Teen Ink magazine - December 2022

By teens, for teens

Letter from the Editor

Reflecting on 2022

Dear Teen Ink Readers,

We’ve made it to the end of 2022! As we round out the year, don’t forget to pat yourselves on the back for everything you’ve accomplished, big or small. Did you stick to any New Year’s resolutions? Did you score a passing grade in that one class you were sure you’d fail? Either way, congratulations! We’re certainly proud of you, and so happy you’re here to celebrate with us.

We like to end the year focusing on good deeds and volunteerism. In addition to our “Making a Difference” section, please enjoy an exclusive interview with Natalie Silverstein, the author of “Simple Acts: The Busy Teen’s Guide to Making a Difference,” as well as our essay contest on how teens are making a difference in their community. We hope these stories will encourage and inspire you to make good changes!

As always, we welcome your feedback! If you want to write a letter to an editor, respond to an opinion article, or just take a stab at creating a poem good enough to make it into our next magazine, visit teenink.com/submit!

Happy holidays to all!

The

Teen Ink Team

BY VEDIKA CHAUHAN, VADODARA, INDIA

At times, I believed that a peculiar disorder was present within me. “Something must be wrong with me …” I reasoned with myself. Why was reality never satisfying enough for me, yet it seemed to be the perfect deception to everyone else? The world tells you to dream big dreams, but then to accept the fate destined for you. Why?

Ever since I was a little girl, I have had a gifted imagination and an obsession with creating the most far-fetched imaginary realities. I even made it a habit to give those imaginary realities their own story line. Nothing too abnormal there; children are supposed to imagine liberally. Around five years of age, I picked up the hobby of writing little fictional stories about anything my mind could dream of. There was no particular reason why I did this — I would just write until my heart was content. It gave me internal peace, a calming sensation shadowing over me. Later, I began exploring all different facets of writing such as nonfiction, poetry, and letter writing. Soon, I was writing all the

time, carrying my yellow notepad everywhere I went. When I was a child, it was difficult to understand what was developing inside myself, so I couldn’t understand why I felt the unconditional need to express myself through writing.

Generally, interests that develop at a young age are genetically linked, so parents are not surprised when their child is interested in things they too enjoyed as a child. And yet, no one in my family is a writer. My parents could not understand where I had gotten this from.

“I don’t see why you need to take that notebook everywhere with you,” my parents would say, rolling their eyes.

“I’m writing my story,” I mumbled quietly, sensing the uncomfortable looks of disapproval.

“But you’re always writing a story! I don’t remember writing as much as you do when I was younger,” my mom said. “You’re not going to have any social skills.”

“She’s just a dreamer,” my dad

sighed, shaking his head slightly. “They’re never going to understand me, are they?” I muttered sadly under my breath so they wouldn’t hear.

At first, it didn’t matter to me if my parents did not understand why I loved writing so much. I had something special to take pride in. By then, I grew to feel a deep, intimate connection with writing; I was determined to never stop. However, when I reached 13, my emotions spiraled, and my viewpoint was tainted by negativity. Each time I would try to share this enchanting connection I had with someone else, they’d fail to understand me and simply push me away. I kept knocking, but everyone’s door was closing in front of me. By the time I was 14, I started to feel alone and hopelessly lost in the world surrounding me. I felt like I had a hidden secret within me and no one else could quite grasp it the way I could.

When I turned 15, I nearly fell apart. I became depressed and ashamed

MEMOIR BY KYRA DRUMMOND, ROSENBERG, TX

PHOTO

of my talents, though I had once taken pride in them. I began to shut people out, burying my deepest thoughts inside a dark vortex within me. I found it impossible to communicate with my parents, so I started journaling instead. I resolved that if no one could understand me, then I was going to accept the matter and cope with my predicament alone. I kept my journal hidden in the haven of my room, a safe place where I could free my wings. When I would read books occasionally, I discovered my favorite quote from The Diary of Anne Frank, where Anne says, “Paper is more patient than man.” It was beautiful to discover someone else who understood what a gift writing is to humankind. When you write, no one is there to judge or form opinions about you, the paper simply listens to you speak.

As I began to progress with this new coping mechanism, I also learned how to use different types of music to improve my writing. A

goosebumps or even inspire a new story. Only now do I understand why. Art inspires the artist. It was a beautiful thing to see someone who had grasped the deeper meaning of life and discovered the way their heart wanted them to express their uniqueness. I realized that many people are unable to understand concepts beneath the surface, but I am thankful that I could.

calming song with no lyrics could help me to focus on a task or to find inspiration to be naturally creative. A sad song put me in touch with my sensitive side, thus helping me to understand my deepest emotions. A more intense song could give me

Perhaps it’s foolish to give credit to an inanimate 250-paged notebook covered in butterflies, but yet it still helped me discover who I am today. A tranquil song flowing through my headphones, I would find myself at peace in the secret haven I had built. My journal, locked to the key of my heart, became a special place for my dreams. Every day I had something new to add to my journal. And maybe one day I can free my wings to the world.

I HAVE HAD A GIFTED IMAGINATION AND AN OBSESSION WITH CREATING THE MOST FAR-FETCHED IMAGINARY REALITIES EVER SINCE I WAS A LITTLE GIRL

ART BY ADDISON MITCHELL, GLENWOOD, IA

A Battle with a Beast

BY ANONYMOUS

MEMOIR BY ANONYMOUS

Alcoholism,

You are the blazing fire that burns every forest, the beast that consumes everything beautiful in its wake, the blight that destroys every crop. You have taken what should have loved and cared for me, but you will not take me. I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. I can still smell your stench on my mother’s breath every time she would kiss my forehead. I can still hear the screaming and pleading during the countless fights you caused. I have prayed for you to stop your destruction since I was five years old, but you persisted. I vividly remember all the fights we would have in the car after you slipped your filthy hands around my mother’s throat, choking her with

have the strong support system that I desperately need and crave. Because of you, it sometimes feels like I am all on my own.

During the endless screaming matches that I’ve had with you, you made me feel worthless. You brainwashed my mom with your intoxicating potion, making her say the vilest things imaginable to an innocent little girl. You called me disgusting names and told me everyone in my family hated me. With your horrible words, you obliterated my self-esteem and self-worth. When I was just 12 years old, I told your prisoner about how depressed I was. How I felt like my life was a bottomless pit with no way out to see the light. You made her tell me that I was crazy. You even made her call me a liar.

cold metal, you roared again and I flinched. Foul curse words came out of your mouth at the speed of light. Although I was terrified, a part of me felt the need to make sure you were okay. So I opened the door and started to walk toward the stairs. As I went down the brown carpeted steps, my hand gripping the wooden railing, I looked at all of the family photos we had put up on the wall.

your disease. You took control of her as if she were some kind of puppet. You held my mother hostage during family holidays such as Christmas and Thanksgiving. You have kept her away during some of the most important moments in my life. You have used my family as firewood to keep you warm in your cold dark cave. Because of you, I no longer

I remember the unforgettable morning last year like it was yesterday. It was five in the morning and you had already infected her. While I was getting ready for school, I heard your boisterous roar from downstairs. I was about to walk out of my dimly lit bedroom, the light yellow walls seeming to extend into a long hallway, my white wooden door getting farther and farther away from me. I was scared to check on you and afraid of what you were about to say to me. My clammy palm finally reached out for the door handle. As I turned the

As I gazed at the photos, my eyes began to swell up with burning tears. I thought to myself, “how could a hideous monster poison such a beautiful woman?” The tears started pouring out of my eyes like miniature waterfalls, the warm stream running down my cheeks and to my chin. I continued my journey down the stairs all the way to the family room where I came face-to-face with you sleeping on the L-shaped couch. I let out a sigh of relief. I was relieved that I didn’t have to hear your hurtful words, relieved that I didn’t have to have another argument with you that would end up with me begging for you to stop your plague, but most of all, relieved that I no longer had to fear how far the argument could go. I made the trek back up to my room where all of my problems seemed to disappear. When I was alone, there was silence. No screaming, no pleading, nothing. I changed back into my fluffy pink Walmart pajamas and a shirt that swallowed me whole. As I stepped into my cold but comforting bed, I cried myself to sleep as I asked myself, “why is my life like this?”

My life at this point in time was

MEMOIR

torture. It felt like my future would be one of turmoil. As I started to grow older, I would constantly think to myself what my life would be like with this ugly creature constantly following me everywhere I go. It felt like there was no escape from you. You haunted my days and nights and never let go. I feared that when I became an adult, you would hold me captive as well. Your haunting began during my elementary school years. As I progressed through school, I became known as “the girl with the alcoholic mother.” It felt like that is what I would be known for my whole life. I would weep to

my closest friends about you and how scared I was of your disease. They tried to assure me that you did not define me and that everything would be okay. Although their words would help somewhat in the moment, your terrifying presence still kept me up at night. It took me way too many years to realize that I am my own person. I am the main character in my life and you are just in the ensemble.

Although you are a beast, you helped me learn many lessons in life. You taught me that forgiveness is a big part of growth and to always carry love with me. Due

to the experiences you put me through, I care for everyone around me no matter what. You taught me that everyone deserves love, even people who are not so great. Because of you, I learned how to overcome the fire, how to outgrow the blight, and how to fight back against the beast. I was once a scared and confused little girl, but now, I have transformed into a beautiful phoenix flying through life. I’ve overcome the fire and ash you put me through and grown into something strong, resilient, and beautiful.

ARTWORK BY AVERY WONG, REDWOOD CITY, CA

MEMOIRS

ARTWORK BY HAYLEE GRIFFITH ARVADA, CO

MEMOIR BY FRANKIE HALLORAN, WILMINGTON, DE MEMOIR BY FRANKIE HALLORAN, WILMINGTON, DE

When I attend a family reunion, my favorite activity is to look at my younger relatives and imagine what they’re thinking about.

Despite being 11 just four years ago, I feel as though the way I think and perceive the world around me has changed so drastically that trying to see the world through a younger version of my eyes is like squinting at a blurry picture. Being a kid is one of the best things about being alive. The world is a saturated playground of colors and shapes. Tragedy has no meaning to children, and the idea of misery is a foreign concept they have not learned yet. I don’t think anyone is ready to grow up. I believe that no matter where you are in life, there will always be a longing to be young again. My meltdown came to a head on a regular Sunday. Rain washed over my house. It looked like a permanent state of evening just outside my window. Even the slightest glance into my backyard sent a cold shiver through my body as I imagined standing out there in the wind and rain. What better way to deal with boredom than to clean out your closet? The task was simple enough. I knew how to go about it, and it would be a relief from the constant reminders I received from my dad’s girlfriend and my grandma. Dragging the containers downstairs to be organized made me feel like a macho muscle man in a circus, with protruding muscles the size of watermelons.

I didn’t think about the act of cleaning much. I used my closet for storage and to put my clothes in. There wasn’t anything special or sacred about the space itself. At the end of the day, it was simply a beige 5’ x 4’ area with shelves and a place to put hangers. I guess what started to get to me was how untouched it had been. All of the items left on the floor or on top of the shelf hadn’t been moved since eighth grade, and the more I cleaned, the younger and younger I got. When I picked up dolls, or art supplies, or old journals and baby clothes, there was a sadness that was tugging at my heart I could not yet identify.

It was a repetitive process, and when you are faced with that, you often just tune out the world around you for a few hours until you’re done. Maybe that’s why it didn’t really matter to me until the end, where finally I saw the blank walls of my closet and I was able to see the carpeted floor. Then, it dawned on me: I wasn’t a kid anymore.

At dinner, I was mentally drained and empty inside. I felt no emotions and I voiced none of my thoughts. I cope with difficult things by putting up a mental block between the emotion and the rest of my body, and I use that until I’m able to be alone and my emotions beat down my desire to remain calm and collected. As soon as I was away from the table and no eyes but

those belonging to my reflection could see me, all my thoughts poured from my eyes as hot, sticky tears and puddled from my mouth into drool, like a toddler who was not getting what they wanted.

Sobs retched their way out from my throat, and I threw myself onto the comfort of my bed and furled into myself in an attempt to be as small as an embryo. I wanted to completely disappear. I wanted all the loudness inside my head to be silent. I wanted the voice that was screaming, “I’m growing up! Oh God, I’m growing up!” to cease. I remained like that for what felt like a century. Each second passed slower than the last, and an invisible weight on my back pushed me down into the warmth of my sheets, and my face deeper into my pillow to muffle my wailing.

So much time passed that I began to feel like it stopped entirely. To move felt like swimming through molasses. My dad called me downstairs to do dishes. I went back upstairs, and he followed me.

He repeatedly asked me what was wrong, and I resorted to my defense of sputtering, “I don’t know! I don’t know!” like a moron. I always say that when people ask me what’s wrong, because I don’t like to think about myself and find out the answer to their question. What usually felt like a safety blanket to protect me from expressing my feelings felt more like a pile of stones being weighed onto my back. I wanted to explain what was wrong, because for once, I wanted to get help for it.

“I’m growing up,” I croaked out in a dead voice. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

It felt good to finally say. Well, it didn’t feel good. It felt like throwing up, or spitting out dissolving acid. What truly felt good was the bliss washing over me afterwards. I had successfully removed a tumor growing in the emotional part of my heart, and now the feeling of cleanliness was starting to return to my body in the form of drying cheeks and steadied breaths. My dad gave me some very sound advice. He passed it onto me.

”If you don’t want to grow up, don’t.”

THE BEAUTY OF LIVING LIFE IS WE NEVER REALLY STOP BEING YOUNG

He said some other stuff too, of course. Like how being that sad wasn’t normal, and that I shouldn’t have to feel that way. However, I find that the core advice being simple and sweet is the best way to digest it.

give it away. Even though the physical object is gone, the memories still belong to me. Playing with dolls, pretending to be a pirate, running around in circles until I grew dizzy … They are all still there with me. Maybe now that I have given away the tools used to create those memories, someone else will discover them and make their own.

People don’t have to do anything they’re not ready for. While I was cleaning out my closet, whenever I would touch a long-forgotten toy or brush my hand across an old piece of clothing, the memories would run through my head like a mini movie and then, I would

The beauty of living life is we never really stop being young. No matter how old you are, there will always be someone older who sees you that way. You don’t have to grow up if you don’t want to. You don’t have to stop carrying your childhood memories with you if you’re not ready to give them up. Life is beautiful, and the world does not ever stop being colorful or saturated. You are simply armed with more wisdom as you travel through it.

ARTWORK BY HAYLEE GRIFFITH, ARVADA, CO

EVEN THOUGH THE PHYSICAL OBJECT IS GONE, THE MEMORIES STILL BELONG TO ME

ART GALLERY

CREDITS 1 ARTWORK BY KATHERINE CONJALKA, LATHAM, NY

ARTWORK BY AMY NOWELL, FUQUAY VARINA, NC

ARTWORK

BY AESHA JACKSON, LOUISVILLE, KY

school spirit photography contest

BY EMMA RYAN, PARKER, CO

PHOTO BY LINDA ZENG, SUNNYVALE, CA

BY ANONYMOUS

PHOTO

PHOTO

PHOTO BY SOEUN LEE, TENAFLY, NJ

PHOTO BY ANONYMOUS

Together We Rise

JULIA MARELL, SHORT HILLS, NJ

Two years ago, I read a news article about the shortcomings of the foster care system. I was horrified to learn that foster children travel from home to home with a trash bag filled with their belongings. I decided to search for a way to help. I found an organization called Together We Rise, which works to provide children with basic necessities, along with comfort items in a dignified manner. I started a local chapter of this nonprofit during sophomore year and by senior year, we had 34 members. I never thought this organization would put me in touch with a community of like-minded peers who cared as deeply as I do for children in need.

