Teen Ink magazine – December 2021 by Teen Ink magazine

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Teens Making a Difference

Contents

December 2021 | Volume 36 | Issue 3

OnTheCover

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18Identity

• From the Rivers

33Movie & TV Reviews • "Dune"

• "Scandal" • "Lion"

20 Health

• Life on Adderall

36 Fiction

• It Will Be Good

Photo by James Tanner, Greenacres, WA

5Teen Ink News

• Contests & Call for Submissions

7Making a Difference

• Reaching Out To the Elderly During Covid-19 • My Experience in Jingdong County • Volunteer’s High

14Memoirs

• A Home in the Middle of Suffering • Falls

23 Sports

• Pole Vaulting and How It Feels

24Travel & Culture • Imaginary Olives

27Book Reviews • Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow • The Inferno • We Free the Stars

30 Author Interview

• Maria Susan Proulx, Teen Talk: Insight on Issues That Matter To Teens and the Adults Who Care About Them

• Orange Peels • The Replacement

44 Poetry

• Free verse, haiku, sonnets, & more

Art Galleries

• Photography, watercolors, charcoal, oil paintings, & more

Editor

Letter from the

YOU can change the world! Dear Teen Ink Readers, The end of the year provides the opportunity to spend time with loved ones, reflect on the things we’re grateful for, and envision what the next year will hold. In this issue, we shine a light on teens making a difference. The thought of making a difference to the whole world can seem daunting or even impossible, especially for a young person. But teenagers, such as Malala Yousafzai, Greta Thunberg, Avi Schiffmann, and yourself, are more than capable of creating a positive influence on the world. All it takes is a desire to make a better world for the people around us. We’ve brought together incredible stories of teens who saw an opportunity to help those in need and form human connections that will last a lifetime. As schools let out for winter break, remember to relax and relish the moments with your friends and family, and think of ways to give back to your community. From all of us here at Teen Ink, we wish you a very happy holiday season! As always, we welcome your feedback. Email us at editor@teenink.com and be sure to submit your writing and art! Sincerely,

The Teen Ink Team

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We Also

Need:

• Stories/Articles about Love and Relationships • Articles, Stories, and Poems Celebrating Black History Month

• Video Game Reviews

• Book Reviews

• Stories about Summer Camp or Summer Program Experiences

• Movie Reviews • Music Reviews

Artwork by Kenny Man, Melfort, SK, Canada

Artwork by Jenny Jeewon Youm, Oberursel, Germany

Artwork by Aimee Wang, Sunnyvale, CA

MAKING A DIFFERENCE | DECEMBER 2021

Reaching Out to the Elderly By Sonia Bhayani, St. Louis, MO

hough it is well documented that medical outcomes for older adults infected with SARS-CoV-2 are grim, there is another important aspect of the pandemic that has also had a profound impact on this vulnerable population: the isolation caused by the lack of social interaction. Since the beginning of the pandemic, the toll of COVID-19 has weighed heavily on older adults. As of March 17, 2021, there have been about 517,575 overall deaths in the United States. Over half of those deaths — 304,794 — occurred in people over 75 years of age, and the majority of the remaining deaths – 190,413 — occurred in people 50-75 years old. It became apparent early on, during the pandemic, how easily the virus spreads — resulting in drastic changes to visitor policies in long-term care facilities. These changes meant restrictions on not only visitations from family and friends, but also on volunteer interactions and some enrichment activities within the facilities. The lack of social connection and stimulation has caused an increase in loneliness and isolation in the residents of these care facilities. Dr. David Carr, the medical director of Parc Provence, a memory care and assisted living facility for the elderly in St. Louis, Missouri, states that the residents there “have not had regular visitation from family and have been separated or isolated from other residents in our community. Many have experienced loneliness, depression, and social isolation.” After hearing a news report about this in June, I was inspired to do something. I wanted to find a meaningful way to connect with this community which was more at risk to be impacted adversely by the pandemic.

Many of the long-term care residents at Parc Provence have dementia or Alzheimer’s disease, conditions that magnify the negative effects of the isolation brought on by the pandemic. Seniors can develop their cognitive abilities by participating in interactive

These enrichment activities give the residents more social interaction enrichment activities, but these have been more difficult to provide during the pandemic. According to Parc Provence Activity Director Lauren Tyree, they have “had to find different ways to keep the residents engaged, such as relying on virtual activities.” I believed playing piano virtually for the residents would be a safe, risk-free way for them to have more social interaction and to improve their spirits and mental health. In addition to the music lifting their spirits in the moment, Dr. Carr comments that “studies on the impact of music on dementia in older adults note improvements in mood, behavior, and possibly benefits in cognitive abilities.” These seemingly short musical sessions with the residents not only are entertaining, but also can potentially have long-lasting positive effects.

change in her mental health. According to Dr. Carr, “She has become much more alert, relaxed, and appears very happy. She is especially in tune to the music activities, both live and virtual, and stays engaged during performances … and these events have a lasting effect.” It is immensely rewarding to know the music I have been sharing with the residents weekly since June has had a beneficial impact. Whether it be from my music or the many other activities offered, the residents have been able to have moments of connection while the pandemic restrictions continue. These enrichment activities not only help to relieve stress from the pandemic and their current living conditions, but also give the residents more social interaction, which combats their feelings of loneliness. Although vaccination efforts are currently being rolled out, precautions will remain in place for the near future to safeguard our most vulnerable population. I encourage everyone to find ways to connect with older adults until it is safe to be around them in person, especially those in care facilities. This could include phone or video calls, sharing stories, playing an instrument, singing a song, or sharing a meal remotely. Creative solutions for connecting will help decrease their social isolation and loneliness and bring some joy to your day as well. These acts may feel like small gestures, but they will have a significant positive effect on the lives of older adults.

Dr. Carr told me about one patient in particular who “had been depressed, anxious, and lethargic in the early stages of the pandemic.” However, as she began to participate in activities reintroduced during the summer and fall, the staff could see a

MAKING A DIFFERENCE | DECEMBER 2021 Photo by Mór Szepesi, Budapest, Hungary

A Short Time Influencing the Whole Life

s iron sharpens iron, people sharpen each other. The eight days spent in Yunnan Province, China, during our Social Practice have allowed us to gain more intrapersonal and interpersonal skills. We spent our first day teaching at the local primary schools in Jingdong. Some of us continued teaching until day five, while some of us finished our teaching on day two in order to conduct some research in other areas. With the help of local government officers, we visited different villages, plantations, tea manufacturers, and farms — which are all run by the residents of Jingdong. It was a short encounter with the students there, but we knew that we had left our legacy with them. A continuous flow of students came to us, asking for pictures or signatures with great enthusiasm, and a hint of sadness in their eyes. Some of them even came with teary eyes and runny noses, bearing the sadness of farewell. We thought we would be able to help them learn something new during our short teaching practice, but it seemed that the impact did not only go in one direction. At that very moment, we realized that we were also greatly impacted by their sincerity and love. It might have been our first teaching experience, but it taught us something extraordinary beyond just teaching the

by Anonymous, China

Their laughter helped us to learn more about the meaning of life content to the students. We asked the students about their dreams and the futures they were trying to achieve. They blurted out genuine and innocent answers, and they were all filled with sincerity. Most of the children wanted to improve the life and quality of their families and hometown. Some of them even thought of the welfare of the country, so they wanted to serve China as soldiers. All of their choices were worthy of respect. As long as they work hard to achieve their dreams, their lives will be full of wonderful possibilities. It further warmed our hearts when one of them even expressed their feeling in English, using what we had taught them in the past two days. The effort that the students showed during the class — their laughter, their tears, and their smiles — helped us to learn more about the meaning of life, and how we can benefit the society where we live. From day three to day five, we visited various places, which allowed us to learn the way of life and the local businesses of the residents in Jingdong. We learned about tea plantations and thier processing

methods in two different local tea businesses. We visited the Yunzhonglai Tea House and Tianze Tea House. Ms. Gao, from Yunzhonglai Tea House, kindly showed us around the factory, where the tea leaves were processed and packaged to be sold to various places in China — even to the international market. Furthermore, she also guided us toward the tea plantation and showed us various herbal plants alongside the tea trees, which were grown in that area. We picked some tea leaves and ate them directly to taste the different leaf buds of the teas. They also served us a bitter green tea with a sweet aftertaste. It was my first time tasting such unique and elegant tea, fresh from nature. At Tianze Tea House, we visited the facilities that were used to process the tea into tea cake. In their factories, we learned how to prepare the tea cake, ranging from drying the tea leaves, picking the best-dried tea leaves, measuring their weight, and compressing to re-dry them for tea cake. We also designed the package of the tea cakes ourselves. Thanks to Ms. Ma, the CEO of Tianze Tea House, we had an absolutely new and unique hands-on experience in making tea cakes. Our journey became more adventurous as we visited Manwan Town, where we learned about the local agriculture businesses,

MAKING A DIFFERENCE | DECEMBER 2021 especially its mango plantations. The mangos from this area have a longer ripening time, which enables this commodity to survive and maintain their quality during the long duration of shipping and storage. We were amazed at how hard the residents in Manwan Town worked in the various industries — including fisheries, agriculture, and cattle farming. After 10 years of tough struggle, the quality of life in this town has significantly improved, even though there are still obstacles to overcome and room to improve. Witnessing the situation in this town was a humbling experience. The people were so friendly and kind that they truly welcomed us to see the surrounding area of Manwan Town. Mr. Chai, as the Secretary of the Party Committee of Manwan Town, even spent the whole day accompanying us to various places. He brought us to sail the Lancang River and witness its beauty and the fisheries along the riverside. Manwan Town is quite a remote area, yet I could see proof of how the local government was committed to improving the quality of life by building various infrastructures that facilitate the local business. There were many obstacles as we explored Manwan Town. The mountainous topography required us to go up and down some slopes. Many of us might have never encountered such difficulties before. Although it seemed simple, this journey also helped one of our team members to break through her fear, since she was having difficulties climbing down one of the slopes around the cattle farm, even with the help of other members. Again, our unity and solidarity were strengthened as we bravely faced difficulties in our journey. Different places have different problems to overcome. We also visited Shanchong Village in the Jingdong area that has different challenges compared to Manwan Town. Shanchong Village has sewage treatment difficulties due to a lack of unified waste disposal management. Yet, the local government tried their best to alleviate this situation by doing waste sorting, and encouraging the villagers to dispose of the waste appropriately by implementing a rewards system. The local government also renovated the public toilets and housing facilities that helped to promote healthy sanitation and waste disposal. The trip to Shanchong Village

helped us learn about the complexity of managing rural areas, especially in improving the quality of life regardless of natural or social challenges. Our visit

All the preparations, challenges, and encounters with different people shaped us and helped us to widen our horizons of life to Shanchong Village also broadened our perspectives on the complexity and the effort of the officials in various rural places in China, who serve the people for the betterment of their future. We spent our last days in Jingdong summarizing our research, writing articles, and most importantly, preparing to sell the local products of Jingdong online. We might not be able to directly help the local businesses there, but at least we could help them promote the products of Jingdong and improve their sales. The preparation and the online selling were led by Chen Ziyuan and Chen Zhirong. They divided and assigned different tasks to different group members to ensure that we had enough preparation for the task. Ziyuan even composed an ear-catching theme song for the live streaming. It was a particularly funny and uniting experience for us. For most of us, it was our first experience in online selling, yet we were able to do well during the event. It was all thanks to the hard work of the members in preparing, advertising, and executing the online selling. We could not have asked for a better Social Practice experience. All the preparations, challenges, and encounters with different people helped shape us and widen our horizons on life. Thanks to Zhejiang University and the local government of Jingdong County that facilitated this unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become better people.

Artwork by Rowan Blankemeyer, Oreland, PA

MAKING A DIFFERENCE | DECEMBER 2021

Volunteer’s High

By Hannah Um, San Diego, CA

here was something about the spongey, yet firm surface of the rubber and asphalt colliding with my shoes. The scorching heat that creates a furnace atop my dark hair. My high school’s track was a place of dread for me, and the two words “mile run” were enough to set me off groaning in agony, thinking of ways to “call-in” sick. I had never experienced a runner’s high, and people who enjoyed the sport were a mystery to me. And so, when I finally finished P.E. class, I thought it was the last time I would voluntarily come into contact with running or marathons. Or so I thought. I was contacted by the San Diego Running Company which was offering to donate to Key Club in exchange for volunteers at their upcoming Marathon — “Fighting Parkinson’s Step-by-Step.” As President of Key Club, I agreed even though the thought of waking up at four in the morning seemed absolutely dreadful. After all, the sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain: the money raised would go toward the Pediatric Trauma Program, our preferred charity. D-day arrived all too quickly. Before I knew it, my alarm was ringing, telling me to wake up even though the pitch-black sky tricked me into thinking it was still nighttime. I somehow managed to drag my feet out of bed, pop two Eggo waffles in the toaster, and hit the highway. The feeling of setting up tables and cups for water stations in the dark was a novel venture. I could barely make out my hand held up in front of me, and we used flashlights to get things sorted. As we made layers of cups and filled hundreds with water, the sun began to slowly rise. It was the most striking sunrise I had ever seen — a blend of blue, orange, and pink flawlessly water-colored across the sky. It was almost as if the universe was rewarding me for

Photo by Robert E., Salem, OR coming out that morning. Soon, the first runners began to come through. We lined up, holding cups with our palms flat for an efficient “baton” pass. We definitely weren’t all that great at first — intimidated by the speed and power of the runners as they dashed by — struggling to effectively hand over the cups. Our shirts

I never realized how powerful a marathon could truly be were quickly drenched from spills, and waves of runners would overwhelm us. But we got the hang of it, forming an assembly line to fill more water cups and having fewer and fewer spills as time passed. After the more serious runners had passed, I made out groups of people walking. As they got closer, I noticed a family lifting a picture of a loved one who had passed from Parkinson’s. A mother and daughter wearing matching pink tutus in the spirit of the marathon.

Since that marathon, we have volunteered at many more — venturing out to Balboa Park in Downtown San Diego or heading over to Liberty Station — raising $1,000 in total for the Pediatric Trauma Program, supporting thousands of children in need of medical attention or educational resources. My heart continually craves the uplifting energy I experience at each one of these marathons, as people empower one another down by the finish line, or a man dressed in a Spider-Man suit blasts music and cheers people on. When I imagined going to a marathon, I envisioned panting for more air, muscles cramping, sprinting over the finish line — being the runner. And yet, it was handing out water, shouting words of encouragement, cleaning up the cups strewn on the pavement, helping someone else cross the finish line, that was the most rewarding to me. So, even though I have yet to experience a runner’s high, I have, if you will, experienced a volunteer’s high.

