FOREWORD
Dear Reader,
In sophomore year, a er reading Ken Liu’s short story “Paper Menagerie,” both of us were brought to tears—his vulnerability and raw portrayal of immigrant parenting moved us deeply. Inspired by his work, we started our rst project: submitting a short story to the next issue of The Featheralist. It was our rst time attempting to write something for The Featheralist, and we spent nights bouncing ideas back and forth, sharing excitement and inspiration in random moments. Eventually, we settled on the idea of using “qie zi” (eggplant, and the Chinese equivalent of saying “cheese” for a photo) as a connection between our Chinese culture and family experiences. We were so excited about this idea—it basically lived rent-free in our minds until we nished writing it, and published it to be read by others!
Over the past 4 years, we’ve submitted many more poems and stories, pieces of art, and graphic design spreads to issues. Through it all, we’ve learned how The Featheralist is more than a publication—it’s an avenue to share our ideas, whether vulnerable or informative or fun, to a broad audience of schoolmates, friends, and even on the national level! Everyone has their ideas, but the issue is how do we share them? Through The Featheralist, we have this place for our ideas to come to life—each person can have their own “qie zi” piece, starting a journey of expression for years to come.
Now, for one of our last issues as members of this wonderful magazine, please “QIE ZI” and enjoy! As you ip through these pages, we hope these pieces—which our members have poured their time and hearts into to make this issue a reality—bring a smile to your face. :)
Sophia Tang and Kate Xu Co-Presidents, Editor-in-chiefs
TABLE OF CONTENTS
AND THE LEAVES FALL AGAIN
Written and Designed by Grace Ye, ‘27
From lush green to a crisp orange days becoming shorter concrete oor blanketed in warm colors
It’s beautiful, but the wind is cold it starts to pierce instead of cool freezing anything that passes by
The trees don’t want to lose what they’ve built up in the last year branches desperately hold on to fragile collections, while the wind blows them away
Colorful decorations strung around homes vibrantly glowing at night bits of vivid memories hidden amongst the leaves
It’s beautiful, but eerie at the same time reminiscing summer how bright it was back then
Weeks from now, nothing here will stay the same the ground will be bare and tainted beginning to snow then melt before sprouting leaves rise and grow before withering away
And the cycle will repeat but with more acceptance over time when the leaves fall again
Gourd. Emily Capua, ‘27 Digital
FILIGREE
Written by Joann Xie, ‘27 | Designed by Joann Xie, ‘27
mama never released the downstairs curtain, le them rolled above our dining room window. i was fond of its bold twisting leaves and dulled red ower pattern.
as dust falls from the sky, below the trapped cloth, see mirrored eyes, light tracing up my knees to the ceiling top, strokes of swirly petals gnarled inside.
i brush my palm across the so powdery sheet, spread the drapes. i no longer see the hypnotic pupils, watching until i gasp.
turn back, breathe sunken dust. they taste of dull memory, feel of
evanesce
Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25
Mixed Media
dirt. i long for mama.
I HOPE YOU THINK OF TOMORROW
Written by Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25 | Designed by Katie Kim, ‘26
It has been Thirty- ve thousand Six hundred Sixty Four Hours
Since you have known peace
My dear, please cover your ears, For the screaming of the Broken windows and shattered Dreams have not died down
Since we last touched ngertips In the dark of your cellar
I am not one to wish upon stars, but there are no more lights in the charcoal sky for me to pray to.
I am not one to ask for help, But my scarred knees still bleed from worshiping Invisible beings greater than I.
How else can I guarantee that I will see your face tomorrow?
How else can I guarantee that you will someday Blink in the rays of the sun, Uncover your ears, And hear the silence of peace
Once again
In a Moment
Ananya AR, ‘27
Digital
THE ROAD TO CHESS CHAMPION
Written by Kevin Du, ‘25 | Designed by Olivia Li, ‘27
When I was 9, I used to walk home from elementary school with my mom. I would jump over every crack and rock I saw while walking on the sidewalk. But as soon as I encountered two people playing a board game, my curiosity piqued.
“Mom, can I go see this board game?” I asked, my eyes wide with excitement.
My mother pursed her lips in thought, her gaze dri ing up to the sky as she pushed her thumb against her bottom lip. I held my breath brie y, anticipation building until she nally nodded.
“Sure, Zoe, we can take a quick peek,” she said with a smile.
As we approached, I could see the intricate game pieces before them. It was a chessboard, each piece gleaming in the sunlight, and I was immediately captivated. I stood there, mesmerized, watching the players strategize their moves. I could feel a spark of interest igniting in me—a desire to learn how to play this fascinating game. A er a while, I asked the players if I could join, and they welcomed me with open arms.
Thus began my journey into the world of chess. Eager to embrace my newfound passion, I started playing with my parents frequently. We would spend countless evenings huddled around the kitchen table, laughter and friendly competition lling the air.
Eventually, I felt ready to test my skills against other players, so I participated in a local chess tournament. Much to my dismay, I lost every single round. It was even more challenging because I was the only girl in the game, and my heart sank under the weight of disappointment.
Still, I refused to let my initial failures dissuade me.
Instead, I found myself driven by an unyielding determination. I went to the local bookstore, devouring every book I could nd on chess theory. Night a er night, I studied, absorbing lessons on strategy and tactics as if they were life’s greatest secrets. Though I still lost some games, I noticed a gradual improvement in my play, and my con dence began to build.
One day, during a tournament, I encountered a grandmaster. He quickly recognized my talent and volunteered to play a few games with me. Each
match was a learning experience; he noted my mistakes and shared insights about the game. Even though there were times I snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, I remained dedicated to my studies. Despite his frustrations, the grandmaster continued to mentor me, urging me to practice even more.
