Teen Ink magazine - March 2021 by Teen Ink magazine

March 2021

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Special Feature Food & Family Traditions 12 Are Teens

Ready toVote? 19

Girls Only!

A Review of "The Wilds"

Contents

March 2021 | Volume 32 | Issue 1

OnTheCover

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18Points of View • I Want to Fix the World, But I’m Just Me

• Teens Are Ready to Vote • Sparrow Around the World • From Food Bank to Food Haven

24Health

• The Day Everything Changed • Living with Neurocardiogenic Syncope

Photo by Shelbie Perani, Belle High School, Plymouth, OH

26 College Essays • Vision Without Sight

• The Power of a Collage

5Teen Ink News

• Contests & Call for Submissions

6Memoirs • • • •

Stories of Speckled Skin I. Am. Sorry. Emergency Beans Raven Call

• The Pistol Shot Truth

12Food & Family Traditions

• Frybread Wishes • The Jasmine Tree • Father-Daughter Fishing • The Orchestration of Tradition

28 Identity

• How Microaggressions Influence Me • Breaking the Barriers • Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright

32Sports

• The Weight of Expectations • The Sport of Motorcross • Growth on the Court

34 Travel & Culture

• Fire in the Sky • An Underwater Adventure • Walking Beneath the Blossoms

36 Fiction • • • •

Faculty Kid Game of Luck Dust Phosphorescent

42Book Reviews

• Bomb: The Race to Build – and Steal – the World’s Most Dangerous Weapon • The Grief Keeper • Gertrude and Claudius

44 Movie & TV Reviews • "The Wilds" • "On My Block" • "Night of the Living Dead"

46 Music Reviews

• "Fine Line" • Harry Styles • "Punisher" • Phoebe Bridgers • "Artemis" • Lindsey Stirling

48 Video Game Reviews • "Eversion" • "Luigi's Mansion 3" • "Clash Royale"

50 Poetry

• Free verse, haiku, sonnets, & more

Art Galleries

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

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Dear Teen Ink Readers, Welcome to the inaugural issue of Teen Ink’s relaunch! Our new team is more dedicated than ever to showcasing the teen writing and art that has sustained this magazine for over 30 years. We want to thank our readers for their patience and support as we’ve worked to revive Teen Ink over the past year. While it’s often been a slow and complex task, we’ve been inspired by the thousands of teens who continue to submit their work to us. We are pleased to share this exciting and interactive digital issue with you, and we look forward to ramping up to a regular publishing schedule over the next several months. Your comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated. Please email: editor@teenink.com.

Happy Reading!

-The Teen Ink Team

Keep Those Submissions Coming! Our editorial team looks at every piece of art and writing submitted to us. Here are a few topics, in particular, that we’re looking for right now: Educator of the Year: Do you have a teacher, mentor, or coach who has changed your life for the better? We’d love to hear about them! College Articles: Have you visited a college recently? What did you like/dislike? Share your college review with other teens. Are you a college student or college-bound and have advice for other teens? Submit it now! Art: Oil paintings, watercolors, computer graphics, sketches, and more … We want to showcase your art!

Enter our contests and win a chance to interview an author! Click here! 5

MEMOIRS | MARCH 2021 Artwork by Payton Christensen, Santa Clara, UT

Stories of

Speckled Skin by Lily Koppen, Austin, TX

y body is covered in scars. A graffiti park if you will, of distorted skin, discolored scratches, and delicate spots. My childhood was littered with accidents and clumsiness, typical for children, yet I still carry them with me, displaying my misfortunes across the bottoms of my knees and along my shins. Games of kickball and tag were deadly to my outer surface, and bloodshed became normal, practically anticipated. Dirt, gravel, and lots of tears. Stings of chemical liquids and white knuckles yearning for the pain to end. Band-Aids placed and displaced by walking motions, the edges curled and gray from picks by little fingers. A never-ending repeat of scarproducing wounds, yet perhaps a hopeful symbol of my childhood. The fact that the chubby girl in 3rd grade thrived, a battlewound to beat all others, a sign of life. As a young child, I was extremely curious, and often stupidity braided itself into this wondering to create small misfortunes that dotted my path of knowledge. If something looked intriguing, I was drawn to it, and many times I was burned from these experiences. Literally. One autumn night, a metal pan handle called my name and teased me with its unpredictable temperature. My forehead drew close, and at the moment of contact, flesh burned and screams escaped. Sensations of pain spread over my skin in waves, and a perfectly centered parallelogram now taunts me with its darkened self. Other times of intrigue, such as a heightened chase or the tight clench of a cat, always concluded with a scar. My tender acts of curiosity ultimately showed all that I was excited about in the world. Other scars from a past time now speckle my skin in tiny red dots, outlined by pink squares and peach fuzz leg hair. They remind me of a continuing problem, my never-ending mosquito bites and itching

