Sunflower on the Wall Sunflower on the Wall Sunflower on the Wall

By: Michael Duong

Am I like the other flowers?

Sitting in the garden

Those bright lilacs

Those effervescent roses

All blooming happily.

I know the world sees me

With bent eyes

Wondering if I truly belong, I know I didn't choose my birthright

Nor did I want any scrutiny.

I'm just like any other flower.

One that wants to bathe in the sunlight

To be adored and loved-

I'm the sunflower on the wall

Smile and I'll bloom

As bright and full as I can

By: Sydney White

rather clumsy and self-critical, tend to lack My divine self, however, knows me: in authenticity, in unity, in entirety It knows that, constantly and incessantly, my body betrays me. It always has.

I remember being five years old. Mom is driving her blue Mazda, crying. I am in a booster seat in the back of the car. We are somewhere in Southampton, having just left a homeschool co-op meeting that I, in a very typical manner, did not participate in. Peering at me in the rearview mirror, mom asks, “Why can’t you just talk?” I can tell she is disappointed, frustrated, with the fact I freeze at the mere thought of being perceived It is not for no reason I have known these people for two years I tell her, “It won’t come out ” It is true My throat gets unbearably tight when I try to speak in public I shake I cry I am physically incapable of making a sound That day, I recall wishing I had a body I could control

Now, I am eleven I am standing behind the safety of my front door, trying to will myself with all my power to just get the damn mail from the mailbox. “It’s probably only twenty steps,” I say to myself. But at the mere thought of those twenty steps, my veins fill with liquid lead. I peek out the window. There is no one there. Yet, the thought of being seen by a passing car or a neighbor is too much to bear. I put my back against the door and slump to the floor.

I am eighteen years old, shopping for groceries in Martin’s in Charles Town I moved back from Thailand and I forgot what it was like to be able to read food labels and understand the music playing through the speakers The cart I push rattles on the tiled floor The wheels squeak loudly and stupidly I hear the chatter of people Too overstimulated, I collapse onto my knees in the natural food aisle. I am dead weight plopped in front of the vegan yogurt in a fetal position. I hyperventilate. Tears bleed down my face. I think to myself, “Why can’t I just function like everyone else?” e 9th floor of Seneca hall. d. I used my voice.) He he does not care. I am thinking to myself that it is my fault. It is my fault for fitting into the hyper-submissive Asian girl stereotype, for seeming meek and demure and being a pushover. It is my fault, my fault. I search for my words. I search for strength to push away Instead, my mind blanks I play dead I am voiceless, stuck, wishing I was detached from my body, wishing I had no body, wishing I had a body that listened to me Most of all, wishing I fought back for all the wrongdoings I put up with from men who did not deserve me

My divine self knows me: in authenticity, in unity, in entirety. It knows my body betrays me. It always has, and it most likely always will. But with this newfound divinity, I will learn to accept myself, my body included.