Just yesterday, we decorated big, blue duffel bags with pictures of dragons, flowers, and underwater creatures for children we’d never met. We made colorful holiday cards, sketching smiley faces next to our signatures, and filling gift bags with toiletries, streamers, and fluffy teddy bears. After our first year of school fundraising

events, my Together We Rise community had raised enough money to provide 25 children with Sweet Case duffels. As a team, we worked together and created something that we were proud to present to the children.

There are currently over 500,000 minors in the United States foster care system. I see my role in my community — whether at home or around the world — as interconnected and interdependent. I can’t solve big problems alone, but I can organize, energize, and incentivize others to join me in an effort to make positive changes for the greater good.

The Project That Changed My Life

AIDA EL-HAJJAR, MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN

“A project that will simultaneously help our community while using your talents,” was my sixth-grade Capstone project assignment. This project was assigned to me during the 2020-21 school year, at the height of the pandemic. When I looked at the world around me, I knew my Capstone project would need to connect somehow to the pandemic. I just needed to figure out how and what I could do to help. After hours and hours of thought, I formed an idea. I couldn’t see my grandparents due to their health conditions and my parents’ concern about endangering their lives. For

techniques. Therefore, I took my concern about families being separated and my love of art to form a project. I called it “Pandemic Portraits.”

almost two whole years, my grandparents and I spoke on Zoom calls and over the phone; but I wasn’t alone. So many other families must have faced this same predicament, especially if a loved one was hospitalized or at an elderly home. Seeing family was extremely complicated. Art was the next component of my project. I started to love art during the pandemic, and I would dedicate hours each day to improving my

I emailed the elderly home down the street from my house and pitched my idea: I would draw residents' family members so they would feel close to them, and for the families, I would draw the residents. All I needed from the family was a photograph and, most importantly, a paragraph describing the person I was to be drawing. The description of the family member helped me really capture the person’s essence. I have completed 19 portraits thus far and I hope to continue this project as long as I can. I have had lots of time to think about how death is so difficult, but love is so immense. If I can bring one tiny smile or one ounce of joy, then all of my hours of drawing are worth it. It is truly magical to see how art can impact people in so many wonderful ways.

I have completed 19 portraits thus far, and I hope to continue this project as long as I can

The Cadillac

BY GAVIN ROSSWOG, PITTSBURGH, PA

I moved from Virginia to Pennsylvania about six years ago. Calling it a change of pace would have been a massive understatement — it was a complete change of setting. Going from the warm, sun-soaked residential neighborhood in Virginia to the dreary, dark hills of Pennsylvania was like going through withdrawal. When we moved in, we were greeted by friendly faces and warm introductions to the neighborhood, which eased the blow of moving significantly. Surrounded by several people my age and very welcoming neighbors, I found the neighborhood to be incredibly pleasant. We were introduced to all the houses surrounding us within a day and everyone brought baked goods, dinner, or some gift to greet us.

By our first week, we had met everyone except the house that was directly across from us. They simply had not said a word. The house lay hauntingly across the street, the grass overgrown and the windows blocked by some unseen object. It was two stories with broken siding and dislodged roof shingles, and it had a backyard that looked like a jungle. My young, childish mind saw it as a haunted house, like Dracula’s lair, and I had an acute fascination with it.

My parents went over with a tin of cookies and introduced themselves. An old man and his wife emerged, looking frail. They looked like an old tower that was slowly crumbling to dust. They exchanged quick conversation and without lingering long, returned to the safety of our house. We never held a real interaction with them until months later.

As I got to know other kids in the neighborhood, I gained knowledge of the rumors about the neighbors. Rumors that they hoarded old objects, and that

random stuff was piled to the ceiling in the house. Rumors that they couldn’t take care of their lawn, so it would grow knee-high until some reluctant neighbor would cut it for them. I quickly gained the notion that they were “weird” and I should steer clear of them at any cost. Whenever I would question my parents about them, they would just shrug off the topic or tell me not to be nosy.

Winter came before I knew it, and snow accumulated quickly. Because of my parents’ suggestion, I was walking from house to house trying to get money in exchange for shoveling driveways. After I had shoveled most of the houses I could, my Dad told me to go across the street and do the neighbor’s for free. Dread filled me with the thought, but I reluctantly abided. While I was shoveling the driveway, I noticed an old 1970 Cadillac coupe in their garage. As I peered in for a better look, I was filled with fascination and awe. When I went home, I told my parents all about the car and they told me I should go over and ask him about it and maybe I would learn something about him. I shrugged off the idea like a bad joke and forgot about the car until the summer.

The summer was a profit for me. I mowed several lawns and racked up a good amount of money. After looking across the street and noticing the size of the grass in the neighbor’s yard, my parents again instructed me to help them. I reluctantly trudged across the street for a three-hour-long, grueling lawn care session in my neighbor’s yard. Near the tail end of me mowing, my neighbor came out to thank me and offer me money for my effort. It was the first time I had seen him face-to-face, and he looked even frailer than I had imagined. He was nicer than I thought and after going through some small talk with him, I hesitantly inquired about the Cadillac. His face lit up and he told me it was his prized possession. He also let me know I could stop by to look at it with him.

Later that night, I consulted my parents and they decided that it was fine if I go and look at the car the next day. I was still scared walking, but I felt more comfortable knowing that he wasn’t the monster I imagined. The minute I got into the house I was shocked. The rumors were true — piles and piles of

It’s funny how much you can mean to someone without even knowing

junk so high, it touched the ceiling in places. We had to clear a path just to be able to comfortably walk to the garage, which to my surprise, was obsessively clean with only some remnants of old newspapers on the floor. He showed me around the car, pointing out all of the details and functions of it. I could see the passion for the car in his gaze and he obsessed on every tiny detail. After examining and thoroughly cleaning the car, he offered to get me some soda and watch NASCAR. I hung out with him all day and gained a new understanding of their situation.

The Beach

BY CLARA YU, HONG KONG

The surprise was yet to unfold as we planned the beach cleanup. The beach where our family once yearned to visit was full of trash. We did not hesitate to shirk any responsibilities and decided to not stand by when something we once loved was affected by pollution.

That day, we used our garbage picker and discarded the trash one by one. Although the sun shined brightly and left us restless and sweaty, the fresh breeze that came to wave “hello” every once in a while and the smell of the ocean kept us going. We thrived on our

Time passed, but not much changed. I greeted him when I saw him and still mowed and shoveled at his house. I felt better knowing that he was different than I had imagined, but I never went back to his house again.

The next winter, I looked out my window to see several ambulances at his house. It was the buzz of the neighborhood, and people stood on the sidewalk to figure out what was going on. It turned out that he had a heart attack and passed away. I felt sorry that he died, but not exactly grief, just a feeling of

sadness that he passed. Out of everyone in the neighborhood, we were the only people invited to his funeral, along with his family and friends. During the ceremony, his wife called me over and told me how highly he thought of me. She told me that he often referred to me as “Mini Me” and that he always looked forward to seeing me. She told me how they did not have many people, so even the small interactions I had with him meant a lot. It’s funny how much you can mean to someone without even knowing. I’m just glad that I made someone’s life a little easier.

goals and ended up with a pile of our collected trash, separated into different categories so we could recycle as needed.

Slowly, as the waves crashed against the sea shore, the beach started to look like how we imagined it once was — clean and safe, a legacy and beauty to all. All that was left were rocks, one-of-akind seashells, and the distant stars that glistened, twinkling brightly, like a pearl in the ocean.

We spent that night lying on our backs, humming tunes and

chatting, while being mesmerized by the surreal night sky. It reminded me of the time I went to the space museum and watched the show of stars under the halfspherical dome, which made everything so much more enchanting.

The satisfaction of knowing I took part in helping the beach filled me. Looking at the vast night sky reminded me that I am a minute speck of sand in the galaxy. Yet, today, I was able to make a change, helping the environment and beautifying the beach for others.

Collecting 20,000 PPE to Aid the Houseless

When the COVID-19 cases surged in the U.S., my sister and I began to ponder what we could do as students to help curb the spread of this deadly virus in our community. After thorough research, we discovered that houseless people are urgently in need of masks and sanitizers. An outbreak occurred at a San Francisco shelter, leading to a 12 percent surge in positive cases, becoming the largest outbreak in shelters across the country. This gave us the idea that if we are able

to provide enough masks and hand sanitizers to the houseless, we will be able to address their unmet needs and indirectly curb the spread of this virus in our community.

In September 2020, my sister and I partnered with Bridges, an organization serving the homeless in our neighborhood to distribute masks and sanitizers to people experiencing homelessness. Then, we leveraged the power of social

KRISTEN NGAI, LIVINGSTON, NJ

We identified a missing piece of the COVID puzzle that helped lower the spread of coronavirus in our community

media by creating a video asking for medical supply donations, posting it on several social media platforms. After receiving only two boxes of masks, we knew we needed to think of other strategies in order to get more Personal Protective Equipment.

After brainstorming different ideas with my sisters, we reached out directly to protective equipment companies, thinking they may have

extra supplies and would be willing to help the less fortunate. Luckily, after emailing more than 150 sanitizer and mask suppliers, we were able to collect 5,000 masks and 100 sanitizers. To ensure each homeless recipient could have an adequate supply of masks and sanitizers, my sister and I packed the supplies into smaller, more convenient packs for each person.

In order to reach out to more

people in need across the country, we also collected Personal Protective Equipment for Verdugo Hills Hospital, Arbor Roseland Assisted Living, Philabundance, and Fulfill NJ, resulting in a total of 20,000 PPE. Fortunately, through the COVID-19 donation project, we identified a missing piece of the COVID puzzle that helped lower the spread of coronavirus in our community.

Spreading Kindness to Underserved Communities

RENEE NGAI, LIVINGSTON, NJ

The coronavirus cases in the United States reached an all-time high, with 200,000 people testing positive each day. Hospitals were close to full capacity, while I am bored at home, pacing back and forth, wondering what I can do to help the community. But I am just a high school student. How do I achieve my fullest potential?

I found the answer after reading the story of Susan. It was a freezing night during the pandemic when Susan curled up in a blanket on the street. Her back injury left her out on the streets without a job. She was anxious, “How can I get through this cold winter? The shelters now have limited space due to the COVID guidelines requirement to keep the beds six feet apart. I also don’t have any masks to protect myself.” In fact, the efforts to mitigate the spread of coronavirus among the houseless has been a challenge. As reported by The Washington Post during the outbreak of the pandemic, more than 273 people in a houseless shelter tested positive in Washington D.C., with 10 people dying in one day.

So, from that day on, my sister and I partnered to collect and donate masks to Bridges Outreach. Bridges

Outreach is a nonprofit organization seeking to end houselessness through outreach, serving over 20,000 clients. We created a website and a video to promote mask collection and posted the video and website link on social media — Facebook, Nextdoor, YouTube, and Instagram. When I developed the website and the video, I thought getting a donation of 100 masks would be great. But, after a week, we did not even collect one mask. Two days later, an idea popped into my head: Why didn’t we reach out to the mask manufacturers to ask for their mask donations directly?

bags for Bridges Outreach to facilitate the distribution of the masks and the hand sanitizers to the houseless.

A month later, we further expanded our volunteer idea to help food pantries, such as Fulfill New Jersey and Philabundance, that have a shortage of masks and hand sanitizers. Additionally, we are also helping the Arbor Roseland Long Term Care Facility and the University of Southern California Verdugo Hills Hospital to collect masks to give back to health care workers who are saving numerous lives during the coronavirus pandemic. After this donation project, I became determined to share my story to others through the HOSA Prepared Speaking competition, earning sixth place in the Northern Regionals Competition. More importantly, I hope my stories inspire others to make an impact during the coronavirus pandemic as well.

Through phone calls and emails, my sister and I reached out to more than 160 manufacturers of masks and hand sanitizer for donations. At the end, we received nearly 5,000 masks and 100 hand sanitizers! We packed them into 2,000 individual

If underserved communities and people who are houseless have access to masks and hand sanitizer, not only can we lower the numbers of COVID-19 cases among them, but we can also prevent the spread of this deadly disease to other people walking nearby.

But I am just a high school student. How do I achieve my fullest potential?

An Interview with... Natalie Silverstein

by Shriya Surana, Fremont, CA

Author of Simple Acts:

The Busy Teen's Guide to Making a Difference

Natalie Silverstein, an author and advocate who gives back to her community recently came out with a new book titled Simple Acts: The Busy Teen's Guide to Making a Difference . The short guide is full of easily digestible information, resources, and graphics, presented in a way that readers can jump around to different sections as needed, instead of reading from cover to cover. The book talks about the author’s experiences and ties them into opportunities and ideas for teens today.

Shriya: I actually checked out all your past work in service and I LOVED the section about how community service is super impactful on a teen's character development. Out of curiosity, how would you say giving back has impacted you as a person?

Natalie: Thanks so much for this question, Shriya! People don’t often ask me about MY personal experience (they only wonder about my role as a parent and consultant, and how service helps us raise kind and compassionate kids). I like to quote the great poet Maya Angelou who said, “I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver.” I think that’s absolutely true. I have been lifted, comforted, inspired, and humbled by service and the connections I’ve made with other people through volunteering. I’ve been able to see different perspectives and learn from others’ lived experiences. I am constantly reminded that the best way to feel grounded in our own lives and to stay in touch with our own humanity, is to serve others. And honestly, volunteering just makes me feel good! It gets me out of my own head and I stop centering myself in every situation. I’m so grateful for all of the help, mentoring, kindness, encouragement, and support I’ve received throughout my life, and

service just seems like the right way to pay it forward.

S: The guide is filled with great information and advice for teens! If you had to name one, what's a key takeaway you would like all teens to take away from your book? I know you wrote this for your own kids, is there something that you hope they learn from giving back to others?

N: I think the key takeaway for ‘tweens and teens should be that EVERY person — no matter who you are, where you are from, or how much “free” time you have — has gifts, skills, strengths, and talents to share, and that there is a person, community, or organization out there that NEEDS you and would be so grateful for your help and support.

I think many teens feel sort of hopeless right now. The problems of the world seem so big and overwhelming. I get it! I feel that way sometimes, too. But the truth is that

I HAVE BEEN LIFTED, COMFORTED, INSPIRED, AND HUMBLED BY SERVICE AND THE CONNECTIONS I'VE MADE WITH OTHER PEOPLE THROUGH VOLUNTEERING.

every person can do SOMETHING, one small thing, each and every day to make an impact, to make things better. If we all threw up our hands and gave up, nothing would change. But if every one of us commits to doing one small, simple thing, all of those small things put together CAN add up to a big thing, to meaningful change. We can move the needle, we can make an impact, and I think it’s our responsibility as members of a community to try.

S: As a teen, were you involved in volunteering? When did you start? How? What kinds of resources in your community/schools made that possible?

N: I was raised by immigrants who came to the United States from Ukraine after World War II. They arrived here with no resources — limited education, no money, and they didn’t speak English. They worked hard to make a life for themselves — to build a family, put food on the table, to give us a home, and provide an education — and I’m so grateful for all of it. But there wasn’t a ton of free time to do service together as a family. My parents were as generous as they could be to their church community and as a family we volunteered there a lot. They always supported other immigrants coming to the U.S.

My Mom also supported a few national charities like the St. Jude Hospital which cares for children with cancer who can’t afford to pay for treatment. Those are some of my earliest memories of philanthropy and service. As a teen, I went to Catholic school, and we were always hosting fundraisers, or doing “Secret Santa” projects for children in the foster care or orphanage system. Things were a little different when I was growing up, in terms of handson opportunities to serve in the community. Most of those were found through religious institutions or through school. I really discovered my passion for this work when I became a parent myself. I think I

understood instinctively that the best way to raise grateful, grounded, compassionate, empathetic kids (who hopefully grow into kind, purposeful, generous adults) is to engage in meaningful service with them when they are young.