I was taken aback. I had expected the crowd to be focused on just running. When I heard about marathons titled “Breast Cancer Awareness” or “Leukemia Marathon,” I had assumed participants were just running for a good cause — nothing more, nothing less. But the participants weren’t here just for a good cause. It was their cause — to spread awareness of Parkinson’s, to put their feelings and experiences into action. I never realized how powerful a marathon could truly be, how running didn’t have to be about me — whether I enjoyed it or not. I could be used to support others.

Artwork by Chris Lonelygang, Chelsea, MI

Artwork by Kylie Logsdon, Louisville, KY

Artwork by Ryan Cortenbach, Henderson, NV

Artwork by Madelyn McCurdy Branchville, NJ 11

Artwork by Aadhya Gupta, Nashik, India

Artwork by Amara Perales-Wales, Hemet, CA

Artwork by Clayton Zhao, Germantown, MD

Artwork by Avery-Grace Payne, Cypress, TX

Artwork by Kristen Tortora, Shoreham, NY

Artwork Contest

Mystical Creatures! 13

MEMOIRS | DECEMBER 2021

Middle of Suffering by Anonymous, NJ

Photo by Neha Vinod, Sharjah, UAE

MEMOIRS | DECEMBER 2021

remembered very few moments between airplanes. Extreme fatigue prevented me from taking in any of my surroundings. All I could think about was meeting a new part of my family. My blood, my origins, on the other side of the globe, and I didn’t even know their names. I’d heard countless stories of them visiting in the past, and all I could recall was that I had a godfather whom I’d never met, and he lived over 5,000 miles away. I was told stories of their previous visits to the U.S. and their current struggles in attempting to visit now. I thought back to the dreaded 13-hour plane ride, during which I could not catch a wink of sleep, but instead, spent hours staring into blank space without a care in the world. We left the airport and began traveling toward what I could only guess to be our family. I was not concerned about learning or taking in the world around me. I was more focused on finding cell service for my phone. After many hopeless efforts in finding service, I stopped caring and drifted off to sleep.

I was in awe of how the presence of family in the worst environment could lighten my mood After a short nap, I opened my eyes wearily and found myself in awe of the diabolical nightmare I’d discovered myself in. The prison-like bars on each window reminded me of the documentaries and TV shows that were meant to scare bad kids straight. As I continued to look around, I realized that this devilish nightmare was not a dream, but a horrifying reality for many. I began to think of home. I imagined my past struggles for the newest iPhone, but I never struggled to find a sturdy roof to sleep under. I remembered the desire for the newest Xbox each Christmas, not the worry about having money for food each night. I had memories of asking my parents for expensive things, like nice shoes or a TV in my room. Although, now I see how the money spent on items like this could have been spent on necessities for people who live in the neighborhood I'd found myself in.

The group of people advanced diligently toward us. I sank low in my seat, desperately trying to hide my face in the hopes that they would turn back. Their pursuit became evident as the strangers got extremely close to our parked car and stared me in the eye — although their stares did not seem to have any aggression behind them. Their faces seemed familiar, even though I had never seen them before. Warm, welcoming smiles were presented as they embraced us. All of the fear faded. Then I realized, these were the ones — my family. They didn’t seem petrified, but comfortable and happy in this environment that was so new to me. Their faces were new, but still seemed familiar, like those of my family in the U.S. “Hola primo,” said my father. There was no response but simply a warm embrace. My father spoke to whom I would later know as Tio Herman. He is my godfather, but I had never met him until this point. For my father, this was a reunion with family members whom he had not seen in a while, but for me, I got to meet new people. I was still petrified of the environment we had found ourselves in, although the presence of family had calmed my previous stress. I was in awe of how the presence of family in the worst environment could lighten my mood. Our family invited us into their home, and as we entered, the scary outside world faded. The home was so inviting that inside it was easy to forget that on the other side of the wall was a country suffering from poverty. I think back to sitting on the sofa with my family, whom I would soon get close to, and I now remember how their words comforted me and allowed me to relax while in a horrifying environment.

Photo by Lauren Pantzer, New York, NY

Poverty had grasped this population to the extent that people had opened little stores and sold things through the bars on their windows in the struggle to make ends meet. I saw what I can only describe as prison. Walls topped with shattered glass because the people of Mendoza, Argentina, lived in fear that the few things they owned would be taken. The car I had been traveling in stopped. The area we had stopped in seemed familiar, like the one my father showed me in pictures. Until this moment, everything felt so unreal — I did not feel as if I was living the nightmare. But then, I saw figures begin to approach, and I was frozen with fear. The nightmare had suddenly become a reality.

MEMOIRS | DECEMBER 2021

Photo by Benjamin Mao, Shanghai, China

Falls

by Ray Zhang, Troy, MI

n my father’s cold, dimly lit studio apartment, my father and I gathered around a plastic table. A few styrofoam boxes with steam billowing out the top lay upon it — inside were chicken egg rolls, fried rice, and chow mein. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got some food from down the street,” my father said as he set the table. “I hope you like it.” I shrugged. I was hungry and not a picky eater. So, I picked up a pair of disposable bamboo chopsticks, split them in half, and wrapped them around the chow mein noodles. It had been two years since I sat in this very room. The six-hour drive from the suburbs of Detroit, Michigan to Buffalo, New York was a wearisome journey. My father’s hands were covered with calluses from the long hours of holding the steering wheel. Every three weeks or so for these past three years, he would drive the repetitious route through Canada between his family and job. The open window bellowed in crisp winter air, fluttering the newspaper that lay below the takeout boxes. My father picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks and

placed it in my bowl. “How about we go and see the falls from Canada this time, and change up the scenery a little?” he asked my mother and me. “Sure,” I muttered, fidgeting with the chopsticks before eating huge bites of the delicious meal. Already, I was thinking about how to spend the rest of my winter break back in Michigan eating mom’s home-cooked meals, playing video games, and hanging out with friends. At the break of dawn, the sun had barely peaked out, but my dad's van's engine awoke in frigid weather. The sound of tires crushing freshly fallen snow echoed in the warm passenger seat. Outside the foggy windows, trees topped with snow appeared around me. I felt as though my world morphed into a real-life winter wonderland. Gradually, the noise of millions of gallons of water drowned out the other sounds around me. “Remember fishing back in Michigan?” My dad’s voice broke the silence. “Can you imagine what the fish are like up here in Buffalo?”

I realized the threads that had me hooked to him were unraveling with the distance of New York to Michigan “Yeah, we haven’t fished in a while,” I replied, thinking back to the years of fishing with my father. Back then, my chubby little hands were barely able to cast the line more than a few feet. I grew up around water in Maryland, near the Chesapeake Bay, where I not only fished, but also grew to love the sound of water and everything it entailed. It was through fishing and being by the water that my father and I connected. The solitariness of nature, easy drawing of the line, and brief spurts of excitement that I looked forward to every summer. We would come away from the water happy regardless of how many fish we had in our hands and later in our

MEMOIRS | DECEMBER 2021

stomachs – content with the day that we had shared together. Yet, fishing was not always associated with good memories. I still remember that trip vividly. Summer was coming to an end, and school was just around the corner. Knowing that we couldn’t fish until next year, my father and I packed our gear into our old, rusty Chevrolet van. The cool riverside breeze licked my face as the seagulls crowded above my head. My father’s smooth hands slowly reeled his pole in with his body swaying, stiff as a rod. As the tides crashed against the tiny wooden dock we stood on, my father broke the news that he was going to work somewhere else because of a job opportunity. What that entailed, I later learned, was that my father had to move to New York for a new job. After the conversation, we both just stood on the dock, not knowing what to do next. At that moment, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would go fishing with my father.

In retrospect, I didn’t realize what growing up entailed until it had already happened essential items, ranging from pots and pans to office supplies, before he left. During his short stays, he would sit in his home office, littered with paper on the ground. While he packed, I fidgeted with paper clips and staples for hours, enjoying his company as the sound of papers and boxes shuffled around me. However, after a few months of this moving, only a few paper clips remained in his study room. I didn’t know it then, but over time, the study room would transform into my space – a place to do homework, write papers, and study.

The sun glared off the rearview window into my eye. I was awakened to the sound of tires screeching against the cracked pavement. When the van had finally come to a halt, I opened the sliding door. My feet hit the cold concrete ground, littered with a thick layer of salt. In the distance, tall metal railings lined the sidewalk, and across them, the falls’ roars came alive. With each step, more condensation formed on my forehead.

Now, standing before the falls once again, I was brought back to those memories. I realized the threads that had me hooked to him were unraveling with the distance of New York to Michigan, the moments we did not spend together, my life getting busier with school and friends that he could not name — the same way I could not tell you the streets he now jogged through. I couldn’t help but ask: Why?

When I finally reached the falls, I saw my father ahead of me, gripping the thick metal railings while peering into the distance. Standing next to my father’s calm, steady pose took me back to the moments of fishing with him – the comfort and assurance I felt. Feelings I no longer had.

I took my eyes off of the falls and looked at my father's scratchy beard. As my question slipped through my lips, it only came out as a soft mumble. My father looked at me, searching my face for what I meant. I turned away, concentrating on the falling water in front of me: “Why did you have to move here?”

This was not the first time I stood in front of these immense falls. Around two years ago when my father had first moved to New York, he decided to show my entire family his new apartment, located only 40 minutes from the falls. After a short drive to Niagara Falls State Park, we arrived. My eyes were wide open, taking in the waves of the falls. At that time, my father had only left for a few months and made constant trips back and forth between his two homes. Each time my father visited, he would grab a few

My father’s gaze followed me as he also turned toward the rushing water. “I know it must have been hard …” Hard was one way to describe it, but it was more than that — more in the sense that I could not put into words. School, friendships, and everything else were more than enough to take my mind off the fact that my father was no longer around. My relationship with my mother

had deepened, despite her working long hours while taking care of me. Yet, there were constant reminders, such as having to take over washing dishes, shoveling snow, and cutting grass. In retrospect, I didn’t realize what growing up entailed until it had already happened. I no longer wished to have “dad jokes” the way my friends often joked about or even missed the days of fishing. In some ways, I had become more calloused in my attitude toward the situation — with time, things harden even without realization. Time does things to memories, our hands, and things we cannot even touch. Deep down, I had always known the reasons my father left. “It's for a better life,” “It's so they can put food on the table,” “It's so they could keep me off the streets.” My eyes shifted in and out of focus as I peered toward the abyss the falls gushed into. I looked at my father standing beside me. His face was hard but also soft, lips tight, back slightly bent as he leaned on the railings, and his hair grayer than I remembered. Acutely, I was struck by how old he looked and how I now towered over him. No longer was I the little boy who cried when he first left. Now, I felt like I both knew the man beside me, but also did not. As we walked down the sidewalk, with Christmas lights illuminating the glassy path, I broke the silence, “It snowed during our last marching band performance, seems like it’ll be a cold one this year.” My father nodded his head in agreement. “We can ski, skate, maybe even go ice fishing. For the first time in a while, I saw my father’s eyes glow as they used to. With each stride we took, our conversation developed and our voices smoothed out like the falls around us. I never considered my father’s feelings and his situation. This didn’t mean that I had to invalidate mine. There were no winners in this hard situation. And so, with this thought in mind, we wandered away from the falls. As we meandered to our car, I told my father that my favorite food was Mexican.

IDENTITY | DECEMBER 2021

From By Isabella de los Rios, Boca Raton, FL

have always struggled with my lengthy, ethnic, and complicated last name; “de los Rios” has not only been difficult for me, however. It has been especially difficult for the cashiers who have to ask for my name in order to look up my account. On the off chance they happened to speak Spanish, I’d say “Isabella de los Rios” and hoped they would type it in as fast as “Mary Smith.” Instead, they froze and hesitated to type. Almost every time, they’d look up and, with a smile, ask: “Is that all together?” or “Could you please repeat that?” or “Sorry, could you spell that out for me?” So much so that D-E space L-O-S space R-I-O-S has become a code that I recite every time I’m checking out at Barnes and Noble or Urban Outfitters. So much so that I wished I wasn’t Hispanic and wished I wouldn’t have to drag these three words along with me for the rest of my life. It wasn’t just these weekly, mundane

moments that irked me, however. It was also how people butchered my last name. Over my 18 years of carrying the burden of having such an intricate last name, I’ve gotten: de la Rosa, del los Rios, delosrios, or De Los Rios. Most of these have the same sound, but they are still spelled wrong. Hearing my botched name spat out of the teacher’s mouth when calling attendance made me wince, but I would never tell them because it’s my fault for having such a bothersome last name in the first place. It was always discomforting to hear my name being butchered at every assembly and graduation ceremony. It was like they were talking about an entirely different person, and that I shouldn’t be the one standing up to receive that diploma. They called for Isabella de la Rosa. I’m Isabella de los Rios; she should be getting it, not me. I hesitated to walk to the podium to receive my diploma and it felt like the chair

was grabbing me, whispering, “Don’t go up there, that’s not your name.” When I would receive certificates with my last name misspelled, I always wanted to hand them back and say, “This isn’t mine, it doesn’t say my name,” but I never did. I just hid them in the drawer filled with other misspelled certificates. I would never confront someone who mispronounced my last name because it wasn’t their fault: it was mine. So, over the years, I’ve adapted my last name to take on different forms such as “dlR” or “Rios.” You know, something easier and faster for teachers and cashiers to say or write. It was a little odd being called something that wasn’t my name, but I went along with it. Then, I realized it wasn’t just as simple as erasing the “de los” from a piece of paper and leaving my name as “Isabella Rios;” it was more than that. I was inherently erasing away a huge facet of “Isabella de los Rios.” I was removing my

IDENTITY | DECEMBER 2021

Artwork by Wendy Yu, Windermere, FL

heritage, my culture, and everything that was held within those three words and four syllables. Sometimes I catch myself writing “Bella Rios” on a quiz or essay, but the regret hits as soon as my pen leaves the paper. That’s not my name and that’s suddenly not my work. Why would I waste my life calling myself by a name that isn't real? This made me feel worse than any teacher butchering my name during attendance because I had become the one abusing my last name and turning it into something it is not. I would tell people that I was going to legally change my name when I turned 18 to “Bella Rios”, just to make life easier for everyone who had to write or say my name. But now at 18, I have no desire to alter my last name and disregard its significance. My last name literally means “from the Rivers” and to me, “ from the Rivers” represents the sound of Latin music filling the living

room, the smell of sancocho in the kitchen, and the warmth of family crammed at one table eating arepas with carne desmechada. I could spend hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, just thinking about how different my life would be if I wasn’t Hispanic. Would it really hurt to lose such a big facet of my life? Would losing that “de los” really mean that much? I would think about how different my life would be when I married someone with a common last name and, therefore, would never have to worry about it being butchered again. That didn’t necessarily erase my heritage, but it would be a good way to cover it up. Sometimes I would wonder how different my life would be if English was my first language. Would that change how people viewed me? I wondered if my parents were born in America and not Colombia and Venezuela, what type of food would we eat? Would we even know what arepas are, or

would we just eat hamburgers? Would we drink chicken noodle soup on our sick days instead of ajiaco? Or what if my parents played The Beatles instead of Maná on road trips? It came in short bursts of realization, like a light bulb twinkling until it gleamed. I realized that those three, troublesome, and tortuous words were not something just meaninglessly written on a quiz or a certificate. What they represented flowed through me. It was the blood that travels through my veins and the DNA that differentiates me. Those three words, “de los Rios,” are a marvelous burden. So, I made a promise to myself that I would never let the extra ten seconds that it takes to spell out my last name to a cashier, or the one second someone mispronounces my last name, undermine its significance. My name is Isabella de los Rios and I will never become another impersonator or fraud of my own self.