Little by little, my hard work paid o . I began to excel in tournaments, claiming victory a er victory. The day nally came when I sat across the chessboard from the grandmaster once more. This time, I was determined to prove how far I had come. To my astonishment, I won the game, and a wave of pride washed over me. Emboldened by my triumph, I set my sights on the US Women’s Chess Championship. As I competed, I felt more con dent than ever. Eventually, I quali ed for the nal bracket.
When it was time for the climactic last game, I encountered my previous opponent, who, to my surprise, was the best player in the championship bracket. My face was sweaty, and my heart beat faster than ever. But despite my stress, I knew I was close to the nish line.
I started with the Scotch game: pawn to e4, pawn to swindling my way back into the game.
As the board became increasingly chaotic, I noticed my opponent struggling to keep up with the turbulent position. She thought for minutes and minutes and eventually moved her Bishop, attempting to trap my king in a corner. However, my face swelled up with glee a er noticing it was a blunder, and I sacri ced one of my rooks for a bishop. A er my opponent took my rook with a pawn, I skewered her king with my other rook, eventually winning her nal rook, putting me up two points in material. Taking advantage of her misstep, I seized the moment and tilted the game in my favor. I took each of my opponent’s pieces, one by one.
When I took her second to last pawn, she knew she couldn’t win the game, thus resigning. I couldn’t believe it—I had won the championship! The thrill of victory surged through me, reminding me of all the hard work and dedication it had taken to get here. Chess had transformed from a simple curiosity into a passion and a source of pride in my life.
Cornered
Sophie Tran, ‘26
Digital
“TOUCH GRASS” AND OTHER LESSONS FROM THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Written by Gerrit Siwabessy, ‘28 | Designed by Evelyn Wang ‘27
This election cycle, I interned for Dr. Darshana Patel’s campaign for the District 76 State Assembly seat, covering areas like 4S Ranch, Carmel Mountain, San Marcos, and Escondido. While many voters focused on the high-pro le presidential race between Kamala Harris and Donald Trump, local races like District 76’s o en slipped under the radar. Voters don’t see the door-knocking sessions in 90-degree heat, the hours spent calling voters, or the campaign events. Campaigns like Dr. Patel’s are collective e orts powered by volunteers, activists, and political consultants spanning from Sacramento to D.C.; I found it a profound learning experience to be part of this movement.
A week before election day, I spoke with campaign o cials Eli Lanet and John Paculdo Koenigshofer to get their insight into how a campaign like Dr. Patel’s runs and what the race meant to them personally. These conversations, along with my personal experience on the campaign trail, taught me a few key lessons:
Dr. Patel, a Democrat who previously worked in pharmaceutical research and who served on the Poway Uni ed Board of Education, faced o against Republican Kristie Bruce-Lane, who had previously lost the race for the seat in 2022 to incumbent Democrat Brian Maienschein. Bruce-Lane, who currently is the vice president for the Olivenhain Water Board, has been called an extremist Republican for her anti-abortion and pro-gun policies; she was endorsed by groups who want to criminalise abortion even in cases of rape and incest. Bruce-Lane’s extremist policies came with extreme (and at times unhinged) campaign strategies.
You may be familiar with Bruce-Lane through the countless signs lining nearly every street .
With little to no canvassing e orts, signs were her main campaign strategy. Bruce-Lane’s campaign even went on the o ensive by taking down Dr. Patel's signs or covering them with her own.
In one of the stranger moments of the election, Bruce-Lane’s campaign put up fake signs made to look like they were from Dr. Patel’s campaign that read “Defund the Police”—a policy Dr. Patel has never endorsed.
Patel Campaign Coordinator Eli Lanet described these tactics as “deliberately trying to misinform voters. It’s just disgusting to see. No one supports it; no one has really seen it before. Even the consultants who have worked on 30+ races have never seen something like this.”
“You do what you do; you draw the contrast. It’s the Michelle Obama line: ‘When they go low, we go high.”
I experienced the unusual antics of Bruce-Lane’s campaign and supporters rsthand. While knocking on doors in Rancho Bernardo, I was followed and recorded by three Bruce-Lane supporters—older white women with, apparently, nothing better to do on a Saturday evening. Lanet summed it up best: “You do what you do; you draw the contrast. It’s the Michelle Obama line: ‘When they go low, we go high.’”
“Every door I knocked on was a reminder that politics is personal, tangible, and rooted in the lives of the people it impacts.”
Dr. Patel’s campaign didn’t just rely on signs
voters—we talked to them.
Lanet points out, “What wins elections is knocking on doors; what wins elections is talking to voters. It’s really as simple as that. It’s not easy, but it is simple.”
Since September, I’ve spent nearly every weekend talking to voters across San Diego and District 76. Canvassing o ers a unique opportunity to engage with people from diverse backgrounds who share similar values in your community.
Lanet describes the positive side of campaigns like Dr. Patel’s: “People focus a lot on how terrible campaigns are—they’re bad for the country, they’re bad for democracy. Look how much money is in campaigning. I think a lot of people talk about that, but they don’t talk about the good. I still think there are bad elements of campaigning, but there’s also a lot of good. Right now, when we’re on the eld, we’re seeing that good in action. We are seeing the youth get involved. It’s great because you’re helping out with democracy, providing information to voters, and engaging with your community.”
In an era where so much political discourse unfolds online—o en fueled by partisanship
2. Local politics can be dirty, but it doesn’t have to be
to reach
1. Local politics can be dirty
and disconnected from real communities—my time on the campaign trail reminded me of the importance of engaging in local politics at ground level.
