sun and detest the waves but i’ll make us one; inseparable; my tutors taught me politics so I could forge this marriage alliance between shining queens; we’ll be constant as the conch shell you pressed into my hand on the first day we met; callmewhenyouneedmeand aslongasthere’swateri’llbethere; we were children of enemy kingdoms at birth we were secret meetings under moonlight we’ll be queens that birth something new; you’re the ocean i’m watching and the rivers crossing the continent my parents reign over and the pond near my castle rippling with the sun’s tears; we are something to protect; i may be in my youth but i know how a nation runs and how the world bows to the sun; i will defend you as long as as it rises in the east and sets in the west; i am a sword and a cannon and i was taught to lead wars i was meant to destroy them; where are you; we have a horizon to light; we have a world to make together.

Next Up

Mina Rowland ‘25

I have been reflecting on what change means to me and particularly looking at women of color who are so often invisible changemakers. In my work I aim to highlight the marks people make but through a lens of the next generation. This piece, Next Up, is an invitation to reimagine our society and change through our generation. All the names of the women depicted in their youth are fictional however their initials represent women who have changed and are changing the world. The women are as follows: Mira Yasakki is MalalaYousafzaiandSofiaSpaldingisSoniaSotomayor,MayaOstinis MichelleObama,WillowLonghornisWinonaLaDukeandJessicaGoodpine isJaneGoodall. As a young woman of color I have not only been influenced by women in various fields but their work is a constant source of inspiration for me as I grow and learn. I can’t wait to see the next generation of changemakers!

Rice

Christine Le ‘23

Ode to Der Tod

Michelle Zhang ‘25

Only once, everything

Within this realm of strife

Take my hand for one last dance

Enclasped in pearls evermore, Duet on bergamot fleur.

Waltz, dear, in twilight trance

Dressed in shimmer cream delight

Sublime life gave meaning.

‘Mongst lamps you found me! leaning–

One glimpse, we took our stance.

Stepped forward, acted demure

These halls guests still’d life

Twirled, you– me– in soft swing.

Toxic Friends

Xavier Butler ‘23

Kevin and Demetrius’s last night together began the same as many nights before. They weaved together through the forest with Demetrius in front leading them through the thicket of trees as he had done many times before. Kevin followed behind him. Even though he knew the way to their destination, he preferred to stay in the back. It was safer that way. Kevin knew what dangers lurked in the woods at this time of night. It was safer to let someone else lead. This is how their relationship has always been since they first met in elementary school. Demetrius took charge while Kevin followed. For Kevin, it was easier to allow Demetrius to make the decisions than bear the weight of making his own. They participated in all the same clubs and extracurriculars and they even went to the same college and lived together all four years, but now Demetrius is going somewhere Kevin can’t follow. Demetrius was offered a job in Alaska, a place miles away from their home in Massachusetts leaving Kevin at home spinning his wheels since he still doesn’t know what to do with his life. Tonight would be their last night together for a while so they decided to go back to where it all began on the banks of the Charles River. They found this spot as children exploring the woods together. The woods were always teeming with life and they loved playing in the river. They used to watch the river herring run in the spring. They also loved to go swimming in the Charles even though they weren’t supposed to. These experiences helped forge the unbreakable bond they have today, but as they approached the river Kevin noticed something was off. The ground around the river was still wet with dew from the rain earlier that day. The forest was alive with not just the sounds of wildlife, but there was also an ambient unnatural sizzling sound. The most surprising thing of all was the state of Charles River. In all his life Kevin had never seen it like this. The water was acid-green in color and was bubbling. Kevin also realized the sizzling was coming from the water itself. Kevin knew that due to the town’s old plumbing, untreated waste was able to flow directly into the river during periods of heavy rain, but this was on another level. Despite these signs of danger, Demetrius was taking off his shoes and shirt preparing to swim. He

called back to Kevin, “hey what are you waiting for slowpoke, we came here to swim.” “I don’t think it’s a good idea man the water looks wonky,” Kevin replied. “Suit yourself,” said Demetrius before Kevin had a chance to reply, he dove in. As his body touched the water the sizzling sound evolved into loud cracking and popping. Kevin watched as Demetrius’s skin bubbled and cracked and his smile morphed into an expression of pure agony. Kevin ran to the edge of the river to drag his friend out, but as he reached for his hand, the flesh of Demetrius’s arm fell off like the meat from a well-cooked turkey leg leaving Kevin holding nothing but the skin and tissue from his dear friend’s hand. This was far too much for Kevin and he passed out to the sounds of the river bubbling and Demetrius screaming. Kevin woke up as rain drizzled from the sky. The remains of his friend were nowhere to be seen in the river. He looked around and saw a trail of death and decay winding through the undergrowth. All the plants along the riverbed had died in a pattern that looked like footsteps. Unsure of what to do next Kevin followed the trail of steps. As he approached the end of the trail, he saw a vaguely human-looking shape huddled under a tree. As he got closer to the shape, the smell of garbage and sweet decay crept up his nose. It was almost enough to make him sick but he pressed on. What seemed like the shape of a man from far away turned out to be a foul-smelling sludge creature. When Kevin was directly in front of it, the creature spoke, “Kevin is that you?” Kevin’s heart dropped as he recognized the voice of his oldest friend Demetrius. “I should have listened to you,” Demetrius said to Kevin as his sludgy form was washed away by rain. Kevin left the forest that day as a new man determined to stop combined sewage overflow and to make sure all bodies of water are safe for human use. No longer a follower, Kevin lead himself out of the forest with a newfound purpose.

