The Featheralist: Volume 06, Issue 2

for the last four years, the featheralist has paid the due rent to live in my headspace — and we’ve had quite the party together. from writing poetry dra s for the current issue to planning new ventures with department heads for the next one, i have unknowingly tied myself with this magazine into a sort of symbiotic relationship. i o er it living space, and it o ers me a platform to ful ll my cravings for creative nourishment.

there is no “start” point i can label on a timeline for this intertwining — it feels like it has existed since the beginning of time. and like time itself, there seemed to be no end in sight.

but now the end is visible. it is nearing, as this is my last foreword of a traditional issue. i am lucky that the senior issue is next, but a er that it will be no more dra ing and commissioning and planning. so i hope you share the excitement i have as, together, we turn these pages and let ourselves get lost in them, before the end approaches us too quickly.

best, rini khandelwal

president, editor-in-chief

Dear Reader,

I have a secret to share. Long ago, when I was a wee thing in elementary school, people asked, “Nikki, what do you want to be when you grow up?” My answer was simple: an optometrist.

Ironic that the girl with declining vision as a senior in high school had a dream to be an eye doctor. But the reason I arbitrarily decided my life’s purpose was to be an optometrist was not because I enjoyed staring contests. It was rather that, since both my parents were doctors, I thought a doctor was the only profession one could have.

It sounds ridiculous, yes; and thankfully we overcame that phase. But looking back, I think the true reason I chose to be an optometrist was because no matter the avenue, I wanted to help people see the world. By h grade, I discovered the best way I could do that was with a pen and paper.

Each day I see my peers hard-wired towards careers in STEM. While that is a completely respectable path, I’ve always wondered what our world would look like if more people broke away from what they thought they should be doing and embraced the humanities. For the humanities at its core is the study of humans. It is the writers who weave morals of human nature and society into the books you read, or the artists who express our tortured souls in ways we never knew possible. The humanities allow us to re ect and build a more emotionally connected community in the best sense.

FOREWORD TABLE OF CONTENTS

Before I knew it, writing was my way to help others get a better grasp of the world around them. I’ve always appreciated the humanities, and I hope this issue will give you a better understanding as to why. These stunning pages are lled with a trimester’s worth of our writers, artists, and graphic designers free time. I am proud to deliver to you my second to last issue of The Featheralist, and give you a piece of the adventure I’m dedicated to for life.

Nikki Hekmat President, Editor-in-Chief

by Cindy Liang, ‘26

by Allison Lee,‘25

undisonus” by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Watercolor

by Anna Prasouvo, ‘24

Lao Dancing” by Kevin Tran, ‘25 Digital

by Sophia Tang, ‘25

Time” by Emily

07 ODE TO THE

by Nikki Hekmat, ‘24

“open the door” by Andrea Wang, ‘24 Digital

08

RUSTED

STRINGS by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

“Bygones” by Emily Capua, ‘27 Pencil

by Olivia Lam, ‘27

Thread” by Sophie Tran, ‘26 Digital

Capua, ‘27 Pencil

DREAMER

by Joann Xie, ‘27

“l'appel du vide” by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Digital

POLISH VIRTUOSO by Zinia Khattar, ‘25

“The Melody” by Brittney Huang, ‘24 Digital

by Vidha Yadav Ganji, ‘26

“War of Passions” by Ela Efe, ‘27 Digital

by Saathvika Ajith, ‘24

“athazagoraphobia” by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Digital

by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

“artiste” by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Photography

by Sophie Cao, ‘26

“Nostalgia” by Rayne Huang, ‘26 Digital

by Riya Patil, ‘24

“Forgotten Pages” by Riya Patil, ‘24 Digital

SATIRE

CAT CONGRESS DRAWS FIRE by Evelyn Wang, ‘27

“The Cat Times” by Andrea Wang, ‘24 Pencil

NONFICTION

21 HANDLING ANXIETY SUPPRESSIONS FOR TEENAGERS by Kavya Gopinath, ‘27

“Peace&Quiet” by Ananya Anoop Rajendrababu, '27 Digital 22 EXPUNGE THE TYPECASTING: INTROVERT AND EXTROVERT LABELS ARE DETRIMENTAL by Saanvi Dogra, ‘26

“solitude” by Andrea Wang, ‘24 Photography

24

MODERN MEDIA: THE OBSESSION WITH TEENS by Shomili Sengupta, ‘24

“specular distortion” by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Photography

25

SENIOR CARE: “THE INFLUENCE TEENS MAKE” by Kavya Gopinath, ‘27

26

THE DEL NORTE BATHROOMS by Bailey Say, ‘24

“opulence” by Andrea Wang, ‘24 Photography

27 THE PRICES OF FREEDOM: HAITI'S INDEPENDENCE DEBT by Michelle Wang, ‘26

“storm” by Andrea Wang, ‘24 Acrylic

ENOUEMENT

Written by Olivia Lam, ‘27 | Desi gned by Gloria Zhai, ‘27

bittersweetness:

are you bittersweet because you had a good time and want to go back or are you bittersweet because you wasted your time and want to go back

high school is 4 years of living or of worrying

will you agonize until you forget to live to be a teenager to learn from mistakes

the people or the B you got junior year

have you ever heard of énouement?

‘26

REMEMBRANCE

Written by Cindy Liang, ‘26 | Designed by Joann Xie, ‘27

I remember groves of washed-out red

The fragrance of fall and the scent of steam

How we unspooled buds from leaves

Hips from stems and mother from daughter

The sunset calls to me

In fading rays and faint whispers; truth

How the world would explode in rose petals:

Mothers weeping for daughters

How spilled tea looked like inky blood staining thighs

A lesson taught in tea leaves:

Reaching out, limitless possibilities

Don’t you remember?

I remember endlessness

Graceful tranquility; woven into

The wind, waving corn stalks

Peeling corn silk from kernels until only steam is le

It feels like everything and nothing

Simultaneously

Under the glow of uorescent lights

I watch the memories trickle down your cheeks

Bound for constellations

How your eyes begin to question

Who are you, who am I?

Luminescence - a lesson from the moon

How to forget, but never forgive Don’t you remember?

I remember laughter in bitter melon

A whimsical spark of joy

A hollowed-out gourd

I know joy tastes like regret

That hindsight is sweet because

Love is bitter

Cloying sweetness unravels

Blood from water

Bones hollowed out and bitter inside

When your eyes closed, did you hear me?

I wished for your endlessness

So you might never have to regret

Don’t you remember?

COASTAL CESSATION

Written by Allison Lee, ‘25 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Blood spills

Lurid pomegranate seeds gush and drip

Onto calloused pavements

Under the hand of man’s dominion

That drags us into hollow reticence

That buries us in the sand

We had once crawled out of

As our rising screams manifest

Into coastlines

Fuse the cabalistic runes

Of untouched depths

With our vermillion immoralities

To equal a turbid concoction

Of concrete morti cation

It tells the seamen of their traumas

Its whispers hide within the boards

Of the puny ships

Its cries breathe gospel

Onto the aching shores

While we glimpse the burning embers

Of solitude at a distance

Close but untouchable

We feel dull aches

Kindling seed

In hollow stomach pits

Capsized the ship bequeaths

Nautical senses fail the crew

Meant to set sail

But rather assailed

By ocean’s impenetrable talons

The chords of passenger hearts

Scattered and mu ed

Like foggy childhood hours

A lone seagull circles about

And cries for those lost to the abyss

The dichotomy of once assembled parts

undisonus

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

Watercolor

Lao Dancing

Kevin Tran, ‘25

Digital

LAO DANCING

A whirl of golden

Bejeweled skirts1, sti straight and ironed

With an embroidered sash2

A splash of red and white

Stocky limbs of tight-smiling girls standing beside me

Our arms wide at standstill

Legs bended

With the bouncy rhythm, we move

Tight spun buns sharp with hairspray

Weighed upon by jewelry3

A glorious crown on our heads

Under the scorching sun

A slide of feet across pastel straw carpets4

Written by Anna Prasouvo, ‘24

Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Lao New Year

Laos, a Southeast Asian country, celebrates Pi Mai Lao, or the Lao New Year, in the middle of April from April 13th to April 15th. It is a festive occasion to welcome new beginnings. One activity during the festivities is to splash water onto friends, family, and strangers, as water is considered good luck and a blessing in Lao culture. There are also parades, concert performances, and beauty contests held during the entire month of April.

In San Diego, which is home to roughly 7,000 Laotians, the area is one of the largest Lao communities in the United States. Every year, festivities are held at temples across the city. This creative poem is a narrative of a performance from SD Lao Heritage (a traditional dance group in the San Diego area that I am a part of) dancing to Ouy Pon Thon Hup. Translated, it is called the welcoming dance. The dance is typically performed at the start of the ceremony to welcome the new year.

I dip my hand in the golden vase5, a cascade of petals6 sliding o my hand

Sprinkled onto the oor in a shower of yellow

Ouy pon pi mai (Welcome to the new year)

[1]: sinh (traditional Lao skirt)

[2]: pha biang (traditional Lao shawl-like garment)

[3]: kumh gao (gold jewlery)

[4]: saht (straw carpet)

[5]: kunh (vase)

[6]: dok champa (national ower of Laos)

WHEN WE THOUGHT TIME TREADED BY

Written by Sophia Tang, ‘25 | Designed by Olivia Li, ‘27

on our h birthdays, the presents streamed in from every relative, whether immediate or distant.

we opened each gi eagerly, anticipating the toy inside, smiling as we unwrapped them, bursting with joy, thinking of all the fun times we would have with the games.

and when our birthday party came to a halting end, we would already be expecting our next birthday, the next party, the next celebration, the next year.

throughout the following year, we would wish for time to quicken, to reach the rate at which light travels. we asked, “why does time go by so slowly? why can’t it hurry up?”

brutal and cruel, relentless and unforgiving.

our innocent selves believed that time trudges by, dragging its heavy feet, laden with mud, hauling its heavy body forward and sometimes it even felt like time was moving backwards, away from our next birthday

but that was when we were young, when we were naive, to the fresh terrors of the world

now,

we dread our next birthday, knowing that we are one year closer to turning eighteen, applying for college, leaving the house and entering the real world,

before, we hoped time would run faster, sprint to the destination, our next birthday.

now,

we look back on every year, wondering what we accomplished, but coming up blank. we realize we didn’t make use of all the time.

we only hope time would decide to turn around and dart in the opposite direction. or if that’s too much to ask for, we only hope time would stop in its tracks and give us a breather,. even just a eeting moment to rest and settle our hearts down would be enough for us.

this is what society and time has done to us.

but time doesn’t listen. time is deaf to our petty outcries. time is cold-hearted, turning its back towards our struggles. so time keeps scurrying forward, seemingly only speeding up rather than slowing down. how we wish to go back to the good ol’ days, where we detested how time seemed to plod, trudge, lumber along. times were so simple then.

now we just want to stop the acceleration of time. if only we could run or work as fast as time, we would be so e cient.

we are always rushing. we scurry to complete the next task, we try to juggle as many activities as possible. we burn ourselves out completely, crispier than a chip.

sometimes we should recognize that we have accomplished so much. whether that be in tangible achievements, emotional strength and well-being, mental fortitude, physical tness, it is all commendable. even just enjoying life and smelling the roses is an achievement.

and if you still feel like you did “nothing,” you made it.

just take a second to breath a second to enjoy life, a second to pause and re ect, “this is life, how beautiful it is.”