Working on Dr. Patel’s campaign wasn’t just about advocating for a candidate, but about connecting with people. Every door I knocked on was a reminder that politics is personal, tangible, and rooted in the lives of the people it impacts.
3. Remember to touch grass
Lanet also o ered some advice to the youth who feel overwhelmed by the current state of politics: “We look at the media, I was in high school once, and we say, ‘Oh my goodness, the world is collapsing around me.’ Go outside and touch grass. You realize (A) it’s not all bad, and (B) you have to do something.”
There’s more to the world than the chaos portrayed in the media.
“I know it can be really overwhelming to be fed bad news constantly because that’s how the news makes a pro t, but remember—the news is just a company,” Lanet added. “They’re going to have a bias toward providing bad news because that’s what sells.
Things aren’t always as bad as the news makes it look. Go outside, engage with your community, touch grass. Know that you can work to change things.”
Whmich leads me to my nal point:
4. YOU can be the di erence
As the future generation of America, we have the ability to create change in our communities.
John Paculdo Koenigshofer, a 4th year student at UC San Diego and Dr. Patel’s intern coordinator (my boss), believes that young people are more than ready to make an impact—they just need the right opportunities. “We haven’t done any recruiting for this internship program; I haven’t had to convince a single one of our over 30 high school and college students to join,” he explained. “A lot of these interns aren’t even studying politics. They’re doing it because they see the impact they can make in their community, and they're taking that opportunity.” He went on to say, “Even a er the election, you have a voice and the ability to make a di erence—don’t pass up that
opportunity.”
On Election Night, I attended Dr. Patel’s election watch party at the Naturally Desi cafe in Rancho Bernardo. As the votes were being tallied, Dr. Patel had developed a nice lead over her Bruce-Lane, and the night gradually turned into a celebration. However, watching the national results come in, there was a palpable shi in the tone. You can imagine how the room - lled with Democratic party o cials and volunteers - felt at that moment. A potent mix of dread and exultation.
On November 12, Dr. Patel declared her victory over Bruce-Lane.
The result of the presidential race was a disappointment to many, me included. But working on the campaign trail, experiencing Dr. Patel’s victory, and seeing good campaigns being elected at the local level across the country gave me a glimmer of hope; with Donald Trump’s election, the stakes are higher than ever.
PROVIDENCE'S POSTWAR URBAN DESIGN SCENE
Written by Khloe Louie, ‘28 | Designed by Karly Prasouvo, ‘26
Real author’s note: None of the information presented is real, it’s just a satirical piece about architecture and journalism. Any resemblance to real persons, places, events, or things, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Providence’s Postwar Urban Design Scene
Jacques Jacobson — Washington Post
PROVIDENCE - Welcome to the inaugural article in the “Jacques’s Talks” series! In case you’re new here, I’m Jacques Jacobson, three-time Pulitzer-winning investigative journalist, and this is the start to my interview column! Interviewing has always been my favorite part of creating articles, but I got bored of writing the Pulitzer-winning Post Local newsletters and for the EXCLUSIVE Breaking News section, so I gured, why not mix it up a bit? Maybe local and breaking news aren’t what everybody wants.
So, for our inaugural article, I’ll be interviewing my favorite architect in the world, Coolguy, about the new wave of architecture in Providence.
This interview has been condensed. Not because of clarity (everyone else already does that) but because my editor made me. CURSES!!!
OMG HI COOLGUY!!! SO NICE TO CATCH UP WITH YOU! HOW HAVE YOU BEEN SINCE… WELL, YOU KNOW — OUR DAYS ON THEODORE, FRANKLIN D., AND ELEANOR ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL’S FOOTBALL TEAM? (GO ROUGH RIDERS!)
OMG hi Jacques!!! So I went to USC on a football scholarship, but they kicked me o the team. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t good enough for them. And then I ended up in architecture school, and then—
OKAY, COOL. WHAT AN INSPIRING STORY! NOW, LET’S TALK ABOUT YOUR BUILDINGS. YOU FIRST GAINED NATIONAL
WHEN YOU REDESIGNED FRANZ KAFKA HIGH SCHOOL. WHY DOES IT LOOK LIKE THAT?
Ever since its inception in 2010, Franz Kafka High School’s motto has been “Where Absurdity Thrives and Normality Dies.” I wanted to convey this message in the new redesigning. The rst thing I changed was the modern design. Seriously. That is so 2010s. Nobody uses at-tops anymore! Anyhoo, a er that, I arranged for the principal’s construction crew to tear it down. I went for a gothic aesthetic due to the declining state of the world. You know, with the war and everything.
FUNNY HOW YOU MENTIONED THAT. SPEAKING OF WHICH, IF YOU’RE STILL READING THIS, MAKE SURE YOU PRE-ORDER MY BOOK, “THE FIGHT OF THE AMERICAS,” ON SCAMAZON.NET. THE FIRST 100 PEOPLE TO GIVE IT A 5-STAR REVIEW WILL BE PAID $2000 DOLLARS EACH. ANYWAYS BACK TO THE CONVO! WHAT WAS YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH THE WAR, AND HOW DID IT INSPIRE YOUR CURRENT WORK?
I was just scared they were gonna nuke New York, you know? And because of Providence’s proximity to New York, everybody despaired and all. Thus, the black spires you can see in my work re ect our spiraling anxiety and existential dread. Let’s take City Hall Subsection R for an example. I was originally gonna design Subsection Q, but the mayor hired someone else. Additionally…
I’M BORED. CAN YOU TALK ABOUT SOMETHING A LITTLE MORE INTERESTING? PLEASE? What do you want me to talk about? My besties?
YEAH, EXACTLY!