addiction. Summers full of x’s lining my legs and ankles temporarily cured the annoying sensation. Eventually, as my strength collapsed, I scraped nails against bites until little bubbles of blood seeped out. Evenings were later spent dabbing bits of ointment onto each one, my mother circling her fingers around every spot, chemical smells suffocating my nostrils. The nights became routine, and as seasons passed and the number of bites faded, each bug’s mark became a permanent feature of mine.

I dreamed of flawless, airbrushed skin With every arrival of a new scar, my self-confidence plummeted. I dreamed of flawless, airbrushed skin, images of legs wearing tights that smoothed every extremity and discoloration out of place. Instead, I saw constellations of purple streaks and spots in my own reflection, a disheartening image to say the least. My immediate tears after a misfortune came from pain, but ones following developed into pitiful sobs for the ever-lasting, new additions to my exterior. These feelings of sorrow weren’t shared though, and my father took each incident with great delight, commenting on how distinct my “battle wounds” would look and the intimidation I would cause. The little girl nodding in return from the comments didn’t want an intimidation tactic though. No, she wanted to be flawless. This idea continued to be broken with the arrival of acne. Pimples dotted cheeks and chin with my new stage of puberty, and irresistible pops lead to little scars that seemed to multiply daily. I looked at my face with dismay, almost disgust, an anger

of my appearance that was impossible to ignore. My thoughts toward my own body got stronger, more intense and driven; I couldn’t appreciate the flaws which made me unique. I instead saw them as an obstacle, marks that made me want to cover every inch of skin. This affected my view on all of the scars, from head to toe, that speckled my body. My own negativity intensified each one of them, and the darkness that I saw on my skin demanded a necessary change for the better. Although, for the majority of my life, I viewed my uniqueness with hate-filled negativity, I decided to change this into appreciation, perhaps even a sense of confidence and pride. These marks, though very well hidden to the eyes of others, made me feel like a walking mistake throughout my youth, a clumsy fool who drew all attention to her speckled skin. Though I still can’t accept them fully, I now try to admire them for documenting my journey, just with purple marks instead of ink. They represent my spirit, liveliness, mistakes, and my comebacks. Maybe they really are my battle wounds, the symbolic marks of the hardships I’ve experienced. The pain I’ve suffered and how I’ve persevered in these times of trouble. My emotional spirit has now strengthened ten times due to my little marks, and I have finally realized the positivity and love behind every single blemish. ◆

MEMOIRS | MARCH 2021

I. Am. Sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I. Am. Sorry. I cut my wrists, but my mom bleeds, Tears out of her eyes. I hit my head, but my dad clutches his head, Confused and unsure of what to do. They sympathize, but can’t empathize, As to why the size of my cries Seem to survive the muffled lies, That I’m doing okay. They try, but don’t understand, As to why I can’t stand to stand Under my own thoughts. ‘Cause my thoughts haunt me. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, But, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, That I’m lying. Lying alone at night thinking thoughts that I can’t control. Controlling my actions as I make Mistake after mistake as I try to get better. I try to get better as I continue to suffer. Suffer as those around me begin to succeed. Succeed, but at what cost? At mine, yours, and everyone’s. ‘Cause life isn’t fair, And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you suffer ‘cause I suffer, And I suffer. Always. Always is indefinite with some uncertainty and room for definity, ‘Cause always is just an exaggeration for sometimes. And sometimes means there’s hope. Like the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, Hope that everyone will get better. Hope that you will get better. Hope that I, will get better. ◆