HEALTH | DECEMBER 2021

Artwork by Jialu Sun, Changchun, China

Life on

Adderall by Finola Najarian, Chicago, IL

o you know what it’s like to not understand what is going on in your own head, or why you can't do things that other people can? I never really thought much about it until I was forced to. I never thought there was something "wrong" with me. Every few years, toward the end of the school year, I would get "screened." Only a handful of my other classmates would go through this process because the school only did this with the kids in LR (Learning Resources), a program for students who required additional support. I didn't think too much about having to go through this process. Why would I? There wasn’t anything “wrong” with me. After I completed my testing in middle school, we got the results back and my LR counselor said all was well. I couldn’t wait to leave middle school and finally become a high schooler. When I was a kid, I watched all the "High School Musical" movies, over and over, to the point where I could almost recite the dialogue and songs word-for-word. When I finally got to high school, I found myself living that fantasy, only with a lot less singing and dancing.

For the first few weeks, I was having the time of my life. My new teachers were assigning little to no homework, and the classes seemed easy. I had so many new friends, I couldn't even count them on my fingers. Life was perfect, too perfect. Then, I took a math test, one I had studied for and thought I would ace. It wasn't until I was in the middle of taking it that I realized: I was in way over my head. The beautiful butterflies that had fluttered around in my stomach during those first lofty weeks of high school immediately turned into termites that ate me from the inside out. On the morning of the day I was to receive my math test results, I woke at 6:37 and so did the termites. They were back in full-force. They crawled around, ruthlessly attacking the sides of my stomach. They sought vengeance, and wouldn't stop their attacks until they were free, and they wouldn’t be free until they had destroyed me. I couldn't move; the pain immobilized my body like a straitjacket. I don’t know how long I stayed in my bed that morning, but those minutes lasted years. When I inhaled, I could feel the air creeping down into my lungs. They expanded to capacity and then collapsed, reversing the process,

I was drowning. I had run out of air throwing the air out as if it were repulsive. When I finally arrived at school, the clicking sound of the doors locking behind me only agitated the termites. The pain grew with each step that I took up the steep, blue stairs, inching me closer to my inevitable fate. I stood in front of the classroom door, my hands clenched at my sides. My nails dug into my palms, making little crescent moons. With the sun shining into the classroom, there were no shadows to hide in. I saw the look on my teacher’s face when she handed me my test, and I knew. At the top was a note, "Let's look at this together. Please set up a time when we can meet." Right next to that was the grade: 46 out of 100. It was encased in a small dark circle that mocked me, highlighting my failure. Small teardrops started pooling up in my eyes, and I blinked quickly so no one would see my emotions. When I got home and showed my mom my test, never in my life had I seen her so

HEALTH | DECEMBER 2021

disappointed. I had failed her. The next steps seemed preordained. One grade fell after another and I ended up in a place I had never imagined: academic probation. My first semester only went downhill from there. I had to meet with my teachers and my headmaster, who told me that if I didn't increase my grade point average, I would be expelled from my high school. I was drowning. I had run out of air. Every time I managed to claw my way to the surface, I was sucked back down into the dark depths of my overflowing schoolwork. Even when I managed to complete my assignments on time, I would forget to turn them in. My teachers' emails cluttered my mailbox, like an overflowing bin that the garbage truck had missed for weeks. As things got worse with school, so did my relationship with my mother. I would spend ages sitting at the dark dining room table, stressing over my homework. If I did not submit an assignment, my mom would receive an email from one of my teachers and all hell would break loose. "Why have you not gotten these assignments to your teachers, after working so hard on them?!" Disappointment. "We're paying all this money to send you to a good school, and you don't even care, do you?" Lost cause. "Do you think that you can just slack off and not care? Well, I'll tell you what, if you keep this up, I am taking you out of that school and homeschooling you!" Anger. "Do you not want to go to a good college?" Hopeless. "We're going to have to send you to the junior college your father went to because no other college will accept grades like that." Degenerate. Her threats stung. I was a failure. I would

In that moment, amongst the tears and empathy, I felt a little breath of hope never get into a good college. My heart and body sank as if someone had tied the heaviest rock in the world to my feet and dropped me into the ocean. Most nights, I would fall asleep crying and wake up feeling no better. I was a disappointment, a failure, good for nothing, and stupid; the words my mother shouted at me. I couldn't handle any more fights with my mom. Her words had too much of an impact. I wanted to mute my life, to deal with my misery silently, but that was not an option. By the time finals and winter break rolled around, I had a feeling that I couldn't shake. I knew that some part of me was missing, but I didn't know what. I knew I had to talk to my mom about this feeling. Something wasn't right. It couldn’t be my fault I was this forgetful and this easily distracted, and the problems were only getting worse, having disastrous effects on my grades. When I came home from the last day of my finals, I asked my mom if we could speak. My body was shaking uncontrollably, and my hands were clamming up, but I held them together in my lap as I waited. My mind was going a million miles an hour and I couldn't think straight. I was concocting ideas in my head about every single possibility of how this conversation could go; I was expecting my mom to yell at me and tell me everything was my fault, and I was just dumb, or not believe me, thinking I'm making excuses for doing poorly in school. I was so lost in my own head that I hadn't noticed my mom staring at me from across the kitchen counter. She had one of her elbows holding up her face, which she had resting in her palm. She leaned over the countertop displaying her readiness to discuss the matters I had yet to disclose to her. "Mom, can we see a psychiatrist?" My mother looked at me, shocked. I was already bracing myself for her disbelief. I was sorely mistaken.

"I was going to say the same thing. For a while, I was considering it, but I wasn't sure until I looked back at the testing you had done in middle school. I should have noticed it sooner, but the test results say you needed to follow-up with a professional. I'm so sorry." In that moment, amongst the tears and empathy, I felt a little breath of hope. When we met with the doctor, she asked how school was and I found myself confessing to the powerlessness I felt when finished assignments were somehow left unsubmitted and when I forgot about meetings with teachers. She had reviewed my middle school testing, had my teachers answer questionnaires about me, and had me take a test of her own. As we talked, I watched her watch me. Her eyes seemed to track my mannerisms, making me hyper aware of them myself. At the end of our meeting, she told me I had Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. With her diagnosis, my doctor had taken a feeling— a dark and frightening feeling — and put it into words. I wasn’t crazy and I wasn’t alone. Finally, I could breathe. A weight that I had not realized existed was suddenly lifted. I knew what was “wrong” with me. Now that I knew what it was, I would be able to come to terms with it. My doctor prescribed me Adderall, telling me what it does, how long it would last, and how it would make me feel. I followed her orders and after a while, the effects the doctor had promised kicked in. I felt beyond focused, and my thoughts weren't racing anymore. I sat down as usual that day: the same chair, at the same desk, in the same house. Yet, I was not the same. I was working, quickly and methodically. Things started to turn around in my life, at least academically. Adderall gave me the motivation and focus to complete my homework, but it was only half of the reason for my new-found success. I wanted to do better and not just for my family, friends, or teachers. I wanted to be the best version of myself, someone who I could be proud of, too. All the hard work and dedication I put in during my second semester of freshman year paid off. Not only had I become a better student,

HEALTH | DECEMBER 2021

but I had become a hard-working and determined person; I was someone that I was proud of. Yet there was still something amiss. Adderall helped bring back the person I was before high school; before I dreaded going to school each day; before I was failing classes; before I was afraid. That little blue pill helped wake up the girl I was before all of that. My grades were improving, and there was no doubt in my mind that my medication was helping me stay on task and get my work done. But school was my only focus. Adderall created a pressure within me and work was the only possible outlet. Adderall gave me back my ability to be a good student, at the expense of my ability to be a fun-loving friend. I was like a baby bird who finally learned to flap its wings and leave the nest, only

Artwork by Elizabeth Jones, Brookline, MA 22

to have those wings clipped so I had to fly close to the nest, left to watch the black silhouettes of my friends flying far above me. I was robbed of the lightheartedness and flightiness that made me a bird. I felt trapped in someone else's body and I wanted to get out. I sometimes spent the eight hours I was on the drug each day wishing I could just be normal. I didn’t want to have to take medication to do well in school or do tasks that come easy to other people, like my friends. But, ironically, the confidence Adderall gave me has taught me how I can manage my daily life and schoolwork without the constant support of medication. I study other methods to do well in each class and I have relied less and less on the support of my medication. I’ve found a middle ground that lets me feel more like myself. I now see the medication as the force that helped me

stand back up when I was at my lowest, and helped me learn what worked for me as a high school student. It brought me out of that hole, and as I have been able to adapt to the new changes in my work styles and organization, I am able to take less and less of those cursed magic blue pills. I’m now happy about going to school, just like the way I used to feel at the beginning of high school. It’s still not quite "High School Musical" — there’s a lot more work and a little less singing — but now I wake up excited for each day of school, and that’s enough. It is an ongoing story, one that cannot end quite yet. It isn’t the story of Adderall or the story of school; it really is just the story of me, of falling down and getting back up as I try to become the person I hope to be eventually.

SPORTS | DECEMBER 2021

Pole Vaulting By Patrick Fattu, New River, AZ

stood there almost as still as a tall tree, barely moving in the wind. One hand is gripping the top of the pole leaning on my shoulder. The other hand is on top of the pole, down from the other a foot or two. My weight is leaning into the pole. The pole is pushing itself into the short dry grass, making it crunch like little shells. Every nervous breath, in and out, slowly making an “O” with my mouth to help control it. Time passes with every breath, and I feel my muscles tighten and loosen ever so slightly with each inhale and exhale. My name is called “Patrick Fattu. First attempt at six feet." I take my steps up to my starting line at 60 feet, my five lefts. Each step, the now slightly dulled spikes push into the runway. I twist and scrape the platform of my feet into the red track. I stand with both feet together and line up as if I was standing sideways on a tightrope. I lift my bottom hand, bringing the whole pole up. I feel the grip tape on the pole just sticky enough to hold my hands there for a few long seconds. I feel the rough sticky tape around the base of my thumb protecting me from sores and cuts like chain mail on a knight riding a galloping stallion into battle. The right hand is now on the bottom with just my thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger supporting all the weight of the pole. My left hand reached across my chest, hand gripping all the way around the rigid fiberglass tube. My breath now going harder and faster. In and out, in and out, breathing in the warm dusty air. I look up — I see the pit in that moment. I see each time I stood on the runway in practice. In practice during the hot days when I would feel sweat running down the temple of my head and into my eyes; the days when it rained, and I felt as if I was freezing into an ice cube; the day I developed the flu, and I didn’t see this

runway for three long weeks. I wasn’t going to let all of the trials and practices go down a drain of quit opportunities and wasted time. I stare down the runway, the crevice that I will use to vault over the bar, and I imagine evil right before it. I see the face of my worst enemy and my worst tormentors.

An adrenaline that I've never felt before I see a face at the end of the runway, it looks at me and I look back at it; it begins to laugh and I begin to glare. I fill my heart with a rage and determination that I haven’t felt in such a long time.

makes contact with the pit. I start sinking into the pad as I close my eyes. The rest of my body lands; I freeze for one second and exhale. I open my eyes and sit up. I see the bar in its resting place. I am filled with a euphoria, an excitement, and an adrenaline that I’ve never felt before. I smile from ear-to-ear, like a mission control tech for Apollo 11 as we received our landing confirmation from Neil Armstrong. I stand up, trying not to fall over in the pit as I step over to the edge to jump off. I head to my bag to get a swig of water and get ready to get back in line, starting all over again.