Oh. In the construction industry, nobody cares about each other. We all just want to race to design and build the tallest, coolest-looking buildings. For example, Cyberpunk Tower in Everytown. I was commissioned to design it, but then Bluesky—
OKAY, LET ME PAUSE HERE. WHY DO YOU GUYS ALL HAVE… *GLANCES AT
Well, that trend started in 2024 when there were eight Johns who were trying to construct the centerpiece of the new Marine Hotel complex on Federal Hill. And nobody could tell them apart. Let me ask you something real quick. How many John Smiths do you know?
NINTEEN. WHAT ARE YOU GETTING AT?
That’s exactly why we created our professional names. Anyways, as I was saying, I was supposed to design the CPT, but Bluesky ruined it. HE CORRUPTED MY VISION. WITH A STUPID FLAT-TOP!! That is NOT a tower. That’s more like an apartment building. Just unnecessarily tall. Problem is nobody LIVES in the CPT. What a scam. That’s why I’m so lucky to have nice, esteemed journalists like you in my social circle. You guys actually care about me and are willing to ght for justice. Like, take that time you sued the New York Times a er they slandered me. Remember when—
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “YOU GUYS?” I THOUGHT I WAS YOUR ONLY JOURNALIST FRIEND! WHO ELSE IS INTERVIEWING YOU?
As I said, remember when—
ARE YOU BEING INTERVIEWED BY THOSE SNOBBY NEW YORK TIMES PEOPLE? I CAN’T EVEN STAND TO LOOK AT THOSE ELITIST RICH GUYS. Why would THEY want to interview me? They hate my guts. See, I was trying to redesign the NYT Headquarters one day—
WHAT? WHY ARE YOU CLAIMING AFFILIATION WITH THEM?!
Jacques, my friend. I thought you said this interview was supposed to be about actual architecture. Can we get back on topic?
NO! IF YOU KEEP TALKING TO THEM, YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN MY CHANCES OF WINNING ANOTHER PULITZER!!!! Why did I accept 200 dollars for this?
HEY! I’M SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE ASKING QUESTIONS. LET’S GET BACK TO YOUR ORIGINAL POINT ABOUT THE DECLINING STATE OF THE WORLD…
Yeah. These days, everyone spends all
Even I do. I’ve currently got an iPhone 92 Pro Max Ultra Mega Amazing. It’s almost as big as an iPad Air 30, so I decided to use it to plan out my concept art. As you can see here, this is the skeleton of the CPT.
LUCKY! HOW DID YOU GET THAT?
My friend Ike gave it to me once he received the iPhone 500 Pro Maximum Ultra Mega Amazing XXX EXCLUSIVE!!! Limited Edition. No biggie.
HOW DID THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?
Great! I’m so glad this makes me feel like a privileged member of society. And I’m grateful for what I have.
BUT WHAT ABOUT THE GROWING MIDDLE CLASS?
I’m not an economist. Next—
WHY ARE YOUR ANSWERS SO BORING? YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET ME A PULITZER ANYWAYS. DO YOU KNOW ANYONE WHO CAN?
Maybe you should interview a singer or an actor. You know, nd somebody that people are gonna care about.
BECAUSE NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOU. YOU’RE RIGHT!
*silence*
YOU KNOW, SOMETIMES I FEEL THE SAME WAY. WE ALL JUST WANT TO GET PULITZERS AND BECOME WORLD-FAMOUS THAT NOBODY BOTHERS TO ASK EACH OTHER HOW THEY’RE DOING. AT THIS POINT WE’RE ALL STUCK IN OUR LITTLE BUBBLES, RACING TO REPORT ON THE LATEST NEWS. BUT SOMEONE’S GOTTA DO IT. WITHOUT JOURNALISM, THIS WORLD WOULD RUN ON LIES.
Someone’s gotta be an architect too. If not, all of civilization would collapse and people would rot to death on the streets. et’s go!
*LAUGHS* SORRY FOR WASTING SO MUCH OF YOUR TIME. WE COULD’VE JUST TEXTED OR SOMETHING. HOW ABOUT YOU AND ME, WE DROWN OUR SORROWS AT THE BASKIN ROBBINS NEARBY?
Huh. That would be nice. Let’s go!
JACQUES JACOBSON is a world-famous, three-time Pulitzer winning journalist for the Washington Post. Although he typically writes for the Post Local and Breaking News sections, he felt like
recognition. This biographical snippet was not written by Jacques and does not re ect his views or those of the Washington Post.
SEE ALSO Opinion: Fame is overrated. Journalists should chase the truth rather than ideals and awards. by Jacques Jacobson
Ananya AR, , ‘27 Digital
WORDS THAT SHAPE THE WORLD
Written by Sanvi Dogra, ‘26 | Designed by Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26
A er a long day at work, you nally settle down and sink into your so couch with a sigh. Pulling out your phone, you scroll mindlessly through social media until you come face to face with a shocking headline, jolting you awake. Flash forward to a couple years later, when you’re walking around a grocery store only to see that your favorite news source has published an article painting a popular politician in a bad light. I’m sure most of you can’t even remember all the times a tidbit of information or whispered words in the hallways have ipped your opinions upside down. At its core, language is simply a series of hisses and pu s -
vibrations from one’s vocal cords to another eardrums that manifest into sentences.
However, in this day and age, when the amount of books and speeches are constantly increasing, language has an even more profound impact on our thoughts than before. It can easily be manipulated to sensationalize stories, direct empathy, and incite action on thoughts that weren’t even yours in the rst place. We’ll explore some of the tangible social and political consequences of language by talking about cultural biases inherently embedded into di erent languages, discussing the importance of word choice in shaping legal documents, and nally, discussing the use of linguistics to promote political propaganda for the government.
