2022 | Tabula Rasa

TABULA TABULA

RR A A SS A A

2021-2022

BIOBEDROOM Emily Takara,

This piece featured on the cover imagines a futuristic bedroom with objects that combine tradition, technology, and biology–like the floating bonsai tree and the electronic, grown sanshin (a traditional Japanese banjo) instrument. It aims to spark ideas and conversations about how our connection to technology and nature might look in the future and how it can incorporate culture and creativity in uniquely human ways.

COLOPHON

TABULA RASA is set in EB Garamond and Futura typeface. The front and end covers, as well as the title page, features artwork by Emily Takara entitled “BioBedroom”.

The magazine was produced on Adobe InDesign and printed by Folger Graphics, and the pages were designed by Prithi Srinivasan, Samantha Hsiung, Emily Takara, Makena Matula, Sophia Yao, Kathleen Xie, and Anika Nambisan.

SPACE EXPLORER

Emily Takara, 12

Here we are, coming to the end of the first normal year since 2019 –and for many students, the first normal year they have experienced at Pinewood. We have settled into a life no longer confined by quarantine and isolation, and this has given rise to a tremendous degree of creativity among Pinewood students.

This year, Tabula Rasa has received an unprecedented number of submissions, resulting in the longest volume of the magazine to this date. And for each work we have featured in the magazine, many more have been selected to be published on our website, pwtabularasa.org.

The works in the 2022 volume of Tabula Rasa explore themes of setback and growth. From introspective pieces about loss and pain to pieces about overcoming obstacles, this year’s publication reflects the ways in which we as a community – as a world – have begun to change in the aftermath of the pandemic.

The written pieces and artwork serve to illuminate aspects of our lives that we often ignore. This year, we also created a section called “The Jellyfish Archives,” inspired by the creative fascination of many of our artists with the jellyfish.

Thank you to our advisors, Ms. Strand and Mr. Wells, for making this possible, and thank you to the Pinewood community for sharing your stories with us. It is our honor to present them so that each can inspire others to reflect and persevere.

– Prithi Srinivasan, Samantha Hsiung, and the 2021-2022 Tabula Rasa Team

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHINATOWN PT. 2, Samantha Hsiung. . . 7

City of Neon and Rain (Seoul), Emma Hwang. . . 8

BREAKING THE GLASS SCREEN, Adam Fallick. . . 9

Looking Up, Aeron Lo. . . 10

A Dreamy Field, Sania Choudhary. . . 11

Warm Support, Skylar Chui. . . 11

Head in the Storm Clouds, Aeron Lo. . . 13

Blind of the Eye, Skylar Chui. . . 16

MY DARLING, YOU ARE THE OCEAN , Makena Matula. . . 18

Snag Lake at Midnight, Colin Ternus. . . 17

HER MEMORY , Prithi Srinivasan. . . 19

Human + Tech Ties, Emily Takara. . . 22

IT WOULD BE UNFAIR TO SAY HE DOES NOT LOVE , Alex Sheiba. . . 24

Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor, Selina Wang. . . 23

SNOW GLOBE: A PORTAL TO THE PAST, Kathleen Xie. . . 25

Crystal, Makena Matula. . . 26

THE ROOM WITHOUT A WALL, Michael Shtrom. . . 27

Koi Fish, Emma Hwang. . . 28

SOCIETY WHISPERS, Esha Joshi. . . 30

Chocolate Eyes, Selina Wang. . . 29

Arietty’s Room, Emma Hwang. . . 32

A HALL OF CHECKERBOARD AND GLASS , Leo Gray. . . 33

A MINUTE , Rose Xu. . . 35

Disneyland, James Chang. . . 36

Sweet Shop, James Chang. . . 36

FAIRY GIRL, PARTS 1 AND 2, Marley Thornson. . . 37

Nubivagant, Aeron Lo. . . 37

Hypnagogia, Aeron Lo. . . 39

ARE YOU SCARED?, Cindy Lin. . . 42

Self-Portrait, Anika Nambisan. . . 41

Two Ugos, Skylar Chui. . . 44

Guilin Mountains, James Chang. . . 44

MY WORDS IN A RIVER, Prisha Mohapatra. . . 45

Serenity, Skylar Chui. . . 45

DEAR TIME, Josephine Tu. . . 47

Clock, Kathleen Xie. . . 48

The Horologist, Aeron Lo. . . 49

TEENAGE TORMENT, Rachel Farhoudi. . . 51

Glass Fragments, Skylar Chui. . . 52

THE END OF THE WORLD, Josephine Tu. . . 54

Untitled, Cindy Lin. . . 53

THE BIKER, Violet Negrette. . . 55

Looking Towards the Future, Romin Vasishta. . . 55

WHEELCHAIR, Emma Hwang. . . 57

Phases, Selina Wang. . . 58

THE TRAIN, Mitali Vasudevan. . . 59

California Skyline, Romin Vasishta. . . 61

On Top of the World, Romin Vasishta. . . 64

THE MOON, MY COMPASS, Mia Gustavson. . . 65

Eclipse, Emma Hwang. . . 66

AN ERASURE OF THE CHINESE EXCLUSION ACT Samantha Hsiung. . . 67

Honey Bee Tech-Symbiosis, Emily Takara. . . 70

HONEYDEW, Callie Pruitt. . . 72

Pinewood, Romin Vasishta. . . 71

THE ANSWER, Katie Maier. . . 73

BRIDE, Rye Kianpour. . . 77

STRAWBERRY GALETTE, Emma Hwang. . . 78

THE LETTER, Seika Oelschig. . . 79

Arthropod Biotech and Portrait, Emily Takara. . . 82

SARAH & WILL, Sophia Yao. . . 84

THE JELLYFISH ARCHIVES. . . 87

COMPETITIONS. . . 95

CHINATOWN PT.2

By Samantha Hsiung, 11

On June 16th of 2021, a 94-year-old Asian woman was stabbed by a man while on her way to a grocery store in San Francisco.

baba / look / at the sky / tonight / there are more stars than / I have ever seen / don’t you know that / stars are / the spirits of those that have / unbirthed themselves / meaning that / the sky is full of / souls that have reincarnated as light / as holes in the darkness / baba / look / at this city / isn’t san francisco / so gorgeous? / everywhere / there are / paper birds sewn into air / metal dragons perched on rooftops / weeds blooming through the asphalt & concrete & city streets & last night I / tiptoed / to the grocery store / to buy some nectared carambola / afraid you would catch me / if I made a sound / but instead / it was death who caught / an old woman / because / there she was / in the corner / being stabbed / by / a / man / & / his / kitchen knife / & when he was done / her exit wound leaked / like a melting sun / & all its stars / listen, baba: this city is no longer gorgeous so I will torch it with all the stars that have not died & watch the buildings dress themselves in flames & after I’m done we will dance together in the moonlight until the moon drowns in its own glow & after everything has become ash we will look at san francisco again & it will be so / much / more / gorgeous

This piece won an honorable mention in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, an honorable mention in the Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald Museum’s Literary Contest, and was a semifinalist in the 2021 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize.

BREAKING THE GLASS SCREEN

By Adam Fallick, 11

Agave americana, also known as the century plant, can live up to 80 years. For the majority of its lifespan, it lives as an indistinguishable succulent like many of its flora familiars. After 10 years of quietly mustering up all the energy it has, it blooms. The once indistinct plant propels a massive, bright stalk out of the middle of its luscious green leaves. Beautiful yellow flowers bloom out of branches on the stalk, shining as bright as the sun as they complement the beauty of the skyscraper species. It towers over the world, seemingly unstoppable in its growth and beauty. In an instance, after a long life of living on the ground, amongst the rest of the plants and animals, the succulent grows into a striking, magnificent exhibit in the museum of nature.

I grabbed my suitcase and lugged it out of the warm, humid dorm room on the first floor at Fenway. In the common room, I waited for Nic. I couldn’t stomach the idea of saying goodbye to him. I had never known anyone like Nic. I had never had a friendship like the one I shared with Nic. I had never been as intimate with someone as I had been with Nic. And what was it all for? Was he just going to go away and forget that I ever even existed? Would he think of me once in a while and then just forget about me again? Was I really just a fleeting stitch in the tapestry of his life, bound to be unwoven, brushed aside, never seen again?

Nic came out of the room with his suitcase and bedding all in a bundle. For a moment, everything was still. We just looked at each other. My eyes welled up with tears. I fought the irresistible urge to cry. It was all over. Everything we had built together. Gone. Forever.

Staring into his deep brown eyes, I saw everything from Boston Conservatory flash before me like it was all happening again. In his eyes was the musical meisner class where we continuously pushed the boundaries of scenework and partnership in duets. In his eyes was the improv class, where we learned how to transform ourselves without the support of a script in our hands, backed by strictly our psyche and each other. In his eyes was the chilly performance hall that we all cramped into for our final demonstration, the culmination of everything we had

learned. In his eyes were all the moments that I would never experience again.

He took a step closer to me, and the picture became even clearer, like a polaroid after it has had a couple seconds to develop. The polaroid had been indistinguishable from a blank slate before, but now his chestnut irises invited me welcomingly to see beyond the surface of the past three weeks.

In his eyes I felt my chest ache as my friends and I roared with insurmountable amounts of laughter, the world disappearing around us. In his eyes I felt my chest tighten and the walls close in on me as I prepared to sing for the first time on the first day. In his eyes I felt my throat tighten and felt beads of sweat gathering on the back of my neck as I went to meet my roommates for the first time, unaware that I was about to meet the most meaningful person in my life. And there he was. Standing in the exact same spot that I met him. His eyes whispered to me softly that it was going to be okay.

We took a deep breath and mutually masked ourselves with facades of joy. In my head, I could see a stupid billboard that read:

A DREAMY FIELD Sania Choudhary, 12

WARM SUPPORT

Skylar Chui, 11

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

We went outside and were greeted by Hope, Sarah, and Nic’s mom. Nic might have been leaving, but I still had a couple hours with everyone else. After taking pictures with the three of us, Nic realized he had left his toothbrush inside. He went inside to grab it quickly, and I followed behind him.

I waited for him in the hallway, fighting the urge to give into the growing pit in my stomach and bawl my eyes out. He came down the stairs, and as I hugged and kissed him for what would be the last time, I completely submitted myself to his warm scent. The silence pierced my ears as I felt his arms close around my body like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Enveloped within his arms, my throat plummeted to my stomach as I realized that this would be the last time I would ever be in his arms. I had spent the last nights tangled up with him, and nothing had ever made me happier. This was the last time I would ever feel the warmth of his touch, and I couldn’t let it go to waste. I squeezed him a bit tighter.

As we intertwined in the barren, empty common room, devoid of all the people it once knew, all I could think about was what Nic said during the first week of the program. It felt like years ago.

“People smell good to each other when their immune systems are compatible.”

I know. It’s absolutely ridiculous. When he first said that, I laughed so hard that I couldn’t breathe. It was the stupidest thing I thought I had ever heard. But in that moment, knowing it was the last time I would ever take in his scent, I thought maybe he was right.

For my entire adolescence, I always believed that I would watch my friends and their romantic endeavors from a distance, an unmoving glass screen separating me from the life of love I would long for endlessly. But now, as I felt his warm, slender fingers brush through my soft, chocolate brown hair, I felt the glass screen shatter right before my very eyes. This was it. This was all I had ever wanted. I would’ve lived in this moment forever if I could’ve. But I couldn’t. And then, as suddenly as he had come into my life, he had disappeared from it.

