The Featheralist: Volume 05, Issue 2

DEAR ROSALINE

Written by Sophie Cao, ‘26 | Designed by Kevin Tran, ‘25

The chrysanthemums still haven’t sprouted. I’ve watered them, been to countless ower shops for fertilizer, and put them out on the brightest windowsill, but they never seem to want to grow. All that sits in the orange pot are the little browning stalks of green. Recently, I’ve decided to sit and talk to them in the mornings, pleading for them to sprout. I tend to perch on the sill, knees pulled up to my chin like how we used to sit together, with rays of daylight shining on my hair. Sometimes I wonder if my hair will lighten from its black color to a light brown like yours from sitting in the sun too long. I think I’m going a little bit mad without you by my side to comfort me. It seems like so long

took one good look at the jumble on the table and shook her head, tsking. Her tongue clucked like a mother hen counting her chicks. She carefully pulled the last of the jasmine tea we had le in our dusty cupboards and sat me down in the living room at the co ee table. The tea leaves oated in the water, little drops of shriveled petals uncurling in the steaming water. The chair’s cushion dipped a bit under my weight, plush and cozy. The velvet was so under me and I sank further into the familiar comfort.

Was it just a few years ago that Mother and I looked so similar? Sharp nose, bright eyes, and olive skin. Lively spirits colored like the sunrise. Now, while I observed her, all I could see were my sunken eye bags, sni y nose, and sickly skin in the bathroom mirror during lonely moments at dusk. My eyes bored into her, like my soul was reaching out to hers in a strange tangle of pink and blue, yellow and violet.

“Amina,” Mother’s voice already sounded like she was trying to reason with me. I blinked blankly towards the pot on the sill, my waist still tingling with the touch of your hands.

“How long has it been?” she sighed. There was a pause as I nally pulled my eyes o the unbloomed chrysanthemums. “Eight months? Nine?” A hu of hot breath blew out her nose. Her disappointment ached almost as much as the grief did. “I don't think you would’ve noticed if the sky fell.”

She burned reality into my skull as she spoke. My silence was enough as a reply for her.

the day I leave, I’ll see the world in black and white like the days I lived before you.since I’ve been able to sit and whisper secrets with you, and not a dirt- lled ower pot.

Letters have been streaming through our door’s mailslot, just like the sunlight through the big bay window, making a mess of the front hall. The envelopes all hold the same words, are from the same people, but I keep opening them. Ads shout numbers in my face, and the polite condolences still sting. I keep hoping there’s a letter from you. Sometimes I picture a divine being granting my wish to have you back in my arms in one of the envelopes.

Every day seems to get worse, as if the ball and chain I'm dragging grows in weight. Memories of your sweet notes and love poems replay in my head like a broken record. My desperation grows as I si through more and more letters, searching, reaching for a sign of you. Some days, I forget to water the chrysanthemums, spending so much of my time looking through the envelopes. They gather upon each other like snow falling in dri ing snow akes, leaving the cream cloth draped upon the table a stark white in the mess.

When my mother came over the other day, she

When Mother nally sat down on the low sofa across from me, she pursed her lips in a way that told me she had something to say. I glared at her thin line of shiny red lipstick as if daring her to speak up. The red reminded me of you. I know that everything reminds me of you lately, but I had almost forgotten the image of you before the day you were lowered into the ground. The picture of your closed eyes and cold skin scorned my mind and tormented any thought I had of you, but this one remained clear with your crimson lips.

Late a er visiting a bar in the evening, you had jumped up on our vanity, meeting my eyes with a shimmering gaze. We were drunk and giggly, but you were still as lovely as ever. You took the same red lipstick, the fancy kind you saved for special events, and ran the rouge over your lips. It was messy and uncaring, but when you bent down and kissed me it felt as gentle as a dandelion blowing away in the wind.

“Lipstick for the both of us!” you’d exclaimed, hiccupping in laughter. The sound was sugary in my mouth along with the taste of lipstick staining my teeth. I should've been much too drunk to have recalled when this happened, but I think I’d felt so loved in that moment that I didn’t dare forget it.

Mother’s cup clinks against the table, and it pulls me from the memory. Ghost hands of yours locked around my waist, begging me to stay with a saccharine smile. But when I reach up to cup your cheek, your translucent ngers pass through my body, leaving me to fall back into my bleak reality.

“It's time you move on.”

With those few words, she sipped at the last of her now lukewarm tea and stood to go. Her steps were slow and regretful, as if she longed to linger, but I didn’t watch her as she nally slipped out the back door. The leaves were still swirling in her bright yellow mug. Mine were le quiet and untouched at the bottom of my teacup, some still crinkled and unbloomed. I poured the le overs into the chrysanthemum sprouts in a stream of cold, bronzed water and took my place next to it. My knees curled comfortably against my chest like the still-shriveled-up tea leaves that dotted the pot’s soil.

The sun was sinking under the line of houses by the time I moved from my spot on the window ledge. The room felt hazy in the orange light, red through my closed eyelids, and my hair was frizzy in the humidity. An anxious, itching feeling swirled inside my stomach and I had the urge to run, with the door le wide open. To leave it all behind and never come back. I wanted to breathe free from this crime-riddled city and away from what could’ve been. Inhale the misty air with the scent of dew on grass instead of smog and booze. But you know I could never do that. I couldn’t bear to part with what I have le of you.

I think the love I hold for you has been laced in the blood that runs through my veins. My eyes burn rose-colored with it, and my ears are sensitive to the sound of your breaths. Maybe, the day I leave, I’ll see the world in black and white like the days I lived before you.

I can barely remember those days, when you and I hadn’t met, living just on the other side of the fence.

It was even warmer outside than it was inside the

“It seems like so long since I’ve been able to sit and whisper secrets with you, and not a dirt-filled flower pot.”

“She burned reality into my skull as she spoke. My silence was enough as a reply for her.”

house. The sun was just barely there, peeking up from the horizon as I walked down our driveway. The car seat stuck to my thighs, and a sheen of sweat glazed my forehead. Anxious sweat beaded at my temples. I drove around for a bit, letting the car meander its way around streets and avenues aimlessly until the purple and black at the crown of the skies devoured the orange sun. Tra c was just about lightening up, crowds dissipating a er the rush hour. It seemed almost quiet outside despite the city’s bustling. No sirens wailing or drills punching the ground. The streets were still packed, as New York roads always are, though. A stirring feeling racked throughout my body, sending a shiver crawling down my back, even in the warm air.

I nally put the stick shi into park as the evening turned into late night and early morning. I sat outside a bar in Greenwich Village, the quaint little area where you used to take me for strolls. The interior was lit up with rainbow lights and was strangely uncrowded for a Saturday night. Rock music boomed to where I sat, contrasting our car’s stereo that sang with the voices of Simon and Garfunkel in “Mrs. Robinson.” The melodies mushed together in a mellow rhythm. The air had cooled signi cantly, the wind caressing my cheek and blowing into my hair like the music that owed into my ears.

I swallowed the sweet air as if the aroma of the alcohol wa ing from the bar would get me drunk enough to forget what Mother had told me. If I tried hard enough, I could close my eyes and imagine you sitting in the passenger's seat, playing with the rings on my ngers and humming along to the lyrics. I listened so closely that I could feel your breathy voice in my ear. My eyes dared to blink open and watch you, to see you and smile again. When they nally opened, my vision of you was replaced by lights bouncing o the wing mirrors on the car. Blues and reds re ected onto my face, and I thought I felt a tear track down my cheek.

I watched in my rearview mirror as they burst into the bar. Their movements were sharp and sudden, like lions pouncing on their prey. The bar’s songs were the musical accompaniment of the violent dance. Yells fell into the background, bargoers’ rage complementing the red lights of the cop cars. No longer was the wind a gentle sway. It was a harsh blow of an o cer's st on a bar-goer's face. It was the shoving of men dancing with each other into the back of cars. The click of handcu s and the outrage of the men in the club as they tried to meet my eyes. I looked away in shame, eyes blurry and cheeks burning.

What would you have done, dear Rosaline? Would you have run out screaming at the o cers to unhand them? Would you have stayed silent as I did? Maybe I’m too much of a coward. My head is stuck in the dirt waiting for you to tap my shoulder and assure me all is well. In the end, I suppose I’m still as weak and stubborn as your damned chrysanthemum seeds. I drove o in silence untam-

pered by the muted radio. The shouts of police o cers faded while the humming car engine took me further from Greenwich.

When I got home, my head was pounding with blood rushing through my veins. My bed felt like sandpaper, gritty and sti ing. My eyelids drooped but my mind never dri ed asleep, le restless and distraught. Have my thoughts of you replaced my sense of humanity? The people crying out from the bar, the men with tears streaming as they were pushed into the backs of cars, for simply enjoying their night? They were just like us, yet I had averted my eyes as if witnessing a great sin.

When I nally arrived home, I fell asleep to birds tweeting and a whispering of morning chill on my skin. In my dream, or maybe it was a nightmare, you were there, oating and translucent in front of me in an abyss of nothingness. I was a motionless observer in my own body as I looked on at the scene unfolding. I watched myself sitting, ashamed, in our car while you screamed at me to move, to do something that you would’ve done. The past version of myself didn’t move, lost so far in her own need and grief for you that the outside was only an addition to my reminiscing.

I woke up the next morning and it was like I’d never slept at all. I made myself a cup of co ee, the rst in a long time. Your presence took so much from me that when your last breath le , a part of me did, too. I hadn’t had a cup of co ee since you last danced with me in our kitchen.

Sitting next to the chrysanthemum pot with my mug, my head was no longer full of wanting, only regret. The little green leaves in the pot had started nursing little petals of yellow over the last night. I

plucked one, still growing, from the pot. It stung to break the pretty little stem I had seen every day, but when I placed it on the stone where you lay, it was a relief.

The rest of the chrysanthemums have bloomed by now, weeks a er the rst stem I plucked. Their color shines in the morning light and varies in warm, late-summer shades. They’re lovely, with a sweet aroma and young, new leaves. I think you would’ve liked them. Mother does. She comes around every so o en, doting on me and even the owers.

