More Letters for Exhibition

By Breeana

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.

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?

By Ashley L.

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.

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.

By Isha M.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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,

she didn’t look convinced but didn’t press any further. i went home that night and cried myself to sleep. deny.

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.

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

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

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 norAllah 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

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.

By: Alice F.

Love, Me.

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,

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.

By: Sean M.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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,

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;

eyes never meet; GUILT in the greet-

Proceeds 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?

But-

I 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?

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

By Gracie C.

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

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

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.

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.

By Arianna H.

By Carisma W.

“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.

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.

By Kyla H.

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.

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.

“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.

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 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. 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!

America, you want mercy? after all your controversy You plead for your life and the conclusion of this strife. Guilty like we thought. I will not victory trot. This trial is far from finished Not til I leave you diminished.

All rise.

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.