Unconsciously, my right leg falls back. I bend it quickly, and just as fast, I roll it up and take my first step forward. My right foot hits the ground on the platform at my feet. A high step, and my left foot hits the runway on the platform. I count “five," right … left … “four," right … left … “three," the pole starts to come down, right … left … “two.” I turn the pole to tip down, now bringing my right hand in the air and lowering my left hand. Right … left … “one." I feel the jolt as the pole takes hold in the crevice. My right leg extends, pushing off the ground like a rocket during lift-off. I use my arms to push myself up the pole as it falls forward, like a tree in the forest as I swing my legs up. Extending my legs like I’m jumping in zero gravity. I shoot myself up and over the pole, upside down. As I twist myself over the bar, I feel a serene sense as my eyes move to look at my hand throwing the pole in the opposite direction. I start to fall back. Time slows even more, and I see a cloud become smaller and smaller. I start to feel a thrill I’ve never felt before. My back

Photo by Jiayin Zou, McLean, VA 23

TRAVEL AND CULTURE | DECEMBER 2021

Imaginary by Adnan Bseisu, London, England

t's a small country, they tell me, with rivers that swirl a cocktail of bitter cardamom and salty tears. I'm told the streets are lined with fading four-story buildings that brown with the passing of time, now measured in years since the war began. Every few hundred kilometers, tightly-packed olive trees coat the landscape, extending their open hands out to shriveled farmers. Olives that glisten like sunlight tap-dancing on water fall into the hands of the farmers, who toss them into hand-woven baskets. The olives are driven to desolate warehouses, where a British company will package them and ship them to London. There, they are sold to people, like my family, willing to pay extra for the familiar bold letters of the brand — Zaytoun from Palestine — and the seductive wrapper that gives us a much-needed reminder of the colors on Palestine's flag: red, black, white, and green. Visiting my grandparents in Lebanon each year has been the closest I have come to seeing the country I'm told to call home. My grandmother, Teta, is Lebanese from both of her parents' sides. My grandfather, Seedo, is entirely Palestinian. Like most

Palestinians of his generation, he's a nomad who has scrutinized the cities of the Arab world, from Benghazi to Baghdad. Seedo and Teta moved to Beirut many years ago. They figured that, if the opportunity arose, it would be easiest to pack up their things and move back to Palestine from Lebanon. My grandparents live in a pre-war apartment just off of the busiest road in Beirut. When our cousins are over — which is on most days — it divides itself into loose precincts that lose their borders during meal times. The living room morphs into a bustling bazaar. On its dusty couches, aunts and uncles trade sugared gossip for laughs and surprised facial expressions. The kitchen, connected to the living room by a narrow hallway that clogs with teenagers eavesdropping on their parents, is the industrial quarter. Boxes of unopened desserts crowd the kitchen countertop at all times. I used to think that Teta wanted to be prepared for any number of our extended family to barge through the door and demand a platter of baklawa and tea. But as her siblings have passed away over the years, the amount of what's in her fridge hasn't changed. I now realize that

Beirut is much more to me than the city where my grandparents live her absurd preparation was nothing more than wishful thinking; it may also have been a gesture of goodwill to the elderly man who owned, but was struggling to pay rent for, the sweet shop down the road. The bedrooms make up the city center. Toddlers showcase colors, wrestling for recognition in their sketchbooks like street painters flaunting crude caricatures. Ear-splitting shrieks at the Playstation replace car horns, and baby cousins unfortunate enough to be in the line of Nerf gun fire look around furiously like disgruntled tourists. There's never a shortage of food in my grandparents' apartment, but there are also rarely any leftovers. Seedo learned to embrace God in his younger years. Life hurled misfortunes at him that all but proved that God didn't exist, but he was too stubborn to take notice. His eyes

TRAVEL AND CULTURE | DECEMBER 2021

yawn every time we scrape unfinished food off of our plates and into a dustbin, and his lips mouth what I presume to be a religious verse about the sanctity of food. Teta, on the other hand, was born into a wealthy Lebanese family. Her dad owned a construction company hired to rebuild much of the devastated country after the First World War. When she was eight years old, her father's debt yanked the silver spoon out of her mouth and hurled it far from her reach. Overnight, she was evicted from a plush mansion outside of central Beirut and thrown into a flat just off of the busiest road in the city. Her father died of a heart attack months later. To her, his cause of death has always been greed. Seedo's faith and Teta's learned frugality make finishing our dinner more than just a helpful reminder when we're with them. Outside of the apartment, Westerners oscillate between street kiosks selling kebab skewers and French creperies. A narrow two-way street brimming with cars chases the ocean into the horizon. Screaming commuters pummel their car horns, but I've watched enough news lately to know they don't have jobs to be late for. Men wearing tailored suits walk aimlessly with grocery bags in both hands and mothers wearing knock-off designer clothes rush through crowds of tourists to fetch their kids from school. Looking up, a war-torn city hugs the skyline. My sister and I used to see the city as one big playground. The jagged cobblestone streets, victims of a decades-long civil war, drew hopscotch configurations far too elaborate for London's plain infrastructure. Yellowing bullet holes decorated Seedo and Teta’s apartment building, haunting reminders of the dangers this playground once hosted. We were aware that adults didn't enjoy going to the playground as much as we did. We had to keep the excitement to ourselves when we passed a car with leaking tires and exhausted windows, a tall soldier with a thirsty gun, or a homeless child with gaping eyes — all perfect choices for our games of I Spy. When I think of Beirut, a vivid collection of memories, tastes, smells, and views from my grandparents' apartment come to mind. The streets that cut through the city, from

A real olive can't be eaten alone the port to the mountains, are even more familiar to me than the lonely streets of London, where I have lived since I was born. Beirut is much more to me than the city where my grandparents live. In my French class two years ago, my teacher asked us to share a bit about ourselves with the rest of the class. What's your name? How old are you? Where are you from? "My name is Adnan. And, I, um, I'm 16 years old. I … I'm from Palestine," I told the class. I'm from Palestine. I've been trained to say those words my whole life: by Seedo, Teta, and myself when I've sweet-talked the boy in the mirror into believing that there is a country he can call home. Even still, that boy finds it ironic that he has never set foot on the land he lays claim to. When I think of Palestine, I don't see the country my grandfather raised my father in, nor do I taste the Palestinian olives I buy from my local supermarket. Instead, I see war-torn cities that hug their skylines. I smell a peculiar but mouth-watering blend of spicy kebabs and sweet crepes. After my French class revelation, I decided that I would start telling people I was from Lebanon. It made sense to me. The place I've been visiting since I was born had to make me feel more at home than the country I've been acquainted with through the distant memories of my grandfather. I told Seedo my master plan at the dinner table one night. "I've never been to Palestine," I complained. "I don't feel as connected to it as I do to Beirut." My grandmother is rarely speechless, but this was one of those moments. I expected Seedo's eyes to sour with disappointment, but instead, he laughed pitifully, stood up, and took me to the living room where he sat me down on one of the four “gossip couches.” "When I was a young boy in Jaffa,” he started, "my mother sent me to the market every weekend for vegetables. She gave

me exactly enough money for a handful of carrots and three mils of change." He wrapped his broad arms around me and looked up as if a movie of his life was being projected onto the ceiling. I tilted my head upward just to be sure there was nothing there. "The man at the olive stall knew me," he continued. "Every week, I made sure to pass by him before he broke for lunch so he could give me a handful of his greenest olives to take home, free of charge." Seedo kept his olives in the same glass bowl each weekend. He waited until later in the day to ration out the olives between his brothers, sisters, cousins, and any relatives who happened to be home for Saturday lunch. At first, he told me, each of them got half an olive. "Have you ever tasted an olive, Adnan?" His question caught me off guard. "Yes, I think I have." I was sure I had. "No, I mean a real olive." "What do you mean, a real olive?" A real olive, he explained, has a taste so sweet that you'd feel guilty eating more than one. A real olive can't be eaten alone. Like a date, it tastes best when it's insulated by the warmth of a crowded family. According to Seedo, you know you're eating a real olive when you don't have to question where the olive came from. A long pause followed his explanation. I wasn't sure what to say to him, so he took my silence as a no. "Anyway, a few months later," he said, "I realized that each of us was now getting one full olive, not a half. By the end of the year, we were each getting a handful. Do you know why?" he asked me, his voice fading as if the question were rhetorical. "Did the olive man start giving you more olives?" I asked him. "No." Seedo looked around desperately to avoid my tempting innocence. "Eventually,” he continued moments later, his shaky voice penetrating the silence that permeated the air, "I stopped buying olives when there was no one to bring them

TRAVEL AND CULTURE | DECEMBER 2021

home to." He didn't need to tell me what came next. I knew, from years of hearing the stories that aged him, that he too was then forced to leave the country. "My biggest fear, Adnan, is that you and your sister won't be able to taste olives in your lifetime." Seedo unlatched his fingers from my arms. His right index finger and thumb, spaced apart as if he were holding an olive between them, gravitated up toward his mouth. His lips made way for the imaginary olive, and his teeth reluctantly bit into it, stopping halfway when they reached the imaginary olive's imaginary seed. A long and insistent gulp followed. Down went the imaginary olive into his esophagus, now a figment of both of our imaginations. "Try one," Seedo said, holding out his bare palm to me until I scratched at it. Unsure if he was joking, I tossed my own imaginary olive into the air. As my hand thrust upward, I could feel the air taking the rigid shape of an olive that drifted away from my skin. One. Two. Three. I caught the imaginary olive in my mouth and chewed it eagerly. Pausing for a second, I couldn't help but feel nauseous from the empty taste of the air I was about to swallow.

Seedo's imaginary olives don't – and will never – satisfy my hunger, but I can feel when they are in my hand and Teta seemed to be too interested in sweeping the broken glass on the floor to notice, but in the corner of the screen, I could just make out an empty glass bowl on a window sill. I recognized the bowl. When I was younger, I would wonder why Seedo sat by it every Saturday morning, his eyes immersed in the world outside of the window. Teta and I learned not to disturb him on Saturday mornings after many failed attempts at asking him what he wanted for breakfast. What was outside

Looking back, I don't blame myself for seeking comfort in Beirut's familiar kebabs and upscale crepes. Seedo's imaginary olives don't — and will never — satisfy my hunger, but I can feel when they are in my hand. Their soft outer layers numb my fingers, and the crushing feeling of their weight preoccupies my naked palms. I see the imaginary olives too, sometimes. I see how they glisten like sunlight tap-dancing on water. Until I'm able to extend my hand out to the branch of a real olive tree, just a few hundred kilometers away from my grandparents' apartment in Beirut, I, and a few million others, will have to make do with imaginary olives. Last August, the windows of my Seedo and Teta's apartment were shattered by an explosion near Beirut's port that deafened the city. When my grandparents first got the chance to go back to the apartment the morning after, my father and I FaceTimed them from London. Lingering high-pitched screams and sirens that relentlessly blared in the distance eventually faded into the garbled static of the FaceTime call. Seedo

Artwork by Ray Zhang, Troy, MI

of the window didn't matter, though. I now realize that the bowl being next to the only window in the apartment that faced south was no accident, and my guess is that it's the same bowl he used to keep his olives when he was a child. Thin cavities riddled the rim of the bowl, but I was surprised to see the rest of it intact. Shards of glass from the nearest window had landed inside of it, piling on top of each other like leaves in autumn. What the phone screen didn't show, though, was what had happened to the imaginary olives I was sure were inside of it. I never got the chance to ask Seedo. "As long as an olive is kept in its purest form," I picture him telling me, "no amount of shattered glass, fired bullets, or separated families can stop it from tasting like home."

BOOK REVIEWS | DECEMBER 2021

Book FANTASY

her life. He takes her to the magical city of Nevermoor, which is vibrant and full of life. Morrigan discovers that she was brought here by Jupiter to contend for a place in the city’s most prestigious organization. In order to get in, she must compete against hundreds of the city’s most magical and special children. If she fails, she’ll have to leave the city forever, and face her deadly fate. But what exactly makes Morrigan so special? Is it her curse? Or something else? I bought this book on a whim, and it was

Nevermoor: The Trials of Morrigan Crow

This book is the type that you get lost in, the type that fills your brain up with that kind of whimsical happiness

by Jessica Townsend

Review by Shreeya Soma, Mount Laurel, NJ

orrigan Crow is a fairly normal girl, trying to navigate her frankly boring life as best as possible. But there’s a little hitch in her plan; She was born on Eventide, the unluckiest day for any child to be born. This makes her Cursed, and everyone blames all their struggles and misfortunes on her very existence. Even worse, she’s doomed to die on her 12th birthday! As she awaits her certain doom, she is suddenly surprised by a visit from the eccentric Jupiter North, who whisks her away from her awful family (good riddance) and saves

probably one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. This book captures the wonderful whimsy of Harry Potter, while still having the tense action scenes that you’d find in the Percy Jackson series. The plot is fresh and interesting, and it leaves you wanting more after every page. The thing that sets this book apart from the rest is the fantastical world-building. The city of Nevermoor is fleshed out as the story progresses, and every new detail makes the fictional city seem more and more real. Jessica Townsend has created a wonderful and original world that somehow feels familiar and cozy at the same time. The lore of Nevermoor contributes to its world-building. Its history feels just

as much a component of the city as the buildings and streets themselves. The world-building creates a luscious scenery that you just fall into. Jessica Townsend has also crafted a fascinating plot and interesting characters to get invested in. Morrigan, the protagonist, is snarky and curious, and immensely relatable. She’s the type of person you’d like to root for, from beginning to end. The cast is assembled from a strange selection of creatures, from dragon riders to talking cats, each of them strange and whimsical in their own special way, and with their own secrets. Learning more about each of these characters and how they are incorporated into the story is what made it enjoyable to me. I got this book when I was 10 years old, but I still enjoy rereading it to this day. This is because the writing style is unique in the way that it paints out the descriptions of the scenery and the emotions of the characters, while still being light-hearted and funny. This allows the reader to enjoy the overall plot and humor, while still being able to appreciate the world-building and depth. This book is the type that you get lost in, the type that fills your brain up with that kind of whimsical happiness. It’s the type of book you read under the covers with a flashlight. It's magical and fun, perfect for people of all ages. It's a book I've reread many times before, and a book I plan to keep on rereading.