Around the world, there are over 7 thousand languages, each embedded with layers of history and culture that have shaped their uniqueness. However, while we celebrate these symbols of diversity, languages re ect old traditions that societies have tried to overcome, therefore perpetuating outdated stereotypes that can a ect people’s subconscious biases. In fact, the American Psychology Association published a study on Dutch and German students, two languages where nouns are gendered. The study pointed out that, conventionally, occupations are presented using the generic male form. However, researchers found that in classrooms where teachers made a point to use both masculine and feminine forms for career options, signi cantly more female students believed that they could realistically strive for careers in male-dominated elds like engineering,
rather than be limited to jobs ‘suited for girls’. School is the place where young children spend most of their developmental years and where their interests and dreams are just starting to take shape, so it’s more important than ever to foster their self-con dence. Even in today’s modernized world, Harvard Business Review still reports that only 20% of engineering graduates are female. This isn’t because they don’t possess the ability or aren’t not interested, but can be attributed in part to such linguistic interventions that subconsciously convince them they don’t belong in that eld. We can also see this in English literature and conversation, where “he” is o en used as the default pronoun for genderless doctors, engineers, and academics, while “she” is treated as the default for nurses, secretaries, and teachers. Beyond gender disparities, we also see how language based biases relate to ableism, with the common abuse of words like ‘moron’ and ‘imbecile’ equating disabled people to lesser beings. To reduce generalizations, societies can easily adopt gender-neutral language that avoids associating certain genders with certain positions, or opt to use synonyms rather than historically o ensive terms to fracture the image of stereotypes commonly believed today.
Furthermore, when it comes to our legal system, linguistics is especially important in shaping the e ect you intend certain documents to have. Efrén Pérez from Princeton University states that one way to build this intent is
tailoring
our approaches to specific languages
tailoring our approaches to speci c languages. He nds that languages which don’t have a future tense, and instead use the present tense to talk about the future, are more likely to see climate change as an immediate concern, and therefore enforce more environmental policies, than languages with a separate future tense like English. In these countries, emphasizing the more immediate threat of pollution may just make the di erence between whether someone decides to follow environmental safety precautions or not. The importance of language doesn’t just end there.
A similar study of court cases across three centuries by Caitlin Fausey from Stanford University reveals that using active voice rather than passive voice, such as saying “she hit me” rather than “I was hit,” not only increases the
emotional attachment of the public to the victim, but even bene ts chances of a guilty verdict. This study doesn’t include only petty the s or vandalism but also assault, and even homicide. This highlights the signi cance of selecting appropriate language when cra ing critical arguments to maximize their impact on the audience.
At a political level, people have been only sharing a single side of the narrative to sway public opinions since the start of the governmental system. A prominent example of this is shared by Dana Goldstein from New York Times, who noticed that California and Texas both teach the same history textbook by the same author, but contain hundreds of di erences tailored to the state. California’s Democratic government emphasizes the experiences of marginalized groups, while Texas’s Republican governor highlights individualism and patriotism. Likewise, California removed the word massacre when describing the Native American attack on white colonists, while Texas requested more details on the clergy that signed the Declaration of Independence. Goldstein worries that this individualization of learning material not only
encourages blind faith in the actions of the government
, but also inspires future generations to behave like their ancestors, restricting their ability to form their own unique opinions. With di erent parts of the country promoting di erent ideologies, political polarization will only increase over time and fracture the national identity for good. Another example is the public opinion on the Vietnam war. While president Johnson emphasized how Vietnam was ‘repeatedly attacking’ the U.S. unprovoked, It was nally an attack by Vietnamese boats on the U.S. army that led to widespread public support and allowed the government to initiate the Vietnam war like they wanted. However, the Navy reveals decades later that declassi ed reports prove that this attack never actually happened. Rather, it was a deliberate attempt by the Secretary of Defense to mislead the entire country. Without the military recruitment, nances, and national unity from public support, the entire tide of the Vietnam war could have changed. In a time where public perception is so important, it's clear that political gures o en
choose to change the reported course of history rather than changing their behavior to garner support, which greatly alters the e ect these narratives have on the generations to come. These examples serve to show that we should be aware of the way in which the use, misuse, and intentional manipulation of language can not only perpetuate stereotypes, but also determine the outcome of legal proceedings and major political stando s. While language is o en implemented to
reinforce these barriers, it can just as easily be used as a tool to enable growth instead. It isn’t about censoring the expression of your thoughts, limiting your freedom of speech, or being overly critical of everything you read, but acknowledging the direct and real in uence of words on people’s lives -- the true power that language can have. We can easily substitute our words with more empathetic alternatives that serve to create a kinder and more inclusive
community. We can mobilize to alter the language of important antiquated documents that guide critical decision-making. We can read multiple con icting sources, be open to new ideas, and debate topics with others before coming to any decisive conclusion. By recognizing the endless positive possibilities of linguistics, we can strive towards building a society where the power of language can be used for the better of more people, rather than the power of a few.
Bias
Chloe Kang, ‘26 Digital
THE MOSAIC OF SICILY
Written by Sa ya Warsi, ‘28 | Designed by Joann Xie, ‘27
The historian trekked beneath the pointed arches, immersed in the timeless sequence of browns, yellows, and whites that hypnotized its onlookers like a piece of Monet art, the tiny dots of paint enhancing a picture with hidden depth. The air was thick with the golden hues of Mediterranean essence, and the levanter blew strong, tossing the artist's hair, its brown and aureate streaks intertwining with whispers of converging cultures carried from across the sea.