Standing alone in the hallway, my heart begged me to follow him wherever he went, but my grief and loss paralyzed me on the cold

hardwood floor. Warm tears cascaded down my soft skin as I stared at the door at the end of the hallway. I had never felt more alone in my life.

The sight of my room when I got home brought forth a visceral reaction of normalcy, and it felt like everything was clicking back into place. I was ready to come home. Finally, I took a deep breath, and it felt like I was breathing out Boston. I was ready to come back home, but I would never forget the lessons that I had learned during my time there.

HEAD IN THE STORM CLOUDS Aeron Lo, 11

I unpacked my bedding and remade my queen-sized bed. Climbing under the soft covers, I felt ready to be home, finally. I rolled over onto my pillow and there it was again. Nic’s scent radiated from the pillow, and I was immediately brought back to Boston. Tears filled my eyes, which were shut tight as they wandered back to the weeks past. I felt everything again as if my pillow was a conduit directly to the past. I heard Hope’s guitar playing as we all sang “Slow Burn.” I saw Elizabeth running toward me as fast as she could outside her dorm so we could walk to class together. I tasted the sugar cookies that all of us would devour every night after dinner. I felt Sarah’s tight embrace as she hugged me as if she would never let go.

Most of all, I felt Nic. I didn’t see him. I didn’t hear him. I didn’t smell him. I just felt him. I felt the way his thoughts aligned with mine in perfect harmony, our bound souls permeating the silence of my dorm room as we lay in the dark. I felt the way my heart skipped a beat every time he came around the corner, a wide grin painted across his visage. I felt the way my heart seemed to beat slower and slower as time stopped during our last kiss.

I slowly fell asleep as these endless sensations permeated my mind and body, and I knew that those three weeks would forever be imprinted on my soul.

After the century plant culminates in its beautiful bloom, it lives for a short while before it shrivels up and dies. It has its moment in the spotlight of the natural world for the blink of an eye, and then it is gone. Its flowers, once thriving in their sunlit, yellow beauty, shrivel up and fall to the ground. Its massive stalk, once towering over the world in its stardom, shrinks down and breathes its last breath. The agave lives its short-lived instance of fantasticism and individuality only for it to die and be forgotten.

My entire life has felt like seeds slowly being planted, slowly coming together to bloom into everything that I got to experience at Boston Conservatory. All of it, from the people, to the classes, to the happiness, to the hardships - it all bloomed directly from my previous experiences in theater and the arts. It bloomed from the myriad difficulties I had learned to endure and overcome in my childhood. It bloomed from my constant longing for the same relationships I got to watch my friends live in from behind the glass screen, which had

begun to fog up from getting increasingly closer to it with desire. For my entire life, I had filled my tool belt with a vast array of artistic, educational, and social skills that I was able to bring out in Boston. After those three weeks of paradise, I plummeted. I felt like there was no point in going on.

After that meaningful of an experience, why should I have to go back home? I felt utterly hopeless, as if I had hit rock bottom. But I hadn’t.

In its death, the century plant leaves behind tiny seeds that are not noticeable at first. However, after a long time, these seeds bloom yet again and form a vast array of plants, including more century plants themselves. The century plant that passed on transforms itself into endless amounts of radiant, stunning flowers that form an amalgamation of nature’s beauty, even bigger than the century plant itself.

Now that I am home, I am already taking huge steps in order to rebuild everything that culminated in Boston, and after high school, I get to do it all again in college, and after college, forever. I thought that Boston was the peak of me. I thought that I would never reach the level of happiness that I reached there. I thought that I had left a part of me behind there that made me who I am.

But I didn’t. That part of myself has stuck with me and helped me grow, and now, it’s planting all of the seeds that will eventually usher in a new part of my life. A part of my life that will be even larger than Boston. I thought that I died, but in that moment, infinite amounts of seeds were already beginning to cultivate beneath my very feet, and when I least expect it, they will bloom, and my life will be everything I have ever wanted it to be. Now that I know this, I will be ready for spring whenever it may come.

BLIND OF THE EYE

Skylar Chui, 11

MY DARLING, YOU ARE THE OCEAN

By Makena Matula, 10

My darling, you scare me. The ocean is deep

And I don’t know where the bottom is. I want to jump in after you. But once I hit the water

How far down will I sink?

My love,

Does your heart beat to the crashing of the waves?

The heart that is hidden under the warm skin of your chest? The chest that was hand sculpted by the Mother And her delicate, gentle fingertips.

Darling tell me

Did she make your hair from the sand

And twirl its soft strands into waves like the tides to and fro?

The wind blows through it like the kelp forests in the sea

Swaying gently to the current.

Your presence is dizzying

My darling, I’m afraid that I’m going to faint. I’m scared.

Will you take my hand and walk me into the cold waters off the coast? And keep me warm as the heat seeps out of my fragile skin?

Will you look out into the ocean-ous abyss with me?

Y’know, it really reminds me of you. It terrifies me.

And yet I want to dive into it and let its waters envelope me as I explore every corner of it and make it my home.

HER MEMORY

By Prithi Srinivasan, 12

“Our memories are not the impartial accumulation of every second we’ve lived; they’re the narrative that we assembled out of selected moments.” - Ted Chiang, “The Truth of Fact, The Truth of Feeling”

If you were to ask her about a notable experience in her life, she would likely reference the time that she, in her words “almost died as a young child.” You would pause briefly, morbidly intrigued, and she, knowing that she has caught your attention, would launch into a heavily embellished tale—something decidedly untrue, yet believable enough. Of course, this recollection was built upon some basic facts: four memories, which were undeniably imprinted in her mind. She could see herself pulling on her socks and shoes by the doorstep, then stepping out onto the road, then wandering off a little, and then she was back home, swiping a toy race car made out of half a zucchini and four wooden wheels across the matted carpet. The rest of the narrative, particularly the “almost dying” part, had been gradually compiled like meat packed on the bones of the four “facts” as she grew older and the rest of her memories slowly faded away.

Almost always, she began by setting the scene: It was a Saturday (Friday? Sunday?), mid-afternoon. Her mother had driven her to the suburbs, where the rows and rows of white and whiter houses looked nothing like the buildings down Shattuck Avenue (or so she assumed). She had knocked on the door of one of the white houses (it had to have been white) with a small present in hand, and entered, setting the present aside to wish a “very happy birthday” to a little boy sitting at the foot of the stairs (His name had to have been Sam, or perhaps Luke).

As soon as she had given the boy (Sam? Luke?) an awkward hug (or perhaps not), his mother had appeared to tell everyone that the children were going to be building race cars in the backyard. At least, that had to have been what happened, or else the girl wouldn’t remember playing with a little half-zucchini wooden contraption when she returned to her own living room that night.

At that point, the girl was able to directly refer to one of her four “facts” as she narrated her memory.

Upon hearing that the children would be going outside, the girl had undoubtedly walked to the door to find her shoes and socks. She had sat down on the ledge before the door and tugged on her socks, struggling to pull them over her feet. Then, she started on the shoes. By that point, most of the other children had already migrated to the backyard, but she was still fiddling with the velcro, trying to make her shoes fit. Giving up, she trudged along in her too-big shoes, looking for a way to get to the backyard.

The second “fact” melts seamlessly into the first. Instead of stepping to the left of the house, where the backyard was, she took a right and stepped out into the road instead. She crossed the street, looking left, then right, as she had been taught, then continued on forward. Then, the third “fact” comes into play. She wandered aimlessly, losing herself among the white (white?) houses and green lawns that seemed to go on for miles and miles.

At this point, the tenuous connection between her story and the four “facts” seems to melt away entirely. For how else could someone go from being lost in the suburbs to experiencing the kiss of Death himself? Even she didn’t know the answer to that. She reasoned with herself, it must have been scary to be lost and alone as a young child. She must have managed to wander miles away from where she had come, pushed and pulled at every turn by sinister forces. Perhaps there had been an unsavory character looming in the distance, perhaps a car had come barrelling down towards her. In any case, she maintained that she had nearly died, every time she told this story. And in spite of Death’s arms rapidly closing around her, she, ever the courageous young child, had managed to find her way back to the house she had come from, relying only on her own wits and bravery. At least, that sounded pretty good, didn’t it? And not too implausible, given that she was absolutely certain that she had been lost in the street, with no one to help her? The more she got it into her head that that was what happened, the better it sounded and the surer she became.

If you were to ask her mother for a second opinion, you would likely hear a drastically different version of the story after what had been established by the third “fact.” The girl had really only wandered down a couple of blocks, and she had been found, sobbing in the middle of the street, by two Hare Krishnas who had been startled by the

child’s tears. They had led her back down the street where her mother and two other parents had been standing, and they had deposited the crying child with not a single scratch on her body. But this is not one of the girl’s “facts,” this is not something that she remembers, so she chooses to leave it out of her narrative entirely. What remains is the fourth “fact.” She must have gone directly to the backyard after making it back to Sam’s (Luke’s?) house to put together the little zucchini car that she remembers rolling around on her living room carpet, so she puts that into the tale as well. Often, when telling the story, she will even pull out her phone to show the listeners a grainy image of a half-zucchini with four wooden wheels pinned to the sides. The reaction she receives is usually a sharp laugh. You almost died, but the priority is a zucchini car? She laughs along with them, but thinks to herself, well, of course—it’s one of the only things in this jigsaw puzzle of a story that I can prove is real.

NOCTURNE IN C-SHARP MINOR

Selina Wang, 9

IT WOULD BE UNFAIR TO SAY HE DOES NOT LOVE

By Alex Sheiba, 11

It would be unfair to say he does not love. To say he will forget, to say the tenderness that filled his voice and spilt from gentle lips like wine, Will slowly fade like sunlight flees at dusk, gold rays of warmth, replaced by shade, leaving the earth cold and lonely.

It would be unfair, because he loves so deeply that even his immortal soul strains to bear the pain of his burning heart. For who would choose to live forever knowing those you loved and those you still have yet to love will pass and slip from your grasp into the iron grip of Thanatos? to know that even as a god you can not save them? Instead, we say he loves each deeply. He loves each like a flame loves nature, He is consuming and inescapable and destructive. But he is warm and kind and beautiful and his love makes others whole and holy.

His odes and songs never repeat, eternally flowing and changing with the lovers they are meant to worship. How would the very sun itself show his affection? Much like the star which we measure our lives by, Perhaps his love is scathing, hot enough for Daphne to pray her form away into a laurel, Perhaps it’s soothing, tenderly holding Hyacinthus as he bleeds, transforming him into a flower so that his story shall live in his place. It would be unfair to say he does not love, for his love is piercing and transcendent like the sun, and like the sun, as time crawls on, it will give way to night.

SNOW GLOBE: A PORTAL TO THE PAST

By Kathleen Xie, 9

Dear snow globe,

When I take you out of the dark depths of my cabinet And look at your mini version of the Great Wall Encased inside a small circular ball, I see my six-year-old self Standing on the stone sidewalks

Staring up in awe at The Great Wall of China. I remember its old grey stones

Carefully built on top of each other I remember its twists and turns

Like a serpent on top of the lush emerald green hills.

When I shake you now, And look at the hundreds of tiny glitter snowflakes floating around Glistening as they revolve around your mini Great Wall, All of my buried memories come dancing in my head

Like the ornate horses prancing around in carousel rides. I can see my six-year old self United with my whole family. Back then, my grandparents were still alive Their old, wise energy sprinkling lavender petals onto us. I remember begging my grandpa to tell me More riddles and more stories. His wrinkled smile and smooth voice echo in my head. That day we walked a long journey together, Navigating through the constellations of The Great Wall of China.