I started taking strolls around town again. I take detours every so o en, stopping in a nearby ower nursery to bring home a new spread of sprouts. I’d like to think I’ve made friends with the nursery’s owner. Last week I went to visit the store again, and there’s now a pot of ivy growing on the window sill, keeping the chrysanthemums company.

There are protests in the streets when I go out. Greenwich is lled with men and women marching. They take strides as if celebrating, and I think that I ought to join them.

Tomorrow, we would’ve been celebrating, too. You would’ve been a year older. I’ll walk to your stone again, and show you the last ower to bloom, as my parting gi . I’ll show you the petals and tell you the name I gave them. But by the time the sun sets tomorrow, I’ll be gone. I’ll scream your name for the winds to take away for the last time. I’ll be in the streets of Greenwich with people who were like me and you.

Goodbye, Rosaline.

Chrysanthemum

Rayne Huang, ‘26 Digital

Written by Riya Patil, ‘24 | Designed by Andrea Wang, ‘24

While remembrance may last for many lifetimes, time is only le for memories to fade into oblivion.

In all the time forgotten, not once had the so petals of life touched the cold, gray, stones of his headstone. He was interrupted by the deep purple pansy that pulled him straight out of the depths of sleep.

The dried and rotten stench of fruit le long ago accompanied pale tulips shriveled up on headstones so weathered that the names were unreadable. In the dark silence her humming never once stopped as she walked through the cemetery, dropping a ower on each of the bare grave markers.

He stirred from rest, roused by the company that had not been presented to him for many decades. Her eyes slid past him without a slight in her resting face, and she continued down the path of the graveyard.

The spirit felt a slight tug, which got stronger as she walked further away. He was forced to keep in step behind her, as he walked away from the scenery he had seen for many years and into the world he le behind.

That was how it started.

When someone pays respects to the grave of a lost soul, that spirit is bound to them, forced to follow them until their eventual demise.

Maybe he should have been irritated.

He learned many things about the human girl in the months that followed the binding of the contract. She was a college student who lived with mostly absentee roommates in the vicinity of a local school. The apartment building she resided in was the same one he used to live in, albeit it was much more re ned and sturdy than it was back then. She was also nearly the same age he had been

when he died, and was a diligent, hard working person.

She was also falling apart.

Her work ethic couldn’t make up for all nighters, her charming persona couldn’t make her distant friends stay. She was slowly crumbling under the pressures of school and life.

He sat in the same corner he claimed when rst arriving in her living quarters, silently observing from afar. The sight of her su ering was constant, but the spirit had long given up on trying to establish contact. It was a foolish endeavor from the start; their worlds would never merge.

No matter what comfort he could try and give, it would never go through. There were always the better days to rely on.

It was on one of these better days that she decided

to do something di erent. His ghostly form faltered as she packed up her outing bag and shu ed out the door, unused to this change in rhythm. Nevertheless, he felt that familiar tug, and followed her easily outside the building.

Raindrops fell slightly from the sky, darkened by gray clouds that cast over the streets even though it was barely a ernoon. Walking briskly through the puddles, she trudged along the roads. People were hurrying along, checking their watches and the sky as they rushed past. Everyone needed to get somewhere.

The droplets of water sank right through him, and he shuddered. The rain felt like a cold blanket of air hammering at his form, as though he could almost feel it but not quite. It made him feel nearly human again.

They continued their journey to the unknown place, catching a bus and walking another block before reaching the destination. She shook herself and her umbrella dry a er walking into the museum, and carefully placed the item into one of the stands before paying for a ticket at the booth. With seemingly no aim but to observe the historical exhibits, she meandered through the halls, not looking too closely at one thing or another.

Finally, she stopped abruptly at the entrance of a one day event exhibit, and he would have bumping into her if he was tangible. He followed her gaze to the title of the exposition.

“Everyday Heroes Exhibition: The Bravery of Ordinary People”.

His expression cleared as she made her way into the room, following her to start his visit of the past. As they walked through the exhibit, he saw events leading up to the year of his death. A woman who saved her neighbors kids from abduction, a little girl run over by car while protecting her friend, and many other sel ess acts.

She paused in front of one, and the spirit that followed behind her stopped as well. The display showed a newspaper snippet from nearly 80 years ago, a er a tragic incident.

A young man in his early 20s who ran into an apartment building that caught on re due to faulty electrical maintenance. A er hearing that a child was still stuck on the third oor, he re-entered the building to save her. While he got the kid out unscathed, the college student su ered a much worse fate.

Electrical burns and pulmonary damage, along with

internal bleeding led to an early death for the young hero. While he may have lost his life, he brought hope to many others. The apartment building is being reconstructed to start housing residents again.

His breath hitched as he saw the picture from all those years ago, when the future was bright and life was just a game to be played for enjoyment. What happened to those days? Rotting away in a grave, with a face forgotten a er a couple moments of sacri cial glory. His martyrdom meant nothing to the people who don’t know what was taken away from him.

He turned, waiting for her to pass by the display like she did for all the ones before it. But it seemed that humanity could still surprise him. Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at the picture of his face, grainy and monochrome in the newspaper.

Muttering a low greeting to no one in particular, she surveyed the room with caution, as if it would catch on re any minute.

She blinked the dazed look out of her eyes as she sat down at her desk, pulling out her textbooks and computer. He watched as her focus shi ed completely, the prior dissociation forgotten like everything else.

He wished he was more irritated about the owers.

Within a couple of hours, she dri s o to sleep with her head lying on the table. She le her computer open, with a couple papers sticking to her face as she slept. Her phone was giving o the low battery warning signal.

She needed her phone for the lecture tomorrow. He shu ed forward, reaching out to grab the phone without thinking. Instead of phasing through it like usual, he felt the solid object against his hand.

Walking towards the outlet, the spirit plugged in the device and watched the screen brighten up to con rm recharge. He turned his head to look at her again, with her head at an uncomfortable angle against the desk. She would wake up with a crick in her neck the next morning.

He extended his hand towards her, but like usual his ngers phased right through her arm. He withdrew his hand like he’d been stung, even though he never had the pleasure of such a feeling in decades.

Her so snores permeated through the air, and he sat back in his corner.

She will never know him.

He recoiled at her expression. Pinched, as if she was trying to remember something that a person had told her long ago. As if she was trying to recall where she had seen his face before. She stood there for what seemed to him like hours, watching the display as her ngers dgeted nervously. The spirit watched as her facial expression relaxed, and she nally turned away from the exhibit. There were many more stories to read about, but it seemed the eld trip was over. She grabbed her umbrella from the stand, and they made their way home. On the way back, she seemed o -put by everything around her, but the feeling slowly dissipated as she unlocked the door to her shared apartment.

She’ll never know how he watched her highs and lows, how he sees her shine with energy when she’s relaxed, how much he stays by her side while she’s awake late at night. She will never know any of it.

But he will know all of it. Even a er she’s le this world, he will be trapped with her worldly possessions while she dri s further and further away.

As she rested peacefully, he plucked a single purple pansy from the vase near the table and laid it in front of her.

“He wished he was more irritated about the flowers.”

UNACQUA INTANCES

Your hair of ames was like the heat from the sky that beats down on children’s skin, making them ush with happiness From breathing.

From being.

Alive.

My dying strands were the shadows in the night that clamped You were the lily of the valley, the clematis, the forever smiles in happily ever a ers. A natural wonder of the world. The magnet for the living.

of crushed-up femurs and broken hearts from fairy tales.

zenosyne Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Watercolor

IT’S A FULL CIRCLE

Written by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

The rst time I tried to use a compass, My excited wrist overcompensated for the pressure needed to create the perfect circle. The stinger of the metal leaped up to grab a part of my esh and blood, spilling red onto my ring of graphite.

You watched this happen and cleaned my cuts and bruises I didn’t know I held.

The last time I tried to use a compass, I made the perfect circle with pressure so exact that a junior in physics could have accurately calculated the angle of my wrist. My halo of graphite, void of color.

You weren’t here to watch this happen. Your blood was still wet under my ngernails.

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

Watercolor

RISE FROM THE ASHES

Written by Cindy Liang, ‘26 | Designed by Amina Aslam-Mir, ‘25

You were one of many

Voices drowning in the dark

A guttering ame

Irreplaceable

They said

You lose yourself

In others

In their aura of warmth

Of faux companionship

You learn to

Choke down the Bitter pain

Swallow expectations like Burning coals

Smile, until you can’t anymore

Because white teeth grin like hope in the dark

Scorch your throat

On the words of others

Until you drown in silence and

Asphyxiate yourself on

Su ering

Yours or theirs, you can’t tell

There was once hope for you

In the quiet glow of a replace

A light from afar

Some Pandora’s box never opened

It told you to

Hold your head high

As high as you can when

It is bowed low for fear of standing out

Yet you still carry the burden of others

Until the ames reach so high

You can’t help

But be burned alive

Give pieces of your torn-up soul

Because you’ve already

Sold the rest of you to

The glow of embers

And all that is le of you

Is bone turned ash

Ash turned memory

Memory turned myth

And myths forgotten

Let go of yourself

To this world made of

Hate and roiling ame

Let go of the ickering candlelight

That is hope

Give yourself over to the ames

Until they consume even

Those lost myths

When will you be able to be heard above the crackle of re?

So, su ocate yourself on burning pain

Choke down your tears and resentments

Bleed yourself dry until there is naught but forgotten memories le

And rise again from those ashes. Tell me, did it work?

nodus tollens

Kaitlyn

Watercolor

Ho, ‘25

AUTUMN’S MELODY

Written by Michelle Wang, ‘26 | Designed by Julia Huynh, ‘24

Leaves, once green, now turn to rust, The breath of autumn fell upon us

A frigid breeze swept crippled leaves away Murky clouds hung low, an intense storm underway

The rain fell with a rhythmic beat Synchronized to the pounding of my heart, an endless repeat Intertwined amidst the downpour of rain, In the chambers of my soul, a spark of love embarked on its reign

The passion in my heart started to fume

As the love between us began to bloom The world around us sang a song of sorrow But between us, a melody of rapture and bliss were to follow

An orchestra of utters and twirls

A rhapsody of passion, our hearts unfurled

In those moments we shared under the pouring rain, My hands trembled, I wonder if he felt the same.

