Teen Ink magazine - August 2023

By teens, for teens

Plus: Coping with Anxiety & Traveling the World

School Back to

PHOTO BY KIRAM KYEONG, ANAHEIM, CA

Letter from the Editor

Dear Teen Ink Readers,

As summer draws to a close, beach chairs turn into bleachers, and the smell of sunscreen turns into the smell of new school supplies.

Following our theme of exploring topics that are important for teenagers right now, we have a special section on mental health. Additionally, our Opinion section dives into controversial topics like the existence of the American Dream and banned books in schools.

As much as many of us aren’t quite ready to say goodbye to the summer, we hope you have an amazing, life-changing school year!

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!

Best wishes!

The Teen Ink Team

grateful for oranges

ARTICLE

PHOTO BY AVERY-GRACE PAYNE, HOUSTON , TX

BY EVA MANDELBAUM, WHITE PLAINS, NY

I am grateful for oranges.

Oranges have always been my favorite. They are sweet, but not too sweet. Juicy, but not too juicy. And despite the pieces that inevitably stick underneath my fingernails, making my whole hands smell like oranges, peeling them is the best part. Harder than simply cutting with a knife, but so much better.

An innate overthinker, I’ve always adored the natural metaphor of oranges. Tough on the outside, sweet on the inside. Just like life. They are seemingly mundane, simple, basic.

But no matter how magical a citrus-dusted childhood can seem, where there are sweet memories, there are bitter ones to accompany them. Sometimes they come after, sometimes before. Sometimes the soft moments are interwoven with bitter bites and stings. Sometimes when I see oranges, I see myself clawing at the leathery skin ’til my fingers ache, a form of escapism from the abstract art sitting in front of me under the fluorescent lights of the middle school cafeteria. I see myself peeling and peeling and chewing and chewing so intently that I don’t have to talk to anyone. I see the black splotches of piercing mental pain spotting my vision. The heave of feeling like a shadow, a voiceless and trapped ghost.

Oranges are everywhere: in the supermarket, in the juice in the fridge. And yet, they are magical.

Most of my childhood memories are stained with citrus. Memories of orange smiles in Chinese restaurants, the sweet sting of juice that would explode in my mouth as I’d pierce the fruit with my teeth, while it would sit in my mouth, a fake and silly smile that every child did when granted the opportunity. Memories of my mother setting a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice down in front of me, love in liquid form. Memories of my grandfather carefully placing one in my hand, as he explains how supermarket fruits speak to him.

And yet sometimes, oranges bring me back to my mother in the kitchen, orange slicing on a Sunday morning, golden rays peeking through the blinds. I see her setting some slices aside to turn to juice. I blink and there it is, poured into my favorite princess cup, set down in front of me, her sealing a kiss on my forehead as she whispers, telling me to enjoy. The pulp stings the back of my throat, making it hard to swallow. But the sips are refreshing and raw and real. And they are coated with love. Memories are like oranges. The bitterness of an orange never nullifies the sweetness. The punch of juice wouldn’t pop as much if it weren’t for the tough outer skin. It’s common knowledge among all citrus fruit eaters that you get through the tough outer skin before you can relish in the juicy goodness on the inside. And it could not be more worth it. Oranges are bright orbs. They are like little balls of sun on earth. And they are made even brighter by sweet memories, shadowed by bitter ones.

“This piece is about oranges, social anxiety, and the magic of childhood. It is about the way that something as seemingly mundane as an orange can carry the weight of a million memories.”

- Eva Mandelbaum

MEMORIES ARE LIKE ORANGES. THE BITTERNESS OF AN ORANGE NEVER NULLIFIES THE SWEETNESS

HOW THE MAN SCULPTS HIMSELF

ARTICLE BY LUKE CYRUS, SAN ANTONIO, TX

In my seventh-grade year, an unusual scene began to unfold as I stood before the mirror with duct tape securely fastened to my lips. This was no kidnapping or practical joke. No, this was far more brilliant. I had convinced myself that this was the manly approach to embarking on my first-ever shave. Filled with excitement, I anticipated emerging from the washroom with a brand new face, and in retrospect, I wasn’t entirely mistaken. This was it — the moment of my inaugural shave. I took a deep breath and made my move. It was a rip heard ‘round the world! I can confidently say that I have never experienced such excruciating pain, and I truly hope to never again reach such heights of misguided ingenuity.

Fast-forward four years to the present, where I now find myself at 16 years of age, having left behind the sophisticated tape-and-scissors contraption. I have acquired a proper razor blade, and with it, the unbandaged, smooth face of a now-changed youth.

Shaving has become a transformative experience for me — a gateway from a sleep-deprived, bewildered teenager to a well-groomed, accomplished gentleman. While the act itself may seem trivial, it is the first of many rituals that contribute to a man’s self-cultivation. I have noticed that nearly every achievement I have pursued in my life — be it business ventures, academic scholarship, or personal growth — has required a physical affirmation of my intent, much like how making one’s bed is associated with a productive day. For me, shaving is one of the primary physical rituals

that motivate the transformation of my goals into reality. It forms an integral part of my morning routine, instilling in me a sense of control, and setting the tone for the day ahead. As I engage in this ritual, I subconsciously remind myself of the following truths:

The ability to shape the appearance of my face empowers me to shape the course of my day.

A clean face is synonymous with a clean slate, projecting an image of purpose and professionalism to those with whom I interact in any fruitful endeavor.

Achieving a clean shave enhances my confidence and overall well-groomed appearance.

The million-dollar question, then, is how does one ensure a “good clean shave”? I firmly believe that the answer lies in selecting the right razor. A suitable razor not only enables a faster and more thorough shave, but also accommodates those moments when I desire a leisurely grooming session. These longer shaves provide me with valuable time to contemplate the day’s tasks and, at times, allow for a cathartic experience as I silently observe my newly sculpted visage. The versatility offered by a high-quality blade, therefore, lies in its ability to efficiently cater to both productive and meditative shaving sessions, underscoring the broader significance of shaving in my life.

However, do not simply take my word for it! Outside of

my scientific and business interests, I have developed a fascination with studying the Classics. Surprisingly, the works of great ancient figures such as Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar contain a significant and often humorous emphasis on the benefits of shaving. In those times, a beard was regarded as a liability — a mere tool for enemy soldiers to exploit by giving it a well-aimed tug on the battlefield. No doubt the people of that age were assured of the importance of shaving in their lives! While we may chuckle at these anecdotes, throughout history, men have found compelling reasons to shave, be it for practicality, adherence to cultural norms, or even gaining strategic advantages in business and war fields. Regardless, while the motivations for shaving may differ from person to person and across cultures, the significance and impact of this grooming ritual have persisted. I suppose I could sum it up like this: give a man a new

blade, and he’ll come out of the washroom a new man, and if not a new man, at least certainly better than if he had walked out with a roll of duct tape.

PHOTO BY VIKRAM ANANTHA, LEXINGTON, MA

SHAVING HAS BECOME A TRANSFORMATIVE EXPERIENCE FOR ME — A GATEWAY FROM A SLEEPDEPRIVED, BEWILDERED TEENAGER TO A WELL-GROOMED, ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEMAN

white shoes and a worn-out soul

ARTICLE BY TAYLOR GUZMAN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

PHOTO BY NOAH HAWES, WARREN, OH

Two weeks before the start of sophomore year, I purchased a pair of white Nike Air Maxes. They match with everything — from my patched jeans to my green miniskirt. I know that they will be my most dependable and faithful shoes. They are pristine, with long laces that can be double-knotted or even tripleknotted to prepare for adventure.

Winter break presents the perfect opportunity to test them out. I fly to Palo Alto, California, to visit Merrell, my best friend and older sister. I will sleep in her dorm, wander around San Francisco, and pretend to be in college. The moment we arrive at Stanford, Merrell takes me on a walk around the campus. We pass Lake Logg, which is perpetually empty except for the bout of unprecedented rainfall during her freshman year. We sneak onto the golf course and throw stray balls down the fairway of the first tee. She leads me through the “circle of death:” a chaotic roundabout infamous for biker and pedestrian collisions. I love the little details that create campus life. Walking through the setting of her illusive anecdotes leaves me awestruck. Late night stories once whispered into cellphone speakers come to life. I am surrounded by tentative first day hellos, awkward encounters in the bathroom, and 3 a.m. bowls of cereal. Hearing about it was one thing, but being here is something else entirely.

We eat at the famed Arrillaga Family Dining Commons for dinner. My heart skips a beat as Merrell swipes her meal card, granting me access to a new, exclusive world. I catch a glimpse of the shiny, red waffle maker in the glare from the overhead lighting, calling to me through a siren song. Interrupting the lure of the waffle maker, my mother’s voice echoes in my mind: “Waffles aren’t for dinner.” A third voice interjects, and, as if reading my thoughts, Merrell says, “It’s college. If you want waffles, go for it!” And so, I do. The waffle is imprinted with the Stanford logo: a capital S and a pine tree. I smother the tree in butter and drown the S in

syrup. Each crunchy, golden bite gives way to a fluffy, sweet interior. I breathe in maple, crisp California air, pine trees, and cardinal red — a sensory delight that can only be described as freedom.

Every time we leave the dorm, my Nike Air Maxes touch Stanford’s sacred ground. You know the ground on which you walk is holy when even the people who walk on it every day take special care. I watch as students float over the concrete sidewalks on their quest for knowledge and pursuit of high learning. I force myself to fall in sync with the rhythm of my sister’s stride. I let my long laces drag on the ground, soaking up the magic that fills every crevice of this place.

Upon returning home, Stanford becomes my sun. I am dragged into its orbit by a gravitational pull. Like the Earth, I circle my sun 365 days a year. I twist and turn, but never break free of the endless loop. A need for academic perfection motivates me to rise every morning. I sleep out of necessity so that I can wake up the next day and do it all over again. Gone is the space for second chances, small mistakes, and “I will try harder next times.” I must try my hardest all the time. As the school year progresses, my Nike Air Maxes become — to kindly put it — off white. I have worn them six out of seven days for the past 18 weeks. The math test I studied hours for, fumbled passes in during field hockey practice, and the English essay I rewrote so many times — including once in Spanish — appear as gray spots or scuff marks. The Air Maxes are stained from “mental health” walks through Rock Creek Park and spilled ketchup on the cafeteria floor. I have tried cleaning them. But can you really scrub off the residue left behind by anxiety and disappointment?

The quiet moments of my days are filled with loud, intrusive thoughts of Stanford. The lyrics of my favorite song transform into a steady chant of “Stanford University.” When I close my

GONE IS THE SPACE FOR SECOND CHANCES, SMALL MISTAKES, AND “I WILL TRY HARDER NEXT TIMES.” I MUST TRY MY HARDEST ALL THE TIME

eyes, I see the spires of Memorial Church and taste sugary waffle batter. I remind myself that my current state of overwhelming emotion and stress is only temporary. In two years, I will greet my new roommate with my own nervous hello and eat my own bowl of 3 a.m. cereal. In two years, my shoulders will not ache under the burden of pressure. In two years, I will rest.

The end of sophomore year goes by in a haze of sleepless nights plagued by a high-strung brain that obsesses over the day’s misinterpreted comments and the potential topic of my future dissertation. I am haunted by the ghosts of academic shortcomings. When I sit down to watch TV, my mind swirls with the thousands of other more productive things I could be doing: searching for summer internships, learning how to start a nonprofit, building my life-changing app. My incessant foot tapping spreads throughout my body and before I know it, I can’t even bear to sit. I must stand. I spent the spring of sophomore year standing. And by the time summer comes, my legs are tired, and my feet are sore.

I don’t even notice as the soles begin to tear. Strips of rubber peel off, revealing the striped, orange socks within. The gravel on the sidewalk stabs the bottom of my feet. Holes form near both toes. I carefully patch my shoes with black duct tape, but eventually it unravels, and I am left with a pair of thoroughly worn-out Nike Air Maxes.