S: What resources do you wish were available to you at that time, or what resources are you glad exist for teens today when it comes to community service?

N: Before the internet, nonprofit organizations really didn’t understand the power of volunteers, and how to leverage families, teens, and young adults to engage in hands-on work, fundraise, and spread their message. The internet and social media allow us to learn about organizations doing incredible work in our communities, around the country and all over the world, and we can sign up to volunteer or to help in other ways with the click of a button.

And fundraising tools have certainly evolved! We used to go door-todoor with a can collecting change. Now we have Go Fund Me and other platforms, and personalized fundraising pages on websites. Not to sound like an old person, but as “digital natives,” teens today don’t really appreciate how much power they have in the palm of their hand (through the device they are holding). My hope is that teens use that power for good.

S: There was a summary of the debate about volunteering hours being mandated by schools. Do you support schools having volunteering hours? Why? When you were in high school was it mandated? If so, how did you feel about it at the time?

N: I think we need to flip the narrative on this whole issue. I think mandating a certain (arbitrary) number of service hours for each student to complete is missing the point. We don’t want kids to just complete hours to “check the box.” Rather, I think schools should consider service-learning programs through which the curriculum is built around a deep understanding of a social justice issue or community/ global concern.

Then, I think schools should provide opportunities for teens to follow their curiosity around these issues and help them find something that ignites their passions and taps into their talents. Once we’ve done that, teens will want to get out in the community and serve, and they won’t stop at the “required” number of hours. That should be the goal: to help every teen find their passion and purpose. The hours will take care of themselves, and we will have raised a generation of people who continue to serve into adulthood and with their own families.

S: Would you like to describe a volunteering experience that you believe had the largest impact on you? Any life-changing moments you experienced while giving back?

N: I have so many good stories, mostly from volunteering with my children when they were younger. One of my favorites has to do with creating a family service tradition around a holiday — something I strongly suggest to families. We celebrate Hanukkah in our family because my husband is Jewish and we are raising our children in his faith. From the start, I knew we wouldn’t do EIGHT nights of gifts. That just seemed really excessive, especially given my personal history of being raised in a home with limited means. I certainly received toys and gifts for Christmas, but it was never excessive. So I set the expectation early that we would celebrate Hanukkah for eight fun

WE CAN SIGN UP TO VOLUNTEER OR TO HELP IN OTHER WAYS WITH THE CLICK OF A BUTTON

nights, but gifts would only be given on a few of the nights. On the other nights, we would do some small act of service or kindness.

When my kids were small and I was pregnant with my youngest (they are now 21, 19, and 15 years old) we signed up to do a visit to an elderly neighbor on one night of Hanukkah through a senior services organization called Dorot. They matched us with an elderly couple, Betty and Fred Schwartz, who were Holocaust survivors. We would bring a bag of treats that contained a small menorah, candles, cookies, a dreidel to play a game, cards, and a song sheet. We had the best time visiting them the first year that we requested them for several years. They were quite elderly, and Fred had had a stroke so was nonverbal, but we went back to see them for six or seven years, and several times at other holidays throughout the year. We really developed a relationship with this lovely, sweet

couple who were SO happy to see us and to celebrate the holiday with us. There were pictures of our kids on the refrigerator alongside photos of their own grandchildren and great grandchildren. So, for me, the biggest win of all was when my kids would ask, in early December, “what night are we going to visit the Schwartz’s?” When they are grown, they won’t remember the must-have Lego set or the hard to find Barbie doll. They’ll remember those visits with the Schwartz’s. Those will be our cherished family traditions that I hope they will try to replicate with their own children.

S: We have a few budding writers on our team. I was wondering if you had any publishing or writing advice for teens who want to write. Any words of inspiration?

N: Well first, I’d say — try to read as much as you can. You can’t be a good writer if you are not a reader. And read lots of different types of

books, from a myriad of voices. Then, in terms of becoming a better writer, I once heard the amazing novelist Anna Quindlen say, “If you want to be a good writer, sit your bottom in the chair and write!” You hear that all the time — just take the time to write, and put your thoughts on paper, even if you never publish them. Just the practice of writing is good for you and inevitably, your storytelling ability will improve.

I also love the idea of “show me, don’t tell me.” Let the reader use his or her imagination. And also — be brave about publishing. Submit your essays and stories. Gather feedback, and keep refining and honing your craft. And if you really want to be published, don’t be discouraged by rejections. Let those fuel your practice. If you love writing — DO IT, and keep doing it, keep putting your work out into the world. You have a voice and a perspective, and the world needs to hear it.

Click to Learn More

"Young people can make a difference in the world no matter how busy they are. Simple Acts shows them how, with easy and practical tips, activities and resources that will inspire teens to add intentional acts of kindness and service to their everyday lives.

Simple Acts equips ‘tweens and teens with the hands-on tools and know-how they need to mak e small but meaningful change..." — Simple Acts Guide

Simple Acts: The Busy Teen's Guide to Making a Difference is available for purchase at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Free Spirit, and Bookshop. Just click the image to learn more and purchase your very own copy!

OUR NEW NEIGHBORS

ARTICLE BY GRANT WANG, EAST AMHERST, NY

Since November 2021, a total of 456 Afghan evacuees have arrived in Buffalo, NY, through resettlement agencies. Because so many Afghans fled their country so quickly, there is an urgent need for services to help them. Although these evacuees have received help and support from five local groups (Catholic Charities of Buffalo, the International Institute of Buffalo, Jericho Road Community Health Center, Jewish Family Services of Western New York, and Journey’s End Refugee Services) to settle down in Buffalo, they still need more help assimilating into the community. In particular, the evacuees who are children need to learn English and become accustomed to the American school system.

I feel that these evacuees are victims of war. Most of the Afghan evacuees had to flee their home country in fear of the Taliban. Some of them still have families in Afghanistan, so they worry about their families constantly. I am a second-generation immigrant myself, and I learned about the challenges my parents faced when coming to the United States. Therefore, I feel it is my responsibility to help these refugees settle down and feel at home.

Last week I had the opportunity to work with Journey’s End to assist some newly arrived Afghan refugee children. Seeing their shy faces turn to delight after a week really warmed my heart because what they’ve been through is unimaginable.

BY YINCHENG QIAN, DALLAS, TX

Throughout the week, we picked them up from their hotels and took them to a local library where we taught them English through a variety of techniques. Although there are plenty of English to Pashto translators online, none of them had the text-tospeech ability; they were only able to translate in written form. As a result, teaching the evacuee children English was especially challenging because many of them could read little to no Pashto and could only speak it. However, one thing that the language barrier can’t stop is fun — we taught them everything through various fun activities such as games and sports. We even took them to the zoo to learn the names of animals in English.

My next mission is to help make barren apartments into cozy, welcoming homes for these newly arriving refugee families. Although the resettlement agencies helped them find apartments, they barely have sufficient resources for establishing households. I will do fundraising to collect donations from the community to provide these families with essential furniture, such as tables, mattresses, etc., as well as other household items like dishes and toiletries. I can’t wait until we move these items in!

It has been an incredible experience for me to get to know the new refugees and contribute to their resettlement in Buffalo. Let’s work together to further grow our community!

ARTWORK

a spinning wheel

ARTICLE BY KATE SONG, CLAREMONT, CA

PHOTO BY HILDI VECCHIO, ORLANDO, FL

Some would say their friends or family members act as the spinning wheel to their bike: keeping them upright on their feet (or in this case, wheels), and preventing them from straying onto the wrong path. My spinning wheel is someone I don’t even know. However, her quotes and book, which has almost become the holy grail to me, deflect external forces that threaten to leave me on the brink of falling. To me, she is a relentless activist and incisive writer who began a gangbusters book tour for her No. 1 memoir, Becoming. She’s the first woman of African-American descent to grace the White House, and she’s also a modernist vanguard who pushed an initiative that ignited a purpose to a regular old chore.

conflict. My concern was that someone would catch a glimpse of the box and take the entire contents.

Ironically, and very much to my dismay, no one took any. No one even spared a glance at the box.

A few days later, I saw my dad take out the contents of the box. He told me the leftover produce was perfect for my grandmother and grandfather, who were suffering from Alzheimer’s and gallbladder cancer. To say I was a tad reluctant to give them up was an understatement, because if I let my dad give them away, it would only reaffirm that my idea had been unsuccessful. But then I remembered how Michelle Obama said, “On this journey, you never know what you’re prepared for,” so I let my dad whisk them away.

A few days later my grandma called.

“Hi halmoni,” I said into the phone. My grandmother went on a long lecture to address how wonderful the produce was.

With my mouth crammed with Häagen-Dazs, I intently focused on the words of Michelle Obama’s memoir, Becoming. She had begun a vegetable garden to encourage people to play a role in tapering childhood obesity. This struck me. What if I started to give away the vegetables and fruits my dad and I had worked hard on together to our neighbors? It’s not like we could even eat them all. The gears in my head started turning, and once my gears started turning, they never grinded to a halt. The next day, I plucked an extensive array of fruits and veggies from our garden and tossed them into a cardboard box lined with some washed blankets. But as with any superhero storyline, mine too, introduced a

“It’s very rejuvenating,” she said. I profusely thanked her for telling me with a broad grin etched on my face, as the overwhelming sense of happiness seeped into me. Her call couldn’t have come at a more perfect time, for I had been feeling down, thinking of what I could have possibly done that ruined my whole plan.

Once again, my spinning wheel hadn’t failed me, keeping me upright regardless of the bolts of discouragement streaking past, almost rattling the steady ride. And it had served one more purpose. Now my dad and I give away the fruits and veggies to an extended community: friends, family, neighbors, etc. Sometimes they’ll reject it, but that’s perfectly fine, because when I stumble into a situation with the potential to turn bad, my “spinning wheel” assists me in maintaining balance and moving forward.

When I stumble into a situation with the potential to turn bad, my “spinning wheel” assists me in maintaining balance and moving forward

DON’T LET THE SMILE FOOL YOU

(ARTICLE BY SUHJUNG KIM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

Ping!

Bouncing off the side, the Pringles can gracefully arched into the bin. The crowd erupted into cheers, signaling the first goal of the day. Congratulatory pats showered down my back as I basked in my moment of glory. It was a great 1+1 deal – I got to score and also did my good deed of the day by throwing the can into the recycling bin.

When it came to snacks, Pringles were hands-down my No. 1 choice. Not only did they serve as a form of entertainment to bored fifth graders during recess, they came in a convenient can that ensured portability as well as protection for the delicious crisps. The smile on the front always aroused good memories of sharing Pringles at sleepovers with my friends. So, imagine my surprise when my mom suddenly cut off my daily supply of Pringles. And her reason? Because they were bad for the environment! “But, Mom! Anyone can tell the can is made out of paper!” But she was insistent. No. More. Pringles.

I was crushed. Desperate to prove my mom wrong, I began to research fervently — if I could disprove her,

she could not stop me from eating my Pringles, right? But little did I know, I was the one who was oblivious to the dark truth. Titles such as “Pringles Tube Tries to Wake from ‘Recycling Nightmare,’” and “Why Pringles’ ‘Idiotic’ Packaging is a Recycling Nightmare” flashed before my eyes. Through my research, I found out that the Pringles cans were impossible to recycle due to the variety of different materials used in the packaging. Because recycling machines cannot separate the plastic caps from the foil-coated cardboard sleeves, they end up in the landfill. After learning the truth, I could not help but feel betrayed by the smile on the can.

I was numb from the harsh truth – I had been oblivious to the fact that the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Pringles cans I had consumed, each a shade of cheery red or zesty green, with the same smile plastered on the front, were piled up in a landfill somewhere. From then on, the only thing I could see was the face on the Pringles cans. I could feel Mr. P’s gaze on the back of my head in the grocery store, at school, and on the streets. The once friendly, but now eerie smile was a constant reminder of the horrible deed I had done.

In an attempt to spread the truth, I began to nag my friends to stop eating Pringles, but like my previously naïve self, they were more interested in satisfying their cravings. But I was determined to convince my friends of the dangers of the cans they held in their hands. After hours of research, I gave a passionate presentation during class, where I showed my classmates the photos of plastic lids floating in the ocean. And, to my relief, my sincerity and plea for action got across.

My now-informed peers began to change; many started to choose more eco-friendly alternatives. And, the change quickly spread beyond my fifth grade classroom. Inspired by my presentation, some of my friends approached the nutritionist and asked her to stop giving out Pringles as snacks each week. After hearing from my classmates about the environmental damage, the nutritionist immediately agreed to drop Pringles. Instead, bananas quickly became a popular choice for both the taste and nutrition. And,

bananas also come in portable cases that are even biodegradable — an excellent 1+1 deal.

Through my voice, I had unwittingly thrown a rock that created ripples within my community. Although I had started with the simple goal of convincing my classmates, I ended up changing a part of our school community forever. As a result, all the students stopped consuming their weekly share of Pringles, which meant 972 less cans per week, 3,888 less cans per month, and 34,992 less cans per school year that were dumped in landfills. No longer fooled, I can now smile back in defiance at the Pringles can.

ARTWORK BY ALLY CHEN, MCLEAN, VA

AFTER LEARNING THE TRUTH, I COULD NOT HELP BUT FEEL BETRAYED BY THE SMILE ON THE CAN.

How would you describe your writing process?

I work more in spontaneous bursts of energy that vary based on how inspired I am. Usually when it’s difficult coming up with an idea I just type or jot down anything that comes to mind until something sparks my interest.

–

Shriya

Surana, Fremont, CA

When I first grab a pen and paper, my writing is purely intuitive. Whatever thought and idea sprouts from my imagination is written down, only later to be reflected on and edited. I’ll enhance and critique my writing not until it is perfected, but until my own soul is satisfied with it.

– Madison Cossaboom, Newark, DE

When I write, I like to organize my thoughts either through the use of an outline or simply writing down bullet points. That way I can get all of my ideas down to write about something I am interested in with an organized structure and meaningful flow.

–

Gabriele Barrocas,

Delray Beach, FL

My best writing starts from discovering a topic that I feel passionate about, and depending on the genre I’ll either brainstorm or begin a first draft just by dumping all information I want to convey onto a document. Editing is a bit more randomized; I sometimes sit up in bed in the middle of the night having an “aha!” moment about a specific way I want to word a sentence. I never really end a piece; sometimes I’ll just continue adding onto it whenever I get inspiration.

– Jiayin Zou, McLean,

VA

My writing process is not always steady, not always constant, and it is pretty much indefinable, but I have no writer’s block. I keep journals that are stream of consciousness, in other words, “pure writing” — writing without beginning or end or any purpose in mind. My journals contain the rawness and energy which I channel into producing actual poems and stories.

– Anonymous, Somonauk, IL

Want to participate in segments like this? Join the Teen Ink Student Advisory Board today! Just click here or email editor@teenink.com to express your interest!

Welcome to Talking With Teens! In this section, we ask our Student Advisory Board members questions and select the most interesting responses to share with our readers!

How do you find writing inspiration?

For me, I find nothing when I proactively seek the novelties in life, but there is instant inspiration whenever I let my brain rest and let my heart feel the nuances of each experience.

Writing inspiration comes from experiences and internet consumption. I usually write a list of anything I find interesting online.

– Samantha Fong, Queens, NY

– Elaine Gao, Tulsa, OK

Mimicking the voices of popular authors really helps me get into different head spaces for free-writes. Also taking a step back and helping my friends edit their own work, seeing how they problem solve characters or plot holes gives me new tools to try out.

