Letters To... An Extraordinary Correspondence by Intertrend Communications

By: Donnavin J.

CONTENTS Introduction............................................... 4 About Make Noise Today........................ 5 Judges........................................................ 6 Winners...................................................... 8 Runners-Up.................................................. 28 More Letters for Exhibition.................. 52 Sponsors and Partners.......................130

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“LETTERS TO...” EXHIBITION We invited high school students nationwide to write letters to themselves, family, teachers, mentors, peers, bullies, future children, etc., o n the subject of race, ethnicity, and identity. The letters allow them to put their thoughts and feelings into words that may be tough to express. They can also share words of gratitude, hope, personal journeys and learnings.

To combat racism, we believe that change begins with YOUTH. The way in . . . . is STORIES. Stories move hearts and c hange minds.

Make Noise Today is a platform that creates empathy and equity through Asian storytelling. We accomplish this through: Collections of content & stories on the lives of Asian Americans – Recipe for Change Educational toolkits that teach youth/educators how to listen to and tell stories, as well as create space for discussions of race through storytelling. “Letters To...” Exhibition- Submissions from the “Letters To…” writing contest have been into an art exhibition to display and promote the students’ writings and amplify their voices. This initiative was launched in May 2020 in honor of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, and our powerful voices continue to be loud and strong to take control of our own narrative and combat racism by telling personal stories of our heritage and accomplishments, challenges, grit, inspiration, and culture — to create empathy, educate and inform the public at large to inspire us all to unite — Stand Up, Stand Out and… #MakeNoiseToday.

Learn more at makenoisetoday.org Follow us: @makenoisetoday

JUDGES Morell Jones

History Educator, Geffen Academy at UCLA. Morell Jones is a history educator at the Geffen Academy at UCLA. He is an alumnus of UCLA, where he received an undergraduate degree in history and received his master’s in education from Cal State San Marcos. Morell has served as an educator in the Greater Los Angeles area for over 20 years and has taught at both the elementary and secondary levels. Most recently, Morell stepped out of the classroom to become a student support/intervention specialist. The Geffen Academy is a university-affiliated, tuition-based school with a public mission to support and improve secondary education. The Academy is uniquely positioned between public and private school traditions, with the freedom to develop a fully research-based curriculum aimed at participating in the national conversation about modern education.

Ian Kumamoto

Writer, New York

Ian was born in Mexico City to a Chinese mother and a Mexican father before immigrating to Dallas, Texas. His words have appeared in the New York Times, Washington Post, VICE News and others. He is currently a lifestyle writer at Mic. Ian graduated from New York University and is currently pursuing a non-fiction MFA at Columbia. Ian’s writing covers everything that has to do with the lives and wellbeing of queer people and people of color, across themes of identity, mental health, representation, and community.

We wanted to highlight the invaluable efforts of the Make Noise Today team who sorted through all 900+ essays, and our judging panel who took the time to read the 200 finalists and score according to the rubric.

Eleanor Wikstrom

Poet Laureate, Editor of The Harvard Crimson Beginning at a young age, Eleanor’s efforts to harness the intersection of writing and activism have been repeatedly recognized by local, national, and international entities. As a National Young Arts Winner in Writing (Spoken Word) and the 2019 Oakland Youth Vice Poet Laureate, Eleanor has performed her spoken word at events around the country, from the YWCA Inspire Awards to the United Nations 75th Anniversary Commemoration. In 2020, she used her platform to lead in-class workshops on creative expression as a counter to forces of colonization, which culminated in the publication of a student poetry anthology. Most recently, she published a long-form op-ed on Harvard’s role in U.S. colonialism in the Philippines which topped the most-read list and was shared hundreds of times online. She is currently a sophomore at Harvard College, where she is an editor and executive on the Editorial Board of The Harvard Crimson undergraduate newspaper and a policy director at the Harvard Undergraduate Foreign Policy Initiative.

WINNERS Congratulations to the winning students! Out of the 900+ student submissions, your letters were found to be the most moving and thought-provoking. We want to thank all of our participants in the “Letters To...” essay contest. Your letters bring heartbreak, empathy, inspiration, and most of all hope for the future. We look forward to you continuing to Make Noise Today and every day!

By: Aida G. 9

Mama, For my whole life, you have called me beautiful, “你好可爱，你好漂亮，你真好看.” You made it sound so simple, so obvious, so easy. It was part of your daily dialogue, equivalent to something of a necessity like brushing your teeth or driving to work. So I didn’t think about it with you: not my tangled hair nor my filled face and belly. But as I found myself attending dress-up playdates where the desire was glittery eyeshadow and glass slippers, I also grew curious about the word. What does beautiful mean? And why am I considered so? “我漂亮所以你漂亮呀,” you would tell me, “I am beautiful so you are beautiful.” We would laugh and I would believe you. For you were the one who taught me strength as a single mother, who sang me to sleep in Chinese lullabies, and who danced with me when I cried. You were the one to trust. But it turns out a first-generation Chinese-American girl is not immune to the pursuit of whiteness even if you tell her she is worthy. Even if you are the only one she trusts. Because I started to spend more time with school than with you and my faith in your promises stretched into skepticism of contradictions. The problem was I began to confuse whiteness with charisma. I mistook the fluency of English for warmth and I cringed at your accent. Like when my white counselor would smile and ask me about myself, I would feel accepted. So when she wrote off my shyness as your mistake in divorce, I believed her instead of you. Or when the “nice” popular girl told me my food smelled weird, I would hide the smell of my lunch on the yellow bus to school. I would get mad at you for embarrassing me even without being there. Of course, my road was not linear. I grew. I understood what I did wrong and how this skin was something to be proud of. But still, the words came from the wrong people and the message was always surface level. Eventually, I became brainwashed to the beat of false empowerment. I starved my body for months, losing my period and throwing away piles of homecooked food. I exchanged sleep to paint my eyes bigger before the sun rose. I let go of ownership to my three-syllable name, creating sympathy for intended mispronunciation. I was still chasing whoever and whatever was apathetic to me. I still believed them more than I believed you.

Platinum Pen Award: Aida G.

So every time you called me beautiful, I would think of it as a mockery. How could you make fun of me like that? I would think. What a lie, I would whisper, what a lie. Instead of listening to you, I would crave the praise of random light-bodies I did not know. The praise from random light-bodies I did not like. But then, the idealism of whiteness began to crack. You did not. You never cracked, because you were real. In the spring of 2021, I saw our elders murdered on the streets and as I shouted in pain, it was you who comforted me, not them. While they turned their heads to whisper and call us names, while they scapegoated us for the problems they made, you held me. You listened to me. You believed me. You told me about the gruesome history of my heritage: my father’s childhood amidst the Chinese Cultural Revolution, my grandfather shoveling dead bodies in Tangshan, your lonely immigration to America. And while they bullied me again and again: deeming me inadequate on the land they stole, I finally came to terms with your acceptance and pride in me. While I attempted to reject you and your care, you tucked my hair and made my bed. You kept whispering your truths to me, healing me in steps. Despite my relentless betrayal, you believed in me. So thank you, mama. As the world carries on, it seems there will be endless dilemmas we will face. The news rages of more trauma to come. But I hope you know I know you are beautiful and I am beautiful. I hope you know I believe you and myself. I hope you know the rest of this fight will be me and you together. Love, Aida G.

“I am beautiful so you are beautiful.”

Dear God Almighty, Were you with them? The men at the pulpit deliver the modern-day corrupted parable about who to stay away from. They confront me with laundry lists of do’s and don’ts. They rattle off to me scores of sexual sins, and among them is something coined anything but gay. Same-sex attraction, maybe, and homosexuality on a good day. I felt that they had their ways of keeping the sinner at a distance by refusing to use their language. Did you know the word “sanctuary” is derived from the Latin prefix “sanct-,” which means holy? It is funny, then, the blasphemy of a man who called himself a preacher, calling his room of division and alienation a sanctuary. What did he know of your holy work? Your daughters, they prayed over me, and your sons prayed over my father, that he might be guided by your words and teachings to help me through my spiritual struggles. I tried to forgive them, Father, for hunting down my absolution like a midnight buck, for believing it would come with surrender in their noble fight of spiritual welfare. But I find that the biggest struggle of all was trying to make my peace with you. I asked you, pleaded with you, groveled shamefully, and I asked you to take my sin away. I asked you poised on my knees like a Catholic and collapsed on the floor like a fool. Through tears, fits, and screams, PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME GAY. And you stood idly by and let me transform. One day, I walked out the doors of the church and I didn’t realize I wouldn’t be back. When I was little, my parent’s called it “God’s house.” As if you lied there, made simple breakfasts of apricots alongside toast, and brushed your teeth over a sink you were much too tall for. Thank you for reaching me in the place where I make simple breakfasts of apricots alongside toast and brush my teeth over a sink I am much too tall for. I know where to find you. I spend eons of time in God’s house now that I no longer go to that church. I hold blue Bibles and purple hymnals, make a joyful noise unto the Lord and take communion. Bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh. I’ve come home to you, to the thing that was eternally my comfort even as they welded it into something evil and sharp in the weaponry.The candles are alight every morning in a sanctuary that accounts for your will and selflessness, that nurtures its children as opposed to telling them who to save. I couldn’t be happier. And I wanted to say thank you, really. But I also wanted to inquire, if you don’t mind. Were you with them? I have many of your children to thank, the youth on Christopher Street liberating people like me. The patrons of the Stonewall Inn. Drag queens with smeared lipstick and bloody knuckles. Tall and thin men in each other’s embrace with shaking voices and planted feet. They walk around, a paradox of love and fear. And I was beginning to wonder– were you with them? In those delicate embraces and clothes that hugged them in all of the wrong places because they were stitched together for different bodies? Were you with them as the finality of a brick through a window felt like a slap across the face? Did you comfort them when the rough hands of less-than-benevolent police officers shoved them like commodities into the back of a car? Did you cradle them like a tender mother during their nights in jail? Did you whisper delicate I love you’s to their sore and bleeding hands? Were you with them? I have to believe that the God I’ve reclaimed never forsakes his children. I am thankful, then, that I am around to pass along the message. To all of you children. To the ones that struggle with same-sex attraction and homosexuality. But especially the gay ones. Sincerely, A lost-and-found daughter

Gold Pen Award: Kenna P.

Nothing To See By Scarlett C.

To the white man watching through old glass window, It is 2pm on a Thursday afternoon, and I notice you watching. I see your curiously narrowed eyes and your pale white face. I see your eager hands, one of them pressed against the glass and the other shifting through your denim pocket. I see the repellant way you salivate at the corners of your mouth, reminiscent of a starving animal sensing blood. I know you. You’ve been here before, the doll store, but you never thought to look in. You tend to pass the place by and walk yourself somewhere more dignified. The five-dollar porcelanic figures that were made in a place far from here were never truly of interest to you. I know you. I’ve seen you before. You are the boy with the ringed fingers who decided you could hand me over like a vintage trading card. You are the old man on the street corner who noticed my “exotic” eyes over the rim of my mask. You are every yellow-haired, blue-eyed being getting hypnotized by brightly colored feminine figures on a forty-five point two-inch screen. I know you. You sit upon a silver throne gifted to you by centuries of fathers. You wear a crown of your audacity; you hold a scepter of your ego. You are used to being fed and carried and lifted so you can see the sun. You are a ruler of your own insignificance. I know you. But do you know me? I am a doll. I am made of fragile glass, the same material that makes tea cups and plates. I wear a lace white dress with baby pink cherry blossoms lining the seams. My eyes were formed with the elusive swish of a brush, thin and sharp. To you, I am shiny. I am sweet. My skin was cautiously painted for you to admire; my hair was softly needled into my head. I exist to hang loosely underneath your arm as you walk down the street. I live to smile from your tall wooden shelf. To you, I do not speak. I only nod when prompted to. I can wave too, or even dance if so required. But I do not speak. Dolls are not made to speak, for language does not roll off the tongue of porcelain or exist on the surface of marble. To you, I am the fruits of your labor. I am to be held by you when you believe you deserve to hold something. I was handcrafted on a foreign island with golden beaches and unbecoming creatures. I was brought to you in a white box that has a satin ribbon placed delicately on top. I am your gift. I am yours. To you, I am this. Yet I believe, if you allow the universe to be boundless, there is much that you do not know. You do not know that when the shop closes in the late evening, I come alive. My glass limbs suddenly animate themselves and I am a host to my own. My lace dress billows in the breeze from the window and the moonlight dapples the shelf. I burst with life and music and art. I am a dancer. The world is now composed of symphonies and songs, screaming to the hilltops with a zest no living being has ever claimed. I lift my arms and soar through these melodies. I sing louder than the thunder from the sky, operatic and echoing and out in the world. In these moments, I feel evil. I feel a delicious malice brewing in my soul and my heart; I feel an exciting flame roar behind me. It is this evilness that fuels me, and it gives me power. It is as if I am falling sideways, faster and faster with a drive to continue forever. I am not a doll anymore, but a force of every rage gathered from the core of the earth. I am volcanic with phrases I desperately want to say and brimming with an unbridled personality. I am the divine feminine, the divine masculine, the divine human. I am beyond this world. I am free. Man, white man, watcher, this is the me that you do not know. I was never your prize; we were never your prizes. You can hyper-sweeten our languages, infantilize our bodies, sexualize our innocence. You can steal our fashion, devour our faces, villainize our history. You can scream, cry, shoot, stab, strangle, stalk, drown, beat, kill. But you will never know. It is 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon, and I notice you watching. And yet, despite your curious eyes, there is nothing to see.

Gold Pen Award: Scarlett C.

Dear Tasha, Hello, little one. I know, it’s hard to believe how I could look so different from you, even with how long it’s been. I wanted you to know that you’re seen. I see you there, crying on the floor of your mothers bathroom, tauntings of “frizzy”, “poofy”, and “messy” still ringing in your ears. I see you trying desperately to straighten and tame the wild mane you were born with. I know it’s hard. You’re only a child, but even still you constantly wonder why you’re the only one that doesn’t look like your father nor your mother; a mutt, a hybrid of two radically different histories. Skin of both the slave and the master, where would you fall under? With your blood like water and oil, refusing to mix, it left you feeling like an unfinished painting. As if you were a prototype, but never the final product. In family photos and holiday gatherings, why are you the only one who doesn’t fit quite right? Why are you always out of place, only fitting in in the spaces in between? They say they don’t notice, that seeing color is a thing of the past. Why then, on every official document do you find yourself searching for that one box: “Check all that may apply”? It’s a common phrase for you. And when it’s missing, you’re faced with the choice you shouldn’t have to bear. I see you, laughing it off when a stranger asks “Is it real?”, but somehow forgets to ask when they touch or pull on it. What are you supposed to answer when they say, “You don’t look black.” What are you? Who are you? You don’t know. It’s easier to blend where you can, I know. But how can you, when you’re too dark for the privileged, but too light to be a part of the oppressed? I know your experiences are neglected because of your lightness, even though your daddy taught you to do the same thing when police come around as his dad taught him. “Hands on the wheel, look forward, don’t resist.” “Tie your hair back if you can.” Because that was my only distinction, wasn’t it? The only part of me that made me like them. Why did you get that option, to abandon your blackness at the blink of a hair tie? I know how they made you feel guilty for that. It wasn’t your fault. It goes back to our history, as most things do. Your family was in the fields, but you... you were a house nigger. “The better nigger”; “the safer nigger.” If you could even utter the word. Every time you did you felt the need to defend yourself. Why? You’re black, aren’t you? Not entirely, only when you could be. Why do you change your tone when you speak to your auntie? Why do you straighten your hair, and use bigger words with your mother’s brother? Do you still change the music when your black friends are in the car? And make yourself softer, quieter at your white friend’s house? What are you? It changes, doesn’t it? The code is constantly switching, so much that you couldn’t even tell me who you really are. I know how they try to squeeze you into boxes like your whole life can fit inside one, into tiny minds and spaces made to make you smaller. But you aren’t made to fit there, little one. You are not who they say you are, not too light nor too dark, not unfinished, and not a mutt. You don’t have to keep compromising, or create any more versions of your perfect self than you already have. Your uniqueness is what makes you whole, not two halves of one. Do not be ashamed of your hair. I know you can’t brush it like the other girls or French braid it like they do in the locker room. I know how it gets bigger when it rains and how boys can’t run their fingers through it, but still, I see how it stands like a crown on your perfect head. Wear it like one, and show it off like it represents royalty, because it does. I want you to speak with power in your voice, and do not be afraid to take up space in places where you don’t look or sound the same. You are blessed with two sides of two beautiful stories inside you, and there’s no one in your school, at home, or in the world that can tell them like you can.

Silver Pen Award: Natasha Q.

The Hands that Built Us Work Being Hispanic, working hard is something that is beaten into us since before we can remember Living in America work helps us live, but injustice and prejudice keeps us where we are I come from a long line of workers Gardeners Carpenters Fieldworkers Taco truck owners When I was younger instead of Mary Poppins and Skippy John Jones I got stories that came to life Characters that rose and fell by the gesture of my father’s, calloused, hand Stories of my family Crossing lines that many scorned them for Crossing Another of a nine-year-old sitting for hours Waiting to be granted citizenship When my mother told stories She told them with her whole being Her hands like puppets Her arms their strings She told stories of a time when happiness, Was measured in money And no matter how much they worked money always fell Short Being in America no ear can escape the saying Money makes the world go round And it’s times like these where I wished The world would stop spinning The stereotype of a hard-working brown man Carefully handcrafted Like pygmalion and his statue Leaves little to the imagination And so much in the ways of expectations Being a part of their stories I can only hope Not to fall short And someday make it my own -Amerie G.

Silver Pen Award: Amerie G.

Dear Mixed Kids, I’m sure you have stories of your own like this… here’s mine. In kindergarten, we were asked to draw our future selves. Amidst crayon-scrawled ballerinas and Sharpie-sketched firefighters, was my picture pinned to the wall. My future self was an artist, clad in a red beret and a construction paper frock. She graced a blank-white page with her bold blue eyes and blonde hair. A brilliant prophecy that five-year-old me penned herself. At first glance, my father’s French surname messily scripted with the hands of a child in the corner painted the picture of a kid ready to take on the world, ignorant and inspired. What oblivious Open House-attendees did not see was a girl erasing who she was with every brush stroke, hoping and praying that she would grow out of her biracial identity, that her curly, black hair would suddenly become the golden locks of every princess and protagonist she admired, that her brown eyes would be blessed with the type of blue that received the praise she’d only heard from afar. “Why didn’t you draw yourself?” I remember a classmate asking. “It’s more fun to draw someone pretty.” Like most girls, at this young age I became brutally aware of “pretty.” “Pretty” was blonde. “Pretty” was White. “Pretty” was skinny and slope-nosed and blue-eyed and clear-skinned. Praised by mothers and fathers and family friends. America’s Sweetheart. Barbie. “Pretty” was not mixed. “Pretty” was not me. How ironic it was, young hands not quite dextrous enough to properly hold a pencil, but a mind already programmed to reject her Chinese heritage, dragging along her Asian half like a burden, and grasping her White half like the currency it still is in this world. I wish she could hear me shouting back to her how wrong she was and how proud she should be of who she is. Growing up, rather than “pretty,” I was always “exotic.” The mosaic of my Chinese, French and Russo-Jewish ethnicity seemed to materialize into a singular prompt that read, “Ask me why I look like this.” I’ll never forget when a substitute teacher bluntly asked me, “What are you?” I was in 3rd grade then, and had absolutely no idea what this meant. It probably showed, too, because she followed her query abruptly with: “Well, you’re obviously not fully White.” Smug, with a look like she had busted me for the misdemeanor of not being caucasian, at only 8 years of age, I was found guilty of being biracial. She pried it out of me like a secret. “Oh, I’m half Chinese.” I confessed.

“You don’t look Chinese” was all she said in response. Was that supposed to be a compliment? Was my white-passingness what made me worthy of praise and acceptance? I allowed myself to be Chinese twice a year for family vacations and reunions. That was it. I learned to keep my heritage locked up in a place deep inside, hoping if I buried it deep enough, people would no longer look at me like I wasn’t supposed to exist, no longer ask if I knew what “Stranger Danger” met when I was alone with my dad, or if my mom was the nanny, no longer beg for an explanation for my appearance and be equally unsatisfied either way. Getting older only meant exchanging childhood ignorance for learned bigotry. Even now, while I can finally say I am proud to be mixed and Asian, I’m tired. I’m tired of watching the world take the half of me that I’m finally at peace with and fetishizing it, politicizing it, turning my identity into a virus. I’m tired of sitting in fear until I know my grandparents are home safe after going grocery shopping after hearing the horrible hate crimes against Asians filter through the news. I’m tired of being the “model minority” only when it benefits bigotry, but “fresh off the boat” otherwise. I’m tired of being called “exotic” simply because my parents don’t share a race. I’m tired of being tired…and I know you are, too. To the kids all too familiar with selecting “other” as a race. To the kids sick of explaining ad nauseum why you look like how you do. To the kids “too Asian” or “not Asian enough.” To the kids walking the line between two worlds, feeling a part of neither. To the kids who fall through the cracks--I’m sorry. I’m sorry that the only choices are “be White” or “be fed up.” I’m sorry that the world practically begs us to be one thing, when the reality is we will never be. I’m sorry that people look at you like you’re not supposed to exist. Because you are. You deserve a voice, even if it doesn’t sound like what the world is used to hearing. You’re supposed to be here and you’re supposed to be mixed. Don’t let ignorance rob you of your identity. Don’t let conformity rob you of your duality. Don’t let being tired stop you from being proud.