Time carved its way through the crevices of our reprise Though we vowed to stick together, our melody met its demise I wondered how our love had become so obsolete Now I can see that our duet was incomplete.

My serenade of love was too vociferous, too deafening That I couldn't hear the sound of his melody slowly lessening A once raging chorus of desire, now a muted hum A once an explosive symphony of euphoria, now a quiet and delicate strum

Distant memories remain, our time together is through However, even a er all these years, how could I ever forget you?

The harmony that we once sung lingers in my mind

The longing for those bygone days, keeps me inde nitely blind

In my reverie, I hear our melody play, Reminding me of a love that just couldn't stay. Though my unreciprocated love may keep us apart, You'll always hold a special place in my heart.

haze

Andrea Wang, ‘24 Digital

WHEN OUR D R E A M S WERE V I B R A N T

Written by Sophia Tang, ‘25 | Designed by Sophia Tang, ‘25

“oh, you’re such a dreamer…” “dreamer” used to be such a positive, upbeat, optimistic word. now it’s unrealistic, impractical, illogical. society frowns at the mere mention of the word, regarding it scornfully.

but when we were dreamers, the world was in full color, dynamic shades of the rainbow. but when our dreams were crushed, the vibrance diminished, and turned our world dark, full of muddy, bleak greys

when we were young, the adults in our lives asked us, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” and we’d gently tap our pointer nger against our chin, appearing to be in deep thought.

and then our faces brightened as we formulated a response, but we now know that same answer to be outrageous, preposterous, absurd, completely irrational.

at the time, all we cared about was the dream career. there was no “impossible” in the world. all open doors, we only needed to choose one to open.

“i want to be…” a writer, painter, designer. a cook, dancer, singer. an artist, actor an astronaut!!!

each one was more unreasonable than the last. but we were only kids, no one told us that then. we were little children, who wanted happiness and validation and for people to agree. so all the adults simply agreed, (did they really agree deep down in their hearts?) nodded their heads, (were they tempted to shake their heads?) applauded and jumped excitedly, (how did they feign animation, knowing the horrible truth?)

congratulated us with words of encouragement. (was a long sigh brimming on their lips?)

and then our scope of careers, became narrower, and narrower, and narrower.

“p t, a dancer? how is burning calories from dancing going to put calories on your dining table? food doesn’t just appear, magic isn’t real, honey” so not a dancer then.

“an astronaut? haha, your jokes are surely out of this world. wait, you were serious? oh, cupcake, not an astronaut please.” okay, so not an astronaut.

“what, a cook? sweetie, that’s a household chore, not a job that’ll feed you, unless you sneakily eat the food you cook for your job… haha” oh, but i love cooking, i guess not anymore

“we only want the best for you” oh, okay, i believe you of course, thanks for the advice. (but i want to do what i love…)

we went from a dancer to a doctor, from an astronaut to an accountant from a cook to a coder.

and now we trudge through each day, doing everything possible to show college admission o cers that we are accomplished, capable, competent while our childhood dreams are crashed by society

when our dreams were vibrant, everything and anything felt possible, like we could simply extend our arm and grab any of those shining stars.

when our dreams were demolished, a light went out in us, and everything felt impossible, even with the path laid down for us.

just… be a doctor. be an accountant. be a coder.

“it’s simple, just study and work harder” but is that really what we want? or is that what they want for us?

“don’t be a dream, be a realist.” oh, but“it’s better for you in the long run, you’ll see.” oh, okay, sure.

TRUE H APPINESS

Written by Hema Rajendran, ‘24 | Designed by Ethan Zhao, ‘25

Words are deceiving. Money is deceiving. Achievements are deceiving.

They join hands to create an illusion of happiness, Only to be destroyed by the harsh realities of the world. Then seamlessly created again to fool us once more.

With no exit in sight, I’m forced to ride this roller coaster of happiness.

One moment I am happy, The other moment, I’m not.

B+ in class, I’m upset. A+ in the class. I’m happy. I don’t get into my dream college, I’m upset. I get into my favorite school, I’m happy.

Constant Ups and Downs, Ups and Downs, And Ups and Downs….

When will this ever stop? When will I be truly happy… Not for a day or week, but for… forever?

I ask this question everyday and everynight, While I’m awake and while I’m asleep, While I’m studying and while I'm relaxing, When I’m eating and when I’m resting, Where do I nd permanent happiness?

It isn’t easy though to nd an answer, The temptations in this world are indeed distracting. Yet deep contemplation helps reveal the answer to any problem, no matter its di culty.

It came to my realization that the answer to this question was closer to me than I thought… Much closer than anyone would have thought.

When I do my best, When I am proud of my work, When I don’t expect a speci c outcome, When I am not in uenced by others' opinions of me… I am at peace. I have no worries. I have no fear. I’m….happy. And this happiness feels di erent, because it's permanent.

Satisfaction and happiness are sisters. They come together when we accept ourselves for who we are, When we do our best without worrying about the results, When we have a higher goal we work towards…

When we look inside ourselves, We enter an entirely new world.

A world lled with happiness, Found not within materialistic achievements, But discovered in our personal growth as students, as friends, as family, and as fellow humans.

We learn to love when we look within, because, True happiness is found within.

True Happiness

Hema Rajendran, ‘24

Marker

A LOVE LETTER TO WRINGER

Written by Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 | Designed by Karly Prasouvo, ‘26

wringer, little do you know that i judged you by your cover, but i'm not sorry i did — i would've never tipped you o the shelf otherwise.

but little do you know of the inescapable world you sucked me into, the world i still see in my city’s night skies and taste in my bittersweet blueberries and feel through the cold of my tile oors.

and little do you know how much it frustrated me that you hadn't warned me that you are not a book but rather a mirror: myself as palmer, the guys as endless judgement, and dorothy as my one true savior.

and little do you know that my heart, like palmer's, pounded when we saw henry's warning; my tongue, like palmer's, enjoyed the refreshing cold soda on the hot day he and i ran; my eyes, like palmer's, widened in panic when our bird came back; my nose, like palmer's, inhaled the smoke of the guns.

little do you know that i, like palmer, was con icted with the double lives we were forced to live: one with dorothy, and one with the guys, and that while we liked one's company more than the others', we couldn't let go of either.

and little do you know that i, like palmer, shed an ocean of tears when we caressed our dead bird, when we nally put our own values over whatever the guys o ered us, when we nally stood true and tall as traitors to the world.

little do you know that i, from you, learned to forever embrace who i am.

for all the things you sel essly did for me, i can only pay you back with my love. thank you.

birds of a feather

Andrea Wang,

Digital

‘24

SPIDER

Written by Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

the spider spins her art. only she can understand it at rst — but wait! wait until she nishes: you’ll get to marvel it all too, you’ll get to see her thin white lines, weak to your eye but unbreakable nevertheless — in silence she spins, in silence she jumps, you only register her quick movements long a er they’re done, but then — it’s too late! it’s too late! the white lines are everywhere, everywhere, unbreakable, wait until you see all her white lines around you, under you, as all you can do there is sit and expect the attack — but it never comes, it never comes does she plan to use her venom? the spider has a venom, the spider has a venom, she could kill you in an instant — but that’s not what the spider’s venom is for.

Mastermind Kenna Okimoto, ‘24 Colored Pencil

THE SKY FELL AND YOU WERE NOWHERE TO BE SEEN

Written by Raiya Bann, ‘23 | Designed by Andrea Wang, ‘24

I wanted to feel your unearthly love

My Earth urging to be soothed by your gentle touch

You were my moon, my stars, The pull which kept me grounded.

At your demand I became your sword, Your malleable shield. Until you crushed my heart And le nothing but my blood, sweat, and endless tears.

If only you would have known…

How I would have used the heat of my inner ames to warm your soul How I would have helped kill o the demons which plague you

How I wanted to burn the sky of its stars And give you your own starry night.

But you’ve extinguished the ames which once burned for you Now resting a cold, merciless heart. A heart that only recalls the skin of thorns and nails, Lips sullen and empty, Eyes bloodshot and vicious.

I gave you my love and it went unacknowledged, Beaten down, used, and torn.

My heart once lay with you but the sky fell And you were nowhere to be seen.

Kate Xu, ‘25 Photography

stormy

UNREALIZED

Written by Vidha Yadav Ganji, ‘26| Designed by Kevin Du, ‘25

I wake up, And I love to torture myself. I wake up,

And I love to torment myself with thoughts of desire. The a iction, the harrow burns inside me, The need for them, a desire that renders me insane and mad,

Open the scourge of social media, where the hordes of jealousy tread over me, and envy seeps from a split seed in my heart.

There’s the images of girls that glint in the moonlight, beautiful, brilliant, and bold their con dence a dappled gold that sets the world around them a hue of gold. Lethal, killing beauty standards, they say? We’ll continue to chase a er them, won’t we, our lives an everlasting pursuit of vanity?

There’s the school, black, lonely gates, that creak in the frigid morning air; Where talent stalks the corridors; Intelligence rears its head, The beautiful faces glow in the dim light of the bathrooms, And the boisterous, the powerful, their laughter resounds o the walls. My friends, We devour each other, Our bellies content with the sustenance of jealousy and envy, We hide, deceive, cheat, and lie, Slander, speak, and surrender; Those moments of power where the world rallies for us, We run a er those, And that power seeps into our head, makes us euphoric, And when we lose it, It’s beautiful misery that roils away.

The rich and the wealthy, the glamorous and the famous, the perfect, and the divine, our lives an eternal altar, shrine, worshiping our desires. Our gods are of greed then, I suppose, of ultimate darkness and possessed vanity.

I wake up, I look and I see,

Perhaps I’m not like them, I’m pure and free.