by Franklin P. Rosenberg, Framingham, MA

Emergency by Genevieve Barrett, Austin, TX

et me ask you a question: If you were in 6th grade and got the opportunity to win a can of beans just by playing math bingo, would you participate? Me, I wanted that can of beans without giving it a second thought. I was determined. The prize: Kuner’s Black Beans. That day, I walked out of 5th-period math with a new can of beans. With pride I labeled the can: MY EMERGENCY BEANS in all caps with a black Sharpie. The expiration date: May 10th, 2019. My prized possession lived in the side pocket of my backpack. EMERGENCY BEANS staring back at me from the top of the can. My plan would be to open them only if I was starving – which never did happen. The beans garnered a lot of attention. My friends learned about my random side companion and were very confused. Once a student thought it was so funny she told my teacher too. Every time I walked into class, the teacher always said: “How are those beans doing?” A year after this bean journey began, my friends and I started planning what to do with them on the day they expired. 2019 seemed so far away, so I toyed around with their crazy ideas: give them back to my math teacher, bury them, or give the beans to one of my friend’s sisters whose 16th birthday fell on the same day as the beans’ expiration date. All of these ideas were stored in the back of my mind and stayed there for almost four years. In fact, they stayed with me throughout middle school. They stayed with me through new backpacks, the dust, and many more math classes. As May 10th, 2019 neared, the countdown began. It was hard to believe that it had been three years since I received the can.

Photo by Summaya Jamil, Multan, Pakistan

The years blurred together but the only constant were my beans – and the comments. “What’s that in your

Beans backpack?!” or “Do you really still have that thing in there?” Yes, I had thought about what I’d do with the beans after they expired, but not what would happen once they did in fact expire. Would they smell? Would the can burst open? How would I know they had truly expired?

May 1st, 2019 came along with the stench of beans. It was nearing the end of the school year which meant tests, especially my most dreaded, Algebra. Throughout the day my backpack had a subtle scent, I didn’t think about it; it could’ve been my lunch box or anything. My friends said it stank a little, but I didn’t think to make a full inspection of my backpack. Not until Algebra. I took the test and as I was putting my things back into my backpack, someone mentioned the beans. It was the same conversation I had had a million times. “When do your beans expire?” “Oh yeah, those...? I got them in 6th grade. They expire May 10th, pretty soon huh!” At this point I didn’t even need to look at the container to remember the expiration date, I’d said it so often, the date is forever glued into my brain. I pulled them out of my backpack to show the person, but immediately sprung back and clenched my face. Those beans were expired. I looked more closely at the can and noticed a little cracked dent filled with mold. I thought I had nine more days, but no, they decided to expire right away – at that very moment. My teacher, obviously very confused and concerned for me, questioned my sanity. Why would anyone keep a can of expired beans in their backpack? I was told to throw it away immediately after I took a great picture and emailed it to the teacher that originally had given me the beans. To this day I still remember those beans. They were very much loved. But most of all, my backpack still remembers them too because I never washed that thing. Now, my sister uses it for school. Her inheritance. ◆

Call

MEMOIRS | MARCH 2021

Raven

by Ananya Ganesh, Sandy Springs, GA

Step 1:

Wash the rice twice or you might bite into a thought. Her distraught eyes scanned the shallow parapet beneath the ledge, seeking him among the discarded milk bottles and orange peels. For twelve days, Mama rose before daybreak and stood under the blue steel faucet in the backyard, her tired body rebelling against the frigid spray in goose bump patches. Every day she dressed in the same wrinkled, maroon cotton saree, her unbound hair dripping curly patterns on her back as she boiled water for rice. For twelve days, as soon as Mama placed the enormous rice ball on the jagged edge of the brick ledge in Big Uncle’s house, Raven swooped in to claim his bounty. “Caaw, caaaw, caaaw,” she implored and waved, her frenzied arms reminding me of a damp-haired air dancer hiding a bruise. “Thirteenth or never!” ChantingMan had pronounced an ultimatum yesterday in the gravelly voice of wearied millstones grinding down a thousand rice balls.