When I place you in my palm now, I can see myself in the reflection of your glass, Standing beside the people I love Though no longer here. I’m holding a fragile globe Which can be shattered, Or preserved.

THE ROOM MISSING A WALL

By Michael Shtrom, 9

At first, all was dark, the people in the room anticipated what came next. The walls released the grip they had on me in the tight corridor and flowed out to form a room the size of a three-story building. Chattering of the others in the room flooded my ears. Silhouettes of onlookers ranged for miles like forests. One wall of the room was non-existent, replaced instead by a massive tank. Filled to the brim with sea water, it hosted various forms of sea life. Within its authoritative walls, anchovies swam in formation through the water, forming within it a sheet of silk that floats in the water, to the awe of the spectators. The water from the exhibit illuminated the room in blue light. My muffled steps sounded as I began to walk toward the exhibit. Carpet, coarse and stained, comprised the floor of the room. A faint scent of ocean water pierced the otherwise stale air. I began to sprint to the glass wall and grabbed my sister’s wrist so as to pull her along with me. I pressed my nose and hands against the frigid, glossy glass wall. Behind it roamed a manta ray, propelling itself through the vicinity with its fins and body, proudly displaying his tail for all to see. Hammerhead sharks punctured the silk sheet floating within the tank, which then repaired itself. A sunfish floated placidly as though in slow motion. Schools of tuna dashed through the water. My fingerprints remained on the glass as I pulled my hands away, a testament to my amazement, but I could not bring myself to care, for I wanted to explore the other parts of the room. Along the walls hung screens that offer information about each of the sea creatures. My sister and I ran back to the entrance and up a narrow staircase beside it, which led to a balcony that protruded from the wall. From this balcony, we could see the entire tank and the people below. Hardly waiting for our parents, we speedily hurried to a bench and sat upon it. Made of wood and steel, its primitive design did not distract us. Although it was the most unyielding and rigid of benches, we paid no mind to it and, instead, continued to observe the tank. My parents made their way to the top of the stairs and joined us on the bench. Their arms reached around us and held us in an embrace. Together, we stared down at the tank in awe.

CHOCOLATE EYES

Selina Wang, 9

SOCIETY WHISPERS

By Esha Joshi, 8

You stand in your room, staring at yourself in the mirror. But you’re not alone, not really.

It glides behind you, silently, and its thin fingers cling to your shoulders. Its sharp nails dig into your skin, holding you in place, forcing your gaze forward.

It leans close to you, its stale breath brushing against your ear. And Society whispers.

It breathes words into your mind, as delicate as a ladybug on a dewy blade of grass. The tendrils of invisible poison weave through your thoughts, staining your mind, staining your memories, staining your heart.

It draws a gauzy, ghostly veil over your eyes, and suddenly everything you see is discolored by a critical glare. Your image ripples in front of you, reality warping into nothingness and then folding out again. Society hangs on to you by invisible but unbreakable threads, manipulating you like a ragged marionette. You spin in its deftly moving hands, and your heart turns inside out, upside down, the right way up again—but what is right anymore?

You scrutinize your way through its screen, your nose that flares out too much, your eyes that are just a little too close together, your lips that are just too thin, your limp hair that falls listlessly against your shoulders.

I used to like my hair, you muse, strangely upset, strangely hurt, and for just a second the veil is torn, because why shouldn’t you like your hair?

But then Society murmurs to you, its voice like elegant, rippling silk, its lips against your ear so it’s all you can hear, and it tells you the truth—it is the truth, right?—that you’re ugly and broken and just not enough.

It takes your hands with those invisible strings and wraps them around yourself, so you don’t have to look at how your shoulders are too broad, or how your chest is too flat, or how your stomach isn’t flat enough. Your fingers weave into the thick knitted fabric of your over-

And yet, the attempt to hide yourself and to protect yourself under enormous sweaters and loose sweatpants isn’t enough, not for it. The harsh self-criticism and the utter loathing you feel when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror aren’t enough, not for it.

Society whispers, and its voice merges with your own, melts into your thoughts, sears criticism into your brain. It spins you tapestries of ugliness, of unworthiness, of shame, and it breathes “you’re not enough” into your brain so quietly that the words become your own. I’m not enough.

And then your eyes fill with burning tears, a mangled mixture of grief and hate, and you battle to rip your eyes away from yourself. But in its hands, you are helpless, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the mirror, from the reflective back of a spoon, from the water. It seizes you with its murmurs, paralyzes you with its taunts, and the claws digging into your shoulders may not be real but they leave bloody scars all the same.

Society whispers, but it doesn’t yell. Its words creep into your mind on tiptoe, bare feet hushed against carpet. They worm their way into your soul, slowly entwining a now rotten core, and you’re numb right now, so numb, as you stare into the mirror at yourself.

Society whispers to you, day and night, in the morning when you’re scrutinizing yourself for imperfections as you try to remember those tips to make your body look slimmer, in the night when you apply cream after cream to your acne-ridden face and let chemical tears drip off your chin when they’re not your silver bullet. It whispers to you and whispers to you and whispers to you until it becomes part of you. Until it becomes you. Until you become it.

And then you find yourself standing in your room, staring at yourself in the mirror, once more.

And you think you’re alone. But you’re not, not really.

A HALL OF CHECKERBOARD AND GLASS

By Leo Gray, 9

I walk forward through the hall, a hall of lights and glass and checkerboard walls, but it’s not forward, not in this hall. I think I move forward, but it seems the room has changed, the direction I thought I was going, reversed, rearranged.

I step back. Back down to where I came from. Back through a hallway of illusion I’ve walked so many times, with checkerboard walls and lights of colors my eyes can’t even find, thinking this time will be different. I step down stairs I didn’t even know were there, I look around and try to find where, where I am now. I thought I stepped forward but in reality I stepped back, is this reality, is this a setback?

Whatever, I keep walking. Walking down the hall of checkerboard and blinding lights, because I know if I can just leave there are so many sights, sights I wish to see. But instead I step down when I want to step up, forward when I want to give up, backwards when I finally feel I can almost live up. Live up to what I want to be. To what I want to feel. To whom I want to see, in the mirror, before me.

The mirror at the end of the hall. I stare in and might I finally see, myself, my reflection, staring back at me, but not today it seems.

Instead, the mirror shatters the pieces clatter the image scatters

I walk back through the hall, away from mirrors and reflections, and up the stairs. I know through these walls of checkerboard and glass I get so many stares, And I know I should try not to care. But it’s hard.

Hard when the stares are the only thing keeping me from climbing the stairs out,

Out of the hall of checkerboard and glass, out of smoke and ash, away from a broken past. But instead I’m back.

I find the mirror again through this maze of complication. But all I see there is a reflection, a reflection of shattered glass.

Shattered glass that pierces through me, cuts me, tears me down. Yet in the shattered glass, there is only one thing I will ever really see. My own reflection staring back at me.

A MINUTE

By Rose Xu, 9

Every sixty seconds, Another minute passes. The rhythmic ticking of the clock Can be heard resonating Throughout the classroom, Throughout the hallways, And throughout the world. Watching the hands of the clock shift from number to number, Time is still passing. Everyone is a ticking clock, Just waiting until their clocks expire. Time will never stop. Every sixty seconds, You blink, You breath, But you want to do much more. Every sixty seconds, A clock expires, But a new clock begins to tick as well. Every minute is a chance, and everyone has millions of minutes. That’s millions of chances.

FAIRY GIRL (PT.1)

By Marley Thornson, 9

The only light around Shines through my window blinds. The sun’s golden rays are Dulled by the cloth, Casting a warm glow around my room. The midday heat is floating, Filling the area, Creating a hazy feeling all over. Here I am, In the peace of home, Sitting on the floor, In nothing but my undergarments And low hanging plaid pajama pants. Ignoring the duties of life, I spend time Looking through a window To another existence. And no matter how many times I look I know that Right in front of me Will be a fairy, Calmly posed in A reflection of my sitting posture. I see her through A plastic portal, Made by my fifteen dollar target mirror. Tall and thin, With a white border, Covered with lip stains that Crawl up the sides like vines. Fairy dust left behind in Heart shaped marks Made of drug store lipstick.

This magic portal Hangs from my door. And I know that Each time I glance at it, It’s an invitation To see this beautiful, Magical, Fairy girl.

FAIRY GIRL (PT.2)

By Marley Thornson, 9

I stare at the person Across from me. They look Like something from A child’s dreams. Before the expectations Got to us.

This creature has A round face

With chubby cheeks, Uneven doe eyes

One crinkling up more than the other, Cheeks splattered with acne Red dotted all over, A crooked widows peak, Messy side part, And pointy ears Sticking out the side.

She looks magical.

Her beauty shines at me Through the portal. This fairy Smirks back at me, A lopsided smile

Showing off A one sided dimple.

I’m enamored At the magic. And I can’t help

But stare at her As she shifts around, Poses in different ways, Watching as her skin shifts. Different angles showing Different ways her body Can roll and fold. No matter what Others might say. What I may think, On the days Expectations get to me. When I come And sit down In front of this mirror. This beautiful, Magical, Fairy Girl. Will always look back.

ARE YOU SCARED?

By Cindy Lin, 9

“Are you scared?”

The shadows shifted imperceptibly behind her eyes. “You won’t hide, will you?”

“I… wish I could.”

Her spoon clinked sharply against the chinaware. The tea stains stood starkly against the white tablecloth.

“But, you’ll help me won’t you?” They wrung a napkin in their hands.

“With what?”

“We’ve been talking about it this whole time…” their voice trailed off as they stopped, confused.

“Are you hurt? Are you scared?”

“N-no… I mean, somewhat—”

“And that’s not enough. We live in a place where only a precious, exemplary few have the right to live comfortably. We might have the money to buy that, but that’s where the privilege ends. Are you scared?”

“That I’ll be harmed? Yes!”

“Are you in danger?”

Desperation and exasperation vied for room in their stomach, and threatened to make them hurl. “Yes! Every day! On campus or when I’m in public places, I am constantly in danger of being beaten, simply for brushing shoulders in the hallway or using the wrong honorifics when addressing someone!”

“Will you die?”

“…no.”

“Then, that’s not enough. If you want help, you’ll have to file a complaint. If you want to file a complaint to the administration, you’ll have to first appeal to the counsel. If you want to appeal to the counsel, you’ll have to reserve a time. If you want to reserve a time, you have to find your department head. And reserve a time with them with their

secretary and so on. Assume you meet the administration. What have you—worthless, penniless, and statusless—to offer them? When the very people who you claim do you harm are the very ones they endorse?”

Stunned silence swelled to fill the room. As they stared into her eyes, black marbles of bleak dreariness, they saw nothing. No compassion. No intolerance. Nothing but that unyielding need for order. “You said… you would… help me…?”

“I am helping. There is nothing to be changed. The system will not change—our behaviors dictate so. I heard you were fond of classical texts. Have you read Plato? He stated that the truest form of morality is to follow the path laid for you by society, to do your job. Maybe, for some, playing the villain is their given role. For others,” her eyes bored across the table, “their job is to be the victim.”

MY WORDS IN A RIVER

By Prisha Mohapatra, 9

words were my enemy. rippling into the air and attacking those around me. words were my enemy. when there was too much to bear that no one else could see.

i threw them around as if words had no weight. and watched them sink to the river’s ground. deeper and deeper in this feat, but disappearing in a blink.

one day, one bounced back in return. blew me aback, dragging me back down with it. words, i felt the burn of the smack, of the hit.

i learned from my mistakes, the ripple that ruined. and kept words to myself to survive. my pen wrote down the aches and i felt the gusts of wind that kept the river alive.

i found solace in my words. i picked the right ones instead of the agonizing lies i found a friend in my words. they once were my enemies and are now my life.