I’m not bound by society, only a spirit that dances along to its own whims, not the tune of others’.

I’ve been enlightened, as these philosophers will speak Emptied myself of all material joys and pleasures, Have achieved what those others will have to spend the rest of their lives to realize, Squandering it all away, while I can have it now, Have eternal peace now.

I’ve relinquished it all,

I’ve become one with nature; success and ambitions are immaterial to me now, I’ve realized that this esh that constructs will rot one day, And these thought and feelings that seem so much, Will be lost in the particles of the atmosphere, dri ing away, never to be touched by another. I see no pleasure in taking, only giving, Giving my life up, my soul away, my life away;

I’m a giver, always been one, I tell them, and Their hungry faces suck me away, feed on my my esh, my blood, until there is nothing le , But I’m enlightened, I tell myself.

My life has culminated in this emptiness, But my emptiness, this nothingness was everything. The desolate wasteland of the deserts resonates within me, And the whistling, carving winds of those deserts are those lonely cries as I dri of to sleep, The gentle, quiet sobs of one who has nothing le the percolating of the clear water from the ancient rocks; The enlightened being is miserable, Is melancholy and cannot bear this life, To be good is more burdensome than to not, And to be despicable was pleasure, was content, and happiness;

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And so, the enlightened being wonders? Was being unrealized a better fate?

To be a disgrace to the philosophers, The epitome of ignorance and avarice, A force of obliteration that takes all it sees, And squanders whatever it has.

A creature with golden, gleaming eyes, Lurking in the darkness of the minds of others, Always hungry, and always hunting. This creature can never be hurt, can never be wounded or injured, It is in eternal motion, Chasing and chasing, Its tail in circles.

Perhaps the common people like us don’t have noble dreams of enlightenment and sanctity, perhaps all we desire are car, rings, and money, Fleeting pleasure and fervorous whims.

There’s a torrential reality in this planet of humanity; warring factions of individuals in pursuit of their pleasure, Concentric eddies of ignorant, oblivious people

With greed disguised as ambition, vanity compounded by lies of dreams, and a life made true with no purpose of altruism But of egotism instead, its sickly, disgusting green an everlasting rainbow, A choropleth of colors.

The philosophers in heaven, Their empty, lost souls, They look down upon us rapacious mortals, And they are jealous because they wonder,

Was to be unrealized a sweeter fate?

Contemplation

Andrea Wang, '24 Digital

成为 ( BECOMING) after Richard Siken

Written by Anna Feng, ‘23 | Designed by Jordan Pham, ‘24

Tell me what my grandmother will become if not the willow tree that won’t fall in the back of my mind. Why I could never ignore the pulse beneath my sleeping vertebrae a er months out on the damp lawn. About the wet market scent that’s stuck in November and the cantaloupe rotting on the branch. Cantonese sorrows in tandem. These pages are heavy with ink like a cloud layer is limp with rain. Our bodies, shipwrecked, lingering. Tell me what happens when it’s all over, and nothing has changed except for everything. How air is thicker than blood with consummation. How we were all here when the moon slipped like a coin into the sea and water stopped parting at our command. Why, we were not ancestors but the a erthoughts of crane and hare, heron and caiman. (though I could not understand anything until I cupped the fear in my hands and let it zzle). By then, I was only the fragment of china blunt enough to be felt. Bleeding, molting shrapnel onto the ocean oor. My father once told me these lesions in life are all we have le , but I could not believe he forgot to say we have each other. So, monsoon season came early and tore a hole in the accordion window; these acts of radical existence. Where her roots stretch to hold mine.

Becoming (成为)

Aliya Tang, ‘25

Acrylic

AFTER LIFE

Written by Anna Feng, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Tucked on the h oor of the crumbling plaster complex, my grandmother’s apartment was the corner of the world farthest away from the commotion. That is how I remember it: the beauty best beheld at dawn, the view of Taiyuan through the windows, tender and waking. The trembling hours of the morning were when laolao2 shook me awake and beckoned me, still half-waking, in hushed Chinese to follow her.

来 Come, she said. So I did, trailing her silhouette through the hallways, past the door of the guest room where my sister and mother slept, past her study where the pages of her encyclopedias billowed beside open windows. A few steps later, we were seated at the dining room table again, her hand painted grid lines drowning the mahogany, the playing stones nestled into the wicker pots begging to begin dancing.

When we played, I was fully immersed in the game as clumsy as I was. I set the stones in faulty places and laolao picked them up to shi them for me. 错 了,

my mind, I had enough protectors. I had my sister, Māma, and Babà beside me. Most of all, I had an unspecial, untroubled life on my own. I simply did not think about anybody else.

My grandparents had not been to America since 2006 when I was one and my sister four, both too young to realize how singular that visitation would be. My mother tells me laolao held me close to her chest with undying fondness. In the photos, she gazes blissfully at me, chubby from her indulgent cooking. 长大, 长高, 张庄. Grow up, grow tall, grow strong. Laolao sang in a di erent tune each time. In one photo, we are sitting on the playground, my two grandparents side by side as I sit on my grandmother’s lap. My mother’s thumb covers the right corner of the picture and blocks the halo where the sun should’ve been.

I felt it; the dynamic on the board when laolao was about to capture a cluster of my stones. How in those moments of struggle I played with the greatest skill. In those few instances when I had an advantage, I felt the pride surge through me like laoye once had. Soon, I learned to equate power to the ability to overwhelm and overcome. I acquainted myself with what it felt like to be besieged, although I never coached myself on getting out. Never being good enough to beat her remains one of my greatest regrets.

In the years without lao lao, my mother and I grew remarkably close. She was a good mother, namely by being a reliable friend and a sage parent all at once, never crossing either line. Mama expressed her love through her cooking for our family, crock pots full of fragrant and vibrant Chinese dishes, marinated duck and scallion noodles that made me salivate on their way to the table. It was a Chinese tradition, to love implicitly that way, and although it feels strange to retell it now, I understood her language perfectly.

可是现在懂了吧?

Wrong again, but does it make sense? I nodded, but she explained my errors again. The rules of weiqi seemed so simple then. The aim is to purely capture the opponent’s pieces. Once your stones fully besiege theirs, they belong to you, and whoever has the most remaining stones wins. However, the best matches can be unfathomably complex.

But every time I felt on the precipice of a victory, mamā intercepted the table with bowls of steamed eggs and hot tea. Laolao and I swept the stones o the table and delayed the game until a er breakfast.

At seventy ve, my grandmother had become a master of the game, but I still made the mistake of “crowding the space” and placing my stones too close to hers. 孩子, 给自己足够的发展空间

Child, she said, give yourself room to grow. But my pieces sti ed hers time and again, and she corrected them with a resigned tone. But by the last week of our trip before we returned to San Diego, I learned to listen and play farther away. It gave me a place to run when I felt trapped by the possibility of confronting my loss.

We didn’t visit them for many years. I wouldn’t remember the routine involvement of grandmothers in their grandchildren’s lives until a friend mentioned visiting their own over the weekend. Even then, it didn’t bother me much. In

We returned to Taiyuan when I was thirteen. Laolao and I dedicated ve hours everyday to playing weiqi. Whenever we weren’t, she brought me through crowded storefronts and street markets strewn with red lanterns, where I could gawk at what I had been missing, what slipped my brain. When we went home, my mind was still aglow with the vibrant landmarks she brought me to as we prepared for another game.

Gradually, I also began to understand the rules in a deeper way. I learned to observe when laolao played with laoye3 from behind the rusted hinge of the door frame. With her fore nger and thumb clasping the stone, laolao scanned the board for a vacancy. She had a way of knowing just how to conquer, and even when she put her pieces far, she always looped back. Slowly, a mosaic of yin and yang on the board turned into her white pieces dominating and catching the rays of the indigo sky. What I remember most was laoye’s impressed but never surprised expression, his eyes resting on the board and his hand, sturdy, out-stretched in respect. Laolao always pressed another stone in his palm when she accepted it; a signal to play again. I have only seen laoye win one game, and it gave him the con dence to lose the next eight.

我们可以玩一个别的游戏吗 Can we play a di erent game? I would ask her when I surrendered enough times to feel hopeless. 赢了你就会懂

Once you win you will learn, 胜利是力量, 过程是 智慧 Victory is power, your journey is wisdom. Her response was so exact each time, it rang like an heirloom, time-worn.

While every Californian school lunch reminded me of where I call home, mama’s dinners brought me back to memories of China. Our dining table had no weiqi lines coating the wood like laoalo’s, but the teeming white plates surrounded me every night. I had everything I could ever want right in front of me.

There was a conversation I remember when only my mother and I sat at the table. Mama sat beside me as she o en liked to, watching me feast, slurping up the meal she spent hours of labor putting together.

吃得慢一点儿. 饭不会跑走 You can eat slower, the food won’t run away. She laughed, and I laughed too, setting the chopsticks down. I asked her where she learned the recipe and she responded that she learned it from her mother, 传统 Tradition, she enunciated. 女儿都长大, 变成妈妈 Daughters grow up and become their mothers. 姥姥教了我 Laolao taught me, she paused, 生命中最重要的 教训是来自于我们的妈妈 The most important lessons we ever learn come from our mothers. Although, I was focused on indulging in my mother’s food then, it makes sense that my grandmother who was so skilled at the games we played was da at cooking. But remembering her only reminded me of another inconsistency.

妈妈, 谁给你做饭 Who makes you dinner? I

asked, unconsciously nearing the bottom of my bowl. My mother smiled, 看你吃我就够饱了

Watching you eat makes me full. I frowned. Pushing around the last grains of rice, I remembered how my grandmother was in China, too far away to be feeding my mother wonton soup on a Sunday night. Reading my mind, mama responded. 你是 我的家庭, You are my family.

We did not see my grandparents for many more years. Time marched on with its nescient pace, stopping for no one. Our lives grew busier. There were days when my mother would not sit beside me for dinner. There were days when I would nd her hunched by the dinner table at nine, eating alone and taking a call on the phone. Yet, there were more days when she would provide me with company even in silence.