Time

Emily Capua, ‘027

Pencil and Pen

ODE TO THE DREAMER

Written by Nikki Hekmat, ‘24 | Designed by Joann Xie, ‘27

this is an ode to the dreamer to his fantasies and greatest desires to all that he wishes to accomplish to the strength of his highest goals

this is an ode to the dreamer who is afraid to dream if he achieves his dream, he thinks his life will be complete

this is an ode to the dreamer who waits in the shadows who cowers in fear when others ask of his plans

this is an ode to the dreamer who slams the door shut “go away” he says to his dream “for I cannot see you just yet”

this is an ode to the dreamer who only has one dream who fuels his dream each day and night so that he can never achieve it

we must pity these dreamers, i say for if you never want to accomplish your dream how can it be a dream at all?

“i’m afraid that if my dream is realized, i’ll have no reason to go on living.” - the merchant, paulo coelho’s the alchemist

the door

open

Andrea Wang, ‘24

digital

RUSTED STRINGS

Written by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 | Designed by Sophie Cao, ‘26

Sleeping between Faded indigo jeans and a Scrawny pink dress with owers

A turquoise box is Pressed against the Ash grey paint

The guitar, Maple wood, Leans peacefully inside

Under its bridge Between rusted strings Lives a coat of dust

Its neck is cradled By the denim, A reminder of yesterday

Bygones

Emily Capua, ‘27

Pencil

SEA’S SECRET

Written by Joann Xie, ‘27 | Designed by Karly Prasouvo, ‘26

a gure stands silent cape swishing with the waves raising their scythe a gold ring shimmers for only a quarter of a second before fading silver to black

deep in the roar of crashes a tower topples down past your body and soul

amidst the bricks time fragments slip into the blind abyss of the deep indigo

l'appel du vide

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Digital

they’re in the rain with no droplets nothing to feel they tilt their head down at the black hills only they know the secrets kept below

THE POLISH VIRTUOSO

Written by Zinia Khattar, '25 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Beneath the ngers, a pianist's delight, Chopin's essence in the keys takes ight. In the ballade of notes, a fervent plea, A nocturne whispers, a melody free.

Polish son of a musical embrace, Chopin's ngers glissando with delicate grace. Mazurkas spin in a rhythmic trance, A tiptoed approach, a poetic advance.

Prelude’s exhale, a whispered sigh, In every phrase, a tear or a sky. Etudes cascade like a golden stream, Chopin's dream, a moonlight gleam.

A raindrop descends in a Prelude's start, Echoes resonate, touching every heart. Nocturnes serenade the autumn air, With heroic sonatas, tender and rare.

In the storm of the Polonaise, Chopin's spirit forever plays. A tempest on keys, thunderous and bold, Yet in the torrent, a soulful hold.

Fantasie in impromptu, a whimsical ride, Chopin's rubato, a passionate guide. In the trill of keys, emotions entwined, A scherzo painted, a portrait enshrined.

A waltz unravels, a courtly a air, Chopin's ngers slide with utmost care. In the cadence of time, a big blockade, Where the piano weaves a sublime shade.

Chopin's soul, in each arpeggio, A nocturnal dance, a true virtuoso. His melodies linger, a timeless hymn, In the heart of pianos, forever to swim.

The Melody Brittney Huang, ‘24

WAR OF PASSIONS

Written by Vidha Yadav Ganji, '26 | Designed by Angela Chen, ‘25

In front of the bistro with mellow string lighting that remained illuminated even during the brilliant morning hours, a toddler with springing blond hair chips away at the bright pink paint of the bench. Her mother, engrossed in a work call, binds herself to a job she no longer passionately pursues. A busker plays music, his upturned visor lying on the oor with pennies glittering in the dappled light. People mill across the plaza, following imaginary maps of in nite routes. One woman walks barefoot, feeling the warmth of the mosaic tiles beneath her.

She reaches the center of the plaza, lies down, and nds a pale blue chink of sapphire. The sun's rays illuminate it, and she places her back on it, feeling the discomfort of its rough edges. Her feet are tender red from the serrated ends of the mosaic tiles. As people give her odd glances, she revels in the uniqueness of her choice. The sun shines unabashedly.

Her only regret is a thrumming one, hindering her from the ultimate human pleasure: satisfaction with life. She o en lies on the roof, gazing at the stars, feeling the pulsing regret. It becomes an addictive cycle, a struggle between a life of freedom and passion and one of restraint and conformity.

One evening, she notices a foreboding sky, a storm approaching. Panic rises within her, and she prays for a night without the heaviness of regret. She runs, barefoot, desperate to escape the impending storm. As she stops to gaze at the sky, a boy, a year older, calls out to her from a canoe.

He invites her into the boat, and they row into an open expanse of clear water. The moonlight re ects on the still surface. He, a writer, shares how society restrains him, but the challenge fuels his passion. She reveals her addiction to gazing at the stars, a yearning pain that gives her euphoria.

“As she stops to gaze at the sky, a boy, a year older, calls out to her from a canoe.

“Panic rises within her, and she prays for a night without the heaviness of regret.”

They engage in a thoughtful conversation about freedom, passion, and the nature of human spirit. The canal opens up to reveal a vast expanse of water. The moon is a perfect frame in the sky. The boat rocks, and the pleasant sorrow seeps into her veins. Today feels di erent, and she wonders why.

The boy, with a beautiful face and intelligent eyes, pierces the night. He proposes to her, an inexplicable knowing of who she is. The hope within her solidi es, and she decides to embrace this world, imperfections and all.

As they row back, he tells her about the brightness of moonlight in con ned spaces. She wonders about the eventual quenching of desire in darkness.

War of Passions

Ela Efe, ‘27

REMOVER OF OBSTACLES

Written by Saathvika Ajith, ‘24 | Designed by Katherine Chen, ‘27

A small golden sphere popped into being between the boy’s hands, shimmery and opalescent, small enough that the concentrated energy was di cult to see through. He oated it above his head as he concentrated on making another. It joined two of its friends oating aimlessly against the backdrop of the darkening sky.

He could make it to 9 this time, he just knew it. He was struggling to break his earlier record of 7 sustained force elds at once, but he sincerely believed the sheer magnitude of his boredom would bolster his ability.

A small bead of sweat formed on his brow as he formed the 6th sphere, chilled by the frigid breeze of the mountaintop. He leaned against the massive double-doors that lead to his boss’s secret laboratory, wishing he’d had the foresight to bring a chair.

Thunder rumbled in the middle distance, snapping his tenuous concentration. 6 successive pops and the fainter smell of spun sugar lingered in the air. He glared at the storm clouds, sweeping his long, dark hair out of his face and contemplating what he’d do if it rained.

No villain in their right mind would attempt to attack in the rain, right? He could just go back inside, where it’s warm and dry—

A comforting hand, placed on his shoulder. “You’ll protect me, won’t you Vinayaka? Oh, my own little soldier!”

Maybe he would stay a little while longer, and practice keeping the rain out with his shields. He had a bit of trouble infusing them with the right amount of energy to keep them watertight. Though he knew full well of his own shortcomings, he still couldn’t help but wish he’d been allowed to go ght with the rest of his co-workers, that he wasn’t so useless—

“They don’t need you out there.” She continued swi ly as if she wasn’t stabbing new daggers into his heart. “They’ve been training for years and years for just this moment.”

“I—”

She cut o his angry protest by catching his hands and clasping them beseechingly between her own. “But . . I need you here.” Her dark eyes bore into him with sincerity. “I need you to stay, and keep me company! Not in the lab of course—it’s much too volatile for you in the lab—but, outside! Yes, I need you to stand guard. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re right where I can keep an eye on you. You understand, don’t you? My little darling?”

“I’m not little.” Was all he could say back, ghting a childish pout. He grimaced instead, ercely. “I’m 17. That’s enough.”

She narrowed her eyes, drawing back and putting her hands on her hips in a way that signaled she was about to become unreasonable and di cult. “Your life only started when I found you; when I created you anew. Therefore: you are 2 years old, and that,” She poked a nger into his shoulder, “Is nal.”

He was cut o from his musings at the sound of massive wingbeats drawing closer.

He froze.

The being that descended from the clouds was distinctly inhuman. He had the wings of an eagle, and two feet of a lion. Most alarmingly, he had six arms, three sets stacked on-top of eachother, going down in a line along his elongated torso. The top two were the most bird-like, tipped with wicked talons, while the bottom two were the paws of a lion, with even sharper claws. Vinayaka had never bothered to make the distinction between talons and claws before, but at the moment it seemed pretty damn important. The middle set were a blend of the other two, and somehow still the most human-like in nature. He had a handsome, feline face, with a gold headpiece keeping back his mane of tawny hair.

He chose to remain about 5 feet in the air for a while, wings beating slowly and laboriously as he stared the boy down. He was covered in an ornate golden armor, which didn’t cover any vital organs, and seemed to have the sole purpose of accentuating his many rippling muscles. He shone in the sky among the thunderclouds like a second sun, come down to blind him even in the beginnings of a storm.

“W-who are you?” Vinayaka hated himself for how his voice quivered as he asked the question.

The man(?) preened. “I am Sharabha.” He looked thoughtful for a moment as he considered his next words. “The Destroyer. I would ask of you the same but,” he lowered himself nally, alighting gracefully on the barren mountaintop a ways away from him, and kicking up a cloud of dust, “I don’t particularly care.”

The boy tensed, drawing himself up to his full height and standing protectively in front of the door, hands down for now but twitching to do something, anything. There was no need to antagonize . . whatever creature this is, as he’s clearly more powerful than he could ever hope to

be. “Halt.” His voice didn’t waver.

Amazingly, the creature paused. “What is this?” he said crossly. “I am here to see my lioness a er a very long sabbatical. I know she is in there. Let me through, rat.” He again strode forward.

“No, s-stop!” His voice went embarrassingly high in panic. “She can’t be disturbed, she’s in the middle of an important experiment! If she really knows you, she’ll come out when she’s done!” He stood fast in front of the door, his palm thrust out in front of him in a stop sign, trying not to outwardly tremble. A pathetic attempt, as far as it went, but still the beast again stopped a few feet from him (for that’s what it was, its claws exed and gleaming with every step, its wings pu ed out with irritation, its entire face curled in an ice-cold snarl—).

“That’s nonsense.” It ground out, but the rage leaked out of it slightly. He gave the boy a haughty expression (man once more). “There’s nothing to her that’s more important than me.”

“Don’t you dare pretend to care about me!” he seethed at Maheshwari. They were on opposing sides of a random lab table, each coiled to spring into a run from the slightest movement of the other. Something

stupid and inconsequential had set him o again. They were ghting, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

“Of course I care about you! I put everything I had into you!!”

“There!! Right there! That’s all I am to you, just another one of your stupid experiments! Too bad it isn’t working out this time!!”

“You ridiculous child! You idiotic brat! I care about you no matter how well you do, no matter how well you can handle your powers!” She threw her hands up in exasperation, “I care about you!” She leveled the full force of her anger at him, pointing savagely across the table, “You’re important to me!!”

They stood in silence, glaring at each other across the table with no real heat.