Surprisingly, summer is what breaks me. School ends and suddenly, I am drowning in free time. Meticulously planned schedules had dictated my life for months. Those schedules told me how long to shower, what order to do my homework in, and when to breathe. Without the incessant buzz of my alarm at 6:30 a.m., I have no reason to wake up. There are no chemistry flashcards to make or textbook pages to read. The path to

success, to Stanford, is no longer linear. I don’t know what goals to set or what accolades to pursue if I am not at school. I cannot measure achievement in glowing As and the undeniable greatness of a 98 percent. This time for rest and relaxation morphs into a period of dizzying confusion. In simple terms, I am stressed about not having to be stressed. My single-mindedness and focus on Stanford motivated me throughout the school year. However, now, my lofty dream leaves me floundering. In a better headspace, I could have formed a new plan and spent the rest of summer suffering in regimented bliss. But I am so tired. Instead, I spiral into an unhinged state fueled by burnout.

When the sight and smell of shoes become too much, my mother tells me it’s time. I know that it has been time for a while now. The first part of summer has been mentally and physically draining, and so I take her advice. For once, I truly listen to her. I throw my shoes away. A thud echoes from the monstrous green trash can as the Nike Air Maxes hit the bottom. I feel the slightest twinge of relief somewhere deep inside.

Two weeks before the start of junior year, I purchased a new pair of white Nike Air Maxes. I also dug out a pair of pink and green striped Adidas sneakers from the back of my closet. Like sophomore year, some weeks pass by in a haze of sleepless nights. Sometimes I still spend an inordinate amount of time studying for a math test or writing my third draft of an English essay in Spanish. But I never wear the same sneakers six out of seven days in a week. While white sneakers match with everything, the green stripe on my Adidases highlights the green pattern of my miniskirt and my patchwork jeans look cool with a pair of leather boots. Variety reminds me to smile, laugh, and embrace change. I am trying to keep my shoes in rotation and hopefully, my white Nike Air Maxes will live to see senior year.

I don’t know what goals to set or what accolades to pursue if I am not at school. I cannot measure achievement in glowing As and the undeniable greatness of a 98 percent

PHOTO BY CAITLYN KIM, CERRITOS, CA

ARTWORK BY ASHLYNE GRENIER, HAMBURG, MI

AUGUST

ARTICLE BY RILEY BELLINGER, BOCA RATON, FL

ARTWORK BY TANMAYI PANASA, CARY, NC

This August is what summer feels like. Through and through. Usually August has always been the most anxiety-inducing month of the year because of school and stress dreams about math homework. I always felt that August was a month where you mourn the person you were all summer long. Now that school is just out of reach, we all have to lose our wild eyes and tanned skin to become something boring, something smaller to fit in a classroom.

This August feels calmer though, less rushed, and less focused on school. It feels like my skincare sinking into my pores, the sun warming my legs, the sloshing waves, and the soft sound of Beach Fossils playing in the background. This August looks like kids chasing each other with sandy, tanned hands, and pink morning skies matching the healthy flush on my cheeks. It sounds like laughter and hilariously terrible karaoke nights. It feels like chlorine turning my hair green and crispy, and mosquito bites lining my legs.

This summer, I feel like I am drowning in life. I am happy and I am sad and I am perfectly content with each day that goes by. I think I’m in a homeytaking-in-art kind of headspace right now. I try to look at things and see their uniqueness. I try to marvel at the exact coolness of the world. I’ve started to walk more and connect with something other than my cell phone. I have slowed down and tried to do whatever would make me happier. So I walk, and I look at the trees swaying, and I watch cars go by with music blaring from the windows. Sometimes, I

just sit on a park bench and watch people. Everyone is so different. I listen to different podcasts and go through book after book. I’m trying to find new things that make me excited to learn. I have experimented with things I never thought I would enjoy. Who knew space was so cool? I go to bed early and wake up at sunrise. I walk along the beach and act like I can hear the ocean through a seashell while I watch the waves calmly wash over the shore.

Ever since I was little, I attributed colors to seasons and days of the week, and sometimes even feelings. Most times I assume summer is yellow, because of the sun and its direct correlation to happiness. But this year, I think summer feels blue.

A light blue that makes you dream of epiphanies and take deep breaths. It feels like the beautiful blue beach breeze and my beautiful blue signed copy of Book Lovers. The bright blue sky and the very blue rainy days are in tune with my state of mind. Each day seems to be floating lazily, like the wind softly twinkling my blue wind chimes. Each day feels stretched out and relaxed. I don’t have anything to do but cook and paint and write and watch “Stranger Things.”

I stopped trying to figure out why I exist and just sat with myself for a while — without a purpose or routine. It makes me feel so much better. I’m not so nervous anymore. I feel like I might float into the school year with a smile on my face, for the first time ever.

NOW THAT SCHOOL IS JUST OUT OF REACH, WE ALL HAVE TO LOSE OUR WILD EYES AND TANNED SKIN TO BECOME SOMETHING BORING, IN A CLASSROOM

It was the end of summer, and I was enlightened. Middle school was a chaotic period of rearrangement that shook me until I reached the clarity of mind I had been waiting for so long to achieve. Now, I had a whole new perspective on the value of time, and the importance of academics. I had also developed pressure to the point where I believed anything less than pristine grades were unacceptable, a bane on my existence that would terminate my hopes and dreams. Not desiring anything other than success in the high school experience to come, it was time for me to set a resolution. The time had come for a goal.

For almost all of my schooling career, since the wee levels of elementary school, I have been that “one kid.” The one whose sole redeeming factor to his socialemotional incompetence was the fact that he could do math well. My life had been defined by my performance in the classroom — life was perfect when my grades were. I was a cool kid when I displayed top-notch accomplishments. If there was one

surefire person to go to college, I was him. This reputation stuck with me through two school changes and was at the forefront of my appearance to others. My parents also constructed the foundation of high academic standards, interrogating me every time I scored less than an A. These expectations from my parents and peers influenced my extraordinarily high value on academics, and this defined my goal for high school: to achieve a perfect GPA for all eight semesters, and settle for no less than first in my class. Nothing had a higher priority than my grades, and that was how high school would go.

On the first day of high school, I was ready to put my plan into action. I came in guns blazing, prepared to mow down all assignments hurled in my direction. There was little that could put an end to my academic endurance, and I was riding high. After all, happiness was what I made it, and for me, it was good grades. If good grades were happiness, then I would make high school bliss. That was the precedent, anyway.

Amplifying the need for marriage to academics was my divorce with people. Having few friends, I was pushed right into the open arms of the classroom and my plot was to embrace this. Devoted, almost religiously, to my work, I charged through the first weeks of school with no remorse for the left-behind scene of basic conversation with others. There was no life beyond my goal because if it failed, I surely could not accomplish this arduous cycle called life. However, my tunnel vision for my rigid timeline of high school caused more stress than I realized.

Still focused on a singular possibility for the school year, I made minimal contact with other people and purposefully restrained myself from socializing. Perhaps I was not as cheerful as my socially affluent peers, but I was satisfied with what I was doing and achieving. My academic plan was coming to fruition, and I was riding high in my own world. Nothing could shake my belief that grades were the only thing that mattered.

ARTWORK BY TANMAYI PANASA, CARY, NC

Except, maybe grades weren’t the

life is a plan, right?

ARTICLE BY CHARLES F., CANNON FALLS, ME

ARTWORK BY ANONYMOUS

sole focus of my life. Perhaps there was merit in making friends. These were the statements rolling around in the gears of my rational-wired mind as I tested my limited and floundering social skills talking to (gasp) a girl.

What had happened to my straight and narrow path to success in high school, the only important goal in my life? I came to the realization that I enjoyed talking to people by making a new friend. Deciding to ignore this entirely, I was still determined to taskmaster my plan into bloom. I was already seeing the benefits of my labor — a “one of 84” for my class rank. This was the moment I had been striving to achieve for months, all from nondeviation from my ploy. But, the ecstasy was not all there. I still wanted to talk to the girl I met before, because maybe, just maybe, there was more to existence than academic proficiency. Perhaps having friends could be a portion of my life, too.

Friends, however, come at a cost. The toll demanded was the expenditure of my all-important

plan, which was my life. That was a price I was not willing to pay. I kept an iron grip on my life with the vice of my goal in hand. As it turns out, fate would not accept this. Time and time again, I found myself straying from my self-imposed social silence, talking to people and liking it. My mind kept wondering if I could balance both academics and friends. My plan said no, but I said yes. This was not how the school year was supposed to go. It was to be purely academic. I was to hone my studying skills in order to sharpen the sword of growth wielded by all the greats. In no way could I have made new friends. Yet, this was what I wanted now. I was coming home happier, and I made inroads into a part of me that had been stifled for years. Instead of spending hours pursuing an enormous target when given time to think, I contemplated my peers. What had happened to the academic labors I had committed myself to with my master plan to dominate the world of 9th grade, the work that would satisfy my life’s goal? It turns out, the fulfillment I had been looking for did not only come from a number on paper, but

also from a connection with others. Still clinging to the tattered scheme designed by the younger me, I tackled the final months of school with insurmountable doubts about my goals.

As the year draws to a close, and I am taking time to reflect on the happenings of it, I have to realize that it did not do what I wanted it to. School is for learning and nothing else… or, so I thought. Nobody did the things I thought they would do, and the year is still evolving. I suppose the most valuable lesson I learned from this school year did not come from a classroom. It didn’t teach me social studies, trigonometry, or the structure of a speech. In fact, the most important information didn’t come from a teacher at all. It came from a now even more enlightened version of self, one that surpassed the standards of academic goalmaking from middle school. With the aid of so many others, I realized that life cannot be dictated by any one plan, and the sooner I embrace that, the quicker I can savor it for all that it is.

not just a locker

ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS

When I was cleaning out my locker at the end of the year, I saw… nothing. I remember the extravagant and lengthy cleanouts of elementary and middle school; my stuff would be a large addition to the garbage cans out in the hallway (always full to the brim by the last day of school), and I would require multiple trips to bring everything home. All the wallpaper, mirrors, white boards, magnets, mini-chandeliers, rugs, and shelves — not to mention all my folders and notebooks for each class.

Now, the end of the school year just doesn’t seem right. Everything fits in my backpack, and all there is are binders and folders from the year, and books that I seemed to never use. No decorations, personality, nor pizzazz — nothing to distinguish my locker as mine, apart from the number on the front: 2501. I don’t even remember my combination anymore — nothing in there is worth locking in.

The one thing that gives me a little closure of the school season is throwing away all of my papers when I get home, the only semblance of that final purge that I was once so familiar with. I take the time to pull out each piece of paper, recycling the ones without my name, and

shredding the ones with it.

But with so many classes still doing online work after Covid-19, there aren’t that many papers to even burn in a bonfire or fill up those green bins. All I have to show for my hard work this semester is a small stack of papers, one that looks sad and untriumphant in contrast to what I should consider a victory.

I sighed. Maybe this is it. My last locker cleanout already passed and I didn’t get to appreciate it for what it’s worth. But even if that is true, I still hold on to all of the memories that have left with the end-of-the-year locker evictions, like my squishy collection from sixth grade, or the polka-dot wallpaper from third grade, or the colorful wooden cubbies from all the way back to Kindergarten.

Even though I am not able to have that satisfying locker renovation anymore, it is almost like what I do get rid of is heavier, as I realize that I only have one year left. Only one more year until there are no more lockers to clean out, ever again. This year, I may have taken for granted the significance of the simple locker — and all of the memories that come from a measly metal door with a cubby behind it.