“Don’t let ignorance rob you of your identity.” Silver Pen Award Winner: Arabella V.

By: Arabella V.

“X-X-Xin Lu!” my new teacher hesitantly called out, squinting at her attendance. “Here,” I replied in false nonchalance. My eyes darted around the brightly decorated room for something to look at - anything to avoid the eyes of my classmates. “You can call me Ruyi,” I quietly replied. Crimson engulfed my face, bearing the burning mark of my foreign name, growing redder each second as the loud silence passed. “Jessica Chen,” she finally continued, allowing me to exhale a minute’s worth of shaky breaths. “Here,” Jessica smiled, raising her hand up high. Gazing at Jessica, I longed for a name like hers - pronounceable, American, and one that couldn’t be ridiculed. “Zin Loo,” my classmate mockingly said as he dropped my report card on the table. My breath hitched in my throat -- the first confirmation of the years-long feeling that my name didn’t belong. Before I could muster a response, he already moved to the next table, leaving me alone with the foreign “Xin Lu” written in bold black burning through the paper. “Xin Lu” was a stranger -- a shell of a person I never knew. Picked at birth and buried deep soon after, my Chinese name was nothing more than a name on my birth certificate. My father chose my Chinese moniker and printed it as my legal name. It became the stain on my determination to be as American as I could. As each dreadful first day came and went, my resentment towards my name, culture and heritage grew. To regain control over the Asian stereotypes that I felt defined me, I detached my Asian-ness as much as I could. I stopped speaking Mandarin, refused to wear the qipao, and even forgot the art of folding dumplings that I mastered from years in my grandmother’s kitchen. Yet no matter how hard I tried, the suffocating reminders of my un-belonging in America were apparent by the slurs whispered under the breaths of ignorant peers. The inescapable shouts by hateful residents to “return to China” was insistent, but impossible to do for I was born in America and as American as them. A sinking realization soon settled in--I would never be American enough for America, but also never Chinese enough for China. Ironically, it was not until I left the oppressive determination to be American that I grew comfortable with my true identity. When I entered high school, I found people that resembled me who publicly spoke broken Mandarin, or Chinglish as we would joke, who enjoyed Chinese dramas as much as American ones, and openly ate their Chinese-American food. Instead of shying away from an integral part of my upbringing, I applied my unique experiences as an Asian American to create a safe haven by founding Asian American Youth Empowerment. My organization provided a space for youth who experienced Sinophobia and offered support to those experiencing similar isolating journeys in finding their identity. Touching more than 20 youth, our community began to heal from the cultural scars scattered within us. I realized the unachievable feat of being American was as impossible as escaping being Chinese for it was my family, face, and name. Most importantly, I learned I did not need to be accepted by others. Being comfortable with my identity brought the only acceptance I needed - my own. Whether it is to bring more Asian American representation to government or being an advocate for my community, I appreciate the struggles and triumphs that have shaped my passion for standing up for others and myself. “It’s actually Xin - like “sing” without the g,” I smiled at my new teacher, fighting my body’s habit to lower my gaze. The once-nauseating seconds she took to note down my name instead felt affirming. In those few seconds, the years of splintering self-hate rested in my palm, giving me the power to transform it to acceptance.

Honorable Mention: Xin Lu

What’s In a Name? To the Little Kid Next Door, Indian-American. Indian hyphen American. Growing up, I used to pray that I would wake up without a hyphen. I didn’t want a divider between my identities - pulling me apart, forcing me to choose. I just wanted to be me. I always felt too Indian to be a “true” American. I was constantly the odd one out: having my lunch stared at because my rotis didn’t match other kids’ sandwiches, watching every teacher stumble over my ethnic name, pretending to sing along to classic American songs that I had never heard before. On the first day of second grade, my new teachers had just started the process of learning my name - Uhr-shea? Ah-rish-iya? Ahr-shai-ya? - when one of my classmates confronted me during recess. She told me my name was a nuisance, too difficult for anyone to learn, and informed me that from now on, she would call me Katie. Not Uhr-shea, not Ah-rish-iya, not Ahr-shai-ya. Katie. I was furious with her at first, but when I thought about it a little more, it honestly sounded like a fabulous idea to me. Shed the burden of my ridiculously difficult-to-pronounce name? I was in! That lasted about a week. I tried my absolute hardest to be a Katie, but in the end, it just didn’t fit. No matter how many times I reminded myself that I was now a Katie, I could never bring myself to come to terms with my new label. I may have been declared a Katie, but in my heart, I was still an Arshia. Back then, I didn’t really understand the true reason why I couldn’t just adopt a new name and with it, the hyphen-less identity I had been craving for so long. My name is Arshia: a Muslim name given by Hindu and Jain parents. My name reflects the rich background of intertwining cultures that I have been blessed with. Born in Singapore to Indian parents, now a trilingual US citizen who has traveled to 30+ cities, my upbringing was a multicultural, immersive experience - chanting Hindu shlokas while following Buddhism’s Four Noble Truths, learning salsa alongside kathak, exchanging Indian chole for my Syrian friend’s babaganoush.

And as I’ve grown, I’ve come to realize that my upbringing is a gift - one that I cherish. My cultural exposure and diverse experiences have shaped my unique identity, teaching me acceptance, compassion, and open-mindedness. My experiences have allowed me to make friends across continents, from French penpals to online language practice partners from Argentina, El Salvador, and Mexico. My upbringing has redefined my family to extend far beyond the traditional definition, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that. The other day, you told me about a classmate of yours who refused to say your name. I wish that I had stood up for myself when I was your age - that I had told that girl that my name was Arshia and that she would call me by my name regardless of how difficult it was for her to pronounce. I can’t turn back time now, but I can use the power of my story and my experiences to help you avoid making the same mistakes I did. So the next time someone refuses to say your name, speak up. Make your voice heard and don’t ever let anyone take your identity away from you. And if you ever find yourself like me, wishing to wake up without a hyphen, just remember that the little dash between your identities is not there as a separator, forcing you to choose between Indian and American. It’s there to link your multifaceted identities together and connect you to the rest of the world. Your hyphen is not a divider. It’s a bridge. Love, The Big Kid Next Door

“Indian-American... Your hyphen is not a divider. It’s a bridge.”

Honorable Mention: Arshia A.

CON In Vietnamese, you taught me that the word for child is “con”. My parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, elders, and the adults I just met on the street use it to address me. I use it when referring to myself. A word taught since I was little, I should always use it as a sign of reverence and respect to the adults around me, as the use, or disuse, of this word can define and shape my present and future relationship with them. In Vietnamese, the word “con” is considered informal when referring to those younger than you. When you refer to me, mom, you use “con” as a calling word to beckon me downstairs into the kitchen. You use it as a fighting word and as a commanding word. Whenever you yell at me, the word takes on a new meaning. It means that I am under you and that I am some nondescript creature that is out of your control. I am no longer my own personal self, but instead, a person defined by my condition of being below you. As a Vietnamese person raised in America, I have been taught to be independent and to question authority if I ever want to break out and change the course of my life. As an American person raised in a Vietnamese household, I have been taught to be respectful in my speech and to put my parents and family before myself. In a war between progressivism and traditionalism, I am stuck between cross roads, not able to take one path with full assurity. Automatically, I am below the adults around me, with my ideas and opinions disregarded because of my age as well as the simple fact that I am an American in a Vietnamese body. However, when the time is right and we are no longer on opposite sides of the battlefield in a turbulent and costly war, when you refer to me, mom, you use “con” as an endearing word. Everytime you say it, I hear it as “my child” no matter what my actual age is. It is used when I am in tears at the dining table over the AP Computer Science A exam I am taking the next day. When a year’s worth of a Java class consisting of for loops, while loops, methods, booleans, instance and static variables, public and private classes, and array lists cannot reassure me, a simple “con” can. Suddenly, I have you by my side unconditionally supporting me. Suddenly, I am the same little kid held in your arms each night as I fall asleep. As a Vietnamese person raised in America, I hold pride in my identity. From the knowledge given to me by my immigrant parents, their hardships

from growing up in the Vietnam war, their childhood, to the immersion in the customs, family unit, clothing, food, hair, and flat noses, you make me feel complete in a world of confusion and ambiguity. I am free to be as Vietnamese or as American as I please around you, because just like you, the word “con” does not discriminate between mainlanders or the American born. “Con” requires the acceptance of your outer and inner appearance—inner being the hardest to reconcile with. Being Asian in one country, but American in the other, I live a unique experience that neither group will ever understand. I am constantly assaulted with the salty Pacific waters of discrimination, the belittling of my struggles, and ignorance from both sides, all crashing in to me, determined to make me drown. However, none of the outside world and its labels seem to matter when I am at home with you. Whenever we share a meal or an experience together, or whenever you simply call me “con,” the whole world seems to stop for just one moment. So despite our fights and our misunderstandings, I am thankful to have been born as a Vietnamese person raised in America because I can always hear you calling for me, even in an ocean of noise.

“Suddenly, I have you by my side unconditionally supporting me.”

Honorable Mention: My H.

A letter to myself, to my beautiful Black sisters, and to the people who tried to bury us. The White boys at my school roll slang birthed from cocoa-Black neighborhoods off their Pink tongues Slip wicked words like “ghetto,” “ratchet,” and “loud” through their Bared teeth And wrap silky durags sewn for tight coils over their Fine hair Their pupils glare at me, ablaze with red like fire that burns through my skin and Their tongues are forked so the words birthed from Black neighborhoods that they spit from their tongues Pierce my ears Pierce my veins Pierce my dignity And try to erase me They drape Blackness on their shoulders, claim it as theirs, and tell me it is not mine That I, a Black girl, do not belong That you, Black girl, do not belong That you, Black girl, do not own what it means to be Black like I do. I am squeezed out of Hidden rooms, out of Distant friend groups, out of Whispered conversations. I am pushed out because I am a Black girl, and I am wrong. But if I shut my heavy eyelids tight, I can remember Feel it rush through me, pulsing Hear the booming laughter of my ancestors Raised under blazing rays of the bright Guyana sun, my grandmother learned to dance like the color yellow and spill sweet life on the soil, grooves, and creases of the Earth Sprinkled cayenne pepper and spicy Matouk’s sauce Glossy maroon lips protrude from her smooth, velvety skin Curly gray locks shoot from the dark roots of her scalp Her pride is taller than mountains I remember that her laughter is treasure that rings in my ears I remember that her blood is the current that flows through my veins I remember that her legacy is my dignity and it calls to me: Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget who you are. 24

Honorable Mention: Sage S.

Art by: Sage S

RUNNERS-UP “Dreams of helping others Understanding others Moving others...” -Coco Z.

“Identity Project” By: Rachel W.

FOR J&K By: Judith B. To Junique and Kareena… Life can be cruel It can chew you up and spit you out It can make you cry and start to doubt, Yourself and everything you know you are But I promise no matter what they say You’re still a star To Junique and Kareena… Listen to your big sister when I say these things I know these things, I have felt these things… They’re watching closely and constantly criticizing your size But they still won’t notice the hurt behind your eyes So you might sink deep into the confines of your mind And go on with life forcing yourself to be kind So, you wear this mask, the baggy clothes so they don’t ask… Or tell how much weight you lost or gained Because you don’t want to be looked at strange But know that it’s okay to go through a change Your big sister will love you the same, Because she went through the same To Junique and Kareena… Listen to your big sister when I say The key to surviving is to pray, don’t play When it comes to these things They hate us. They hate us. This country has a cycle of breaking down to barely build back up then tear back down again When it comes to black women and men And they’re not done Heads only get turned when people get concerned about our fathers, brothers, and sons’ Incriminated. Dehumanized. Adultified. Gentrified So many aspects go into the lies America tells to mess up our lives I’m forever in fear of a day where someone tells me I’ll never see one of my brothers again All because they don’t fit America’s slim definition of men My heart skips ten beats just thinking of the day either of you encounter one of the monsters The monsters that are out to get us If you see one be brave, face that monster head on Remember your big sister told you that you DO belong 30

To Junique and Kareena… Every strand and curl in your head is perfection At its finest… that along with your complexion God made you in His image so please realize your privilege Your thick 4c hair, your beautiful brown skin Your perfect faces drowned in melanin Listen to your sister when I say, I never had someone to say These things I say My hair was called “nappy” so I was unhappy About how it was and never realizing they only said that Because they knew no better, but I know now that it’s better Better to have thick 4c hair as uncontrollable as a bear Because I know my roots are rooted so deep So deep in our culture… Afro-Caribbean is what we are So I wear my afro so big it’s seen from far To Junique and Kareena… This world does not deserve you I wish I could preserve you In a glass box so the whole word could see How incredible and special tiny humans can be Always teaching me, how to be a better me Making me happy and saving me Without even knowing that where I’m going is for you For you, your big sister does everything for you So, hear me when I tell you, I love you… I do

“But I promise no matter what they say You’re still a star”

Clearing the Rocks By: Erin B.

“Care about each other.” But not too much When someone trips over a rock We help them up But we do not clean their scrapes We do not bandage their wounds Put forth a helpful facade But the rocks are not moved “Think for yourselves.” But do not disagree Learn history in our schools Except for indoctrination or race theory “Learn about each other.” But only the pleasant parts Ignore your peers bleeding out Because of their gashes and scars “Accept each other.” Invite someone to eat with you But not if their wounds Are discredited by religious views “Young people should be kind and respectful.” But only to those without scars Because scars come with century old problems That we are told are too hard to solve “Hold out a hand.” But ignore the falling and the bleeding Because children should be kind But not progressive or left leaning We are clearing the rocks Trying to heal the bruised While more boulders are thrown in front of us And the mistakes of the past are excused

In South India, it is a rare sight to see someone with no facial hair. Girls’ upper lips are usually covered with a light South Indian mustache. I bear one of these myself, hence the name “Mustachio Da Pistachio”, given to me by my cousins in India. For the better or worse, there, I was much like anyone else, trying to do her best at school to have a great future. But, my future was apparently more interesting than I had planned for it to be. When my South Indian ‘stache and I moved to Iowa approximately four years ago was when I faced the fact that I was the outlier. All the Indian girls I initially met through parental connections were all about shaving the thing right off. Many of the conversations they had, I noticed, were about when their next threading appointment was and which Auntie did the best job. But I was so used to it being common, that I turned a deaf ear to their claims. First month of grade eight went fairly smoothly. Well, all except the lesson about Frida Kahlo’s art in Spanish 1. Apparently, her having a unibrow warranted snickers galore, rather than respect for her stance, what she believed in, and advocated for. As the laughter came to a gradual stop, I questioned why everyone was so against the idea of women not removing their facial hair. After all, there was nothing totally revolting about it. This resulted in the snickers resurfacing and a lot of eye rolls. Wherever I turned, be it real life or TV shows, there were always comments about what society defines as “un feminine” characteristics being repulsive. One of my most eye-opening experiences was in Geometry in freshman year when three of my male classmates spent thirty whole minutes rating women from our own class on Instagram. But, I wasn’t going to stand up to them. Especially in a place like Johnston. Wow. Society was more messed up than I had thought it was. Unfortunately for society, though, I was not going to buckle. Instead, I was going to become Frida Kahlo 2.0: “Mustachio Da Pistachio”. I made up my mind to never shave off the thing that was going to make my life an apparent agony, and rather use it to advocate for what I believed in. For once in my life, I stopped focusing on my personal goals and accomplishments, and focused rather on doing my part to make the future a more equitable and inclusive place. Over time, I applied these views on several aspects of my life: be it bringing up feminism as it relates to different topics in classes and Community of Racial Equity meetings, actively being a woman of color in STEM, or leading a community of young female activists to advocate for environmental justice and awareness. You would also be happy to know that standing up to people who disrespect my views has now become a piece of cake. Although being the “mustache lady” is a feminist ideal, it isn’t always easy to be the only one standing up for what she thinks is right. Even though I want to make an impact on the world, I often stop and stare longingly at the Nair Wax Strips at local grocery stores, wondering when society will accept me for the original, unaltered version of myself. Until then, though, I will be Mustachio Da Pistachio, Frida Kahlo 2.0, fighting for equality and striving to do my best to change the future. By: Saumya B.

Pieces

To, i’m an Imposter. imposter syndrome: doubt, fraud

i’m an Intruder. intrusion: without permission turn to me as pieces of my long dried portrait chronicled strokes of faint culture chip away I am my Mother’s longing eyes gazing towards the land of the morning c a l m (죠선) Home. Korea. I am my sister’s bloody cry starlit laughter buildings stretching for the unreachable heavens a wilderness as far as Mother Nature will take you Home. America. i am Imposter Intruder

having all is being

t i p

of primal p

of both. From, i know. i wish i could say we grasped all the beautiful pieces even as they pierced our skin ripped away. i wish i could say (고마워) Thank You Heart of culture language history a snug fit against the crook of our neck

I’m grateful living on a land: not mine yet so unequivocally : mine celebrations that have no meaning to me meaning meaning meaning I mourn pieces of a language ripped away i have lost: mine language my parent’s history heavy tongue can not hold: mine

(수고했어) it’s okay even as hazy, ruby memories c a s c a d e from our eyes i haven’t let go of our jagged pieces.

By: Jane H.

celebrations that have lost meaning to me a glass veil a grounded separation traditional traditional traditional

this is one poem that will continue to

How Much a Cent Costs In America

By: Brandon V.

Today on my way from school I noticed a cent A single sent sat near the sole of our foot Lonely and tarnished through years of abuse The barely perceptible head of Lincoln stood , Walking past the relic relegated a thought through my mind: How much does a cent cost in America?

We could go on about the price of the metal used , Or other statistics that would satisfy our brain. But today was different, I didn’t want to be blind. And thus began my journey as to why a hand full of tossed away dimes lingered in my mind

At essence, a cent is earned through work No matter how mindless or meditative. So the answer is simple, is it not, a cent costs your time? Not necessarily, many people work their lives away for a dime raise. Let’s take a look at the question from a rich person’s perspective. A prime example is Jeff Bezos Who worked his employees down to their bones Who didn’t even give them time to use the bathrooms Or let’s take a look at the workers perspective At places like Case Farms or other chicken plants That were built off the backs of vulnerable immigrants Who were lured by the promise of a job Only to be enslaved working less than minimum wage Horrible working conditions, working nonstop. America, a beautiful country to live in,

But a horrible country to work for.

The hands of those above us push down on us with such calamity From back in the days of gerrymandering Or colonizers and conquistadors Took the native’s land with such force Today, their heavy hands still remain, Still unwavering, still unchanged, Jagged county borders can prove such a claim Exclude certain communities Only to improve others 36

The lie of meritocracy Definition: The only way they get away with it The belief that if you work hard enough, money will come your way But these ideas are of the past, Only meant to quell the fears of the lower class “Keep grinding”they say, but with this ideology,

You’ll find no peace

So this entire nation was built off the backs of the lower class. Or a better way to put it is your ancestors’ land. I hope you’re finally beginning to understand why I wrote this letter. To future me, please be cautious, America is no land for the overly curious. This letter is a cautionary tale required to live in America The real cost of a cent in America is your soul I pray that you aren’t stupid enought to trade out your moral compass for gold. To sell yourself out to the ones that oppressed your people. But if you do, and you lose your way And shamelessly indulge in what you crave, When the bells toll And the piano plays such solemn tunes I hope gold and fame can fill the place of beating blood and a unpolluted soul And keep your casket warm

But, If you chose the contrary, I can safely assert That the future will be anything but certain, Knowing you, you’ll embark To grand places But without money, you won’t go far Let hope drive the way But you’ll quickly learn why they call it the American “Dream” A dream that you’ll no longer be caged, but with this mindset, you’ll find no key. So, please, control your greed and selflessness To survive, be the line in between these two extremes And live out your dreams through hope and peace or fear and fright. Walk past every cent you see. A penny might cost your sense of self in America, But it means nothing to me. 37

THE LIFE OF A SMALL TOWN By: Emma M. I am black and deaf. Well, that is how my hometown has always identified me. I am deaf. When I was five I got my first hearing aid, but being deaf was easier than being black. Technically, I am biracial. My mother is white, and my father is black. And this, the color of my skin, was harder in my small town than being deaf. Growing up presented many challenges, so it took me time to understand who I am. My small town is right on the edge of Lookout Mountain, and predominantly white. The first time I remember my race seeming to matter was in the second grade; I recall my friend lining us up based on the color of our skin from lightest to darkest. I was at the darkest end of the line and, for some reason, according to my friends, this was a problem. That same year, when we would make up stories to play, I was always the maid or dog, never the main character. As all young girls do, we played “princesses”, but I always had to be Tiana because she was the black princess; this always made me sad, because Ariel was my favorite, but I was too dark. Now, as I look back, I see these situations through more mature eyes. I remember the first time I was called the “N” word and how the word seemed to cut. My mother never knew how to console me. My mom is white; how could she know how the word can hurt a young girl? So, I turned to the best black man I knew, our janitor, Mr. Henry. Mr. Henry is a great man, not just a black man and he said, “You can’t make unkind kind. I should always stay kind. That is how you beat them.” I will always remember those words. From elementary through middle school I was the only black student. It is a strange feeling being in a room and seeing no one who looks like you. I remember teachers asking my opinion about slavery or racism – I have experience discriminations, but does that make me an expert? I would tell myself that high school would be better, but it wasn’t. I was a teenage girl and couldn’t wait to date, But I was told, “I don’t date black girls.” Words can cut and leave scars. I was told black girls were “too loud” or black girls weren’t their type. Everyone had ideas on how, I guess, to make me look less black. I was told, “Oh! You don’t need sunscreen; you won’t get sunburned.” “Don’t you want to straighten your hair for this dance?” “Why don’t you get your hair relaxed? It’ll be much more manageable.” Truly can anyone be an expert on how to be a color? Somehow I grew up thinking there was a “right way” to be black and felt I was doing it all wrong.