Finally, on a night I can now no longer remember, I came down the stairs and nobody was at the dinner table. I lingered on the stairs for a couple minutes, maybe hours, trying to rescue the sinking feeling. Trying to think of any other explanation. I sat down for dinner one evening with a half-empty bottle of Kikkoman and nobody else. Nobody needed to say anything more to explain the way the house felt gutted and echoed with silence: I lost my grandmother during a winter I could not bear to lose anymore.

Yet, the predominant pain I felt was sympathy for my mother. I had never seen anyone so arrested by grief; Nobody saw her for a week and a half

4 Translation: your journey is wisdom

following the con rmation of my epiphany. It may have been longer. Her door remained shut. The only thing it let out was an occasional sliver of daylight escaping through the crack underneath the door and the misplaced sound of birdsong. She did not let anything in.

The rst morning I saw my mother’s face, I was surprised to nd how much I had forgotten it. Her eyes were red and swollen, the skin hanging heavy on her bones as if even gravity was too much. It felt like meeting her again, or a version of her, smaller and receding. We did not speak. Even consolation felt like too much for the tenderness of the a ermath. We did, however, share a glance as if to acknowledge; somewhere, in the commotion of being so far away, I forgot my mother had a mother, and she did too.

I tried to write in the living room with the lights o later on. For what seemed like hours, I kept my hand wrapped around a ballpoint pen, attempting to piece together week-long memories I had with laolao from those warm Taiyuan streets from my youth, to assemble an adequate picture for grief. Yet, I could only produce one cohesive resolution: I did not wish to be overpowered by tragedy the same way mama had. 长大, 长高, 张庄. Grow up, grow tall, grow strong. I want to be more than merely taller and older.

The whole way to the water kettle, I watched mama hunker across the kitchen room, pouring herself another glass of stale water. Her mind was

somewhere else, ipping through the pages of photo albums, trying to loop around though we never made it back for one nal visit. Trying to rewrite a nished game.

I remember my laolao through weiqi. Grief and regret dances in those black tiles she laid, surrounding mine every time, surrounding every opponent who had the gi of knowing her. And my grandmother did try, but no amount of losing to her taught me how to win, how to truly stop crowding the board, how to handle loss with grace. The most important lessons we ever learn come from our mothers. A lesson bigger than weiqi. Was I meant to grieve and heal or let the grief take me down? I don’t know yet, but I strive for the day I learn what it feels like to win. Like my laoye, I play games I might lose. Like my mama, I learn from people who aren't beside me now. Like my laolao, I know 过程是智慧4 and embrace this too.

Sometimes, I remember this image. A memory I could have invented in the heartache of it all. Mama and Laolao sit in her tiny apartment in Taiyuan playing Weiqi. My laolao is clamping the black playing piece between her trembling ngers, and the board is tied, but she makes a move and surrounds her nal piece. Laolao leans back, smiling and sweeping all the pieces o the board and back into the wicker pot.

没有赢不回来的游戏.

There is no game you can’t come back from, she says to me before turning to my mother. 再来一遍. Let’s go again.

Katelyn Chen, ‘24 Pencil

MAGIC CAMELS

Written by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 | Designed by Sophie Cao, ‘26

“Are we ready to go?”

“Yup!”

I twisted my body to buckle up, but stopped midway. I felt a tingle in the back of my neck. A sixth sense told me something was wrong.

Turning around, I faced the back trunk oor and on cue, a cold breeze swept through the car. Strewn all over the SUV trunk were a million pieces of glass. And an empty space where our luggage used to be.

As my parents called 911, I stood on the sidewalk with my brother, him taking pictures and texting his friends, me with my mouth agape, still in shock.

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It seemed so surreal; only an hour ago, my brother was showing me how ChatGPT could write an essay about moms. Only twenty minutes ago, we were sipping tonkotsu ramen at a hip overpriced restaurant. Only ve minutes ago, we were walking the streets of downtown Sacramento. And now…

me through math lectures with all the geometric, number theory, algebraic formulas. All gone. I could feel the loss, like a chunk of me was ripped out. Everything was in there! Am I going to have to reread everything? Retake all the notes? But that was months of work! It felt like spikes of worry and panic poking my chest, and then the “if onlys” came: If only I didn’t bring my notebook. If only we didn’t go see the stupid state capitol. If only there were police here. If only I had le everything at home.

Acceptance replaced panic replaced shock as the hole in the back of our car ampli ed the sounds of the highway. Stress compiled frantic lists of things we needed to do once we got home — get new house keys, install a new house lock, buy and key new car keys, le a police report, get my mom’s company laptop wiped, buy new devices, buy new clothes… But the notebooks, how were we supposed to get that back? There is nothing that comes close to your own handwritten, hand-numbered, hand- sweat absorbing notebook.

The next day at Residence Inn (our ight got canceled), we called the number on the slip from the hotel phone as I re ected on what I had lost. Hours upon hours of work, gone. Just like that. A er ying home, we slowly adjusted back to normal. I got a replacement notebook, and confronted the blank pages to be lled in the months to come.

A couple weeks ago, I came across side note in my (re-bought) textbook:

children did not know how to divide the camels among them. They asked their wise uncle what to do. He responded, “I will give you a magic camel to help you divide the herd. But a er you divide the herd, you must return the camel.”

When they added the magic camel to the herd, the herd then had 18 camels. The oldest then took 1/2 the herd, 9 camels. The middle child took 1/3 of the herd, 6 camels. And the youngest took 1/9 of the herd, 2 camels. Together, then, they took 9 + 6 + 2 = 17 camels, and returned the 18th, the magic camel, to their wise uncle.

Aside from it being the most interesting thing in the textbook, this story helped me realize the power of my notebook. It was, in its own way, a magic camel. Did I lose my notebook? Yes. Was it in a Sacramento land ll? Probably. But I could still recall the knowledge I had transmitted and recorded in it. It was only a physical copy of what I had learned.

These processes of learning stay with us, and can’t be expressed solely through material things. Learning leaves the deepest impression in our minds, not in a notebook or an iPad or a laptop.

There is so much magic in our human intelligence, the ability to teach and learn. The value of knowledge is the process of attaining it.

Everything that you know, all your secrets, memories, formulas, values, are pieces of you that no one can take away from you. Even if someone smashes your car and takes away everything you own, they can’t take away the essence of you. You are not you because of your possessions. You are you because of your mind. What you know belongs to you and only you.

My dad opened and closed the trunk, and even more bits of glass fell from the windshield, scattering to the ground like little chimes of cruel laughter. Isn’t it ironic? We had taken all the precautions in San Francisco, the smash and grab capital of America. We parked in $30/night parking garages (highway robbery!), stayed in nice hotels, and never took our bags with us. But in the state capitol, in the very last hour before we leave for the airport, is where our car gets smashed.

Funnily enough, my brother didn’t lose a single thing. Following a Mark Rober video, he hid his backpack under the car seat so the robber wouldn’t be able to see it.

We drove, dejected, as the cold air whooshed in our car (the police didn’t think it was worth it to come).

My parents detailed the damage: car keys, house keys, my mom’s new lululemon clothes, my mom’s company laptop, my laptop, math textbook, my notebook. My notebook! My notebook, with my months worth of meticulously color coded, numbered, dated, math notes. The notes that got

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An old legend has it that a man once willed his herd of camels to his three children, giving the oldest 1/2 of the herd to the oldest, 1/3 to the middle child, and 1/9 to the youngest child. Unfortunately, the herd only had 17 camels, so the

So, actually, it is the robber’s loss. He missed the most valuable thing he stole: a magic camel! To him, it was just a worthless binder of scribble scrawl, when really, it contained a wealth of knowledge. He may have taken my notebook (and probably thrown it away too), but does he know how to nd the last digit of 98!? I think not.

Amulet

“And an empty space where our luggage used to be.”

Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Digital

SUPERHERO MOVIES:

POTENTIAL OSCAR NOMINATIONS?

Written by Anna Prasouvo, ‘24 | Designed by Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26

Superhero movies have been prevalent in the lm industry for years now, cherished for bringing ink comic characters to life on the screen. When it comes to superhero movies, we o en think of heroes against villains, saving lives, ashy battles — not to mention a character arc where the passive main character turns into a strong-willed, overly bu hero. And like me, movie-watchers all over the world devour these lms again and again. Of course, with every genre, there come the critics and cynics. There are people not overly fond of the predictable plotlines where the hero struggles to stop the villain before eventually defeating them in an overly dramatic battle at the end. But everyone can agree that superhero movies have never been more dominant at the box o ce than they are now.

In 2019, Avengers: Endgame grossed over 2.7 billion dollars as the epic conclusion to the Avengers’ struggle against Thanos. Respectively, four Marvel movies place in the top ten of the highest-grossing lms — this list also includes Avengers: In nity War (2018) (6), Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021) (7), and The Avengers (2012) (10). So the monetary impact of superhero movies goes undisputed. That being said, despite this success, Marvel lms are rarely notably recognized at what is regarded as the most prestigious awards for lm: the Oscars.

DC on the other hand has seen its share of reputable winners. Heath Ledger posthumously won Best Supporting Actor for his performance as the Joker in The Dark Knight (2008) and Joaquin Phoenix also won for playing the starring role in The Joker (2019) where he won Best Actor. However, besides technical awards such as Best Makeup and Hairstyling for the Suicide Squad (2016) and Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures, Achievement in Costume Design, and Achievement in Production Design for Black Panther (2018) among others, the only other main prize winners for the superhero genre are animation movies such as The Incredibles (2004) and Big Hero 6 (2014) which both won Best Animated Feature.

So why are superhero lms rarely ever awarded at the Oscars? Marvel producer, Kevin Feige, believes that “we are always at a de cit because of the Marvel logo and because of a genre bias that certainly exists” regarding superhero lms. He’s not wrong: most critics argue that superhero movies are just money grabbers that rely on eye-catching visuals, cheesy storylines, humorous dialogue, and character trauma that is rarely ever explored besides in uencing the characters to become sel ess heroes and save the world. To

them, the lms are designed to purely entertain viewers.