This was why she loved her work—traveling the world, bathing in the unknown, and leaving each place draped in the fabrics of red and orange cultures, green and blue languages. But this stretch of the Italian peninsula always felt like home, its strangely melodic, accented language dri ing through her ears like a familiar song.
As she walked through the scenery, the historian made her way to the new archeological site that had just been uncovered. It was a oor mosaic, established in an old villa by the Arabs that had once ruled Sicily. Through this, she hoped to shed light on this great yet forgotten role of the Muslim civilization and how its contributions to the sciences, humanities, and arts played a role in developing our modern world.
The historian entered the semi-preserved villa, a large wooden door creaking open. Inside, a mosaic oor spread before her in rich tessellations of blue, gold, and maroon, drawing her in like whispers of ancient cultures. The bare walls, in contrast, stood and seemingly gaped at the vibrant design at the heart of the room.
The historian knelt before this work of art, lightly brushing her ngers over a cerulean tile. In that instant, her eyelids uttered shut. Her mind had been swept away by an unseen force. She tried to pry them open, but to no avail. She struggled. She ailed. She shook her head.
What seemed like an eternity of disorientation, she fell unconscious, seamlessly wrapped by a dream that unfolded in, as she had recognized, the bare house she was in at that very moment. This time however, it was adorned with plush carpet cushions in every corner, leaving the center mosaic to speak loudly at whoever was entering the space. The walls, too, were tiled more simply, yet they all bowed down to the one on the oor, its rich golds and maroons welcoming whoever entered. Alongside this, the so blue tones brought a shroud of tranquility to the room. Memories of her travels to the North African region stirred in her mind, its ethos echoing on the walls.
She saw a boy standing before her. He seemed to be around eighteen, yet his battleworn face and knowing glint in his dark eyes proved his wisdom beyond his years. He was clad in historical armor that the moors once fought in, with owing robes dancing with the wind, splattered with chainmail here and there and a turban to top it o . His Moroccan complexion conveyed a sense of surprise when the historian appeared in front of him, and he immediately began to question her in Sicilian.
“Who are you? How did you just appear?”
The historian replied, “I don’t know. I come from the year 2017.”
The historian grappled for a camera to capture this moment, its eeting minutes passing by like the levanter blowing oleander petals into the sea.
“There’s cultural harmony, without one person trying to destroy another,” said the historian, her tone expressing her widened eyes.
“I believe you; there can be no other explanation as to why you appeared,” the boy said slowly.
“I study the past so my people can learn from it. Would you mind showing me your home?”
“Yes, I can, for if you would like to know, that is the way of my ancestors. We allow visitors in our homes for three days until we question them why they’re there, if they don’t pose an immediate threat, of course. You seem ne,” he replied.
“I’m just going to patrol the neighborhood. You can come.”
Raising her eyebrows, the historian felt a sense of knowing, as if this situation weren’t out of the ordinary.
The soldier walked through the wooden gate and into the bustling port, and the historian followed, where she realized that she was brought back to around the 830’s, when the Muslims had just conquered the Sicilian region. Of course, even though she had some idea of what was happening, the surreal nature of her predicament brought a sense of dizzying shock, yet the historian pushed on.
She witnessed the Byzantine in uence still upon the region with its forti ed structures and walls. However, here and there, next to an Orthodox church spire a minaret would stand side by side. Courtyard buildings were prominent as well, re ecting this brand new Islamic in uence, alongside the at, white homes with geometric designs adorning the elegant pointed arches.
“Yes, however this peace acts as a gilded cage for those trapped in it,” was the pessimistic reply of the soldier.
“But it is really as if the brightest reds interact with the coolest greens to neutralize each other,” said the historian, “Witnessing it in person brings another layer of respect for the society of this region and the grand heritage of its people. How o en is it that there was no hate bubbling in your own backyard by prejudiced neighbors who were simply ignorant about the complexities of the world? Almost never.”
“This is true, yet many hold prejudices that they do not show. Not because they are subjugated to certain customs, but because their pride has been wounded by us conquering the land of their ancestors.”
“But here, it is hard to believe as I watch the muslims pioneer the concept of cultural acceptance,” said the historian unbelievingly, “I feel like I must preserve this, yet how?”
“But what do you truly want to preserve? The peace itself? Or the cracks in it and the struggles to keep this harmony, dispelling those who dream of it?”
“I-- I don’t know,” admitted the historian, “ I thought discovering your house and the beautifully measured mosaic in the center would give me a chance to prove how histories of marginalized people are o en looked over.”
“Really? The Muslims are no longer in power?” asked the soldier, a tinge of disappointment ringing in his voice.
“Yes, that’s true. And sadly… Your story has been forgotten by many.”
“Oh, that’s quite… sad… We’re one of the greatest empires in the world. I guess the spite of being conquered eventually showed its face in the world leaders that represent the West, so people still hold resentment against us for ruling so long a thousand years later,” said the soldier, analyzing current politics in a way the historian had never thought of. Now more than ever, the historian understood the vengefulness carried on from here. It was in her own world, nobody cared that the muslims had brought innovation from the medieval times rst, being the ones who introduced the Renaissance.
Still, knowing that this peaceful coexistence had been overlooked and was le undocumented haunted the historian. Its true atmosphere could never be a sensation that could enrapture its audience through some reenacted photo or video, the faces of the actors lacking the true spirit of the compatible cerulean blue that dri ed the historian here.
Tears stung the historian’s eyes. She wished more than ever to immerse herself in the whites and blues and reds and golds that only echoed in whispers in the far future. The lost history was playing before her eyes, a chance she coveted for years to put on record. The fear of losing it all now poisoned her chest. Yet she trudged on.