I know we come in many shapes and sizes, and from so many different places, there is no “right way” to be who you are. Until I was sixteen my mom was a single parent. I spent all of my family holidays with her side of the family-- “my white family.” Now I’m 18 and my dad is in my life; he and my mother are married now. Recently I have had the opportunity to get to know and spend holidays and family times with “my black family,” but the truth is, I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel any more black. Something I’ve never understood is how someone could act black or act white. Despite all of this, I don’t feel like I act like any sort of color. I am simply myself. I am a young, biracial woman. I have spent most of my childhood feeling confused about the world, but I’m slowly learning how to love myself. I’m proud of who I am. I have worked hard in school to beat a disability. I have made some great friends, and I have learned who I am as a person-- not black not white, but as someone who will be great. I have plans to do great things, and my greatness will not be because of my skin tone. It will be because I have a drive, and I will be successful. If I could go back in time to give a piece of advice to my younger self, it would be this: Be who you want to be. Curly hair will not make you any less pretty. Just because you don’t look like the other girls, you aren’t any less of a girl. It took me 18 years to feel like I was worthy, and the truth is, I have been worthy all along- for 18 years. I will do great things despite hardships. I will push to be a better person every day. I will come back to my small town and show how kindness, just as Mr Henry said, is better than your color.

“I know we come in many shapes and sizes, and from so many different places, there is no ‘right way’ to be who you are.”

“THE ANSWER:” To Coco at 18 and beyond. To Asian Americans and beyond. By: Coco Z.

Who am i? Who am i To judge the world When its in love In love with itself In love with one another Too busy in love to care about me Why, i’m just a speck of dust i didn’t ask to be here Here to watch everyone else fall in love Who am i To be mad at the world When it’s unfair When i think it’s unfair But who cares what i think Who cares about what a girl thinks A yellow skinned girl With shriveled up almond eyes And a flat slab taken for a nose Too quiet for others to hear But too odd for others to miss It’s funny how achievements Time that i’ve dedicated Can seem so worthless in their eyes They credit my race My stereotyped race They think it’s natural Natural for me to make good grades And stay respectful and disciplined Little do they know Those pitch black nights Lonely dreams Guided by fears of rejection And misunderstanding 40

i questioned my life My presence my worth i asked myself where Where i wanted to go i asked myself why Why can’t i be loved But Suddenly Through the shadows of my dreams A light glistened And brought epiphanies and tranquility Now i finally came around My dreams became colorful A compass cleared up I know My life is guided by a moral code A code that values ethics A code that reminds me To hold my head high And keep going As long as i know It is enough I am enough. They don’t have to remember me For my success and accolades Though i hope they do remember A confident girl who found herself Amidst the silence of support And cacophony of barriers A girl who didn’t slip into the abyss The abyss of conformity Where everyone else is perfect And she herself is lacking Though too many times betrayed Too many times let down I remember My original goals Goals Goals that i’ve set Dreams of helping others Understanding others Moving others

No matter the treatment Remember good Remember there is light Because even in the darkest hours A voice inside echoes Like the streaks of the sun After a stormy surge I remind myself I am not here to please the world I am here to change it So, hey, don’t worry about what they think Think about yourself Put yourself first . . . I am meant to be here I am strong and courageous Independent and wonderfully made I will make my mark And stand up for myself Myself and others that know how it feels To be thrown around They can toss us however they want Because in the end We designate our paths Our paths don’t have to align Because why should they? It is our life Our life to live and think and cherish To treasure and trust Looking back it even seems funny Funny how the world judges Just a couple of words A couple of gestures A couple of remarks Can make me question myself Like a caterpillar I shut myself out Out of the voices of the world I reflected and pondered and listened Listened to the stabbing pain Pondered on my original values Reflected on myself 42

Hey you, yes you The pain is ephemeral It comes but it will also go Let it go Then the electrifying embrace comes You wrap yourself around love And self-awareness and euphoria You, yes you You are enough You deserve to be happy There will always be ones that care Care enough to pull me out of the shadows Wake me up And remind me to love myself The answer is simple The answer lies within myself The answer: Love myself Why do i care what others may think Why do i let them dictate my life Life that i now treasure Hey you, yes you I am Coco I didn’t ask to be here But I’m glad I’m here Here to make my mark And here to radiate positivity Here to balance life and continue life Here Here I am. No longer confused No longer ashamed Vision no longer foggy with tears For my eyes are clear I don’t see much Because my waxing crescent eyes Are too busy smiling My wonderous crescent eyes Love yourself Appreciate yourself You are meant to be here Never question that. 43

Inside Jokes by Viviana A.

I spent the majority of my childhood looking between the spaces of other people’s heads, but it was never by choice. I was raised by my mother, aunt, and grandmother, who almost exclusively spoke Spanish; however, even in their constant company, I had failed to pick up my family’s native language. At age four, I recognized that I was falling behind, and I had to accept that I could not be as intertwined with my family as the rest of the children. I didn’t know how to ask for help, and this experience was humiliating enough to convince me that I was better off not speaking at all. I remember this period well; it was defined by silence measures too long, confused and angered faces, and the stifling feeling of being misplaced in my own home. This two year period started molding my life pretty early on, even when I had reached out to try to shape the clay myself. A speech therapist followed my progress closely throughout grade school and was always quick to reward me with worn down toys from Happy Meals for speaking English, but never Spanish. It’s alright to only speak one language, he had told me. I didn’t pay him any mind; I was a bitter child who refused to accept any comfort from anyone who did not share my mindset. Who was this man to comfort me, I thought, when he was able to go home and talk to his mother, his children, his cousins? At this point, my parents had already moved from my grandmother’s crowded home into their own humble abode, but as an only child, I yearned for the presence of others my age. I found a second home with my cousins, and it was shortly after I embraced their presence that I was called white for the first time by a family member. Perhaps it wouldn’t have come off as a shock if it had been anyone outside my family that had said it; every other day, people seemed to question my race. I had heard it all at this point; are you Asian, are you Black, are you Native American? But my uncle, someone who I used to think of as a second father, had asked me what sweet I had wanted one day and called me white when I said ice cream, and he made it sound like an insult. I was so confused by this, I asked him to explain himself later and he responded: You don’t speak my language. You don’t eat like me. You don’t act like me. And then he laughed, as if it was funny that I ever considered myself to be Mexican, and I assumed it was supposed to be, so I feigned an awkward smile. What did an eight year old know about humor? I look back on these moments, as there were many more to come, and it feels silly to be so upset over it. My uncle was always making jokes, always bringing laughter to every room, and always went out of his way to speak to me when he saw I was by myself. What is one more joke if it means company? It’s a lot. It’s a lot when you watch your family dance and sing while you sit at the dinner table because no one bothered to ask you to dance. It’s a lot when you finally do get up to dance because no one taught you how, because your parents were too busy working themselves out of poverty to teach you traditional dances, and now you’re watching your aunt’s face drop into an expression of practiced calm that hides disappointment. It’s a lot when you try to be a little more like the people who surround you, trying out words in their language and eating more of their food, just to be ridiculed for stepping out of the circle drawn around you in salt. And it’s a lot to feel like a stranger intruding at your own birthday party, as if you were watching an intimate gathering from outside a window. You understand what’s happening, but the intimacy of company escapes you, just out of reach. And it’s a lot, but it’s just a joke, and it will always be a joke to anyone in my family but me. But it serves as a reminder to myself that while I am of my family’s blood, I am not considered one of them. There is comfort to be found in isolation, in the fact that it doesn’t last forever. The seclusion I experienced with my family led me to be more open about the world, more willing to observe its details. With this, I found more friends and a wider viewpoint of the world around me. What I went through certainly wasn’t easy, but it’s safe to say that I would do it again. I’ve found comfort in knowing that the world and the people around me are not just the facades they put up and even greater comfort in being able to discover new things about them with the understanding and open-mindedness I developed because of my own past.

THE BOY WHO’D NEVER BEEN IN LOVE By: Gabriel D. The young boy had never been in love before. The first time he had ever considered attraction, it was the very base kind. Mature adults with pronounced features who treated him nicely, and who he wanted to impress back. They, of course, only returned a chuckle and a nod, a “how cute” directed not at him, but at his parents. He didn’t exist as a being to be considered, only a product of his parents toting him around, as he was not able to be left home alone yet. When finally he could be considered as a target of love at some new level, he was at school. He saw the girls and boys around him and simply saw friends. In second grade, he began to understand that he should be happy when a girl hit him with a jump rope because it meant she liked him, no, like-liked him. And he understood that the boys who played sports during recess were allowed to pull the girls’ hair more than he was. He, the jump-rope boy who put on lip gloss at his friend’s house and didn’t understand why her parents thought it was funny, who ate lunch with boys but then played with the girls, who liked baseball sometimes but liked hopscotch better, didn’t want to pull the girls’ hair anyway. Up until middle school, he had never had a crush on anyone. He sat on the stone ring around the tree and watched as boys and girls congregated alone. Planes were only crossed when a boy was going to throw food at a girl, or a girl was going to cross to another group to spread the news of the food-thrower, and a passing guy notified the so-called food thrower that a girl was talking about him. The boy was okay with watching, never wanting to become part of the chain. Quickly, though, he became tired of other boys and even girls questioning if he liked anyone or who he liked or why he didn’t like anyone. At night sometimes, the question would fly back into his head, and he would be the prosecutor and the attorney and the defendant all at once. So, he came up with an alibi. A “truth” to hide behind so he wouldn’t have to find out what conviction was. There was a girl, of course, with corn hair down to her shoulders and a cute smile that came with a sweet chuckle. Eyes always darting down and hands always at her face, he found his attraction in her unsureness, a mirror. She, like him, was scared. It was in seventh grade when the boy first experienced the word “gay.” During the most awkward time of one’s awkward years, Health, the most awkward topic, arose. Human Sexuality. His health teacher was explaining sex and not stopping to laugh like the rest of the students were. The friend who introduced him to his fourth grade crush and was now his ride home on Tuesdays came out as bisexual in that class. He was always smart and politically minded, and he relished in the shock from his classmate’s faces as he explained how the curriculum was homophobic and, even though he didn’t know what he wasn’t learning, he knew that he must speak. The teacher explained, struggling and struggling to not show that she was struggling, that the class only explained contraception, but that his matter was an important issue to discuss. The boy’s friend looked satisfied, and the boy followed up with him after class. In a dismissal so nonchalant it took more effort than truly not caring, the boy reminded his friend that it didn’t matter to him that he was gay, or bi, or whatever, an act of misinformed goodwill. Going home from school later, he thought about the implications of his friend coming out. If his friend knew he was gay in seventh grade, could he learn he was gay too? He was sure he wasn’t, but then again he never had crushes on anyone. Was there a name for that? Could he just be young? For a while, the boy toyed with the idea. He did research and found communities on the internet that shared experiences and created inside jokes and made light of what was hurting them. As the boy walked deeper into the pit, with the darkness of ignorance suffocating him, he saw a light. He was never able to place the reason he could finally see the end of the tunnel, but he ran towards it. He tripped over rocks, stalagmites of self-hatred and questions, hit his head on unlovability and a lost piece of childhood, but he emerged, scarred, on the other side. Though it still took strength to force past his lips, he was gay. 45

Black Sheep, Rise like the Morning Sun By Jay B.

Black Sheep, Rise like the Morning Sun By Jay B. ystack, Dear Jay, You are yet again, ost its match, Outcasted and pushed aside. to find. Like a needle in a haystack, Your experiences that are woven together Like a sock that has lost its match, Through your race and gender and sexuality Purpose can be hard to find. Are not like the majority. Even if you look Therefore, Up. You don’t matter. And Down. To side. The black sheep, whole world Or side. Made to feel small th your feet. To side. By a world mble and fall and crash and burn. Often it feels like the whole world Is crashing beneath your feet. You constantly feel small a black sheep. And you’re left to tumble and fall and crash and burn. Asking yourself, “Why do I matter?” u are nothing but your race. To the world you are a black sheep. “What is my purpose If everyone in the world , To white America, you are nothing but your race. Marks me Walk the streets As the outcast urself beneath a white sheet. To grab bite to eat, And pushes me to the side?” And soon later, It sometimes feels as though there is no light ed to the long list of those You time, could find yourself beneath a white sheet. Because of the world g at the wrong Forming a dark cloud around you he wrongDead way,and gone. Another statistic Because of who you are wrong place at the wrongadded time. to the long list of those Who were sleeping at the wrong time, Carrying skittles the wrong way, However, your own community Or running You must remember united by your race. at the wrong place at the wrong time. That there is hope. You could look within your own community There is light. d and pushed aside. Where you are all united by your race. You must remember that out wanna love. In this great big wide world, identify.But even there, You are outcasted and pushed aside. There is someone. y Because of who you wanna love. And your story matters to them. to whiteness, Out there, ple shit.”And how you want to identify. To them, your identity In this GREAT y where Is an assimilation to whiteness, “Some white people shit.” BIG sedly united WIDE love And in the community where GREAT se to identify with. You are all supposedly united World, Through who you love There is someone who looks up to you. And how you chose to identify with. Who looks up to your story. And how far you’ve come. And that inspires them 48

Someday, There will be a kid Black, Queer, Trans. Who feels like there is no hope left in the world. Who feels like they cannot go on. Who feels as though they are the outcast. Who feels as though they are being pushed aside. Swept away. Who looks up at you And says, “This is me,” “This is who I can be,” “Maybe there is hope.” Although it feels As if there is so little purpose In a world where you are made to feel Like your life doesn’t matter, That your identity doesn’t matter, Just know that it does. Whether it be today, Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow, A year from now, Here, It matters to someone. Your story matters.

Or There,

Sincerely yours.

“Tin Man” By: Michael C. 50

The Villain of My Own Story By: Janeeta S.

I make your days and nights a living hell. Whispering in your ear, “You will always amount to nothing.” I creep into your life, Killing bits of pieces of you. Tearing down what makes you, you. You are not worthy of loving yourself You are such a joke. Your kryptonite being water. The sun beating you black. Your hair trapping the souls of those who dare put a hand through it. Weighed down by responsibility in fighting against generational traumas. You are front and centered, prepared to fight against the barbaric enemy, as if you are not your own enemy. You walk these lands all loud and proud. As if deep down inside of you, you are proud of who you are when in reality you are not. It is time for you to face your demons. The demons that are tormenting you when you stop and stare in the mirror. That emphasizes your African features. Big nose. Big lips. Kinky, coily hair. Brown skin. It is time to face your tormentous demon. I stop and stare in the mirror. I weep and weep.

Cursing the heavens, crying out to know why He made me this way. I struggle to find peace and satisfaction. The feeling of a burden slowly entered me. Burden of being of a race, that has face enslavement, segregation, public lynchings, and many other horrid events. The guilt swallowed me in a gulp. “You are beating yourself up because you were not offered a path of representation of people like you. People who rock their natural, curly bush on their head. Singing sweet lullabies, comforting and caring for their coils. People who were born with the admiration from others who did not praise one shade over another. Walked alongside people who would love them no matter of the doings of the sun.” I swayed with the words. Coddling my broken spirit, giving me hope. I have been the villain in my own story. Terrorizing myself with words that strode along to only hurt me. When I stare in the mirror, I do not see the person that hated themselves. I see a person who has put up a fight. Winning the battle of self-hatred. Destroying the hatred within.

MORE LETTERS FOR EXHIBITION “Don’t be ashamed of your heritage. Don’t be afraid to reveal yourself.” -Anna P.

By Breeana 53

Mangos and Orchestras By: Mia Z

The summer before my junior year of high school consisted mostly of mangos and orchestras. I took a trip with my family to El Salvador, and never had I seen such a beautiful scene. My grandparents grew up living off the bountiful land and swam in the overly excited waves that burned their noses as they peaked at the wet world hiding in the Pacific. But they also experienced hardships that I never could have fathomed until I walked the same narrow streets and ate the same sweet fruit. But before I experience this, I have to sit in a small and impoverished room that resides on the mountains. Overlooking the likewise small and impoverished country, this room contains strangers that share my blood. I am sweating and adjusting my mask in this poorly ventilated room. There is a man who I’m introduced to as my great uncle, but he has little interest in me. And I, in return, have little interest in him and only care about the manner in which he speaks. He dominates the room with his voice in the sense that his arrogance conceals the value in what the women of his family have to say. When the women do talk, their comments are sparse and lack confidence in contrast to my great uncle’s traditional and presiding arguments. Although not much was said by the women, the men of my family carried out a lengthy conversation. They sound like instruments in a perfectly composed orchestra, with different octaves and rhythms pieced together by the same extravagant language. A language that feels instinctive for my grandparents and flows out of their mouths like a sweet rush of fresh air, but for me it feels like I am speaking with nails pinned at the roof of my mouth. I lack this instinctive rhythm of my tongue, instead I sound of a middle school band playing every note completely out of order. Too embarrassed of my linguistic abilities, I forgo defending myself when my great uncle directs a viciously sexist remark to me in his contrastingly flattering language. I felt disconnected in the land I thought would feel like home. My manifestations of this country that were made through the stories shared by my grandparents, in their beautifully native Spanish, did not match up to reality. This realization was harsh, but not nearly as brutal as the everyday life of the women in El Salvador. Women like my grandmother needed strength, but not the kind to win a gold medal in Olympic weightlifting. No, this strength is much harder to build. These women would wake up before the sun and work until the shadows of their tired figures would be enlarged and dance on the jagged roads they walked. They carried mountains of various fruits to sell and brought their young daughters to do the same. There was no time for these young women to grow up, instead their focus was survival. And survival depended on hard, back breaking work. Seeing the women of El Salvador, and hearing of the struggles that my grandmother went through when she was my age has completely changed my view on what strength really amounted to.

There was one instance in particular during my stay where I truly understood and connected with the lesson my culture tried to teach me. This occurred with the simple purchase of the most spectacularly colored mango. I had requested to buy the mango from a young lady in Spanish. I was prepared to stumble and fall over my words, but instead my knotted tongue untied and I finally harmonized in the incredible orchestra that I waited so patiently to participate in. The young lady who sold me the mango smiled as she handed me the largest mango in her selection. And in that instant, as we communicated through the rhythm of the orchestra, I realised that we shared a connection. I, and all of the other women of El Salvador, share the same strength against the toll of life. We simply can not give up even when life gives us every opportunity to do so. And with this, I walked away eating a mango that was sweeter than a mouth full of sugar, and with the satisfaction of realizing the origin of my strength, and the strength of the women in my family. No other journey have I gone through in my life has been as important as this one. I look to my people and see a world of hardships conquered on a daily basis through the strength of their spirit. I look to the women in my family who share the same overwhelming essence and I feel invincible. I feel the pulsating need to have a voice loud enough to make up for all the women who fall silent. As I finished the plump mango, I felt the sweet juice flood my mouth along with the confidence to accomplish all of my dreams and aspirations. I am a young American woman with the taste of fresh mango still in my mouth as I carry the values of the women in El Salvador while climbing my own mountains in the United States. And for that reason, I am very grateful for the experience of mangos and orchestras, because they help tell the origins of my identity.