Just then, she spotted the familiar dark flash gliding toward her as Mama’s limbs melted in relief. From his perch on the ledge, Raven’s glassy gaze penetrated her guarded despair for a brief moment. In one fluid motion, he claimed his meal, flapped his wings and soared into the wind, liberating Mama. Thatha visited us last year. Around her father, Mama’s dimples deepened as sunshine spread under her skin and the gentle clinking of her toe rings on the wooden floor echoed the spring in her walk. Together, they unbraided memories of childhood tantrums, adolescent follies, how far she had come, and how far she had gone. She cradled his fragility as he slept, smoothing his wrinkles as if by stretching them taut, she could reverse time. My father drove us to the airport and whispered to me. I prayed we would reach before his secret did.

MEMOIRS | MARCH 2021

Step 2:

Bring water to a slow boil as bubbles rise to the surface and escape in a vapor trail of regret.

Mama’s face splintered into countless unanswered questions as she eluded my grasp and surrendered to Mother’s outstretched arms. Since Thatha would arrive soon, Mama gathered the unruly tendrils of Mother’s long gray hair into a knot so Mother would hold it together. Blue veins drummed against Mother’s temples, impatient for Thatha. From the fringe, I watched as twin reeds braved a flood about to dislodge their roots. Around us, words filled the room masticating and regurgitating memories that threatened to bury their tentacles into Mother. But Mama caught and flung them behind the oil stained curtains of Big Uncle’s room. The earthy aroma of fresh rice escaped the kitchen. It smelled of hidden rice and broken promises.

As soon as Mama placed the enormous rice ball on the jagged edge of the brick ledge in Big Uncle’s house, Raven swooped in to claim his bounty. Thatha came home to his broomed-and-mopped favorite spot in the family room. I reached for Mama’s hand feeling the staccato pulse of her fracturing heart. They whispered to Thatha in a tender breeze of soft mumbles building to a tempest until Mama could no longer contain Mother’s shrieks that bounced off the walls and flowed to the verandah outside. Thatha liked to eat his rice soaked in ghee. He partitioned it into shimmering white mounds against the crisp green of the plantain leaf he ate from, dark fingertips coaxing the rice into uniform balls. Mama looked away, trembling under the weight of certainty.

Step 3:

Stir the pot often since agitated grains tend to stick.

When Thatha needed to leave, Big Uncle and Small Uncle accompanied him along with ChantingMan who knew all the right verses. Words dissipated into wisps of dark clouds threatening to return, leaving Mama and Mother and a Thatha-shaped hole following them. I tugged at the rough edges of Mama’s cotton saree, calling her, but the sound reverberated in the barrenness before it crashed into their cocoon and bled. Something uncoiled in my belly and snaked its way up to my eyes, hissed, and stung. Mama slept near Mother in the room that smelled of Thatha’s Tiger Balm and talcum powder. I lay alone, listening to the night meander through the open windows and hide in the blue-black crevices of the overstuffed room. Indignant frogs admonished the teasing rain in a synchronized chorus, an occasional scooter sped by, stammering an apology. Above, a rickety fan scratched the air in circles reminding, me of the wheat flour pancakes Mama and I cooked on Sundays.

I missed our matching henna tattoos and cardamom tea evenings. Hey mom let me in let me in … Thoughts squirmed and wiggled, thrusting against my palate struggling to leave. Tomorrow would be thirteenth.

Step 4:

Make sure you check the bottom for uncooked rice weeping in the hot gruel.

Words returned in the morning, bumping into each other and filling the cramped spaces before settling down a safe distance around Mama and Mother. ChantingMan read from the Bound Volume of Sadness. Thatha’s dentures jiggled when he told stories – a fake mouth inside his real one. Spellbound, I listened to him recite, his breathing laced with the ominous crackling and whistling of a winter’s gale. “Have you seen a raven? It enjoys a special gift. When new souls linger, unwilling to leave and unable to stay, the raven carries them on his back for twelve days, nurturing them under his wings. On the thirteenth day, he releases them to the wind. The next time you hear the wind sing, pay close attention. Might be someone you know!” “Thatha, ravens are …” I faltered, hesitant to shroud his faith with my logic. “I know,” he chuckled. “But don’t tell your mother.” As he squeezed my hands with his tremor, I noticed the dark crescents under his eyes, the flickering flame of a candle running out. I did not tell my mother. Dusk’s lambent cloak enveloped the cabin as Mama retreated inside an oversized sweater and I contemplated if the wind’s songs carried across the ocean. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed her move in an erratic quivering that escalated into the convulsion of a tidal wave. Panicking, I reached across and sneaked my hand inside her barricade. I felt them first on my fingertips. For twelve days, my mother tamed the beast of another turmoil that engulfed, and choked her own anguish. Now, in my shadow, I realized, her own demon thawed in the unbearable furnace of her ribcage, sprang to life, and thrashed around before disintegrating into a million shards of moist grieflets down her face, scalding my palm. In the hierarchy of grief, it was my turn. I held her close. ◆