“It’s really dangerous! If you surprise her, it could explode and hurt us all!” He was grasping for straws, trying to buy her more time. He couldn’t let this creature in, no matter what. Who knows what those sharp, sharp claws would do to her? He was lying, he was sure of it, for what use were claws if not to grasp and tear?

athazagoraphobia

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Mixed Media

“I am not sure if you have noticed,” the creature began dryly, “But I am invulnerable. And I do not care what happens to you.” He icked a hand carelessly in the air. “I am perfectly capable of shielding my lotus ower, from whatever dangers she may be involved in. Move.”

Vinayaka stepped into a deep lunge and swept his hands up from the ground to above his head in response, straining against the air like he was li ing a great weight. A force eld snapped into place around him, just big enough to enclose both him and the door.

They stared at each other, in a deadlock, through the pale-gold barrier. He clenched his sts and focused on infusing more power to the eld, which was stretched thin with size, about as sturdy as a soap-bubble. He was wrong earlier, when he thought that boredom was the most powerful motivator. It’s starting to look like it’s terror. He reinforced the eld, making it about twice as strong, and breathed heavier as a result.

The creature placed a hand on the barrier, one with narrower eagle’s talons. It rested there for a moment as he spoke. “And to think I was willing to spare you until now. Your irritation has turned to impudence.”

A single talon broke through the barrier, small cracks spider-webbing out from the protrusion. An ice-cold bucket of fear was dumped down the boy’s back, and he struggled desperately to keep the eld intact.

A second one. He met the beast’s eyes through the widening fractures. It was angry, of course, but . . not enough. Not enough to murder someone in cold blood. But that’s what they were heading towards.

A third one. Vinayaka was pretty sure he could feel tears running down his face, but he was already so cold that it didn’t really make a di erence.

He was sulking outside a er a disastrous training session. Man, he did a lot of sulking these days. Winter was creeping in, and he’d forgotten to bring a jacket. His frail powers did nothing against the chill wind.

A shadow fell over him, something tall blocking the wan moonlight. It was his mo- Maheshwari, with a disapproving expression and her hands squarely on her hips.

He gave her no greeting.

She indignantly swiped her long, owing braid o her shoulder. “I picked you up,” she began.

“Oh no.” He buried his face in his hands. “Not this again.”

“Crazy, senile, middle-aged old woman—”

“And I sculpted you into what you are.”

“During a midlife crises, sure—”

She plopped down on the ground beside him, and took his hands between hers in a vice-like grip, as she’s fond of doing. “I don’t make mistakes.” She squeezed his hands. “You might make mistakes, sure,” she added teasingly, “But I don’t.”

He could only look at her sadly.

She put a so hand to the side of his face. “No matter what you do here, no matter what happens, you won’t have to go back to your old life, where they treated you like you were just dirt. I see something in you, something that they never did, even if you don’t see it yourself.” She patted his cheek and smiled. “So don’t stress. You have me now!”

The creature seemed to have enough of this game. It clenched its st, and the only barrier between them shattered into a million pieces. The smell of burnt sugar lingered in the air. It towered over the boy.

He held fast, he had no choice. He had to protect her. He had to do anything he could. The creature, teeth and claws and menacing eyes, strode forth until it was right in front of him.

His mom, he can’t let this thing anywhere near his mom. “D-don’t come a-any closer—please go away—” His elds weren’t working. “Please sh-she doesn’t deserve thi-this, s-stop, p-please—” His back pressed up against the doors as he was backed into a corner, he looked his death in the eyes, “She’s a good woman, please—”

“You would lay down your life for her, little rodent?”

He could feel the cool, solid wood of the mahogany doors underneath his ngertips. They were steel-reinforced on the other side. The key was in his pocket. Maybe, just maybe—the ruckus the creature would make trying to break through would give her just enough time and warning to escape.

For the rst time that evening, his voice didn’t tremble. “Yes.”

“As would I.”

“I took you from the mud lying along the riverbanks,” she rounded the table with new determination.

Vision is nite. It saddened him—a crazy, deranged part of him that he surely got from his self-proclaimed mother—that he couldn’t witness the awe-inspiring sight of a creature in the throes of petty rage, executing its next victim. All he saw in his nal moments was the tip of a lion’s claw, slashing down from the heavens to drag a line across his throat.

SO, WHAT DO YOU PHOTOGRAPH?

Written by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 | Designed by Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26

Jim sat in the cold, sterile, waiting room, occasionally checking his watch, as he waited for the receptionist to call out his name.

“Is there a James Fetterson here?” a stout assistant with cat eye glasses emerged from the adjoining door.

“Yep, here.” He pushed himself o the chair, grunting with the pain in his knees that emerged whenever he bent too low.

“I see that you are here for your routine checkup with Dr. Goldstein?”

“Yeah, never been more ready!” You’re so weird. Why did you say it like that? Jim could already see the assistant recoiling.

She led him down the hallway of the medical center, stopping him at a Renoir print and sitting him down to check his pulse, and then his breathing and vision.

“Everything looks good. If you’ll just step on the scale for me.” Her eyes itted at his potbelly before quickly averting her glance to readjust her glasses.

“Mmhmphhh.” It groaned under his weight, and the 257 pounds seemed to clock him in the face. When was the last time he weighed himself? Before the MET Gala? A er the Golden Globes red carpet? The nurse silently put his numbers into the computer.

minutes. 15 minutes.

That’s it. Time for some LinkedIn stalking. Let’s see who this Adam Goldstein person that my mom has peed her pants over. Adam Goldstein–Columbia University School of Medicine, New York, Board Certi ed Orthopaedic Specialist and Fellow of the American Academy of Orthopaedic Manual Physical Therapists. Physician team leader of my clinic.

The blinding, bright white smile of his pro le picture irked Jim, who had not updated his own status since college. He scrolled down to read more: “Adam is a competitive bicycle racer. In his spare time, he enjoys running marathons, horticulture, reading business magazines, and being a father to his ve kids.”

Pshht. Yeah right. Like anyone really enjoys those things. It was like his face popped right out of those doctor stock images. Literally no tooth out of line, perfect hair, his shoulders having the angular build

of a DXracer chair.

He could already see Adam’s whole life: born and raised in a cookie-cutter suburb, muscular, tall, all-American star of the football team and starter. Graduated from an Ivy League school where he had lots of girlfriends and went to lots of parties, but when time came around, knew to hunker down and study. Married, had kids, now lives in a McMansion in a gated community, making a 6- gure salary and vacationing in his private beach house in the Hamptons every other summer.

He looked out at the fourth- oor o ce on Park Avenue with a view of Radio City Hall and MoMA. He had been to those places once, excitedly photographing the dancers and paintings and developing them on lm in the lightroom at NYU Tisch School of the Arts. Now…

“James! SO nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you from your mother.” He reached out to shake Jim’s hand but was too rm. Jim felt his acute weakness being crushed by the coldness of Dr. Goldstein’s grip.

“A-actually…it’s Jim. I took it so people wouldn’t confuse me with my dad–that’s less of a problem now that he’s dead.” Jim could already tell he said too much; the doctor’s 10 kilo-watt smile had already faded a bit.

“So, it looks like you put in the questionnaire that you have some back pain?” He glanced down at the clipboard.

“Uh, no. Knee.”

“Okay, let’s take a look. Come up on the table for me.”

Jim struggled to hike himself onto the table. This is so embarrassing, he thought, it’s just like I’m a kid again.

Dr. Goldstein prodded and put pressure on his knee, asking Jim where he felt the pain as he winced and tensed up.

“Jim, what do you do for a living?” Dr. Goldstein concernedly looked up.

“Um… I’m a freelance photographer.”

“So, what do you photograph?”

“Lots of things–mainly public gures.”

“Public gures, so have you met the president? Or

the pope?” Dr. Goldstein laughed with a haughty “ho hoa ho” at the idea that this blubbery man could have possibly met the pope.

“N-not really…more like Joaquin Phoenix walking his dog, Natalie Portman sending her kids to school, that kind of stu …I mean, I dooo crouch down a lot.”

“Oh..” The doctor’s grin changed into a furrowed brow. A look of disgust ashed across his eyes for the tiniest second. “A lot of the time, when there is a lot of pressure put on a joint for extended…”

But Jim wasn’t listening. The doctor’s look of disgust lingered in his mind as he blankly glanced at the ier reading Oral herpes fast facts, thinking back to that magical day when he rst saw a camera…

“James, come over here, I have a surprise for you.” These were unusual words from his normally uptight and stoic-faced dad, who, for as long as eight-year old James could remember, ate two slices of toasted bread and oatmeal for breakfast, le for work at 8:30 sharp, and came home at 7:00 without speaking to the family, spending the rest of the night watching the evening news or reading a book, replying with curt yeses and nos.

So, naturally, James excitedly and nervously rushed down the stairs to meet his father, who was opening a medium-sized box wrapped in shiny yellow decorative paper.

“I received it from a client today.”

Emblazoned on the box were the words Polaroid SX-70 in bright, bolded letters. His father showed him how to properly load the lm inside the camera and took a picture of Jim’s chubby hands. Like magic, the picture instantly came out the bottom slit of the camera. He knew, from that day on, what he wanted to be when he grew up: a photographer.

Jim’s father never bought more lm for the camera. But for the rest of his life, Jim would remember the satisfying, blissful, clicking noise. If only he could take pictures every second of the day, he would be able to save those temporary moments of beauty forever.

Fall semester came and went, and the days passed in a blur of classes, late-night philosophical

discussions of love , and early morning co ee at Joe’s. Museums, plays, shows, productions oversaturated him and for once, he was truly living.

On Saturday nights, when the dining halls closed early, they would go to a museum for free with their student IDs right before closing time, bask in the near-emptiness of the exhibits, and then out for dinner at a fancy restaurant, annoying the waiters by just ordering one item and splitting the bill. Yesterday, they ordered an entire lobster—It was restaurant week.

This morning, he invited Kate, Alise, Julian, and Marques to a picnic on the edge of Washington Square. They dazedly dri ed in a Sunday a ernoon trance, snacking on stolen dorm foods and free donuts. He loved how the sunlight played with Alise’s hair, and almost wasted all his lm just touching it, bending it to make patterns on the lush grassy shade.

“Stop! You’re getting it dirty!” In mock anger, she tossed her glistening locks and pulled it back before lying down on the plaid mat again..

The shutter exposure that made her look like an angel and the warm lighting accentuated her pink undertones. Portraiture requirement? Check.

$38,000. He stared at the number on the bill. The fancy stationery paper with Eugenia Posterity Clinic emblazoned at the top couldn’t soothe his eyes as he rubbed them once more.

“Honey, we can get by; I’ll work another job, and you’re doing so well at the modeling agency. If we really want a baby…” She compassionately rubbed his shoulders, and Alise’s hair brushed his cheeks. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her there just wasn’t enough money.

“Just, leave me alone for a sec, okay? I think I need to go on a walk.” He just le . Just had to get away from everything. He rushed down the stairs of their apartment and walked outside. There was a crowd right outside of the bagel place that just opened. This many people? This seems a bit much for a Sunday a ernoon, even for New York. Something else was a bit o . He thought he heard…cameras?

“Selena. Selena! Over here!”

“Selena, what do you think about Justin Bieber’s new girlfriend?”

As he passed the crowd, he realized that it was a cluster of paparazzi following Selena Gomez, whose attempt to shield her identity with glasses and a thick scarf was unfruitful. He used his Fuji lm compact camera to snap a few photos before excitedly going back up to his apartment.