AMERICAN RODEO By: Chloe H. “Alright y’all, please welcome to our arena Chloe Hornbostel, a Brazilian from Vail who will be singing our National Anthem!” I have never gotten used to hearing this introduction, despite the numerous times it has been announced at rodeos and MMA fights. Standing before a crowd holding their dusty cowboy hats at their hearts, it always brings chills down my spine, both of excitement and concern for how people will react. As I stand, about to sing, I reflect on when I moved to the States at the age of eight. I spoke little English, and, struggling to navigate the language, I was often ridiculed for my failing efforts. Steadying my hand as the microphone shook, I began to sing. “Oh say can you see? By the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.” I felt like a proud American, whether it was singing in front of a rodeo audience or as a student in class, despite the mocking from some classmates as I struggled to pronounce an English word or form an American identity. When the topic of immigration came up in my theology class entitled Ethics and Social Justice, I was always the one questioned, as if I had all of the answers. “Chloe, what do you think of mass immigration? Do you think it’s right?” I looked around the classroom at each face, and, as if on command, they all slowly turned to meet my gaze. I was one of three Latinos in the classroom of twenty, and the only immigrant. I took a deep breath and answered, “There is nothing wrong with it; those who have immigrated to this country legally came for a better life, like many before them.” My voice was shaky, but I was proud of my response. I took a deep breath, finishing the anthem. Maturity and independence came early for me, having to forge a path as a Latina woman in a predominantly white, conservative community. I found my voice in challenging situations, and I steadied my voice in a crowd through advocacy for and involvement in community activism. During the last presidential election, in which I volunteered at a voter registration drive outside of a food pantry, I communicated, fully in Spanish, with passersby in order to ensure they were registered to vote. If they were not and wished to register, I helped them through the process. Helping Latinos feel at home in this country is important to me, hoping they do not experience the same frustrations and challenges I faced as an elementary school student. Secluded in the Vail Valley for over nine years, answering constituent calls during my federal internship for Senator Michael Bennet exposed me to groups of Coloradans that I had never before communicated with. As the majority of callers called with a complaint for the Senator, I found myself surrounded by opposing views of my own. Because it was a professional position, however, I listened to them and made them feel heard while trying my best to understand their viewpoint. I strongly believe in the power of bipartisanship, and I felt proud when a caller ended with: “Thanks for hearin’ me out, I really do appreciate it.” I sighed, no voice cracks, no strenuous notes. As I hand back the microphone to the announcer, I look up into the crowd. A symphony of cheers and a joyous image of smiling, standing audience members greet me, as if each one were individually congratulating me on completing one of the most difficult and powerful songs in our history. The audience is speckled with antiDemocrat shirts and red MAGA hats; however, at that moment, we are a united community, my singing fueling our collective country pride. I step out of the announcer’s box with a huge smile, looking forward to the next time I will sing as a proud American.

Option Other By: Jakhai W.

From an early age, I have been told that I must be myself. “Don’t worry about fitting in, just be you,” is a quote that has been branded into my mind and being from a countless amount of people who have no idea what it’s like to be in my shoes. Everyone tells me to be myself, but no one wants to mention how or even give pointers to start. Besides, how am I supposed to be myself and accept my identity if the world can’t even do it? I am an early college student who has maintained a weighted high school GPA of 4.0, have competed in multiple academic competitions, taught myself two languages beyond my mother tongue, and am planning to pursue a degree in nursing. At a glance, my peers have expressed that they feel as if I ‘know it all’. Little do they know, there is one question that I still have to think deeply about before answering: What race do you identify as? Now, I know what you’re thinking, “This nerd doesn’t even know his own race?,” Yeah, yeah I get it- it’s weird. I should at least know my own race, right? If this were a “normal” situation, the answer would be as easy as taking a look at my parents. Unfortunately, this case isn’t so cut and dry. I remember taking standardized tests in middle school. At the beginning of each test, we would have to answer various questions about our demographic information. I still remember reaching the question about what race I am. Trying to mask my confusion, I would subtly glance at the papers of my peers, watching as they all circled their respective options, hoping for some better idea of what I should be picking. Now that I think of it, it’d be pretty embarrassing had I been caught. The proctors might have wondered why I was cheating before the test even started. I would look back at my paper and that one question in front of me prompted many more questions in my head. What race am I? Well, should I answer based on biology or what society has chosen for me? Even when I’d ask my teachers, they would shrug and send me away. Why is this such a struggle for me? Because I am biracial. I have a white mother, born and raised in Oregon and a black father from the southern state of Mississippi. As a child, I spent most of my time with my mom and my white family members in California. The realization that my blood relatives and I weren’t the same color was just the beginning to a lot of conflict in figuring out what it means to be myself. For a period of time between 2013 and 2018, having biracial kids was like a trend for people on the media. It was as if we were a breed of animal that everyone wanted to get their hands on. It’s just infuriating because the majority of people don’t know that being biracial comes with many cons, too. Everyone wants to have “mixed” kids until they have to explain to their child why they don’t look like mommy or daddy. Everyone wants “mixed” kids until they say something racist towards one of their child’s races and now that same child wonders whether or not they’re allowed to feel offended. The truth is, being biracial isn’t just having “good hair” and “lighter complexion” like people have made it out to be. It’s deeper than that. When bouncing between both sides of my family, it’s like I have to show versions of myself that normally don’t even exist. And yet, there is always a wall that keeps me from truly connecting with them. With my white family, we have the same way of speech, but for many topics we can’t relate simply because society treats us differently based on our skin, despite being fully blood related. Plus, at any social gathering, there’s always a sense of distance when you stick out like a sore thumb. With my black family, I act “too white”. I always feel so separated from them because the slang they speak and the natural, cool way they present themselves is like a foreign language to me. A struggle that has particularly affected me as a biracial, young man is microaggressions within my own family. When with my white family, if I utter a word of incorrect speech, I get a stern look and am reminded that it’s inappropriate to speak that way. Even when the there is no malintent behind their actions, some things that go over their heads seem to isolate me even more. There’s been countless situations in which I’ve been introduced as the “light skin” nephew instead of just nephew. But with all of that being said, the primary objective remains the same: be myself. Through everything I have gone through in trying to find my place and everything yet to come, something that I am still trying to learn is that it doesn’t matter what society or even my family says about my identity. Why should I identify with one race when I love both? The goal is clear: No matter what I experience, I will love and embrace every side of myself; especially my races. 57

By Ashley L.

A LETTER TO MY PAST SELF Safiyah Layla Shamsid-Deen. This name holds our religion, our personality, our experiences, and ultimately influenced our identity. Each of our names are Arabic and were chosen because of our family’s Islamic faith. Our family has always called us Layla, which means night. Until second grade, we went to a private Islamic School where they called us Layla, as well. At that school, we were one of three girls in my class, and we constantly felt out of place and excluded from their friendship. So, on our first day of third-grade orientation at our new predominantly white school, we made the decision to be called Safiyah in an attempt to rebrand our identity. Safiyah means pure or virtuous. It was also an homage to our late aunt. Yet, our reason for choosing to go by this name was because it sounded close to the more common name, Sofia. Our name was constantly mispronounced as Sofia, however, we never corrected it. This was because of our yearning to fit in. Little did we realize that when people saw how our name was spelled and actually pronounced, it would stick out even more. Despite my attempts, nothing actually seemed to change. We still felt out of place and left out throughout our elementary and middle school years. This lack of self-security, specifically in our name, manifested in other aspects of our identity. Shielding our name was, in a way, like shielding our identity from others. We became insecure that my religion and race differed from many of our peers and hiding our name acted as a way to decrease the significance of those aspects of our identity. After eighth grade, we transferred to Atlanta International School. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to rebrand yet again, in hopes of gaining friends and fitting in. We decided to start going by Layla again. Along with changing our name, We started to display, as well as discover, different parts of our personality and identity. By sharing more, we were able to connect to our peers with storytelling or shared interests. This created a new feeling of belonging that we had been looking for for so long. At our old school, we built a barrier around us and tried to be someone that we weren’t, and we realized that this had not helped our ability to fit in any more than it hindered it. We started to notice that as our security grew, the more at ease we became with our surroundings and those around us. When our first and last names were read during attendance, we actually felt the need to correct the pronunciation. We no longer felt insecure about attaching myself to our name. At Atlanta International, we met people with many different names that housed their different backgrounds and cultures. We were always interested to know the cultures of our peers and they, in turn, seemed interested to know ours as well. This further confirmed our new sense of inclusion and allowed us to be open to sharing the many parts of our life and personality with our classmates. Our newfound friends asked us what our name meant after we introduced ourselves, and we found ourselves excited to share. Safiyah Layla Shamsid-Deen: Pure, Night, and Sun of the Faith. Don’t worry, Safiyah. Your name is beautiful and we grew to love where it came from and how it impacted our identity. 59

Dreams- Where my skin color isn’t somebody else’s Weapon By: Hector R. Identity Has become one of the largest factors To a human being- dead or alive It’s hard to understand Identity It makes me, me Which I hate Born into a world full of hate You must be careful Or you’ll become a victim too My skin color- different from the rest From my peers From my school From my dreams My skin color A weapon used against me A weapon To shame me To punish me To hurt me To kill me I don’t hate my skin or the color I hate the way it treats me In America The way I could lose everything to it My friends My trust My family My life My skin- treated so unfairly 9-year-old me- would always stay out of the sun But 13-year-old me- would have to face the harsh words of somebody’s son I had dreams Of becoming pale So, I could be invited to- Kale’s birthday party I had dreams Of becoming pale So, I would be normal, compare to Kale Now I dream about- the horror to come My future generations Living through the trauma I take Now I just pray for a change For peace-loving that is strong like gold chains. 60

By Isha M.

1(800)-604-5841 By: Kai-enne S.

One life changing experience that I’ve had in life so far was adjusting from private (Catholic) school to public school. I experienced racism at a young age (5-9 years old), but was too young to fully grasp the treatment of racism. I attended Catholic school from kindergarten to 3rd grade. In my second grade class of 15 students, everyday as we entered the classroom the teacher put four of us all minorities students to sit at a table called “The Bad Table.” We were told once we stopped “misbehaving,” we could move to the other tables and sit with the other children, which were all white students. This occurred day after day as long as we came to class. One of the students at “The Bad Table” was a new girl who spoke little English and had a thick Spanish accent. She was so nice and sweet, it was hard for anyone not to like her. She tried her best to engage in conversation and participate in every activity even though there was a language barrier. She was my best friend but after a few months into the school year, she didn’t come to school anymore. No matter how well I or those at the table did in class, we were treated differently. Sometimes we were denied going out for recess. I remember making my teacher a poster saying she was my “favorite teacher,” thinking maybe she would be a little nicer to me if I expressed gratitude to her in some way. All I received was an unenthusiastic “thank you,” and the poster was put behind her desk. Two white girls did the same thing and their posters were praised and hung up for display. This treatment went on for the entire school year. Along with being yelled at and sent out of class for no reason as I progressed in that school. My sister’s friend who also attended that school and was at the top of her class was never acknowledged for her accomplishments. I just knew our treatment wasn’t fair and I didn’t like it. It made me feel extremely uncomfortable in my own skin. Attending that school led to feelings of inadequacy at a young age. I saw white students being treated way differently than the students of color. White students would be commended for their achievements while students of color weren’t even acknowledged. It seemed like whatever the white students did, the minorities had to work twice as hard just to receive half the acknowledgement. My mother eventually took my sister and I out of that private school and we both attended a public school a little closer to home. Fourth grade was a little scary but thankfully I made friends of all ethnicities very quickly. Unlike the private school, I was able to experience a sense of openness that the public school had to offer. In sixth grade I met some of the best people and to this day I am so grateful that they came into my life. These people shed a euphoric light on me and for the first time in my life, I am proud to be black. I didn’t have to come home everyday and wonder “why am I being treated this way?” or getting yelled at for nothing or not getting good grades when in reality the teachers used the color of skin to determine my intelligence. Unfortunately in 10th grade, I discovered that a black girl who attended that private school had hung herself because of her experience in that school. When I found out, I was so shocked and absolutely heartbroken. I honestly wish she held on a little longer and found time to let herself grow out of that mindset. I think of her every now and then, and I hope her soul is at peace. I hope she knows that we as people of color will continue to fight for the voice to speak out with equality she and many others like myself deserve. I will be seventeen and getting ready to graduate high-school this year. My confidence has grown tremendously over the years and I hope other children of color don’t ever have to live our experience. I am still very close to those three people today and consider them as family. Due to their love and support, for once in my life I don’t want to have blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin to be accepted in society. I’m very glad that I accepted myself at the early stages of my adolescence and took the time to find myself and grow. 62

Dear Future Self, As I reflect on my community leadership works, volunteering, and internships, I am writing to you about how I have become an agent of social change. I am also writing to you about how in doing so, I have taken the initiative to learn about and experience cultures different from my own. Our first community tour was in a public library. When I started the presentation on the basic ideas underlying gender equality, the audience was mesmerized, their eyes transfixed on the screen. The eagerness in the room was palpable. During the open discussion, the audience enthusiastically voiced their opinions about the social issues that women face. Seeing the welcoming environment, Turner, who was participating in a community conversation for the first time, spoke with confidence and surprising sophistication about women’s reproductive health and rights, prioritizing contraceptive services, and addressing sexually transmitted infections as part of women’s health and human rights. Mastering the sense of responsibility and resilience by transforming the challenges I faced as a young woman into opportunities, I became a peer leader at South Asian Youth Association’s Young Women Leadership program. Through different interactive activities that simulate social issues (e.g. patriarchy, sexism, and gender inequality), active discussions, workshops with guest speakers, and campaigns, I have exposed the cohort members to the urgency of the social issues and empowered them to stymie progress on them. In association with the program manager and other cohort leaders, I also started community tours, for which I trained the cohort members to have effective conversations with the audience and inspire them to take an active role in making their voices heard about bringing positive social changes for women. The confidence the cohort members and audience, such as Turner, exuded in that meeting sparked our initiative to hold many more community conversations and campaigns in different public places to build a progressive and equal society. To further dismantle the social issues and disrupt violence, such as sexual assault, rape, and abuse, I pursued an internship at CAE (Center for Anti-Violence Education). As a trained Peer Educator, I have hosted self-defense classes to teach techniques, such as de-escalation skills, nonviolent communication, and physical blocks, to mitigate risks of violence. I have also facilitated empowerment self-defense workshops in partnership with schools, youth programs, and local groups to increase young people’s access to anti-violence tools and self-defense techniques. After the workshops, hearing participants’ positive reflections, such as “thank you for explaining the how and the why of the various moves throughout the training and all the practice. I now have a more prepared and less fearful mindset.”, I knew my compassion to be a voice for the young community was successful. I felt tremendously impactful when in the post-survey, most of the participants reported feeling empowered to defend themselves due to the workshops. Hence, as a peer educator, I have not only become an agent of social changes but also created numerous others. Even when CAE’s services were disrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic, I have worked with other peer educators to adapt its tools to facilitate workshops and community conversations on Zoom and hold online protests and marches. In doing so, we engaged a new range of people in training, including more seniors, parents at home with children, people at high risk of street violence, and people with disabilities or vulnerable health conditions. In my next quest of becoming an agent of social change, I pursued an internship at Stop AAPI Hate Youth Campaign. I fought against hate crimes and incidents of violence and discrimination 64

against AAPI communities through conducting interviews with victims and witnesses across the United States, nationally-representative surveys, policy writings, and research reports. During the interviews, gut-wrenching sobs would often tear my chest hearing about the unfair treatments. One girl could not stop crying when expressing her fear for her and her families’ safety, “my brother and I were at a grocery store during the end of March when an old white couple spat on us, called us ‘chinks’ and told us to go back to where we came from.” In my research reports and policy write-ups that were sent to government officials, newspapers, and news channels, I have voiced hers and many others’ experiences of physical assault, online and verbal harassment, shunning, civil rights violations, and workplace discrimination utilizing the statistical data from the surveys and interviews. In collaboration with other interns, I have also fought against AAPI communities’ experiences of unprecedented and growing health inequity issues due to xenophobia and anti-AAPI hate. I have written research reports with policy recommendations to address their racism-induced mental health issues and call for system changes by presenting those reports to government officials, on social media, and news channels. I have also held participatory research campaigns to encourage Asian Americans to report their experiences of hate incidents and discrimination to help lower race-based traumatic stress. While fighting for social changes and searching for a universal solution, I recognized that education will not only bring but also propagate social changes to the future. Hence, I have co-founded the non-profit organization Teach Children STEM and opened STEMatters club to make education more accessible, especially for underprivileged students, through free online courses/contents, interactive environments, real-world experiences, and research mentorships. At both individual and community levels, STEMatters and TCSTEM eradicate ignorance by equipping young people, the leaders of tomorrow, with the right tools to take on the leadership roles. Throughout my journey as an agent for social change, I have met lots of people with different cultures and beliefs. I have embraced those differences with a non-judgemental mindset by researching, asking people about their cultures, and working on my beliefs, values, and personal and cultural biases. During the campaigns and interviews, I shared my cultural beliefs, stereotypes, and hardships, in addition to hearing other peoples’, to build respect, empathy and have more meaningful interactions. To celebrate the cultural differences and similarities, I also got festive for holidays, such as Eid, Diwali, Holi, Day of the Dead, Hanukkah, and Chinese New Year. Through these, I have learned that we are really not all that different. I have also learned that my experience in fighting for positive social changes gave me direct insight that my voice has the power to empower others to take a stand against social issues and injustice. Giving back to society, helping others, and contributing towards bringing social changes add meaning to your life, and I firmly hope that you have augmented your role as an agent for social change. I hope you are still translating every social challenge into opportunities to speak for those, who otherwise may not have a voice. I cannot wait to hear from you about the person you have grown into and how you have incorporated your passion for bringing social changes into your journey of personal growth. Until next time, Tamanna H. 65

To my Younger Self, You don’t know this yet, but you’re what’s known as mixed race. Black and white, white and Black. And you don’t yet know what that is or what that means. You never knew that someone could be a color. You never knew what “race” was. But I want to help you, show you, teach you. For a very long time, we were confused about it. We learned more about what race is, but it took a long time for us to fully understand it. It took even longer to know what that meant for us. What that made us. The very first time we found out we were Black was second grade. It was time for a history lesson, it must’ve been February since we talked about MLK. The teacher spoke of segregation and how it was abolished, and someone, a little boy, looked back at you and said, “I’m glad that’s over so we can be together.” He put his hand on your shoulder and smiled at you, and you looked around the room and they were all looking at you. They all smiled at you, and you didn’t understand. But that was the first time anyone had called us “black.” Pretty soon we learned about being “black.” That will be the most confusing part for you, it took a long time for us to understand how someone could be Black properly. Unfortunately, the first things you will learn are the bad parts about being Black. You will learn that your hair is coily and thick. You will learn that your nose is a little wider than your mother’s and friends. And you will learn that these features aren’t the pinnacle of beauty where you come from. You will watch as other little girls’ hair flows in the wind as they fly on the swingset, and you will wish that your curls were looser so your hair can flow like theirs. You will find yourself looking at your mother’s nose and wishing that it were yours as you remember how your classmates made fun of your own. You will look down at your arms and wish your skin were just a little lighter, just a little fairer, just a little more white. And you will be angry. You will be angry about being Black, you won’t want to be Black, not with this hair or this face or this skin. You will imagine a life where you were pretty and white like mom, with her spiral curls and her smaller nose and her fair skin with freckles. You will wish and wish and wish that you were white, until you realized that you are. It took a while for us to realize that one person could be made of two colors. It took even longer for others to believe us. You will go through many years where your peers are constantly asking if you were adopted, if mom was your real mom. You will ask her many times if she was really your mom, and she will tell you many times that she certainly is, although you will never believe her. And when you finally do, you try your hardest to prove to everyone else that you’re white. Unfortunately you will waste a lot of your time trying to convince other people what you are. Everyone will doubt you and tell you what you are, they will all act as if they know more than you. And it will be difficult and tiring and hopeless. You try so hard to please everyone else that you will lose sight of yourself. You will do everything to prove your whiteness and then you will do everything to prove your blackness. You will try out every stereotype in the book as if it were new clothes. You pretend you can’t dance when you really can, if you really wanted to. You pretend to like grape soda when you’ve always preferred orange. You reinvent yourself and before you know it, you don’t even know yourself.