Dear Time,

DEAR TIME

By Josephine Tu, 9

Mom always said you were not to be wasted.

Because time is unreplenishable, she said, and therefore precious. In her eyes, money, water, and plastic bags were all secondary to you— wasting them made lesser sins than wasting you. How does it feel to know that you’re priceless?

When I was four, the world was infinite, and the grains of sand in my hourglass could fill a desert. We were but casual acquaintances, so I strolled through life, unhurried, carefree. My only fears were falling into bottomless heating ducts in the floor and the dark.

When I was nine, my sand made up a beach so long I couldn’t see its end. You were erratic and capricious— hours got pulled and compressed like toy slinkies.

I thought, maybe you had forgotten, so I hurried or stalled or got off task to fill in the gaps of your memory.

Years passed and blurred like water stained pages. When I was thirteen, I realized that the desert I thought I saw was really only a slowly shrinking playground sandbox. A mirage.

I realized that grains of sand are small and insignificant, but they fall fast and get lost in the pitch dark abyss forever. It was my childhood fears all over again. They had merged and reincarnated.

I realized that you are not forgetful or lenient, but merciless and unforgiving.

CLOCK Kathleen Xie, 9

Those who do not pay attention to you get crushed under your iron fist.

Your betrayal hurt.

Even now, at fourteen, it’s still the same. Sometimes, I and the many others in my now finite world have pounding heads and bloodshot eyes and hollow chests. Our eyelids sag when we do.

It was the summer of 2021 that I realized your beauty.

THE HOROLOGIST Aeron Lo, 11

Thank you for painting the sky. For the flames of dawn and the embers of dusk. For the dark wash denim of midnights and the million shades between kingfisher and forget-me-not of noon.

Thank you for the change you bring every season, for trees with leafless limbs, branches bowing with fruit, or citrus colored leaves. For glistening snow and brilliant sunshine, for the bitter cold and the blistering hot, and everything in between.

Thank you for teaching me that special moments, however fleeting, age like wine and cheese and cured meat, that they grow sourer and sweeter and bitterer as you go on.

I know that my hourglass will eventually run out. But I also know there is beauty in the evanescent, that those that burn out quickly burn the brightest. Thank you for everything you gave me. I will forever (or at least until my time is up) be grateful.

TEENAGE TORMENT

By Rachel Farhoudi, 11

I stare at the fluorescent, blue light. The notifications dance atop my screen, a thoroughly rehearsed performance.

I check my feed and silently spectate, comparing myself as girls hurtle across my screen. In anguish I choke down their beauty. I digest it and begin to belittle myself. Does their beauty invalidate mine?

Tentatively I move towards my mirror. Empty eyes stare back. My gaze moves down.

Suddenly my curves appear wider. My face feels distorted and every imperfection plunges out to strangle me.

A sandstorm begins to spiral, sending chalky powder up my throat to choke me.

It increases and sets fire to my insides. My perception becomes blurry .

Do other people view these posts and compare me in this same manner?

Suddenly I’m hyper focused. I evaluate myself and make note of my best angles. Maybe if I look like this, talk like this, act like this, their cocked heads won’t feel direct. But then I feel a tap on my shoulder and a small squeeze at my heart. I remember the words of those around me, “We love you as you are.”

Suddenly the anonymous voice isn’t so loud. The trickling slows

In a swift motion the faucet of self loathing, once urgent and fierce, is now merely a small leak. My thoughts feel concentrated, controlled.

I turn from the mirror and remove my hands from my waist. Trying to dilute the previous feelings with these new, happier ones

GLASS FRAGMENTS

Skylar Chui, 11

UNTITLED

Cindy Lin, 9

THE END OF THE WORLD

By Josephine Tu, 9

i. at first it was a firefly a spark that flashed blindingly glimmering in the dark but before it died it descended upon the floor and i saw the flames of the fire flicker witnessed the world blaze up into an inferno

ii.

When the world ended, the sky was a dusty yellow that sighed in exhaustion, puffing fumes of smoke from its cigarette-burnt lungs.

The end of the world was quiet. And there was confetti in the air the color of graphite smudged paper that disintegrated to wisps in the wind.

The end of the world looked like a rewinded video of falling snowflakes

Everything turned to ash and disintegrated in the wind to dust

THE BIKER

By Violet Negrette, 9

It’s just a biker

On a desolate street

In a night cast in shadow

Wheels slowly turning

The amber haze

Drawing my eyes

And highlighting the newcomer

They say nothing

As the disks churn on and on

On the thick cobblestone

A river rushes to the right, Waves silent and enduring

The biker doesn’t turn their head

Doesn’t even glance

I stare open mouthed at the nonchalance

The enigmatic biker continues their course; A straight arrow to the end of the road

They turn off the path

And out of my life

It’s just a biker

Then why do I Iong for that freedom

WHEELCHAIR

By Emma Hwang, 10

Who would’ve thought that man’s greatest invention the “wheel” made to introduce Speed Mobility Freedom could be so

Binding

Jailing

Shameful

Asking for an elevator because I can’t take the stairs like everyone else can.

Meekly raising my hand in a sea of students only to be called on first because my teachers thought I could use the attention.

Overhearing students gossip about how I vanished for a month and then came back like this

Terrified, because one day perhaps no one would be willing to push me forward

time, hoping that I wouldn’t scar from the searing stabs of their Stolen glances

Evading eyes

Sharp whispers

Legs thinning, muscles eroding, I couldn’t run away from the nightmare I was sitting on.

You begin to notice Everything that you used to do to others When you’re in a wheelchair.

I wanted to be alone most of the

PHASES

Selina Wang, 9

THE TRAIN

By Mitali Vasudevan, 11

No feelings of anxiety and dread can quite compare to those that devour me when at a train station. The anxiety does not stem from the thought of being on the train itself. It is not from the crowds and demanding social situations, not even from the germs and critters that reside on the floor. It is more than just the cold, unwelcoming air filled with cigarette smoke and old booze that exemplify the feelings of unfamiliarity. The uneasiness coursing through my veins as I picture sitting in the station is not brought on by the putrid scent or deafening noises. It is instead attributed to an irrational fear that has repelled me from trains for years. It is a dread for the mere hypothetical situation that the train will fill with people and close its doors, cruising leisurely away and leaving me behind. I imagine myself standing, watching the train that was supposed to transport me like a warm and welcoming cocoon, drift into the distance like a missed opportunity. I would be left on the platform, alone, abandoned, and on the outside - as if watching my life pass by without living it.

This image stains my mind as I sit in my eighth grade Spanish class, conjugating the word viajar - to travel. The word triggers my unjustifiable fear of being deserted at a train station and leaves the feelings of agitation and abandonment in my heart for the rest of the day. Students itch to be let out for lunch, staring at the seconds hand of the clock while the teacher rattles on in a language that our brains are too tired to process. Two girls next to me whisper a joke and fill the surrounding air with giggles. I want to laugh with them, but not only are they speaking too quietly for it to be audible, I can also tell they are sharing an inside joke that I have no place in. I unknowingly stare at them in frustration - desperately trying to understand what could possibly be so funny at 11:05 on a Tuesday. Their laughter is a piercing cry that will not fade, an explosive volcano pulsating, and a reminder that I am on the outside. Their laughter is the train that leaves without me.

The bell rings as if signaling the start of a race, sending everyone leaping out of their seats and into the plethora of hungry and socially deprived students. I am stopped at the beginning of this race as if waiting for someone to carry me to the finish line, as the silence of the sec-

ond period is broken by the bustling noises of lunchtime. I walk out of Room 11 listening to a hundred simultaneous conversations I am not a part of. I hear the thumping of rollie backpacks and the scraping of shoes across the pavement, accompanied by aromas of pasta drifting through the air. For most, lunch is a breath of fresh air contrasting the toxicity of a grim and dreary classroom, and a jailbreak from the prison that is school . For me it is the prison. I had been at my new school for a month, and the reassuring “it’ll get better” that my parents ingrained into my head from the start of the year was proving to be incorrect. Rather than getting better it merely became stale. I drag my feet across the concrete of the buzzing walkway. Picking each foot up feels like a chore, and I’m focused on only my shoes. I notice that the white exterior of my Adidas now comes off dusty beige, and the rips in the logo indicate at least a year - maybe two - of daily wear. I had been wearing these shoes for only a few months, and I found it uncanny how decayed they appeared already. In a rabbit hole of thoughts regarding shoes, I am oblivious to the lunchline quickly progressing in front of me. The man serving lunch offers me soup, but I decline. The buttered pasta I choose instead wades in a small puddle of grease on my plate. I stick to what I know, and what I know is the mundanity of buttered pasta that is so effortlessly average, and has not even the slightest potential for disappointment. Buttered pasta is safe, and welcoming, contrasting the intensity of hot, spicy soup. I set myself up for mediocrity - so frightened of everything new that I let the old become excruciatingly repetitious. Buttered pasta couldn’t have come at a better time.

My two friends, whom I spent all lunches with, were home sick with the flu. This left me to fend for myself in the jungle that is middle school. The thought that this could be an opportunity to branch out and abandon the typicality of my regular school day enters my mind, but exits soon after. I was still the “new” kid a month in, and the campus felt too foreign to experiment on. Trapped in a life of buttered pasta, I decide that the unfamiliar people are destined to stay unfamiliar. Basketballs crash against the ground over and over, thumping rhymically like a drum beat.The stifled chatter of students plays in my head as I stroll down to the grassy area, packed with seated eighth graders sipping soup. I had hoped that upon approaching people eating, the courage to make a new friend would simply overtake me.

Instead of courage, I am greeted with the cold, alien stare of a dozen pairs of eyes. My overpriced jeans and layers of concealer are unable to mask the undeniable truth that bleeds through - I don’t belong here. I am a foreigner to the students who have known one another for eight years, and at that moment I want nothing more than to be back at my overpopulated public school. I want nothing more than to be with the people that know me, at a place that welcomes me, where I blend. Here, I am blue and they are orange. I am on the outside. I don’t blend.

After thirty seconds or so, the dozens of eyes turn back to their lunches and previous conversations, but I stand still. I suddenly feel cold and shivery in spite of the temperate September weather. It’s as if everyone around me is in an enclosed bubble of warmth and friendliness - but the bubble has exceeded its maximum capacity. I didn’t make it, and I’m left on the outside where it’s gloomy and abandoned, peering into what could have been. The train has, once again, left without me. I am so occupied in my own thoughts that I’m unaware of the fact that I’m still standing perched in front of the lunch area, as if trying to draw attention to myself. I suddenly feel my clothes on my skin. It’s an odd sensation - uncomfortable, almost. My pants start to suffocate my thighs, and the neckline of my shirt seems to be getting tighter around my throat. The backpack weighed down by textbooks and binders that burdens my shoulders is significantly heavier than usual. My arm is tired of holding up the plate of pasta, and I’m struggling to suppress the intrusive longing to aggressively drop everything and run away. I take this as my cue to leave the stimulation, the stares, the sarcastic smiles. I had subconsciously convinced myself that the smiles were, in fact, sarcastic.