“No way! Show me the pictures—” They bonded once more over photography, the medium to which they owed their love to. Every camera was tied some way to Alise. He had taken thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of photos of her as they traveled, ate, and just existed together on this Earth.

As if it knew, he came across the most peculiar ad on his laptop: Sell Photos of a Celebrity. He clicked.

“I said, would you like to take joint pain medication? I would recommend trying to exercise more and stop putting so much pressure on your knee, but I can always prescribe medication if you need it. Perhaps physical therapy?” The doctor was now typing notes into a computer.

“No, I’m ne.” Ha! You really think you can take my money just like that? Not today! “I think I’ll just stop my job for a while. It’s not as exciting for me anymore, anyway—I want to bash my head in sometimes when I realize I’ve wasted four hours of my life just to take a picture of Leonardo Dicaprio eating a croissant and could’ve been spending time with my wife.”

“Alise! Guess what? I just saw Selena Gomez!”

$500. That’s how much he made for one photo. The highest bidder, some random tabloid, paid $500 for his photo! That was how much he made in a day! If he could take ve, ten good pictures in a day, they would be set for IVF!

Alise told him he was insane but no, she just didn’t realize how much money there was to be made.

On Star Spotter, he became a head tracker, getting up at 4am on a Saturday or cutting o his lunch just to catch Kendall Jenner in-between shows during New York Fashion Week.

Scarlett Johansson walking back from Trader Joe’s? $1,000.

Taylor Swi walking home from the gym with her other supermodel friends? $2,000.

Kanye West holding North West sitting on his shoulders going to his exclusive smokescreen church? $6,000.

Soon he had reached the $38,000 mark.

“Jim, this is dirty money!” His wife said one thing, but he knew she was completely adoring that they nally had enough. Her tone shi ed. “Once we have a baby, everything’s going back to normal, right?”

“Right.” He smiled into her eyes, savoring the gleam of hope in her eyes.

“W-w-what?? Sorry. I blanked out for a minute.”

“His wife said one thing, but he knew she was completely adoring that they finally had enough.”

“Good for you.” His half-worried-half-disgusted look appeared again. “Well, I’ll have the nurse give you the report. It was nice meeting you, Jim. Hope I see you again next year for your checkup!” The condescending smile that made Jim want to hurl a coconut pie in his face appeared again as they awkwardly shook hands again.

On the subway ride back home, Jim read the report that the doctor wrote: “Vision good. Reported knee and joint pain, recommended medication but patient chose lifestyle change to lessen pressure on knee joints.”

Lifestyle change. Yes, I like the sound of that. A er today, I’ll nd a better job, yes, no more paparazzo soul-draining work for me. I’ll buy some spring mix salad on my way home. Attached to his medical numbers were four pages of healthy tips: “How to eat healthier,” “Incorporating an exercise routine into your life,” “Pause before you snack,” “Controlling your eating habits.” Thanks doctor, real subtle.

He lugged the heavy groceries (he had decided to go for some miniature pizzas, Diet Coke, and stroopwafels, to balance out the salad) up the stairs to his Brooklyn apartment, and before he could open the door—

“Daddy, daddy, we made cheesecake with strawberry jam on top!” Rosaline held up a plate of golden brown cheesecake slices with jam haphazardly rubbed all over it. Two-year-old Poppy trailed closely.

“They’re baking again.” Alise smiled, gesturing to the mess of bowls, towels, and used utensils on the kitchen counter.

“Daddy’s diet can start tomorrow.” Jim popped a cheesecake bite into his mouth, savoring the delicious strawberry jam melting into the creamy, tangy cheese. “Mmmmmmm.”

artiste Daisy Zhang, '24

Photography

THE WATCHER

Written by Sophie Cao, ‘26 | Designed by Jordan Pham, ‘24

My sister’s hair was brown.

It had always been brown, with tips that naturally turned golden in the sun. The tangerine light was fading and I walked faster behind her. The corner store on Folsom and 25th St. didn’t o er the best quality hair supplies, but the prices were cheap and the ladies at the counter didn’t ask for a een-percent tip on shiny iPad registers like name brand grocery stores did.

Hannah, or Hanes as I called her, had gone down the hill from our house to buy the cheapest brand of box dye for Papa’s weekly Sunday shopping. Papa likes to look his best, but he can’t make the steep trip down the hill to get box dye like he used to. He’s constantly grumbling on and on about how he “isn’t getting any younger.” I can see it in his frown lines and the grays that push into the crown of his head. Brown hair dye was always on the grocery list now, above the milk and below the broccoli.

One late a ernoon, Hanes was brushing the dye onto Papa’s head with an old paintbrush, just like every other Saturday. Momma loved to tease Papa about the grays that constantly popped up on his head. Recently, though, Papa’s hair had become even more brittle than before, and dark gray strands scattered over his pillow and on the kitchen oors, trailing behind him like dust on old china.

Hanes was distracted that day, and was mixing the dye slower than usual. The mustard-looking paste soaked through the graduation-themed paper plate and onto the counter.

Papa tsked, and made a mad grab at the plate with his skinny hands while scolding Hanes.

“Clumsy girl! Be careful!” he shouted as he fell o

the tiny Little Tikes chair.

Papa’s soggy hair strands dropped opped over his eyes and stuck all over his face, and Hanes snatched the plate from his hands as he hit the ground. Hanes was already pulling him up from the ground with the little teal chair. Her eyebrows were pinched, even as she hu ed a laugh and helped Papa stand up properly. The frown lines on Papa’s face deepened in a scowl, which just made Hanes laugh all the much harder, with the crease between her eyebrows easing.

When Papa had nally le to rinse his hair, muttering about disrespectful teenagers, the last of the daylight had already ltered into an evening blue sky.

“Benji!”—Ben was for everyone, but “Benji” was reserved for Hanes—“Get me another paper plate!” Hanes shouted.

“The Momma of today only came home long enough to eat cold leftovers and sleep until the sun rose.”

her wake up in the early morning to cook burnt eggs, and leave before the sun rose. I remember when the stories stopped altogether, too.

I never really cared that there were no more fairytales to hear. Toy cars and Pokemon cards from the latest garage sales always kept me busy enough. But Hanes always wanted to hear the last bit of Perseus’ adventure that Momma never nished. When she nally gave up on waiting for that perfect ending, she gave up on falling asleep on the downstairs couch, waiting for the sound of the clunking garage door, too.

When I stepped into the garage, the air was moist and almost sticky. I didn’t stop to step into the faded slippers le by the door and went to pull a few plates from some shelf. I paused at the sight of the dusty picture frame of Momma and Papa’s wedding that peeked around the corner of a box of old toy cars. Something about the painting always made Momma’s eye twitch, and I can still picture Hanes taking the picture down.

Something dropped upstairs. The sound was bright against the slow dripping leaks in the garage that hit like a roll of thunder a er a strike of lighting. I rushed inside, my steps quick against the concrete oor and the dirt particles pinching against the balls of my feet.

Hanes was gone from the kitchen, and the dye brush was lying on the ground. And I knew.

“Brown hair dye was always on the grocery list now, above the milk and below the broccoli.”

“Get it yourself! Or ask Momma to get it for you!”

She threw her head back in a laugh. “She wouldn’t know where it is.”

I sco ed, but I still got the plate from the dingy garage. She was right, though. Momma worked in the little shop down the hill where she’d shout French at some random employees to box toothpaste faster. The Momma of today only came home long enough to eat cold le overs and sleep until the sun rose.

I still remember the version of Momma who played with us on the grass that used to sprout in our front yard, or who walked back home tired from work but awake enough to tell bedtime stories to me and Hanes. I remember when she came home holding a crisp white paper with one more zero on the paycheck than last Saturday. Suddenly, she was out of the house and only home long enough to fall asleep before she’d nish our stories. We watched

“Hanes?” I called up the stairs. I half expected Papa to yell down the stairs at me for being too loud, even though he’d stopped having enough breath to spare on things like that. “Hannah?” Hanes appeared at the top step with a look that would stay on her face like the hair dye that was never fully wiped from the countertop.

“Call 9-1-1.”

I tried to convince myself that I didn’t really know what happened. The only thing I let myself remember now is that Hanes almost hugged me.

We never hug. Some long-held familiarity from that routine is what stopped her from taking me in her arms that night, of all nights. I still nd myself wishing I’d just swallowed my pride and hugged her rst.

Momma hadn’t shown up yet, so Hanes had to handle the insurance. She seemed more and more like just “Hannah” every minute that passed in the hospital waiting room.

“The veins on his hands stood out, just like the bones in his wrists with his skin hugging so close to him. ”

When Momma nally arrived, she saw Papa and took his hand. The veins on his hands stood out, just like the bones in his wrists with his skin hugging so close to him. Her hands looked so as cotton as she gripped him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. I knew she meant it for more than just then.

The monitor beeped back a quiet I know. I’m sorry, too.

Momma stopped going to work a month a er it happened. I could see traces of Papa throughout the remnants of emptiness, but I guess it was the opposite for her. She saw him in the little pieces that were kept in the same spots he le them: a slipper at the bottom of the stairs or a belt that laid on their dresser.

I saw how Momma would unconsciously dri into the garage on silent feet, too. Her eyes would stare holes into the wedding day portrait like there was some secret message tangled in the brush strokes and yellowing varnish.

The week a er it happened, Hanes went back to the little drugstore where she bought the dye. She didn’t sit in Papa’s Little Tikes chair, but she picked up the brush from the counter and the same type of graduation plate. She mixed the mustard-looking paste all over the plate, careful that none of it leaked through, and slathered it all on her hair in the bathroom mirror. Hannah let it seep into her hair for far too long as she stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t even notice me observing her from my bed. We didn’t speak.

When she washed the dye from her scalp, her hair wasn’t that rich shade of brown like Papa’s.

My sister’s hair was purple.

Hannah started work in the corner store box dye supplier the following day. Someone had to pay the hospital bills and someone had to buy the water jugs for tea, so Hannah did both.

It stayed like that for a while. The summer sun faded, and the holidays crept by. Cold winter

turned to blooming apple blossoms at the corner storefront, but nothing really seemed to change.

We visited Papa every Sunday for grocery day. We never said much. Momma was the one who lled silences with her boisterous teasing. She was too lost in her own thoughts to say much now. Hanes and I took turns telling Papa about the good things, things he would’ve laughed at.

It was a rainy Sunday when we visited that week. I brought Papa’s old green blanket to keep him warm in the sterile hospital temperatures. Momma brought the little candied lemon drops Papa used to eat from a bakery down the hill, and some crackers he used to snack on, even if he insisted we have some instead. Hannah brought a slip of stark white paper.

Every time we visited, each of us would take turns whispering our own little stories to Papa. An update on each of our lives, no matter how miniscule the events seemed to be recently.

Hannah pulled her chair closer to Papa’s side. Just before the door clicked shut, and Momma and I le the room, I heard the mummer of Hanes’ voice. The sound was just enough to make out the words that her lips formed, over the beep of the heart monitor.

“USC. I know it’s not the one you wanted, but I want it.” Her words were sti but sure, and I could picture her hands gently tucking the blanket around Papa’s arms.

“But how could we be the ones to sway the hands of life?”

Nostalgia

Rayne Huang, ‘26

Digital

A er Hannah stood up from her chair, the doctors told us that we had a choice: to keep him or to let go. But how could we be the ones to sway the hands of life? Letting go was never really in the cards.