She had traveled the world to preserve the overlooked history of multicultural harmony, and no matter what she wrote or what she said, nobody seemed to care about its signi cance. Nobody cared to know. They all just heard, pretending to acknowledge this fact, yet barely paying attention to it.
The streets upon which the historian now walked were of the same narrow width as they were in modern day, yet instead of cobblestone, dry clay caked the ground, occasionally risen by a soldier’s horse that passed by, drawing a brown veil over the white and gray prominence.
These soldiers, as the historian began to notice, were met with hostile looks from the population riding their mules and wearing toga-like clothing.
Though bitterness had its show here and there, the atmosphere was not short of colorful vitality. The soldier turned around a corner to put on view a bazaar, its kaleidoscopic nature causing the historian to reach towards her eye to make sure no rainbow colored shade had been brought upon it. The boy stopped to speak with an old woman selling textiles from North Africa, where the historian suspected the soldier was from. However, when he opened his mouth to speak, a ow of the local Sicilian dialect added to the ood of languages in the atmosphere. The woman spoke back, yet this time in Greek, indicating the recent Byzantine rule of the area.
“How much is this for?” he asked the shopkeeper in Italian.
“10 Tarì.”
“That’s too much,” replied the soldier, raising his hands in the air.
“For you I’ll make it 7,” said the shopkeeper, leaning as to give the soldier a sense that he was doing something out of the ordinary.
“Fine,” said the soldier, handing the man yet another bag of coins.
“Hamza! Good to see you! When are you going back to Morocco?” a man yelled from across the street in Greek.
“Matthew! May peace be upon you! It depends on when there’s no longer a need for my patrols,” the soldier replied in Arabic, smiling lightly.
“God willing, your journey will go smoothly.”
“Inshallah, you will be able to make a pilgrimage to Christ’s holy ground in Jerusalem. Goodbye!”
On the other end of the marketplace, beneath a cypress tree, muslim scholars were just about to begin a session of educated talk. This too, took place in Arabic.
“We missed you at the debate yesterday, Salim. Where were you?”
“I was in the library nishing my research. I have come up with a concept…”
A moorish scholar and Byzantine noble debated beneath yet another tree.
“But the argument for contingency proves that God can only be one,” said the scholar matter-of-factly.
How was it that she heard history conveyed through letters and pages, yet to hear them sounded out by the spirit of time herself was truly a di erent ordeal?
Fleeting memories passed before the historian’s eyes.
A girl sat in her class. Her name: Alisha. Her parents: Pakistani.
“Why did your parents not give you a Pakistani name?” asked the teenage version of the historian. “I mean, it’s a beautiful name, but I want to know, if you don’t mind me asking.”
Alisha shrugged, “My parents didn’t want me to get bullied a er… you know.. 9/11. It’s a problem that’s not talked about because nobody wants to admit it..”
The historian remembered the knot in her stomach at that very moment. How was it that American parents were faced with a choice, choosing to abandon their identity for the sake of protecting their children. Eight years later, during her senior year of college, the historian was in a mountain village in the heart of the Karakoram ranges, Pakistan. The deep blue of the sky greatly contrasted with the snowy peaks basking in the gentle sunlight, where she enjoyed the alpine air outside a family’s home. Who these people were, she did not know. The historian had been hiking there for several days, and this family invited her in. Now, she sat upon the maroon rugs as she ate an assortment of dishes.
The two haggled for a few minutes, and the soldier got what he bargained for when he handed a bag of coins to the woman with a smug grin on his face, receiving two pieces of gold embroidered cloth.
As the transaction occurred, the historian looked around, becoming accustomed to the euphony of tongues and breathing the diversity of it.
She followed as the soldier came to another stall, this time for lamps
“I will believe in my religion as you will yours. Peaceful governance should come rst for the people,” replied the nobleman.
“To this, my brother, I agree. That is why we are here.”
Here, as the historian observed, there was a contentment on the simplicity of life itself, as if her primary shades were enough for the souls dwelling here. There was no need for secondary or tertiary colors. It was all there in the primary, where people mixed and blended it as they pleased, never forcing a new color to be added to the wheel but keeping it there to be used.
The scene beat the rhythm of humanity before her, a tempo that dusty history books could never record.
She wondered why western media barely mentioned anything about these stunning landscapes, or why it portrayed its embraceful people as those who lived in a war-torn zone. It just gave westerners, including the historian’s parents, the completely lopsided impression about the world. For, contrary to western media belief, it burst with the copious culture of this world fashioned with the perfect latches of existence that awlessly linked together. It forgot about what the historian was experiencing at that very moment.
As the historian analyzed the red white and blue that spoke on the behalf of her forefathers, the soldier walked on from the marketplace, again meeting with hostile eyes here and there, yet most people were indi erent to his existence.
At the far end of the bazaar, however, a commotion was arising. The soldier quickly went to see a group of Sicilian farmers pointing at a moorish merchant, who had clearly arrived recently. Their dialect was accusatory, giving vent to new economic tensions stirred by spite.
“Taking our land, now you take our trade?” one of the farmers spat, thrusting a nger at the merchant. “You’ve brought nothing but su ering! We can’t compete with your prices from the East!”
The merchant stood in his robes, clutching his North African goods. He stood stoically, yet sweat beaded his forehead and his hands were balled into sts.
“I am just trying to provide for my family, like you,” he said earnestly, yet the words trembled as they came out.
The soldier sti ened beside the historian, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. The historian desperately hoped he would do something. The peace that resembled a glass jar was teetering close to the edge of a cli , about to become shards right before her eyes. However, the soldier remained, calculating each move, allowing the tension to be released before him. The historian now understood that intervention would only cause violence.