PHOTO BY XUJIA GUAN, MAPLE RIDGE, BC, CANADA

CREDITS

ART GALLERY

1. PHOTO BY MIAOFU TIAN, WINSTON-SALEM, NC

2. ARTWORK BY ANTIGONE STANLEY, ADELAIDE, AUSTRALIA

3. PHOTO BY AVIANAH WRIGHT, VALATIE, NY

invisible battles

ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS

PHOTO BY SANJOLI GUPTA, LOS GATOS, CA

That’s what I tell myself on a daily basis. But I can’t help thinking,

What if they’re looking at me?

They’re laughing — probably at me.

Everyone is judging me. What am I doing?

What is wrong with me?

That is the question I ask the most. It eats away at me, suffocating me. I have never actually been diagnosed with any mental health disorders. That’s because I try to hide them. I know I have anxiety. What introvert is afraid to put their hand up to ask a question because they are worried it will draw

at. Having anxiety isn’t just being “very shy.” People will make fun of the fact I hardly ever talk. I’ve heard them laughing. The truth is, anxiety feels like it is constantly weighing you

unwanted attention? What introvert has panic attacks at P.E. because they think that everyone around them is casting silent judgment? Not a normal one.

The problem with anxiety is exactly that, though. The lines between anxiety and being an introvert tend to blur, and people don’t understand what it’s like to be in this constant fear.

Having anxiety doesn’t make you weak, even if that is what you tell yourself. Anxiety is a mental health problem, just like depression or anorexia, and needs to be addressed instead of scoffed

down. In my own experience, it feels like being stuck in a well, trying to claw your way out but failing. Soon, you give in to your fate and the water presses in on all sides, smothering you. You can’t even scream for help.

But anxiety can be treated, and it doesn’t always have to be from therapy. Talking to people you know, for example, can be a good way to alleviate these feelings. Or writing about your personal experiences, whether that be with a journal or poems. I write stories to escape every once in a while. The important thing is to have a coping mechanism, to be able to find time to breathe. Remember, anxiety may seem like it is controlling you, but it really isn’t. There’s still the logical part of your brain and, even though drowned out by anxiety, it is still there. Listen to that, it’s always right.

No one cares about your mistakes, they have their own lives.

No one is watching you.

This is all in your head.

Yes, I have panic attacks. Yes, it’s hard for me to do things that would be easy for someone else. My anxiety is holding me back, but it doesn’t define me. I hope that one day, I’ll find the strength to escape the well that condemns me.

It’s all in my head. Not real.

THE LINES BETWEEN ANXIETY AND BEING AN INTROVERT TEND TO BLUR, AND PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE IN THIS CONSTANT FEAR

MY ANXIETY IS HOLDING ME BACK, BUT IT DOESN’T DEFINE ME

SADNESS the IMPORTANCE of

ARTICLE BY BEATRICE MILLER, SEATTLE, WA

ARTWORK BY ZARIAH ARRINGTON, DALLAS, TX

Sadness has a bad reputation.

In western culture, sadness is stigmatized and cast as a negative feeling. People are taught to feel uncomfortable being sad, because society doesn’t accept that sadness has value. This situation can make it difficult to work through those hard feelings.

Sadness has been even more frowned upon with the rise of social media. Everyone is smiling, having fun, and looking put together. This can give us the false idea that everyone feels happy all the time. The fact that you might be feeling sad or some other mix of emotions could make you feel weird, alone, or singled out.

One benefit of sadness is that it can help you make connections with others or to deepen existing connections. Since sadness isn’t normalized, it can feel reassuring and comforting to find out that someone you know is feeling similar things.

Experiencing wide ranges of emotions can help you to become an emotionally intelligent person, because you can understand what other people are feeling and

empathize with them. Empathy is a valued skill in almost every walk of life, and it can only help you.

The brilliant animated film “Inside Out” focuses on the character Sadness and how she seems to make everything worse. Throughout the movie, we see how, even though she makes mistakes, she continues to be helpful. Meanwhile, Joy is either ignoring her or putting her down, because Joy thinks Riley (the girl whose head they are inside of) only needs to be happy. At the end of the movie, we learn how Sadness can help you understand why you don’t feel good, and how others can see your sadness and take action to help you. The overall theme of the movie expressed that it’s okay to be sad, which isn’t shown very often in the media, and is vital to our

everyday lives.

Sadness can help people realize what matters to them. For example, let’s say you try out for a soccer team and you don’t make the team. If you feel sad, that just shows how much you really care about soccer, and maybe you should start prioritizing it more. Whereas, if you don’t feel sad, that can tell you that you didn’t really want to be on the team and it’s for the best that you didn’t make the cut. Another example could be when you fight with someone you love, you might feel sad because you value that person and want them in your life. Sadness can help you define your values and make good decisions.

Despite how the idea of sadness being hurtful and negative is being pushed, sadness is an important part of life. Sadness lets us know that something is wrong, and it can help you understand why you don’t feel good. Feeling sad allows you to have an opportunity to reflect and look within. A common misconception is that pushing away sadness or pretending it isn’t there will help you feel better. That may be a short term solution, but that sadness you feel is there for a reason.

It’s okay to feel sad.

ONE BENEFIT OF SADNESS IS THAT IT CAN HELP YOU MAKE CONNECTIONS WITH OTHERS OR TO DEEPEN EXISTING CONNECTIONS

ARTWORK BY AVA LIM, STEVENSON RANCH, CA

“MORE

THAN SKIN DEEP”

Opinion: Is The American Dream Still Within Reach?

ARTICLE BY EMILY FANG, PENNINGTON, NJ

As a country, the United States has progressed faster than many others. People around the world immigrate to America for the opportunities that are available in the nation, creating a melting pot of diverse cultures that establish a foundation for further possibilities. Because of this, the American Dream has become a commonly known term pertaining to the expansive opportunities for success in the United States. It has become a symbol of the ideal life in America, something that all people aspire to attain. Supposedly, anyone, regardless of their background, can achieve prosperity if only they work hard and maintain their determination and grit. As of late, however, a question has arisen about the true likelihood of ever achieving that dream. Although many feel that the American Dream is still within reach in the eye of the law with the assistance of equality and a lifetime of hard work, it is time to reevaluate this mindset and shift our perception of the dream in order to live a more substantial life, free from the unrealistic expectations of extreme success.

The United States has created a setting with seemingly fair and infinite opportunities for all, making the American Dream a viable possibility. Even from the birth of the country, it was established that all men are created equal. The Declaration of Independence details the extent to which everyone has the same rights on an equal playing field, and therefore equal chances at success. Consequently, the belief is that success is accessible for each individual and much easier to achieve than in any other country. It was upon this principle that the American Dream was conceived, and it was upon this principle that people began to feel that all opportunities are dependent upon one’s ability or achievement. America has given people the opportunity to prove their worth through their potential and merit, therefore allowing people to rise in stature based not on their background, but instead on their individual selves. Those in the United States have the ability to chase the American Dream because they are relatively oppressed by strict social orders that have gradually developed in older countries that give severe advantages to those of higher status. In this way, the idealistic concept of the American Dream still feels possible, due to the unique establishment of America and the fluidity of its social pyramid.

Even so, as society progresses, distrust in the American

ARTWORK BY AIDA EL-HAJJAR, MILWAUKEE, WI

Dream has only risen. Housing, in particular, a considerable part of the dream, has become a questionable aspiration. Owning a home opens the door to almost infinite possibilities, including investments and buying power, leading homeowners upon a path toward the glowing destination of success. However, this foundation of homeownership is now an intimidating ambition in the current economy, with lower inventory, skyrocketing interest rates, and bigger mortgage payments. The housing market has made it difficult for anyone to buy a home, and therefore difficult to follow the path toward extreme accomplishment. This signifies the beginning of the end — the harsh reality that the romantic concept of the American Dream is truly becoming more of a fanciful dream than a plausible reality in the current national landscape. Furthermore, consumer debt, which has gone up every year since 1958, gives people the illusion that they’re making their way effectively toward the American Dream, when in reality, they’re digging their way into a deep hole of financial issues. Modern credit cards and loans, which allow people to purchase various goods and commodities without actually having possession of the money to do so, sink people into debt as interest and bills pile up over time. In some cases, the American Dream, which constantly nudges many toward achieving something astronomical in order to attain the trophy of fame, wealth, and status, stimulates the need to borrow and buy as an investment for the future. However, this debt weighs people down over time, ironically pulling them away from their dreams.

Although the United States does provide the opportunity to grow and achieve great things based on ability and merit, those who still believe that the American Dream is accessible to all fail to recognize the recent developments that have necessitated a change in perception of this dream. On one hand, America is unique in that there exists an abundance of choice in occupations and education. In this manner, Americans may feel they have greater chances of success and of achieving high ranks in the social stratification, making the American Dream seem like a perfectly feasible venture. Despite these vast opportunities, the chance for the extreme success dreamed of by many has shrunk due to an array of factors, from the decaying housing market to consumer debt. This creates disparities between different groups of people — only some of whom are able to afford these drastic changes. This creates an environment where the glamorous version of the American Dream is smothered for everyone else. Those who were born into a specific social position, often with wealth and connections, have a higher chance of realizing this dream, while those who were born into more unfortunate circumstances have a harder time finding as much success. In this way, while technically accessible to all, the American Dream, as a golden standard of extreme success, is truly only attainable to some. The issue is that money and material goods persist as indicators of happiness and status, and as a

result, many people aim to access a flourishing supply of money that seems to be the answer to all of life’s obstacles. But what is the true value of tremendous wealth and grandeur beyond maintaining a certain social image and remaining within a certain social circle? It has become increasingly apparent that as one’s net worth increases, so does their spending. More money comes with more responsibilities. With a respectable and well-paying job comes the desire to purchase expensive clothes and cars, go out to exquisite restaurants, and keep up a specific reputation that suddenly seems expected. Happiness is not derived from $100 bills. Instead, money almost becomes a burden rather than a relief after hitting a certain point. Because of this, Americans must shift their mindset. The American Dream is not fundamentally about stardom or extreme success. What used to be considered “success” is no longer a defining characteristic of what Americans should aim for today. It should be recognized that fame and extraordinary wealth are not equivalent to living a substantial life. The American Dream is no longer about continuously rising in social rank or continuously increasing wealth from one generation to the next. The current national landscape gives way to a new continuity: the preservation of a stable middle class, where each generation can live happily and comfortably without perpetually straining to become astonishingly wealthy and successful.

Even though many people, from CEOs of large corporations to glamorous celebrities, have shown signs of extreme success as a result of hard work and social fluidity, it has become increasingly clear that wealth and fame don’t indicate as much happiness and substance in life as the American Dream originally painted it to be. Money isn’t a requirement for living a substantial life. People should begin to recognize the significance and ampleness of their current surroundings, instead of perpetually pursuing an extravagant lifestyle that has lately become incredibly difficult to attain. The American Dream should be a dream of felicity and contentment, not exclusively wealth and fame.

While technically accessible to all, the American Dream, as a golden standard of extreme success, is truly only attainable to some

Opinion:

Drop The Phone And Read

ARTICLE BY TANISH PARLAPALL, MORRIS PLAINS, NJ

Recently, I had a conversation with my friend regarding the SAT — a standardized test for college-bound high schoolers — and he told me that he could not adequately complete the reading section of the test because of his low attention span. The reading section involves several short passages, followed by questions regarding the author’s intent, vocabulary, inferences, and many other sub-categories of critical thinking questions. So, as you can imagine, comprehending each passage to the best of your ability is of utmost importance. Once my friend informed me of his dilemma, I advised him to start reading books more consistently, explaining that reading will, among other benefits, improve his SAT score the most. He responded with several well-developed, intricately thought-out reasons why reading is not the appropriate solution: “I just can’t,” and “I prefer TikTok,” being some of them. My friend’s objection to reading is not uncommon. One look at high school students will explain why reading is not a common practice: cell phones.