Momma signed the papers in blue ink.

We didn’t speak. Hannah didn’t protest or scream or beg like I desperately wanted her to. We just watched as Momma signed away Papa’s life like it was an old box of dye.

We had just a month more of Papa’s heart monitor begging me to save him. It pleaded with me in a language I couldn’t decipher.

When the day came, I weeped. Maybe I was being childish. Maybe I should’ve let myself make peace with it sooner. Or maybe I was just a boy, een and letting go of my Papa’s hand for the last time on a morning that didn’t seem to have any e ect on the rest of the world that spun and spun and spun.

Hannah didn’t say goodbye. I wanted to slap her, force some sense back into her stubborn head, but I didn’t.

The three of us sat in the beat up sedan, Hannah driving, silent as the hospital room was. Home was quieter than usual. There was nothing le to do, so I slept, my head in Momma’s lap. Momma didn’t cling to me even in sleep, though I still gripped so tightly onto her so hands.

Hannah le early the next morning. She didn’t say a word to Momma.

“Do you regret it?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.”

As she drove away, I didn’t wave; didn’t cry. The sun dropped below the horizon, and I went back inside.

THE FORGOTTEN AISLE

Written by Riya Patil,

‘24 | Designed by Julia Huynh, ‘24

So whispers and light footsteps echoed through the aisles, the musky almondy-vanilla scent of paper and ink on the shelves permeating the air. Stacks of books sat in various corners, pulled o the ledges and le abandoned a er being tri ed through.

While the other aisles were lled with readers, she alone was wandering the history section, eyes ickering over the lines of old documents and cultural textbooks. She stopped, her ngers trailing down the spine of a war novel, pristine and untouched despite having occupied the shelf for a good number of years.

She pulled the book out, admiring the undamaged case binding and new book smell, the satisfaction of being the rst to open the book seeping in. Satisfaction turned to surprise when a thin envelope fell out from between the pages, dropping to the oor with a light ap.

A er a moment of hesitation, she crouched down to pick up the envelope, glancing around to check if anyone was watching. Turning it around, she read the loopy handwriting on the front: To Whoever Might Open This Book.

A ash of dismay hit her at the realization that she was not in fact the rst to open the book, before being overcome by curiosity. She opened the envelope neatly, pulling out a messily folded piece of paper, and started to read.

Hello stranger,

Sorry, but I’m not on the run or anything exciting, I’m simply bored. Well, not bored per say, I have quite a lot of things I should be doing right now. I’m tired of what’s around me, everything and everyone is the same. Since you’re reading this, stranger, maybe you also are bored enough to pay attention to me.

If anyone even nds this and cares enough to continue reading, check next in the WWI ction section.

The rest of the letter devolved into a variety of topics that, admittedly, made her head spin. Even so, she couldn’t take her eyes o the paper until she reached the bottom, the letter signed o with a ourish: Yours Truly, Pikachu.

She let out a surprised laugh that quickly turned into a cough as a nearby patron shushed her. Tipping her head in apology, she folded up the paper again and put it back in the envelope. Her ngers moved to place the letter back into the pages, and she paused for a few seconds before

pulling back and dropping it in her book bag instead. Feeling like a criminal, she walked out of the bookstore, the envelope weighing heavily on her mind.

The following week was painful, forcing herself to wait a while before going back to see if Pikachu le another letter, especially when it was all she could think about. Surely she had better things to do, but not even her friends or love for staying indoors could stop her from making a beeline to the history aisle a er seven days were up.

WWI ction section, she mused, browsing the section headers until she got to what she was looking for. Her eyes twitched, nearly thirty books staring back at her. Swearing under her breath, she took to tri ing through the novels, until at number seventeen, a light envelope dropped out.

Not bothering to even read the title, she scrambled to push it back on the shelf, reaching down to swi ly pick up the letter and unfold it. To her delight, it was substantially longer than the last.

To The Unlucky Person Who Is Now Stuck With Me:

This is one of my favorite novels, you know? And yet nobody seems to know it.

She looked up at the shelf, trying to remember which book she had pulled the letter from. A er a couple minutes of static, she recognized the binding and sheepishly turned back down.

To be completely honest, I wasn’t expecting someone to actually nd this so fast. I thought eventually someone would pick up that book, give or take a couple decades. You a history nerd yourself?

Smiling, she shook her head slightly. No, just someone who got lucky.

The rest of the letter amused her as she read, as the mysterious author got to speaking their mind again. Well, his mind. He was a high school junior, same as her, who liked reading obscure literature and novels that were brilliant but unheard of. He liked anime and knitting and things that she had never given a second thought to.

I don’t even know who I’m talking to lmao, but it’s kind of fun bearing your heart out to strangers who don’t know you. At the very least, it’s easy to be myself here rather than with the people around me. Thanks stranger, and if I haven’t bored you yet, maybe give the Nordic Noir section a shot.

Yours Truly, Kirito.

She shook her head. Who even is Kirito? Putting that aside, she breathed out a sigh of satisfaction, folding up the letter and dropping it into her book bag. Turning to leave, her eyes roamed the bookshelf until they landed on the title she found the letter in.

She continued staring at the book, while her ngers tightened their hold on her bag, ruminating over what to do. . . Fruitless back and forth ensued, until she forced herself out of it and grabbed a pen and loose sheet out of her bag.

Putting pen to paper, in the nicest handwriting she could muster:

Dear Pikachu/Kirito,

And, without knowing prior what she wanted to say, the words came out freely and bled onto the page, lling it line by line until the whole sheet was marked. She told him about herself, her friends, her love for videogames and mystery novels, and how she didn’t have a reason to be in the history section other than nding herself there a er recovering from a daydreaming episode.

Yours Truly, Herobrine.

And so it continued. Every week she would nd his letter in a book that looks untouched from a genre she’s never heard of in her life, and would leave her own note in the same one, skipping home and humming like a schoolgirl with a crush.

She watched Naruto and read a sci- novel that somehow both had no plot and was fascinating at the same time. He told her about his opinion on Hercule Poirot and regaled his exploits of continuously dying in fps games.

The image she had of him was carefully being built up with each letter she received. Is the dimple on the le or the right? He said he was the type to wear hoodies and jeans with mismatched socks. How tall did he say he was again?

Yours Truly, Toadette. Tucking the letter in a Solarpunk book with a bizarre cover, she thinks that she might want to meet him in person. Even if it shatters the image she created. Even if it ruins the illusion of a stranger who can take everything she has because he’ll never truly be there to take it from her.

She cast another glance at the book with the sealed envelope, before letting it go and walking out of the aisle.

The next week, she returned to the history aisle,

the rst time in a while she’s been there. Inserted into the pages of a historical romance, a short letter carrying a large message arrived.

To The Lovely Toadette: If it’s alright with you, do you want to meet in person?

Yours Truly, Ichigo.

A bright smile split across her face and she hurried to write out an a rmation, nishing it o with the regular signature and the pen name Link, before slipping it into the pages of the historical romance and rushing out the doors.

Next week, she’ll let him suggest where and when they’ll meet. The week a er, she’ll agree. She can worry about a er that when it gets there. For now, she’s lled with an electrifying excitement for his next letter, and the anticipation of meeting at last.

The week became a blur, and seven days later found her en route to the bookstore. A particularly hot day made the sun beat down on her, burning imprints of its gaze onto her skin, until nally, she pulled the door to be greeted by the awaited cooler air. Focus set on the history aisle, she brushed past the throng of students in the fantasy section, muttering distracted apologies to them.

Realizing he never listed a new book to look in, she picked up again the historical romance she le her note in. Admiring the cover, she remembered what he said about it. How it was his favorite one, because their love never waned even a er years of separation.

Opening the book, her hand darted out to grab the letter before it hit the ground. Unfolding it slowly, the smile that had spread across her face fell, her

mouth curled down slightly. Instead of neat, loopy handwriting, she was faced with a messy scrawl of barely legible script. Instead of a new pen name, the same Dear Ichigo she wrote stared up at her.

Mouth dry and veins lled with ice, she placed the letter back in the book numbly, and turned to leave. It will be there next week.

Except it wasn’t.

In the weeks that followed, she checked desperately within the same pages of the historical romance, in the same section of the bookstore, and yet each time the same note mocked her. A er two months of silence, she picked up the book with the letter inside, purchased it at the counter, and never stepped foot in the bookstore again.

10 Years Later

Waiting at the bus stop, she let out a slow exhale, watching as her breath condensed into a misty cloud of water before disappearing. Craning her neck to check the weather, she concluded it was much too cold to walk. Her husband would get insu erable if she caught something. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a familiar, worn-out novel, detailing two lovers who, against all odds, found their way back to each other.

“That’s a good book,” a voice said beside her, causing her to jump and look to her le . The man rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry for the scare, I just don’t know many people who’ve read that.”

Her lips turned up in a slight smile, “It’s really good, someone recommended it to me a long time ago.”

Eyes widening slightly, the man was silent for a moment before hu ng out a laugh, “Good books will always be good books, I suppose. Say… do you know which bus leads to the south city apartments? I used to live here when I was in high school but we moved pretty suddenly a er a personal incident, and now that I’m back all the routes have changed.”

Letting out a chuckle, she pulled up the routes on her phone, pointing out the correct stops to switch over at. He thanked her, and a heavy silence settled between them until a bus arrived and the man stood up.

“Thanks again for the help,” he smiled, a dimple creasing his le cheek, “My wife always says I have my nose buried in books too much to understand the real world.”

His smile was contagious, and she returned it. “No problem, there’s a bookstore down the corner of that street if you’re interested, that’s where I got this novel.”

Face falling expressionless, he stared at her long enough for her to wonder if she said something wrong.

Until he turned around and spoke just loud enough for her to hear over the background chatter: “I know. I particularly like the history aisle, though without her I’m sure it's just as forgotten as it was before.”

Then he was gone, and she sat there unmoving, spine straight and staring emotionlessly at the bus until it was out of sight. And, releasing a breath shakily, she got up and strode down the street, willing herself not to run until she reached the entrance of a bookstore she hadn’t entered in nearly a decade.

The musky smell of books hit her as hard as the nostalgia, nearly causing her to fall over. Counting the aisles as she walked, the one she was looking for came into view. Speed-walking down the historical aisle, her eyes landed on a familiar war novel. Still in prime condition, waiting on the shelf for someone to nd it.

Pulling out a pencil from her bag, she searched around for something to write on, nding only a small index card. She willed her hands to stop shaking as they wrote Dear Pikachu, and continued to ll the card to the brim with everything she wanted to say. She signed it o with her name.

Slipping the card into the book, her body feeling lighter than it had in years, she turned without hesitation to leave the aisle.

A week later, she found an envelope stuck in the pages of the novel. Forgotten Pages

Written

by Evelyn Wang,

UNPRODUCTIVE CAT CONGRESS DRAWS FIRE

WASHINGTON—Lawmakers in both the Senate and the House are facing criticism a er the current session of the 119th Cat Congress was once again suspended Monday, following the unexpected introduction of a cucumber on the Senate oor, a development that prompted majority leader Sen. Butterscotch Pudding (D-NY) to call a recess so he could attempt to ingest it.