I should be ashamed of you, and for the longest time I was. But then I remembered how it felt back then. I remember us being caricatures just to feel like we were being Black or white the right way. I remember that was the only way for us to feel like we were being authentic. But luckily you will mature and you will learn. It takes so long, but eventually you won’t feel like you need to prove yourself to anyone. You learn more about the Black American experience. You will learn how to do your hair and how to see the beauty in your ethnic features. Pretty soon you’ll love your face and your hair and your skin. You will learn that the world won’t always be kind to you, but there are so many people who want to help change that, and you will find a fire ignited in you, not through anger but through inspiration. You finally understand what it means to truly fight for what you believe in, to be willing to risk everything for an important cause. You will learn more about the Black pioneers who paved the way for you, and most importantly you’ll learn that there’s no real way to be Black. You find confidence in your personal fashion, in your interests, in your personality, because it is no longer a stereotype, rather it’s who you truly are. And while you navigate your blackness you learn that you are just as white as you are black. More freckles pop in during the colder seasons when you pale from lack of sun, and you love the way your little freckles remind you of your mother’s. You love the way your freckles and your hair and your nose and your skin are all a part of you. You will learn that you also benefit from colorism, a branch of white privilege and that fills you with more motivation to advocate for those of darker skin. You no longer wish to be one or the other, you find peace and balance in both. You learn more about what it means to be “mixed.” How you may not be completely black and also not completely white. How some scenarios resonate with your blackness more than your white, and vice versa. You will learn how to navigate the world as a mixed person, though it does take time and effort and research. You learn that you still have so many questions about where you fit in and how you’re being perceived or how you’re presenting yourself. But soon you learn that as long as you stay true to yourself, it won’t ever matter where or how or if you fit in. You learn that you’re so much more than how you look, and yet how you look is so close to your identity. You learn to embrace all parts of who you are no matter how confusing it is. You learn the secret to figuring out who you are, your identity, and how to truly feel self-love when it never seemed possible. So to you, my younger self, I warn you of the pain you may feel and the struggles you will face, but I also bring to you the knowledge that you will be resilient. When you are knocked down you will soon rise again. When you are exhausted you will soon gain strength. When you hate yourself you will soon learn to love. And when you don’t know who you are, you will soon find the light, the answers to all your questions, the relief that comes with truly knowing yourself. You will persevere and you will thrive. Just as I am now. Yours Truly, Your Older Self

By: Skye R. 67

My Unforgiven I had a dream like I’m Martin Luther. I had a vision like a raven so I saw the future. I had a voice that could change the culture. My mind is strong so I dodged the vultures. All dreams matter Well, who breaks the white people down when they are close to reaching them? My people grew from a stem, That then became a gem. Our family comes first, But it seems like we are all cursed. The people in power, All want to cower. Scared to speak up for what is right, When all my ancestors learned how to write. I hear the shots getting fired. I see the neighborhood kids trying not to holler. Seeing dead bodies at seven, All I could do was pray that they go to heaven. I watched the kids pick up a gun, Stopping all of their fun. We grew up either running or hiding, While the governmentals were plotting. We learned not to trust the police, Cause they were all screaming “peace”. Our families keep dying, Forcing us to watch all of the mothers start crying. The police keep lying Causing our neighbors to start spying, All everyone keeps doing is implying That we are defying. I watched the kids turn to drugs Making everybody see them as a thug, When in all actuality all they ever craved was a hug. We put our headphones in, Blasting music while we try to breathe in. Eventually our time is coming to an end So all we could think is when.

“Snitches get stitches and wind up in ditches” Someone seems to take their last breath when someone switches. Pushed to be on our own with no path in sight Brings forth the fright to life in the night. We pull up our hoods, Just to pretend that we are good. The world views otherwise, Choosing to believe that we are in disguise. Not knowing what to do in the house Causes people to believe they are in need of a spouse. Unbeknowst to most they are waiting to strike And have your view of viability be from the afterlife. It’s hard not to believe in your blood Because everyone knows that they would drag you through the mud. Loyalty is everything but what can you bring When everyone in your environment just chases bling. This is the story of the hood, Where most times everything ain’t all good. Now that you know what it is about, Don’t pout when we all start to sprout. Written by: Mariya G.

Prologue According to Hoff (2019), in a recent survey of 1,000 Americans, the “perfect” woman was described as 5’5”, 128 pounds, with a 26-inch waist. Obviously, this is nearly unobtainable without the use of cosmetic surgeries or extremely unhealthy measures. For example, America capitalizes on the idea of straight, pearly white teeth. However, in Great Britain, rather “natural”, yellow-colored teeth are embraced. In the world of social media and ever-changing beauty standards, it can be somewhat difficult for teen girls to navigate their surroundings and find their true calling and originality. In this poem, Realistic Fictitious, written by me, Jessica Lea, I will demonstrate the daily struggle of many girls around the country and the constant battle they face between ideas that are not always black and white.

Realistic Fictitious Beauty standards change like the weather Whether it’s soap brows or claw clips Mom jeans or plumped lips Current “trends” won’t last forever. In the wake of fast fashion Department stores cash in On the decline of young girls Whose friends show no compassion If she doesn’t get the prettiest pearls. A small-chested girl wish she had it the other way A big-chested girl would trade with her any day. Pear-shaped Boob taped Date-raped Tried to escape Mouth stood agape. Thin hair Nice pair Skin fair Doesn’t care Eyes rare Don’t you dare Her welfare Is crippling. “Does she even know how to walk in those 3-inch heels?” “Bold move of her to wear that dress knowing what it reveals.”

Every night she takes razor blades to her wrists Insists until they have no choice but to bleed Earlier that day, she met the popular girl’s fists Against the bathroom stall, she attempts to plead The greed in her eyes continues, persists So pissed, she is that she remains silent “If you so much as look in my direction wearing that horrendous skirt again I promise the next time will be much more violent.” She thought this was the right skirt It would make all the boys want to flirt Even made her somewhat of an extrovert Until it wasn’t. At home, her true enemy is her mirror Her thoughts are cloudy, but the reflective glass has never been clearer Stretch marks Sly remarks Are these curves? It’s what she deserves Woke up with a pimple Why can’t beauty be so simple? On her knees, she prays to anyone who’ll listen “I’ll do anything if I can just see the vision.” The plan That the man upstairs is concocting Through her tear-streaked face, her eyes begin to glisten At the realization that the one organ at the top of her head conceived “Beauty is just about how it’s perceived.” She feels as though she has achieved No more wondering if she’s good enough, those thoughts aggreived The ultimate gift, has she truly received Because she believed. By: Jessica L.

To you all those years ago, the words I could never find myself to speak. My second-grade self, who was embarrassed to eat her rice and Vietnamese sausages that her mother made, in fear of being mocked for eating such an “unpleasant and foul” lunch, switched to eating chicken nuggets and macaroni to try and fit in. My third-grade self had to plaster a smile and laugh at the oh-so hilarious stereotypical “jokes” of how an Asian with an accent speaks in fear of being ridiculed for not understanding that it was just amusing to hear. My eighth-grade self, whose mom works at a nail salon to provide for her family, put herself down because of the way her classmates mocked the Vietnamese women that worked in nail salons for a living. And myself, who desperately tried to blend in the popular cliques in school so much that I eventually forgot all about my cultural identity among the racist jokes and the stereotypes; who forgot that I am an Asian-American tried to be more American for them, who forgot that my last name “Pham,” came from the determination and hard work of my family to immigrate to the U.S and escape from the Vietnam War and poverty. I sincerely and deeply apologize for the wrecking of the Asian identity you have gone through in school. From you, in the days you have grown and flourished, I want you to know that the hooded eyelids you have which people laughed at, or the Vietnamese sticky rice with mung bean you eat which people moved away from you during lunch because of the smell, you made it to sixteen years old, standing strong and proud of your cultural identity. Instead of backing down and being ignorant, you stood up for not only yourself but for those whose cultural background was made fun of in hopes that their surroundings may not destroy their cultural identity but teaches them to be more than just proud. You freed yourself from the cage that trapped your Asian identity inside to act more American for your classmates. However, being American did not mean you had to throw away your Asian identity, leave it behind, and lose yourself in the midst of it. It means to be yourself, use your voice, and make an impactful change despite the harsh words of society.

Your experience when you were younger made you courageous and bold no matter who cast a glare in your direction. You stood ablaze, and your eyes shone with passion and emotion. You were ready to prove those wrong when they jeered and mimicked you for your culture, for your identity. You were no longer the kid who chose ignorance to save herself from being called a “chink” among the people in the school; that word does not define you and never will. You have become someone that people look up to in hopes of possessing the bravery and tenacity you acquire to speak up about the racism that circulated them. You have regained your sense of culture. No, you never lost it from the start. It is because you gave yourself the strength and believed in your capabilities and willpower to rise from the above and make your mark in this very life of yours. Though every fight against the Asian in your identity may persist, you have come to learn that as an Asian American, these fights, obstacles, or challenges will not hinder you in your journey to stand up for those who feel ashamed of their heritage. There may be days when you feel fragile. Days when you feel so exhausted, you might collapse to the ground at any point. However, one thing is for sure is you will never feel any lower due to your heritage, culture, and identity. It’s the empowering fact that being Asian is beautiful and unique in every single way. If there’s one thing I can tell you, it’s the living fact that you have accomplished so much yet have gone through the obstacles that had you put on a mask for the sake of your identity. Surround yourself with the people that love you for who you are, and never surrender to the foolish stereotypes that people spew. You already belong here, so take off that mask and be yourself. Anna, I’m so very proud of you. Don’t be ashamed of your heritage. Don’t be afraid to reveal yourself. Eat your Vietnamese lunch your mom made for you with pride. To you in all these years of immense love and recognition, Anna P.

BLACK IS BOLD By: Mya S. You ever wondered what it is like being black. Why does it seem that every day I am apologizing for being black? For being me. I live in a world where being black is now considered a crime. I am only 17 years old, but the hate I have seen towards African American people is beyond me. I was sitting here thinking of ways I could explain that would make sense of how my black affects me. Well, I have two older brothers, both adults, that are black. In this world, they have to go outside and live, wondering if they will make it home alive or to the morgue in a body bag. I have to always worry every time one of my brothers leave home, because what if I get a call saying they were killed for no reason other than their race. This world looks at Black people like we are animals, an that we have no respect, self control, or goals in life. You ever heard anyone say “I have black privilege?” No because it is not a thing. We, black people, I, A black female in America have to work 100 times harder to get the same respect White females get without asking. You can see a white woman and black woman working the same job somewhere, and I bet you one of them is getting paid more, n=and not because she has been there longer either. It was because one was white, and one was black. At first, when I was younger, I never thought racism would happen to me, or because I was young I just didn’t understand as much as I do now. Now that I am older, I understand more. I understand what Racism is, I know That I am black, and especially that my black is beautiful. I had my own personal experience with my blackness and racism, that at first I thought “oh it wasn’t a big deal.” But it was. I was called a monkey, by a white man, that found it funny. At first, I am thinking oh, well let’s not say anything because what if I upset him or he goes off on me. I let it slide until I got home. I asked what I should do, that was within my means. I ended up telling the administrators at my school, and they gave him the little pep talk of that isn’t something you should say. They let him off easy. A little pep talk huh? I could have given him that. That pep talk showed him that he can go and do it again to others, and the most they will do is give him a pep talk. What type of bullcrap is that? No one will ever understand what it is like to be black, expect us actual black people. 74

Having people give you dirty looks I when you walk into a room because of your skin color, every white person staring at you during history class when talking about slavery. Only getting one month to represent us, and having it be the shortest month out of all the other months. Being told our skin complexion is too dark, or too light, or that we aren’t black at all because we don’t look like a “normal black person.” What is that supposed to mean huh? What does a “normal” black person look like to you? Are we supposed to stay quiet and not let our voices be heard? Or are we supposed to wear our hair a certain way? Are we supposed to wear certain things, speak a certain way? Being told all of these things is like telling us to stop being ourselves. Sorry not sorry, but I am not gonna stop being me. You can stare at me all you want while I dance in the middle of the walkway at a restaurant because “this song is mu jam!” You can give me dirty looks while I speak a little loud, because I know that is the only way my voice is heard. I Identify as a Black 17 year old female in America. Most people would probably cringe because I say it so proudly. I am happy in being black, even with all the hate and disrespect our community gets on a daily basis. Yes, it is a daily thing that we have to deal with, but we manage. We get through the day. We take it one day at a time. There is so much more I could say, but some of it just isn’t on a personal level to me, because I know it’s isn’t just me that it affects. I am glad to be able to have the opportunity to express myself here, and have someone try and understand. Sadly, you never will, because 9/10 you aren’t black. No non- black person will understand what it is like for us, as much as you guys try. I can for sure tell you that the whole trying to be us thing isn’t going to ever work. You want to be us, until it is time to be us.

TRUTH: A TIMELESS UNDERSTANDING By: Mackenzie B. To my Pencil, To the paper which holds my words, Every syllable sworn to secrecy. The one thing I can trust to hold them, And not manipulate them. To the pencil, Which word after word continues the story, The story that changes from person to person. But at the end of it all, The Pencil is constant. The Pencil with a guiding hand, In all reality deciding for itself what to write. The Pencil which draws a dividing line Down the paper’s center, The Pencil alone decides what happens next. The Pencil which writes a letter Of acceptance, The Pencil which loves unconditionally. The One who writes my story, The One who reminds me to write what I can Because in the end, it’s predestined, In the end, the words that I write Are already written In a story drafted by the Writer of all writers. The author who doesn’t care If I’m gay or straight, If I’m white or black, If I’m rich or poor. I may be writer, But in order to get here, I had to be written In the format of the one who created My innermost being, The one who knitted me together. Each paragraph, each sentence, each word, Is perfect. For my author writes without an eraser, The Pencil makes no mistakes.

To true teachers, An ode to the teachers Who taught me what teaching means, To the ones who gave us respect, The respect from us they expected. To the ones who taught us how to teach; Teach that it’s okay to not be okay, Teach us that we should stay, Teach us that each and every day Has a purpose and that one day we will find a way To know what our purpose means. And in the meantime, They teach us not only Chemistry and English But lessons that we will take Far beyond the walls of this building. Lessons like not changing yourself For someone else’s pleasure. Lessons like express your opinion Loud and Proud. Your voice matters. An ode to the teachers Who even in an underpaid, understaffed environment Came in to give us the things we needed, Pulled through for us with far more than an education, Provided us with a safe space. A space where, yes, sitting in chairs is requested, But if standing helps you focus, Gives you more of a learning experience, Then standing is expected. A space where we can see characters Who look like us ALL of us. Not just the straight, white guy Who grew up in a nice neighborhood And made it through college effortlessly. The ones who struggled, but got back up Maybe more fragile than before, But in the end, standing. An ode to the teachers That inspire me to teach, That make me believe in a dream; To the teachers that prove I can do it, too.

To humanity,

To the future me,

Your racism isn’t excused Because you have a black friend, Or have a black teacher Or follow black people on social media. Your racism isn’t condoned Because there are black police officers Because half of those people Are there to make a better system, To change what needs to be changed. Your racism is not approved of Because you think we need more positivity, Because times are better than they used to be. We haven’t sold them into slavery, So it’s acceptable, right? Black people have the bare minimum, So we can stop the fight, right? Because apparently, supposedly, It’s love all black hate all white? That’s not how it works. It’s give black people what they deserve, What white people don’t have to worry about. It’s not lose what I have, It’s give them more. It’s not take away white history, It’s give black people a chance to be heard. It’s let people see themselves When they read a picture book Or watch a TV screen. It’s let people walk down a street. BANG! Gone. Because their skin is too dark For you to change your views. Your racism is not excused In order to make jokes About selling people instead of real estate Or being the “white chocolate chip” On the ghetto basketball team. Your racism is not excused. Period.

Your words, They go farther than you know. Every syllable you speak, Every letter that you mouth, Every sound wave that travels, Causes natural phenomena. Converts someone’s day From rainy to rainbow In the matter of seconds; The hurricane of life’s depths The clouds, the lightning, the thunder, Looming, predicted to arrive any minute now. So use your words before it’s too late Bring them the sun Before the rain Forever invades a summer day’s existence Bring them the sun, For they need the light to grow. But do not forget to water yourself Save yourself some light For you need it, too.

ashamed By: Emma B.

growing up i was ashamed. ashamed of being different, ashamed of being a girl who likes girls, ashamed of being me. i would often pray to God, my God, begging Him to make me straight. tears streaming down my face crying please,

please, please. had i done something to make Him angry? why else would He subject me to this self-hatred? i was ashamed of a seven-letter word. i would tip-toe around it, i would treat it like a dirty word, thinking that if i hid from it enough, it would give up and go away. the first time someone asked me if i was a lesbian i panicked. with shaky hands i laughed her off and denied it deny, deny, deny. she didn’t look convinced but didn’t press any further. i went home that night and cried myself to sleep. the week i came out was simultaneously the best and worst week of my life. other queer kids at school befriended me and for the first time in my life I felt like i belonged, but I was also met with bigotry firsthand. i felt exposed. most people thought i wouldn’t hear the things they called me: lesbo, d*ke, freak, but i heard every word. 78

i dreaded going to second block everyday last year, all because of one student. nearly every day he would find some way to insult me for being a lesbian. most days he would call me a man, plain and simple, others, he would accuse me of tucking and “pretending to be a girl.” i never once stood up for myself. there are some days where i wish i stayed in the closet, collecting dust. there are also days where i couldn’t be prouder about my sexuality. self-acceptance is a treacherous journey, at times, it feels like it will never end. i am done with living my life in shame, i am tired of sitting quietly and letting someone bully me for who I am. i am no longer ashamed. i am proud.

To The Boy Undiscovered June 18th, 2004, you enter the world to join a loving mother, father, and sister, and the course of your entire life is decided by one proclamation assisted by chance. “It’s a girl!” the doctor cries, and your mom and dad lovingly imagine your entire life ahead of you: pink room, Barbie dolls, perfect girly name, short-term boyfriends, long-term marriage to a loving husband, and much, much more. It won’t take long for your parents to see that you are different. You won’t like the dolls - you’ll prefer the swords. You won’t want My Little Pony - you’ll choose the Power Rangers. You’ll want to learn Karate, you’ll want to play Ninja games, you’ll want to be with the boys and not the girls, and you’ll tell all your friends online when your parents aren’t home that you’re actually a boy and absolutely NOT a girl. These differences, however, won’t seem like much to those around you. “She’s a tomboy,” they will say. “Just a tomboy.” But soon, to you, it will feel like more. Soon, you will choose more and more “boys” things over “girls” things. Soon, you will wonder what makes boys so different from girls anyway. Soon, you will feel a quickly-familiar pit in your stomach when you hear your name and “she.” Soon, you will wish you could be with the boys. Soon, you will wish you could BE the boys. This feeling you will have - the jealousy and the sinking stomach - will never go away. In fact, it will only get worse. You will be handed the “girl” coloring sheets rather than the “boy” ones. You will be pushed onto the “girl” teams during P.E. You will be separated and dragged into a classroom with all of the other girls to learn about your changing body and all the while you will be sick to your stomach over the things that you don’t want but can’t stop, and you will ask yourself, “why can’t I have what the boys have?” Soon after, you will grow older. The dreaded promised changes will arrive, and you will collapse into your own shell. You won’t recognize yourself in the mirror, and your own voice and name will grow vastly more unfamiliar to you. You will tremble at the thought of anyone seeing you and attempt to hide as much as possible by burying yourself in hoodies and talking as little as possible. And you will learn hate. You will hate yourself, you will hate the boys around you for having what you wanted, and you will hate whatever or whoever caused you to be this way. Eventually, however, you will learn who you are.