Mortal

Grace Danqing Yang ‘26

“You cut off my wings,” she said. “All those years ago. Thank you.” They tensed, bringing a hand to their sword. Her serene smile wouldn’t last; they’d have to fend off an attack any second.

“I had been flying so long that they bled and bled. When you cut them off, I had to use my legs again. I had to learn how to walk.

“So I did. I taught myself to walk, to roam halls of a castle I had long abandoned. Then to run. I hadn’t remembered that you could fly like that on the ground. And I taught myself to dance again.” She smiled. “Remember how I cried? When I finally surrendered to you?”

“You couldn’t believe you were mortal,” they said slowly. They gripped the hilt of their weapon, still in its sheath.

She glanced at the hilt of their sword, at their apprehensive posture. She spread her hands to show they were empty. “Yep! I thought I had to be above human. I thought the stardust I earned was everything. When you stole that from me, I shattered. You plunged me in the dark, so I made my own light.”

So she wasn’t going to attack? “You’re... welcome?” She laughed softly and walked away, footsteps echoing in the distance.

the One I Love

The Sun and the Sea

Amanda Lui ‘23

You don’t need to talk. It is in your eyes.

Stay alive stay alive

She would dance with you, Hold you.

And like a warm blanket, Or a toasty crackling campfire, You would just bask in the heat, Lazy limbs drifting through honey, Eyes locked in on your sun.

Stay alive stay alive

It burned red and blistered, Lashes of fire sputtering up from beneath the surface Dried out the air.

And you were left with cracked lips, Gasping at the emptiness.

Stay alive stay alive

Drowning came first. As you wandered along the bottom of the sea, With salt reddened eyes, head tilted up, Searching for sun rays, To tell bottom from top, They wouldn’t reach for you anymore.

So, you carved gills into your neck, Sharpened your teeth into points, Breathed in inky black water of the depth, And began to kick.

fire and flames; water and waves

Alicia Wu ‘25

The flames engulf me.

This is the end.

I am drowning.

I can’t see past the wave of red in front of me—I close my eyes at the heat—it blinds me.

The water rushes over me, waves crashing unrelentlessly, pulsing, seeking, reaching to suffocate me.

Now I hear the roar in my ear—it reminds me of a lion or a dragon or death.

I had closed my eyes on instinct, but now I fight to see.

It calls my name.

If it is to be my last breath, my last fight, let me be a witness to my fall.

I want to reach up and block the sound, but I know it will be for nothing.

The water stings at first, but then the feeling passes . . .

The sound will not stop.

It fades to a constant rush—constant to almost ease away, always at the edge of my mind.

It will pulse.

It pushes me on all sides, squeezing me, shaking me—

It will overcome.

It will consume me whole.

And spit me out as though I am nothing.

I will fall to the depths.

And perhaps there I will stay, decay with the years, millennia will pass before anyone finds me, fallen, ashes.

After all, I am only but a small speck in the universe, a single burning light in the endless darkness, about to be snuffed out.

It will be my end.

But I feel this kick almost inside me, just as harsh and unrelenting.

It will be my end . . . if it is my end, I shall see it through.

People did always say there is some intrinsic part within us humans that searches for life, that commands you to stay alive, to just stay alive and everything will be okay, somehow, one way or another.

I fear the heat will sear my eyes, but I know I have to try anyway. I open my eyes, slowly at first, they feel burned shut, but I see it all now.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m doing the kicking. My legs beat against the cold waves, even as my mind begins to surrender.

The flames dance all around me, licking at me. But they haven’t reached me, not yet.

The salt stings my eyes when I manage to pry open them, my arms are moving in the thick fluid around me, I’m trying I’m trying I’mtrying to push.

They seem to be around me, making a halo, as though I’m an angel—some fallen angel who’s waiting to be rescued.

My ears groan with pain, the pressure pulls me under—well, tries—but I’m fighting, I’m fighting.

I am still in the chaos, a single figure unbending in my will.

And I can’t seem to fight my body in its fight, but as I rise from the depths, I begin to think that maybe I do want to fight too.

I think it will be okay.

Maybe there is a chance I could make it.