While previously superhero movies might have been very surface level in their plotlines, they have evolved to become more than just a lm of simply good vs evil. The Batman lms’ approach to their character the Joker demonstrates a new e ort to make superhero characters more comprehensive. As a failed stand-up comedian, Joaquin Phoenix’s acting empathetically portrayed the downward spiral of Batman’s archenemy. This was one of the rst times in superhero genre history that the

Oscars

Hema Rajendran, ‘24 Marker

villain was humanized, with Arthur Fleck struggling with his mental health a central focus of the lm. And as previously mentioned before, Phoenix’s performance awarded him Best Actor at the Oscars.

Superhero movies are also beginning to include the struggle of minorities, slowing down the fast-paced plot to really tackle the dilemmas and obstacles the characters face. Black Panther (2018), which was nominated for Best Motion Picture but did not win, resonated with many African Americans as their culture was being shared on the big screen. Though the lm did not win the grand prize, it is still recognized as the rst of many Marvel movies that

celebrate a culture not normally represented in theaters.

Shang-Chi and The Legend of the Ten Rings in 2021, like Black Panther’s historic African American dominated cast, featured Asian American main and side characters, highlighting Chinese culture while also tying into the Marvel Cinematic Universe storyline. Another movie that spotlights less recognized groups of people and the challenges they face is Eternals (2021). Directed by Chloé Zhao, who won the Academy Award for Best Director for her lm Nomadland in 2018, the movie depicted a huge cast line of di erent backgrounds and identities, including the MCU’s rst deaf superhero. The movie is arguably Marvel’s most unconventional lm yet as the rather slower-paced plotline and thorough exploration of each character’s identity is di erent from most typical MCU movies. This shows that Marvel, like DC, is attempting to pivot from their usual formula to add more soulfulness to their lms.

Superhero movies have become an enjoyment for many despite the obvious bias against them by the Academy Awards. It is a bonus to the already appreciated genre that superhero movies are adding more depth and relatability to their lms. A er so many years of being snubbed by the Academy Awards, it is wonderful that the genre is trying to evolve in creativity, plot signi cance, and character development. As superhero movies vie to create storytelling and artistry “worthy” of an Academy Award, the quality of superhero movies can only increase which I know many viewers will appreciate.

“Superhero movies are also beginning to include the struggle of minorities, slowing down the fast-paced plot to really tackle the dilemmas and obstacles the characters face.”

Oscars Hema Rajendran, ‘24 Marker

THE STORY OF 42% OF THE WORLD

Written by Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24, | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Mother. In Latin: mater, in Ancient Greek meter, In Sanskrit matr, in Avestan, matar, in Gaulish, matir Why are these words so similar?

The answer is that they are all descended from an ancient language: Proto-Indo-European. The name comes from its daughter languages, spoken from Europe all the way to India. The language was spoken over 5000 years ago, though scholars aren’t exactly sure where. The most accepted homeland of the Indo-European people among scholars is just north of the Black Sea, around modern-day Ukraine. We associate them with the ancient Yamnaya culture. The Yamnaya people were likely pastoralists. They were associated with large burial mounds called kurgans. That’s why this hypothesis is called the “kurgan hypothesis”.

Around 3500 B.C, something happened that would change history forever. The domestication of the horse. Now, the Indo-Europeans could move further and further away. Other groups had moved away from the main body of Indo-Europeans before, but now everyone was leaving the homeland. As they started moving across the steppe, their language began to change, slowly making it harder for di erent Indo-European groups to understand each other.

They split into 2 main groups: The Centum languages, and the Satem languages. These words mean “100” in Latin and Avestan, respectively. They demonstrate the main di erence between the language groups: The Satem pronunciation of ‘k’ slowly shi ed to ‘s’, while Centum kept the same pronunciation (In Ancient Latin, ‘C’ was pronounced how we pronounce ‘k’).

The Indo-Europeans moved out of their homelands, slowly expanding into Europe and Asia. They gradually split into di erent groups, many of which still have descendants today. So, let’s take a small look at each of them.

The Anatolian languages are the oldest Indo-European language branch that we know of. They were one of the rst to leave the homeland, and settled in Anatolia (modern-day Turkey) by 1800 BCE. The most famous of the Anatolian languages is perhaps Hittite, the language spoken, of course, by the Hittite empire. Unfortunately, this branch is extinct, meaning it has no living descendant languages.

The next branch is the Tocharian branch. The Tocharians also split o very early, migrating into Siberia. There were two languages in this branch, the very inventively-named Tocharian A and Tocharian B. Eventually, they settled in China’s Taklamakan Desert, where we nd some of their texts, and most interestingly, their mummies. Examining their deceased bodies, we can see that they had red or blonde hair.

Another branch, the Armenians, still exist today. We’re not sure where they came from a er leaving the steppe, but we do know that they were in the Lake Van area (Eastern Turkey) by 1000 BC.

The Greeks are also an Indo-European group. They rst arrived in the Balkans nearly 3000 years ago. The Proto-Greeks were known as the Mycenaeans, who wrote in the Linear B script. The Greek language never split into distinct languages, only dialects.

Stallions

One of the most known groups are the Germanic languages. They were originally spoken in northern Germany and southern Scandinavia. Some Germanic languages include German, Swedish, Old Norse and even English.

The Italo-Celtic branch, as its name suggests, split into two separate branches. The Celtic branch obviously became the Celts, such as the Irish, Welsh, and the ancient Gauls of France, but you might not know much about the Italic branch. Most of the Italic groups died out, but one survived — the Romans.

Like Italo-Celtic, the Balto-Slavic group also split into two. The Slavs became groups like the Russians, Ukrainians, and Poles. Not many people know about the Balts, who only have two groups still living: the Lithuanians and Latvians.

And nally, the largest group of modern-day Indo-Europeans are the Indo-Iranians. They split into the Indo-Aryans (not like the Nazis!) of northern India and the Iranians of the Middle east. By 1500 BCE, they had arrived in Iran and India respectively. Some languages are Hindi, Persian, Pashto, Sanskrit, and Avestan.

You may be wondering how we know about the Indo-Europeans. A er all, they lived thousands of years ago, and le no de nite proof of their existence. Well, until a couple centuries ago, we had no idea they did. The Ancient Greeks and Romans saw similarities between their languages, but that was the extent of that. But that slowly started to change.

In 1786, Sir William Jones was sent to India to be a judge. As part of his duties, he had to learn Sanskrit. As he studied the language, he noticed similarities between it, Greek, and Latin. As he looked into this further, he added Germanic, Celtic, and Persian to that list. Throughout the 19th century, linguists slowly began piecing together how these languages t together. Over the next two centuries, they pieced together the story that was told above.

So what can we take away from this? Well, really, not much. Your life will not be changed forever now that you know about the Indo-Europeans. Nevertheless, they serve as a reminder that we are all connected. We may all have di erent traditions, concerns, and beliefs, but we still share that same human desire, to create, and to explore, whether or not we share the same religion, come from the same homeland, or are even part of the same language family. We are not American, or Indian, or Chinese, or German. We are humans. And we will always be human.

Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Digital

IRAN: A NEW REVOLUTION

Written by Nikki Hekmat, ‘24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

I am Persian.

Three words, but oh how they ll me with such pride. For when I say that I am Persian, I am saying that I have the blood of warriors within me, of changemakers and revolutionaries, of young men and women and children ghting for their lives in the streets of my parents’ homeland. But before I get to the situation in Iran today, I’d like to preface with the depth of my connection to it all.

Iran is a country in the Middle East. In 1979 there was a bloody revolution that caused an in ux of emigration from the land a er Islamic extremists overthrew the Westernized monarchy and created a brutal theocracy. My parents were part of the millions that ed. Now, that fact alone isn’t so unique. We live in a community with many immigrant parents who le their native countries for a better life, not only for themselves but for their future children. But how I believe my experience growing up as the daughter of immigrant parents di ers from some of my counterparts is that I am constantly reminded of the basic human rights the Iranian Regime had stolen from my parents, and continues to steal from current generations. I grew up seeing my mother’s eyes glass-over as she learned of another young girl killed over a rudimentary act, realizing that nothing had improved since she’d le the country. There are many things my parents cannot even verbalize to me, as the pain of those memories are too great. And did I know what to say, what to do in response? Of course not.

My parents have never returned to Iran since they le , which means I have never seen the country. There are many family members I have never met. There are likely relatives of mine who have been beaten in the street for not wearing their hijabs tightly enough, imprisoned for speaking out against the government, or worse. The brutalities of the revolution live on, and I have had to watch my parents’ torment each and every day of my life as they stood on a di erent side of the world, unable to help, losing hope that they might ever see their homeland again.

But today, tears of pain are joined by the roar of revolution. On September 16, 2022, 22-year-old Mahsa Amini was murdered by the Islamic Regime of Iran for not wearing the compulsory hijab correctly. The government attempted to mask the cause of her death as simply an unfortunate heart attack, but brave passerby reported the truth. She was beaten ruthlessly, her face caved in, her battered body no match for the tools of physicians. And from that day on Mahsa became a martyr, the match that sparked the ame of rebellion in a country where standing up against the government

is a death sentence.

It is now the Spring of 2023, and the ght in Iran continues. Women throw their mandatory hijabs in bon res, dance in the street, sing openly. Young schoolchildren are photographed making obscene gestures to portraits of the Supreme Leader. People from all ages, all social classes, are attacking revolutionary guards in the streets.

And in return we are watching imprisonment, slaughter, mass graves. Doctors are murdered for stitching the wounds of injured protesters in their own homes. Couples are sentenced to decades in prison for dancing together in a public square. A young boy of 15 is tried for waging war against God for feeding stray dogs. Young girls are poisoned relentlessly in school, ooding hospitals with overwhelming casualties. Women are yanked by their hair across roads, beaten senseless, raped in prisons, and scream as their eyes are gouged from their sockets. They are le malnourished, blind, mentally and physically traumatized for life.