I leave the groups of students and trudge back towards the lunch line, pasta untouched. My hunger seemed as if it was starting to reach my brain, devouring each and every one of my thoughts until I was left blank. I look down at the full plate in my hand, beginning to nibble on the noodles in the middle of the hallway. To my left, I see the empty bathroom, practically beckoning me. I hated bathrooms and the horde of germs living in them. Never in my life would I let a fresh plate of food come in contact with the foul air of a restroom. Never. Never. I let the thought replay in my mind over and over. I hate bathrooms. It was as though I was waiting for my brain to signal my

legs to walk away - to go somewhere else. There had to be somewhere else. I wanted so deeply to escape the chaos of middle school lunch break that was too intense for my fragile mind - but there must be somewhere else. It appalled me that the thought of spending lunch in the bathroom had even entered my mind, and I tried desperately to dismiss it. Again, I waited for my brain to tell my legs to move somewhere else - anywhere else - but I stayed put. I was rooted in the concrete like a stubborn weed, eyes glued to the empty bathroom that still beckoned. As if not in my control, I find myself sitting on the toilet seat of the third stall, door closed, practically inhaling my plate of pasta. I wallow in feelings of relief from the realization that nobody could see me, and I could see nobody. However, the relief is soon thwarted by an overwhelming sense of anxiety and hopelessness. I become aware of the bathroom air I so despised, as my chest tightens and eyes begin to water. A single tear falls into my plate of food, followed by a waterfall. The tears are a steady stream of dejection. It feels as though my soul is pouring out of my eyes, leaving me empty. The stall feels claustrophobic - it seemed to be getting smaller with every breath. My feet feel cramped inside my shoes and the ceiling is closing in. I look up and imagine the walls tightening and suffocating me. I’m in my own bubble now, but want out.

It suddenly hits me that hiding is pushing me further away from the world I so desperately yearn to be a part of. Nothing compares to the weight of the overwhelming realization that I am the problem. It is impossible to be on the inside when I am the one keeping me out. It is impossible to catch the train if I never arrive at the station.

I push the stall door open and bolt out the bathroom, as if someone is chasing me. The fresh air of the outdoor hallway greets me like a warm embrace. I check the time on my phone, and visibly groan at the fact that 20 minutes of lunch remain. The basketballs still bounce. The chatter does not cease. The tears will not stop. My hunger continues to eat away at me. It has already swallowed my brain and is making its way towards my heart. I toss the buttered pasta in the trash can and buy myself a brownie. I found solace in dessert food, and a brownie seemed as though it would be more comforting at this moment than any person could. Sinking my teeth into it, I stare far past the field at the trees behind it. The trees make me feel small and insignificant in a way that reminds me of the train station. The train doesn’t care about me, nor does it know I exist. I picture the clammy, dirty air exuding

from the tracks and the cigarette covered floors. I hear the roaring of trains passing by faster than I can blink. I long to be on a train - not for any specific reason - but just to be part of something. I yearn to be part of something. I imagine myself blindly following the crowd into the train, with not a clue in the world where I’m headed. Just as I’m about to step in, the doors close in front of me and the train passes by, faster than I can blink. I’m left on the platform, alone, abandoned, and on the outside. The walls of the train station close in on me like the walls of the third bathroom stall. The train has left without me. I think about this day three years and five months later, as I sit eating my pasta at lunchtime - this time with marinara sauce - surrounded by the love and support I once longed for. The campus I detested now feels like a home, and the third bathroom stall is nothing more than a bathroom stall. I have the friendships I feared could never be mine, and the community I wanted so badly to be a part of. I ruptured the bubble and am on the inside. Time, along with a dramatic change in attitude, has healed my grievances and rid my heart of the loneliness that poisoned it. I learned to strive for success, to keep an open mind, and fight for what I want. I stopped hiding in the shell I constructed, abandoned the self-pity and started being unapologetically myself. I now reflect on the person I was in eighth grade with a sense of bittersweet pride. I pride myself for the barriers I broke and strides I made. I pride myself for the fears that I conquered and anxiety I overcame. I pride myself for finally chasing after that train and boarding it.

THE MOON, MY COMPASS

By Mia Gustavson, 9

Snow-white light that caught the rain

Shone softly through my window pane

Staring at the moon, I tried to fight

The endless, blinding blur of night.

World soaked in rain like mind in fears

Water smeared the glass like tears

Heavy droplets sliced the breeze

And smashed against the quaking trees.

My fingers pressed against the glass

I traced reflection of the past

What once was truth was now a lie

What once was blue was ink-black sky.

I thought I’d been where I now am Illusion all along, a scam

Dawn was much further than it seemed

At least thought night, the moon still beamed.

The dark-gray clouds obscured the stars

Like prisoners behind silver bars

They left a space for hope: the moon, My compass, leading through the gloom.

I followed it throughout the night

I lead me to the sun’s gold light

If only I knew it was pretend

A beginning disguised as the end.

AN ERASURE OF THE CHINESE EXCLUSION ACT

By Samantha Hsiung, 11

An Act to execute certain treaty stipulations relating to Chinese.

Whereas in the opinion of the Government of the United States the coming of Chinese laborers to this country endangers the good order of certain localities within the territory thereof: Therefore,

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That from and after the expiration of ninety days next after the passage of this act, and until the expiration of ten years next after the passage of this act, the coming of Chinese laborers to the United States be, and the same is hereby, suspended; and during such suspension it shall not be lawful for any Chinese laborer to come, or having so come after the expiration of said ninety days to remain within the United States.

SEC. 2. That the master of any vessel who shall knowingly bring within the United States on such vessel, and land or permit to be landed, any Chinese laborer, from any foreign port or place, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and on conviction thereof shall be punished by a fine of not more than five hundred dollars for each and every such Chinese laborer so brought, and maybe also imprisoned for a term not exceeding one year.

SEC. 3. That the two foregoing sections shall not apply to Chinese laborers who were in the United States on the seventeenth day of November, eighteen hundred and eighty, or who shall have come into the same before the expiration of ninety days next after the passage of this act, and who shall produce to such master before going on board such vessel, and shall produce to the collector of the port in the United States at which such vessel shall arrive, the evidence hereinafter in this act required of his being one of the laborers in this section mentioned; nor shall the two foregoing sections apply to the case of any master whose vessel, being bound to a port not within the United States, shall come within the jurisdiction of the United States by reason of being in distress or in stress of weather, or touching at any port of the United States on its voyage to any foreign port or place: Provided, That all Chinese laborers brought on such vessel shall depart with the vessel on leaving port.

SEC. 4. That for the purpose of properly identifying Chinese laborers who were in the United States on the seventeenth day of November eighteen hundred and eighty, or who shall have come into the same before the expiration of ninety days next after the passage of this act, and in order to furnish them with the proper evidence of their right to go from and come to the United States of their free will and accord, as provided by the treaty between the United States and China dated November seventeenth, eighteen hundred and eighty, the collector of customs of the district from which any such Chinese laborer shall depart from the United States shall, in person or by deputy, go on board each vessel having on board any such Chinese laborers and cleared or about to sail from his district for a foreign port, and on such vessel make a list of all such Chinese laborers, which shall be entered in registry-books to be kept for that purpose, in which shall be stated the name, age, occupation, last place of residence, physical marks of peculiarities, and all facts necessary for the identification of each of such Chinese laborers, which books shall be safely kept in the custom-house.; and every such Chinese laborer so departing from the United States shall be entitled to, and shall receive, free of any charge or cost upon application therefor, from the collector or his deputy, at the time such list is taken, a certificate, signed by the collector or his deputy and attested by his seal of office, in such form as the Secretary of the Treasury shall prescribe, which certificate shall contain a statement of the

name, age, occupation, last place of residence, persona description, and facts of identification of the Chinese laborer to whom the certificate is issued, corresponding with the said list and registry in all particulars. In case any Chinese laborer after having received such certificate shall leave such vessel before her departure he shall deliver his certificate to the master of the vessel, and if such Chinese laborer shall fail to return to such vessel before her departure from port the certificate shall be delivered by the master to the collector of customs for cancellation. The certificate herein provided for shall entitle the Chinese laborer to whom the same is issued to return to and re-enter the United States upon producing and delivering the same to the collector of customs of the district at which such Chinese laborer shall seek to re-enter; and upon delivery of such certificate by such Chinese laborer to the collector of customs at the time of re-entry in the United States said collector shall cause the same to be filed in the custom-house anti duly canceled.

SEC. 5. That any Chinese laborer mentioned in section four of this act being in the United States, and desiring to depart from the United States by land, shall have the right to demand and receive, free of charge or cost, a certificate of identification similar to that provided for in section four of this act to be issued to such Chinese laborers as may desire to leave the United States by water; and it is hereby made the duty of the collector of customs of the district next adjoining the foreign country to which said Chinese laborer desires to go to issue such certificate, free of charge or cost, upon application by such Chinese laborer, and to enter the same upon registry-books to be kept by him for the purpose, as provided for in section four of this act.

SEC. 6. That in order to the faithful execution of articles one and two of the treaty in this act before mentioned, every Chinese person other than a laborer who may be entitled by said treaty and this act to come within the United States, and who shall be about to come to the United States, shall be identified as so entitled by the Chinese Government in each case, such identity to be evidenced by a certificate issued under the authority of said government, which certificate shall be in the English language or (if not in the English language) accompanied by a translation into English, stating such right to come, and which certificate shall state the name, title or official rank, if any, the age, height, and all physical peculiarities, former and present occupation or profession, and place of residence in China of the person to whom the certificate is issued and that such person is entitled, conformably to the treaty in this act mentioned to come within the United States. Such certificate shall be prima-facie evidence of the fact set forth therein, and shall be produced to the collector of customs, or his deputy, of the port in the district in the United States at which the person named therein shall arrive.

SEC.7. That any person who shall knowingly and falsely alter or substitute any name for the name written in such certificate or forge any such certificate, or knowingly utter any forged or fraudulent certificate, or

falsely personate any person named in any such certificate, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor; and upon conviction thereof shall be fined in a sum not exceeding one thousand dollars, and imprisoned in a penitentiary for a term of not more than five years.

SEC.8. That the master of any vessel arriving in the United States from any foreign port or place shall, at the same time he delivers a manifest of the cargo, and if there be no cargo, then at the time of making a report of the entry of the vessel pursuant to law, in addition to the other matter required to be reported, and before landing, or permitting to land, any Chinese passengers, deliver and report to the collector of customs of the district in which such vessels shall have arrived a separate list of all Chinese passengers taken on board his vessel at any foreign port or place, and all such passengers on board the vessel at that time. Such list shall show the names of such passengers (and if accredited officers of the Chinese Government traveling on the business of that government, or their servants, with a note of such facts), and the names and other particulars, as shown by their respective certificates; and such list shall be sworn to by the master in the manner required by law in relation to the manifest of the cargo.

Any willful refusal or neglect of any such master to comply with the provisions of this section shall incur the same penalties and forfeiture as are provided for a refusal or neglect to report and deliver a manifest of the cargo.

SEC. 9. That before any Chinese passengers are landed from any such line vessel, the collector, or his deputy, shall proceed to examine such passenger, comparing the certificate with the list and with the passengers ; and no passenger shall be allowed to land in the United States from such vessel in violation of law.

SEC.10. That every vessel whose master shall knowingly violate any of the provisions of this act shall be deemed forfeited to the United States, and shall be liable to seizure and condemnation in any district of the United States into which such vessel may enter or in which she may be found.

SEC. 11. That any person who shall knowingly bring into or cause to be brought into the United States by land, or who shall knowingly aid or abet the same, or aid or abet the landing in the United States from any vessel of any Chinese person not lawfully entitled to enter the United States, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and shall, on conviction thereof, be fined in a sum not exceeding one thousand dollars, and imprisoned for a term not exceeding one year.