Upon the introduction of books, they were the primary source of information for people, acting as truth-seekers, storytellers, and tutorials. As technology advanced, however, books were dethroned, making way for the internet and social media as the kings of news sourcing. This transformation in how humans acquire knowledge was, evidently, a step in the right direction, because it trumped books in convenience and reliability

from a purely informationgathering standpoint, while further broadening the potential of human intelligence. However, what made books great, beyond their easy access to information, was their ability to allow readers to create and develop their version of a story. Movies, unlike books, rely on a single interpretation of a story — a rendition of art that is visualized, understood, and organized by a sole perspective. Books, on the other hand, encourage readers to interpret literature through their unique perspective and to come to their conclusions through thoughtful consideration of an author’s message or an essential question. Because of this, two people of similar cultural backgrounds can discover distinct ideas regarding the same work of literature. Most of these mentally enriching tasks are not performed during viewings of videos and movies. This type of mentation functions for entertainment and quick tutorials — which make up the majority of viewed videos — but is not sufficient for work that requires divergent thinking.

The main concern that short, stimulating videos present regards attention spans. Through humans’ use of social media, engineers have understood the human mind’s proclivity toward vibrant colors and quick edits. While the entertainment industry certainly benefits from these conclusions, they have not helped the average cell phone user. Now, people are flooded with dopaminergic stimuli:

entertaining videos and clips that are designed to create addiction. This technological marvel of neuroscience has led to a dramatic decrease in productivity among active social media users, who now find their only source of pleasure through constant scrolling and

double-tapping. This problem can lead to an undeveloped mind, one that has a more difficult time finding underlying messages, forming distinct ideas, and creating value of its own.

The internet has robbed people of their attentiveness, and books serve as a reminder that many cannot merely sit and read without obsessively checking their phones every few minutes. This issue may seem inconsequential at first — with many even claiming it isn’t an issue — but its deleterious effects on the human mind cannot be overstated. Books allow us to create new worlds, acquire knowledge about virtually anything, develop our minds, articulate ourselves, and even relax — these are not trivial benefits reserved for the esoteric type: they are essential for our continued happiness and growth.

The internet has robbed people of their attentiveness

Opinion:

Book Bans

It only took one parent’s complaint for “The Hill We Climb” by Amanda Gorman to be removed from the elementary section of the library in a K-8 school in Miami Lakes, Florida. Yes, “The Hill We Climb”, the poem written and recited by Amanda Gorman, the youngest inaugural poet in U.S. history, at President Joe Biden’s inauguration in 2021. However, the parent erroneously named Oprah Winfrey as the author. Along with the author’s name being incorrect, there were sections on the complaint form that were blank.

Many people think “The Hill We Climb” is a poem about hope and unity, but this parent had a slightly different take. When asked, “Why do you object to this material?”, the Miami Lakes parent wrote that the book wasn’t educational and contained indirect hate messages. The parent believed the purpose of the poem was to “cause confusion” and “indoctrinate students.” It’s nice to see they are sticking to their script.

To clear up any confusion, the book was not completely banned, as it is still available to middle school students. However, this still restricts access for elementary students. It is disheartening to see that one complaint has the power to remove a book, no questions asked. In a statement Gorman posted on Instagram, she wrote, “let’s be clear: most of the forbidden works are by authors who have struggled for

ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS

generations to get on bookshelves. The majority of these censored works are by queer and non-white voices.” This is reflected in the themes commonly seen among banned books, with many containing more than one subject. PEN America, a nonprofit dedicated to defending free expression in literature, found that the majority of banned books address LGBTQ+ themes (41 percent), have protagonists or prominent characters of color (40 percent), or address racism (21 percent). Representation, or a lack thereof, has powerful influence, especially for young people, because it gives readers inspiration and fosters confidence. Banning books that feature marginalized groups will continue to be an act of blatant homophobia, transphobia, racism, and discrimination.

In a world where there are so many diverse perspectives and ideas, preserving the freedom to access information and engage with differing viewpoints is paramount. Banning books infringes on an individual’s right to free thought by preventing access to certain ideas or narratives. We risk creating an intellectual echo chamber, where only one narrative is allowed, limiting the potential for progress. Books have the power to educate, inspire, and challenge prevailing norms. They provide a medium through which readers can explore complex themes and broaden their understanding of the world.

ARTWORK BY ELAINE FENG, ARCADIA, CA

ARTICLE

forgotten tastes of Hong Kong

BY MEG XU, HONG KONG, CHINA

Hong Kong isn’t only a sparkling metropolis with its cluster of skyscrapers and busy streets, it’s also the crowded alleys filled with antique culture and traditions that have faded away from other parts of China. Tucked away in many nooks and crannies of Hong Kong is a city filled with unique and diverse history.

The Kung Lee Herbal Tea Shop sits proudly in the middle of 60 Hollywood Road, Central. It is a 70-year-old business passed down from generation to generation, from father to son. Their shop is perched in the middle of a street, boasting aromatic coffees, trendy milk teas, and fancy smoothies. Tsui Man Pan and his son are currently running the generationsold family business of selling herbal tea, sugar cane water, and turtle shell jelly. Some are floral, while others are bitter. Each item has its own unique taste, smell, and purpose.

Herbal tea has been a huge part of Hong Kong culture for hundreds of years. It was always the most reliable source of medicine, more trusted than Western medicines, by the vast majority of Hong Kongers. These drinks, called “leung cha,” were used to cool the body. Traditionally, the Chinese have believed that what you eat can influence your internal temperature. Eating “yit hey” or heated foods in a humid environment such as Hong Kong causes dampness and heat to accumulate in the body. When this occurs, ailments such as nosebleeding, acne, and pharyngitis will occur. Herbal tea was brewed in order to counteract the effects of such foods. Over time, such drinks have also become a popular part of daily diets. However, following the development of reliable modern medicine and easy access to flavorful drinks, the demand for herbal tea is declining exponentially.

Currently, for Tsui Man Pan, selling herbal tea is more of a seasonal business, boosted by the extremes of winter and summer weather. In the latter, the climate is hot and humid, and the hike up to SoHo is exhausting. The perfect treat at the top is a cup of chilled herbal tea. Meanwhile, during the winter, more people are likely to walk up to Central, bringing in a stream of customers. Relying on the changing seasons and the benefits they bring, Tsui Man Pan is able to keep his business afloat. However, even the compass of the seasons fails in the face of the recent pandemic.

The Covid-19 pandemic may have struck some big businesses, such as movie theaters, hard, but that is nothing compared to what Covid has done for smaller businesses, such as herbal tea sellers. All of the tourists and

customers they counted on to come each day disappeared as soon as the pandemic reached the streets of Hong Kong. As a worker in the store informed me, “There are barely any customers anymore… it is very hard to go on.” Nevertheless, they are determined to persevere throughout the pandemic.

When small businesses meet the corrosion of the outside world, they face the choice of whether to reinvent their business. Instead of swaying from traditional ways, Kung Lee Herbal Tea Store decided not to cater to larger audiences — not adding preservatives to their drinks and ship them off to supermarkets. “It’s not healthy. We don’t want chemicals in our products. All we want is to provide our customers with real, natural drinks that benefit their well-being,” Tsui Man Pan said. They have stuck by their traditions, refusing to let the modern tides of the 21st century change their tastes.

It’s these old businesses that capture and preserve the essence of Hong Kong’s culture. Yet that is also their downfall, as all those businesses that do not change and adapt to present needs will inevitably fade away. On the other hand, some famed brands, such as Hung Fook Tong, have already shifted from traditional herbal tea shops to modern, factory-made, easy-access beverage stores. They won access to a larger audience of consumers and a second chance to thrive. Yet to gain that, they traded away many cups of tea that were handcrafted with a belief in nature and its wonders of taste.

In the last decades, the development of the economy in Hong Kong has taken a toll on these old businesses. Globalization and technological advancement have heightened the competitiveness of the market to a new level. Rapid innovation allows more options for the consumer pushing newer products to the limit with easy access, comfort, and prices. This has obscured the path of many traditional businesses with fog.

The end of many of these businesses is near. We outgrow the past, and the old clears the way for the new. It’s how we evolve and improve. However, they were a part of our past, and in being so, will always be a part of our present. Embodied in the tales of history, they become a piece of our cultural heritage, which, as time passes, require our concentration to preserve. Telling their stories may not bring them back to their previous posterity, but it will always keep them alive.

PHOTO BY JUNO JIANG, OAKVILLE, ON, CANADA

ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS

LAST CHANCE

LAKE POWELL

Lake Powell, one of the biggest lakes in North America, is surrounded by tall canyon walls filled with screams of delight and happy memories. The lake is huge and indescribable, so I will go deeper into describing one finger (a finger is a break or channel off the main river, almost like a long cove), Last Chance.

Last Chance is an area of joy and delight for many lake enthusiasts. This area is 25 miles up the lake,

surrounded by canyon walls towering 300 feet high. Boulders surround the bottom of the cliff face, making me feel at peace as I stare in awe at the amazing surroundings. One hundred or more houseboats litter the shoreline, each trying to find the best spot to camp for the next week, and speedboats pull riders in every direction they please. It is complete chaos, but through this chaos is where you find the order of it all — the perfect waves rolling

against the rocky shore. Happiness and bliss fill the air. The shining sun rises above the horizon, bringing an overwhelming heat and light to the surrounding areas of the lake, making the water pleasant to relax in. When the light hits the water, it glistens. The sparkling turquoise water is cool and refreshing to the people on the boats. As refreshing as the water seems to some, it is vital to survival. To the big, ugly catfish with long whiskers living below, it is home to them; they

make an appearance every so often by jumping out of the water and creating a big splash as they flop back into the lake.

The sandstone in the cove is as red as the rocks in Sedona, with the blues of the water complimenting the rock faces. The rocks in the back of the finger have unexplainable white dots that pop against a topaz orange landscape. Kids climb up the rocks and jump off into the water, just to repeat the process all day long. The water drips off their suits to give the rocks a dark maroon color. The water has fallen 30 feet in the past year, exposing new rocks, revealing a fresh look to theentire area, and creating new adventures for everyone to explore. Some rocks sit shallowly below the reflective water, and frequentlly collide with the bottoms of passing boats. This brings forth a feeling of uncertainty while traveling around the lake, keeping drivers’ heads up in fear of hitting them and damaging their boats. The rocks give a sense of peacefulness, while also putting everyone on edge. Overlooking the shores, the giant cliffs remind everyone how small they are.

The small people of the boats give life to an otherwise ordinary cove on Lake Powell. They bring chaos and color to the cove. While the cove has life in the water, the life outside the water is rather bland, with its light green bushes and shrubs. The people bring the cove to life, all with one goal — to enjoy the other people and the cove as much as they can in a week. They laugh, splash, explore, yell, and relax. New people come to the cove every week to enjoy it, then leave it until they can come again. This almost rapid rotation of people coming and going gives the cove its sense of purpose. The cove brings happiness to the humans of the boats. The humans of the boats are like the cove’s heartbeat, beating in as they come into the

cove and beating out as they leave, completing the heartbeat. The people of the cove show it love and compassion as a heart does in a human. The humans give the cove life; in return, the cove gives the humans adventure.

Miniature canyons were formed from water carving into the

pounding every point of the finger.