The term “transgender” will finally appear for you online someday, and everything will click at once. Finally, you will find a reason for your grievances, and you will find comfort in their solutions. The name “Roman” will come to you, and your close friends testingly calling you this name with male pronouns will feel more at home to you than your given name ever had. Changing your name and your pronouns will mark your true beginning. Only then, after discovering who you truly are, will you feel true confidence. You will blossom into the man you always wished you could be, and you will finally flourish under your certainty. You will learn what self-love is and how to power through adversity. However, the destined road you will embark upon will not be easy. You will lose friends and family. You will hear slurs and people despising your “lifestyle” and “people like them and their brainwashing.” You will encounter discrimination and hate for simply being who you are. But, above all, you will be truly happy, and you will smile in the face of doubt and fear. To the boy who does not yet know what his future holds, to the boy who hates his long hair, to the boy who does not yet understand his feelings, to the boy who wishes to be like the others, to the boy who is hidden deep down, waiting to come alive: Your name is Roman. Life is going to be scary, and there will be people who will try to convince you that you are someone you are not. You are going to resent the special struggles you will have to face, and you are going to mourn what you will never have. But your name is Roman, and above all, you will be happy. Signed with love, Roman

By Roman B. 81

dear partition, how did it feel when you ripped ugly innocence from the pit of my grandmother’s stomach sent her flailing and silent for me to hastily collect whispers around neglected night’s chai of what you made her become intergenerational trauma folded and cleaned waiting patiently at the foot of my bed with that rich mint green lehenga dad begged me not to buy from the thrift store were you the one that taught him how to bundle himself up for assimilation? when you reared your violent head when your brutal fingers clench and your merciless mind wraps a nation in terror we could have laughed you looked just like the raj and their strangeling, stifling suppression but the raj spun on their feet they collected their stolen souvenirs left our abusive relationship untouched & unwrapped: wounded & bloody & raw and you stayed you twist the knife spend years sewing division call it religion chalk it up to something better 14 million people migrate 2 million die 100,000 women are abducted and raped while their fathers and their brothers and their sons bewildered by the way you belittling, barbarically, break bones are forced to watch I’m still trying to define your better dear partition, they can tell me you died that you shriveled up and evaporated in the cool canals and rivers you licked your wounds, blood sunken soil 82

but the wrinkle lines run deep when I take my children to the village they’ll harvest the fruit of your labor the salt from your blood sinks on their tongue they won’t, I won’t, know how sweet guava is without it caked in your imperialist icing maybe that’s why when I was a child, dad massaged our guava with salt and pepper history isn’t sweet but culture should have been dear partition, I can tell them I died neither Lord Shiva nor Allah can save me I’ll drown in the third world country you left me for take your butter chicken and silks and land take me of my name you offered when we parted I won't belong to you tell them you killed me with those women my grandmother knew and how she watches me now; left out for the crows no language tosses her a lifeline no native tongue can lick this ocean of salty, bloody soil to unbury me your cold and homely grave no words I would recognize after you forced the voice from my throat dear partition, I didn’t know your name I knew the way you lingered in the shadows of my poetry when you dance in family portrait photos haunting, unfamiliar, indistinguishable character to consume every time I set ink to paper embroidered greedily in the mint lehenga I knew the way you sunk into conversations an old friend you’d start shouting matches over politics & religion & race slip through my writing with irony and grace and you stayed and you’ll stay and stay and stay

By Amelia P. 83

I still remember, dear me, your scared eyes and the confusion, Unnecessary cruel jokes and inability to comprehend Ripping apart your very essence, like nightmares singing lullabies That future you will understand. The bullets fired at my land, splitting the bloodline into halves, Previously hugging one another, the soldiers fall from each other’s guns; My family in rage: Ukrainians and Russians. The battle leaked into the house like an impetuous stream, Leaving me wondering, which blood of mine am I supposed to pick? Putting behind the well-known creed, familiar with every corner, I ardently head to the land of free, the place where dreams live outside the head. The smiling faces, new language, and small talk, Individualistic focus, and uprooted liberty Come crashing down on long established dock— Beliefs about seriousness and the united entity. You never feel the struggle to fit in Until you pass a group that deem you mafia; You never feel the struggle to blend with Until they check your bottle for an alcoholic drink, Unique characteristics and decade-long traditions, All fade in face of prejudiced opinions, Feeling a traitor when trying to embrace American, Feeling an outsider when learning of Ukrainians. In hardest moments, remember your grandparents’ lessons, Use challenges as strength training and endurance test, I’m grateful for tough nature, nurtured since beginnings, Through cold, harsh teachers, and trembling in the chest. Fighting an uphill battle every day, With perseverance gained from immigration I hope to find a brighter future, and the past

Will serve as a reminder of my heritage. In native country learned that sorrow, Instead of drowning one in lake of tears, Should serve as rocket launch for future; A serious face—simply an omen of desire to succeed. And when you hit rock bottom—just remember, It is a chance to restart, once again. This time, with background and experience Supporting journey like a metal chain. In times of doubt, when still I feel misplaced, I recognize my origin and current place of being. By honoring the family traditions, I make this home a better place of living. No need to be identified as solely a single culture Transform, experiment, allow yourself to change But never dare you forget the place where, as an infant, You learned about the world and called the cherished names. How can you be on both sides of the war? Become the citizen of the world, and honor what is dear to your heart, Embrace the parts of you that are unable to give up And live experiencing every culture fully.

Love, Me.

By: Alice F.

To my darling nieces and nephew, Let me begin by saying no matter who you grow up to be, whoever I grow up to be, you three will always be important and close to my heart. I have always had a hard time expressing my love, but I’ve never faltered in telling you that I love you, and not once have I ever lied. But I have lied about other things, and for that, I apologize. And now, if you’ll let me, I will explain. I am not who you think I am. Yes, I am your aunt. Yes, I am white and Christian. But I’m so much more than that, and I’ve been too scared to tell you. Your parents have never been the most supportive about these kinds of things, and you’re all so young. While I believe fullheartedly in education on social issues early on, your parents don’t, and I have to adhere to that decision. You may not ever understand, and I suppose I’m to blame for some of that. I should have done better. I hope it’s not too late, and that these words or some other future experience will allow you to understand. But, I suppose I’m still procrastinating in telling you, even in this letter. I’ll get to the point. I am non-binary, bisexual, and aromantic. To put it in less official terms, I don’t confine myself to being either a man or a woman, I express myself how I want. I am attracted to all genders, not just men, as I’ve portrayed myself to you these past years, or just to women, as your mother believes me to be. Both. All. Finally, I am on the aromantic spectrum. I don’t believe myself to be entirely aromantic, but as you know, I’ve never been able to hold on to a romantic relationship, and I had never understood why until I came across this term. Let me explain what being aromantic means. It’s when someone doesn’t feel romantic attraction, such as wanting to hold hands, cuddle, or go on dates. But here’s why I’m not fully aromantic: I do feel as though I want these things, but I can’t physically handle them. When I hold hands with someone, I feel anxious. When I am in a relationship, I feel trapped. Do you understand? I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t know everything about myself or the reasons behind what makes me who I am, but I do know these few things that I’ve shared, and knowing makes me happy. You were raised by conservative parents and, while it hurts me, I’ll understand if you can’t come to terms with who I am. I can live with you ignoring the words I’ve just said, but I don’t think I can live without you. You are a part of what has kept me going, even on my darkest days. I suppose this is where I should add I am depressed, and often suffer from anxiety. I don’t know if you’ve been taught what this is yet, and in the end, it doesn’t really matter. All you need to know is that when I lay on the couch and don’t feel like playing, it’s not because of you, it’s because I need help that I have a hard time asking for. When I don’t speak or smile, it’s not because I don’t love you, it’s just that sometimes I can’t find the energy to put on a facade. I wish I was better, because as you’ve all grown up there have been so many times where you’ve wanted me to join in your fun, but I couldn’t. You think it’s laziness, just as your parents and my parents think, but it is more than that, and I hope one day you can forgive me.

Who I am can’t be changed. This past year I’ve been able to come to terms with a lot of myself, but I’m still working on it, and I think a big reason for that is I haven’t been able to talk about it freely. I’m a very private person who has a hard time expressing herself, and I’ve been scared to tell people who I am. A pride flag in my Instagram bio, telling close friends my real pronouns, and allowing myself a second glance at beautiful women as much as beautiful men is a start, but it’s not enough. Maybe one day I’ll be able to sit down with you and have a talk about this instead of writing it in a letter. It’s awful I’m able to submit this to a scholarship foundation, allowing my secrets to be shared with people I don’t know at all when I can’t even share them with you. But people say it’s easier to share with a stranger, and I’ve always been better at writing than I have talking. I hope one day you will all understand. I hope one day I can tell you, your parents, and my parents all of this. Because who I am is someone worth knowing, someone who has the power to change the world. I just hope I’m powerful enough to change all the negative perceptions you’ve been taught. With eternal love and repentance, Your depressed, anxious, bisexual, nonbinary, aromantic aunt By: Emma B.

Kintsugi

by Giovanna P.

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery. One takes up all the shards and pieces and then painstakingly rearranges them back into their original places; the gaps where the porcelain has been completely pulverized are then filled with a combination of lacquer and gold. To make kintsugi is to accept deviance and imperfection; to make something precious because of rather than despite the cracks. To make kintsugi is to love the blemishes in the first place, to celebrate them. In a world where perfection is so intensely sought, where its facade is stamped onto people like an artist’s signature, kintsugi seems trivial and frivolous. It is not. I have known of kintsugi for a while; it comes up in poetry or perhaps the lyrics of a song when I am a young child and piques my interest enough to earn a Google search. I then promptly forget about its existence at all, another relic to the caverns of my neural pathways. Back then, there was no need for it; I am standard china, the universal blue patterns of codified femininity etched into my skin. It starts like this: tiny hands grab at the hem of my mother’s shirt. I am her darling daughter; the child that logistically probably shouldn’t have even been conceived, but nonetheless is alive and healthy; the one that shimmers, to her, as if wrapped in strands of silver and gold. Flawless. Her perfect baby girl. Over time, I begin chipping.

Chip; I throw a tantrum over wearing skirts, then proceed to wear pants every day to school. Crack; I wax poetic on how I see myself in the boy characters in books: Harry and Percy and Alex, but not Hermione or Annabeth or Samirah. Never Hermione or Annabeth or Samirah. Smash; I take out my earrings after ten years of keeping them in, little chunks of metal that have been attached to me since I was barely a few months old. When I misplace them, I do not mourn the loss. Instead, I use it as justification for staying away from jewelry for several years.

These small splinters are considered mere quirks, acceptable as long as they don’t grow. I am celadon, small lines rippling through the glaze. I hide the imperfections in my femininity with a game of Simon Says-- when girls wear skirts, I wear one too. I am so good at this game of concealment that I hide even from myself. When I am thirteen, my mask of china shatters. Too many revelations come all at once; I am not a girl, not even a man. I fit within the cracks of the mosaic we call gender. The term is non-binary, as I learn. I’m sorry, I scream into the wind. I’m sorry for not being a girl, a sister, a darling daughter. I’m sorry for being shards of glass rather than an unchipped platter. I’m sorry for being the way I am, another word barely brought out to see the light of day, another term that most do not even know. I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I am not sorry anymore. In a world that hides me away, I refuse to hate myself, to conceal the cracks and gaps within me. I am certainly not white-and-blue china, nor celadon, nor broken porcelain. I am picking up the pieces of myself I never thought to explore, never thought to acknowledge, never thought to love, and cherishing them with all I have. This love of mine is an act of defiance, and I will bless the gold veins running through my skin simply because I can. I am the artist, and I am the art. I am the gold and lacquer and ceramic, the kaolin and petuntse within the clay, the paint and glaze. I am kintsugi. I am, and that is enough.

Dear future child,

By: Sean M.

Welcome. Welcome to the world. A world of dreams, opportunity, potential, Beyond your wildest imagination. Imagine. What can you do in this world? What can you change, influence, alter completely? It is your oyster, radiant. Radiate. Your joy can be infectious. Your drive, your passion, bombarding this world. Whatever you value, let it not fall, depreciated. Appreciate. Be thankful to be alive. Be thankful for each breath, each moment, each feeling. Give the whole world your sincere gratitude There may be days, my child, when you feel ungrateful. Ungrateful for your body, its curves, edges, marks, and blemishes. Ungrateful for your mind, its individuality, creativity, and spontaneity. Ungrateful for your heart, for who and what it happens to love. Ungrateful for your background, which impacts the challenges you face today. Let yourself accept that these things make you who you are. And yes, my child, obstructions will confront you in this world. Challenges of your race, how the other sees your color. Challenges of your gender, presented however. Challenges of your behavior, your speech, and your dress. Challenges to who you fundamentally are in a world that upholds the status quo. Let yourself not be defeated. This world, this opportunity-filled world, will try to contain you. It will cram you in boxes, crumple what makes you *you*. It will assign you a label and ascertain you fulfill it. It will urge you to sit down, be quiet, stay content. It will try to define you, defile you, deny you. Let not the world win. 90

Your years in this world will be filled with becoming. You will grow and change, in more ways than you know. You will try, learn, be taught, and yet even still You will fail. You will err. Mistakes be not strangers… and then? You will grow again. And again. And again, my child. Let yourself fail. Despite what the world tells you, perfection is not expected. I implore you, in fact, find that concept rejected. Take a risk. Be advent’rous. Try out some new things. Await with excitement what each moment brings. But first, and of utmost importance, you must Determine the values you hold to and trust. The world says, “Who are you?” and strikes you afraid. To conquer this question takes more than just “brave”. You were born to this world, with things you can’t change. How do these alter the ways you arrange Yourself and your friends, your whole surroundings? What are your values to ring out resounding? How do you fit yourself in the world’s bound’ries? Or dare you break them, uniqueness abounding? Educate yourself, learn of you and this world, Discov'ries await you in his'tries unfurled. And believe me, my child, this task is a lifelong process. Just ask me! I still wrestle with understanding *me*. Who am I? I still wonder, still ponder, still long to know. Am I the smart one? The funny one? The optimistic one? The one who hears others' struggles, never acknowledging their own? The one who urges, "Don't worry, be happy!" yet seldom takes their own advice? The one who feels the weight of the world yet continues to take on more? The one who no longer grasps any sense of reality, aiming only for perfection? And where did I come from? Amidst a blending of cultural backgrounds, White passing but a plethora of buried heritages, all but lost. A jumble of traditions, some lost in translation... Intertwining family trees, twists and breaks on every branch As I speak to those who came before me… What have I done? Have I carried on their legacy? Can I break the stereotype? What *is* my stereotype?

Whispers, judgments, fleeting looks, Refusing some foundational part for fear of what they'll think. Am I just lying to myself? Gay? Straight? Some combination of the two? It’s all a spectrum! Confronting the ridges of religious beliefs Flirting with Catholic then racing to atheist Then settling somewhere in between? Or so it seemed. What do I believe in? Can you call this faith? Heightening awareness of political power— Emerging from painted red into deep blue… does that make purple? At least I knew my gender, right? Wrong! It’s all a construct! And I somehow found myself seemingly right in the middle. See, my child? I still have more to learn too. As you navigate this world, my child, Your views will change, your identities will shift. Ethnicity, faith, sexuality, gender, values… all swirled… I wish that safety in discovery will be the world’s gift. It was my responsibility to raise you in love. To expose this world and its blessings, its woes And I pray to whatever might be found up above, That I’ve done the good service in helping you grow. But now it’s your turn, my child. What will you make of this world? What will you make of yourself? What will you make of each little bit of your identity, honoring yourself to the fullest extent, exploring every possibility? And most of all… What will you do with what you discover? Will you express yourself entirely? Will you pursue truth and justice? Will you work for the good in the world, respecting all and educating those who need your perspective? It’s all up to you, my child. The world is out there, waiting. Go and make it yours. 92

By: Laurence F.

A Backwards Mindset by Juliana M.

I can’t make a change. Never do I sit and think The world can be healed. It’s so easy to see Our negligence. A world without Plants. Animals. The sky. Beauty. I can see it. It isn’t far from us. Just look around to see the future. The light. It is consumed by Hopelessness. Do something. Be something. We need to speak up. They say we can recover but I will be blunt. I keep going and No matter what I say, I can’t do anything. No one can tell me It can be fixed. I feel stuck. No longer do I Care. 94

*now read this poem from bottom to top*

Dear Regina, Even though you grew up in America, it’s shocking that you’ve preserved so much of your Honduran culture. You sure can shake your hips and feet when dancing punta. You savor every bite of a large heated Baleda. You even had a quince, causing you to come out of your shell. And how can I forget…you are literally fluent in Spanish, reading and writing in ease. I’m proud of how far you’ve embraced your roots, but I need to tell you something very important. You are worthy of respect. Don’t ever let your ethnicity make you feel any less. Regina, you’ve always been out of trouble, always so quiet and fair. You’re quite honestly the polar opposite of the Spicy Latina trope. But, I want you to know that standing up to yourself is not feeding into racial stereotypes. Regina, your mom had the right to confront your 6th grade teacher, who afterwards turned red like a tomato. I know that when your teacher said, “If you speak in Spanish, you will get a check mark”, made your cheeks turn red and gave you a knot in your throat. What she said was unexpected. There were so many things running through your mind, after being treated like a bad kid. But, your teacher had no right to implement such non-progressive rules. Teachers are meant to create a welcoming environment for all kinds of people. Never lose your language, that’s part of your culture. Also, Regi, although racism sadly exists, you can’t let it slide. That boy in middle school who called you a racial slur, referring to Latinos eating beans, should have been punished. When your classmate said that word so nonchalantly to you and a group of other Latinos, you were so uncomfortable. You wanted to leave your math classroom and stay at home, sheltered from the cruel world. Reporting a racist is not being a snitch. It’s actually helping society progress; we need less bigots and ignorant people in the world. And Regina, please quit letting teachers confuse you with other students. Your second grade teacher mixed you up too many times with the shorter and younger Mexican girl. You two looked nothing alike; the only thing both of you had in common was ethnicity. You are your own person. That gym teacher also made an awful mistake of assuming you were one of the girls who rarely participated in class. The reason being, again, your ethnicity. You were kicked out of the weight room, just to be accepted back moments later because you were crying on the track on a hot spring day. It’s okay for you to be mad, but stand up for yourself. Adults may be your elders, but they should not walk over you as a teenage girl. Lastly, young lady, I want you to know that you are powerful and capable of anything. Your race, nor racial stereotypes, doesn’t define you. You are not lazy; you always complete your homework assignments, even if it takes chugging down caffeine and staying up late at night. You’re not annoying. You actually have bright ideas that have led you to many leadership roles. The most significant role you’ve taken on pertains to your culture, since you are Co-President of Spanish Club. This is the role you’ve wanted since freshman year. I want you to use this role to express yourself; show people who you really are. Don’t be afraid to act silly or passionate when hosting Spanish Club events. People may judge your enthusiasm, but it’s your culture. Always wave your Honduran flag proudly, even if it’s invisible. Overall Regina, I hope you understand my message.Please know that I’m proud of your accomplishments. I’m proud of you for sending a letter to Dr. Carmen Alyaa, encouraging her to add more material concerning Latino heritage to the Illinois school curriculum.. Sending that email was nerve wracking, but rewarding. I’m proud of your emotional English presentation regarding deportation in the Latin community. There’s so much that you have done for the community. But with a stronger personality, you will be unstoppable. Yours Truly, Regina P. 95

Identity by Olivia K. A white name With an ethnic one One syllable and Short A racquet Hits a tennis ball Echoing on the court into Quiet A prep book In place of a friend Spending time Alone A Schirmer’s Library of Musical Classics Playing 88 keys for 1st place A blue line Around the iris In place of glass Lenses A smile To show ambivalence Towards any Care Should I reject This label This identity defined By my race?

My name Thoughtfully given by my parents To ease assimilation And make pronunciation simple for Americans My sport Played with my father and brother For the thrill of competition And of improvement My studies I chose to learn myself Asking why, asking how And nding the answer My instrument Taught by my mother Creating haunted melodies that grow in my chest And leaving me through the keys My glasses Caused by my search To read more and forever And consume any stories at hand My smile Showing to those I love That I care more than they know And I promise to stay My identity is defined By my family, by myself And I will not give it up For anything.