It is hot, but I think I am becoming part of it, easing into it. It’s familiar, and I am finding a home within it.

And even if that chance is the smallest one there is, just a blinking star in the endless sky, well, maybe it could become something beautiful.

I am no stranger to the heat, even in one like this.

I almost stop kicking and sweeping my arms in front of me—something unconscious within me flails.

I find it familiar, almost, I realize, in some way, as if I came from this originally, like it was my home, and I emerged victorious against the light on some bright, new day so long ago.

And even with the surge of energy, I start to feel the cold, truly feel the cold.

I can breathe deeply, close my eyes at those moments too, and feel whole.

People talk about it seeping into your bones, sapping you of strength, but when you are surrounded by it, enveloped in its chilled fingers, you start to have an inkling of what they are saying.

The fear has burned away with the heat, there is a crackle of wood as the flames swallow it whole.

You start to fear—even without consideration for what might also haunt the waters—you begin to fear no one will see you, that you will fall, sink, flail to no avail—just another nameless soul flickering out in the universe, flickering . . . flickering . . . flicker . . .

But I am not afraid.

The water swirls around my feet—I look down in panic—but it seems alive, it feels alive, and it pushes me, propels me forward.

This I can say with absolute certainty. I don’t fear the flames, not now, not any longer.

Don’t look back, it seems to say. Whateveryoudo,don’tlookback.

I take a step forward, watching the fire resist for a moment before bending before me, my will unbroken.

And I have no choice but to listen to this haunting echo of words in my mind. It avoids me—just barely—it too is alive and fighting, it does not want to be controlled, but I am in charge here.

Because I know I want to survive.

It will listen to me.

I know I will survive.

For it is my will.

The path to victory is not without casualty.

I kick now, harder, with all my might. I know my strength is fading, but I have put my mind to this task, and so it must be done.

Here, it may be a few hairs on my arms, singed in the licking flames, caught in the crossfires of my path. It may be the smears of ash across my face, the relentless heat beating down on me, causing me to perspire.

It’s brighter up ahead. I think I can see the water part before me, offering me a glance up into the sky.

But when I step out of the fire, step into the night and gaze up at the stars in the dark sky, I understand that this is victory. I understand

I gasp when I break the surface. Light rain falls upon my face, and I laugh because I know this is the beginning.

Serenity

Kyra Bhagat ‘26

Grace Danqing Yang ‘26

where sky meets sea and under shadows of the forest glow, my heartblood tried to run call blinding shade, call bleeding pink above the brilliance from when i killed a sun

i’ll say i can believe in nothing but the roiling stains of clouds above my head i root, i grow, and i can bow to what i shed, and painfully the blade i bled

i’ve learned horizon’s pain from end to end from withering grew friendship; chose defend

Illuminating Narratives

Masi Najafizehtab ‘23

This digital art piece depicts Iran’s most recent Women Life Freedom movement: the first female-led revolution against Iran’s Islamic dictatorship. The image shows how western news outlets only shed light on western problems and don’t help or call attention to Middle Eastern issues despite their real significance. My goal with this piece was to raise awareness towards what is happening in my home country.

Meng Po Reimagined

Ida Jia ‘25

A river runs through the forest. Trees grow on both banks, the crowns forming a tunnel through which the boats travel. Every leaf holds the memory of a life: leaf by leaf, layer by layer, the trees weave a web of dreams, with the joys and sorrows of the world. As a boat travels downstream, the leaves carrying the passengers’ stories fall silently down to sleep, to dream, in the soft darkness of the earth beneath the breath of the wind, in the quiet stillness of the riverbed under the flow of the water. For all fallen leaves return to the roots. An old woman is standing on the bridge: she who gathers the leaves of memory and brews the tea of forgetfulness to lessen the burden of the sufferings of the earth in the cycle of death and rebirth. Sweet is the potion of unmemory! In the river of time souls are freed from history. Like dreamers the passengers row on until they disappear into the mist as the boat enters wider waters. For all rivers flow down to the sea: wave after wave, life after life, voyagers in the infinite ocean.

Onward

Grace Wang ‘23

Submission Writers & Artists

Thankyoutoallofourwonderfulwritersandartistswhosubmittedtheir workforpublicationinthisissueofConnections!

Catie Lee Bellone ‘24

Kyra Bhagat ‘26

Xavier Butler ‘23

Zada Forde ‘25

Juliana Taomin Giacone ‘23

Ida Jia ‘25

Christine Le ‘23

Vincent Lian ‘25

Martina Liu ‘25

Amanda Lui ‘23

Masi Najafizehtab ‘23

Hannah Park ‘23

Mina Rowland ‘25

Allie Smith ‘24

Grace Wang ‘23

Alicia Wu ‘25

Mike Wu ‘24

Liwei Xu ‘26

Grace Danqing Yang ‘26

Michelle Zhang ‘25 (Tufts)