– Catherine Stauffer, Mill Valley, CA

I find writing inspiration from my personal life. I feel that I can always find an interesting story by adding elements and twisting what actually happened. I also believe that this helps me understand what happens in my life!

– Lily Tatz, Chambersburg, PA

I always find that in such a driven world of clamouring ambition where often my voice means little, I can magnify my thoughts through paper expression.

– Ava Cooksley, Ontario, Canada

I find writing inspiration from the basic conversations we have every day. Sometimes, I’d even eavesdrop on the conversation of others with a lot of interest. Every human being has an entirely different story; conversations help bring them out and inspire you to write by keeping what you gain from the conversation as a base or by aligning it directly to the piece you write.

– Afra Samsudeen, Kandy, Sri Lanka

I find writing inspiration through the cragged waves of my mental health in all of its glorious highs and crushing lows. Within these head spaces, writing allows me to process and decompress where I feel confined into other characters; in other words, I’m able to breathe “my life” into other characters and root real, raw emotions into spaces where I could never physically exist-in the realms of an elven world or as an amoeba in my brain...

– Sarah Yee, Sacramento, CA

BLOOD& INDEX CARDS

ARTICLE BY OLIVIA DARTLEY, NEW YORK, NY

I.

“How

much sumac should I put in?”

I look up at my father, catching a glimpse of my furrowed eyebrows and dubiety-contorted lips in the stainless steel of the bowl he’s using to mix the ground lamb and beef shank. The tablespoon I’m holding quivers slightly above the open jar of spice, as if unsure whether or not to delve into the contents.

He focuses his gaze on the meat. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Just do however much feels right.”

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I guess that’s the problem. Although many a time I’ve heard people profess, often with a self-assured grin, that a certain form of cultural expression “was in their blood” — as if coursing through their veins, streaming out through their fingertips, pumping emphatically from their hearts to permeate each cell — it seemed the only thing that gushed through my bloodstream was inhibition-infused plasma. Maybe that was the reason why, despite being an ArmenianAmerican, making dolma felt so incredibly foreign.

I peer down at the stained index card that, in my father’s grandmother’s sloping red script, bears the recipe we’re using. The ink of the fountain pen is smudged from years of dedicated reference, a rust-colored cloud obscuring the guidance I so desperately need. Eventually, I just decided to add the same amount of sumac as red pepper flakes.

A few minutes later, we’re assembling the dolmas. I repeat the instructions from the index card in my mind like holy doctrine: place a spoonful of the meat onto a grape leaf. Remove the stem, roll it up, and tuck in the sides.

I fumble with the grape leaf as I attempt to extract it from the glass jar, droplets of the surrounding briny liquid trickling down my wrist in an idle waltz. I lay the leaf flat on a plate, spoon a bit of the spiced meat onto it, and pluck off the stem.

Okay, at least I’ve gotten that done.

I carefully fold the edge of the leaf over the meat, the pale veins of the plant spinning — almost twirling in time with the music playing from speakers on the adjacent table — as

I roll it up the rest of the way. I pick the concoction up to place it in the heavy-bottomed saucepan we’re using to cook the grape leaves and then —

The leaf splits at the seams, hurling itself open as the meat plummets to the table and splatters on the index card.

Tuck in the sides, chides the script, obscured by parsley sprig.

Great.

My father had decided to play Armenian music for this occasion, perhaps to create a “fully-immersive experience,” but I didn’t feel immersed. I just felt like I was drowning, struggling to stay afloat — like the few specks of meat still clinging to the leaf pinched between my forefinger and thumb — among the sharp twangs of a string instrument I didn’t know and the fluted wails of a singer in a language I didn’t understand.

It was times like these when I got the unbearable sense, the thought forming a gnarled knot in the center of my stomach, that I was simply a passive visitor of my culture, instead of an inhabitant.

“It was times like these when I got the unbearable sense, the thought forming a gnarled knot in the center of my stomach, that I was simply a passive visitor of my culture, instead of an inhabitant”

ARTWORK BY AUSTINA XU, CUPERTINO, CA

I felt very little flowing through my veins right now but inhibitioninfused plasma, but it wasn’t necessarily through any fault of our own. Instead, it seemed the process had begun centuries ago and thousands of miles away.

II.

My great-grandmother was born in a small Armenian village, in what is now southeastern Turkey, 100 years before me. The culture ran through their veins then, the blood fueling the spring in their feet and sway of their hips as they danced the folk dances, with the language coursing from their mouths like the currents of the Tigris River they crossed to get to the adjacent city. And that was the problem.

When the Ottoman Turks launched their genocidal campaign against the Armenian population in the shadows of the Great War, it was that blood they were seeking to spill, drain, eliminate. And blood they did shed.

The blood ran everywhere then, plunging down the banks of the riverside and diluting itself in the Tigris, sinking into the tender Mesopotamian mud and then into obliteration beneath the pounding of the soldiers’ iron-plated boots and the pummeling of the autumn rains.

And when my great-grandmother escaped in a Red Cross sponsored caravan, enroute to Aleppo and eventually to a port in Beirut that would take her to America, it was

that blood she left behind, at least in part. She had escaped with her life, but the heart of her community — the giddy folk dances where she skipped arm in arm with her cousins, the earthy scent of za’atar spice emanating from the kitchen next door, the harmonic murmurs of the townsfolk and warmth of her mother’s shoulder as they knelt in the cathedral on Sundays — would be no more.

She settled in New Jersey, on a street lined with other refugees. They were living the American Dream in clusters of brick brownstones, the faded stone crumbling as if crushed by claustrophobia, with wallpaper that sagged like wilted weeds and floorboards that shrieked at the softest footfall. Like the corroded

bricks of their homes, they were all yearning for more space — more room for expression — yet were beaten back, relentlessly by the many hypocrisies of an “openminded” America, until they crumbled under the weight of it all.

The Maybelline-lined eyes of the American housewives at the local market — reflecting the azure skies of a gusty Northeastern day, generations of afternoon picnics by the Passaic River — pierced into the shoulders of her mismatched flour-bag-quilted dress, the gash widening stitch by stitch, narrowed pupil by narrowed pupil. Their voices — the gliding vowels and soft consonants rooted in the certainty of being American-born — gutted the sharp r’s, the harsh curved s’s, of a voice imprinted by thousands of years in Mesopotamia.

A homeland now gone. The assimilation was different now, forced by the blade of a society that only accepted you as long as you compressed your foreign-ness, your culture, onto the dotted blue lines of a 3-by-5-inch index card.

And so, there on the kitchen table, as the blush red of Armenian taraz dresses grew feeble under the unrelenting suffocation of back-closet dust, the sharp mid-Eastern language all but forgotten for a forced English lilt, the stack of recipe-laden index cards grew ever taller.

III.

In my family’s New York City apartment, the singer is still wailing in a language I don’t understand in harmony with the quivering strums of an instrument I don’t know. The fallen meat is still on the table, the grape leaf juice still dripping solemnly down my wrist. But this time, the briny liquid doesn’t bring the sting of defeat.

If there’s anything I now realize, it is that culture is not guaranteed. Contrary to what the expression “it’s in my blood” may imply, culture is not solely preserved through genetics. It does not always wind itself firmly around every chromosome, nor does it permeate every cell. And that’s okay.

Culture can be lost, yes, but it can also be found again. I look down at the frayed index card on the table that bears the recipe: this is what they kept despite everything else. I might be lost now, but through the curves and slopes of their script — if I just follow the ink of their red fountain pen, leap from card to card like stepping stones — I can find my way home again.

I pull out a fresh grape leaf from the jar. It’s time to start again.

CULTURE CAN BE LOST, YES, BUT IT CAN ALSO BE FOUND AGAIN

The meaning of PHILOXENIA

ARTICLE BY SOPHIA GAITANIS, LINCOLN, RI

PHOTO BY LAUREN H. GOLDEN, CO

My eyes were drawn to the old man as my family’s long rental van pulled into the ancient village. He was leaning over in deep sleep, the edge of the sidewalk seemed to function as his bed — a choice that his ragged clothes and unkempt beard seemed to suggest was not of his own accord. Among the mesmerizing views of the rolling Cretan hills, my view was fixated upon this single man.

No sooner than my family and I stepped foot into the town circle did he wake up with a certain bewilderment. Visitors were rare in Kefalas, and his startled face seemed to affirm this.

“Who are you?” He approached my father, studying his Cretan facial features.

Although my mediocre Greek-speaking abilities kept me out of the majority of this verbal exchange, his expression to my father’s reply told me enough.

“Gaitanis?” He couldn’t believe what he had heard.

Seventy years earlier, my family had said their goodbyes to this village in hopes of opportunity, which was so rare in Greece at the time. Although

they were determined to carry on their Greek culture, they had left behind a sense of home. I never truly felt a connection to the homeland beyond the common traditions I learned from home and church — until this encounter.

As if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life, the man directed my father to the house, which had been labeled with our last name many years ago. Along the way, he eagerly engaged in conversation with us, taking the time to learn the names of my family members and inquiring how

learning the stories of those too often unheard. Society teaches us to ignore the homeless man asking for money on the side of the street, to keep conversation minimal with a store clerk or mailman, to closely guard who we let into family gatherings. This translates all too well into our dismissive nature toward immigrants.

This unassuming man has transformed the way I think about the world and people in general. Although halfway across the world, he taught me we truly are more connected than we think.

we have spent our time in America. Among his constant eagerness to instill within me the sense of culture our family has preserved for so long, my father once taught me a popular Greek phrase: philoxenia. More of a philosophy than a phrase, these words teach us to love the stranger.

At home in the United States, we are generally taught to stay far away from strangers. Yet, I can’t resist my constant hunger for

I came to understand the true meaning of philoxenia through this encounter. The warm and welcoming embrace of a stranger inspires me to extend this through my life’s work. My passion is to understand different ways of life in order to realize how similar we truly are. Eventually, I strive to extend philoxenia to immigrants seeking a better life in America, not unlike my grandfather who made the journey two generations before me.

More of a philosophy than a phrase, these words teach us to love the stranger.

what’s the pig deal?

the future of gene editing and transplants

ARTICLE BY JACKIE HUANG, SCARSDALE, NY

ARTWORK BY ELIZABETH ESS, SEMORA, NC

Just at the start of 2022, a man received a heart transplant from a pig. Yes — a pig. But how is this possible? How can an organ from a pink, furry animal be used in a human? Will he oink? All can be answered with the help of CRISPR: a tool for genetic modification.

CRISPR stands for “clustered regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats,” or in simpler words, copies of smaller pieces of viruses. They are found in the DNA of bacteria. The immune system of the bacteria uses them as pieces of identification, like a big red flag, to target the harmful viruses. This involves an important enzyme called Cas9 that works like scissors, cutting and removing the virus that disables it. “You can just point it at a place in

baboon hearts, and many more, but the recipients have not lived longer than nine months.

So why pigs? Their organs have a relatively similar size and anatomy. They are also very easy to raise and can grow to human size within six months!

However, there has been a barrier in using pig organs for humans. The pig genes contain the DNA for a family of viruses called “porcine endogenous retroviruses”, shorter known as PERVs. As a result, the pig cells can produce and release PERVs, which may infect human cells and lead to the patient becoming sick.

This is when CRISPR comes in. Scientist George Church’s lab at Harvard Medical School used CRISPR to edit eukaryotic, non-bacteria cells. They wanted to prevent DNA polymerase, an enzyme involved in replication, from replicating the PERV DNA in pigs. By using CRISPR, they were able to inactivate the 62 copies of PERV DNA in pig embryos, its early growing stages, preventing the transmission of the virus when coming in contact with human cells.

the genome, and you can do anything you want at that spot,” said Robert Reed, a biologist at Cornell University. Because of CRISPR, humans can potentially edit any type of gene in plants or animals.

The idea of transplanting animal organs into humans is not new. There is actually a word — xenotransplantation — that means just that. There have been many attempts of transplanting tissues or organs from animals to humans dating back hundreds of years. Scientists have tried chimpanzee kidneys,

“Gene editing with CRISPR has just really helped accelerate the field in sort of a warp drive,” said Joe Leventhal, who heads the transplant program at Northwestern University. Though more scientific research is still required to perfect the idea, this is a breakthrough in many ways because there is a drastic shortage of organs compared to the large numbers of people waiting for transplants. Because of this, about a dozen people on transplant lists die every day. With the potential possibility of using pig organs in humans through gene editing, it provides an important opportunity to close the shortage and save human lives.

There have been many attempts of transplanting tissues or organs from animals to humans dating back hundreds of years

the collapse of health care and

INSULIN INACCESSIBILITY

ARTICLE BY ALEXANDRA MALKIN, ARDSLEY, NY

PHOTO BY EMILY G. EASTON, PA

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could a school deprive children of the best tools needed to keep them healthy?

A few months ago, my friend told me that some diabetic children were unable to receive the newest technology to help track and maintain their blood sugar levels routinely throughout the day — simply because they didn’t have the money or insurance to afford it.

I couldn’t wrap my head around such a circumstance. Imagine living through every day with a disease that requires treatment limited to specific insulin-injecting and glucose-tracking technology. Now, imagine this technology is ancient and not up-to-date with current research. It seemed absurd that, on top of the stress caused by managing diabetes, these kids were expected to use glucose monitors that didn’t give them the most effective treatment on a day-today basis.

Shocked and inspired, I began to discover more disparities that diabetics had to live with. It seemed that the complexity of the disease and its treatment had influenced a common ignorance — specifically a lack of knowledge and education about type 1 diabetes. These children, in the process of managing their disease and the financial burdens associated with it, lacked support in dealing with their dayto-day finger pokes, injections, and other discomforts.

The situation only gets worse. In addition to the high prices of technology, such as glucose monitors and insulin pumps, I discovered there had been a dramatic increase in costs of the one specific medicinal item that is necessary for diabetics’ survival: insulin. In the United States specifically, this vital hormone has become so expensive that a large number of diabetics are beginning to skip necessary insulin doses

on a daily basis. Such deprivation of medicine has even caused the deaths of diabetics.

Diabetes is not necessarily a fatal disease. It should not be the cause of death for those whom it affects. Yet, somehow, the U.S. health care system has allowed management strategies to become so financially burdensome that diabetes is

Collins (R-ME) have been fighting against the dramatic increase in insulin prices. The issue has gotten so severe that the Insulin Act has been presented to Congress, which would encourage insulin manufacturers to reduce list prices to a point where the medicine is affordable to all diabetics. It would also push for more competition among insulin producers, which

NOW, MORE THAN EVER, THE YOUTH OF AMERICA NEEDS TO GET INVOLVED IN MAKING LASTING CHANGE

becoming a life-threatening illness — one with no cheap solution.

It’s about time that the U.S. government fulfills the promise it made to the American people in the 1940s, when it — along with 47 other nations — signed a mutual United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This document clearly states that “everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of oneself and one’s family, including … medical care.”

Luckily, the younger generation has the power to acknowledge and address these alarming issues through advocacy, grassroots campaigns, innovative thinking, initiatives, and more. In July 2022, the problems with insulin costs were addressed on the Senate floor with the proposal of the Insulin Act.

Over the past few years, Sens. Jeanne Shaheen (D-NH) and Susan

would in turn create broader access to insulin products. Unfortunately, the Insulin Act did not pass in the Senate, and the issue of affordable insulin continues to haunt the diabetic community.

Now, more than ever, the youth of America needs to get involved in making lasting change. JDRF and other organizations are giving teens the opportunity to write digital, personalized messages to government officials to encourage their support of insulin price caps and the well-being of the American diabetic population.