Dear Future Child, I am afraid for you. And here’s why: You’re going to be a biracial Asian-American. Sometimes, this is a difficult thing to be. The world is not what I will tell you it is when you’re small. I will tell you that the sun shines for you and that people are good and that you can do anything and be anything you want. And I’m afraid for the moment you realize the world I made for you is not the world you live in, the moment you realize that some things are going to be harder for you. This inevitable moment that I won’t be able to protect you from. Maybe it will happen on the playground. Maybe other students, maybe even some of your friends, will think it’s really funny to run around with their eyelids pulled down, giggling that they look Chinese or Japanese. They might not even mean it in a cruel way, they might even encourage you to joke around with them because they’ll see your brown skin and your dark hair, but they won’t see “Asian eyes,” so they’ll think it’s okay to make those jokes around you. You might even go along with it, you might laugh because you won’t know what else to do. They’ll think it’s so funny, and even if you tell them it’s not, they’ll just do it behind your back, and maybe then they’ll mean it in a cruel way. Maybe it will happen on Crazy Hair Day at school. Your blonde friends will spray their hair with colorful temporary dyes so that their faces are haloed by rainbows. You’ll be disappointed that you can’t do that because your hair is black. It will be then, while I tie your hair into a hundred tiny ponytails because you’ll still want to participate in Crazy Hair Day, that I’ll tell you that black is every color combined, so, really, your hair is already all the colors of the rainbow. Maybe that will make you feel better for a little while, but it won’t make you match your white friends. It won’t make you like them. Maybe that will break your heart. Maybe it will happen at a family gathering. Maybe you’ll hope that, there, you’ll finally find people who are like you, you’ll finally match. But you’ll quickly realize that you are different there, too. Maybe one of your older relatives will ask if you speak Tagalog, and you’ll say no, sorry, you don’t. Your mother doesn’t, your grandfather doesn’t, so how could you? They’ll try to be nice about it, but you’ll still feel their disappointment. You’ll still feel that a distance has been placed between you and your Filipino relatives because you are not fully Filipino. Maybe you’ll be getting some food from the potluck, and there will be dishes you’ve never seen or heard of, and maybe you’ll be scared to try them. Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t like some of them, and you’ll feel horrible because this is Filipino food and you are Filipino. You’re supposed to like it. And watching you with your empty plate will only make your relatives more disappointed in you. You are not like them, either. You’ll feel like the parts of you that aren’t like them are something to be ashamed of. Sometimes you’ll wonder if you’re Filipino at all. And then you’ll go back to school and remember that, yes, there you are Filipino. There, you are Asian. There, that part of you is something you should be ashamed of. There, people laugh and talk to you in a botched accent and ask if you’re having dog for dinner tonight. And, sometimes, if they’re your friends or if they’re smiling nicely, you’ll laugh and tell yourself it’s all in good fun, they don’t mean anything by it. Maybe you’ll laugh your way into making jokes yourself because they think it’s even more hysterical when you’re the one doing it. Maybe that will make you feel like a circus freak. You’ll tell yourself that, hey, it could be worse. It’s better that they laugh with you than at you, right? It’s better that your heart break slowly, from a thousand tiny cuts from a thousand tiny jokes, than shatter from a hateful name or a cruel insult. This moment —this moment when you realize that being what you are means some people will hate you, some people will make fun of you, some people will never understand you— will happen a thousand times. And a thousand times, I will be there to tell you that your eyes are not weird, they are yours and they are perfect. I will be there to tell you that you are fully Filipino even if you’re other things too, and aren’t you lucky there are multiple things you get to be? I will be there to tell you that where you come from is never something to be ashamed of. It is something to be proud of. You will be Filipino, and you will be German, and you might be other things that I don’t even know yet. You are not a half or a quarter or a sixth of anything, you are the beauty of everything in one. You’re going to be a biracial Asian-American. And that is always a beautiful thing to be. By Sophia Q. 97

Four Names I have four names. It might seem a little odd on why I have four names, But each of those four names has a different story and meaning to me. Each created a layout of who I am. My First Name, Given to me by my father. The name on which he besotted me, Was the name of the first woman he laid his eyes upon. Just saying it wasn’t my mother’s. My mother hated this name, and so did I. As I grew older, This name which has been stuck to me as the biggest identifier, This name which a teacher will call during attendance, A name which announcers call me out during my games, A name which will be stamped on my ID card for life. This name was the name of a woman I don’t even know. Who even was this woman? Why did my father have to name me after her? These questions, and a slight hatred toward my own name was eating me up like a pack of wolves when they caught their prey. Anger and sadness That was my first name. My Second Name, My mom is the one who gave me this name. It was to tell everyone that I was a little version of my mother. My mom, A women who is strong, affectionate, and beautiful, She’s the type of woman who doesn’t take any $hit from no one. Me on the other hand was always inferior. I was much weaker, Having my sister always protect me throughout all my early years of elementary school. When she wasn’t there to protect me, It was like all my walls of protection fell, becoming a target for bullies. I’m not my mother, I’m not strong, A year went by with the bullying I slowly became less caring of people, I hated people. Another year went by, and they started commenting on my beauty, I wasn’t ugly, I was pretty, Or was I… I lost sight of who I was, And for the longest time I was not me. Each passing day I created a fake image of myself that everyone liked, All for the hope of fitting in. One day my mom reminded me of the name again, She told me, although I looked like her when she was young, that doesn’t mean I was her. 98

As I began to silently cry, She tells me I’m not my mom or sister who was strong, and that I’m not anyone else other than me. I’m me, A girl who is slowly coming back out of winter to blossom in spring. The beauty in my life resides in my name. My Third Name. This name wasn’t given to me, I created this name with only 2 characters out of 50,000 in the Chinese alphabet. The first character represents the time of year when the cherry blossoms bloom. A time when love and butterflies are in the air. The Second character is the word beautiful, Because I am beautiful, Putting those characters together and you get, Spring beauty, in English. I created this name in a Chinese language class, This class is hard, But everyone has fun taking the class. Every Chinese New Year we’ll be given red envelopes, In those will be little necklaces with that year’s Chinese zodiac. Sometimes when we scored amazing on test, Our teacher will reward us with Chinese candy. My favorite was guava and pineapple. This name represents the joy and happiness of my life. A time when no problems happened. My Fourth Name. I’ve waited for this name since the first time I stepped foot into the longhouse. The name was a mix between two different tribes. My mothers, And my father, After 16 years I was finally given my native name. It felt like a great honor. I spent many hours in the long house helping with many feasts, Dressed in what felt like my best. In the longhouse, Where I listen to orders, helped elders, help served food, and even watched the kids. All of that was so that the people who come into the doors will be given good medicine. I have many respect for the people who watched, raised, and were by my side in the longhouse. I have been a member of the longhouse for 16 years, And I finally got my native name. This name was the foundation of what felt like hard work for many years. This name is what ties me to my culture. Always reminding me I’m a Native American Woman. And I’m proud of that.

By Andrea P. or (Junior, 春美, kalkulkish) 99

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Vuela Paloma:

Dear Future Lulu (Me), You’ll always remember the melody and the lyrics. “Dame la mano paloma.” It was Thanksgiving 2019 when you heard the song. Your dad’s parents, mom’s parents, mom’s brother, and your cousins piled into your small dining room. It was incredibly exciting to have all your family together in one place. Loud laughter echoed across the room as you passed large bowls filled with mashed potatoes, turkey, and Puerto Rican rice and beans. It had been eight years since you moved to LA, making it harder to travel to Puerto Rico, the island of your mom’s side of the family. It had been nearly as long since you had all been together. After the meal, your mom got out her kit of traditional Puerto Rican instruments, while your abuelo began a simple beat. Music. It is part of your soul. Part of your family. You watched as your mom’s family ALL began to sing a song normally performed during a “parranda,” a holiday tradition similar to Christmas caroling. You tapped your foot to the beat. It was familiar. You racked your brain in a desperate attempt to remember any lyrics, yet you could only recognize the word “paloma” from the chorus. You sat awkwardly, mouthing “paloma” each time the song circled back to the chorus. You looked over at your dad and his parents, who were smiling, clearly enjoying the performance. Maybe you should have relaxed and enjoyed it too. Instead, you felt your cheeks flush, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. You could physically feel the immense shame for not knowing the song, for not knowing more about Puerto Rico, for not knowing more about your culture. The song finished and you tried to brush off your embarrassment. You didn’t want to ruin this moment, a time with all of your family. Still, a part of you just couldn’t shake off the feeling that you weren’t enough. Had you worked hard enough to maintain and learn your culture? Over a year had passed since that Thanksgiving. You were sitting in a Zoom interview with a school peer mediator, who was highlighting diverse student cultures. The student asked how your cultural identity has shaped you to be the person you are today. “I think I was always a bit confused on where I stand just knowing I’m mixed,” you started. Sure, it wasn’t the most straightforward answer, but it was honest. There would always be moments like Thanksgiving, where you would learn (or re-learn) something about your culture. You’ve always felt like you’re stuck between. You talk about your dad’s Jewish grandma and your mom’s Puerto Rican parents, who don’t practice religion. You explain how Puerto Ricans can descend from Spaniards, Africans, and Tainos, the native people of Puerto Rico. You talk about the privileges you have because your skin is white, and how you will never experience the discrimination some of your family members have dealt with based on the amount of melanin in their skin.

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There, sitting in your room on this call, you came to a realization. You realized that the only way for you to explore your identity is to push yourself to learn. If you can understand, you would never again experience the feelings from that one Thanksgiving. You didn’t need to know every Puerto Rican song, but you did need to actively learn about your heritage. You realized that you want to stay connected to your culture. The more you learn and understand, the more you’re confident that this is all a part of you, no matter where you are geographically. Learning to cook traditional dishes with your mom, listening to salsa, bomba, and other Puerto Rican music, and learning about Puerto Rico’s continued political struggles keep you connected to the island. Understanding your identity has sparked a passion for social justice. You co-founded and are currently the President of the Anti-Bias Club. You are leading a group of four students who are commissioning a BLM mural in your city of South Pasadena. You are the liaison between city government and the mural’s artist. The mural was designed to highlight your town’s racist past, challenge people’s biases, and motivate people to educate themselves on influential Black individuals; it will serve to remind people to continue working towards being actively anti-racist. Growing in your identity and learning about the struggles your people face has motivated you to fight for change and to use your privilege to educate yourself and others. You have created and taught antibias curriculum to elementary school students in both Spanish and English. You have explained to them that they should be proud of their backgrounds and learn to explore their heritage at an early age. You have also hosted presentations in honor of Black History Month and Women’s History Month. While the club has only been in place for two years, you hope to leave a lasting legacy on both your school and community, striving for inclusivity and equity. Lulu, you are still figuring it all out. Mixed. Woman. Strong. Latina. You have learned to embrace being Puerto Rican, German, Russian, Irish - American, forgiving the girl who didn’t know and welcoming the woman who is constantly learning, ever evolving, and always representing. With gratitude and love,

By Lulu L. 103

It was my black tears

caused by my black peers because of white fears supposedly in safe atmospheres.

Who diluted to gray smiles gaslighted through miles and miles of conversations and steps all the while they kept a fileand penned Jacks and Jills who represented on hills while walking on heels because I won’t heal and others like me who’s a shade of real parents shuffle and deal, yet the last name was of no appeal. No time on the roster for one like me whose popularity didn’t peak to be a true POC cuz’ they couldn’t see pass the money tree. Momma done worked all her life for this private course but not this discourse from a union of a coarse black source. Yet my head still tilts up when I speak; you nod down to my feet;

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eyes never meet; GUILT in the greetProceeds to converse in normal tones as if you’ve done no wrong cuz’ your blackness was on loan for a program where you lifted every voice in song, and the remainder of the year you were gone? ButI needed the space where I could be safe in the place and know the words wouldn’t be lace with subtleties and micro-aggressions, and the smiles were genuine upon the face. Where pushing p was a Master P; spilling the tea in UNITY cuz yo momma is my momma reciprocally. Where the pressures of the classes are lifted and praises and support are gifted; we stretch our hands towards those drifted cuz’ aint nothing wrong with love thrifted. Where our experiences are FUBU, butwhere were you?

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When I couldn’t breathe in a room full of light cuz’ the darkness on me shed more light that you could see than you could be- I needed thee. When I was burned by the son cuz’ I flew closer to the sun and was guided by thawann with feelings undone. You gave black students, so i became the union where communion commenced without occludent. By Devlyn W.

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What I See

by Melanie C. I see a girl with her death colored eyes, and dull dirty skin as she sits and she cries I see a girl with animal curls as she sits and she stares at this miserable world She longs for pale skin and blue eyes like the sky She wants her hair straight and the color of rye She is ugly and different and doesn’t fit in She is hopeless as she lets these awful words win Bathing in sunscreen, frying her hair She’s ruining her body but she doesn’t care You aren’t beautiful if you’re not what we say We will haunt you and taunt you every day She looks in the mirror and is horrified to see What has happened to her, what has happened to me? I cried and I cried at this brutal sight Of a girl controlled by societies might I worked on myself and I overcame I shut out their words and rekindled my flame I feel myself now and I’m happy with me Im sorry it took me so long to see Once blind now i’m not, it couldn’t be clearer I smile each day as I look in the mirror I see a girl with coffee filled eyes and deep cinnamon skin who no longer cries The girl with her beautiful ribbon like curls is no longer sad in this miserable world I’m still figuring out who i’m meant to be Everyone’s beautiful, more people need to see.

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Dear Ignorant Woman, Thank you for letting out your undeserved and unjustifiable aggression against Muslims in front of a young naive girl. As your grueling words pierced my heart and mind I felt shattered into a million pieces. Tears flooded my eyes and rolled down my face. The yelling was deafening. I was sinking into a blue seat on a New York City bus in my hometown New York. In my heart and mind, New York was the city of resilience. However, that day on September 10, 2012 on that New York City bus, I didn’t feel the resilience; When my tears were falling and my ears were ringing, I was on that New York City bus for what seemed like an eternity. I am talking about the time on the bus when you chanted to your friend, “All Muslims are terrorists.” I just sat there speechless and trembling. I finally filled in the blank spaces from the last six years of my life. I was bullied because I was seen as an inferior and a terrorist. This one encounter left a mark on me. You see, I am an American Muslim born and raised in New York. I was always different from the other kids and was often treated antagonistically. In pre-school I proudly donned my Disney Jasmine hat. I was naive to think that there would be a fairy-tale ending. In elementary school, on “Celebrity Day,” I dressed up like Razia Sultan, a thirteenth century ruler of the Indian subcontinent. The kids yelled “Fake Princess” at me. During recess, I just sat at a table alone, feeling as empty as the table I was relegated to. Back then, I didn’t understand, this was just a means to an end, so thanks to your hate, a shy naive intimidated girl became a resilient changemaker! Shortly after this incident, my family moved to Long Island. In trying to fit in, I almost lost my identity. I pretended to be Christian for a long time. Over the years, escalating hate crimes and rhetoric against Muslims, Sikhs and Jews frightened me even more, as I had your words constantly ringing in my ears. All of this really weighed down on my mental health. With support from my family, teachers and therapists, I started working on improving my mental health and self-esteem. Then, during the Covid 19 pandemic, I had a breakthrough. During the mandated quarantine last year, I temporarily moved back to New York City, to take care of my disabled elderly grandmother who was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, and recently passed away. One day while I was sitting on her terrace, reading about the surge in hate crimes against Asians, a New York City bus passed by on the street. Seeing the bus took me back to the frightening day on a similar bus a decade earlier, where you briefly made me lose faith in humanity. However, instead of feeling fear, I experienced an epiphany and realized ignorant people like you will always find a new victim. During the pandemic, I saw even more divide when people picked sides with either Black Lives Matter or Blue Lives Matter. I didn’t understand why killing any innocent person was acceptable. These racial injustices in our society made me realize I needed to take a more active role in combating racism and building unity amongst various groups. Therefore, I started an Interfaith/ Charity Group called Changemakers. Changemakers has hosted: interfaith dialogues, collaboratively raised funds for various needy causes, and successfully petitioned for Kosher, Halal and Vegan lunch options in the Syosset School District. My efforts to create change through Changemakers have been recognized by the Nassau County Office of Asian Affairs, Office 108

of Legislature Josh Lafazan, the Superintendent of Syosset School district and Syosset High School; all of whom jointly recognized the impact of my youth group, that I started with something as simple as lunch, a conversation, and an attempt at mutual understanding. While imagining myself sitting in the blue seat, at the front of the bus, I realized that my experiences have taught me resilience. Even though your words were very hurtful and caused me years of pain and suffering, if it wasn’t for your unruly racist behavior, I probably wouldn’t have taken on the leadership role to change the world. Therefore, I would like to thank you and your fellow ignorant people for your aggression and racism against Muslims and other minorities. It helped me realize I am not a fake princess, I am the Sultan! I hope to continue this ﬁght in the anticipation that one day we can live in a world where: a person isn’t killed simply because of the color of their skin; a person isn’t discriminated against because of the actions of a few bad seeds who share the same ethnicity, and inclusion and equality is widely prevalent. Together, we can make the world a better place for everyone. My guiding premise is: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Martin Luther King Jr. Ignorant Woman, you and your fellow ignorant people thought you broke me and your other victims by your unjustiﬁed aggression and racist actions, but in reality you only made us more resilient. Humanity is resilient. Hate accomplishes nothing! Resilience Nina R. 12th grade

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Dear Little Me, I want you to know, first and foremost, that you are so loved. You will go through so much in this life that will force you to feel alone, to feel isolated, and to feel as though it will never get better. I’m here, now, for the sole purpose of making it so that you understand, it will get better. I know that you feel split - lost, in a sense - between two worlds, in every sense of the phrase. I remember it all. I remember listening to our family and friends speak in Tagalog and Bisaya around meals on countless occasions. I remember staring down at my hands because no one bothered to talk to me since that meant that they would need to speak in English. I remember being chastised the moment I decided to step away from the table, “Why do you not want to be with us, inday?” (inday, Filipino term of endearment, ‘young girl’) “She is not one of us - she’s puti,” my aunt laughed to her sister. (puti, Tagalog word for white) I remember asking my mother what happened to my father. I remember choosing to never make that mistake again. I remember wondering if I was truly half white if I had never so much as seen the man who contributed that 50% to my blood. I remember sitting in my uncomfortable school uniform when I was in the third grade and feeling a piece of paper hit the back of my head on my first day there, after transferring schools. I remember picking up that yellow handwriting practice sheet: “What are you?” it read. I soon learned that I was the only student there who was neither black nor white. I remember when my friends and I were coordinating our group Halloween costume where we decided to all dress up as various Disney princesses. I remember asking to be Belle - I was quite the bookworm then. I can hear my “friend’s” words now, “What do you mean? You’ll obviously be Mulan.” I remember when I went to the Philippines during that hot summer between third and fourth grade. I remember finally getting to meet my grandmother, my Lola, whom I had heard so much about my entire childhood. I remember her blank look when she saw my face. I remember my mom telling her, “Ma, come on, you know English. You can talk to her.” I remember her turning around, deciding it was too much work to talk to me in a language that was not her own. I remember how the day my seventh-grade English teacher declared her maternity leave for the remainder of the school year. Our long-term substitute teacher walked in, in those paisley heels she was so very proud of, “Good morning, y’all, I’m Mrs. X.” I remember her picking me out of the crowd and calling me disrespectful and stupid not much more than 20 minutes later, with nothing in particular there to support this accusation. I remember her getting me sent to the principal’s office for my tardiness. I remember my useless rebuttals. On my way there, the late bell rang.

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I remember the boys in my grade during my freshman year history class being astonishingly perplexed when they discovered that I was not, in fact, Chinese, as they had thought. I remember pulling down one of my teacher’s world maps over the chalkboard and pointing out where the Philippines was. I had gone to school with those kids since I was seven years old. I remember my assistant principal asking to have a meeting with me about my class schedule for my sophomore year. I remember how the conversation derailed and she commented how “exotic” I appeared and inquired on what my background was. She then felt it necessary to disclose that she knew plenty of military men that her husband was friends with who married Filipino prostitutes, so she knew all that she needed to know about me. She then proceeded to offer me the lowest level classes that my school had to offer, despite ‘Class Rank: 1’ being printed very clearly, right there on her desktop screen. I then felt it necessary to apply to a public residential high school far, far away from her. That acceptance day was one of the sweetest moments I’ve tasted, second only to the day I walked into her office to unenroll myself from her school. I remember all of that. I remember how each of those incidents made it feel like our identity - our heart and soul - was being chipped away at with every word. I remember how badly I want to scream, to call them out on their prejudice, to tell them that China and Japan are not the only two countries on the largest continent in the world. But I didn’t. I kept quiet so they would not see me as a problem. I kept quiet so that I would appeal to that docile image of a person that they perceived me to be. So now, young me, I’m here to tell you that it does get better. Wow, was this therapeutic to write. Now, it’s your turn. I know you’ll do our story proud. With so much love, Your future you

By Angela C.