SEC. 12. That no Chinese person shall be permitted to enter the United States by land without producing to the proper officer of customs the certificate in this act required of Chinese persons seeking to land from a vessel. And any Chinese person found unlawfully within the United States shall be caused to be removed therefrom to the country from whence he came, by direction of the President of the United States, and at the cost of the United States, after being brought before some justice, judge, or commissioner of a court of the United States and found to be one not lawfully entitled to be or remain in the United States.

SEC.13. That this act shall not apply to diplomatic and other officers of the Chinese Government traveling upon the business of that government, whose credentials shall be taken as equivalent to the certificate in this act mentioned, and shall exempt them and their body and household servants from the provisions of this act as to other Chinese persons.

SEC. 14. That hereafter no State court or court of the United States shall admit Chinese to citizenship; and all laws in conflict with this act are hereby repealed.

SEC.15. That the words “Chinese laborers”, wherever used in this act shall be construed to mean both skilled and unskilled laborers and Chinese employed in mining.

Approved, May 6, 1882.

This piece won an honorable mention in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and was a finalist in Columbia College Chicago’s Young Authors Writing Competition.

execute us suspend us swallow our bones we are on fire as in we are shadows in the light part persona part laborer part failure in this foreign country erased before mentioned by the English language translation lost name forged flesh imprisoned we arrived as passengers at the port of time forfeited and seized and deemed guilty of the blood in our bones

HONEY BEE TECH-SYMBIOSIS Emily Takara, 12

HONEYDEW

By Callie Pruitt, 10

One day, I’m gonna wake up

To November in a casket

Stepping-stones of flowers dried in blood

One day, I’m gonna see Your house down by the river

Covered in ivy And pictures of killers

One day, we’ll be older

Fine with the way of things With brittle chips on both our shoulders

I’ll sing you a song

I don’t owe you anything Today, today, today

But can I give you everything?

Would that be okay?

Is everything i’ve worked towards Just another “you”

Or is there something golden in the bass guitars and honeydew?

ANSWER

By Katie Maier, 7

Auschwitz

All of the documents on this Web page were retrieved from the archives of Shamash: The Jewish Internet Consortium. The comments inside the square [ . . . ] brackets were written by Daniel Keren for the Shamash archives.

Report entitled “Resettlement of Jews” written by SS-Sturmbannführer Gricksch for SS-Col. von Herff and Reichsführer-SS Himmler, after inspection of Auschwitz camp on 14-16 May 1943.

Hitler and the Final Solution - G. Fleming, University of California Press, 1984, p. 142-143:

The Auschwitz camp plays a special role in the resolution of the Jewish question. The most advanced methods permit the execution of the Fuhrer-order in the shortest possible time and without arousing much attention. The so-called “resettlement action” runs the following course: The Jews arrive in special trains (freight cars) toward evening and are driven on special tracks to areas of the camp specifically set aside for this purpose. There the Jews are unloaded and examined for their fitness to work by a team of doctors, in the presence of the camp commandant and several SS officers. At this point anyone who can somehow be incorporated into the work program is put in a special camp. The curably ill are sent straight to a medical camp and are restored to health through a special diet. The basic principle behind everything is: conserve all manpower for work. The previous type of “resettlement action” has been thoroughly rejected, since it is too costly to destroy precious work energy on a continual basis.

The unfit go to cellars in a large house which are entered from outside. They go down five or six steps into a fairly long, well-constructed and well-ventilated cellar area, which is lined with benches to the left and right. It is brightly lit, and the benches are numbered. The prisoners are told that they are to be cleansed and disinfected for their new assignments. They must therefore completely undress to be bathed. To avoid panic and to prevent disturbances of any kind, they are instructed to arrange their clothing neatly under their respective numbers, so that they will be able to find their things again after their bath. Everything proceeds in a perfectly orderly fashion. Then they pass through a small corridor and enter a large cellar room which resembles a shower bath. In this room are three large pillars, into which certain materials can be lowered from outside the cellar room. When three- to four-hundred people have been herded into this room, the doors are shut, and containers filled with the substances are dropped down into the pillars. As soon as the containers touch the base of the pillars, they release particular substances that put the people to sleep in one minute. A few minutes later, the door opens on the other side, where the elevator is located. The hair of the corpses is cut off, and their teeth are extracted (gold-filled teeth) by specialists (Jews). It has been discovered that Jews were hiding pieces of Jewelry, gold, platinum etc., in hollow teeth. Then the corpses are loaded into elevators and brought up to the first floor, where ten large crematoria are located. (Because fresh corpses burn particularly well, only 50-100 lbs. of coke are needed for the whole process.) The job itself is performed by Jewish prisoners, who never step outside this camp again.

The results of this “resettlement action” to date: 500,000 Jews. Current capacity of the “resettlement action” ovens: 10,000 in 24 hours.

Notes From Diary of SS-Doctor Kremer, while in Auschwitz.

‘The Good Old Days’ - E. Klee, W. Dressen, V. Riess, The Free Press, NY, 1988, p. 256-268:

2 September 1942

3.00 a.m. attended my first Sonderaktion. Dante’s Inferno seems to me almost a comedy compared to this. They don’t call Auschwitz the extermination camp for nothing!

[Sonderaktion = special action, meaning extermination; in this case, gassing. See, for instance, two following documents.]

5 September 1942

In the morning attended a Sonderaktion from the women’s concentration camp (Muslims); the most dreadful of horrors. Hschf. Thilo -- army doctor -- was right when he said to me this is the ‘anus mundi’. In the evening towards 8.00 attended another Sonderaktion from Holland.

[‘Muslims’ does not mean “practicing Islam;” this is the way the SS referred to emaciated people.]

10 October 1942

Extracted and fixed fresh live material from liver, spleen and pancreas....

11 October 1942

Today, Sunday, there was roast hare for lunch--a real fat leg--with dumplings and red cabbage for 1.25 RM.

12 October 1942

Second inoculation against typhus, later on in the evening severe generalized reaction (fever). Despite this in the night attended a further Sonderaktion from Holland (1,600 persons). Ghastly scenes in front of the last bunker! That was the 10th Sonderaktion.

13 November 1942

Extracted fresh live material (liver, spleen and pancreas) from a previously photographed, severely atrophied Jewish prisoner aged eighteen. Fixed as always, liver and spleen in Carnoy and pancreas in Zenker (Prisoner No. 68,030).

Letter from SS-Obersturmbannführer Rodl to the inspector of concentration camps, SSObersturmbannführer Liebehenschel, 14 November 1941.

Hitler and the Final Solution - G. Fleming, University of California Press, 1984, p. 99:

The Commandant’s office has submitted to date two lists recommending the conferment of the Kreigverdienstkreuz [war service cross]. In both of these appear SS personnel who participated in executions. We herewith request confirmation as to whether these names should be listed once again in the roll currently under preparation. Further requested is information as to whether in the recommendation lists under “reasons and comments of immediate superior” there should be specified “execution, i.e., special action” or whether a general, routine reason should be given

Letter from Bischoff, head of construction management at Auschwitz, to the SS economic and administrative head office in Berlin, regarding construction at Auschwitz, 13 October 1942.

Auschwitz: Technique and operation of the gas chambers - J.C Pressac, the Beate Klarsfeld Foundation, NY, 1989, p. 198:

As regards the construction of the new crematorium building, it was necessary to start immediately in July 1942 because of the situation caused by the special actions.

Letter from SS-Sturmbannführer Bischoff, of the Auschwitz construction department, to SS

General Kammler, January 29, 1943. The Final Solution: The Attempt to Exterminate the Jews of Europe, 1939-1945 - G. Reitlinger, South Brunswick, T. Yosellof, 1968, p. 158-159:

Crematorium No. 2. The completed furnaces have been started up in the presence of Engineer Prufer from Messers. Topf (of Erfurt). The planks cannot yet be moved from the ceiling of the mortuary cellar on account of frost, but this is not important, as the gassing cellar can be used for that purpose. The ventilation plant has been held up by restrictions on rail transport, but the installation should be ready by February 20th.

Letter from SS-Sturmbannführer Bischoff, March 6 1943.

Auschwitz: Technique and operation of the gas chambers - J C Pressac, the Beate Klarsfeld Foundation, NY, 1989, p. 434:

... order of 6/3/1943 concerning the delivery of a gas tight door 100 x 192 cm for cellar I of Krematorium III, to be produced to the identical pattern and dimensions as the cellar door of Krematorium II which is situated opposite, with peephole of double 8 mm glass, with rubber sealing strip and frame.

Letter from SS-Sturmbannführer Jahrling to SS-General Kammler  estimating the number of corpses that can be disposed off in 24 hours in the Auschwitz crematoriums, June 25 1943.

Auschwitz: Technique and operation of the gas chambers - J.C Pressac, the Beate Klarsfeld Foundation, NY, 1989, p. 247:

1.) Crematorium I

3 x 2 muffles 340 persons

2.) Crematorium II

5 x 3 muffles 1440 persons

3.) Crematorium III ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

5 x 3 muffles 1440 persons

4.) Crematorium IV ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8 muffles 768 persons

5.) Crematorium V ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8 muffles 768 persons

A letter asking for a truck to bring Zyklon-B to Auschwitz; uses the standard camouflage term “resettlement of Jews” to refer to extermination. Another such document asks for “material for special treatment” - another term used to disguise extermination.

Auschwitz: Technique and operation of the gas chambers - J.C Pressac, the Beate Klarsfeld Foundation, NY, 1989, p. 557:

BRIDE

By Rye Kianpour, 11

The shrieks of the wild beckon me to the bride’s skin Into the night the wild— the darkness her veil flows.

Trees to cover bosoms; They should know better. But God need not know…

The screams are so loud, yet hushed, seeping into hair, burrowing into blood Sreams. Screams? Or songs? Songs of past, songs of terror, songs of god…

Skin to free minds; We do know better. But God need not know…

Her dress sullies the earth with its purity, Smoothening, concealing—removing, suHush! The bride speaks— no no She whispers the shrieks, sings them to god to me. She, my beloathed, my undoing my beloved my destiny

The wild still beckons me to the bride’s skin To listen is to surrender I should know better. But God need not know…

STRAWBERRY GALETTE

By Emma Hwang, 10

First, the flour.

I zero out the scale and watch white powder rain into the bowl. I let cubes of butter fall from my fingertips. I drizzle in water, Witnessing the birth of the dough binding together. That is when your magic begins.

You chill in the fridge for an hour You wait. You relax.

I am impatient and can’t wait to see you again. I pull you out, roll you out, You transform.

I pour in the strawberries and seal up your edges.

I dress you in egg wash and turbinado sugar. You gleam, Your sugar crystals are diamonds, Strawberries are rubies.

But I don’t know you yet. We haven’t met yet. What will you be? What will you taste like?

Your lips bubbling over with jam, Your arms still faithfully holding the strawberries, That I see your final form. Edges crisp, Inside sweet, The aroma of springtime, The chorus of rising steam, You are perfect in every way. We finally meet. I now know your name, That I will never forget. You and I are a duet, Strawberry Galette.

It isn’t until I pull you out of the oven,

THE LETTER

By Seika Oelschig, 11

“Why are you watching that movie again?” my mom asked in frustration, getting ready to take me to my weekly violin lesson. “I don’t know, I just really like it,” I responded automatically, my eyes still glued to the big screen in front of me. “Alright, well we are leaving in 20 minutes”. I was watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Askaban, the third of the eight movies in the famous series. You could say I watched these movies religiously. I mean, who wouldn’t love watching wizards and witches fight bad guys with magical powers?