A crowd had now formed to see the commotion, concerned faces dotting the plethora of robes, yet none daring to speak.
“I don’t understand the feeling of loss yet,” continued the historian, ignoring the soldier, “but as every human knows nothing is for free. If you want peace, you as a people must put in the labor together to achieve it.”
There was a long silence. The soldier remained with his hand on his hilt. The crowd then began to buzz uneasily, too busy deciding whether to stay or not. More importantly, however, the farmers slowly backed down, the tension still palpable but no longer on the verge of breaking into violence.
“She speaks the truth,” said the soldier suddenly, “Disperse now. If anything, someone is going to get themselves killed.”
“Perhaps we can nd a way to make things work,” added the historian, “Peace here is fragile, but it’s worth preserving. We shouldn’t break it just because it can be broken.”
To this, the farmers gave one nal haughty look and each turned, one a er the other, disappearing amongst the crowd that had nally dispersed. The merchant nodded thanks to both the soldier and historian, and he too retreated to his own dominions.
“The free spirit of harmony is always slipping through our ngers,” said the historian, turning to the soldier, “The story doesn’t nish with one conquest. It’s only the beginning.”
She looked around at the bustling streets. The mosaic, with its intricate patterns along with its blue, maroon, and gold ashed in her mind. The cracks in this masterpiece gave it all the more value, for it was still preserved despite time’s touch upon it.
“Yes,” replied the soldier, “but we must decide whether we should inspire hope by placing a solely false facade over the nature of peaceful coexistence, or to be truthful of the cracks that cover its surface, therefore exhibiting the dark truths of humanity.”
“Wait,” said the historian suddenly in Italian. The crowd focused their gaze upon her. The argument stopped momentarily. The hateful eyes of the farmers turned towards her. She swallowed, and stepped in between the two parties. Her heart pounded in her ears.
“Sweeping tensions away will only bring hate that will ll a jar, only for it to over ow a er a while and make everybody’s life a misery,” she looked at the merchant.
“Don’t you see? The moors allow you to practice your customs. Keep your identity. And life, it’s all about competition. Competition with yourself. Competition with its imperfections.
That’s what leads to the beauty of a ful lling life. Momentary happiness all the time never means a happy life.”
An older Sicilian farmer with weathered, canvas-like skin spoke, “you don’t understand what it’s like to lose your entire family once! I do! The least I can do now is save myself!”
“What. Are. You. Doing?!” the soldier murmured, dark eyes brewing a storm, “Don’t you see? Total peace is a myth. Things like this will happen. Let them. As long as there’s no brute force. It’s only a matter of time before the cracks show themselves.”
The Silican Market
Ela Efe, ‘27 Colored Pencil
CONTRIBUTORS
Sta Contributors
Kate Xu, ‘25 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief
Sophia Tang, ‘25 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief
Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26 - Vice-president/Deputy Editor-in-Chief
Saanvi Dogra, ‘26 - Secretary/Editor
Sophia Cao ‘26 - Board Editor
Cindy Liang, ‘26 - Board Editor
Katherine Chen, ‘27 - Board Editor
Aliya Tang, ‘25 - Board Editor
Kevin Tran, ‘25 - Board Editor
Chloe Kang, ‘26 - Head of Art
Joann Xie, ‘27 - Co-head of Graphic Design
Olivia Li, ‘27 - Co-head of Graphic Design
Advisors
Mr. Thomas Swanson
Dr. Trent Hall
Writers
Grace Ye, ‘27
Joann Xie, ‘27
Kevin Du, ‘25
Gerrit Siwabessy, ‘28
Khloe Louie, ‘28
Saanvi Dogra, ‘26
Sophie Cao, ‘26
Sa ya Warsi, ‘28
Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25
Artists
Emily Capua, ‘27
Ela Efe, ‘27
Kaitlyn Ho, ‘25
Ananya Rajendrababu Anoop, ‘27
Sophie Tran, ‘26
Khloe Louie, ‘28
Chloe Kang, ‘26
Graphic Designers
Sophie Cao, ‘26
Samhita Lagisetti, ‘26
Olivia Li, ‘27
Karly Prasouvo, ‘26
Evelyn Wang, ‘27
Joann Xie, ‘27
Katie Kim, ‘26
Grace Ye, ‘27
COLOPHON
WORKS CITE D
Words that Shape the World
Chen, Emily. "Words Matter: Understanding Linguistic Discrimination." 2021. Inclusive Publishing Co.
Hayes, Jonathan, editor. "Deconstructing Language Bias: A Critical Analysis." 2022. Discourse Publications.
Nguyen, James, editor. "Breaking the Silence: Challenging Linguistic Discrimination." 2018. Social Justice Publishing.
Patel, Sarah. "Beyond Words: Addressing Bias in Communication." 2019. Diversity Press.
Rhodes, Alexandra. "The Linguistic Prejudice: Unveiling Hidden Bias in Language." 2023. Language Press.
Rodriguez, Maria. "Language Justice: Empowering Marginalized Voices." 2017. Equity Publications.
Thompson, Michael. "The Hidden Agenda of Language: Unraveling Bias in Discourse." 2020. Equality Books.
“Touch Grass” and Other Lessons from the Campaign Trail
“Darshana Patel.” Indian Diaspora, 14 Mar. 2024, https://www.indiandiaspora.org/news/indian -american-darshana-patel-wins-democratic-n omination-californias-north-county.
BREAKFAST IS
EVERYTHING. THE BEGINNING, THE FIRST THING. IT IS THE MOUTHFUL THAT IS THE COMMITMENT TO A NEW DAY
A. A. Gill