In the wake of the Aug. 7, 2022 decision to block insulin caps, it has become the responsibility of the younger generations — diabetic or not — to step up and protect the rights promised to us long ago: the right to health, well-being, and — for the 37.3 million diabetics living in the U.S. — affordable insulin.

AMERICAN SANCTIONS Are

ARTICLE BY LOGAN PENN, LOS ANGELES, CA

Mass shortages of food and medicine, a plummet in production, economic instability, and unlivable conditions have plagued Venezuela for the past decade due to the harsh and numerous sanctions placed by America. The narrative around the increased mortality rate and failing economy of Venezuela has been focused on the destructive nature of a socialist government, but it’s time we reconsider the reasons that Venezuela has plummeted to the depths of economic and social prosperity.

Luis Oliveros, a Venezuelan economist, published a report evaluating the consequences of U.S. sanctions in October of 2020. His results show unprecedented detriment to the country’s economy and general population, and proves that these sanctions, “directly contributed to its deep decline, and to the further deterioration of the quality of life of Venezuelans.”

Examples of this deterioration include extreme financial loss (an estimated $17 billion to $31 billion), a 96% decrease in imports, and the dismantling of humanitarian groups among other issues. All in all, the US has imposed over 430 sanctions against Venezuelan institutions and individuals since 2009. Essentially, U.S.

sanctions have done this much damage by destroying the oil production and access to international finance that Venezuela had built its economy upon.

You might be asking yourself, how could we possibly support the destruction of a country in such a manner? Well, this all comes down to the unrelenting fight against Marxism, a McCarthyist idea that socialism anywhere is a threat to capitalism everywhere (an idea that the U.S. acted upon in the ’70s when Marxist Salvador Allende was overthrown with help from the CIA in Chile). It is well known that the US was intervening with Venezuelan elections as early as 2002, well before the economy of Venezuela would collapse dramatically. But of course, that is not how our government nor the media portrays this situation. In a 2019 interview with FAIR, director of international policy at the Center for Economic and Policy Research,

Alexander Main makes the claim that the media’s coverage of the ongoing economic crisis has shifted the American perspective on the situation. Article titles similar to “Maduro Is Turning Venezuela Into a Dictatorship” and “It’s Time for a Coup in Venezuela,” clearly paint Venezuela and socialism as the “villain” and America as the all-justified hero. Main believes that we have collectively done a terrible job at reporting what is really going on. He points out the lack of accountability that the United States has taken for its continued Imperialist action in not only Venezuela but South America as a whole. It’s time that we work to end the pain and suffering we have inflicted in Venezuela and take our foot off the neck of an already struggling nation.

here’s a crazy idea:

LET’S STOP FALLING IN LOVE WITH

SERIAL KILLERS

ARTICLE BY HAYLEE GRIFFITH, ARVADA, CO ARTWORK BY LUCÍA GÓMEZ, PALMA, SPAIN

Say it with me: I will not fall in love with a serial killer just because they are portrayed by a hot actor.

I hate to even bring this up because I am just another one of the millions of people that will now be talking about Jeffery Dahmer and giving him attention when he deserves none of it.

For this reason, I will refer to him as ‘Stinky’ throughout this article because I don’t want to give the dead guy the satisfaction of having his name everywhere.

We need to stop giving our attention to horrible people, and we definitely need to stop romanticizing them and allowing ourselves to become blind to their actions simply because we think the person portraying them in a role is hot.

Not only is it gross, insensitive, and, just plain weird, but it gives these monsters the wrong kind of attention.

Where I think it all started:

In case you have no idea what I’m talking about, let me introduce you to where this issue of romanticizing serial killers all started, and that is with Zac Efron. Efron portrayed a serial killer whom I also will not be naming because trust me, he’s gotten more than enough attention over the years.

Efron, a star almost every woman has swooned over at some point in their life, played a serial killer that lured his victims with his looks. It makes sense, I’ll admit that much. He was cast because he’s a good actor and he does look like the guy in a way. The problem is that people failed to see past his looks and the line between Efron and the person he portrayed began to blur.

The issue with loving the characters: People quickly become desensitized to the awful things this man did

because his looks became the star of the movie. This film did a great job highlighting the infatuation women had with this criminal and showed how disgusting it was that they loved a man that killed people with no remorse.

People completely missed the message and started seeing the killer in a light they never should. Hey, we’re all guilty of it. I’ll admit I do it, too. There are so many celebrities I’ve convinced myself I love and when I go to follow them on Instagram or watch interviews, they are nothing like their character.

their love for Peters, they developed a love for Stinky as well.

Criminals are criminals, period.

This sudden trend over the past few years is disgusting. It is important to learn to distinguish the actor from their role, especially in cases like this. They are horrible people who did awful things, and romanticizing them does no good for anybody.

Loving Zac Efron and Evan Peters and appreciating their acting skills is one thing. It goes a step too far when people begin to idolize criminals and care about them; it needs to stop. Both actors did a

It’s a trap everyone falls into; we fall in love with a character, not the actor yet we can’t seem to distinguish one from the other. This is exactly why it is concerning when I open up social media to see people swooning over Evan Peters in the new Netflix thriller telling the story of the well-known serial killer, Stinky.

Yes, Peters is a phenomenal actor and he does a great job at portraying a disgusting, weird, creepy lowlife. While I personally don’t see it, people everywhere think Peters is the next big heartthrob. As they did with Efron, they instantly fell in love with Peters. The only problem is that along with

fantastic job, but our focus on serial killers should end there.

Final thoughts:

If we want to bring attention to serial killers and the horrible things they did, let’s highlight and honor their victims, not them. They don’t deserve our attention, but the victims and their families do.

Remy Tumin with The New York Times does a great job highlighting how the people that matter feel about this recent thriller and tells us their stories. The absolute least we could do is humanize the people that lost their lives instead of the monsters that did this to them.

IT IS IMPORTANT TO DISTINGUISH THE ACTOR FROM THEIR ROLE

SHORT STORIES

BOOK REVIEWS

Review by Abigail Sterner, McLean, VA

There is something magical about midnight. It is a time of ghosts and goblins, of slippers and spells, of chaos and creation. It is the hour between one story and the next — a pause as the old vanishes into memory and the new shimmers into reality. It is whimsical, and just a bit frightening — an hour for fairy tales and horror stories. Midnight is a mystery longing to be solved, a prologue and an epilogue all at once. Is it any wonder then that a collection of midnight moments would be bound into an anthology?”

Like most anthologies, some stories wowed while others bored. While the anthology itself was genre-bending, the tales that stood out are those that catalog ordinary moments. The ghost stories were nothing special — the shock and surprise held no value when I didn’t care about the characters — but the stories of ordinary moments were nothing short of extraordinary.

Though Up All Night was held together around a time rather than a central idea, certain themes stood out. I love how many of the short stories contained within had casual queerness. Characters were allowed to be themselves without their gender and sexuality overshadowing their personalities: they loved and lost as individuals instead of stereotypes. Especially considering how short each story was (under 30 pages), causal representation was crucial.

Since anthologies themselves are rather serialized, so this review will be too.

Never Have I Ever by Karen McManus was a disappointing start to Up All Night. It lacked any real emotion or shock value, instead playing with perception in the most mediocre way.

Like Before by Maurene Goo was a heartbreaking reminder of how not all friendships last. It echoes the feelings so many people experience as they close certain chapters of their lives and move on to better things. It was bittersweet in the best way and an anthem for anyone who has ever felt left behind.

Up All Night is a collection of short stories taking place between sunset and sunrise, written by some of the Young Adult genre’s top realistic fiction authors.

Old Rifts and Snowdrifts by Kayla Whaley was by far my favorite story in this anthology. Though not without conflict, it felt like a glimpse into ordinary life in the most extraordinary way. Full of first love

Up All Night: 13 Stories Between Sunset and Sunrise

Edited by Laura Silverman

CHARACTERS WERE ALLOWED TO BE THEMSELVES WITHOUT THEIR GENDER AND SEXUALITY OVERSHADOWING THEIR PERSONALITIES: THEY LOVED AND LOST AS INDIVIDUALS INSTEAD OF STEREOTYPES

and reluctant flirting, I mourned when the last page was done.

Con Nights, Parallel Hearts by Marieke Nijkamp was my second favorite story in this collection, especially with how it focused on fan culture and the home audiences

setting the bar too high for what came next.

When You Bring a Dog to Prom by Anna Meriano also needs to be turned into a teen movie. Following a group of friends attending a rather rocky prom, it was hilarious and lighthearted, with enough substance to keep it grounded in reality. The dialogue was funny, and the ending was swoon-worthy.

can find in creative mediums. Following a girl as she tries to open up to her best friend, readers are taken through three different outcomes and left to ponder which is the true one.

Kiss the Boy by Amanda Joy needs to be turned into a Netflix rom-com (a high compliment, I assure you). It had all the elements of a teen flick: romance, coming-of-age, a great group of friends, the end of high school, and witty dialogue. My cheeks hurt after smiling through every page.

Creature Capture by Laura Silverman was a throwback to the days of “PokemonGo.” An avid gamer hunts for a rare Loch Ness in a game while meeting unexpected friends along the way. Frankly, this story was fine. Not good, not bad, just fine.

Shark Bait by Tiffany D. Jackson had the potential to be better than it was. I enjoyed the initial concept but found the ending to be unnecessary and rather random when compared with the rest of the narrative.

A Place to Start by Nina LaCour was short, sweet, and simple. It was very much a middle story, neither overshadowing its predecessors nor

Missing by Kathleen Glasglow was my least favorite part of the collection. Simply put, it was unfinished, lacking any real direction or purpose. The narration style was sometimes third-person limited, and other times thirdperson omniscient, leading to a jarring and clunky read.’

What About Your Friends by Brandy Colbert was fun. Nothing special, just fun.

Under Our Masks by Julian Winters followed a teenage superhero burdened by the weight of his identity as he joined his crush on a stakeout. I loved the dynamic between the two boys but felt like the superhero element was an accidental add-on once the main story had been cemented.

The Ghost of Goon Creek by Francesca Zappia read like a midnight twist on “The Breakfast Club.” Though the friendships the story focused around developed rather quickly, it was a sweet, albeit rose-tinted, version of what a gathering of classmates can become.

Overall, Up All Night was a mixed bag. There were some stories that I wanted to frame and others that I barely remember. Like most anthologies, you’re taking a gamble going in, but I can assure you that most of what you’ll find will keep you “up all night” reading.

Traci Chee’s novel, We Are Not Free, describes the lives of a friend group of 14 Japanese-American teenagers who are interned during World War II. Prior to reading this book, I had read several works — both fiction and nonfiction — that addressed similar historical topics. I was therefore skeptical when I read a summary of the novel that I would find something new and interesting in Chee’s exploration of this dark period of American history. After debating internally for a few days, my interest in history encouraged me. I began reading We Are Not Free

An immediately striking feature of the novel is how it is told. In rotating order, each chapter is narrated from the perspective of one of the 14 teenagers. This enables the reader to see events from fourteen different perspectives. Later in the book, when the 14 protagonists are forced onto different paths, the

Review by Bailing Hou, Sammamish, WA

I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT MOST OF WHAT YOU’LL FIND WILL KEEP YOU “UP ALL NIGHT” READING

We Are Not Free by Traci Chee

narrative structure effectively allows us to see how events shape them as individuals. We see how each relates to the grand storyline they all share.

Apart from its narrative technique, one of the most interesting aspects of the book is the storyline. I often relate to the feelings of the characters in the book. For example, towards the middle, a few older boys in the group are sent into service in the U.S. military. At the final dinner before their departure, almost everyone cries in despair — the fourteen have grown up together, and now, three of them are leaving for an unknown amount of time. On my end, I was born in China and

“Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America… and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor?” These questions require matching yes or no answers. As a result, the questions split people in the camp into the “yes-yes” group and the “no-no” group. By describing the decision process of each character — some decide quickly, some are internally conflicted for a long time — the author allows the reader to fully understand each character’s decision. Personally, I truly appreciate the determination of the “no-nos” who stand firm to their Japanese origin and the Japanese

or she will be able to overcome the difficulties eventually.

HISTORICAL FICTION

grew up in Beijing until I was 10. Before my family moved to Seattle, I was unwilling to leave my friends in Beijing. My friends and I shed many tears. Thankfully, living in the 21st century, my family and I are usually able to travel back to China during summers to visit our friends and relatives. Because I have experienced separation in my life, I am able to sympathize with the characters, even if their experience is much more harrowing than mine. The boys who join the military know they may never return. At that moment in the novel, I fully understand the heartbroken emotion each teenager feels. An important theme that the author conveys well throughout the story is identity. A few years after being placed in the internment camp, every Japanese-Americans over the age of 18 is required to fill out a loyalty survey. Two questions on the survey cause immediate controversy. “Are you willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States… wherever ordered?” and

Emperor. On the other hand, I also fully understand the “yes-yeses” who consider themselves Americans and are willing to serve the country they have been living in for years.

Without spoiling it, the ending of the book has a mix of sweetness and bitterness. Every time after reading a story that includes controversial ideas — such as the internment camp in this book — I am always left with countless thoughts. In the grand scheme of history, it is rarely possible to say if something is right or wrong. The internment camp was, in many ways, a violation of human rights; but in urgent times, such as World War II, no one knows if other solutions would have been better. What is most important is that Traci Chee shows us that none of the 14 teenagers in We Are Not Free relinquish their hope and faith; they all believe that one day, they will return to their homes. There might be tough times in life, but as long as one remains hopeful and faithful, he

There are few books in the world that have the power to change your life. The Book Thief is one of these books. After completing this novel written by Markus Zusak, I was awestruck by the power of words and how the author immaculately intertwined the ideas of hope, love, and sacrifice onto the pages.

The skillful use of figurative language is one of the elements that brings the words on the page to life. Personification is ever-present throughout this novel, as Zusak displays his brilliant use of giving inanimate objects human characteristics: “As the book quivered in her lap, the secret sat in her mouth. It made itself comfortable. It crossed its

Review by Grace Zhou, Calgary, AB, Canada

WHEN THE 14 PROTAGONISTS ARE FORCED ONTO DIFFERENT PATHS, THE NARRATIVE STRUCTURE EFFECTIVELY ALLOWS US TO SEE HOW EVENTS SHAPE THEM AS INDIVIDUALS

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

legs” (170). In addition, the human characteristics and qualities that Markus Zusak gives the narrator, Death, incredibly transforms a grisly subject into a triumph that

A TRIUMPHANT YET TRAGIC TALE THAT IS MASTERFULLY WRITTEN

enables the reader to embrace it. The narrator uses wry humor, which can be very amusing at times. For instance, on page 316, Death

comments, “It kills me sometimes, how people die.” This use of satire is one of the many instances of Death’s wry humour that allows readers to embrace such a dark topic. Zusak’s inventive language use and often short and poetic sentences allow him to describe the world with powerful, potent choices of words and phrases.

Although there are numerous acclaimed novels focusing on the story of a child during World War II, the distinctiveness of The Book Thief allows it to stand out from other historical fiction novels. With the narrator being the inevitable and horrifying element of every individual’s lives — that is, Death — it allows for a perspective on the

story of Liesel like none other.

At first glance, Liesel’s life story may seem like any other coming of age story — being terrified by her first encounter with Death, then gaining strength and understanding as she grows mature. But when you look closer, it is a very complicated yet immensely potent tale that describes how Liesel builds up a character. Death reveals Liesel’s inner thoughts and emotions in a way that cannot be done by any other narrator. Zusak has provided remarkable insight into the human psyche through his novel. The Book Thief is such a triumphant yet tragic tale that is masterfully written.