The whole idea of it was cool. Imagine, living in a world full of normal people until one day you receive a letter telling you that you are special. Oh how I wished I could be part of their world.

I was used to watching these same eight movies over and over in order, every day after school, for months. I knew the script. I knew the lines. I knew exactly what was going to happen next in the story. It was invigorating. I knew that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were about to walk out of the school towards the grassy field in front of Hagrid’s hut, talk to Draco and his friends, before getting insulted by them, and then… wham! The guy gets punched right in the face by Hermione.

“Seika… Seika!”

“What? Huh?”

“I was just talking to you, were you not paying attention?”

“Sorry… I guess not”

“Oh, I was just saying that we are leaving for violin in a couple. Do you need help getting your things together?”

“I’m all right,” I responded, grabbing my two Suzuki music books and violin before leaving with my mom.

I loved cars. Not the actual vehicle, but definitely riding in them. I loved the quiet drives especially, no bumpy roads or loud trucks. Just silence. I’ve always seemed to find myself staring out the backseat window. My dad would constantly ask me what I found so interesting on the other side of the glass. I never knew how to respond.

What did I find so interesting about it?

I still don’t know to this day. Maybe it’s the lines on the road passing me at 40 miles per hour. Or maybe it’s the idea that I’m watching

the world pass by from a side view. But to be quite honest, I usually would just zone out and let my mind drift. Not literally drift, of course. I just felt like my mind went to other things. Having no one talking to me let me daydream away into different worlds. I could even imagine myself in Harry Potter as a witch at Hogwarts. For me, it wasn’t about the destination, but the journey. I never really liked the destination, anyways.

I hated going out with my parents. It was like a stop to my day that I never knew I would encounter. I liked rigid schedules. Whenever my parents asked if I wanted to go out to dinner with them or visit some of our family friends, I would politely decline. I was much more interested in evolving my Pokemon in Ultra Sun.

But when it came to my dad’s work parties, I had no choice in the matter. The fancy clothes I had to wear were always so uncomfortable. There was always something stuck in my flats and tags annoying my neck.

When I was 11, my parents made me go to one of these events. It was Christmas of 2014, and my dad’s work was having a Christmas party to celebrate the occasion. The party wasn’t that bad. I felt extremely uncomfortable having to meet all of my dad’s co-workers and their families. I wished I was somewhere quieter. The loud noise of the crowd pushed against the sides of my ears. I felt like I was going to cry. I didn’t know why, nor did I know what to do.

Sound is a tricky business. Too much of it and it becomes overbearing. The panic sets in quickly. The guests, the conversations, the music. So much noise. It’s like my ears were buckets being filled with water. They fill up so fast and sudden that I’m not able to pour the excess out before the buckets begin to overflow. As the cold liquid pours out the sides, I freeze. I quite literally freeze. Little did I know that at that moment, my dad brought over one of his co-workers to introduce me and my mom to.

“I wanted to introduce you guys to my co-worker, David. David, this is my wife, Claudia, and my daughter, Seika.”

“Hello! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he responded. I was looking down at my shoes, examining the small embroidered butterflies near my toes. His body faced towards me. Was he talking to me? I had no clue how to respond. I looked up; we made eye contact. Nope! That was too much for me. I looked back down at my shoes. My mom quickly grabbed my hand and interjected. I looked up at her

They squeezed hard, her hands dry.

“Sorry about that! She’s a little shy...”

“Oh that’s alright, my kids are shy too sometimes.”

Their conversation continued. Why did my mom grab my hand like that? I continued to look at her face. Was she mad? She looked kind of mad. I couldn’t tell, though.

Getting into our car to get home, I noticed my mom’s face again. She was definitely angry. I got a good talking to that night. My mom went on and on about how it “wasn’t normal” for me to act that way in front of that man. She said it so many times. The sadness dropped to the pit of my stomach and settled there. I couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t I be normal? At least for Harry, he was special. In the novels, even though when he was younger he would get in trouble for accidentally using his magic, he still got his letter to Hogwarts eventually. He found his people and his community. He wasn’t alone.

I felt alone.

The more I grew up, the more I felt different. I never fit the description of a “normal” kid. My violin teacher would have a yearly recital for all of his students to perform. The nervousness that I would feel during those events can’t be described as anything else but pure fear. As soon as my feet were planted at the top of the stage, my legs went numb… my vision blurred… my hands shook uncontrollably. My left hand on the fingerboard quivered so much that I was unintentionally playing vibrato during the entire piece.

Why can’t I be normal? I started trying everything I could to fit in better, be that by dressing more like the other girls, talking more like the other girls, doing the same things as the other girls… I had had many experiences in which I’d been teased for not understanding a joke or for zoning out, but I still tried to fit in–to be normal, but it seemed so impossible to the point where I questioned who I was as a person… different… different… different… Why can’t I be normal?

Once I got to high school, things got a bit easier. I made amazing friends who didn’t judge me for my eye contact issues or horrible social skills like the girls back at my middle school. Unlike most people, who feel they need to make eye contact in order to pay attention to what someone is saying, I feel the opposite. Making eye contact is very uncomfortable. It makes me feel stuck; like I’m trapped in a small room with no windows. My friends would wonder if something was

up with me, but how would I answer? I didn’t even know myself.

Just this past summer, my parents and I went to visit my relatives in Tennessee. I was at my grandma’s kitchen table eating my freshly nuked dinosaur chicken nuggets when I noticed that my mom, aunt, and older cousin were talking about how my 6 year old cousin was probably going to get tested for autism. She had been showing symptoms such as poor communication, sensory overload, and intense interests in some topics (e.g. unicorns and narwhals). As they were chatting away and I was eating my nuggets, staring at the floral wallpaper that lined the walls, my older cousin jumped in.

“Hey, doesn’t Seika have a lot of those same symptoms as well?”

I turned my head at the sound of my name.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you have a lot of the same issues as they say Sylvie has?”

I walked into the living room and took a seat next to my mom. I quickly pulled out my phone. My motto has always been “when in doubt, google it.” Autism symptoms in teens. There showed up a whole list of criteria of a disorder I had never even thought about. Trouble expressing feelings… trouble reading social cues… trouble handling sensory information… This was it.

As soon as we got back to California, my parents signed me up for an extensive assessment with a psychologist. In October of this year, my diagnosis came back stating that I have Level 1 Autism, also known as Asperger’s Syndrome. This meant that I have the many social and communication issues that are present with autism. After receiving the news, my mom asked me if I was ok with this newfound information.

Oh, how I was more than ok.

I had received my letter. For me, it made sense of why I am the way I am in this Muggle world. I have no reason to pretend to be someone I’m not because my brain functions differently than everyone else.

Due to the diagnosis, I’ve been able to learn more about the Autism community as well as connect with people who have similar challenges. I am definitely not alone. I’m not afraid to talk about my special interests, such as Minecraft and manga, and I feel as though I can be myself more comfortably. Yes, I definitely have many symptoms that interfere with my day to day life, but with my diagnosis, I’m able to better understand how to help myself.

Sure I’m different, a little odd, but that’s what makes me special.

SARAH & WILL

By Sophia Yao, 10

“Have I seen you before?”

Sara, previously engrossed in her work, raises her head to see her waiter bringing her coffee. “I’m sorry?”

Her waiter, a boy around Sara’s age, with dark hair and a crooked smile, shrugs nervously and sets down the coffee. “Oh, I just asked if I know you from somewhere.”

“I mean, yeah, you look familiar, but I don’t think so,” Sara offers, followed by some awkward laughter.

He laughs too, to ease the tension. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m Will, by the way. It was nice, uh, being your waiter today.”

“It was nice meeting you, Will.” Sara smiles politely and went back to her book. Will spares her an unreadable glance and goes back behind the counter to take another customer’s order. Sara spends a calm and productive afternoon in the cafe, reading and writing her essays for Art History, leaving just as the sun’s bright rays drift low through the windows, slightly groggy but calm and clear headed.

It was only when she was in her car that a napkin slipped out of her book. No big deal, Sara thinks, she always uses random objects as bookmarks. But when she unfolds it, there’s writing scrawled on it.

It was nice meeting you this time. See you soon. ~~ Will

Sara frowns. She reads it again. And again, as though she’s looking for an answer that doesn’t exist. She inspects the swoops and slopes of each letter, a door at the back of her mind itching to be opened. She

squints so hard her vision goes blurry.

***

Through the blur, faces appear. Her own, Sara with her long curls and wide eyes, crying in a dark room. Dark hair, a crooked smile. Will? They’re sitting in a futuristic, sleek silver pod, with asteroids and space dust floating past the window. Straight out of a science fiction movie. The alarms are blaring, the lights are flickering red, and on the floor, Sara. Will. Holding each other. The spaceship is going to crash, and nothing will remain in the aftermath. Except here is Sara, and here is Will. They’re going to be okay. He tells her this. She doesn’t believe him, but he’s never lied to her before. ***

They’re in another sterile and colorless room. A hospital room. Sara, much younger, is sitting in a high chair by the bed, swinging her legs. In the hospital bed, unmistakably, is a young Will. A nurse walks by, and young Sara asks her a question. Whatever the answer is, her face falls. Will, sickly and pale, weakly grabs her hand. Please don’t leave me, Sara whispers. She’s crying now, a little girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. Please don’t leave me. I won’t, Will promises, his face twisted, I won’t. He’s never lied to her before.

Sara can see him now, across the horizon. The sun shines on him, coating his entire figure with golden light. He looks like a sun god, but also a pirate, the way he’s coated with grime from the dragon battle. She gathers her skirts and runs down the tower to see him, wholly unafraid of seeming too forward and unladylike. She runs out onto the open road, and the fresh air smells like honeysuckle and soil and lavender, and Sara will remember this forever, Sara and Will, the princess and the prince. It’s almost like they’re in a fairytale, she tells him, and he tells her they are. She laughs and tells him he’s lying. For some rea-

son, his eyes are sad when he tells her he’d never lie to her. ***

Sara jolts forward, nearly smacking her forehead on her driving wheel. She’s sweating slightly, dizzy and extremely disoriented. The sun, which had been annoyingly bright against her vision a few moments ago, has slipped out of view, and the sky is a vast dark blue. Will.

And then it’s a mad scramble for the coffee shop, disregarding the CLOSED sign on the door, and bursting in, still loopy and definitely not looking her best.

But there’s Will. Just Will. In a shirt and jeans and apron, mopping the floor, looking Sara like he knows, he knows, he knows.

But all he says is: “Hey.”

She wants to speak. She wants to say to him, I think I know who you are. I know who I am. I know what we’ve been, I know where we’ve been, I know what we are. And I’m terrified and exhilarated and I know too much.

But all she does is hold up the napkin.

Will’s face breaks into the brightest grin, golden and brilliant, easily outshining the setting sun.

Sara can’t stifle her answering smile. “Can I, uh, stay for another coffee?”

THE JELLYFISH ARCHIVES

UNTITLED Emily Takara, 12

C P M O E T I T I O N S

Prompt 1: Write a haiku with nature imagery.

Winner: Josephine Tu

Runners Up: Elizabeth Liang, Abigail Kamenetsky

Prompt 2: Make a recipe for something figurative (love, friendship, etc.)

Winners: Joseph Makower and Emma Hwang

COMPETITION 1:

HAIKU 1st Place

QUILT

By Josephine Tu, 9

The cloth of sky is cut by the mountains, then stitched with the thread of clouds

2nd

Place

PROMISES

By Elizabeth Liang, 7

When will you find me? The leaves have faded away. The echoes remain.