But still the ght continues. The cry for change crescendos, meeting bullets head on. Human rights will be denied no longer, not if the younger generation has a say about it. Not a er they have

su ered the same horrors of their forefathers.

The new revolution is led by the youth of Iran. It is the largest female-led revolution of our time. Teenagers are ghting for their lives in the streets.

So when I say I am Persian, I am proud of my people. And one day, I long to meet them.

When the Islamic Republic is nally dead.

Why should you care?

This is a ght for women, for youth, and for human rights. It is a ght for artists, creators, future doctors and engineers. The Persians have contributed amazing wonders to our world, and abandoning the people of Iran in their ght is the same as spitting upon history. Allowing a theocracy to continue its dictatorial regime is a slap in the face of democracy and core American values. Not to mention the fact that the actions of the US (and UK) in the 70s are the reason the horri c Iranian government is in power today.

But most importantly, we cannot be indi erent to human su ering, to genocide. History has taught us the price of turning a blind eye to events that don’t seem to directly impact us—because in the end, they always do. We are all interconnected. For instance, the Iranian government has been supplying Russia with drones that have been slaughtering innocent Ukrainians today. Now do you care?

Being a silent bystander is the same as allying with the enemy. The blood of innocent Iranians coats the governments of the West and beyond, and we mustn’t forget that.

How can you help?

A er reading this, I hope your rst thought is “Well, what can I do?” And my answer for you may not be the best, but it is an answer nonetheless. Attend protests against the regime; one quick Google search will give you a dozen locations and dates.

1. Educate yourself. It pains me that our school system has failed in teaching about the Middle East, especially the West’s involvement in its ruin. So research, I beg of you. Ask questions. Learn about the 1979 Iranian Revolution, about the current revolution. The more knowledge one has, the better citizen they can be.

2. Use social media to spread the message! Repost content regarding the uprising, ensuring people don’t forget.

3. Urge lawmakers to take action and stop giving US dollars to a murderous regime.

We need to show the Iranian people that they are not alone. Because the moment the world forgets about them is the moment we have lost completely. Our passion helps fuel them, helps show that the world cares.

There is a new revolution.

Freedom Hema Rajendran, ‘24 Marker

PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER: WHY ARE JIGSAW PUZZLES SO POPULAR?

Written by Shreena Dayal, ‘25 | Designed by Kevin Du, ‘25

My mother gets most annoyed at me when I slip to the formal living room to avoid doing my work and put together piece a er piece on the table I have optimized for puzzle solving. I’ve completed Dalì paintings, Persian-style tapestries, and even an extremely detailed cartoon depiction of a Costco. My enjoyment of this lowtech, focused hobby got me interested in what made puzzles so popular in the rst place.

Historians believe that the rst “jigsaw” type puzzle was created by an English cartographer named John Spilsbury in the 1760’s. He glued maps onto pieces of wood to create “dissected maps”. These puzzles were primarily used to teach geography to the children of wealthy families. Attitudes towards the importance of education were changing and people began to see children as individual beings rather than miniature adults.

This created new demand for educational tools and toys for the children of the wealthy who could a ord such luxuries. By the early 1900’s, puzzles experienced a boost in popularity due to the inclusion of popular pictures. The sizes of pieces also became smaller to appeal to adults with better ne motor skills. Though the production process had shi ed into factories, most puzzles were still made of wooden pieces. The board game mammoth, Parker Brothers, was a major producer of puzzles, hiring women whom they could underpay in order to cut costs. Despite a dip in popularity due to the tensions of WWI, puzzles reached a new peak during the Great Depression. Newer technologies allowed cardboard puzzles to be produced fast, creating jobs for unemployed factory workers. The reusability of puzzles made them particularly attractive to those who were unable to a ord more eeting forms of

entertainment. During this time, “Jigsaw clubs” that rented out and shared puzzles for a small fee were started to provide opportunities for social connection. As prohibition-era restrictions li ed and the economy recovered, puzzles once again slipped out of fashion.

During the current pandemic, puzzles ew o virtual shelves and social media “jigsaw clubs” popped up once again. This is no surprise, considering the signi cant bene ts of puzzles, especially during times of widespread stress. While still being relatively inexpensive and reusable, puzzles appeal to a wide age range. They can help us stay mentally t, reduce anxiety, and give us the satisfaction of completing a project. In an age where short-form, high impact, audio-visual content rules our daily media diet, puzzles can be the key to help us learn to focus better and calm our emotions.

Past, Present, Future Andrea Wang ‘24 Digital

IT HAS JUST BEGUN: HOW OUR WORLD WILL LOOK IN 2033

Written by Tyler Xiao, ‘24 | Designed by Andrea Wang, ‘24

We are in the future right now.

2013 was a di erent world.

10 years ago, we would’ve laughed at the idea of electric cars and the wild e ects of the social media sites Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter. 10 years ago, we couldn’t have predicted the number of people who would work virtually.

So it isn’t hard to accept that 10 years from now, our world will be a very di erent place. Let’s examine how potential changes in Arti cial Intelligence, medicine, and climate will a ect our daily life.

Arti cial Intelligence has already le a remarkable impact on us. Current AI models include the text transformer GPT-4, which already scores high on many human examinations and can perform tasks that require limited degrees of critical thinking(GPT-4 Technical Report). Other arti cial intelligence image creation platforms like DALL-E can create photorealistic and disturbingly accurate pieces of art depicting a prompted subject.

Such developments prompt examining their implications for AI’s future outlook and e ects on ordinary citizens. First, Arti cial Intelligence’s capabilities in the near future will vastly increase. As both governments and private investors pour money into these systems, they will place priorities on expanding computational speed, accuracy, and capacity to self-improve. Already, research papers suggest that Arti cial Intelligence may even have the capacity to train itself and re ect, resulting in up to 30% increases in result accuracy(Blain). Secondly, we can expect a near-ubiquitous rollout of such a system across economic sectors of

nance, real estate, service, education, and corporate structures. A Goldman Sachs report illustrates that arti cial intelligence threatens about 300 million jobs, which mostly comprise white-collar ones(Nolan). Overall, these new developments promise the fruition of a changed economy around AI in the next decade.

Medical advancements have near paralleled this explosion in AI technology. We are the closest we have ever been in history to developing anti-aging medical technology(Tai). Along with advances in cancer research and new mRNA vaccines to combat disease, 2033 will be a year of medical progress, innovation, and potentially a breakthrough in the expansion of the human lifespan.

We are on the cusp of discovering vaccines to cure a plethora of diseases. Clinical trials for mRNA vaccines against mice provide promise for a universal u vaccine(Goodman). Since the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that on average about 30,000 individuals per year die from the u, a universal vaccine and treatment can greatly help with combatting this virus. We have also experimented with mRNA as a treatment for cancer, representing another promising step toward eliminating illnesses(Reynolds).

Most importantly, scientists are on the brink of advancements that counteract aging. New drugs, 3D-printed organs, and gene editing can work in conjunction to simultaneously slow down the aging of cells, replace aging cells, and x diseased mutations in the human genetic code(Tai). Although some of these technologies may be available now, they will likely be available to consumers and global citizens on a much larger

scale than now. Thus, the future for lifespan extension within the next decade is promising for many.

The nal advancements and changes that will come by 2033 are in the areas of climate change and clean energy. The most promising new alternative source of energy comes from nuclear fusion. A er a December 2022 breakthrough in the rst net gain for a fusion experiment, scientists predict they can produce the rst commercially available fusion reactors(Smith). On top of nuclear energy, recent developments with carbon capture could provide another gut punch against the rapid rate of emissions in the atmosphere. New clinical trials promise advances that can triple the amount of carbon captured by current technologies(Thompson). Although many hurdles still remain in place for the full potential of nuclear energy and carbon capture, these alternative sources provide us optimism for the future of climate and energy.

Our future is exciting. Despite daily news reports barraging the airwaves reporting notable challenges of geopolitical tensions and economic instability, technological innovation to improve lives, jobs, and health remains a promising hope.

2033 will be a di erent world.

The future is coming soon…

“Artificial Intelligence may even have the capacity to train itself and reflect, resulting in up to 30% increases in result accuracy.”

“2033 will be a year of medical progress, innovation, and potentially a breakthrough in the expansion of the human lifespan.”

THE STATE OF LOVE

Written by Hannah Geng, ‘24 and Daisy Zhang,

It’s everywhere. Laced in the lyrics of your favorite song, imbued in the plotline of that perfume ad, staring you in the face as you watch happy couples hold hands. Even the heart shaped leaves near the G building serve as overpowering reminders. Those four magic letters that make people travel across oceans, leave behind everything they used to know, risk it all.

some slight awkwardness. Obviously.

It’s like you match eye contact, and you’re automatically in love.

The First Kiss

Like sticking your toe in the jacuzzi of love. The moment we replay a million times and tell our friends about over and over again. The most basic symbol of romantic love that leaves us crying on Tiktok. How do people feel about rst base?

because people have hard times balancing their new relationship with their friendships.

My rst relationship was in middle school. We were mutual friends. It was kind of rushed and had no meaning. In my relationship right now, we share a lot of similarities and really value each other. It matured a lot more from the rst one and we have deep emotional connection.

We have all experienced it in one form or another, whether platonic or romantic. But let’s be real. The only love we’re craving right now is one that involves a signi cant other (unless you are asexual — we support!).

They say that the average teenager has already had their rst kiss, and by age sixteen you should have already had a semi-serious relationship. But how do we nighthawks compare to the “average teenager”?

With prom lingering on us, it is impossible to ignore the posts and pictures! How did we get here? And what is there le for those of us who are hopelessly alone?

Flirting

We’ve done it since Kindergarten. Whether it was stealing Isaac’s ruler or pulling Emily’s pigtails, we’ve all expressed our attraction to others in one weird form or another. The rules of the playground used to be to pretend to hate someone when really, you had the biggest crush on them. But…that doesn’t work as well in high school. Here are some

Hmmm. All ways people irt. There’s a lot — Making fun of them, laughing too much, always staring at them, daydreaming, purposely getting closer to them, “accidentally” touching, is stu that I see all the time. Gross, but in a cute way.