BOOK REVIEWS | DECEMBER 2021

EPIC POETRY

The Inferno

by Dante Alighieri

Review by Yutong Ye, Shanghai, China

“A

bandon all hope, ye who enter here” is a warning that appears at the gate of the Inferno. Dante Alighieri, the poet, pilgrim, and politician, leads the journey as the narrator. Vivid portrayals of sinners in each circle contribute to the pursuit of retributive justice (“contrapasso”). After Dante (known by his first name) was exiled from Florence, Inferno was created with subjective views about popes and their power. In the piece, Dante constantly changes his perspective of narration, even directly talking to readers at times. Through the journey of Dante the Pilgrim, readers witness the progression of his growth from innocence to maturity. As a result, the metamorphosis of Dante the Pilgrim elucidates the inscription “Enter to grow in wisdom.” Dante the Pilgrim finds himself lost in a chaotic setting of dark woods, which emphasizes his innocence at the beginning

of the journey. When Dante the Pilgrim wakes up, he tries to escape but is impeded by three beasts; “[he] died from every hope of that high summit” (Canto I, stanza 18). With constant failure, the Pilgrim struggles with the situation and almost abandons his hope of fleeing this grim place. In this case, the Pilgrim is innocent, as he is lost in the woods with no cognitive means to plan an escape, since the wilderness lacks order that opposes intellect. Then, Virgil appears as someone who will guide the Pilgrim through his journey in the Inferno. When the Pilgrim recognizes where he should go, he observes, “I hung back and balked on that dim coast” (Canto II, stanza 14). Immediately, he is struck with fear that makes him doubtful. Hesitancy emerges even at the beginning of his journey, which demonstrates the Pilgrim’s lack of intelligence and abundance of pathos. In

Dante brings readers into a brand-new world, growing from innocence to maturity contrast to Dante the Pilgrim, Virgil has been chosen to be his guide because he has long been in Limbo and is thus quite familiar with and knowledgeable about the journey through the Inferno. Along the way, Dante the Pilgrim succumbs to pity for the helpless souls he encounters and faints, while Virgil, seemingly accustomed to this environment, remains emotionless. It can be concluded that Virgil’s intellect underscores the core difference between the two, which is why their reactions are so different from the very beginning. Leaving the Inferno, Dante the Pilgrim becomes Dante the Poet (narrator), to recount the journey and include his observations to reinforce the impact for the reader. “But since it came to good, I will recount: all that I found revealed there by God’s grace” (Canto I, stanza 3). At the beginning of the first canto, Dante the Poet explains that the poetry is meant to be a recollection of his journey. In the

Second Circle he tells us, “I learned, was the never-ending flight of those who sinned in the flesh, the carnal and lusty who betrayed reason to their appetite” (Canto V, stanza 13). Dante the Pilgrim associates love with birds and illustrates that obsessive desire leads to death and punishment in the Inferno. Having gotten out of Hell, Dante the Poet seems to prompt readers to be careful about the consequences of lust. As Dante the Poet constantly retells the journey in each circle, readers are able to determine the punishments for their erroneous actions. As a result, Dante the Pilgrim departs from the Inferno to serve his country and mankind with measured actions. With an omniscient view, readers are able to see the punishments their souls will face after leaving the physical body and waiting for the Judgment Day. Playing the role of poet, Dante as narrator consistently cautions society about every situation that individuals could encounter. Since the environment of each circle is depicted so vividly, the narrative presents a stressful and horrific tone, which causes people to project the consequences onto themselves and in turn, motivates them to start taking corrective action. Throughout the journey, explanations from Virgil support his character as a representation of wisdom. This creates a clear comparison between Dante the Pilgrim and Virgil the Guide, and along the way out of the Inferno, it reflects the growth of the Pilgrim. Strikingly different from the Inferno’s resident souls, Dante the Pilgrim is a living character whose nature could be sensed by each soul he meets in the Inferno. Despite the utterly hopeless warning at the gate of Hell, Dante the Poet eventually comes to better serve his country and society. For those who find themselves in a situation similar to that which Dante the Pilgrim faced when he was lost in a dark wood at the middle of his life, it is worthwhile to consult the lessons of the Inferno, which is far-reaching as a reminder of reality. At the age of 18, Dante brings readers into a brand-new world, growing from innocence to maturity. Numerous allusions to life circumstances are essential to support the theme of the Inferno. It is thus equally important to consider the lessons of the more experienced guide, the very knowledgeable and practical Virgil.

BOOK REVIEWS | DECEMBER 2021

FANTASY

he commits. The main cast of characters have defined personalities and diverse backgrounds, bringing together different aspects of their world.

Inspired by the rich folklore of Ancient Arabia, We Free the Stars expertly combines popular YA fantasy elements with a stunning backdrop for a unique story

We Free the Stars by Hafsah Faizal

Review by Abigail Sterner, Arlington, VA

e Free the Stars by Hafsah Faizal is the sequel every author wants to write. Full of magic, romance, intrigue, friendship, and family, this novel picks up directly after We Hunt the Flame, the first book in the Sands of Arawiya Duology. The two main characters — Zafira and Nasir — have just begun to deal with the loss they battled on Sharr, but they have released a new foe who will stop at nothing until he retrieves Nasir’s throne. Forced to return to Sultan’s Keep, they battle monsters physically and within, desperate to restore magic to Arawiya. Inspired by the rich folklore of Ancient Arabia, We Free the Stars expertly combines popular YA fantasy elements with a stunning backdrop for a unique story. The writing is lyrical and passionate, with prose so lovely that the reader will wish they could frame every page. The villain has clear and logical motivations, making him easy to understand, despite the atrocities

Zafira, the Huntress of Demenhur, spent most of her life hunting in the Arz (a malevolent forest) to support her community. Though she gets amazing character development in We Hunt the Flame, this book is where she comes alive. Zafira battles with her sanity and free will, crafting a narrative that remains intense throughout the entirety of the novel. I loved how Nasir was the only one who could pull her back from the brink, and though their romance was amazing, I appreciated that it was never shoved down the reader’s throat.

remains layered and deep. Zafira’s younger sister, Lana, was an ingenious addition to the main cast, for she forced Zafira to come to terms with the fact that Lana had grown up, and that how we view people is not always how they are. In addition to the amazing cast of characters, the plot stood out. Without a dull moment, it dug hooked claws into the heart of the reader and dragged them along until the end. Every chapter felt important to the story as a whole, and every page served a purpose. Despite the longer length of the book, there wasn’t any wasted space. The use of extreme emotions — including anger and grief — brought a fantastical story into the real world. Even if readers can’t relate to wielding swords and spells, they can certainly find themselves in the feeling that powers the novel. Overall, We Free the Stars is an achingly human fantasy: an edition every YA lover will want to put on their bookshelves immediately.

Speaking of Nasir, the Prince of Death managed to steal the spotlight once again. Forced to return to his childhood home, he battles both the past and present as he attempts to become the sultan Arawiya needs. His throne was never taken for granted, and the fact that he mirrors the main villain in power adds another intricate layer to an already stunning masterpiece. His desire to protect Zafira, mixed with his understanding that she needs to be independent, secured their romance as one of the healthiest in YA Fantasy, especially considering it started as enemies to lovers. The side cast of characters — if they can even be called that — were just as well developed as the main pair. Kifah especially had her moment in the sun: the revelation about her sexuality never reduced her to a stereotype or seemed like a forced add-on. Altair, for all his snark and charisma,

Artwork by Kourtney Arbuthnot, Boca Raton, FL 29

AUTHOR INTERVIEW | DECEMBER 2021

Maria Susan Proulx Author of

Teen Talk: Insight on

Issues That Matter To Teens and the Adults Who Care About Them Interview by Isabella Dugan, Newton, MA

school events too because I was just so busy. But it was definitely worth it in the end."

Maria Susan Proulx is a 17-year-old author and a local of the Mount Washington Valley, NH. She began writing as a columnist in The Day newspaper when she was 12 years old and her work would later inspire this book, Teen Talk: Insight On Issues That Matter To Teens & The Adults Who Care About Them. She is excited to work with Teen Ink and advance their mission of giving teens a voice. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys skiing, hiking, and running in the White Mountains.

3.) You write about teens feeling inclined to fit in. How did your peers respond to you writing a book?

1.) What inspired you to write this book? "I’ve always turned to writing as a creative outlet. Before my kindergarten teacher even taught me how to properly hold a pencil, I would recruit my mom and older brother to transcribe stories for me. It wasn’t until I got my column, 'Teen Talk,' in my local newspaper that I had an opportunity to share my message with others. The editor of the paper actually shot me down a couple of times and I remember being so excited when he finally said yes that I ran outside to tell my parents and didn’t even bother to put on shoes. I would tack every new column to my bedroom wall until I eventually ran out of space, and seeing that visual progression of my work reminded me of how far I’ve come and all the people I was able to connect with. It inspired me to help teens and adults on a broader level, which is why I was so elated when 'Teen Talk' agreed to publish my book as a compilation and extension of my most impactful column topics." 2.) How did you balance schoolwork with being a published writer? "The nice thing about the book is that I actually wrote the bulk of it over the course of five years. Some of the chapters are based on columns from seventh grade, some from as recently as a few months ago. I only faced direct academic pressure as a result of the book when I was in the thick of the editing process. I remember coming home right after school and revising and adding to my old columns, then doing my homework after. I missed out on a few

"Anyone who knows me knows that I’ve wanted to publish a book for a long time. My two best friends were especially excited, given that I’ve had this dream since we all attended elementary school together. Whenever I need advice, I turn to them, so it was exciting to see some of their guidance in print.”

This experience allowed me to be authentic with my audience 4.) You cover many pressing topics for teens. Which topic was the most challenging to write about, and why? "When I started writing my column, I wrote to please. But as I grew more immersed in the world around me, I realized it would be shameful not to use my platform to shed light on important issues to my teenage audience. My column on why sex ed is a needed part of the school curriculum is the first in which I took a stance on a contested issue and stuck to my convictions regardless of repercussions from my community. This experience freed me from the opinions of others and allowed me to be authentic with my audience." 5.) Did you ever imagine you would be a published author before graduating high school? "I always dreamed of publishing a book, but never thought my goal would come to fruition this soon. I was lucky enough to have parents who fostered my love for reading and writing by indulging my frequent trips to the library, the ever-growing piles of books

AUTHOR INTERVIEW | DECEMBER 2021

strewn about the house, and my fervent ramblings about my latest story, so I attribute my original interest in writing to them. I’ve also had a few incredible teachers, notably my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Miner, who encouraged me not only to write, but to publish. I owe a lot to them as well. I’m incredibly grateful for all the people who came together to make this experience possible and honestly still have trouble processing that the book is actually published." 6.) How much preparation and research went into this book? "Like I said, this was a five-year undertaking. Every chapter required something a little different, whether it was listening to a transgender high schooler tell of the bullying and bias she faced (and how she rose above) or staying up late into the night chatting with friends and applying the lessons they’ve taught me to the words I share with others. Learning from the teens around me has played a critical role when crafting my own message to be shared with readers." 7.) Why did you decide to use real life events and personal experiences?

Write what you know. Readers can tell when you aren't genuinely passionate about a topic horizon. I visited the United Nations Headquarters as a freshman, which compelled me to study international affairs in college and work in an intergovernmental organization in the future. I think it’s important that the role my column plays in bringing pressing issues to the attention of teens and parents continues even after I leave for school, so I’m working to find a new author to continue my 'Teen Talk' column. I do hope to publish books in the future, but currently plan on helping Teen Ink launch its Young Author Series to promote the voices of other teenage writers." Click here to purchase Teen Talk: Insight on Issues That Matter To Teens and the Adults Who Care About Them.

"Being vulnerable with my audience allowed me to connect with and provide solace to teens. Whenever I needed motivation to do something scary like run for class office my freshman year of high school, I would always tell myself that whatever the outcome, good or bad, I could write a column about it. I built a community with my readers based on shared experiences, whether they be mental health struggles during the isolation of the Covid-19 lockdown or dealing with the death of a friend. " 8.) How did you get involved with Teen Ink? "I’ve actually been an avid fan of Teen Ink for years and had my work published on their website and magazine a few times before I considered reaching out to them about publication. Since they are devoted to giving teens a platform to share their voice and my book sought to achieve the same mission, we seemed to have a natural compatibility." 9.) What advice can you give to aspiring teenage authors? "Put your work out there in any way possible. The school newspaper, a literary magazine halfway across the country, a self-published book by your poetry club — it doesn’t matter. For a few years, I took a short story writing class at my community center and bought a book called Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market that listed hundreds of printing houses, magazines, writing contests, etc. And for two years, I would pour through that book, highlight and bookmark potential publishers, and reach out to them. I got a ton of rejections, but there were a few yeses mixed in there too. Also, write what you know. Readers can tell when you aren’t genuinely passionate about a topic." 10.) What is next for you? Will you attend a university? And do plan to continue publishing books? "I’m currently a senior in high school, so college is definitely on the

Photo by Ella Snyder, Winter Springs, FL

Artwork by Mór Szepesi, Budapest, Hungary

Artwork by Magdalene Xin Heng Lee, Hong Kong

Artwork by Emma Baumgardner-Shipp, Ravenna, OH 32

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS | DECEMBER 2021

Movie & TV SCI-FI/ADVENTURE

emperor. Timothée Chalamet plays the main character, a young prince named Paul Atredies, who is set to inherit a desert planet that holds the key to space travel. Suffice it to say that conflict arises and our prince charming is forced to grow up real fast. Unfortunately, this solid premise is quickly soured by the film’s attempt at spirituality. Slowly but surely, Paul is revealed as the “messiah” prophesied to bring “paradise” to the native people of the planet. The natives, called Fremen, semi-nomadic folk who look more Arab than futuristic, recite

Dune Movie

Review by Ben Leblanc, Agawam, MA

“D

une" is the space opera epic of the season — but is it good?

Based on the first half of Frank Herbert’s best selling sci-fi novel of the same name, the film combines the trademark scale of its genre with elements of medieval and Arab culture to create a deeply immersive viewing experience. But "Dune" struggles when the overly spiritual lore of its source material takes the spotlight, and much of its dazzle is really a reflection of modern man's search for the supernatural. The year is 10191, and noble houses have colonized planets across the universe under the watchful eye of a galactic

It felt as if the insane visuals and score overpowered the actors' more subdued performances, which, along with some dense lore, made the plot a little hard to follow prophecies he fulfills like Bible verses. The important role of visions in the story only adds to the effect. Zendaya, the subject of these visions, spends the little screen time she has guiding Chalamet to his final destination, by which I mean she casts a lot of alluring looks at the audience in glorious slow-motion. Her ethereal presence is like that of a holy spirit ministering to the protagonist as he journeys through the desert wilderness. When not trying to playact Christianity,

the film pours its $165 million budget into world-building, and what a world it is: sandworms the size of skyscrapers swallow ships whole and rip through desert plains with ease; futuristic armies fight hand-tohand by the light of a burning city; and all of it against the backdrop of Hans Zimmer’s bone-rattling score (fans of the 2014 space epic "Interstellar" will recognize his blaring, portentous music). The technical know-how and artistic vision required to do what director Denis Villeneuve has done leaves no doubt as to why previous adaptations of Herbert's novel have failed. The director’s big ambitions are supported by a strong cast. Timothée Chalamet gives a grounded and convincing performance: you can feel the duress he is under as heir to a bloody throne, and the hardness that enters his voice as he weathers death and betrayal doesn’t seem forced. Rebecca Ferguson does well in her supporting role as Paul’s mother, Lady Jessica, a modernday Mary caught up in her son’s antics. While Zendaya played a minimal and rather forgettable role, contrary to what the trailers would have you believe, the film is the first of two parts, so we can expect to see more of her character in the future. Throughout "Dune," it felt as if the insane visuals and score overpowered the actors' more subdued performances, which, along with some dense lore, made the plot a little hard to follow. And the spiritual elements seemed to go beyond what happened in the book, as if the filmmakers were more interested in creating a supernatural experience than good entertainment. (More likely they were just struggling to squeeze the essence of 400 pages into 156 minutes, but it still felt that way). Taken together, the film left me awestruck but also a bit dazed, like a drunk man stumbling out of a pub. Let’s hope the DVD version is a more relaxing watch.