As night sets on the lake, the cove changes yet again as the clouds retreat and turn everyone’s attention to the night sky. Millions of stars emerge as the sun goes down — the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, even part of the Milky Way becomes visible in the blank canvas

HARMONY AT ITS SOURCE

amazing rock. They travel back hundreds of yards, creating an eerie feeling of not knowing how far they end. Early in the morning, the water is as still as a mirror showing a perfect reflection; the water seems incredibly innocent. In the afternoon, however, the wind picks up, and the water turns to white caps, no longer bringing the feeling of innocence, but instead one of uncertainty. The wind whistles through the canyons, blowing sand everywhere; and as the storm comes up the lake, rowdy waves throw around small speedboats and houseboats, leaving behind a loud clanking of fiberglass against steel. At first, just a trickle forms, which transforms into full rivers of rain flowing down the rocks. Lake goers hear the aggressive tip-tap, tip-tap on the top of the roof as they hide inside from the crazy storm out by the bay. Lightning fills the sky over the bay with a boom and crash. Last Chance turns from a place of serenity to a storm of fury,

of a pollution-free sky. Occasionally, loud bangs go off and paint the sky with ribbons of color. The people in the houseboats often host firework shows. They are usually followed by yells and screams of delight and appreciation for the fun sights. The night is filled with laughter from the various houseboats teeming with people enjoying the beautiful weather. Sometimes, heated conversations break out, and you can hear them a few houseboats away.

Around 11:00 p.m., the people of the boats retreat to their beds from the long, eventful day to prepare for the next. The peace of the lake is restored. The lake is large and beautiful, with harmony at its source; a perfect balance of chaos and tranquility, shouts and silence, rocks and water. Last Chance is a place of transformation in one’s life.

THE LAKE IS LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL, WITH

Mountain Stream

The train passed through the tracks of the intermountain railway. The maroon-striped carriages creaked to the East.

Roads had just been renovated not long ago, and the pungent smell of asphalt still lingered in the air. Staggered rails, rusted railings, mixed with the memory of the times. The yellow light kept flashing on the side of the road where the tile house was located. The white wall next to it had withstood the scouring of rain

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for many years, and gray covered the top of the wall.

Seats that had accumulated old memories were mottled with decay, and the reflection of sunlight rolled like a film. Sitting in the empty carriage, dazzling sometimes, the shadow would stop at the tip of my nose for a while. The train attendant blared in the background. But I didn’t care about the name of the next stop; I had no so-called destination for this trip. The turquoise

bridges set off the blackness of the pavement. The water turned back into a stream, and the riverbed under the bridge was faintly visible, revealing milky-white pebbles.

The breeze swept the stump leaves, and the cicada was tireless, singing what he thought was the most beautiful melody.

The wires were wound from pole to pole, indicating the route of travel. The front of the train reflected the green outside, and the world had changed its prosperous appearance. I was in the carriage window and saw my stranded reflection. The pressure was left behind, the hustle and bustle of the city, and I brought my dreams back to the old days.

The scene outside the window began to blur and distort. Turning to a new chapter in my book, my eyes flickered between the lines willfully.

I put the setting sun behind my head and couldn’t stop fantasizing. Music was played randomly in my earphones, and the train slowly swayed with the rhythm. Modern loneliness carried me to a distant end. This was the promenade between the mountains and forests, retreating into a place forgotten by the world. In the deep and boundless sky, foggy lights illuminated a corner of the blue.

PHOTO BY EMILY FANG, PENNINGTON, NJ

BY YUXUAN YANG, CHARLOTTESVILLE, VA

the true breath The

POEM BY ELLA ROBINSON, EVANSVILLE, IN

It’s a cold, windy day

In Chicago, Illinois

of the wild Bean

The bitter cold paints my face red

My fingers, Frozen like icicles, No longer protected

By my soft woolen gloves

Looking ahead, I see myself

And the tall buildings behind me

Reflected on a giant mirror

A shiny, glowing bean

With the faces of hundreds plastered across the surface

The curves and dips

Within the statue

Distort the breathtaking view

The muffled speech of passers-by

And ear-piercing car horns

Are all I can hear

As I walked closer

To the enormous reflection of the city, The crunch of the newly fallen snow Fills my ears

I can faintly hear

“It’s time to go,”

From my mother

As she grabbed my hand tight

I was loaded into the bananayellow taxi,

With my mother by my side

The smell of cigarettes seeping into the back

From the driver who had just dove into a new pack

“Where are you guys headed?”

The driver called

As the Bean slowly faded from view

ARTICLE BY MICHAEL ORTIN, HARTLAND, WI

Nine a.m. The sun shines through my window and illuminates the paintings of wolves and deer on the walls. The light oak walls shine in the morning light. I awoke startled by the morning glow. It’s early, and no one else is awake yet. I set out of my room and headed to the balcony. As I step outside, the summer air smells of pine and cedar. The cool morning wind kisses my arms, passing through my tank top. I gaze out into the sunrise, and just past a couple of trees lies a still lake, untouched by the early fishermen who have yet to rise. Two piers lay on either side of a dock. Two fishing boats stand in the lake, bobbing up and down with small ripples. The lake reflects the sun like glass, shimmering in the golden light. What a morning this is, in Eagle River, Wisconsin.

An escape. That’s what this place was to me. A cabin on the lake, surrounded by what seemed like an endless forest biome and a crystal clear body of water. A calm breeze and warm summer sun. A place to escape from everything else — nothing else mattered. Being a teenager in the 21st century is filled to the brim with distractions and convoluting struggles of everyday life that leave no time to stop and look at the life around you. Animals fill the landscape. Deer graze in the open fields. Bass and perch fill the lake, swimming without a care in the world. Loons drift on the water’s surface, their calls

echoing in the quiet. One might wish they could wake up to this every day.

Sometimes my family and I would travel into the cities and towns of Eagle River, Minocqua, and Boulder Junction. We would browse bait shops and gift shops. We would eat at restaurants, then come back to the cabin and roast marshmallows over an open fire after a long day of walking around. One of my favorite shops to visit was All Things Jerky in Eagle River. They had the best beef jerky ever! My family would always make a trip there and get some beef sticks, and I would always get my own beef jerky to go back to the cabin. They had these giant slices of jerky that my dad, brother, and I would always get to eat while fishing. I’m quite sad that the Eagle River location has closed and that there is not one closer to where I live, but the small jerky shop has a special place in my heart.

My cabin in Eagle River truly explains why I love Wisconsin so much. The landscapes, the lakes and streams, and the deep woods and forests. A desolate oasis in the middle of nowhere. Wisconsin is known for its outdoor culture traditions like boating, fishing, and hunting, and these landscapes can entrance you into forgetting the outside world, locking in a sense of zen that you cannot find anywhere else in the country.

CONTEMPORARY ROCK

MUSIC REVIEWS

vocals, remained the star of the show. He commanded the stage with one gloved hand pointing to the sky, expertly navigating the emotional vicissitudes of a rich career’s worth of hits.

Existence

By Wang Feng

Review by Tingzhi Di, Nanjing, China

Wang Feng is 51 now, but as one of the titans of Chinese rock, he remains a symbol of rebellion. His trademark look — scruffy hair, black leather trousers — and raspy voice have long spoken to the anxiety and passion of multiple generations of Chinese music fans ever since he debuted as the lead singer of 1990s act No. 43 Baojia

The highlight of the set was his performance of “Existence,” a 2011 hit ballad that takes on an existential flair in light of China’s pandemic-era policies. At one climactic moment, Wang’s lyrics extend the questions some in our nation have frequently asked in recent months, “Should I find reasons to go with the stream? / Or move on bravely and break away from the cage?” In its slimmeddown format, the performance reflects the images that have emerged in pandemic-era isolation: locked-down university students fashioning pet dogs from cardboard boxes; three-year-old children whose mouths open instinctively at the sight of cotton swabs; and old people alone in quarantine, unable to access care or even food.

These, together with the empty arena of the live stream, formed a surreal contrast to images beamed

A 2011 HIT BALLAD THAT TAKES ON AN EXISTENTIAL FLAIR IN LIGHT OF CHINA’S PANDEMIC-ERA POLICIES

Street. Yet his recently livestreamed online concert spoke to a new generation of listeners. As millions of fans from around the nation gathered in their homes to watch Wang perform multiple hits from his long solo career, they were finally able to yell in temporary relief from the compression of the Covid-19 pandemic.

The concert’s production as a virtual event provided some measure of distance, featuring Wang and his band performing alone, surrounded by sound bites of fans all around the world reacting in real-time to their performance. Despite the aesthetic issues, however, Wang’s performance, especially his hoarse, yet soulful

that same evening from another corner of the world — the Persian Gulf nation of Qatar. There, thousands of people from nations around the planet merged into seas of joy, triumphantly shouting at the top of their lungs for international sports heroes like Lionel Messi and Harry Kane. We live in a world of gaping distinction.

Perhaps unintentionally, Wang’s hit has taken on a second life, resonating with the silent majority of the common-place public. People have begun to realize that when confinement and chaos become habitual, those days of freedom and liberty once taken for granted are fading away alongside.

“Who knows where we should go?”

Wang muses lyrically, “Who understands what life has become?” It is a question all of us should cogitate on and gain from it the strength to carry on.

ALTERNATIVE/INDIE POP

recognized for its indie, alternative pop songs, which comes as a large shift from her previous pop songs.

“This is Me Trying” is Swift’s interpretation of admitting to mistakes, struggles, and obstacles one must overcome in life.

this is me trying (folklore)

By Taylor Swift

Review by Mia Lee, Sharon, MA

The name “Taylor Swift” is worldrenowned, as she is most known for her self-written songs and extravagant performances, followed by her enormous fanbase. Often the notion of relationships and boyfriends is associated with Swift’s music, but under those labels of her masterpieces, the momentous lyrics of her songs dive much deeper than most think. Swift’s album, “Folklore,” which was released in July 2020, contains

In an interview, Swift states that while writing her ninth track, she focused on people who are suffering from mental illnesses, addiction, and other everyday struggles. While battling their own challenges, support is not something they receive every step of the way while recovering, and they make many mistakes during their journeys — ones they must admit. By acknowledging these mistakes, they recognize that they are trying their best. The song captures the idea of once being on the perfect track and living up to every expectation, then suddenly facing struggles, thus, becoming set back and losing motivation.

The song begins with Swift admitting that these new adjustments are not easy, as change is difficult for many people. Further into the song, Swift states, “They told me all of my cages were mental / So I got wasted like all my potential.” In my perspective, the impact and meaning of these lyrics go so deep, contributing to the effects Swift’s music has on a person. The idea of facing a struggle and then believing that all your potential has suddenly disappeared into the air is one that many people can resonate with.

The next lyric in the song is, “And my words shoot to kill when I’m mad / I have a lot of regrets about

one of the first steps to rediscovering oneself. Once again, Swift uses the idea of lost potential to impact her listeners, stating, “I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere / Fell behind on my classmates, and I ended up here.” The triumph and tragedy in these lyrics elevate the song’s meaning, as these two ideas — exceptional and then suddenly falling apart — are not often put side-by-side.

16 tracks, all embodying different emotions and meanings. Of the many songs she released, one of my personal favorites is her ninth track, “This is Me Trying.” This song, and the overall album, symbolize a genre of music that most do not associate with the pop artist. “Folklore,” as a whole, is

that.” This portion of the song strongly affects my perspective, as this lyric embodies the theme of being stuck in a moment of rage and saying things that you often regret later on. In a broader view, this is another example of Swift incorporating the idea of one admitting their mistakes, which is

The talented art behind Swift’s extraordinary lyrics is that, although while writing these songs she may have a specific theme or character in mind, the lyrics shift meaning for each person listening, with everyone having their own takeaways from these individual songs. The example she uses in this particular song of being a strong, well-rounded student — one who is ahead of all their classmates and then suddenly falls behind everyone — is what makes these lyrics so personal, especially to her younger audience. In a broader view, the lyrics of her various songs contain many different aspects of life, ones that most individuals can relate to.

Toward the end of the track, Swift states, “And it’s hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound.” As one of the final ideas represented in this song, Swift uses the notion of being so lost and regretful that it feels like an open wound — a lyrical masterpiece. I believe that the reason behind such brilliant lyrics is that Swift is not afraid to be vulnerable in her music and takes everyday struggles as inspiration, all within a three-minute song.