ARTWORK BY GUO ZIXIN, SHANGHAI, CHINA

TV MYSTERY/THRILLER

TV & MOVIE REVIEWS

Review by Anonymous, Ann Arbour, MI

For many people, including me, turning on the show, “Twin Peaks,” is like willingly slipping into a dream. Beyond its enigmas and idiosyncrasies, we see the light and love present in the connections between everyone in the town. However, immense darkness and tragedy permeates the background of every scene. These two forces are always in constant tension with one another, moving back and forth forever. I find myself thinking about this show constantly, even a week after finishing it.

“Twin Peaks” might be the greatest

television show that I have ever seen. Never have I torn through so many hours of narrative content and been so ready for more. It’s kind of hard to know where to start with a project such as this, which is so packed to the brim with complimentworthiness. Yet how could I do justice to these strengths? I remember listening to a review of the show that stated that Agent Cooper was the greatest TV protagonist of any TV show that they had seen. I kept this in mind when I watched the show, but did not quite understand what they meant. Only after watching a few hours of “Twin Peaks,” as well as doing a lot of reflecting, do I mostly agree with their statement. In my opinion, the quality of Cooper’s character is rivaled only by a few — most of whom hail from his same show. However, singing the detective’s praises is just a statement, and changes nothing about the quality of the show. It therefore cannot do justice to Cooper’s character, nor the quality of the show as a whole. The same can be said about many other aspects of the show as well: music, performances, directing, atmosphere. After much back-and-forth, I’ve come to the conclusion that all I can firmly say that speaks to the quality of the show is the show itself, and the sights and sounds crafted by Mark Frost and David Lynch.

One moment that sticks out is a scene wherein Ben Horne and Jerry, his brother, are lying on a prison bunk bed. Jerry says it reminds him of a time when they were

kids in a bunk watching a girl dance with a flashlight in their room. The following scene — of the girl dancing while the boys watch — is deeply moving for a completely inexplicable reason. Many of the emotionally resonant scenes such as this flashback come out of nowhere, notably when James, Donna, and Maddy are playing and singing a cover of a love song in their living room. This scene, and

Twin Peaks

by David Lynch and Mark Frost

TURNING ON THE SHOW, “TWIN PEAKS,” IS LIKE WILLINGLY SLIPPLING INTO A DREAM. BEYOND ITS ENIGMAS AND IDIOSYNCRASIES, WE SEE THE LIGHT AND LOVE PRESENT IN THE CONNECTIONS BETWEEN EVERYONE IN THE TOWN

the show in general, touches deep, deep emotions that leave moments like these plastered in my mind. The scenes I describe are completely unrelated to the narrative aspects of the show (especially the former), but “Twin Peaks” would not be the same if they were removed. The greatness of “Twin Peaks” is thus rendered indescribable. The meaning of any scene and any aspect of the show, from the music to the iconic prom photo of Laura Palmer, will be interpreted differently by the people who have seen it and those who have not.

Of course, for anyone who has watched the show before, there is probably a giant elephant in the room that I have been deliberately avoiding. The elephant is the lukewarm (at best) reception to the second half of Season Two. I will be transparent in that I do not have any intent of seeing any episode in the second half of season two. There is nothing that really interests me in the show anymore, and most of what originally did is wrapped up in Episode Nine, “Arbitrary Law.” However, I think that the decline in quality of “Twin Peaks” actually started at the end of Episode Seven, “Lonely Souls,” in which the titular mystery of Laura’s death is revealed to the audience. For many people, “Lonely Souls” is one of the best episodes of “Twin Peaks,” an opinion I can completely understand. The ending is completely hypnotic — and terrifying — for reasons that would be repetitive to list. In all honesty, it might be one of the best scenes David Lynch has ever directed. The mood, the music, and the line “It’s happening again” never fail to thrill. When I first watched the episode, I was speechless.

It’s one of the only episodes besides the pilot and the Season One finale that I can really distinguish from the rest. However, the more I thought about this episode, the more I thought that the show unintentionally shot itself in the foot

by revealing who Laura’s killer was.

In the featurette “A Slice of Lynch,” David Lynch stated that “[Laura’s] mystery was sacred, and it held the other ones. It was the tree and the others were the branches.” David Lynch (and, way less importantly, I) doesn’t believe this mystery should ever have been solved, or at least not so overtly. If the show lost a branch,

explored, such as Norma and Big Ed or Audrey and Cooper, and in my opinion, the characters that they did decide to expand on were some of the weakest from Season One, as I had a hard time relating to such idiosyncratic characters like the log lady.

it could always grow new twigs back; but when it lost its trunk, it lost its roots. As a result, most of the tension that had been so expertly built up after 15 episodes came tumbling down. This is one of the reasons that I am apprehensive about watching the 1992 film “Fire Walk With Me,” as it shows what happens the night of Laura’s murder.

However, I will say that the reveal was executed very well, even if it should not have happened. In all honesty, as a watcher, I don’t really care about most of the mysteries on their own besides that of Laura’s death. They all tied into Laura somehow, which only made them greater. To me, the show can be divided up into three parts: the beginning of the murder to Maddy Ferguson, the murder of Maddy to the resolution of Leland’s storyline, and then the denouement. If I had to choose between the first season and the beginning of the second season, I would choose the first. There are several relationships left not fully

The first part may be where the majority of my love for the show lies, but the second part is also great. It is just not the same show. The main tension, and the greatness of Cooper’s character, lay in him always being one step ahead of everyone — even the audience. However, in almost all of Season Two, Cooper is not as sharp-witted (he completely forgets about Audrey), and especially after Maddy’s murder, he is playing catch up to the audience. There are many parts of the middle part that are amazing (the dancing girl, “It’s happening again,” the ring in the roadhouse scene, and Leland’s death are particular standouts). Yet, the episodes remain incompatible with the show that preceded them. I remember rewatching the part where Cooper yells “Damn, that’s good coffee… and hot!” and thinking that was something his character in the second season never would have said. Likewise, I was interested in who Bob was until they gave the whole jig up in the span of just a couple minutes. I was interested in the show until they resolved the main premise of the story. However, let’s give credit where credit is due. Even after I’d argue “Twin Peaks” declined, it was still crafted by two masters, and had its fair share of exceptional moments. The problem that I experience with many TV shows is that a lot of them are packed with filler while the main plot is very drawn out; and this is true for the second half of the show, but the opposite is very nearly the case for the first half. In either case, it is likely that the people managing the financial side of these shows listen more to the ratings instead of the creators, and solving crucial

THE MEANING OF ANY SCENE AND ANY ASPECT OF THE SHOW... WILL BE INTERPRETED DIFFERENTLY BY THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE SEEN IT AND THOSE WHO HAVE NOT

mysteries is the best way to get ratings. It is ironic that the show that paved the way for narrative television also suffered from the same problems as many shows currently do. Now, all that’s left to say is “It is happening again.”

(“Everything”), life is restraining Evelyn more and more, squeezing her into the smothering space of an overburdened laundromat. Everything in her world is pressing upon her and sucks the last struggle for resilience out of her. The frequent malfunctions of the washing machines, the complaints of customers, and worst of all, the disaster of her tax audit, are pushing her business to the edge of collapse. Moreover, her husband’s intention to divorce is another emotional earthquake for her. On top of all of this, is her irreconcilable relationship with her daughter, Joy, who metamorphoses into the omnipotent archfiend and rampages across infinite multiverses.

If everything in the world of Evelyn is compressed into the tiniest ball in the first part, then the ball expands infinitely into the multiverse in the second section. Every failure of Evelyn branches off into another successful version of herself in parallel realities. In the multiverse, she becomes a celebrated film star, a renowned opera singer, and an accomplished master of martial arts, to name just a few identities she assumes. These changing personae enable her to look at the world from multiple perspectives. Evelyn

never finished, dreams you never followed. You’re living your worst you.” The mother and daughter are strikingly similar: Both are downright losers and complete failures. The only difference is that Joy the daughter sees the situation soberly, and becomes defeated and disheartened. Evelyn is busy keeping the laundromat functioning and becomes numb to her husband who is demanding a divorce, and to her daughter who grows bitter about the world.

Evelyn has traveled multiple universes to reach her daughter and herself.

The film director achieves the climax in a completely unique way. In one parallel universe, the mother and daughter become rocks. Two big stones are sitting silently on a vast landscape. No language, no gesture, no facial expression. Just being together.

In silence, they have the most profound communication.

If “Everything” has compressed Evelyn’s world into the tiniest space, then “Everywhere” has expanded her world into infinite multiverses. If the first two parts are paired with each other to outline space

“Everything, Everywhere, All at Once” is an exciting movie about Evelyn’s jumping of universes in order to fight against the archfiend who plans to destroy the multiverse. In addition to its thrilling plot, the fascinating Chinese martial arts, the outlandish fashion designs, and the funny hotdog-finger imagination all appeal to viewers. However, beneath the loud and noisy façade lies a mother’s arduous journey to reach her daughter’s sealed heart.

The movie consists of three welldesigned sections. In part one

becomes the person her daughter has been looking for: “Someone who could see what I see, feel what I feel.” Joy is not good at anything, and becomes completely drowned by frustration and despair.

In understanding her daughter, Evelyn comes to understand herself. Now she sees herself objectively through the lens of her husband: “I’ve seen thousands of Evelyns, but never an Evelyn like you, you have so many goals you

from two polarized perspectives, the final section, “All at Once,” highlights the temporal dimension of the story. After the vicissitudes in the multiverse, Evelyn changes her attitude toward Joy’s lesbian marriage, and, all at once, family members become supportive of each other.

Review by Yuheng Wang, Beijing, China

The topics teens care about the most.

PUNK ROCK

MUSIC REVIEWS

Milo Goes to College

by Descendents

This year marks the 40th anniversary of the album that laid the foundation of punk for decades to come — “Milo Goes to College” by Descendents. Originally released in 1982, this album was recently rereleased on Spotify to mark this pivotal anniversary. With fast paced, catchy base lines, hard hitting drums, and scratchy whiny vocals, the album holds all the most important and memorable aspects of 1980s punk.

“Milo Goes to College” is particularly im portant to me as it was my introduction to punk rock — the scene that blossomed my love for music. Although this album bears a small amount of notoriety, it is almost always within a certain scene and age group. The typical crowd at the Descendents concert looks like a sea of burnt out and graying, former punk rock ers, mostly men who related to this music when they were young. However, emo tions and sentiment are timeless, and in my opinion — younger crowds will also appreciate it, learning where the roots of alternative music lay.

This album will transform melancholy

into motivated anger with its frantic guitar and personal lyrics. With tracks like “Bikeage,” “Hope,” and “I’m Not a Loser,” listeners resonate with lyrics and simulta neously feel more invigorated. The deject ed songs of the album are balanced with songs like “Marriage,” a love proclamation filled with questions, along with anti-con formist anthems like “Suburban Home” and “I’m Not a Punk.”

Milo Aukerman, the lead singer of the band, really did go to college — the album was written as his departure from the band to attend the University of California to study biology and become a scientist. However, his love of music prevailed, and post-college, more and more albums were created and released by Descendents. While he was away, Ray Cooper was recruited as lead singer until his periodic returns, and his eventual full time return — departing from his scien tific career in 2016 to perform in Descen dents full-time.

THE ALBUM HOLDS ALL THE MOST IMPORTANT AND MEMORABLE ASPECTS OF 1980S PUNK

This album has been critically acclaimed by many noteworthy magazines, listed in the top lists of influential punk and alternative albums by Spin, Kerrrang!, LA Weekly, and Rolling Stone

Unlike many albums, especially modern pop albums, one listen won’t leave you bored. Instead, this album is good for as many listens possible, without losing its magic or allure. A full listen of this album leaves listeners nostalgic and hungry for more. Luckily, the Descendents have a full arsenal of albums like this, including the newly released 2021 album, “9th and Wal nut,” with posthumous guitar tracks by Frank Nevetta, who passed away in 2008. However, this album remains a classic, and — just like Spin magazine, Rolling Stone, and more — I would title “Milo Goes To College” as one of the best and most influential alternative albums.

Review by Lucy Murphy, Baltimore, MD

“I want to be stereotyped… I want to be classified…”

GAME SOUNDTRACK

What’s Your PR. Ice?

by SOTUI feat. Kry.exe

lines. The coldness is necessary since plagiarism is significant in modern music because patching up different songs is seen by many composers and musicians as malicious plagiarism. The ardent desire of the plagiarists demon strates how they go astray along the “high stakes.” They betrayed the ones who trusted them and neglected their morals, favoring a monetary amount or some other, non-tangible currency. The stern scolding and satirizing of the be havior of plagiarism is flowing with the pithy lyrics, conveying informa tion that plagiarism is something beyond the limit, something that people should not do.

I put on my headphones and be gan jumping up and down to the beat of the electronica song titled, “What’s Your PR. Ice?” The intense tune and concise yet powerful lyrics vibrated inside my head. It is a mainstream hardcore song, written by Sotui and sung by Kry. exe, which mainly satirizes plagia rism in the music era. Neverthe less, this is a beautiful song with profound significance. The song’s pointed lyrics and forceful melody cause listeners to consider plagia rism, human intellect, and moral restraints profoundly.

The pithy lyrics reveal the desires of the plagiarists. As the artists sing, “But if it’s true that everyone has a price, and the stakes get high enough, can you ever really trust human.” With a short com bination of the words “can you ever” and “really trust,” the primary theme of the song becomes clear. Plagiarists cannot restrain their desire when facing the benefits gleaned from considerable bene fits like the humans they are. The essential yet short and concise lyrics convey this serious issue with ruthless words within seven

The melody amplifies the con flict within the human mind. As the first line, “What’s your price?” ends, the song draws a downward pitch shift following an upward one, creating a fast-twisting tone. The rhetorical question in the lyrics and the rapid reverse in tone create a clear contrast with the previous melody, showing the conflicting minds of those who plagiarize. Maybe they had a sense of conscience but were finally lost in the desire for high benefits. When it comes to “And if you can, you have to ask yourself another question: What’s your price?” the music grows louder, with the beat of the drum strengthening in an increased volume. The back ground beats like bullets shooting in the sky or strenuous heartbeats of a lost person, representing the fight people have with the strong desire for profit. The empowering rhythm pushes the mood towards a climax, perfectly exemplifying the conflict within human minds about moral limits.

The lyrics as a whole question morality. As we take a closer look at the lyrics, it tells far more. It’s not only restricted to plagiarists, but to a vast extent, it’s more general

MUSIC REVIEWS

and speaks to any human that has let their moral compass wander. In our lifetimes, there will be a lot of events that will seem to be essen tial to us and require our attention and participation. However, they will be immoral and will involve us in betraying the ones we love and the ones who depend on us. That is the price we pay to complete the actions that we deem necessary at the moment.

A BEAUTIFUL SONG WITH PROFUND SIGNIFICANCE

Admittedly, as the benefit gets large enough, and the risks low enough our morals tend to waver. Just like in Das Kapital, states that, for benefits, “A certain 10 per cent will ensure its employment anywhere; 20 percent certain will produce eagerness; 50 percent, positive audacity; 100 percent will make it ready to trample on all hu man laws; 300 percent, and there is not a crime at which it will scru ple, nor a risk it will not run, even to the chance of its owner being hanged.” Human intelligence can become fragile when faced with the price some actions command. Moreover, to what extent do we hold our true selves against an in creased price? Furthermore, what is the “price” that leads us to cross our moral bottom lines? Those are the questions that these lyrics challenge the listener to consider.

Thus, the song “What’s Your PR. Ice?” provides a robust audio impact with powerful beats and pointed lyrics. Furthermore, it elicits profound meanings beyond the words in the lyrics themselves, making the audience ponder. It is an exciting song to listen to, and it has an important message to hear.