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS | DECEMBER 2021

DRAMA

What propels "Scandal" forward besides its tightly-plotted storytelling is its non-partisan handling of topics such as race, power, and corruption. A key focal point here is politicians, left and right alike, playing dirty to boost poll numbers or approval ratings. Though this may seem overly sardonic, the show finds macabre humor in watching politicians engage in adultery, deceit, and treason (as exhibited by delightfully dreary one-liners such as “We’re shredding constitutional amendments like confetti”). Bursting with black humor and high-stakes drama, the show zips along at a breakneck pace.

hitmen-for-hire network B613 and countless coup attempts only bolster the show’s underlying thesis: the current establishment is overrun with greed. With "Scandal," showrunner Rhimes depicts the White House as “a place that corrupted anybody who came near it.” By blurring the lines between patriotism and blind reverence, the ugliness within the Oval Office is unspooled through black comedy, gripping storytelling, and striking commentary about our world at large. Anyone searching for a captivating series to get hooked on should check out this thrill ride.

As darkly funny and addictive as "Scandal" is, it’s also superbly well-acted. The antiheroine at the helm, Olivia Pope — dressed in sharp petticoats and blouses,

Scandal TV Series

Review by Nadia Khan, Waterloo, ON, Canada

efore the conniving antiheroes of follow-ups "Succession" and "Empire," there was ABC’s political thriller "Scandal," which redefined the parameters for gripping television. Teeming with twists at every corner, showrunner Shonda Rhimes’ anti-"West Wing" drama is chock-full of Machiavellian power brawls, jarringly violent assassinations, and fast-paced plotting. However, beneath the sheer nastiness is a thoughtful, multilayered portrayal of American politics. "Scandal" follows D.C. crisis manager Olivia Pope (Kerry Washington) — loosely modeled after the Bush administration crisis manager Judy Smith — as she leads fix-it firm “Pope and Associates.” Alongside her ragtag team of lawyers and hackers, Pope works to handle, spin, and erase anything from a senator’s extramarital affairs to the murder of a reporter. But while working with an unexpected new client, she is soon forced to confront her complicated past with the White House — and the president (Tony Goldwyn).

DRAMA

What propels Scandal forward besides its tightlyplotted storytelling is its non-partisan handling of topics such as race, power, and corruption and with never a hair out of place — shifts from coolly poised to menacing in the span of a breath. She is aptly captured by Washington, who embodies her with masterful precision. Another standout performer is self-dubbed “political animal” First Lady Mellie Grant (Bellamy Young), who falls somewhere between Jackie Kennedy and Lady Macbeth. There’s a moment where she fakes a miscarriage to earn voter sympathy that is equal parts horrific and morbidly brilliant. Critics may argue that the show is unrealistic, however that’s the whole point. "Scandal" hyperbolizes the lengths politicians will travel in order to advance their respective careers or causes. The presence of fictional government

Lion

Movie

Review by Riddhiman Roy, Ahmedabad, India

irector Garth Davis' featurefilm debut "Lion" (2016) is a poignant drama based on the true story of an Indian boy who risks everything — first his safety and then his adopted family — to retrace his birth mother. It is adapted for the screen by Luke Davies from the novel A Long Way Home (2013) by Saroo Brierley and Larry Buttrose. The credits at the end of the film's

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS | DECEMBER 2021

lachrymose climax are bound to wrench a few tears from your eyes. The movie garnered exemplary critical acclaim and earned five BAFTA and six coveted Oscar nominations, including Best Picture in 2017. The story begins in 1986 in the poor, remote village of Khandwa in Madhya Pradesh, India. A five-year-old Saroo lives with his

Lion is a vividly emotional rollercoaster centered on the pressing quest for truth and identity enshrouded in the traumatic past single mother, baby sister, and his elder brother Guddu. One unfortunate night, he ends up all alone on a passenger train and wakes up in the bustling megacity of Kolkata, almost 1,000 miles from his home, where no one speaks his language. It is tragic to witness how he frantically searches for his mother in the most improbable locations. His endless screams fade into the dismal night as he seemingly drowns in an inconsiderate sea of commuters. Dodging scores of kidnappers and luckily escaping a cruel orphanage, Saroo somehow finds his way to an Australian couple (Nicole Kidman and David Wenham) who adopt him.

the first half and effortlessly evokes our empathy. Twenty years later – an adult Saroo (Dev Patel) grows incessantly curious about his birth mother and tries to trace his footsteps back to his Indian home through Google Earth. But his uncontainable spirit to reunite with his original family pushes him into an emotional breakdown again. He struggles to maintain his relationship with his girlfriend, Lucy (Rooney Mara), and his adopted family. The story's profound philosophical conflict is the theme of "love vs. love." Saroo feels an impending urge to travel back home. His dilemma defines his character as an amalgamation of joy and grief. It entraps him in an estranged corner of his mind, forcing him to question his own identity and accept his past. Throughout the film, he craves a reunion with his birth family — an impractical goal that haunts him. We feel second-hand exasperation from his failures and melancholic seclusion. "Lion" is more than a film about a missing kid looking for his mom. It is a vividly emotional roller-coaster centered on the pressing quest for truth and identity enshrouded in the traumatic past. An inevitable reality that many adopted people must embrace storms Saroo’s personality and destroys his tranquility. The screenplay's Oscar nomination may seem overrated to some of us, because unlike Saroo's train, the story chugs to a sterile halt in the middle. The film is not

devoid of flaws. It is easy to notice how it temporarily forgets its own story and forces the audience to experience its theme once it realizes its mistake. The scenes appear hollow, and the instinctive bond with the protagonist may feel constrained. One of the most explicit examples of this is the character of Lucy. In her minor role, Mara dazzles as Saroo’s girlfriend. It is soothing to see how she lends romantic support to an emotionally torn Saroo. But that is pretty much it. She struggles to fit into the core narrative and acts like a sideline cheerleader to the show. The story does not do justice to this exceptionally talented Oscar-winning actress; nor does it bother to conclude her character arc. It treats her like a clichéd trope of an unrelated love interest. Consequently, Lucy feels more like an excessive load that seems too heavy to drag into the denouement phase. Nevertheless, the film's ending is heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. It intoxicates the audience with a refreshingly unique catharsis and subverts all genre expectations. The entire tale feels like an interwoven patchwork of hope and hopelessness. Davies’ script mingles these two contrasting virtues and creates the most brilliant moments of the movie. It is one of the few stories made that have delved so deep into the psychic realm of adoption from a child's perspective. This uniquely bold narrative makes "Lion" an unforgettable experience.

Garth's visual storytelling crafts a psychological comprehension of poverty and crime in our minds. His marvelous creative vision grants us a glimpse into the lives of underprivileged children. It serves as a metaphor for Saroo's anxious mental state – a lost child on a railway platform. The adorably cute eight-year-old Sunny Pawar makes his cinematic debut with Lion. He nonchalantly delivers his performance with bone-chilling authenticity and mesmerizes the audience with his pictureperfect delineation. He carries the script's expeditious thrill on his shoulders through

Artwork by Ryan Cortenbach, Henderson, NV 35

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021

by Anna Nam, West Chester, PA

Artwork by Abbie Barrows, Jupiter, FL

3636

taring back at her was a Barbie doll, subtle eyeliner applied to perfection. Coats of hairspray, and the work of a steaming straightener, disguised her unruly black hair. She grabbed her phone, tilted her head, and smiled at the reflection of herself as she snapped another mirror pic to post on her Instagram story. Three sharp knocks. The doorknob turned and jiggled against the lock. “Sierra, open this door right now!” “Okay, okay, I’m coming!” A hand on one hip, Sierra opened the door for her disgruntled mother. “Are you ready?” “Yeah, whatever.” “Bring your bags out so Dad can load the car.” Just a few days ago, her parents had announced that they were leaving for a business trip. Sierra would have to stay with her grandma in South Korea. Her plans to spend spring break with her friends, shopping and eating ice cream by the pool, were officially ruined. “B8, B8, B8,” Sierra muttered as she searched for her seat. She squeezed past a mother and child who were sitting in her row and plopped down next to the window. As the plane accelerated across the runway, she saw the mother take the little boy’s hand. He smiled, dimples appearing in each of his chubby cheeks. Sierra looked away and clenched her teeth. Her legs felt weak. She squeezed her hands into fists, suddenly wishing her own mom was next to her. Pushing these thoughts from her mind, Sierra quickly snapped another selfie. “First time on a plane! See you in Korea!” she captioned. Just then, her phone buzzed, notifying her of a new post. Her best friends, bulky sunglasses perched on noses, were posing by the beach. Each girl had her arm around the other as they smiled and waved at the camera. Sierra’s heart ached as she realized they hadn’t said anything to her. Not even a “We will miss you!” or “Have fun!” It was as if their four-year friendship had already been forgotten. She shut her phone off and closed her eyes as the plane jolted upward into the sky. After 13 hours of sleeping and binging "The Office," Sierra arrived in South Korea. An elderly woman with dark gray hair, a slight hunch, and a warm smile walked over.

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021 The bus carried them down a dusty, dirt road and eventually dropped them off a few blocks from Halmoney’s house. Sierra looked down at her now muddied mules. She sighed as her grandma talked non-stop, her speech heaving with a Korean accent and incorrect grammar. “I was so happy to hear that you coming! I make lot of food. I think you like?”

She decided that under all the fake smiles, burned hair, and foundation, she would rediscover her good, strong cabbage A small, one-story house came into view. Skyscrapers and bright lights winked from the neighboring city of Seoul. Sierra bit her lip, but it wasn’t enough to prevent the inevitable explosion of a girl who’d never left her cozy home. “Let me make this clear. I didn’t even want to come. Why am I here? I hate this! I hate planes! I hate buses! I hate getting my shoes dirty! And I’m never, ever going to sleep in a place like that!” She pointed at her grandma’s house. Halmoney looked at her with puzzled eyes for a long second. She unlocked the door and carried Sierra’s luggage inside. With nowhere else to go, Sierra followed. She ignored the dinner her grandma had prepared and stormed off into the only room with a bed. Blankets were already set up on the ground. Not knowing where she was meant to sleep, Sierra took the bed, letting her grandma lie on the ground. A blinding ray of sunlight and squawking birds jolted Sierra awake. It was 6:00 a.m. Sierra headed straight for the shower, and for the first time, skipped the makeup and curling iron. There was no point in looking pretty when she knew no one here. On the kitchen table sat a different spread from last night – freshly cooked rice, steamed eggs, and seaweed soup. “Jo-oon a chim, good morning! Did you sleep good?” her grandma exclaimed. She glanced up from her cooking and gave Sierra a quick but genuine smile. Sierra winced at the thought of the words she had screamed at her grandma yesterday. Either she forgot about it or she’s crazy, Sierra thought. “Good morning,” she muttered.

“Sierra?”

“I go shopping and make kimchi today! You come with me?”

“Oh, uh … yes. Hi.”

“Okay.”

“Wow! I don’t see you since you were small baby,” her grandma said as she hugged Sierra tight. “You call me Halmoney, Grandma in Korean.”

Aisles and aisles were packed with colorful fruits, vegetables, beverages, snacks, and chopstick sets for children. There were stands where workers cooked different types of soups and dishes to serve as samples. Her grandma weaved her way through the crowd, and headed straight to the back of the store. After looking through every single cardboard box filled with yangbaechu cabbages, she finally chose one containing fresh and vibrant leaves. Sierra scooped up the box before her grandma could do anything to hurt her back. It was the least she could do after the rough night they had yesterday.

Halmoney smiled, took Sierra’s hand, and led her to the bus station. Sierra’s face turned a deep red, as her eyes darted quickly around to see if anyone was looking. She was relieved when her grandma let go to give the driver their tickets. It was Sierra’s second time riding public transportation ever. She slowly sat down on the hard plastic chair, reminding herself that a shower would rinse away the germs.

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021

When they arrived home, her grandma made a red paste that they would smother onto the cabbages. She made Sierra whisk the seasoning – sesame seeds, ground red peppers, minced garlic, and a generous dash of fish oil – into the sauce. “I made my first kimchi with my grandma too.” “That’s nice,” Sierra responded. They squatted down next to a large mixing tub containing the cabbage. Halmoney demonstrated how to rub each cabbage leaf with the red paste they had just made. “Tell me about Mom,” Sierra said. It was the first time she had initiated a genuine conversation. “Well, your mom … ” Halmoney chuckled. “She was stubborn girl! I had work and told my sister to pick your mom up from school. But your mom wouldn’t go in the car because she was scared. She say over and over ‘stranger danger!’ I had to leave work early because your mom wouldn’t go with aunt.” They went on and on, telling stories and laughing and making kimchi. “I’m sorry,” Sierra finally whispered. After a long-held silence, her grandma responded, “I still remember what my grandma tell me when we made kimchi together. She said kimchi only good if cabbage is good and red paste is good. No matter how good cabbage is, kimchi will not be good if paste is not

good. If paste is good but cabbage is bad, then kimchi will be no good.” Halmoney took a piece of the cabbage and put it in Sierra’s mouth. Sierra wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue after swallowing. “I think we got bad cabbage.” Halmoney laughed. “You have to be patient and wait for ee-guh to ferment and ripen. Wait a few days and it taste very good. This kimchi will be good.” And Sierra believed her. Lying on the patterned blankets on the floor, Sierra thought about the day she had with her grandma. Suddenly, a deep cry escaped her. All the tears that had been pushed down for years rushed out. She felt that her life had been piled on by a red paste that reeked with poor influence – from friends who only accepted her with contacts and straightened hair; from laughing at people’s jokes about her culture and race because she was afraid that if she didn’t laugh, she would cry; from parents who told her to ignore those girls and to simply “work hard.” Her guilty tears were mixed with joy as she realized what had been weighing her down for so long. She decided that under all the fake smiles, burned hair, and foundation, she would rediscover her good, strong cabbage. It would take time, just like it would for the cabbage to ripen. Hearing her cries, Halmoney came in and sat next to Sierra. She wrapped her frail, yet strong arms around her, and Sierra whispered to herself, “Yes, this kimchi will be good.”