THE LYRICS SHIFT MEANING FOR EACH PERSON LISTENING, WITH EVERYONE HAVING THEIR OWN TAKEAWAYS FROM THESE INDIVIDUAL SONGS

[THE TRACK FOCUSES] ON PEOPLE WHO ARE SUFFERING FROM MENTAL ILLNESSES, ADDICTION, AND OTHER EVERYDAY STRUGGLES

By Kendrick Lamar

Review by James Nelson, Short Hills, NJ

The critically acclaimed Kendrick Lamar returned to the music scene in May 2022, releasing his first studio album since April of 2017. Titled “Mr. Morale And The Big Steppers,” the project features 19 songs at a run time of one hour and 18 minutes. In the past, Lamar has been known to use his sharp lyricism and phenomenal vocal performance to communicate political statements to his listeners, while also telling the story of his life. He would often reference his childhood in Compton, California, as a young boy who idolized the likes of 2pac, Biggie, and Snoop Dogg. After cementing his legacy in the hip-hop world with his 2015 album “To Pimp A Butterfly,” Lamar’s growing fanbase labeled him as the savior of rap music and youth culture. Standards like these put tremendous pressure on the young rapper to be an impactful voice to listeners around the world. Somewhat unexpectedly, Lamar went silent for five years. Not a single interview, social media post, or song released. When he announced his upcoming album, Lamar sent the hip-hop community into a frenzy. However, many fans were left in shock at the album they would soon receive.

The record is by far Lamar’s most personal and vulnerable. The very first song, “United In Grief,” deals with themes such as being overwhelmed by fame, using money to cope with trauma, and being addicted to drugs and alcohol. Rather than following his earlier work and making music about a struggling society, Lamar points the spotlight at his own individual struggles. Each song dives deeper into Lamar’s life and mind. While many fans may have been dying to experience Lamar’s greatness, they instead were introduced to his weakness. Each song focuses on different aspects of Lamar’s trials and tribulations. The track “Father Time” centers around Lamar’s rocky relationship with his father, while on “Crown,” Lamar talks about the anxiety he experienced due to his success in the music industry. Lamar’s message shouldn’t be taken lightly. The expectations that were put on him to save the next generation and guide them into the future were too heavy for his own health.

Lamar takes his audience on yet another emotional journey with possibly the most powerful song on the album, “Mother I Sober.” Lamar pours his heart out lyrically in this song, and it can be heard in his voice. He references growing up around violence and abuse, getting wrapped up in his own stardom, and trying to fix his family while also managing his own career.

culminates with “The Heart Part 5.” A beautiful outro that revisits each message Lamar wants to communicate; from his past to his mental state and his thoughts on society in general. As the end of the song approaches, one of Lamar’s final lines is, “You can’t help the world until you help yourself.” This a strong statement that embodies the record perfectly. With this, the album concludes.

What elevates great artists above their competition is their motive. Each year new artists skyrocket in popularity but are forgotten soon after. The initial passion these musicians had to create and inspire is overtaken by a desire to create radio hits, earn sponsorships, and make the most money possible. Because of this, their music suffers. Compare these artists to those who never lose their passion for art. Lamar did not create this album to please his fans, the industry, or anyone who may decide to listen to it. Lamar bares his soul on this record without fear of how it may be received. While many fans thought they were suffering by not hearing from Lamar for the past five years, most didn’t realize that he was trying to heal from the suffering they had inflicted on him. Despite this, the album is, in many ways, a love letter from Lamar to his supporters. He begs them to listen to him, to learn from his trials, and reevaluate their perspective on life. Lamar calls his fans beautiful and

LAMAR BARES HIS SOUL ON THIS RECORD WITHOUT FEAR OF HOW IT MAY BE RECEIVED

Toward the end of the track, Lamar’s tone intensifies as he speaks on his frustrations with racism and the trauma that has haunted his family for generations. As the end of the album nears, Lamar speaks directly to his fanbase on the track “Mirror.” At the song’s core, Lamar is telling his fans that he cannot save them and, quite frankly, is battling to save himself. Finally, the record

tells them to let good prevail. While he isn’t a savior, he has certainly changed lives. This album should be remembered as an act of incredible courage by Lamar. Without such courage, beautiful music could never exist.

Mr. Morale and the Big Steppers

ART GALLERY

CREDITS

1. PHOTO BY LAUREN JURIC, ALLEN, TX

2. PHOTO BY SARAH SELIM, OAKTON, VA

3. ARTWORK BY SI CHEN, FREMONT, CA

4. ARTWORK BY KIERA SHERMAN, CLINTON, WA

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS

ADVENTURE/ACTION RPG

Genshin Impact

By miHoYo

Review by Youmi Ji, Tokyo, Japan

Released in September 2020, “Genshin Impact” by miHoYo won Apple’s “iPhone Game of the Year” in 2020, as well as the 2021 Apple Design Award for Visuals and Graphics, taking over the gaming industry in a little over a year. “Genshin Impact’s” long label of an “open-world, action role-playing” game is proof that it is the perfect game for all kinds of players: exploring the land of magic, combating enemies, collecting unique characters, and solving challenging puzzles. “Genshin Impact” has it all.

Paired with crystal-clear graphics and realistic animation, the game is able to deliver moments of tranquility to its players through the story of the playable character, Traveler. Ever since being separated from their sibling by Unknown God, Traveler has been on the journey to reunite with their kin. Along the journey, players explore the seven regions of the fantasy world of

Teyvat. Who is the Unknown God? What happened to Traveler’s sibling? The mystery awaits for the players to unravel.

Traveler also faces fierce monsters like Slimes and ogre-like creatures called Hilichurls on their journey. The timely background music during combat spices up the intensity, making players feel as if they are inside the game. The game’s open world rewards exploration — discoveries can be made everywhere: under rock piles, on rooftops, and even in the sky, using bounties like chests and achievement awards. Rewards usually come in the form of the game’s currency, Primogems, which can be exchanged for items called “fates,” used in the Gacha system to obtain exquisite characters and weapons. Unfortunately, days of the players’ hard work can only afford one wish most of the time.

The Gacha system is set to grant players at least one 4-star every 10 wishes, and at least one 5-star every 90 wishes; Three-starred weapons are a dime a dozen, only sporadically would there be a 4- or 5-starred commodity. The anticipation players experience when finally wishing after days of hard work is the secret ingredient to “Genshin Impact’s” formula for success. Therefore, the rush of adrenaline usually ends in discontent, giving players false hope and using just “one more fate.” Before they realize it, all their Primogems and fates are already gone.

Although marketed as a free-to-

PAIRED WITH CRYSTAL-CLEAR GRAPHICS AND REALISTIC ANIMATION, THE GAME IS ABLE TO DELIVER MOMENTS OF TRANQUILITY

play game, is it really free of charge? “Genshin Impact” manipulates players’ desperation when they fail to obtain their favorite characters by giving them the option to cheat: use real-life money to purchase the chances of wishing. If players are not careful, they can easily fall into the rabbit hole of pay-to-play. Despite the small dissatisfaction, you’ll have to admit that “Genshin Impact” is a very well-crafted game that keeps its players awake late at night just to experience the exhilaration of the journey.

VISUAL NOVEL

expansive genre, visual novels don’t seem to get much attention here in the West, probably because reading isn’t what most people expect or want to do when booting up a video game. However, there are some visual novels that are just so good that people who find the idea of playing them to be boring would be engaged. “Ace Attorney” is one of these hidden gems.

“Ace Attorney” is an incredible franchise of games that combine mystery, storytelling, and puzzlesolving in a really fun way. While there have been a plethora of “Ace Attorney” games, including six main series games and five spinoffs, I will be focusing on the original trilogy on the Nintendo DS. In the trilogy, you play as Phoenix Wright, a young lawyer who takes on a bunch of different cases, having to use his wits to find evidence and defend his clients in court. It’s sort of like reading a series of mystery books, but you get to be part of the story, solving the clues as you go and cornering the criminal.

to undermine your evidence. The cross examinations usually require out of the box thinking too. While some of the contradictions are cut and dry, others will require you to present seemingly random evidence at first, which makes the cases way more interesting.

By CapCom

Review by Tegh Randhawa, Carrollton, TX

When people think of video games, they usually think of games with a ton of action, such as first-person shooters, adventure games, or platformers. But an often overlooked genre is the visual novel. Visual novels are games that utilize text-intensive storytelling and usually static, unmoving visuals to immerse the player. While a fairly

Each “Ace Attorney” game follows a similar pattern, switching between investigations and courtroom phases. In the investigation phases, you will be visiting a variety of different locations, where you can find pivotal evidence for your case and clear up details with witnesses. While the investigations can get a bit tedious at times, since you can miss something small and won’t be able to progress through the story, the satisfaction of finding that one perfect piece of evidence is worth it.

While the investigation portions are important to the story, the best parts of the games are the courtroom phases. In the courtroom, you are given testimonies that you must analyze and squeeze information out of to try to find a contradiction, which you have to back-up with the evidence you have collected while investigating. These contradictions can be incredibly hard to find at times, because throughout the case you are facing a fierce prosecutor who will often find ways

One of the best parts of the “Ace Attorney” games is the soundtracks. Every game has a unique soundtrack consisting of songs for every part of the game, each invoking a different emotional response from the player. Energetic and bouncy music plays as you run around searching for clues. Tense and unnerving music plays when something unexpected occurs. Soothing, thought-provoking songs play during cross-examination, and faster versions play during more important testimonies. And rewarding, exciting music plays as you finally pin the real perpetrator for their crimes. The soundtrack gives the game a lot of wellappreciated ambiance.

Overall, the “Ace Attorney Trilogy” is an amazing game that’s definitely worth playing if you like stories, puzzles, or just having a good time. While the large amounts of dialogue may put some players off, just like it had to me, there is a plethora of excitement to be had.

Ace Attorney Trilogy

“ACE ATTORNEY” IS AN INCREDIBLE FRANCHISE OF GAMES THAT COMBINE MYSTERY, STORYTELLING, AND PUZZLESOLVING IN A REALLY FUN WAY

ACTION

By Tango Gameworks

Review by George Pallaoro, Timnath, CO

If you’ve ever played an actionadventure game or you like rhythm, you’ll love this one.

“Hi-Fi Rush” is an action-adventure game that makes you play along with the rhythm. You play as Chai, a wannabe rockstar that is the victim of a corporate experiment gone wrong. As a result of this, Chai can feel the rhythm of the world around him. This makes him a target because he has been labeled as a defect by the corrupt Vandelay Technologies. Chai figures out an evil conspiracy called SPECTRA, which is an AI that will help Vandelay take over more of the people around it.

As you start to take out the company’s bosses, you meet Peppermint. A 23-year-old hacker that is trying to figure out the truth about SPECTRA, Peppermint can shoot certain objects that are glowing blue and disable enemy shields. There’s also 808, an

adorable little robotic cat that acts as your companion for the entire story.

“Hi-Fi Rush” plays as a normal action-adventure game, but everything around you moves to the beat. The game is easy to learn, but hard to master. Many enemies try to block your path during coordinated battles. Enemies are always different and constantly get to be more of a challenge in every battle that you get Chai through.

The game masters each level with some sort of creative twist to the story at every turn. One minute you jump from platform to platform while trying not to fall, and the next you’re fighting a creatively planned boss that challenges you to think about how you are going to move.

The game also is filled with plenty of humor, climactic boss fights, hilarious supporting characters, interesting villains, and some genuinely warm moments. These factors make the game one of the best games that I have ever played. The game has ways to make it easier. Such as an on-screen metronome to help with getting attacks on the beat, an auto-combo mode, and a difficulty changer in case the game is too easy or too hard. I found the on-screen metronome to be the most helpful for racking up more damage and more score.

“Hi-Fi Rush” is an exhilarating adventure that perfectly captures the rhythm within its creative story, lovable characters, and rhythmbased combat.