Review by Yuqing Wu, Shanghai, China

ART BY KRRISHA PATEL, SECAUCUS, NJ

A HOUSE HIDDEN IN A TIMELY WOODS

STORY BY JENNY BELANDRES, NAPLES, FL

It was warm only moments ago.

Stuffy air dissipated to the freshness of green. The cold cuts through me. My lungs feel as if they are made of glass; they crackle with each breath. Being made brittle down to the bone, a slight tremor rippled through me. And yet, it was refreshing. Each bite of wind nipping at my nose and cheeks blushed them bright red; it was welcoming.

I stood on the edge of a forest. A wall of trees just steps away. Their musk filled my nose. Running between two grand oaks, a common path led deeper into the woods. Beaten, but clean of footprints. It guided its traveler around a bend, the end out of sight. One step after another, I began walking. The trees sang to me their siren song.

Hardly any sounds creep through the brush and branch. Not an animal’s scurry or a twig’s snap, all absent from the noise. A tranquility wanted to replace any fear. I hadn’t laid eyes on these woods, these trees, or this underbrush, but they wanted to welcome me like it was home. Twisting arms of the dark oak lulled me, seeming to grow close enough to touch if I stood staring too long.

Dirt turned to stone as the path curved. At the end, there laid a house. Mist covered the details of the door and the cobblestone path. A few steps forward, and I only feel the rigid and uneven edges announcing their presence under my feet. The house was basked in shadows as the sun fell. I could see an outline—tracing the stone and wood walls, the ragged roof, and the brick chimney—a window, and the faintest light of a burning fireplace through the cloudy glass. The wind dropped the whistle of its melody; the leaves tripped over their dancing feet.

Back here, it looked like a picture. A painting. I can almost feel the texture of the oil paints on my fingertips. Or maybe I can still smell the acrylic, even long after it has been dried. The still strangeness of the forest crept up my spine. It was a hitch in the universe’s breath. It felt real, as a dream can be to a dreamer, but I don’t recall falling asleep.

Any memories of before these woods were trapped in a haze. A wall of fog, much like the one that separates me from the front door. I don’t know why I recognized the house. Maybe it had come to me in my mind before, maybe it existed in a past life. It feels like visiting your childhood home, after somebody else has already moved into it. Their personal embellishments through just living there cloud the memories of days long ago.

I have already said this, but there’s nothing quite like it. The unease from the sounds of a different world, and the comfort of the cabin, create a dissonance. A harmony, not yet resolved. The crunch of the notes filled my ears with a ringing.

There were flowers along the front next to the steps of the porch. Irises and lilacs were planted beautifully, outlining the base of the house. As I got closer, a line of glowing fire peeked out of the crack from a door that was weathered down, no longer big enough to fit its frame. Cinnamon trailed out of the house; the warmth drew me closer. Aged steps creaked under me. I pushed the door open.

“YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST TRAVELER TO STUMBLE UPON MY STEPS, NOR WILL YOU BE THE LAST.”

A woman stood with her back facing me. She was thin but not frail. In fact, she looked rather strong for her age. Her back did not slope downward, she stood tall and confident. The brightness in her face met me with a smile as she turned at the sound of my footsteps. Kind, soft eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked like a granny from a fairytale.

“Hello, dearie,” she said. My hand still held the door. She did not seem at all concerned with my intrusion. Quite the contrary, she looked elated. “Hi,” I said.

“Come in, not a reason to be shy. Step out of the cold.” Her accent is not unlike mine, at a first-time listen. But the dialects of foreign lands shape her words in the rules of their own languages. The voice of the old lady floats in an in-between, neither here nor there. Enigmatic.

A strong, crisp wind tried to push me a step further into the house. Her unimpeded gregariousness was what a parent warns their child to be weary of, but my fingertips were losing feeling. The little heat from the sun was quickly escaping the world, and it was as frigid as could be.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’m not sure how I got here.”

“Not a worry. You are not the first traveler to stumble upon my steps, nor will you be the last.”

She rattled this off as she mixed something in a pot

on the stove. The inside of the house was a mesh of the old and new. Electric appliances, coal furnace and fireplace, a quill and ink bottle on a desk against a window, a grand bookshelf took up an entire wall.

I cleared my throat. “Sorry to ask but, where am I exactly?”

“Wherever you would like to be.” She walked to the wooden table that sat in the center of it all, two mugs in hand. Placing one down at the chair closest to me, she said, “Sit, child. And stop apologizing.”

I closed the door behind me and walked to the seat. I should be afraid. What seems too good to be true often is, but as if she had cast a spell on me, I felt comfort in

My mind was still running. This must be a dream. There was no other explanation. A mysterious house, a puzzlingly hospitable old lady, fragments of memories scattered within these walls, the unknowable woods surrounding us. And me—who becomes anxious and overwhelmed in any new situation—I am completely comfortable.

The crackling fire filled the silence. I looked at the full bookcase. Endless novels lined each shelf. Scanning through each title, I noticed something. Each one had the same name attached. There had to be at least 300 books here. And someone had enough talent to write each and every one.

“Are you an author?” I asked.

“And observant too.” She had been following my line of sight, waiting with a smile for me to connect the dots. “You are a complete package, my dear.”

this old woman’s presence. She busied herself with the empty pot and cleaned her kitchen. Her movements were smooth, graceful gestures knew the orderliness of the house. Everything had its proper and perfect place. The drink warmed my chest delightfully. Hot chocolate with cinnamon, almost exactly what my grandmother made in my childhood. I had not tasted it in years. The cold brittleness melted away, and my shoulders relaxed with nostalgia.

“You must be very trusting to let a stranger into your house,” I said, taking another sip. With her back still turned to me, she responded over the sound of running water. “My home is a home for all.” Once the pot was full, she left it to sit in the sink. The old lady walked to sit in the seat opposite me, grabbing the handle of her mug. “Only those who can be trusted are able to find it.”

“Then it wouldn’t be ‘for all,’” I said.

She hummed her question.

“You contradict yourself. You said, ‘your home is for all,’ but also for ‘only those who can be trusted.’”

A chuckle under her breath, her smile shifted to a more cheeky one, and eyes that glimmered in recognition. She knew something I did not. “A smart one you are,” she said, “A very keen listener will make a very successful somebody.”

Who are you? I thought. These books had to be hers. There is no other reason to keep this extensive collection otherwise. How had she written so much in so little time?

Perhaps the queries were written on my face, or perhaps she was a mind reader. She spoke to me calmly, “Child, the time for questions will soon come, but not as soon as you would like,”

As much as I wished to know, I bit my tongue. Surely, I will get answers out of her eventually. “You speak like a wise woman.” I took another sip of my drink.

“That is because I am a wise woman, or else I have lived too long to make my time count for anything at all.” I laughed. I quite like this lady. Her company is pleasant and her conversation is interesting. Still, her being itself is a mystery. So is the forest I find myself in. And yet, she seems so familiar. I cannot place my finger on where I recognize her.

Millions of questions fly through my head, each one pushing against my lips wanting to be asked and heard. But the time for that has not arrived, as she told me. And I would listen.

“Tell me, dear. What is your favorite flower?”

A blink out of my thoughts. An unexpected inquiry, to say the least. And it is a slight annoyance that she seems to be the one allowed to ask questions here, but I answer it earnestly nonetheless, “Forget-me-nots.”

“Ah, yes. Lovely, aren’t they? Unfortunately, I have not gotten around to planting any yet. I am glad to see little

I SHOULD BE AFRAID. WHAT SEEMS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE OFTEN IS

has changed.” Her eyes trail me up and down from behind her cup. “And yet, too much has as well.”

My thoughts try to poke through the wall they are stuck behind. I know this woman. I am certain of it, but, for the life of me, I cannot remember where we would have crossed paths. With quite the character she is, surely I would have some memory of a previous encounter.

Sometimes, curiosity gets the betterment of rational thought.

“Have we met before?” I ask.

“In a way,” she seemed to remember her stipulation only after she answered.“I will make an exception for that one question and that one question only. It is still not time.”

It is unfair to put me in front of this enigma of a woman and expect me to not be eager to learn about her story. There are so many answers that I seek, only scratching the surface of who she is. I want to know everything. “Questions are how conversations work,” I said.

“That is true. But, in order for the conversation to move in a way I desire, I must ask the questions.”

My eyes squint at her. “You’re tricky.”

“Yes, but I am alright with that.”

We both laugh. It sounded like a harmony.

“Please do not be fooled to think you are the first child to come across my home with a multitude of questions.”

I leaned back in my chair and straightened my legs out under the table, crossing my arms in front of my chest. If my mother was here to see me like this, she would reprimand me for being unlady-like. But for once, I was completely relaxed. There was no need to be proper. The old lady did not seem to mind either. “I think the issue we have is with the waiting,” I said.

She gave three long nods, continuously agreeing with her own statement, “Yes, the impatience of some youth is astounding.”

I shrugged. “We’re used to having everything quickly.”

“As you age, you will wish everything moved slower.”

“Sometimes, I already do,” my tone dropped. Usually, I would not be so blunt, but the warmness of the home and the comfort of the drink soothed me in a way I had forgotten about. I felt like a child again, but it was not infantilizing. It seemed I was under a mother’s gaze, and there was no need to be wary of judgment in it.

“You feel as though time is running out, correct?” She asked. I nodded.

A fear I cannot run away from — growing old. It was crippling, leaving me awake at night wondering if I am doing everything that I could do before it is too late. Am I living? Or just making it through the days? What will I regret once I look back at my younger years?

If there was one thing I could wish for, it would be everlasting youth. Not immortality; that is its own nightmare, but a young face, body, and mind until the day I died. I would even bargain for just the mind. A deteriorating brain is an end I do not want to face. Is one even themselves if they cannot remember who they are?

“You will accomplish everything you have set out to do, and with years to spare. Do not be afraid of a changing world, or a changing mind. It does not rid the best of your soul,” she said. The conviction she carried

ART BY AASHI RANA, CLIFTON, NJ

in her tone. It’s as if she knew what I was thinking. She had more confidence in me than I could ever hope to have for myself. “Do not let that feeling of time slipping away consume you, child.”

“How do you know?” I asked. I was only met with a glance — you know the rules. The drink was finished with one last sip. “This cocoa was really good.”

“A family recipe.” She peered out the window, seeing something and sighing. “It seems time for you to be off now, dear.”

“What?”

“Come along.” It seemed she ignored her rule this once. The old lady stood with her hand at the back of my chair, guiding me up and away from the table. I made no moves to stand, but my legs carried me closer to the door anyway. My body was no longer my own. But I still had control over my mouth. “I don’t want to go,” I said.

She smiled softly. “Nobody ever does. But you cannot stay here forever.”

Reaching for and turning the knob, she held open the door. Her eyes gleamed with longing. Would she miss me? Does she already? Full of familial love, she looked at me as if I was her own flesh and blood. And as if I would never see her again. She guided me gently out

of the house. I tried to stop. “I didn’t get to ask any more questions.”

She placed her hand on my cheek, as if I was made of porcelain. I cannot recall that last time I felt a touch this gentle. “And yet you will find the answer in due time,” she said. “Trust me.”

My emotions got the better of me, and I could not help the tears that welled up. I no longer cared for who I was before this; the person I could not recall. It did not matter to me what—or who—I left behind, the comfort of the home is where I wanted to remain. This lady had been kinder to me than anyone had in a long time.

Her hand glided away from my cheek. I was back into the cold and dark, back to the trees and underbrush. The aroma of the lilacs replaced the smell of cinnamon as the door shut me off from the lingering scent.

I turned around. The path was gone, as if the cobblestone was sucked back into the earth. The fog was so heavy, I could barely see in front of my face. Tranquility quickly drained away, and all I felt was dread. I did know of anywhere to go, nor did I know how I had gotten here. My mind was much too hazy to come up with any sort of solution. I closed my eyes, trying to think.

And then it was warm again.

ART GALLERY

ARTWORK BY AESHA JACKSON, LOUISVILLE, KY

PHOTO BY ZHITONG ZHOU, SHENZHEN, CHINA

PHOTO BY DANIELLE MOTTA, PLEASANTVILLE, NY

THERE ARE BEARS IN THE WOODS

STORY BY KAITLYN DONATO, WINCHESTER, MA

PHOTO BY KENZIE TAYLOR, MEXICO, MO

Hugh stared outside his window.

The skies were clear and the sun, indifferently bright. He played with his food, stale and overcooked, and stole glances at an empty chair, gathering dust in the kitchen corner. His wife looked at him: searching for hope, for comfort, for some acknowledgment that she sat before him. Hugh lowered his head and turned his eyes to the floor.

His wife asked him to pass the silverware, her voice stiff and unfamiliar. She told him a story, though it interested neither of them at the table, and spoke at length about the latest local politics, which bored them all the more. Hugh tried to listen, indulging her in sporadic bursts of feigned interest. However, he could not bring himself to care about engagements, wedding days, or baby showers, never mind any thread of neighborhood gossip.

“Did you hear about the Miller twins?” his wife started, pouring herself a glass of wine. “They look just like their father. The whole family is disappointed.”

“It’s unfortunate.”

“The midwife claimed they had the largest noses she’d ever seen on newborns.”

“Yes, it’s very disappointing, Mary. Very disappointing.”

Hugh struggled to contribute much to their discussions as of late. His wife pretended not to notice, serving him another plate of peas. She had grown tired of their evening meals: the distant greetings and empty silences, the sullen voices and foreign stares. She wanted their lives to return to normal. To resume their simple routines and pleasant conversations. Perhaps, if she carried on as before, they might restore some semblance of their past. Perhaps they could begin their days anew.

“Anyway, the Millers are well-off. They’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure they will be.”

“They’re a great family. Do you remember Robert, their oldest son? He received a Purple Heart a few months ago. He’ll probably march in the town parade.”

Hugh shook his head. “And what for? So people can gawk and stare?”

“They’ll do no such thing. He’s a national hero.”

“What they left of him, anyway.”

Hugh did not respond, failing to engage in the conversation at hand. Mary sighed and sipped the remaining contents of her red wine.

“Do you know what could have happened to you out there?”

Barbara slumped in her chair. “I assume you’re going to tell me.”

“There are bears in the woods. They sleep out of sight for a while, biding their time. And then, when the leaves first reappear on branches, when the winter snow subsides, when two foolish children enter

HE PLAYED WITH HIS FOOD, STALE AND OVERCOOKED, AND STOLE GLANCES AT AN EMPTY CHAIR, GATHERING DUST IN THE KITCHEN CORNER

“He was brave. His country needed him to fight and—”

Their heads turned as a young girl walked into the room, bringing both husband and wife to silence. As the child took her place at the kitchen table, she avoided eye contact with her mother, hoping Mary would neglect to notice her untimely arrival.

Her mother was swift to chastise her. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Where have you been all day?”

“Me and Betty Simms went down to the woods.”

“The woods? At this hour? How could you be so foolish?”

“We didn’t mean to stay long. Time slipped away from us.”

Mary shook her head, retrieving a cigarette from her dress pocket. Her hands fumbled as she brought it to her lighter. “Don’t you dare leave us like that again, Barbara. Your father and I were worried to death. Weren’t we, Hugh?”

the woods without a care for their safety, they aw—”

“I don’t need a story, Mother. I understand.”

“This isn’t a story, Barbara. It’s not supposed to amuse you. There are bears in the woods: wild, powerful, ravenous bears. You always need to tell me where you are at night. If I’m not there for you, something bad could happen.”

“And what would that be?”

“A waste of all the love I’ve ever poured into you. If a bear saw you, I have no doubt it would eat you whole without regret. And you would enter that place where people become memories and never return.”