The cucumber delay marks the twentieth incident from the start of the year that disrupted congressional proceedings. Prior disruptions this week included the rolling of a crumpled piece of paper on the House oor on Monday and Wednesday’s chaotic introduction of a vacuum cleaner that instantly adjourned all proceedings. Each lasted almost the entirety of a congress cat's working hours, adjusted for the scheduled, Constitution-given 18 hours of sleep legislators are entitled to. With all the interruptions to congressional activity, the Cat Congress has not passed any laws in the current year.

The lack of productivity has been subject to intense backlash, with critics accusing legislators of

“With all the interruptions to congressional activity, the Cat Congress has not passed any laws in the current year.”

“sitting around and licking each other all day” instead of focusing on issues such as the use of tape on countertops, the catnip epidemic, and the nationwide yarn ball shortage.

Big Mac With Extra Pickles, head of in uential political watchcat Congress’s Litterbox said that Congress’s current actions were “not what the Founding Toms would have wanted”.

“These irresponsible distractions and frivolous stoppages are absolutely unacceptable,” Big Mac With Extra Pickles said, adding that “Why should we pay these idiots?”

In response to widespread criticism of

Congressional unproductivity, Speaker of the Mouse Dipstick defended the actions of his colleagues, stating that “Certain provisions must be made in the interest of the public good. Cucumbers happen. Cardboard boxes must be sat in. It’s just how democracy works. While it is of the utmost importance that the Senate continues the legislative work at paw, it also is imperative that the cucumber receives the consideration and investigation it deserves.”

The cucumber is rst noted in the o cial record at 11 AM, interrupting all 100 senators, who had all spent several hours sitting unmoving on the Senate oor, staring trans xed and unblinking at an unknown object in the ceiling.

“I think I speak for most of my colleagues when I say that it is perfectly appropriate for me to eat this cucumber,” said Sen. Butterscotch Pudding, while knocking objects o his podium.

‘27 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

A majority of senators did not seem to agree with Butterscotch Pudding. Sixty congresscats immediately joined the newly formed Jumping Away From The Cucumber Committee, tasked with the directive of panickedly launching themselves away at the sight of the cucumber. A number of subcommittees with tasks such as back ipping o the wall and appearing to defy physics were also reported to have been created.

A minority of senators refused to acknowledge the cucumber altogether, most notably, Sen. Big Beef Boy (R-TX), who spent several hours attempting to ingest a plastic bag, the contents of his litterbox, and half a spider.

At press time, all government activity had been brought to a standstill a er a small robin was sighted outside the Supreme Court building through a closed window, completely mesmerizing all nine judges, and prompting Justice Heavy Machinery to make several jump attempts.

The Cat Times

Andrea Wang, ‘24 Pencil

HANDLING ANXIETY SUPPRESSIONS FOR TEENAGERS

Written by Kavya Gopinath, '27 | Designed by Sophia Tang, ‘25

“Homework, Sports, AP Classes, Midterms!” These are all the things that revolve a teenagers orbit. Fortunately, there are several ways you can turn your anxiety into positive thoughts.

Time Management

First, let's start with time management! Time management is a word you might have heard of repeated by your teachers and parents multiple times. Managing your time is a critical part of balancing your academics, Advanced Placement Classes, and other extracurricular activities you want to be part of. You can make time for everything you want to do, by not procrastinating and managing your work according to your schedule! If you master the art of managing your time wisely, the majority of your stress could be taken care of. Most of us have tight schedules and with planning we can make sure when to assign ourselves time to nish our work and have space for other activities. Making a mental note of what you have to do is not 100% e ective, because with all the thoughts leaving in and out of your mind, you are very prone to missing something. One suggestion that will help with the mind-boggling situation of “Oh shoot- I forgot I had this due today!”, is keeping a planner or an online tool you can check o your work as you nish them. Planners really help you get a visual of what you have to do and the amount of time you have le to study or turn in something that is due. Trust me, organizing things will get you o to a better start in all your classes. In fact, it's proven that 48% of students who are organized are more successful in college than others. Checking something o when you're done also makes your mind feel relaxed that you have nished your task. Remember that managing your time is vital to your success and it will signi cantly lower your stress relating to academics as well.

Cramming

This word might give you ashbacks! Do you recall those sleepless nights staring at a textbook trying to re-teach yourself everything you’ve learned in the past 6-weeks!? Pretty stressful memories! One way to avoid this feeling and feel prepared to ace your exams is to study every lesson every day and make sure you understand the material a er each lesson. The most common thing the average student does is leave their homework until a couple of days before the exam. Studying and reviewing your homework everyday and assessing your knowledge is key to having a successful grade in

“In fact, it's proven that 48% of students who are organized are more successful in college than others.”

your class and simply just understanding the skills you need to succeed. Cramming has proven to actually lower performance results since you push all new information to your short-term memory which causes a person to tend to forget most of the items. Also, when students tend to cram they take in the information with anxiety or panic which makes the information less able to stick! Intensively worrying before a test is something that is hard to deal with at the moment, however one way to prevent this is by growing is to ease yourself by understanding the concept. Rather than putting o work, doing it daily poses many advantages such as deeper understanding when reviewed.

Solutions

There are several strategies that can help reduce test anxiety. Learning how to study productively is one thing that could help. Join any clubs or organizations that give you study tips and study techniques, or simply just ask the teacher for help. Remember to keep up with your study cycle everyday and to regularly hit the books. One thing that would help you be more e cient in your studies is to talk to your teacher. Even though it might seem hard going up to them, they are the ones that actually know how to help you succeed. If you are experiencing any anxiety during tests, you should inform them so that they are aware and ready to help you. Lastly, exercise and sleep! Brain exercise can be as simple as the 5-4-3-2-1 senses technique that is really popular in colleges! Hopefully these tips work for you, and help you become a better student!

Ananya Anoop Rajendrababu, ‘27

EXPUNGE THE TYPECASTING: INTROVERT AND EXTROVERT LABELS ARE DETRIMENTAL

Opening my computer, I watched the screen light up and came face to face with a seemingly-innocent Buzzfeed quiz, the clickbait title reading “Breakfast choices that reveal whether you’re an introvert or extrovert.” I mindlessly scrolled through the test, naturally curious about which personality I would turn out to have. A er answering the last question, confetti fell from the screen and a sign popped up telling me that I’m none other than an introvert – someone who would rather spend time alone and read books than give speeches and go out. For a moment, I was confused. What if I sometimes like to isolate myself and other times socialize depending on the situation? Is the way I take my eggs really allowed to decide that? While this is a particularly absurd personality quiz, it is one of many available online that classify people as introverts and extroverts. These are terms that people in each group identify with proudly and words that we use to explain oddities or behaviors that we notice in others. While this may seem harmless at a surface level, it ends up having detrimental consequences on individuals’s lives and society as a whole.

For as long as most people can remember, the terms ‘introvert’ and ‘extrovert’ have been used to characterize individuals based on their behavior. These labels can be dated back in time to the early 1900s, when they were rst coined by the psychologist Carl Jung. Extroverts are people who typically gain energy from social interactions, whereas introverts are people who gain energy from spending time alone (Lotha). Jung made this distinction a er noticing the contrasting behaviors of di erent people in social situations. Using his theory as the basis of a new branch in psychology, several others expanded on personality study through the 20th century (Lotha). For decades now, the classi cation of introverts and extroverts have been used to determine several aspects of our lives, from education to relationships to jobs. For example, Synced is a dating app that forms the ‘ideal’ match based on personality tests and that at least 80 of the Fortune 100 companies hire people based on whether applicants are introverted or extroverted (Nunn). However, these behavioral classi cations are not as black and white as they may have initially seemed. More recent research has found that most people actually lie on a spectrum between extreme introversion and extreme extroversion (Edwards).

Written by Saanvi Dogra, ‘26

Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Fi y years a er Jung’s initial classi cation, psychologist Hans Eysenck coined a new term to re ect this — he created the word ambivert. Ambiverts are o cially de ned to have a balance of introverted and extroverted features and make up almost 70 percent of the population (Edwards). Scientists admit that the binary classi cation on introverts and extroverts in personality tests are inconsistent, rely entirely on unproven theories, and are no longer practical. Some experts even believe personality is a myth due to our constantly changing behavior (Stromberg). A new study by the University of Melbourne states that the majority of personality traits are experienced and learnt behavior rather than genetics, implying that

“In reality, individuals are much more complex than these stereotypical representations make them out to be.”

introverted and extroverted personalities aren’t set in stone, but rather change and evolve over time, similar to any other behavioral aspects, such as preferences to food. In di erent scenarios and conditions, people tend to act in di erent ways. To illustrate this, they explore several case studies of when people have transitioned from introverted to extroverted tendencies, or vice versa, over the course of their life (Nunn). Some systems shunning these limiting categories are already in place, such as the Enneagram of Personality, which is a psychological model of nine interconnected personality types. This blueprint promotes self-awareness as each person can have unique aspects of di erent personalities instead of con ning themselves to be one way (“The Enneagram Institute”).

However, the fact that introversion and extroversion aren’t scienti cally accurate doesn’t make them inherently bad. This division only becomes dangerous when it’s given importance in society. The use of these categories forces people to identify themselves as either introverts or extroverts, not a mixture of both. Introverts are o en characterized as observant and sophisticated

but socially awkward, whereas extroverts are considered ambitious and adventurous, but super cial and overbearing. In reality, individuals are much more complex than these stereotypical representations make them out to be. There are “introverts” who occasionally like public speaking, going out to parties, and talking to strangers. There are “extroverts” who sometimes love settling down with a book, spending time alone, and keeping quiet during a discussion (Beaton). Classifying people as introverts and extroverts o en compels them to conform to the standard behavior expected of them by their peers. Caroline Beaton from Psychology Today describes her own similar experience. In college Beaton determined that she was introverted through several online personality tests. While she de nitely had some introverted characteristics, the more she thought about this classi cation, the more introverted she convinced herself to become. In ve years, she went from enjoying a night out every so o en to telling herself that she was unable to give speeches (Beaton). A study by Paul Atkins from Australian Catholic University calls this the “self-as-story” phenomenon, referring to the fact that when you think of yourself as a certain way or label yourself to be something speci c, that’s what you become over time. It’s a self-ful lling prophecy that takes shape as someone patterns their behaviors to match what they expect from themself (Atkins).

This pressure doesn’t just come from ourselves, either. In her TED Talk, “In Defense of Extroverts,” Katherine Lucas discusses the double-standard and peer pressure that she faced from her colleagues. They originally considered her to be ‘too cheerful’ and ‘too extroverted’ to be in a position of power and intelligence, pushing her to conform to societal expectations. However, when she started acting stoic and con dent, like a respectable leader is ‘supposed to’, others got concerned that their job meetings would no longer be the friendly, welcoming place they were before. Some even went as far as to ask Lucas if she was feeling unwell, showing that no matter what she did, she would still struggle to meet others’ standards on the type of person she should be (Lucas). Neither introverts nor extroverts should need to change their behavior to accomodate the preconceived notions that are associated with these labels.