Hi-Fi Rush

ARTWORK BY HAORAN TAN, MACAO

ART GALLERY 1 2

CREDITS

1. PHOTO BY CARLYN DAVIS, GLENWOOD, IL

2. ARTWORK BY RACHEL DAI, GLEN ALLEN, VA

3. PHOTO BY RICHARD SIYI HE, BEIJING, CHINA

POETS’ CORNER

The Calm After the Storm

The last raindrop falls as birds start chirping again; I let out a sigh

BY ANTONIA PANAGIOTOU, LIMASSOL, CYPRUS

What They Were

The dewy grass brushes my ankles

The cool breeze kisses my face

As I remember the times I cherish deeply

From dawn to dusk we spent the days

Rolling in the gentle grass down the hill

Spinning in circles until we lost our balance

Telling each other made-up stories Fun and scary

The shimmering pond was too tempting

Our games moved to the water Our clothes were always soaked And our spirits lifted

One day she stopped coming to play

But I kept hoping it was just a delay

Now I’m all dressed in black Wondering if I’ll ever get that time back

I’m still here waiting for her Wishing it could go back To what they were.

BY MIA ROCCO, PORTSMOUTH, RI

Write

You want to write — You’ve got nothing in your head, nothing in your mind, The words won’t live where you’d like,

You want to write — Eye meets eye, it makes you feel it, Other people’s words make you need to,

You want to write, To give some order to the way colors swirl, the way people’s voices tumble

Into each other and fall — Down into a spiral of stairs, Down into steps that would’ve led to the sky,

So write —

Take the words and place them, fit them nice, Make them tell stories and give feelings to those who hear them, Write, clear the chaos in your head, Make it work out alright.

It isn’t right.

Not the choice of your words, not the way your voice dips, You can see it isn’t right, it couldn’t be —

Words are fickle, words aren’t kind, For you, they refuse to exist.

BY SONIA ELIZABETH TEODORESCU, TAMPA, FL

Clouds

In the midst of life’s sorrow I defer to the clouds

Tis but a mortal glimpse into Heaven

Yet, of what we are permitted to partake

It would seem as though Heaven hath no end

BY ASA OYWECH, FITCHBURG, MA

Sinking

The pit at the bottom of your stomach exists just to Drop when you waste the whole day away, then look Up at a clock, only to find that you’re

Burning and filled with self-hatred, swearing it

Was just noon, the seconds too fast Now life’s a blur of just

Trying to accomplish something to Show for your hours

Only to see No more Time

BY EVAN CARR, SEATTLE, WA

Words Like Us

The words we use, like us, are 70% water.

Disguised as a compliment. Disguised as constructive criticism. Or even when it isn’t hiding behind something We drown in them.

BY MAISY RISDALL, LAKEVILLE, MN

PHOTO BY LYNETTE WAGNER, MILWAUKEE, WI

Placid Peaks

In the realm of lofty dreams, I seek, To conquer peaks, both grand and sleek.

With sturdy boots and spirit brave, I tread the path, where wonders pave.

Mountains rise, majestic and bold, Their silhouettes, a tale untold. A symphony of earth and sky, Where placid peaks stretch up so high.

Each step I take, a rhythmic beat, As nature’s rhythm I come to meet. Amongst the rustling of whispering trees, I find solace in mountainous seas.

The air is crisp, the silence pure, As I ascend, my souls’ allure. The world below, a distant sight, As I embrace the realm of height.

Snow-capped summits glisten bright, Bathing in the golden sunlight. A tapestry of colors unfolds, As nature’s secrets are told.

BY ANDREW BAGDASARIAN, LEE, NH

Body

I wear plastic wrapped blue gloves Like a scientist, my body the subject

I push the limits of my bones for fun I pry my brain open to peek inside I pull my eyebrows apart to see how they fall

I wear goggles when I go out with friends

For the inevitable reaction — an eruption

My lips are a ticking bomb

Waiting to go off

I count the minutes until The blow destroys them all I wear a lab coat to bed

And when I dream, I see reports Tools, blood, organisms

I see visions, results

Failed tests

Maybe my body is better off unstudied.

BY NOA BURROWS, CARLSBAD, CA

A Safe Haven Where I Remain Unworthy

bombs erupted behind us once, my brother and I clutched each others hands, his callouses from molding pottery, slanting over the ridges of my skin, the folds of his hands, clasping holding mine.

our limbs were tired once, hours of sprinting next to our mother, the rhythm of our feet, beating on time with the discordant music of shots ringing behind us, of the Russian invasion.

we were denied asylum once, our mother quickly able to cross into Poland, the dark skin from our father, holding us back, like the calluses on our hands, weren’t the same as those of the people around us.

we were afraid (or was it safe?) once, red, white and blue painting our fingertips as we worked in New York, the clay easily molding over my brothers fingers, a radiant smile on his shining face, pottery had never come easily to me.

i was ashamed once, my brother praised and revered, for his talented fingers the accent from home washed out of his mouth, while my creaky joints and thick tongue couldn’t fit the mold.

i stay ashamed now, my brother a refugee to be trusted, to be kept safe for his contributions, my washing of dishes a stolen job a shame a stain on the word “refugee.”

BY SANJOLI GUPTA, LOS GATOS, CA

Weaver’s View

Why does a spider keep weaving? Why do they work until satisfied? When so many give up Once blown down by the breeze? I wish I was a spider

A weaver with matchless resilience Whose only worry

Is to wait and watch

For the next breeze

BY LYLA LUEBBING, PLAINFIELD, IL

Losing a Ball of Yarn

A heart is like a ball of yarn. When whoever it’s connected to begins to walk away, the heart will slowly unravel until there’s nothing left.

Nothing but an empty cavity of a chest.

Recovering is discovering that yarn can be bound again, with little pieces of string from dozens of people. Or even maybe just one. Joy is living a life that contains plenty of string, to wind your heart bigger and bigger until it fills your whole chest. Then when small pieces get caught and fall away, there’s too much joy to possibly feel hollow.

BY ANIKA MCCLEVE, MERIDIAN, ID

PHOTO BY SHELBIE PERANI, PLYMOUTH, OH

The Day I Stopped Rolling My ‘R’s

The day I stopped rolling my ‘r’s, I was finally granted release

From the shackles of Mrs Whitaker’s 3rd-grade ELL class.

Ecstatic that, at last, my claims of being a native speaker worthy of a place in “normal people English” had been heard

After months of pleading the fact with vocabulary 2 years above my grade level.

The day I stopped rolling my ‘r’s, Hannah laughed at the same joke That, when I had told it just a week before, Elicited nothing but an awkward half-smile and a look of confusion on her face, tinged with a touch of sympathy for the poor, unsuccessful Indian comic who sounded like the whir of a motor when she said the word “wheelbarrow.”

The day I stopped rolling my ‘r’s, My grandmother no longer understood my butchered Tamil.

Every anecdote I excitedly spilt to her over the phone was rendered meaningless. But my stubborn tongue, hell-bent on fulfilling my linguistic transformation, refused to contort in the familiar ways in which it was taught to, So I stood by, as I let it unlearn traditional vernacular.

I had come a long way since I learned to talk like I had a mouth full of marbles, But I still felt a piece of me wither away after every introduction

Because my name no longer sounded like it did on my mother’s lips.

I realized that the better I got at mimicking the American drawl, The better I got at forgetting who I had been before I learned to pronounce the word “iron.” Because it hurt too much to remember That I had forgotten how to write my name in Hindi, the memories of meticulously crafting each line of each letter growing hazier by the minute. That the words of the Indian national anthem had completely escaped me, That I had severed communication with my grandmother altogether out of sheer embarrassment of my readiness to betray the language in which she told me she loved me.

I would rather live in blissful ignorance than admit the fact that I will waste my life chasing morsels of respect, which I can only gain by proving How unlike them I am,

That I can use cutlery when I eat, That I can be an artist without being excommunicated from my country,

That I can pronounce the word “refrigerator” in a way

ARTWORK BY OLIVIA AMIR, LOS ANGELES, CA

that will compensate for the fact that I have skin the colour of coffee grounds.

But truth stains harsher than coffee, And I must face it: I will never be compensated for the fact

That when I have a daughter, She will never know the love and wisdom of her great-grandmother, Because I will no longer have the words to impart them to her, That she will never learn how to write her name in Hindi because I won’t be able to teach her, That apple-cheeked and pigtailed, She too would rather reach and reach and reach for the hand of a country that doesn’t want her Than run into the outstretched arms of her motherland, The land ready to embrace her regardless of how she pronounces the ‘r’ at the end of the word “mother.” She will never be compensated

For all the colour, the love, the comfort I deprived her of

The day I stopped rolling my ‘r’s.

BY RAE R., AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS

monument to mundanity

there is a red couch on the curb hunched over, tattered cardboard sign saying “free” the letters faded by the rain and i see it, this wash-out couch and wonder what it’s life was like before the life bled out of it like the letters on the sign that proclaims its lack of worth i can see it in its youth, lean and glamorous, the red fabric of cushions glistening like wine as it owned the room, as people adorned like so much jewelry but then it faded, its arms sagged, heavy with the weight of its life and “beautiful” became a word that tasted of champagne and regret

it is now the final resting place of the tears you cried after they walked out of your life and the crumbs of the crackers you ate the night you were too exhausted to make anything else and the words you mumbled into its fabric, secrets only the faded red cushions know it is more tomb than furniture a living ghost and so an exorcism was performed, it was banished and now it sits here a monument to mundanity and, like the pyramids of old it will soon return to the dust

BY GABBY WEST, PORTLAND, OR

Holes Under the Linden Tree

On the way to growth and maturity, Parts of me will die;

Maybe my thought

Maybe my emotion

Maybe my hope

Or, maybe my persistence. Perhaps, a new me will root and sprout.

Perhaps, the parts that were gone many years ago

Will be as empty as the holes under the linden tree.

BY MEITING LIU, SHENZHEN, CHINA

To My Immigrant Father

What were you doing before you sacrificed your life for mine?

From what I heard your life back home was unique, so why?

You go to work at 9 a.m. and come back at 8 p.m.

You only have 1 day off

You pay for our rent, groceries, utilities, daily necessities

Not to mention the money you send back home also

So, while I already know the answer, I still badly want to ask you, why? Why have you sacrificed your life for mine?

Your life back home was so pleasant You worked 9 to 5, had weekends off, and went on vacations with your family

Even though I was 3 years old then, I remember.

You were happy. I was also because you were happy Now your hair is starting to turn grey

You only get 5 hours of sleep

I want to spend time with you, but you are tired, busy, worrying about bills

So, why did you do this? If I could go back in time

And tell you how much I would have never wanted this for us For you.

BY FAWZIA AFIA, BROOKLYN, NY

Chinatown

Persistence. She’s a complicated thing.

To see her in the cramped storefronts with determinedly vibrant signs, in potholed alleyways lined with stacks of decrepit apartments, with the odor of spices and smoke wafting from the underbelly of this city; bitter nostalgia is inspired.

Acrid rain splashes on her tongue when she asks for relief, made sickly sweet with the flavor of savory handmade chashao bao. There is no such thing as a handout here.

The ramshackle shops are her scars; ardently carved out of the unforgiving city, each a flame of defiance. They are puzzle pieces shoved against one another, edges rough and dull with effort, stacked in cramped disorderly shoebox patterns.

What anchors souls in a merciless foreign body? A hazy dream still sought, blood spilt from cracked hands, or an ache in their back mirroring the ache in their heart?

Persistence. Is she a virtue or a vice?