3rd Place

GLOOMY OVERCAST

By Abigail Kamenetsky, 9

Leaves wail at harsh wind With birds taking cover till rain filled clouds hover

RECIPE WINNER

HOW TO WRITE A POEM

By Emma Hwang, 10

Ingredients

1 idea

2 cups of sentimental turmoil

1 cup of colorful creativity

Exactly 7 grams of insanity (weigh and measure on a scale, too much or too little is disastrous)

¼ cup of emotional instability

1 tsp of brutal honesty

A dash of rhyme (it will come with time),

A squeeze of happy tears

And a lot of sad ones, too.

Directions

Combine the idea, emotional turmoil, and creativity in a bowl. Let it marinate until you feel ready.

Separately, whisk together insanity, emotional instability, brutal honesty, and rhyme. Drizzle in enough tears until emulsified (adding it too fast may risk your poem falling apart).

Gently fold the marinade and the emotional mixture together, careful not to deflate the added volume from the marinated idea. Wait for a night when you just can’t fall asleep. Grab a pen and paper and fill your pen with the batter, and let it flow and blot and stain pages until you feel satisfied. Get some sleep (you deserve it!)

Submit to Tabula Rasa.

WINNER

RECIPE FOR COMEDY

By Joseph Makower, 10

1) horrible tragedy

2) allow the public to process the tragedy

3) let simmer anywhere from 1 week to 3 years (depending on weight of tragedy)

(Step 3 can be skipped if you are an established comedian)

4) make a joke that would have been viewed as insensitive at the time of the incident

Congratulations, you have learned how to make a genius joke.

Abby Kamenetsky, 9th Grade

Abigail Kamenetsky, a freshman at Pinewood, has always had a passion for writing! She has been writing for fun since third grade, and she’s honored to be a part of Tabula Rasa!

Aeron Lo, 11th Grade

Aeron Lo, a junior at pinewood, is honoured to be featured in Tabula Rasa. Character design and concept art are their forte but you can also find them painting acrylic pieces now and again. Music and dance are other passions they’ve taken part in over the years. They hope you find their art interesting.

Adam Fallick, 11th Grade

Adam Fallick, a junior at Pinewood, has always loved writing, and this is his first submission to Tabula Rasa. He has a deep passion for theater and hopes to pursue it as a career. He hopes that you enjoy his story!

Alex Sheiba, 11th Grade

Alex Sheiba is a junior at Pinewood who’s a bit of a jack of all trades. They’re an artist, a musician, and most recently a writer and poet. They are involved with theater and can usually be found around campus with headphones.

Anika Nambisan, 10th Grade

The lightning strike of inspiration to create a beautiful piece of art/writing fuels Anika. Outside of art and writing, she loves to participate in Pinewood girls basketball, play with her golden retriever, and listen to Harry Styles.

Callie Pruitt, 10th Grade

Callie Pruitt is a sophomore at Pinewood and has been writing music for the better part of two years. She is an active participant of the PPA, she is president of the 10th grade student council, and she plays the guitar, ukulele, and piano— and generally finds it impossible to write in prose.

Cindy Lin, 9th Grade

Cindy Lin is a freshman, and she enjoys art and writing. She has submitted to Tabula Rasa before.

Colin Ternus, 10th Grade

Colin is a sophomore at Pinewood who enjoys photography, poetry, music, and engineering. He is happy to see his photography in Tabula Rasa.

Elizabeth Liang, 7th Grade

Elizabeth Liang is a seventh grader at Pinewood Upper Campus, and this is her first time submitting work to Tabula Rasa! She used to only create visual art until earlier this year; hence, she is new to writing. However, she really enjoyed creating these poems and hopes you enjoy reading them too!

Emma Hwang, 10th Grade

Emma, a sophomore, is excited to have her work featured in Tabula Rasa, and to showcase her achievements in art and writing! When she isn’t painting or writing, you can find her reading, cooking, and practicing photography.

Emily Takara, 12th Grade

Emily Takara, a senior and Tabula Rasa editor, is excited to have art featured in Tabula Rasa, the final one she will be a part of. She focuses on combining her interests in design, technology, culture, and biology/sciences. She loves exploring art (and other fields) and hopes to inspire different conversations.

Esha Joshi, 8th Grade

Esha Joshi, an eighth grader, is overjoyed to have her writing in Tabula Rasa! Writing has been her passion for as long as she can remember. She hopes that everyone takes as much joy in reading her work as she experienced writing it.

James Chang, 9th Grade

James is a freshman at Pinewood. Among his hobbies, he enjoys drawing, playing basketball, and sleeping.

Joseph Makower, 10th Grade

Joseph Makower, a sophomore, is enthused to have his writing featured in Tabula Rasa. He has a passion for music, construction projects, robotics, and archery. He hopes that those reading his work get a laugh out of it.

Josephine Tu, 9th Grade

Josephine Tu, a freshman, is thrilled to be a part of Tabula Rasa this year! In addition to being passionate about writing, she loves singing and laughing with her friends until she can’t breathe. She hopes you enjoy her works!

Katie Maier, 7th Grade

Katie heard about Tabula Rasa and knew she had to submit something. Writing has been a hobby of hers since second grade, so she’s super excited for an opportunity for others to read something she is proud of!

Kathleen Xie, 9th Grade

Kathleen Xie is a freshman at Pinewood. She has always loved writing and is thrilled to be an editor for Tabula Rasa this year. Aside from writing, Kathleen plays competitive golf and does robotics. She hopes you enjoy reading!

Leo Gray, 9th Grade

Leo Gray is a freshman at Pinewood who has always loved writing. Poetry especially has always served as a tool for Leo to express his emotions and feel connected to his thoughts. Leo hopes you enjoy his poetry.

Makena Matula, 10th Grade

Makena is a sophmore and a lover of music, art, and writing. They are excited to share their poem and photography with you all and are honored to be featured in this issue alongside other wonderful and talented writers and artists.

Marley Thornson, 9th Grade

Marley Thornson is a current freshman. This is her first year submitting to Tabula Rasa as well as putting personal words somewhere other than the notes app. She is excited for others to read her work, so interpret them as you will!

Mia Gustavson, 9th Grade

Mia is honored to have her work in Tabula Rasa! She loves writing poems, songs, and short stories. Aside from writing, she is a competitive dancer who loves singing and acting. Enjoy the magazine!

Michael Shtrom, 9th Grade

Michael Shtrom, a freshman, is honored to have his work in Tabula Rasa. He has loved writing stories and poems since fourth grade. Michael loves listening to his Broadway playlist and watching Jeopardy. He hopes you enjoy!

Mitali Vasudevan, 11th Grade

Mitali Vasudevan, a junior at Pinewood, is so grateful for the opportunity to have her work in Tabula Rasa this year! She has always enjoyed writing as an outlet for her thoughts and feelings. She hopes you enjoy!

Prisha Mohapatra, 9th Grade

Prisha Mohapatra, a freshman here at Pinewood, has always used writing as an outlet. She is so excited to be featured in Tabula Rasa for the second year in a row! Whether it’s, songs, poems, Perennial articles, or short stories, she finds that writing is her way to relax. She hopes you enjoy her work in Tabula Rasa!

Prithi Srinivasan, 12th Grade

Prithi, a senior and Tabula Rasa editor, is thrilled to have been able to submit to the magazine for a final year. Outside of Tabula Rasa, she is involved with the performing arts and journalism, and harbors an avid interest for the sciences. She hopes that you enjoy Volume VI of Tabula Rasa!

Rachel Farhoudi, 11th Grade

Rachel is currently a junior. She has always enjoyed writing, as it is the best way to clear her head. She is proud of herself for finally submitting and thrilled to be a part of this magazine.

Romin Vasishta, 12th Grade

Romin Vasishta is currently a senior at Pinewood and an Evergreen. Romin has always had a firm interest in photography, and he enjoys photographing things many people would not. He hopes everyone enjoys his work!

Rose Xu, 9th Grade

Rose Xu, a freshman and first year Pinewood student, is happy to have been given this opportunity to have her work published in Tabula Rasa.

Rye Kianpour, 11th Grade

Rye, a junior, enjoys writing poetry and making art. Rye has recently been experimenting in their poems; Chuya Nakahara inspired them to play around with word placement, and Rimbaud’s works encourage them to utilize fever-dream imagery. They are honored to be featured in Tabula Rasa.

Samantha Hsiung, 11th Grade

Samantha (or Sam) is currently a junior, and she is ecstatic that she will be a part of Tabula Rasa this year! She loves writing, especially poetry, and some of her favorite authors include Ocean Vuong and Hanif Abdurraqib. She hopes that you will enjoy this year’s issue of Tabula Rasa.

Sania Choudhary, 12th Grade

Sania is a senior at Pinewood, and enjoys making various kinds of art in her free time. Outside art, Sania loves reading, writing for Pinewood’s newspaper The Perennial, listening to music, and being around dogs!

Seika Oelschig, 11th Grade

Seika is a junior at Pinewood, and this is her first year submitting her work to Tabula Rasa. She is excited to be able to share her story.

Selina Wang, 9th Grade

Selina, a freshman, is excited to submit her artwork to Tabula Rasa. She has been drawing since kindergarten, and is happy to be able to share her work with others. In her free time, Selina enjoys drinking tea and watching dramas.

Skylar Chui, 11th Grade

Skylar is a junior who loves participating in basketball, doing art, and not sleeping in her free time. At Pinewood, Skylar illustrates for The Perennial, works on student council, and plays for the girls basketball team.

Sophia Yao, 10th Grade

Sophia is a sophomore and is excited to contribute her work to Tabula Rasa. She hopes her writing can give people a sense of hope and comfort.

Violet Negrette, 9th Grade

Violet, a freshman this year, is honored to be a part of Tabula Rasa. She normally doesn’t write very often, but decided to try something new this year. She wrote about an inspiring moment that stuck with her for weeks.

Prithi Srinivasan - Editor-in-Chief

Samantha Hsiung - Editor

Emily Takara - Artistic Director

Makena Matula - Assistant Editor

Sophia Yao - Assistant Editor

Kathleen Xie - Web Editor

Anika Nambisan - Publicity Director

Sabrina Strand - Advisor

David Wells - Advisor

ABOUT TABULA RASA

Tabula Rasa, established in 2016, is an annual, award-winning publication showcasing literature and art by students of Pinewood School. Tabula Rasa accepts prose, poetry, cross-genre, and art submissions from Upper Campus students, who are in grades 7-12. All types of work are accepted during our submission period; we simply ask for the best, most honest creative work that each student has to offer.

Tabula Rasa is advised by Pinewood English teachers Sabrina Strand and David Wells and edited by a small group of high school students who love the literary and visual arts. Any questions or comments regarding the publication may be directed to the email address tabularasasubmissions@pinewood.edu.

The magazine’s next submission period will open in February 2023. Students may submit through an online portal that will become available at that time. Students may also submit pieces to our quarterly themes, which will become available in September 2022.

Thank you for reading the 2022 edition of Tabula Rasa.

– Prithi Srinivasan, Samantha Hsiung, Emily Takara, Makena Matula, Sophia Yao, Kathleen Xie, Anika Nambisan

EDITORS EMERITUS

2016-17

Priya Sundaresan ’17

Zarin Mohsenin ’17

2017-20

Sarah Feng ’20

Reilly Brady ’20

Katherine Chui ’20

2020-2021

Prithi Srinivasan ’22

Eva Liu ’21

Micaela Rodriguez Steube ’21