In addition to shaping people’s personalities through expectations, these classi cations create

divides that encourage dispute among millions of people. These days, the battle between introversion and extroversion is common, especially on the internet. With a simple google search, we can nd a plethora of articles, research papers, and magazines singing the praises of one group and calling for the downfall or ostracization of the other. While this petty back and forth may seem inconsequential at rst, the bias expands beyond just the front of a computer screen and can have damaging impacts on everyone’s lives. One prominent example of this is the Culture of Personality. The rise of technology and the dawn of globalization during the Industrial Revolution created a new level of interpersonal connectivity in society. Now, rather than living in the same place with the same people their whole life, humans merely have a few minutes to prove themselves to complete strangers in order to get a good job (McCann). Naturally, interviewers are drawn to more out-going and engaging people. Their tendency to speak up creates an image of ambition, con dence, and friendliness. This act of valuing charisma and attractiveness of employees over skill is called the Culture of Personality, and it's geared strongly towards extroverts (McCann). As a result, extroverts are 25% more likely to get a higher paying job than introverts. On a smaller scale,

teachers usually identify extroverted students as the best, revealing a subconscious partiality, despite the fact that introverts statistically get higher grades (Featherstone).

On the other hand, extroverts face the consequences of bias, as well. A common misconception about extroverts is that they are fake and unobservant due to their assertive and talkative behavior (Fielding). A study of 150 MBA students found extroverted individuals are seen as worse listeners by their peers. When asked to describe the potential characteristics of a stranger, participants associated extroversion with bad listening skills, despite never having met those people in their life (Reynolds). In contradiction to these commonly held beliefs, extroverts are almost as likely as introverts to have mental health issues like social anxiety and depression, especially because they tend to be people-pleasers and are particularly attuned to others’ opinions of them (Brown). This innate bias can be harmful for extroverts while developing relationships and interacting with new people. Clearly, creating communities that are supposedly introverted or extroverted creates a social divide and an imbalance in the opportunities available to both groups.

In general, while it may be fun to take tests online to determine what percentage extroverted and introverted someone is or to compare the breakfast choices for a good laugh with our friends, this practice can negatively a ect someone’s mentality, employment, and personality. We don’t need to stop taking personality tests entirely, however a large dependency on these classi cations can have dangerous consequences on our lives. Not only are certain groups unfairly perceived to be better in certain areas, but they are pressured into conforming to stereotypical norms rather than exploring their independent personalities. Rather than being purely introverted or purely extroverted, individuals lay on a spectrum between these extremes. Instead of de ning people as one thing, society should accept models like the Enneagram – systems that promote the rotating kaleidoscope of personalities, with certain aspects rising as falling away as people react to life. Limiting individuals, whose behaviors and complexities are changing everyday, with these labels is detrimental. By recognizing the interdimensional personalities of everyone around us, rather than judging their abilities by what they present to society, we can unleash a whole new world of potential and possibilities.

solitude

Andrea Wang, ‘24 Photography

MODERN MEDIA: THE OBSESSION WITH TEENS

Written by Shomili Sengupta, ‘24 | Designed by Aarohi Kanekar, ‘27

The entertainment industry seems to have a fascination with teenagers. From movies to shows to books, more o en than not, our age group is at the center of the story being told. Our relationships, struggles, and lives in general are being documented right in front of us. But is it accurate?

In the past century, the entertainment industry has mass-produced media targeted for teenagers/young adults. From romance and comedy to drama and mystery, thousands of teenagers’ stories were told, and millions of teenagers tuned in to hear them. However, these pieces may evoke a sense of unfamiliarity with viewers/readers because not everyone’s story is the same.

When asked if they thought portrayals of teens in modern media were accurate, most responded with no. One student’s reasoning was that teens o en don’t have the mental capacity to deal with most of the stu teens in modern media deal with. This student was one of many to bring up HBO’s Euphoria, saying that they portray teens “doing drugs all the time, having sex, and having really overly complicated relationships.” While the show is on the more extreme side, it shows how teens feel unfamiliar and can’t resonate with the worlds created on their screens.

One student said that modern media is inaccurate because “there’s such high standards set now for teens,” another saying that there’s “more pressure on teens these days.” Pressure is apparent in pretty

“The people we see or read about can influence the way we think, act, speak, and live.”

much everything we do, and with entertainment being so accessible to us, the people on our screens might pressure us into believing that the ctional characters on our screen are better than we are. Characters getting into Ivy League schools or looking a certain way that we don’t certainly add to the stress and anxiety teens deal with in everyday life, and with the unrealistic standards being set in the media we use to relax or escape, inaccuracy and unfamiliarity builds.

Another reason students believe that the portrayals are inaccurate is the abundance of stereotypes.

specular distortion

Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Photography

Classic archetypes like “the rebel” or “the nerd” and such are present throughout di erent entertainment mediums, and these make the characters feel more one-dimensional and not as complex and accurate as real life is. Stereotypes in general have been used so frequently that viewers/readers have gotten used to them at this point, which in some cases can make media seem redundant or feel like it’s been done before. Stereotypes can also be harmful simply because they oversimplify groups of people, struggles, relationships, etc and in some cases can make people feel like what they are going through is silly because it’s being played o that way in the media that they are consuming.

Finally, inaccuracies are most likely occurring because of the people making the media in the rst place. Young Adult (YA) books are not written by young adults for the most part, and shows and movies targeted to a younger audience are de nitely not written by the youth. Because of this, inaccuracies in terms of humor, mannerisms, etc occur since adults are the ones writing teenage characters. One student brought up that adults might use social media to understand teenage mannerisms, and portrayals of teens are slowly improving because of better awareness and understanding.

Along with writers, actors also play a huge role as to why students believe they are being inaccurately represented. Several students brought up that many of the actors in shows and movies that are playing teenage characters are actually much older, in their 20s or sometimes even 30s. These actors are fully developed and look di erent from most teens, meaning that when teens see them on their screens, they might feel insecure about their own body.

These pieces of media are obviously completely ctional and for entertainment purposes, but art can impact life, much like life impacts art. The people we see or read about can in uence the way we think, act, speak, and live. We o en nd comfort in these characters or take in uence from them, so it’s important to make sure that we aren’t stressing ourselves out because the characters we surround ourselves with look perfect, or appear to be perfect. The rst step is to acknowledge that in order to feel completely represented, the entertainment industry needs to account for the gaps between their stories about our lives and how they actually are.

SENIOR CARE: “THE INFLUENCE TEENS MAKE”

Written by Kavya Gopinath, ‘27 | Designed by Evelyn Wang, ‘27

It's not everyday you get an opportunity to impact your community”. Senior homes nowadays need our emotional and physical support to help them ourish and lead happy, healthy, and prosperous lives. As part of the HOSA team, I had the pleasure to run the Enchanted Village at Noah Homes Event.

The Enchanted Village at Noah Homes Event, is a holiday fair put on by the seniors located in that area. This is an annual event that happens every year to provide the seniors a joyful holiday experience during the holiday months. The Seniors located at those homes are in need of support and satisfaction that they do belong. Simply dedicating time to have a nice conversation owing or helping them with the groceries can impact their lives hugely. It makes them feel loved and gives them an opportunity to feel appreciated. This generation many individuals take simple activities for granted. Every one of us has plenty to give to make each soul content.

My experience volunteering at the event was pleasant. Even though our club only went there for 1 night, when I arrived home I felt that I made a di erence in the world. As I was checking inside the center a senior greeted me with a smile on his face as he was struggling to sit down on a chair. It was a bittersweet feeling. I instantly wished I could help him in whichever way I could, but it felt priceful to have him seem glad with our presence. That night was a changing experience for me. Even though I spent the majority of my time helping out the public visitors that came over to the cra booth, every moment I thought I was making a change. It made me happy that I helped the seniors around me feel jolly, bliss, and in the Christmas Spirit!

I encourage many highschoolers to either volunteer at this event as part of your school chapters club or simply buy tickets to visit this event with your families. The whole venue was beautifully decorated with strings of lights decking the air from pole to pole, the music along with the decorations inside served as a magical place to awe and celebrate, but most of all the festivity and laughter brought joy to many hearts! Anyone can make a di erence, it doesn’t need to be a giant leap, everything starts o small. As a community we can spark a change in many lives.

These seniors situated in Noah Homes undergo di culties such as intellectual and developmental disabilities. This non-pro t foundation provides them housing and care. These challenges the seniors are posed with a ect the minds of these aged people. These seniors are physiologically a ected by negative self-talk and society's

in uence on “normal”. As social psychology states, “the sense of belonging is an intrinsic motivation to a liate with others and be socially accepted”. Various models of the pyramid of needs have been made, and the most prominent one “Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs”. “Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs”, is a conceptual model that layers the needs/wants people tend to go for, once they are satis ed with the bare necessities. The model Abraham Moslow created was deemed to be a theory of physiological health that predicted the hierarchy of ful llment a human needs in priority. According to his model he orders the hierarchy of needs from Physiological Needs, Safety Needs, Love and Belonging, Esteem, and Self Actualization.

Let's break this down! Physiological Needs are basic resources society tends to take for granted since most of us are o ered these constantly. They consist of air, water, food, shelter, sleep, and clothing. We tend to take these resources for granted since they are mostly given to us without having to struggle. Once these criterias are lled for a person, they begin to crave Safety Needs. The next level too, is mostly taken for granted by high schoolers/teens since we are located in a safe-environment. However the American Physcology Association presents the data that 68%

of the U.S population believe that they are not safe. This level consists of Safety Needs such as personal security, employment, resources, health, and property. A er this level, citizens begin to request Love and Belonging. This level consists of core values that ow within family and friends. Within this category lies friendship, intimacy, family, and sense of connection. This is a layer many of us are still working to ful ll, we try to do our best to t in with society, and sometimes this could be hard since we each have our own values. This is also the level where seniors need more assistance with. Most of the seniors would be overjoyed to receive love and just be informed that they do make a di erence in this world. Simple positive phrases, or just having a nice conversation going can indeed make a di erence in this level.

The two levels a er this are the previous level are Esteem and Self Actualization. These two levels are the levels where we try to gain the quality attributes we need to be the best version of ourselves, and also steer us to the path we hope to be. So, next time when you are given an opportunity to make a di erence, go for it! You might consider giving back to society and raising someone's hierarchy of needs!

Written by Bailey Say, ‘24 | Designed by Kevin Tran, ‘25

The bathrooms at Del Norte High School have to be on the top 10 most interesting places I have visited, beating out the boy’s locker room but losing to Mr. Liao’s classroom (K105). It’s really quite fascinating—unique customs, unique aesthetics, unique people, unique lifestyles—it’s a far cry from the rest of the world we know as Del Norte. I think you should all visit at least one location someday. Please check current bathroom conditions before venturing out; you wouldn’t want to nd them inexplicably locked (probably to prevent the spread of COVID) even though it was open ve minutes earlier.

Walking into the bathrooms for the 400th time evokes a certain sense like no other—the musty scent of wet toilet paper lingering throughout; the beige walls, stained from years of abuse; the perpetually-wet oor, permanently covered by some unknown substance; the four white sinks, half of which are lled with water, toilet paper, or ketchup; the line of urinals whose black dividers are always clean (because they inexplicably disappear less than a week a er they’re installed); the small and large toilet stalls whose toilets are always lled with toilet paper or urine—nowhere else on campus can even compare to the overall atmosphere of these bathrooms. The relatively clean, brand-new feel of the campus and classrooms of Del Norte (which we stole from Westview) vanishes the moment you walk through those open doors and are transported 50 years into the future where Del Norte is as defunct as its bathrooms are and is no longer one of the most academically prestigious schools in San Diego, having lost its competitive students to the brand new school Del South (who stole its layout from Del Norte who stole its layout from Westview). Canyon Crest Academy will still be the best school in San Diego though (but that’s to be expected). Of course, the bathrooms will not have changed much; the only new addition will be holographic dividers between the urinals so that they won’t be stolen (although they will be broken within a week). Neither will have the “bathroom” people who usually reside there.