BY JIAYIN ZOU, MCLEAN, VA

PHOTO BY HEBE JIANG, SHANGHAI, CHINA

Solace in Our Essence

Help me blur the line; Melding shades of self unseen, Betwixt and between

BY ANTONIA PANAGIOTOU, LIMASSOL, CYPRUS

Inexorable

The aroma of timely Catholic churches cannot dissipate as it appears within one block of another, striking you each time its existence is almost forgotten. In this town there are minimal true buildings. A multi-business complex exists once every few miles where a couple tie wearers keyboard smash, nail technicians lavishly paint, and doctors measure heartbeats. There is only one of each profession here, because there is only one type of person here.

The pure, frail wind blows us where we must go, as if marionettes living in a thick, plexiglass orb halting us from progression past the mundane. Here, modernism is death— death of culture, tradition, and fear.

I’ve asked why.

I’ve asked the tie wearers, nail technicians, and doctors. I’ve asked enough to receive all answers more than twice. I’ve asked until I’ve become suffocated with the smell on every step, past every corner, bouncing about the insides of this fishbowl, suffocating me from the inside.

I’ve asked but “Women raised in modern barns house foolish women” is the only answer I will ever receive.

BY FARAH FEHMI, SCOTTSDALE, AZ

Dauntless

The aged maple rests silently amongst bare autumn leaves. A nexus of connections, A pillar of perpetual strength. Well armed for winter’s approach.

Just weeks ago, this tree was home to many, Climbing children, clinging moss, countless creatures.

The warm morning breeze welcomed new visitors, While bushy tails prepared for their winter slumber.

Deep-rooted, forthright, sturdy, The fortress is a safe house for many.

Like the silk cocoon of a caterpillar, Protecting the fragility of its core.

At the onset of winter’s awakening, Its branches appear delicate, like drooping willows. They sway like palm trees in a hurricane, Lost, cracked, withered, but not broken.

The trunk stands unscathed. Roots tightly gripped around earth’s core.

Gusts of icy storms thrash the undaunted branches. Yet, the maple endures the harsh wrath of the North Wind.

The journey is bittersweet. Stemming from a canopy of nature’s children, Down to a bare outer bark. Ultimately returning to the seedlings of life.

BY NICHOLAS KWOK, MIRAMAR, FL

Suzuki Cello Book One: Bloodlust in A Major

i’m getting the irrational urge to kill a bug.

the sun is hot and apparently that’s giving me some violent charge (some kind of nature, to corrupt-) please, please keep me away from the rocksin a fervor i google the red, pinhead-sized things and learn that they are clover mites- bryobia praetiosa. i get off track easily, have you learned that yet?

if i clenched one in my fist, between dirtied nails, would it form red dust or would it shoot red bug guts staining my red palms, smeared on red lips à la mulan (1998)disney classic, if you didn’t knowred-speckled chicken, devoid of feathers diogenes spitting and babbling frothmouthed at his rival, platoa plucked chicken, your featherless biped, the unwashed philosopher mocks-

or would it fight its way free, sink its fangs in my skin and drain me of sainthood splash lukewarm wine-blood-red on my lips

(do you prefer yours decanted?) or are we all empire ants, working the cogs, plucking the stringsa Father’s creatures tossed aside?

BY SOFIE DELIDOW, WEST BLOOMFIELD, MI

PHOTO BY SHERRY LIAO, PRINCETON, NJ

ART GALLERY

CREDITS

1. PHOTO BY YUNTONG CHU, NEW MILFORD, CT

2. PHOTO BY SEAN QIN, MERCERSBURG, PA

A C R O S T I C S

To Be or Not To Be

Turbulent storms of life shall fiercely blow,

On many a dreary and winding road.

Battles lost, with pain that was never known,

Endure hardships outrageous fate bestowed.

Or to face death, with its terrors unseen,

Roam the gloomy haze as if in a dream.

Nightmarish lands, where all fears may convene,

Obscurity shrouds what lies in between.

There is the rub, yet the choice thou shalt make,

To end thine life or live another day.

Over the choice you made nothing holds sway,

Besides the destiny that you forsake.

Eternity’s embrace, it beckons me, ...Hamlet ponders, "To be or not to be."

BY DONGRUN ZHU, NANJING, CHINA

Sunshowers

Sudden flickers of angelic light blossom with the breeze

Untold stories, unseen faces, unsung songs

Now debuting as the sky cascades upon itself

Secrets whispered in cool, gathered mist

Hallowed land, marked sacred once more by the downpour

O'lord O'lady of this fine stretch of sight

Where Apollo and Zeus, Father and sun

Embark on a journey, so deep and so vast

Remember this instant when the time comes to past

Seek the dawn's dewy light and never lose sight of the hazy might

BY PIPER NOLTE, FRANKLIN TOWNSHIP, PA

Meditation Acrostic

Tired, and

Increasingly bored of my situation, a failed

Meditation, I never was good at sitting still.

Everything in my head is rushing about,

Grasping for my attention, no

Organization, no discipline to my thoughts

Especially when all I’m supposed to do is

Sit and

Breathe; my legs are

Yelling “get up and

Stretch, run, move around” but I’m not allowed that

Option, my task is to bask in the

Silence of my mind, body, and environment,

Listening to my heartbeat slow

Or clearing my brain of all its clutter.

Whether or not this is even possible, it’s starting to

Look like I won’t succeed, I’ve been sitting here for a

Year and it’s only been two minutes.

BY JAMES WILSON, MINNEAPOLIS, MN

PHOTO BY LYNETTE WAGNER, MILWAUKEE, WI

I Feel At Home in the Woods

I will show you a place I know, a place where we will be at peace.

Far away from the hubbub of the city, its incessant speed and blaring lights, where

Everything is always on the go. No one looks at

Each other; no one has the time for that.

Let’s escape the suffocating claustrophobia.

Away, we’ll drive until concrete jungles fade into strong coniferous trees, their trunks growing Tall, so tall that I can’t see where they end.

Here is where we can finally breathe.

Open your eyes wider, take in the sight:

Mountains, standing proud in the distance

Ever so slightly turn purple in the evening light.

I turn to look at you. We share a secret smile, as I’ve shown this place to No one else but you; you are special to me.

The sun dims and the stars begin to blink as we make our way back to the car. We

Have to go to school tomorrow, and we make small talk. You’re

Excited about our safe haven, one you can’t wait to go back to see.

We slide out of your Saab,

Our legs sticking to the leathery car seats.

Outside now, we look around to see fireflies begin to

Dance, their flickering light punctuating their pirouettes.

Sights that are only for you and me.

BY INGRID CELIS, CORVALLIS, OR

Under the Loquat Tree

Loose children gather under the speckled shade of the loquat tree

Of the crowd, the tallest reaches out to pluck a plump fruit, peeling until they are all

Quarreling over a bite of yellow flesh, delicate and sweet

Ultimately, the piece lands in the mouth of the youngest

And after a few blinking moments — silent except for the rustle of leaves against skin, The rest scatter to pluck their own

BY SURI ZHANG, LA VERNE, CA

Materialism

Meticulously, we craft our desires,

Amassing treasures, our souls afire.

Temptations lure, with promises grand,

Eagerly seeking, we extend our hand.

Reveling in possessions, shiny and bright, Indulging in pleasures, day and night.

Avarice consumes, a relentless chase,

Losing ourselves in this material maze.

Infinite wants, our insatiable thirst, Sacrificing virtues for possessions, immersed. Mindlessly craving, our souls grow thin.

BY JAE HYEOK CHOI, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

Where is Womanhood?

Where may I find such an elusive condition, Or is it the sort of devil that finds me?

Mothers see their daughters as the new edition—

And I see myself as a “not-yet-anybody.”

No skill have I at navigating this transition;

How could I understand the stranger I’ll be?

Oh, I have such a terrible suspicion

Only time may set me free…

Does my life ever, ever come to fruition?

BY LAUREN JURIC, ALLEN, TX

Perfectionism

Beneath the weight of expectations, I'm consumed, Unrelenting pressure, feeling entombed.

Restless nights, my mind's ablaze, Nurturing perfectionism, an unforgiving maze.

Tangled in the pursuit of flawless display, Overwhelmed, my soul begins to fray.

Under the burden, I start to lose my way, always

Tormented by standards I cannot outweigh.

BY OLIVIA BUVANOVA, BERNARDSVILLE, NJ

Jealousy

Jagged raw edges cut you to pieces

Eats you alive as you silently seethe

After all the hard work you have put in

Left yearning still, clenching your teeth

Over and over, still awake on late nights

Unrelentingly trying to claw your way up

Still, they rise past you, almost effortlessly

You’ll never win, it’ll never be enough

BY OLIVIA LEE, ENCINO, CA

CREDITS

ART GALLERY 3

1. ARTWORK BY MELE BARTON, RANCHO SANTA FE, CA

2. ARTWORK BY QINYI LI, NANJING, CHINA

3. PHOTO BY AMALIYA SMAILOVA, ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN

CONTRIBUTORS

THANK YOU!

Personal Experience

Eva Mandelbaum, 6

Luke Cyrus, 8

Taylor Guzman, 10

Back to School

Riley Bellinger, 14

Charles F., 16

Anonymous, 18

Mental Health

Anonymous, 20

Beatrice Miller, 22

Opinion

Emily Fang, 24

Tanish Parlapall, 26

Anonymous, 27

Travel

Meg Xu, 28

Anonymous, 30

Yuxuan Yang, 32

Ella Robinson, 33

Michael Ortin, 33

Music Reviews

Tingzhi Di, 34

Mia Lee, 35

James Nelson, 36

Video Game Reviews

Youmi Ji, 38

Tegh Randhawa, 39

George Pallaoro, 40

Editorial Staff

Managing Editor: Noelle Campbell

Poet’s Corner

Antonia Panagiotou, 42

Mia Rocco, 42

Sonia Teodorescu, 42

Asa Oywech, 44

Evan Carr, 44

Maisy Risdall, 42

Andrew Bagdasarian,43

Noa Burrows, 43

Sanjoli Gupta, 43

Lyla Luebbing, 43

Anika Mcleve, 43

Rae R., 44

Gabby West, 45

Meiting Liu, 45

Fawzia Afia, 45

Jiayin Zou, 45

Antonia Panagiotou, 46

Farah Fehmi, 46

Nicholas Kwok, 46

Sofie Delidow, 46

Acrostic Poetry Contest

Dongrun Zhu, 48

Piper Nolte, 48

James Wilson, 48

Ingrid Celis, 49

Suri Zhang, 49

Jae Hyeok Choi, 49

Lauren Juric, 49

Olivia Buvanova, 49 Olivia Lee, 49

Art Galleries

Kiram Kyeong, Front Cover

Avery-Grace Payne, 6

Vikram Anantha, 9

Noah Hawes, 10

Caitlyn Kim, 12

Ashlyne Grenier, 13

Tanmayi Panasa, 14

Anonymous, 16

Xujia Guan, 18

Miaofu Tian, 19

Antigone Stanley, 19

Avianah Wright, 19

Sanjoli Gupta, 20

Zariah Arrington, 22

Ava Lim, 23

Aida El-Hajjar, 24

Ashna Shirin, 27

Elaine Feng, 28

Juno Jiang, 30

Emily Feng, 32

Luaren Juric, 37

Sarah Selim, 37

Si Chen, 37

Kiera Sherman, 37

Hoaran Tan, 40

Carlyn Davis, 41

Rachel Dai, 41

Richard Siyi He, 41

Thanusree Ramanadham, 42

Shelbie Perani, 43

Olivia Amir, 44

Hebe Jiang, 45

Lynette Wagner, 46

Yuntong Chu, 47

Sean Qin, 47

Mele Barton, 50

Qinyi Li, 50

Amaliya Smailova, 50

Taylor Guzman, Back Cover

Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner

Associate Editor: Kylie Andrews

Consulting Editor: Ashley Nix

Sales Account Executive: Sara Shuford

Sales Account Executive: Tate Cook

PHOTO BY TAYLOR GUZMAN, WASHINGTON, D.C.