The young girl rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to be so overdramatic. I promise I won’t die any time soon.”

“Don’t be immature, Barbara. If it happened to Jonathan, it could

happen to you, too.” Mary bit her tongue as she spoke, but it was too late. She had already said the unthinkable. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.”

“It’s just that children are kept safe in your body for only a fraction of their lives. Then they’re ripped away and you can no longer protect them, leaving the deepest, most fragile, most vulnerable part of yourself bare to the world forever.”

“I know.”

“So can’t you understand how much you mean to this family? It’s not right to leave without a word. It’s not right. A child should never do that to a mother.”

Barbara nodded, muttering a brief apology. Throughout the rest of their dinner, she picked at the dirt between her fingernails, remnants of her earlier adventures, and listened to her mother’s lecture unravel with growing disinterest. At occasional lulls in conversation, the girl’s eyes fell upon the ever-

abandoned chair in the corner, tucked away from the table so as to remain best out of view. She left the room as soon as her plate was cleared.

Dinner ended shortly after her departure. While Mary brought the last of their dishes to the kitchen sink, Hugh fidgeted with his hands in silence. He glanced at his wife, if only for a moment, until his eyes fell away from her, moving toward the faded outline of a cross against the wall before him.

Mary turned to face him. “I don’t understand why you ever took that down. It belonged to Barbara’s godfather.”

“It was an eyesore.”

“I happened to like it. You never complained about it before.”

“That’s because I didn’t think it was ugly before. I think it’s ugly now.”

“Fine then. I suppose you’ll never change your mind. We could use the space to hang something else. Jonathan’s medals have lain in his

bedroom ever since —”

Hugh set down his fork. “Would you stop, Mary? Would you please just stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Everything. Your righteous lectures. Your false air of happiness. Your pathetic need to continue our lives as if the world hasn’t changed entirely. As if we haven’t changed entirely.”

“Oh, what do you want us to do? Stop the clocks and disconnect the telephones?” Mary spoke like she was built of glass, and could break at any moment — her words grew quiet, weak, and still. “The world will continue on without our son. It already has.”

Hugh folded his napkin. Then he rose from his seat, pushing his chair into the table. “I have some work to finish in my study.”

“Is that what you would rather do, Hugh? Give up on the world? On your family?”

Hugh wanted to hold her in his arms. To tell her just how sorry and broken he felt.

However, neither of them could bear the awkwardness of grief — of one person failing to understand another. For grief was not as straightforward as funerals and clouds and rains. Nor as simple as a final goodbye. Grief was every word, fuzzy and vague. Antennas connecting only to static.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do it, Mary. I can’t pretend to be the same when you and I both know there are bears in the woods and good people are taken from us every day.”

Hugh turned away and walked upstairs without a word. He would remain in his study for the rest of the night, and the rest of the nights to follow, until everyone in the house had settled among different rooms and fractured company.

ART BY EMMA WON, SUWANEE, GA

CREDITS

ART GALLERY

1 PHOTO BY LAUREN H., GOLDEN, CO

2 PHOTO BY JONATHAN HERNANDEZ, SOUTHBOROUGH, MA

POETS’ CORNER

bad dog

nervous paws sweaty how ugly do you have to be to be the pavement right now? gray and poured on and walked over, like the way that bricks take bricks on their shoulders pitter patter pattering mangy thing how disgusting is the sky we breathe? we take it in our desperate drooling mouths like we have more life to live, and are not the fur on the dog frozen by the rain my snout pointed at unforgiving dirt, keep that up and you’re gone for good why did i try to say anything at all? as if they would even listen, as if i would even leave my rowdy barking howls and beer still smells sweet why does the sky open up to mourn me?

to tell me that i have been so tragically awful, so that the alleyway doesn’t even want me to walk through it my flea-ridden ears perked, clipped at the tip and the man on the bus says that i’m lost the swishing rain doesn’t stop what a bad dog.

BY MADDY RUSS, DOYLESTOWN, PA

Haikus

Why the brevity?

No torrents of honesty, Just surface ripples.

BY TITUS KIM, WEST VANCOUVER BC, CANADA

A Ton

I am a ton

Filled to the brim

The sack flowing over A pebble in my stomach

The pit never ending Weighed down Pulled down Down Down Down

I am a ton Spilling over Poured onto others My weight theirs We are filled to the brim Can’t lift these feet

An elephants weight I am the weight The weight me Filled to the brim

The pebble a boulder I can no longer move Suffocated by this force Weighed down by this ton

BY MADDI GLOVER, GERMANY

I Wish

BY RUOHAN HUANG, SAMMAMISH, WA

I wish I could just lie in a field of flowers

Lay awake watching the beautiful blue skies

I wish I could be still for just a few hours

In a garden so stunning you won’t believe your eyes

If only I lay in a bed of flowers; Watch as the sun sets in a mixture of blue and gold

If I could only spend the day there and waste away the hours To lay there and rest until the air turns cold

I would give anything to lay amongst the flowers To lay in wait until my problems unfold

I’d give anything to forget my troubles for a few hours Being encompassed by nature — what a sight to behold.

If it ever occurred, the chance to lay among the flowers I would seize it and be still; as minutes turned to hours.

BY ELIZABETH PEREZ, HEMET, CA

A Mirror of Ourselves

The trees absorb what We have expelled from our lungs And have veins of water.

BY ISABELLA FOUNTAIN, NORTH READING, MA

PHOTO

Peppermint Gum

The first time I held your hand the snowy breeze of winter weaved through your long, flowy hair and you laughed, your breath fogging up it smelled like the piece of peppermint gum you chewed that day, and the blocky weight in my chest from earlier, went from ice to mist to nothing and grew quiet.

Wisps of smoke flew by, and you scrunched your nose at the smell of cigarettes you covered up your face with the sleeve of your jacket, and I smiled, and you grinned, reaching into the left pocket of your jacket, and from it, you pulled out, wrapped in silvery, shiny foil, a small, thin, rectangular piece of peppermint gum. You held it out to me, so I reached for the piece of peppermint gum and my fingers found yours, interlocked, and I think we stayed there, hand in hand for way longer than we were supposed to but you didn’t say a word, and the silence felt so perfect so neither did I.

Time stood still, frozen like the pine cones scattered on the gravel floor, until the recess bell rang, and I didn’t notice until I got home, and realized I never took the piece of peppermint gum you offered me that day, but I think it was okay because I still tasted it in the hazy air, lingering, and for hours and hours, I stood there, trying to breathe it all in.

BY CAM KWON, PEPPER PIKE, OH

xoxo

this one is for the pretty people in scarlet. the ones with hollow hands and sweaty palms. the ones rooted to one spot in their mind while the earth rotates beneath them. warm cots are figurative and need to be found. knobby knees and ankle socks are facades. pull the blinds up, and face the western sky. the world won’t stop moving, so stand still or shift with it.

BY PEPPER ROSE, SPARTANBURG, SC

Banshee Has No Place in Our Forest

Our defenses for the last month In our little town have been depleted.

Our water supply worse. The side river dusts itself with fog And behind it your figure Haunts our brain And terrors the sweet children. Our elders know the legends. Your tears will drown every plotted Land, sacred valleys we hold holy. Seeping under The cracks in the doorways, the sour Creek will make its way under the stone, dead floors and Continue its way, past

BY NATALIE V., DALLAS, TX

PHOTO BY OLIVIA STEFFEE, ORLANDO, FL

Hallucinate

I’ve tripped before, rather it be over rocks and pebbles, people and animals, or objects and air. Things that aren’t there just so happen to find me and I find myself stuttering over words that I’m just spitting at the air even though I was getting responses from the thing that found me. Is it the voice in my head messing with me again or am I just losing it. I think it’s safe to say the things I think and say are there, probably aren’t there. But who knows when the next thing might find me, May this next conversation be as excellent as the last.

BY JAMES WETHERELL-MILBURN, LOUISVILLE, KY

Waiting

I’m waiting for the weekend and waiting for a text waiting for the shorter nights and waiting for what’s next we’re waiting for the album and waiting for our scores waiting for the mail to come and waiting for what’s more We’re waiting for a miracle waiting to have some fun waiting for our graduation we wait instead of run but what do we do when the wait is over?

BY LEAH DONG, PORT WASHINGTON, NY

Period, Comma

not much separates the period from the comma. only a tiny, stretched out line indicates this change. maybe it is merely a smudge, the sentence already ended. but then it is too late. you realize it was not an end. there was so much more to the story. you just chose to ignore it,

BY EMILY IVANAUSKAS, FLEMINGTON NJ

Softly, Softly

That night, I shed three tears For the neighbor’s boy. The nail polish chipped the next day,

Deep red flakes scattered across the bed.

He was made up of doors like bricks.

Each one shattered as he shattered. We sat together on the porch, his chest

Heaving, back against the splinters.

A black eye as your father shook hands with my face.

I heard the contract in his fist; Stay away at all costs, in exchange for life.

Get that gay sh-t out of my sight. All for a kiss.

There’s something about our place, Sun-warmed and smelling Of Orange-Glo cleaner. Your hands, Down my throat, could touch my soul.

Someday, we’ll clean the dread from the rug, The tears from the cracks in the floor.

Maybe we’ll get married. Maybe we’ll be happy.

They’re lies both of us told, but neither could forgive.

I thought about what you had said, The words in the glint in your eyes. Write me farewell in the cigarette smoke.

I’ll sing it back, softly, softly.

BY ANONYMOUS

Our World

I remember when we used to wake up every morning to thank the world To be alive

To not just readjust, but rejuvenate for the new day But now, Our world has been changed by words

By war. By hope, and by sorrow. By us.

We say it’s for the better, but we have only gotten Battered by the day.

There are still bans on our bodies, Wars between countries, Villages being torn down to ashes. Can we still look for the harmony and tranquility inside us?

Or is it gone…forever?

When I hear the birds chirping outside, and the rain dripping on the grass, I remember how beautiful we used to be. How brave our hearts were. How we weren’t just kind to our mind, but also our soul. Maybe we can overcome this, because we were not granted the world as a burden, but as a gift.

I wonder how it has come to this. Look at what we can do. And look at what we have done. Look at what has happened After we forgot that we loved the world.

BY NIDHI BATHLA, SAN ANTONIO, TX

ARTWORK BY GRACE DAVIES, KINGTON, UNITED KINGDOM

Sunday

Tomorrow is a city

A silver blur of hums and opportunity

Waiting eagerly for me To come and sing loud

Tomorrow is fog

Because of the scary unknown I cannot see through But I can wash away fear

Tomorrow seems white Hopeful, yet the silence will still pound

Unspoken dreams traveling through my mind Wondering where the dead end is

But today, right here, with you is orange

The comfort of home follows you

In swirls that bring laughter A cinnamon candle burns beside you And the glare of the sun brings you here

Tomorrow may be a city But today you are home?

BY SIYA SINHA, HARTLAND, WI

A Song About You

you, sitting in the grass by the sun watching over the horizon of the moon how do you see deep into my soul what do you find that so enthralls you you can’t be in love with me so it must be entropic entropic lace bringing us together say anything or nothing at all as the sun sets gazing quietly to when points become meaningless and you become everything

BY ANONYMOUS

Goodbye

I am not a girl who regularly prays anymore

My knees don’t bend on creaky tuffets in church

I am learning and growing and changing

My confessions no longer linger in the air like a ghost

But god,

I miss feeling shielded from my nightmares

I miss the comfort of my happy childhood and the regularity of my days

I miss feeling like, no matter what, I would be safe

But I do not miss the hate

I do not miss the gossip and the narrow mindedness

I do not miss my savior complex

Or the girl who was so quick to judge

The girl who preferred perfection over peace

The girl who formed opinions based on recycled lies

But sometimes I still feel guilty for nailing the casket shut

The echo still rings in my ears

And although the beliefs I once carried with me proudly are now buried under the hummus of ground

I am haunted by the ghost of the girl I knew so well The chill of her presence follows me everywhere.

BY RILEY BELLINGER, BOCA RATON, FL

Value

Cherish the birds, the plants, and that rock.

And look not at the shiny ore Lying still. If not,

All that remains will be the lone Cold towers, that were once bustling With mere mortals.

BY BILL WANG, SHANGHAI, CHINA

PHOTO ELLIE BERGSTRAND, BLUFFTON, OH

ART GALLERY

CREDITS

1 PHOTO BY AUBREY BLACKBURN, BEAVER FALLS, PA 2 ARTWORK BY GUO ZIXIN, SHANGHAI, CHINA

CONTRIBUTORS

THANK YOU!

Memoirs

Kyra Drummond, 6 Anonymous, 8 Frankie Halloran, 10

Making a Difference Essay Contest

Julia Marrell, 16 Aida El-Hajjar, 16 Gavin Rosswog, 17 Clara Yu, 18 Kristen Ngai, 18 Renee Ngai, 19

Interview

Shriya Surana, 20

Making a Difference

Grant Want, 23 Kate Song, 24 Suhjung Kim, 26

Identity

Olivia Dartley, 30 Sophia Gaitanis, 33

Health

Jackie Huang, 36 Alexandra Malkin, 38

Points of View

Logan Penn, 40 Haylee Griffith, 42

Book Reviews

Abigal Sterner, 44 Bailing Hou, 45 Grace Zhou, 46

TV & Movie Reviews

Anonymous, 48 Yuheng Wang, 50

Music Reviews

Lucy Murphy, 52 Yuqing Wu, 53

Fiction

Jenny Belandres, 55 Kaitlyn Donato, 60

Poetry

Maddy Russ, 64 Titus Kim, 64 Maddi Glover, 64 Elizabeth Perez, 64 Isabella Fountain, 64 Cam Kwon, 65 Pepper Rose, 65

Natalie V., 65 James Wetherell-Milburn, 66 Leah Dong, 66 Emily Ivanauskas, 66 Anonymous, 66 Nidhi Bathla, 66 Siya Sinha, 67 Anonymous, 67 Riley Bellinger, 67 Bill Wang, 67

Art Galleries

Grace W., Front Cover Vedika Chouhan, 6 Addison Mitchell, 7 Avery Wong, 9 Haylee Griffith. 10 Haylee Griffith, 12 Katherine Congalka, 13 Amy Nowell, 13 Aesha Jackson, 13 Linda Zeng, 14 Emma Ryan, 14 Anonymous, 14 Layla Chacin, 15 Soeun Lee, 15 Anonymous, 15 Yincheng Qian, 23 Hildi Vecchio, 25 Ally Chen, 27 Austina Xu, 31 Anonymous, 32

Lauren H. Golden, 33 Avery Grace-Payne, 34 Krrisha Patel, 34

Lydia Quattrochi, 35

Kylie Brookshire, 35 Aesha Jackson, 35 Tabitha Dicarlantonio, 35 Elizabeth Ess, 36 Emily G., 38

Angel Vale, 41 Lucia Gomez, 42 Guo Zixin, 47 Krrish Patel, 54 Asshi Rana, 57 Anonymous, 58 Aesha Jackson, 59 Zhitong Zhou 59 Danielle Motta, 59 Zenzie Taylor, 61 Emma Won, 62 Lauren H., 63 Jonathan Hernandez, 63 Ruohan Huang, 64 Olivia Steffee, 65 Grace Davies, 66 Ellie Bergstrand, 67 Aubrey Balckburn, 68 Guo Zixin, 68 Jaiyin Zou, Back Cover

Editorial Staff

Managing Editor: Noelle Campbell

Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner

Associate Editor: Kylie Andrews

Consulting Editor: Ashley Nix

Head of Strategic Partnerships: Chane Hazelett

Production: Katie Olsen

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PHOTO BY JIAYIN ZOU, MCLEAN, VA