To be clear, I am not talking about anyone who uses the bathrooms at Del Norte like once or twice a day. I am talking about those people who hang out in the bathrooms with their friends during 1st, 2nd, break, 3rd, lunch, 4th, o ce hours, and 5th period on days ending in “y” (and also those people who use the bathrooms to take a dump, but their

existence has not yet been con rmed). How do I describe these people in a single word? Sagelike. These people have spiritually progressed far beyond the current state of 90% of Del Norte students, which is exactly why they paint their home territory to match their state of mind. These people are free in every conceivable way imaginable: Don’t clog up the sinks with toilet paper? I don’t think so. Don’t put refried beans in that urinal? Just watch me. Don’t trigger the re alarms by smoking “wisdom clouds”? You better brace yourself for that obnoxious ringing. They don’t even use normal bathroom passes; they use a marching band trophy that Del Norte won at Westview (this is real I promise). They truly are the undisputed champions of the bathrooms, having spent so much time in them. As such, it is not exceedingly di cult to encounter one of these sages. On any given day, there is approximately an 80% chance that you will see at least one of the aforementioned people upon walking into the bathroom. Of that 80%, there is approximately a 70% chance that you will see at least two of them. Of that 70%, there is approximately a 90% chance that you will see an entire group of them (this probability is even greater during breaks, passing periods, and lunch). Maintaining one’s shiny white throne requires immense dedication and passion, which is why the vast majority of these students have strayed away from the common path. Instead of listening to boring one-sided classroom lectures, they choose to discuss amongst themselves as a group in their private spaces. Instead of completing meaningless assignments, they choose to pursue enlightenment by producing “wisdom clouds” and performing other kinds of rituals. Instead of needlessly stressing themselves out by applying to 30 universities (of which they will only go to one), they choose to expand their creative horizons by

innovating new artistic expressions in the bathroom (usually involving food from the cafeteria). As a frequent visitor to these bathrooms (I drink a lot of water), I can say this: these people are completely unlike the rest of Del Norte. Or maybe not.

At this point, some of you may be scared to visit this foreign country, fearful of violating the customs of this minority population. But to be honest, they’re really just like everyone else. We’re all dumb kids who don’t know what to do with ourselves. We all have stupid inside jokes that nobody will ever understand. We all goof around in the most absurd ways possible (although for some that may involve the destruction of private property). The “bathroom” people may emanate a di erent vibe than the rest of Del Norte, and while it’s true they are di erent in certain ways, it’s also important to remember that they’re still just high schoolers like everyone else. Just like how we interact with the rest of Del Norte outside these sacred walls, we should generally try treating them with basic respect and courtesy (or at the very least pretending they don’t exist—minding our business while doing our business). And we could all stand to learn something from one another. Perhaps the “bathroom” people could focus a bit more on learning useful things from the adults in the classrooms they escape so frequently. And perhaps we can learn that our path in life is not limited to the classes and extracurriculars that some of us (at the very least) pursue for a prestigious university. It takes a lot of con dence to live unlike everyone else around you. Don’t you think that’s admirable?

I think so too, so that’s why I give the bathrooms at Del Norte High School an 8/10: more spiritual enlightenment, less “wisdom clouds”.

THE PRICES OF FREEDOM: HAITI’S INDEPENDENCE DEBT

Written by Michelle Wang, ‘26 | Designed by Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26

Haiti stands as a testament of resilience to constant exploitation, a product of the rst and only fully successful slave rebellion in history. The Haitian revolution began in 1791 and ended in 1804, leading to the emancipation of 500,000 slaves as well as formally gaining their independence from France. Haiti emerged as the rst independent black republic in the world, setting an inspirational precedent for oppressed peoples globally. However, woven within this inspirational tale of liberation emerged a factor that would cast a formidable shadow over Haiti’s political and economic state for more than two centuries: Haiti’s Independence Debt.

Haiti’s current situation

Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere and has been long plagued with poverty, civil unrest, and political and economic instability. In 2022, Haiti had a GDP per capita of $1,748, a notable distinction compared to the US GDP per capita of $76,399.

The country is heavily dependent on foreign aid. Between 2010 and 2020 the United Nations allocated more than $13 billion in foreign aid towards disaster relief and development programs, though Haiti still despairs. Currently, 59% of

“Currently, 59% of Haitians live below the poverty line.”

Haitians live below the poverty line. Over one- h of children are at risk of cognitive and physical limitations, and only 78% of 15-year-olds will survive to age 60.

The cost of freedom

A devastating consequence would emerge a er

General Jean-Jacques Dessalines led Haiti’s revolutionaries to victory in the 1804 Battle of Vertieres. In 1825, Louis XVIII’s successor, Charles X, sailed over to Haiti with 14 warships and 500 cannons. He o ered formal recognition of Haiti’s independence in exchange for a he y price tag: 150 million Francs. Rejecting this o er would certainly mean war. With its seaports surrounded by warships and the prospects of war looming overhead, Haiti had no choice but to agree. This would set Haiti down a vicious cycle of debt that would sti e its development as an emerging nation for centuries to come.

“He offered formal recognition of Haiti’s independence in exchange for a hefty price tag: 150 million Francs.”

The newfound debt was to be paid o in 5 separate installments to compensate French slave owners for their lost revenues from slavery. Because 150 million Francs was almost 10 times Haiti’s annual budget, the government was forced to empty its treasury and borrow 30 million Francs from French banks to make the rst two payments. It was no surprise when Haiti was unable to repay the substantial interest on the loans and subsequently defaulted.

The impacts

With the interest from all the loans, Haitians ended up paying more than twice the value of the colonists’ claims, stripping the resources Haiti desperately needed to build a prosperous nation. Jean-Pierre Boyer, the Haitian president from 1818-1843, was forced to increase taxes to pay back the loans as well as pause projects aiming to develop a national schooling system. The impacts stretched beyond the education system, as the independence debt is directly linked with inadequate access to healthcare and the country’s inability to develop public infrastructure, leading many to su er today.

Later on, Haiti's development faced added complications due to the 1915 U.S. invasion of Haiti. To justify their invasion, the United States claimed that they invaded Haiti to “restore order and maintain political and economic stability in the Caribbean.” However, in their attempt to “restore order”, the United States dissolved Haiti’s parliament at gunpoint, terrorized citizens, and controlled its nances for more than 30 years. In total, around 15,000 Haitians were killed during the U.S. intervention in the country. A er the U.S. siphoned o $500,000 from Haiti’s National Bank to Wall Street, it withdrew in 1934, leaving behind a legacy of poverty and exploited workers.

storm

Andrea Wang, ‘24

Acrylic

Sta Contributors

Nikki Hekmat, ‘24 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief

Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief

Tyler Xiao, ‘24 - Vice-president/Deputy Editor-in-Chief

Sophia Tang, ‘25 - Treasurer/Editor

Kate Xu, ‘25 - Secretary/Editor

Sophia Cao ’26 - Board Editor

Riya Patil, ‘24 - Board Editor

Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24 - Board Editor

Aliya Tang, ‘25 - Board Editor

Andrea Wang, ‘24 - Head of Art

Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26 - Co-head of Graphic Design

Daisy Zhang, ‘24 - Co-head of Graphic Design

Advisors

Mr. Thomas Swanson

Dr. Trent Hall

Writers

Saathvika Ajith, ‘24

Sophie Cao, ‘26

Saanvi Dogra, ‘26

Vidha Ganji Yadav, ‘26

Kavya Gopinath, ‘27

Nikki Hekmat, ‘24

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

Zinia Khattar, ‘25

Olivia Lam, ‘27

Allison Lee, ‘25

Cindy Liang, ‘26

Riya Patil, ‘24

Anna Prasouvo, ‘24

Bailey Say, ‘24

CONTRIBUTORS COLOPHON

Shomili Sengupta, ‘24

Sophia Tang, ‘25

Evelyn Wang, ‘27

Michelle Wang, ‘26

Joann Xie, ‘27

Daisy Zhang, ‘24

The Featheralist, Volume 06, Issue 02

Del Norte High School's Political and Literary magazine. Published on March 23, 2024.

Del Norte High School, 16601 Nighthawk Lane

San Diego, CA 92127

Phone: (858) 487-0877

Fax: (858) 487-2443

https://www.powayusd.com/Schools/HS/DNHS

https://dnhshumanities.weebly.com/ dnhshumanities@gmail.com

School Population

2,459 students

153 full-time sta

Font Families

League Gothic (titles)

Oswald (pull quotes)

Libertinus Serif (by lines/body text)

Computer Hardware and So ware

Windows 10

MacOS

Adobe Illustrator

Adobe Photoshop

Adobe InDesign

Paper stock

Cover: 100# Glossy Text

Inside: 80# Glossy Text

We would like to thank our printing company, Best Printing USA, for their steadfast technical support and consistent high quality.

Price of magazine

We rely 100% on local advertisers and student-essay-contest-award money to print our magazines. We print approximately 150 copies per issue depending on page count and distribute copies for free to the Del Norte student body and surrounding community.

Editorial Policy

The Featheralist is produced and managed entirely by members of the synonymous The Featheralist club, an 100% student-run extracurricular club. The Featheralist club members are divided into three distinct but coordinating departments: Writing, Art, and Graphic Design. Each department is led by a small group of student o cers.

The Writing Department collects dra s from both sta and guest writers. Student-led “editing squads” ensure that all articles are publication-ready. The Art Department curates artwork of all subjects, mediums, and styles through methods similar to the Writing

Artists

Emily Capua, ‘27

Ela Efe, ‘27

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

Brittney Huang, ‘24

Rayne Huang, ‘26

Riya Patil, ‘24

Ananya Rajendrababu Anoop, ‘27

Sophie Tran, ‘26

Kevin Tran, ‘25

Andrea Wang, ‘24

Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Graphic Designers

Sophie Cao, ‘26

Katherine Chen, ‘27

Angela Chen, ‘25

Julia Huynh, ‘24

Aarohi Kanekar, ‘27

Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26

Olivia Li, ‘27

Jordan Pham, ‘24

Karly Prasouvo, ‘26

Sophia Tang, ‘25

Kevin Tran, ‘25

Evelyn Wang, ‘27

Joann Xie, ‘27

Gloria Zhai, ‘27

Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Department. O cers screen all writing and art pieces for school appropriateness. Lastly, the Graphic Design Department combines verbal and visual content together into print-ready spreads.

The positions expressed in any of the articles are solely those of the individual writer(s). They do not represent the viewpoints of The Featheralist, nor those of Del Norte High School or the Poway Uni ed School District.

Mission Statement:

The Featheralist as a club exists to foster a collaborative and mutually edifying community of artists, writers, and graphic designers. We empower students to explore topics spanning the entire spectrum of the humanities — from screenplay to political essay, from poetry to short story. We serve as a megaphone to broadcast students’ unique ideas, experiences, and visions to the entire campus and the larger community.

Scholastic A liations

We are a proud member of the Columbia Student Press Association.

Cover art “adri ” by Andrea Wang, ‘24

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The Prices of Freedom: Haiti's Independence Debt

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LIFE IS A TIDE; FLOAT ON IT. GO DOWN WITH IT AND GO UP WITH IT, BUT BE DETACHED. THEN IT IS NOT DIFFICULT.

Prem Rawat