I don’t like to think about it too o en. It’s embarrassing and I like to keep it in the back of my mind.

Probably not going to get to rst base for another ten years at the pace I’m going… I think about it all the time.

I hated it lol. I regret it so much.

My rst kiss was freshman year when I was een. It didn’t really live up to the rst kiss fantasy. Kind of rushed.

Everyone was surrounding us in 7th grade at lunch and chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” We were all freaking out over it for the next week. Now it’s a fun story to tell.

The First Relationship

According to the internet, most people enter their rst serious relationship at 18. But what is that relationship like? How do relationships evolve from there? People had a lot to say about this:

The rst relationship is always awkward for both people. It ends up being not the best relationship because you both don't know what you are doing.

DON’T DATE WHEN YOU ARE IN HIGH SCHOOL. NOT EVEN A SITUATIONSHIP. TRUST.

Friends get too involved and try to put themselves in the relationship as well.

First relationships can break down friendships,

I feel like a lot of rst relationships are very super cial. Expectation vs. Reality is drastic, social media, movies exploit and they forget that the other person is legitimate and you have to show them care and compassion. If you care about a person, one little thing won’t ruin the relationship because you want to be their advocate, and a lot of people aren’t mature enough for that.

It was not boring, but I don’t think we liked each other that much. It was fun, but we really weren’t sure why we were dating. It was pretty stressful because towards the end we didn’t really like each other. It kind of fell apart because we stopped talking to each other, and it kind of felt like an obligation. We were ne with breaking up.

My rst boyfriend was in middle school, and we’d talk through our friends or send cringey texts with

Eye contact in classes, hallways…but there is

’24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Young Love Hannah Geng, ‘24 Watercolor

liking women is a core part of being a man, which is why it is so stigmatized at this school. I see a lot more girls in relationships with girls and know zero guys in a relationship with each other.

I’m gay, but not fully out to some people yet. I feel like I am missing out on some highschool experiences because it is way harder for gay guys to nd healthy relationships. But I have lots of fun friends and can sort of live vicariously through them.

Boyfriend Stealing

No one admits to it. But it does happen occasionally. You like someone, but that someone happens to be the one person you can’t date.

Sometimes people in the same friend group end up dating the same person a er the other breaks up with them. It’s not bad but kinda awkward.

Bro code — you can’t date a girl that your friend dated before unless you have permission.

My boyfriend cheated on me.

My friend tried to get super close with my boyfriend and they would talk and hang out separately without me. They always said they were just friends, but to this day I still don’t know if I believe that.

My friend knew this guy rst, then they stopped talking and he started liking me months later. Then, I didn’t like him so he asked that friend for advice and help about me. A er that, my

friend and that guy started talking again. But me and this guy were in the same class and had a lot of the same friends. He started liking me again! My friend cut o contact with both of us. I know, it's so confusing without context. This is still going on right now!

Rejection

Through the grapevine, we always hear the heart-wrenching stories. Someone likes someone, decides to own up to it over text…and their heart gets broken. In today’s digital age, most rejection stories happen over social media. The only bad part is that screenshots are inevitably sent around, and soon enough whole friend groups knows that you got rejected by Olivia with a “sorry”. It’s an embarrassing rst step, a gamble that some people choose to take and others don’t:

So I know this guy who confessed his feelings over text but it was a fail. He was like “oh I want to tell you something but there might not be a chance to say it later (over text)...I know it’s so ridiculous but I think you are really pretty and I nally got a chance to get to know you…” They were in the same friend group. He was like “I just want to like you. If you reject me I might leave (the friend group). Sorry, I’m really sel sh.” And she was like “I kind think you’re special.” He thought that that meant she liked him, and was sooo happy. But she didn’t nish texting! It ended with “Sorry I don’t have feelings for you…”

It is high risk, high reward—if you confess your feelings and they reciprocate, it is rewarding but you also have the chance of getting rejected.

RED FLAGS

When they cut you o from your friends. An inferiority complex.

themselves up over the smallest things.

Love comes in many forms, but we must rst and foremost love ourselves. If we cannot rst love ourselves, how can we expect to nd stability in another person’s a ection? So today, walk a little slower on the way home, give yourself some time to relax, and don’t be afraid to look at yourself and think hey good lookin’.

You’d be surprised how far a little love can go.

GREEN FLAGS

• You can talk to them without them making it about themselves.

• When they are respectful to teachers and workers. Having a good relationship with his mom, sisters, siblings. Doesn’t bash you for being better than him or worse than them. Looks like Timothee Chalamet.

Not playing games. Good hygiene.

Hot.

Rich.

TALL! Plays chess. Happy for you.

some of the most basic requirements that nighthawks have when looking for crushes. Some are very deep while others are pretty surface level. Materialistic or not, these were some qualities that nighthawks believed make or break a relationship.

Emotionally intelligent. Funny & always laughing around them. Knowing that when you hear someone’s problem you can listen and understand why they are upset.

Smart, but not in a know-it-all way. They don’t pretend to be dumb or think it’s cool.

When they are respectful to teachers and workers. Mean but in a good way (if that makes sense).

Inside jokes or you have funny nicknames for each other. When they don’t overanalyze.

Sta Contributors

Anna Feng, ‘23 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief

Ellen Xu, ‘23 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief

Nicole Pi, ‘23 - Vice-president/Deputy Editor-in-Chief

Audrey Zeng, ‘23 - Treasurer/Editor

Rini Khandelwal, ‘23 - Secretary/Editor

Nikki Hekmat ’24 - Board Editor

Anna Prasouvo, ‘24 - Board Editor

Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24 - Board Editor

Tyler Xiao, ‘24 - Board Editor

Andrea Wang, ‘24 - Head of Art

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

Priya Tantod, ‘24 - Co-head of Graphic Design

Daisy Zhang, ‘23 - Co-head of Graphic Design

Advisors

Mr. Thomas Swanson

Dr. Trent Hall

Writers

Raiya Bann, ‘23

Sophie Cao, ‘26

Shreena Dayal, ‘25

Anna Feng, ‘23

Nikki Hekmat, ‘24

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

Rini Khandelwal, ‘24

Cindy Liang, ‘26

Riya Patil, ‘24

Anna Prasouvo, ‘24

Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24

Hema Rajendran, ‘24

Sophia Tang, ‘25

Michelle Wang, ‘26

Tyler Xiao, ‘24

Vidha Yadav Ganji, ‘26

Daisy Zhang, ‘24

CONTRIBUTORS COLOPHON

The Featheralist, Volume 05, Issue 02

Del Norte High School's Political and Literary magazine. Published on June 30, 2023.

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

Graphic Designers

Amina Aslam-Mir, ‘25

Sophie Cao, ‘26

Angela Chen, ‘25

Kevin Du, ‘25

Julia Huynh, ‘24

Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26

Ariana Mallari, ‘23

Jordan Pham, ‘24

Karly Prasouvo, ‘26

Sophia Tang, ‘25

Priya Tantod, ‘23

Kevin Tran ‘25

Andrea Wang, ‘24

Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Ethan Zhao, ‘25

Artists

Katelyn Chen ‘24

Hannah Geng, ‘24

Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25

Rayne Huang, ‘26

Rini Khandelwal, ‘24

Vivian Ni ‘24

Kenna Okimoto, ‘24

Nicole Pi, ‘23

Hema Rajendran ‘24

Aliya Tang, ‘25

Andrea Wang, ‘24

Kate Xu ‘25

Daisy Zhang, ‘24

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

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 “turbulence” by Andrea Wang, ‘24

WORKS CITED

Superhero Movies: Potential Oscar Nominations?

Khan, Rabab. “Kevin Feige Shared Why He Thinks Superhero Movies Don't Get Oscar Nominations.” Game Rant, 18 December 2021, https://gamerant.com/kevin-feige-marvel-studi os-superhero- lms-oscar-nominations/. Accessed 8 April 2023.

Stewart, Brenton. “Every DC Film That's Won An Oscar, From Superman to Joker.” CBR, 13 February 2020, https://www.cbr.com/every-dclm-won-oscar-superman-joker/. Accessed 5 March 2023.

“Top Lifetime Grosses.” Top Lifetime Grosses - Box O ce Mojo, https://www.boxo cemojo.com/ch art/top_lifetime_gross/?area=XWW. Accessed 5 March 2023.

Wiese, Jason. “Every Superhero Movie To Win An Oscar, Ranked.” CinemaBlend, 15 January 2020, https://www.cinemablend.com/news/2488452/e very-superhero-movie-to-win-an-oscar-ranked. Accessed 5 March 2023.

The Story of 42% of the World “Indo-Europeans.” Livius, 2017, www.livius.org /articles/people/indo-europeans/.

Violatti, Cristian. “Indo-European Languages.” World History Encyclopedia, 28 June 2023, www.worldhistory.org/Indo-European_Langua ges/.

Keane, Maribeth. “Piecing Together the History of Jigsaw Puzzles.” Collectors Weekly, 19 August 2008, http://collectorsweekly.com/articles/aninterview-with-old-jigsaw-puzzle-collector-bob -armstrong/. Accessed 8 April 2023.

What Makes Jigsaw Puzzles Timeless?

Pepe, Amy. “Dissected Maps: The Origins of Jigsaw Puzzles.” Historic Geneva, https://historicgen eva.org/recreation/dissected-maps/. Accessed 8 April 2023.

Stebbins, Robert A. “Jigsaw puzzle | History & Facts | Britannica.” Encyclopedia Britannica, https://w ww.britannica.com/topic/jigsaw-puzzle. Accessed 8 April 2023.

It Has Just Begun: How Our World Will Look

10 Years In 2033

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THE SEA, ONCE IT CASTS ITS SPELL, HOLDS ONE IN ITS NET OF WONDER FOREVER.

Jacques Cousteau