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Dear School, I thank you for shaping my intelligence. You taught me how to sit still. You taught me how to listen. You taught me to nod my head. You taught me the importance of following rules. You taught me what is right or wrong. You taught me the consequences for following right or wrong. You taught me to be quiet when the adults are talking. You taught me that I would be a better student with GT classes. You taught me to not question your rules. You taught me to harbor my thoughts. You taught me to believe the foundations of your curriculum help Latinos. You taught me to ignore why teachers are more patient with white students. You taught me to blame my biliteracy when I didn’t get an A. You taught me to think that microaggressions are okay. You taught me to think that I don’t look like a model student. You taught me to think that my bilingual tongue is not proper. You taught me to not question why the only Latino American history we learn is about the Incan Empire. You taught me to sit still when my peers threatened to call ICE on me. You taught me to yell at my parents for not being normal American parents. You taught me to not bother to comprehend the legalities of being an immigrant. You taught me that I could achieve my dreams if only I was American. You taught me to be embarrassed of my family whenever it was “Bring Your Parent to School Day”. You taught me to not have patience with my nonEnglish speaking parents. You taught me that white males were the most hard-working in America. You taught me to not comprehend my parents’ hard-work ethic to pay for my college tuition. You taught me that my family was poor because we did not own a small white dog and quartz countertops. You taught me to hate my skin. You taught me to dress like others to hide my race. You taught me to hurt myself when I felt frustrated for not liking myself. You taught me to question my self-image. You taught me to believe if I was white, my problems would be solved. You taught me to straighten my curly hair to look like it was pin-straight caucasian hair. You taught me to rub off my dark pigmentation under my arms and inner thighs. You taught me to feel repulsed at myself whenever I tanned a little too dark. You taught me to shave my hairy arms because it was too manly. You taught me to dye my hair lighter so I wouldn’t look Latina. You taught me to think that my own kind was disgusting. You taught me to only love my race whenever a boy fetishized me. You taught me that I needed to look like a curvy, sexy, hispanic woman if not a pure white girl. You taught me that my only role model was Sofia Vergara. You taught me to sit still whenever a grown male complimented me for being “foreign”. You taught me to cater to the oppressor. You taught me that I would get no justice. You taught me that my voice wasn’t heard. Yet, I still thank you for forcing my brain into one that can question out of your racist curriculum. Thank you for shaping my intelligence, Camila A. 112

By Gracie C. 113

Being Me Who am I What do others think Can I be a regular guy Who likes chocolate milk as a drink Is my skin a chocolate shade Are my eyes brown or jade Can I wear my hair free Or will others picture a turban on me What will they say, when I’m shorter than the rest How will they react, when an Indian scores bad on a test Do they see me as cool, a part of the group Or do they need help on their homework, but won’t invite me to hoop Should I stick to my studies, is math really my thing, Would I be successful if I wrote poetry or learned to sing These thoughts, these stereotypes, they flood my mind, But I learned to not let others perceptions choose how I am defined I think back to my soccer days, the time I didn’t make the top team I felt crushed and devastated, no longer able to achieve my dream But I accepted my situation, training harder than ever Learned to put in extra time, staying humble, and never say never What if my grandma said never and gave up after losing her spouse Chose to prioritize herself and buy that expensive house or blouse She rather rose to the challenge of becoming a single mom, Raising her children in a new country while never losing her calm She worked two jobs, cooking and cleaning and staying up late Living in the poor areas of New Jersey, where her skin color brought her hate Despite this violence, she always made sure that her family ate Serving hot roti and naan, with paneer on a plate I myself grew up with these dishes, served with mango lassi on the side My culture and heritage continue to bring me great pride By I want others to understand that this want not always true That I was sometimes ashamed when my nationality was something that others knew I was embarrassed that I was vegetarian, as cows are considered sacred Going to dinner with my friends, was something that I hated I was embarrassed by the way I talked, the small accent that I had Stopped calling my father appa, rather referring to him as dad When leaving the temple, I was embarrassed by the red dot on my head, The third eye and sniper jokes were conversations I always used to dread But my outlook soon changed as I began to volunteer, Working with immigrants from Somali, helped me erase my fear After moving to the U.S, despite having to leave their family behind These kids could have given up on their beliefs, erasing them from their mind But on Saturdays while I tutored them in math and science 114

They listened and learned without giving any defiance On breaks and play time, they would explain to me their diet Opening up and telling me how they can’t eat gelatin, rather than staying quiet They taught me how to speak Somali, teaching me new words every week Smiling with encouragement as I learned to speak and master their pronunciation techniques As I continued to work with these children, in my mind I began to realize, It was not wise to despise my heritage and live life in disguise I began to embrace who I was, not letting others define me Being happy with myself allowed me to be free I started to look forward to cultural festivals such as Diwali and Holi Trying new restaurants that served Indian dishes rather than eating ravioli Bollywood music and Lata Mangeshkar were now constantly on my radio Watching films starring Amitabh Bachchan helped me learn new words I did not know So I want others to know, that it’s okay to be yourself Sacrificing who I was did not benefit myself It’s okay to be different, whether it’s your skin, or eyes, or hair Welcome your uniqueness and treat your values with care Wanting to be accepted and fit in might constantly cross your mind But remember that others perceptions don’t choose how your are defined But people still view other’s simply by what is seen to the eye Making claims based on stereotypes that are often flat-out lies I experienced this at school, often when hanging out with my Indian friends We were called “brothers” and “twins” by people that could see only through one lense They did not understand that we were different in many ways Speaking separate languages and celebrating diverse holidays These assumptions, these stereotypes, they came out when my classmates spoke their mind, But I learned to not let others perceptions choose how I am defined So how do I define myself, who truly am I What is my identity, separate from all the misjudgments and lies Well, I am a student and athlete, and a regular guy Who loves chocolate milk, it’s the first drink I buy My skin is chocolate brown My eyes hazelnut and round I part my hair to the side Letting it free with pride I am somewhat on the shorter side But also walk with pride I can hoop, but also get my homework done on time I enjoy doing math, but I’m nice with a rhyme This is my identity, but it’s not set in stone However, I know, that I will continue to be my own By Rishi P. 115

HATE IS A VIRUS By Millie L. I still recall the day the first case of COVID in our city was discovered. My mom bought me a mask, something I had never seen or worn before. After she dropped me off at school, I immediately took off the mask and discarded it in the nearest trash bin. I would get enough “China virus” remarks already, I did not need a face mask to help do the job. Then the COVID-19 cases grew, higher and higher. And the comments got worse. Contaminated b**ch. Chinese virus. Kung flu. When I looked in the mirror, walked down the hallways of my school, or even down the aisles of the supermarket, I couldn’t seem to escape the narrowed eyes, quiet whispers or verbal harassment. I couldn’t escape the girl who averted her slanted skinny eyes from others like she was a curse. I grew a poisonous fruit of self-hatred inside of myself that infected my brain and made me forget who I was. I made a secret wish, a wish that I could never speak aloud because I too was afraid of it. A wish to be someone else, to be someone my classmates could look at as a full person, not a virus or plague. But I grew tired of waiting for people to accept and respect me. Why must we always be the quiet ones? Why must we suffer in private? I stripped myself of the compliance that I once had for discrimination. I no longer tried to save face, or 要⾯⼦ ( mian zi ), by staying silent.

I simply began to speak what I saw: my community being harassed, beaten and killed. And that has made all the difference.

Now more than ever, we cannot stay silent. We cannot comply. We cannot let this wave crash over our heads, because it will swallow us whole. United, we must lift up our heads toward our city’s sun, and let the world see our tears, our pain and our suffering. The illuminated crystals that seep from our eyes, the deep, bottomless despair, beat out any tides of opposition that are sent towards us. We must demand a stop to Asian hate. 116

For Vicha Ratanapakdee, whose last moments were a morning stroll through a nearby neighborhood. He was left there on the sidewalk to die. For the countless victims in Oakland, who can no longer feel safe in their own homes as robberies continue to rampage, let alone going outside of them. For Chui Fong Eng, who was stabbed while she was waiting at a bus stop. For the hundreds of elders who go through a hellstorm of hatred and degradation and still, somehow are patient enough to have waited until now for the rest of us to get ourselves together and congregate to fight for them. For our own grandmothers and our grandfathers, and our parents, and our children and grandchildren, every single Asian American who too faces each day with the burden of bat-eater and chink, you will not be silenced. We will not be silenced. Let the world hear us. Hear us roar against the injustice, against the insolence and the ignorance. We’ll bring fire to the waves, in the form of solidarity and frustration and compassion. A new virus has spread like wildfire through the US, in the form of horrendous violence, and afterwards absolute silence. It has surpassed COVID in cases. Hate is a virus, and we can no longer afford more infections.

Dear Mẹ Ba, I have Ba’s wavy hair and Mẹ’s wide eyes. When I look in the mirror, I see a face composed of your features—yet I can’t speak your language. My tongue twists awkwardly around the pronunciations and my flat voice leaves me unused to the tones woven in the language. Attempting to speak what should’ve came naturally leaves me to be ashamed; ashamed of my own incompetence and how, as you put it, I’m more American than Vietnamese. I have Ba’s easy smile and Mẹ’s deep dimples. When I look in the mirror, I see a face that is merely me. But to everyone else, they see someone Asian. I can see how teachers glance at each other when I stumble talking or forget a word; as if they’re saying to each other, English must not be her first language. I see how awkwardly my white friends smiled when I recalled how I spent Tết with my family; as if I was being solidified as “other” in their eyes. As if, to them, I was more Vietnamese than American. I grew up ashamed of how I wasn’t good enough for either group and the shame was enough to stifle the parts of me I deemed inadequate for the situation. I stopped trying to speak Vietnamese because not trying at all felt better than being laughed at for attempting. I changed myself to be more palatable so I could fit in better. For a long time, I stayed in the small area that was between being Vietnamese and being American. Then I became closer to the friends I have today and, somehow, I wasn’t alone anymore. They, too, had their parents’ Vietnamese features. They, too, faced similar rejection from family and white peers. They, too, shared my experiences. We could make fun of each other for pronouncing a Vietnamese word incorrectly. We could brag about how much lì xì money we got for this year’s Tết. We could talk about going to the mall to hang out. We could make a Tiktok and dance badly. We could do this because we were both Vietnamese and American. It’s a simple revelation that doesn’t seem like much looking back, but it was what helped me shed the shame that cloaked my every action. I’m Vietnamese-American and if either community can’t accept one without the other, then that’s okay. Though I still worry about my own adequacy in the world, I’m not alone in my experiences. Mẹ Ba, I’m sorry for not confiding you in my insecurities. But I think it was something I had to figure out on my own for me to really grow from it anyways. So love from your daughter, Mimi V. 118

By Arianna H.

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By Carisma W. 120

“Welcome to Visalia’s Stop Asian Hate Rally. The idea to have a Rally sprouted from a time when I felt hopeless, powerless, and fearful from watching my API peers be verbally, physically, and emotionally attacked.” I remember walking into my fourth-grade classroom and being taunted by a group of boys chanting “Chinese, Japanese, Korean”. In seventh grade, a classmate had shouted “ching chong ching chong”. It was another day of being victimized by ignorance. “But the most painful part was knowing that these attacks have been going on for years.” I was born and raised in Visalia, California, a conservative town where five percent of Asians reside. I felt that the Asian community in my hometown has been underrepresented - our unique cultures, backgrounds, and stories were not heard nor appreciated. After being singled out by my peers for many years, I took the initiative in starting a club that I was originally worried students would not find interesting. Despite that uncertainty, I created the Asian Pacific Islander Club. My motivation was fueled by the sorrow I felt every time a hate crime appeared on the news and from the burning pain in my chest knowing that I can not immediately eliminate hate or ignorance from the world. “The pandemic has only heightened and brought to light what we have always been dealing with: Hate.” However, I knew that I could start by making a difference within my community. With the platform I created from the club, I organized a Stop Asian Hate rally in my town. After months of planning, and being told that holding a rally was, “a waste of money”, “would not succeed”, “unnecessary”, I finally achieved my goal: to create a day to express the pride of being Asian, to indulge in different cultures through art, dance, food, and music. On that momentous day, I was able to make my peers feel welcomed in a town they live in. “As a community, we deserve more, we deserve to be heard, and we deserve to be welcome in a country we live in.” When I said the first words of my opening speech, “Welcome to Visalia’s Stop Asian Hate Rally,” an overwhelming amount of emotions--pride, fulfillment, accomplishment--had engulfed me. During my opening speech, I saw the faces of a hundred youths and community members. At that moment, I knew my community had taken the first steps in earning the recognition they deserved. The morning after, I woke up to the rally being broadcasted on ABC30 Action News. For once, I felt that the Asian American Pacific Islander community in my hometown was being recognized, and I felt inwardly proud of myself for being the impetus for this celebration of diverse cultures in a conservative town. “Together I know we can and will bring about change. Words can not describe how excited I am to be here with everyone, and to stand united against hate. Let us keep fighting the good fight.”

By Brenda M. 121

What If The Comb Could? By: Destiny L.

One horizontal part. One vertical part. With my hair in four sections, I began the detangling process. As the tension between the comb and my hair grew, “THUMP” Sigh. Another broken comb. … When you look in the mirror why do your eyes stain away from the top of your head? Is it because the sight of your hair causes you dismay? Why do you prefer styles that conceal your natural hair? How could you think “Straight Hair” makes you more beautiful? Put down the flat iron. Embrace the texture of your hair. Detangle, Moisturize, Use products that make your hair content. The thickness and fullness of your hair is desired by others. What if the comb could go through your hair effortlessly? Would it make you more attractive? Would you love yourself more? Would you no longer dread the days you had to wear it in its natural state? Would you be happier? Would you be more confident? Your hair is beautiful. It is not a burden. Your hair doesn’t need to be tamed. Your hair is a token of the melanin in your skin. Your thick, short kinky hair is what makes you unique. The simple fact that a comb can’t effortlessly slither through your alluring curls alludes to just how magnificent your natural hair is. As you continue on in your natural hair love journey, I hope you come to love and appreciate your hair more than ever before. Tune out the societal comments, As no texture is better than another. Your hair doesn’t make you less beautiful; Instead, Destiny, your natural hair empowers you.

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By Kyla H.

Black Glory By Ciera F.

Dear white people, please don’t touch my hair. Dear white people, please do not stare. Your control over us is no longer mandatory, So please sit down to hear my story. I don’t remember much about my childhood, But this moment was my moment of identity. I was about five years old, and my mom dressed me for church. She turned me around to face the mirror, and I saw a little black girl with two afro puffs on top of her head. The sight was unexpected because I pictured myself as differently. As a cute little white girl with blue eyes and long blonde pigtails. At the time, I didn’t see many white people around. The two elementary schools I attended were filled with black and Indian students, With only two white students. So, I don’t really know why I thought I was white, but I was disappointed when I found out I wasn’t. When I was a bit older, my mom started relaxing my hair, just like she did my sister’s. It was easier for her to do my hair since it was straight, and I was tender headed, so it worked out for the both of us. I still remember the feeling of my scalp burning if it was left on too long, But anything for proper and socially acceptable hair, right? When I was about eleven, I decided I wanted to stop relaxing my hair and go natural. I began putting my hair in protective styles as most natural people do. I didn’t realize that the damage from chemically straightening my hair and the tight braided hair styles Would cause my hair to begin to fall. I never cut my hair; I never did the “big chop”. My hair was probably an inch long and the edges of my hair had disappeared. That is how I had to enter middle school. On one of my first days in middle school, I was in math class, and I had in braids. It’s difficult to scratch your head when you have braids in Because you don’t want to ruin the hairstyle. So, I go to pat my head to relieve an itch. I look up and see that everyone in the class is just staring at me. I’ve seen people online make fun of “ghetto” and “ratchet” girls for the sake of comedy. Without a doubt, every time they do it, they always pat they’re heads as hard as they can. In 7th grade, I went to my hairdresser, and I wanted a change. I wanted to see how long my hair was, since I spent so much time and energy into keeping it healthy. I saw my hair straightened again for the first time in years. It was still short; It looked like a pixie cut. When I went to my dance class the next day, my friends were shocked. 124

They kept asking “why is your hair so short?” and “did you cut it?” This white boy once told me that black hair doesn’t grow as fast as white hair. I believed that statement for a very long time. I thought that no matter how much I try, My hair will never grow as fast or as long as white people’s hair. As my hair grew out the relaxer and got kinkier, It became more difficult to take care of it. Especially since I had never had kinky hair before. When I started to do my hair on my own, I would sit on the floor crying because it just took so long to brush through. As the hours passed, I would wish to magically wake up with straight hair. I never did. I had to accept that this is just how my hair is, And it will stay this way until the day I die. It still is a hassle though. When the weekend comes up, I have a choice to either wash and style my hair, Or to do my homework and spend time with my friends. It would be impossible to accomplish both, as my hair takes hours- days to do. I will always pick to do my hair, Since my appearance as a black person is vital to having a successful life. I’ve tried to find easier ways to do my hair. I’ve looked up tutorials of how to wash and style curly hair. However, they never seemed to work for me. My outcomes never looked like theirs and I was so tired of being disappointed. I realized that my curly isn’t the curly that people think of when they think of curly. My curly isn’t shown in media, my curly isn’t favored by society, Seeing as my curly is too curly. I have kinky hair. My kinky doesn’t form beautiful spirals through the hair. My kinky isn’t desirable by most, But I love my kinky hair. Through all my damage, through all my struggles, through all my tears, I love my short, kinky, afro-textured hair. Who else can say that their hair defies gravity, and is a symbol of rebellion, pride, and empowerment? White people, Stop touching my hair. If you minded your business, you wouldn’t stare. Despite your discomfort, you must hear our story. I just want to live peacefully In my beautiful, black glory.

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“Bisexuals are the spawn of the devil”. I was just barely six years old and did not even know what being gay meant, yet this proclamation my father made stuck. Throughout my childhood my parents never praised me, instead they would call me weak, useless, stupid, immature, a waste of time and their investments. I was expected to be perfection in every aspect. Expected to perpetually maintain a happy façade for them, forever blissfully innocent and obedient. Minute details from the way I walked, ate, or talked were tantalized by my parents and thereafter perfected to fit the image they wanted me to present. Who I was friends with, how I spent my time, what T.V shows or music I was introduces to, and my hobbies all micromanaged by my parents and their desires. It was only when I obeyed their orders that I received love from them, if not I lost everything and was constantly threatened and ridiculed for my mistakes. To them I was a living puppet to be used and thrown once I was deemed to be insufficient to their standards. Similarly, my sexuality was irrelevant as a good child of God. My parent’s constant animosity towards homosexuality consequently became a perpetual threat; Stand outside of your respective gender roles, and you instantly deserved to be punished and ridiculed—a necessary and straightforward corrective measurement for sinful actions against the intended creations of God. Thereafter, my childhood became marred by my developing addiction to their superficial love and I slowly began losing the sense of who I was. So I stayed in line, and became their perfect child, forever golden. This image that had been fabricated by my parents soon came crashing down in fifth grade. “LOOK, they’re lesbians! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The kids taunted my best friend and me at the time. I had been careful to make sure no one would find out of my sins. I had made sure that I always dressed as girly as possible to avoid any suspicions. Yet, I had failed. My parents were then called. My father threw a fit, denying all accusations of me being anything close to gay, claiming that it wasn’t the actions of their daughter. I, of course, denied it too, prayed and prayed for this all to be false. I prayed and prayed for my bisexuality to go away. I was ten at the time. I promised myself not to show my parents my true self. I found this constant hyper fixation of seeking validation and support from anyone who would simply draw their attention to me reflecting in my school and social life. The thought of once again being ostracized or rejected haunted me. Subsequently, every minute detail of myself became something I could perfect. From the way I talked, to the manner I styled my hair became practice and perfected to maintain my persona. My hobbies such as Kpop, anime, Kdramas, Webtoons, and art soon became hidden under layers of deceptions. Instead, I threw myself into all things related to school and drowned myself in books and fantasy’s where I could escape to happier families and friends. My parents quickly forgot my abnormality, too focused on my straight A’s and honor roles and gifted. I went after friends who came out as gay and cut them off my life as soon as I suspected them of being anything but perfect or abnormal praying for God and my parents to acknowledge my efforts, to erase my sins.

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My parents, on the other hand, continuously ridiculed the LGBTQ+ community. Stating that they would die of embarrassment if one of us turned gay and that those who were gay deserved to be killed, bullied, and isolated from society to correct them. Round and round, the words would never stop repeating as this homophobia became their newest obsession causing their grip tightened on my will to live. I chose to isolate myself, I told myself I deserved to not have friends, to drown in my sadness and die for my sins against God. I came out to my friends as bisexual in eighth grade, once again seeking the validation of my peers. I thought they would accept me. I thought they would believe me. I thought I would be happy at last. That someone would finally understand me. It did not help. Instead, I was ridiculed by my peers and the LGBTQ+ community as they called me “too straight to be Bisexual” or that I was “going through a phase”. The boys were no better, expecting me to be “open-minded” to have threesomes, many partners, and sexual experience. I have stopped caring for my parent’s, or my friend’s approval since then. I no longer hide behind the bubbly and submissive persona, but rather pridefully present my Bisexuality, hobbies, and personality. In many ways covid helped me finally realize how insignificant the validation of people who blatantly disregard me for who I truly am is worth. Furthermore, covid has helped me find people who I truly consider to be my found family and some of my closest friends who truly accept me for who I am. Afterall, who I am should not be dictated by others opinions and standards but rather what I sought to identify with. I now seek my own happiness and identity outside of my façade that I relied on for so many years.

By: Daniela M. 127

All Rise. By Samaree P.

All rise. Oh to my surprise who I finally see today. They been dodging my judgement but I’m glad they are here but I mustn’t let out my cheer. You may take the stand Raise your right hand and swear on the Bible. It is a time of prosperity and the ultimate clarity that we have been wanting, a task no longer daunting. We join hand and hand to celebrate the sacred land. And our accomplishments together a storm we managed to weather. Our blacks and browns and whites commune in such delights Oh we love our United States and are bound graciously to any fate. We appreciate one another especially the brothers. How about the NFL? Rising like the Effiel. How about the MLB? I think it’s clear to see. We are one nation Under God, indivisible and justice for all. May I please the court? I promise to keep this short. 128

I sat listened to lies As my soul cries and ears plead for truth. Stop corrupting the youth! We are not United. And why are you so excited to perpetuate the myth by any herewith. (Please sit back and watch my marvelous attack. They’re gonna plead the fifth and go to their cell of small width). America, how have you progressed? I mean to cause no stress. This is a true question indeed What have you done for the freed? America, weren’t you yearning opportunity? and ultimately a new unity? But then you got here And retreated to the primitive instinct of fear. America, weren’t the Indigenous people and obstacle and steeple? I see the crack of your smile Something to keep on file America, slavery and segregation? You are a damnation. An embarrassment to us all.

Doesn’t it give you gall? The way you treat Americans it’s such a sad display. Not to my dismay, we want you to stay away!

Guilty like we thought. I will not victory trot. This trial is far from finished Not til I leave you diminished. All rise.

America, you want mercy? after all your controversy You plead for your life and the conclusion of this strife. I think not. You need some time. Serve your sentence like the 13th. You don’t know what this is. A laughable offense, but now I just pity. And in which city: Chiraq because it’s a joke Until you choke, lying on the floor broke. Broken because you’ll finally see the divided. You’ll be forced to agree and sign the plea. It is surely weighty. Deliberations have begun not too long before their done because this case is evident though it contains many elements.

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