Photo by Kaitlyn Connolly, Waxhaw, NC

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021 Photo by Jody Mertins, Nashotah, WI

Orange Peels by Rei Carter, Gladwyne, PA

miling and whispering amongst themselves, five teenagers dragged worn blankets and computer light onto the top of the roof. Orange peels and chocolate wrappers lined the gutter, and the friends smiled at each other. They sat there, the wind lightly touching their backs while their voices carried out into the quiet darkness. Post-graduation, they spent their time recalling the moments they grew up and matured. The first girl said her childhood ended when she stopped making rocket ships out of refrigerator boxes. The soft summer breeze made strands of her curly hair dance. Her light brown skin was illuminated by the moon, and while she usually didn't like heights, she had never felt safer. The second girl smiled faintly, saying her childish manner ended the last time she dressed up for Halloween. She was going farther away to New York City, where dreams of design were leading her. Blue eyes sparkled with excitement and the potential for new ideas filled the air. For the first boy, his moments of growing up began when he stopped chasing birds on the pier. Thin framed glasses on his face shifted as he went to hold the hand of the second girl, silently hoping the action would make his sister stay. The second boy's voice was hoarse, cracking with pain as he pushed out that his innocence left years before, when his struggle with depression worsened. The second boy twisted an iron ring on his middle finger, an item that always seemed to strengthen him.

The third boy spoke with humor and fondness lining his voice, recalling that the last moments of his true childhood dissipated when he fell in love. He reminisced on the butterflies he felt, wishing that he could go back to that moment and pause time.

The five teenagers swayed and spun to the music, laughing and sweeping orange peels and chocolate wrappers off the edge After moments of silence, the third boy opened his computer, and slow music began to fill the air. He reached for the hands of the second and first girls, pulling them up, the first and second boys following. The five teenagers swayed and spun to the music, laughing and sweeping orange peels and chocolate wrappers off the edge. Joyful tears slipped down their cheeks as they embraced, holding each other tightly. They made promises to never forget about the memories, the laughs and the moments that could never be replaced. Smiling and whispering amongst themselves, five teenagers laid down on worn blankets and joined hands on the roof, vowing to never let their childhood go.

Noticing the crack in his voice, the first girl pulled him into a hug, stroking his black hair and planting a soft kiss on his forehead.

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021

Artwork by Caitlin Serafino, Oakville, ON, Canada

The

Replacement by Vanita Shih, Taichung, Taiwan

doppelgänger. Something that’s neither a spirit, nor a creature. Nearly human, yet still far from it. Stories of our look-alikes date back to ancient times. Some claim that they are bad omens, that those who caught sight of their mirror images were doomed to death or illnesses far worse. Others believe they are spirits who failed to inherit the physical body you were born with. Thus, they take your form, follow you, observe your every move, and when the time comes, they rid themselves of their temporary shells for your everlasting one.

shoving it into her mouth. In the ceaseless silence of the library, Amira’s soft chews ring like bullets down an alley. Perhaps it is the lonesome moonlight casting through the stained-glass window or the quivering shadows cast onto the wall by the lamp, but Amira is suddenly aware of how alone she was. How long has she been the only inhabitant here?

Amira's eyes scour the page as her fingers trail the grains of the paper. The book captivates her unlike any other, and she ponders the possibility that somewhere in this universe was her doppelgänger. Would they look just like her? Talk like her? If they replaced her completely, would Mama and Papa even notice?

Somewhere down the hallway of bookshelves and shadows comes the faint sound of wheels, raising every hair on Amira’s neck. As the sound amplifies, she deduces that they haven’t been oiled in forever. Scurrying to grab her book, she sits crossed-legged on the rough carpet, pretending to immerse herself in the reading.

The library is colder now. Amira gathers the end of her large overcoat so that it covers her legs and pulls the gas lamp closer. She digs into her bag, fishing out an unfinished croissant and

The squealing gets closer, now accompanied by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Where is the sound coming from? From her left? Her right? Behind her? No.

4040

She lifts her gaze, scanning the walls for an indication of the time but finds none.

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021 In front of her. She lifts her gaze through her thick frames and lashes to find a woman staring down at her. Amira knew better than to judge one’s appearance, but the woman looks, for a lack of a better description, morbidly unpleasant. The heels of her shoes had broken off, and her unembellished brown dress strained against heavy layers of fat. What unsettled Amira the most were her eyes, hidden behind a pair of intricate goggles. Carved out of gold, they shielded the woman’s eyes with obsidian lenses. With wrinkled hands on a trolley full of nameless books, she looks toward Amira, her opaque lenses momentarily catching the reflection of Amira’s lamp, conjuring an illusion of glowing eyes. They are unraveling Amira’s secrets, tearing away each layer. It is like a dream – a nightmare perhaps – as she pulls her eyes off Amira, grabbing a handkerchief from the back pocket of her dress. She dabs at the thick sheen of sweat on her forehead, and Amira shuffles uncomfortably.

A doppelgänger. Something that’s neither a spirit, nor a creature. Nearly human, yet still far from it

her attention toward the librarian, who had pulled off the pocketwatch around her neck, tossing it to Amira. She catches it. “Go. You have half an hour.” Grabbing her bag and lamp, Amira runs, catching one last sight of the librarian’s face, a shallow depth of wordless sympathy. The heavy doors shut behind her as she threw herself into the ruthlessly cold night. It’s an unfamiliar scene. The barren streets are washed in an aegean glow under the light of the half-masked moon. Sprinkles of white dust collect on Amira’s lashes as she gazes down to check the pocket watch. Midnight is drawing near, and Amira’s running out of time. Wasting none, she pulls the watch over her neck and flies down the frosty stairwell. It takes no time for Amira to arrive at the closest trolley station, a lone platform marked by a wooden billboard displaying the times of arrival. She hurries up the stairs toward the billboard, hands on the watch, ready to match the time. Amira’s heart sinks upon reading the large words painted across the billboard. No trolley services, Dec. 31. No trolley services.

“Why are you still here at this hour?” she huffs, wiping at her forehead, as it was newly coated in another layer of precipitation. Amira’s eyes dive down, noticing the pocketwatch the librarian wore around her neck. 11:28. Its clicks signal the impending end of the night. Amira brings her eyes back to the old woman and contemplates a lie. She tells the truth. “I wanted to stay and read.”

A sudden numbness creeps up Amira’s legs, and she falls onto a step of the wooden stairs, crossing her legs under her coat. Of course, everyone would be home by this hour and trolley

Photo by Seoyoon Lee, Interlochen, MI

“Read?” She scoffs. While the gas lamp burns, the woman’s shadow seems to grow across the wall, cornering Amira’s to the edge. “Do you wish to die?” Her goggles flash violently as she edges closer. “Sorry.” Unsettled, Amira begins gathering her belongings. “I’ll be leaving right away. Please don’t hurt me.” “Hurt you?” A pulse of confusion strikes the old librarian’s features. “Do you know what day it is?” Her mind turns like clockwork then, working out each outcome she would endure for each action she could take. “What day is it, ma’am?” She chooses compliance. The librarian leans in closer with an ominous air. “The day.” “The day?” “The day,” she repeats. The answers strike her. Why there wasn’t a soul in the library other than the librarian. Why the silence on the streets was louder than screams. Why it was so cold that Amira realized it wasn’t purple lipstick on the librarian’s lips. Terror floods Amira’s features. The rustling sound of chains draws

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021

Artwork by Meghan Basi, Norwood, MA drivers were no exception. No one with half a mind would linger around as the day nears midnight. It’s a shame Amira had been so absent-minded. She cranes her head toward the heavens, which shower her with the ruthless cold. She wonders then, why she must get home before midnight. Mama’s words have been exact, absolute, every year. “Be home before midnight on the last night of December.” She wonders what it is about today that makes her mother quiver as she speaks her warning. What is it that makes her lower her voice, drawing Amira closer to repeat those words yet again? What consequence could be bad enough to allow a strong woman like her to tremble with fear? “Terrible, unspeakable things,” Mama’s words etch into her mind. The ceaseless ticking of the pocketwatch drew Amira’s attention back to the gadget. The bronze second hand was making its way back to XII. Another minute would fly by then. “Terrible, unspeakable things,” Amira whispers. She thinks of Mama’s eyes, gentle but strong, like the fire burning on a yule log every Christmas. She thinks of Papa, who works in their shop from daybreak to dinner. She thinks of the day before this one, when she sat on the carpet in the shop with outstretched legs, hands fiddling with the newest clock Papa had created. It’s her life. It’s the day before and the one after. It’s Mama and Papa. Some things are worth running for. She stands then, a girl in a dead town, wanting to live. Leaving the lamp on the platform, Amira runs as fast as she can. There are 15 minutes left, and she prays to God that it is enough. It is painful; the cold pierces her face like many needles. Her legs

are stiff, as if one wrong step would break them in half. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. But Amira must keep going, she must return home. So she keeps running, squinting her eyes so the tears in them wouldn’t freeze with the air. The world is drenched in blue, silent except for the sound of a girl racing against time. Amira checks the watch once more. Ten minutes left. Up ahead, she

Her demanding cries are loud enough to wake the silent city, yet no one listens, no one will sees the church, the mechanic’s store, and the bakery she passes on her way to school. Her surroundings fade into familiarity and a tingle of hope nestles in her heart. She is close, she is going to make it. Five minutes left, and Amira is closer than ever. It all comes back, the narrow streets leading to her neighborhood, the stone walls framing them, the little antique shops at each corner. She could see it now, Mama and Papa running to her as she enters her townhouse, crying and thanking the universe for her safe return. She’ll head to bed then, falling asleep to the sound of her mother’s singing, safe from the terrors she broke free from. In the midst of the snow, she sees it. Her home, right in front of her. It is strange, seeing Papa’s shop, once bustling with lights and happiness, be a void of darkness. It is her home nevertheless, and she has made it. Running to the door, Amira reaches into her pockets for the key. When her hands come out empty, she releases a backpack strap from her shoulder, swings it to her front, and prods through it. Books, the

FICTION | DECEMBER 2021

croissant wrapper, some loose coins.

weaves tales and speaks mysteries. It is her, she is her. She is Amira.

No keys.

No, she’s not Amira. I am Amira. Not the imposter with the same features, with the only distinction being those hollow sockets where eyes should be. Amira gazes into those spaces, devoid of her own viridian eyes. The abyss she finds there is petrifying, swirling of death and everything beyond.

Amira’s blood runs colder than the night. Grabbing the whole bag, Amira turns it upside down, scattering its contents over the frozen ground. “No, no, no.” She repeats the words over and over as her fingers scale through every object, none of which were the item she so desperately needs. Amira cries. The truth has dawned now. Somewhere, back at the library, was her key to survival, and she had left it behind unknowingly. Time is slipping by, and there is no way Amira can retrieve the key before the looming end. Two minutes. Amira rises, rushing to the door. She slams her palms against the glass, heart hammering. “Mama! Papa! I’m home! Open the door!” She pleads. “Mama! Papa! Please hear me! I’m right here!” Her demanding cries are loud enough to wake the silent city, yet no one listens, no one will. As the night finishes, Amira’s fate is sealed. The hour hand is now joined by the minute, as the second hand continues its eternal travel.

“Who are you?” Amira braves. A smile cuts through the imposter’s lips, elated and threatening. She comes forward, grasping Amira’s face with one hand, reaching for her eyes with the other. “I am you,” she rasps. Like the last dying streetlight that had prevailed through the night,

The world is drenched in blue, silent except for the sound of a girl racing against time Amira sees the last sliver of light, before falling into a world of darkness.

Fat tears roll down Amira’s face. It is time. She makes her way over to the large dumpster in the narrow alley by her townhouse, settling down on a pile of snow. Folding her legs up to her chest, Amira gazes at the swath of white around her. “Once the clock hits midnight, it’s over.” Her mother’s reminder plagues her mind. Amira shrinks further into the comforting shadows provided by the dumpster, though she is terrified. It’s a crime to speak of what happens to those who disobey the rule, for those who are truly obedient will return home by midnight and be saved from the punishment. While her mother had sent countless warnings without revealing the repercussions, Amira had failed to obey the rule. For such a sin, she must endure the consequences. Somewhere down the road, a pair of lonesome footsteps makes their way through the snow. Heart pounding, Amira presses herself against the brick wall, hands flying to her lips to stifle her breathing. They do not dwindle, as if they know where she is hiding already. Amira closes her eyes, dreaming of death and the better days that would never come. It nears once more, by the second, imperceptibly. Gripping the stopwatch, Amira mutters one last prayer, before the footsteps come to a stop. In front of her. Amira lifts her gaze, meeting a pair of obsidian voids. Her eyes widen. It is her. Same dark hair that fell short above the shoulders. Same freckles scattered on her cheeks like constellations. Same smile that

The sun rises unlike the way it did before. There’s an air of uncertainty encompassing the town as light strikes the earth, awakening every soul. It is the first day of the year, just like it had been 365 days prior. Yet something is different. The air has stirred and no one feels settled enough to leave their homes. In a small community at the edge of town, the walls awaken. A silent understanding passes through the neighborhood. All inhabitants keep their doors locked and lights dimmed, speaking in hushed tones as they peer out their windows with perilous curiosity. The wind comes, taking the last leaves off the lonely branches. As they settle on the snow-covered ground, a door opens. They all stare. A girl, wearing a large brown overcoat and leather boots, emerges from the local clock worker’s shop. “I’m off to the library!” She turns and calls towards the unlit shop, before descending down the steps. With a croissant in hand and eyes gleaming green with glee, the girl skips down the road and hums a tune forgotten by time. Beside her building, a large black bag is being loaded into a truck parked in front of an alley. There, on the passenger-side door, marks a pair of words printed so small it was as if they do not want to be seen, to remain a secret only known by an unfortunate few. Yet, as the engine roars to life, the onlookers all understand. “The Replaced.”

POETRY | DECEMBER 2021

Artwork by Wendy Yu, Windermere, FL

Konan Village in the rain Nagato, Yahiko, Pain Paper, Peace, Roses

by Jack Jordan, Houghton, NY

Autumn Slow, smooth jazz Rain drizzling down Caramel cocoa with whipped cream A cozy oversized blue sweater that fits just right With so much fabric on the sleeves that it gets bunched up in your hands. Loose curls under a cream beanie that comes over your ears. Red jeans and snazzy little ankle boots that click when the heels connect with the wet pavement Damp autumn leaves clustered in rain gutters Outside the cafe window A notebook and a soft smile. Crisp autumn air and holidays you don’t want to end. Subtle, easy conversation. A poem that feels unfinished because it is.

by Paige Jensen, Dayton, OH 44

Poet's Interlude

Shapeshifter

an interlude intermission of the heart declaring newfound liberation before we must depart

You're a shapeshifter coming in many different forms the monster in my closet or a rose without any thorns each day a new face doesn't matter rain or shine I'll just have to adapt to it I do every time but I'm getting tired of all the mean scolds because I will never know what the next day will hold

velvet hands of their poet, this reprise i will embark a memoir i will forfeit, to emerge from the dark

by Emily Delk, Brooks, KY

Hide and Seek When I was five, I played hide and seek with my grandpa I looked around, searching where he was Eventually found him hiding behind the tree by the house I sneaked behind him Suddenly jumped out and gave him a surprise Laughter and joy filled the whole yard When I was nine, I played hide and seek with my grandpa I searched around the whole yard, desperately trying to spot him Grandpa hid in the heaven, became a shining star in the starry sky I spent the rest of my life seeking But could only find the night full of starlight

by Yuan Bi, Dalian, China

by Julia Dillenback, Cary, NC

Ashes, Ashes there is ash on my fingers shiny flesh with a gold undertone paper ash pressed into my prints, forcing a record of everything i have touched smoke wafts off my skin into aching lungs like a kiss from a flicking candle and once again, i tumble down to embers

by Lennon Hodges, Ladera Ranch, CA

POETRY | DECEMBER 2021

Float Away

Greed

Evergreen Cabin

I let you go Down the roaring rapids Spreading your wings as I spread Your ashes This concludes your righteous journey Your soul will flow throughout I wish we could have had more time But I keep our memories by my side Like a gun in a holster Goodbye

Like Smaug on his golden throne, or Night King on his of bone, Gollum with his ring, Pandora when she sings,

Opening up an evergreen cabin Smelling polished stump-chairs and sweet stairs Heavy perfumed quilts and endless sheets and pillow billows Honeycomb fire and hickory spray in the sleep air Howling hounds and sighing moon outside Five gallons of syrup and pancakes fried in hazel wood bacon grease Tumbler of hot chocolate in blue white crockery Steam singing and empty stomach Strawberry-apple pie and eggs and sugar oak oatmeal Thick silverware of real silver and willow plates God Bless This House carved on the door Rabbit-soft rugs and hot bathtub steamchain. We’ll slide down the pine slopes in winter We’ll serenade languid fireflies in August We’ll hang up the baby-pig pumpkins in October We’ll hide in this sweet fiddle-song of a house eternally.

by Griffin Lind, Eugene, OR

Fairy Girl fairy girl, with your gossamer wings and your needle-sharp teeth, they gather now to watch you dance. in the moonlight they see beauty, but truly you are haunting. the forest is your orchestra, this clearing all your stage. they watch — enchanted; in the wind, you bend but never break — no misstep, a mistake. forest girl, with your knotted hair and your calloused bare feet, they run now from your wild dance. in the moonlight you are wicked, untouchable — untamable; their nightmares are your metaphors, the beasts of the night your audience. they watch — enchanted, for they know you will not break, you are a wild thing.

by Rebekah Markley, Bryan, TX

39th Tight calves and turned heads, escorting me to my car. Night floods my vision, as Friday night fear sinks in. Misty moon, please keep me safe.

by Audrey McCarthy, Eugene, OR

Human lusting, never trusting, longing for more, ever more, Solid gold, perfect nose, diamond glitters, heart jitters, forever dissatisfied, never tried, time wasted, tongue distasted, greed.

by Blake Normandin, Bombay, NY

Lotus Out from the mire it sprouts its seeds and through the bog they thrive blooming despite the muddy water white petals they blossom unsullied by the filth beneath.

by Zhen Xuan Liu, Irvine, CA

Kiseki We are so cosmically insignificant — living tiny, forgettable lives yet we all have a purpose to share, and we do it, blissfully unaware of our irrelevance. Everything we do or have ever done is completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things — which is so very comforting because if nothing we do matters then we are as free as we want to live our overwhelmingly human lives.

by Bella Knowles, Orlando, FL

by Lydia Quattrochi, Somonauk, IL

If I Believed If I believed in god, I would have prayed. If I had believed in coincidence, in divine purpose, in reasons beyond knowledge, I would have trusted an other worldly being. If I had faith, I would have given into it. If I had some connection to more than this mortal life, I would have called upon it. If I had some belief that there was more out there, more than the rainclouds above, I would have screamed at it to listen. If I had trusted in the universe to listen, I would have yelled until my lungs bled. If I had confidence in an omniscient source beyond the stars, I would have gone to the edge of the earth and cried for it. If I had optimism, I would have traded it to the raindrops and the cardinals in an earthly deal for a moment more. If I had hope, I would have fought the entire world, but there was nothing to fight — only a death sentence, a failing body, and no amount of belief or faith or love could heal it.

by Annika Stimac, Ellington, CT 45

POETRY | DECEMBER 2021

1:00 a.m. Wonderings

Dolores

If I Ran the World

You were drunk off sleep while you were talking … groggy and choking on tiredness, and I could hear it on your tongue as we whispered to each other within the darkness of your bedroom. You spilled from your lips like honey all of your 1:00 a.m. thoughts all of the things you would ask only when drunk off sleepiness or alcohol.

I used to visit you when the season bloomed in the hills over the bay hear about memories of a distant time see your twinkling eyes cling to you for walks by the lapping waves

If I ran the world there would be light. There would be hope. There would be questions answered and people not hanging from a rope. We would have all that we can have, And all with tears in their eyes. The tears of gratitude, not fright, But the tears of knowing, We would be alright … There would be a tomorrow. A place without sorrow.

“Do you remember the day we met, Tipper? Remember how we became best friends? Do you remember how you would always clutch my skirt like I was your mother and hide behind me from the world? Do you remember how once, I was taller than you, and once, you were taller than me? Do you remember how once, you never spoke and we became friends because I was the only one who knew the language of written words? Remember how we used to talk by writing haikus to each other in class? Remember how Ms. Rochford saw us passing notes once and instead of yelling, she told us to join the poetry club? Remember how you stood up in front of the class second day and read one of your haikus in a voice strong and relentless like the ocean? Remember how I cried because I didn’t know how to snap at the end of your poem? Do you remember how once, I was Tall Girl? And when I became Tall Boy, you accepted me completely? Do you remember how much I love you? Will you ever forget? Do you remember when our parents made us go to church together? It was last year. I got drunk off the holy wine, and you hid me in the bathroom stall for two hours so no one would know. Do you remember that, Tipper? Do you remember all of that?” “Yes Tall Boy,” I said, “I remember.”

by Madison Harris, Hamden, CT 46

today, dismal cold 3,000 miles East see you there, peaceful in bed listen to whispers behind your mechanical sighs reach out to touch hands in vain if you hear me, I cannot know solemn as you go out with the tide.

by Addyson Ginsbach, Wyndmere, NC

by Derek T., Huntington Beach, CA

Missed

How to Mourn You

I felt the earth rumble And saw you in the sky; Catching glimpses of your eyes As the world cried.

if there was a book 'How To Mourn You' in a 1,000 pages or less I would read front to back till I could recite the pages under my breath every time I see you I would find the proper words at the back of my throat

I thought I saw your smile in between blooming lilies and dampened earth. And I hope Through the grasses and the trees You finally found your worth.

by Kiersten McComas, NC

I miss you what happened I hope you’re ok I hope you rot there’s a story you used to tell me when I was young about a boy who could harness the sun you would lasso it for me and tell me to never let go off the evanescent light and I can see it now in your eyes as they get fainter with an emptiness that comes after all your anger is drained how do you mourn somebody across the room I hate you with the passion of a million suns

by Lulu Alabri, Muscat, Oman

Artwork by Eftalia Economou, Worcester, MA

POETRY | DECEMBER 2021

Finding Paradise Welcome to the Mega Mall! The ultimate optimal optical oasis An unending amalgam of digital delirium Each screen thinner than the next, wider than the next Each shopper drooling with delight Welcome to the Electronic Emporium! The premier purchasing platform Stocked with every brand in every size Take a few more and we’ll throw in a prize Each one flashier than the next, slimmer than the next Each keyboard drooling with delight Order and you won’t have to go outside Find that jacket so your body can hide Roll like water in the endless tide In effortless acquiescence Trading face time for FaceTime Taking followers for friendship Snapping photos and slo-mos and Using filters as fillers for moments you forgot to live Simulating each game without playing it Texting each thought without saying it And endlessly wondering If you’re watching life without living it.

by Robert Peterson, Salt Lake City, UT

Listen I wish I could hear America singing, but for a long time, she has only been screaming. Listen. Can you hear the angry people steaming? The top one percent scheming? I can. What would it look like, a strong melodious song? Our problems withdrawn, prejudice long gone, where all people belong, united to make a rhythm so strong we must Listen. Though now I am only dreaming, I see a future so gleaming, a chance for redeeming. Can you hear that faint ringing? It’s America — she must be singing. Listen.

by Ella Waterman, Brighton, CO

Artwork by Samiya Nagrath, New Delhi, India

Formerly My Brother When I was a little girl, my older brother was my answer every time someone asked me why I was so competitive From dodge ball tournaments to toy gun fights, sure I could always keep up But it was you who chose to include me My older brother My older brother at 9 years old is full of care, wonder and spirit However the world isn't like him, the world is cruel and dark The bullying, the teasing, the hatred, it changed him My older brother, at 11 years old, has thoughts to end his life The end of his eighth grade year I peer open his door and find him lying on the floor Blood pours out of him like a well going dry It was impossible not to cry But still I wail for my mother and father who did not know what my brother had done My brother, at 14 years old, attempts suicide for the first time and I at 11 years old save him Seeing his almost lifeless body pains me I feel like a bomb ready to explode, but at 11 years old you can't even begin to break

its shell I am not ready to say farewell Trapped in this prison cell, I can’t expel these images in my head What if he had ended up dead? My older brother, now 18 years old has just graduated high school It was helpful to get him out of that hell The hell that almost made my brother almost just a mere memory But my brother isn't my brother anymore See my brother is now my sister He went from dodge ball tournaments and toy gun fights to makeup and dresses From Nate to Kate He is transgender But this is not the part that hurts me it's the part where she abandoned me Got up in the middle of the night and left Left my family and I, even though I am the reason she is alive How could she not cry after saying goodbye? I haven't seen her in quite some time, I imagine she is fine Doesn't call or write I know it isn't right, but what can I do All the things she put me through I wish I had a clue

by Sophia Hegyi, Tipp City, OH 47

POETRY | DECEMBER 2021

Honest Poem My fondest memories are when it snows. Snowflakes catching in the crevices of my hair Makes me happier than the night before my birthday. My favorite ice cream flavor is black raspberry, but that's mainly because it's purple. I love happy endings. And might be disappointed if my life does not turn out like one. I try to be brave but I really hate horror movies with a passion. They give me nightmares that paralyze me Like I'm trying to run but my legs have no strength to move. Give me a quadratic equation and I'll probably just stare at it for 30 minutes. I hate clocks that are not digital. It's like I don't have the time to figure out what time it is. I'm left handed And it's really aggravating to try to write in spiral bound notebooks.

If each day was a circle None have been perfect But some were pretty close. I'm a perfectionist So yeah, I hate wonky circles.

in my legs when I'm running, Why do I kind of like my heart pounding in my chest when I'm nervous? Why do I really want to know what it feels like to be in quicksand?

I'm a windows down type of girl I love burritos and gazing in awe at the stars I love wearing sweatpants, walking barefoot in the sand, And plucking up sea glass that has lost its jagged edges.

When I gaze at the stars, I feel so small. But yet like I'm the only one on this earth. I want to go to the moon one day Just to see what earth looks like from a different angle.

I believe that my dreams are me living in a different reality. Maybe that's why people are always more tired when they wake up in the morning. I often spend hours at night worrying about things that I have no control over My mind becomes a microscope, a mad scientist Dissecting the past. Holding a puppy is the best feeling in the world. And hugs from my grandmother. Why do I also love the feeling of the burn

I'm very shy But I have a lot to say. I scream inside a glass bubble on the verge of shattering. I like attention but at the same time I hope nobody notices me. I believe the world would be a lot better if people stopped caring what everybody thinks. I'm too scared to do half the stuff I want to. Oh, and pink lemonade is superior to yellow lemonade And yes, that's mainly because it's pink.

by Anonymous, MA

Photo by Lavanya Gupta, Mumbai, India

POETRY | DECEMBER 2021

Haiku Contest

Winner

Lunares (Birthmarks) Pretty little moons On my nose, cheek, arms, since birth. Proof I came from stars.

by Uma Ribeiro, Laurel, MD

Honorable Mentions Trees of Snow Sky is cold blue-gray Clinging white against tree bark Kimonos of snow

by Steven Chanoh Bang, Rolle, Switzerland

Unity Why must we all fight, Start wars, just so we are heard, Why can't we unite?

by Grace Davies, Kington, United Kingdom

Autumn Petal-soft sunlight spills down through wilting branches, joining drifting leaves.

by Allison Xu, Rockville, MD Art by Rijak Kaur Sarla, Ferozepur, India

Forever Free I want to watch as Nature folds its arms, declares: You’ve never owned me.

by Ravin Bhatia, Brookline, MA

Does a Fallen Tree Make a Sound? Lone tree, none to see, Roots fail, strong wind blows you down None heard your last sound.

by Jihong Hur, Seoul, Republic of Korea

Hold Me Hold me as I melt Across your skin; an ice cube On a sunny day

by Lavanya Gupta, Mumbai, India

The Field Whispers blossom in the field, heather rolls out for miles, its mauve sea calls.

by Natasha Bredle, Cincinnati, OH

Illiterate They say the pen rules Ink-stained nib poised with mercy Sharper than a life.

by Bridget Lomax, Short Hills, NJ

Editorial Staff

Artwork by Ananya Guha, Bhopal, India