Artwork by Lauren Bartel, Coral Gables, FL

MEMOIRS | MARCH 2021

The Pistol

Shot Truth by Jadon Sculley, Flushing, NY

Artwork by Soliana Lijiam, North York, ON, Canada

MEMOIRS | MARCH 2021

grew up without a father. Without a role model to accompany me on my journey to becoming a young man. I grew up in Saint Catherine, Jamaica, and I became fatherless on July 11, 2012. My father was a leader; he was highly respected and loved his family. So with that said, July 11 was like any other day. I woke up to the sound of my mother’s voice telling me that it was time to get up. I walked into the living room, all my family members scattering like ants before leaving for work and school. I favored the smell of starch from the freshly ironed uniform my mother prepared for me. Then my father headed out, planting a kiss on each of our foreheads before leaving. This was my norm. By the time he and my sister left, I knew it was my cue to start getting ready for school. I remember my father helping me tie my first perfect tie, after assisting me with putting on my uniform without unnecessarily creasing it. He was a perfectionist. I remember that so vividly. After he left, my mother took over. I mean, she didn’t do it as well, but it still looked decent nonetheless. After being clothed, I sat down in the living room to eat the porridge my mother had prepared me for breakfast. Before I knew it, I heard the honk of my designated school bus, alerting me to come outside. Before I left my mother behind, I gave her a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. On the drive to school, I looked out the windows seeing the same tropical palm trees I did every day – but for some reason today just felt off. By the time we pulled up to school I was sick to my stomach.

For some reason, today just felt off – nothing felt the same, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it I decided to ignore it and go on with my day. There I was, like any other day sitting in a classroom with a group of my friends cracking jokes. Nothing felt the same, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Nearing the end of my day, I was startled by the stern voice of my principal over the intercom, “Jadon, report the main office immediately.” I was taunted by my classmates, whispers of “He must’ve done something bad” and “Ooo, he’s in trouble,” I was annoyed but obeyed the principal’s request.

looked lackadaisical, along with the 40 other eyes lifelessly staring through me. She hugged me and I could hear the worry in her voice as she whispered, “J, daddy died. He was murdered.” I looked at her in disbelief. My sister pulled me by the arm and took me inside. I hugged her so tight, suddenly afraid to lose her too. We cried continuously, left with nothing but the comfort of each other’s arms supplying us with the strength to stay standing. I forgave the murderer that same day. Although he left my family in complete agony, I learned to forgive him, but I will never forget. Two years later, we moved to Queens, New York, because of my mom’s job. I was gifted with an opportunity to start fresh, experience a life without my dad, which was hard. But my dear mother allowed for a smooth transition which steered me into the great young man I am today. I learned to overcome the devastating loss. My father wasn’t there to teach me how to shoot my first basket, but I learned, didn’t I? He didn’t teach me how to deal with the breakup between my first love and I, but I learned the hard way, didn’t I? I learned how to drive, I learned how to shave, I learned how to fight without him. I had six great birthdays without him. Before he died, my father used to always tell me that I’ll be able to go everywhere with him once I was older, but I had lost out on all those father-son experiences. How dare he leave me so soon? But you know what? I’m gonna get through college without him, I’m gonna marry me a beautiful sweetheart, and I’ll make something outta myself. I often reminisce, but I manage to pull myself together. It pains me to hear someone blame who they are as a person on past events that occurred in their life. I get that some people have rough childhoods and situations that they are faced with. They claim that that’s why they are the way that they are. But at some point you have to take accountability for your actions. You have to make the decision to better yourself. Someone once said to me, you’ll never change your life until you change something you do daily, and the secret of your success is found in your daily routine. You have to depart from the idea that your past defines you, because that is incorrect. The only thing that defines you is you yourself, so just make the best of life with what you've got. ◆

I got to the principal’s office and there was my school bus driver waiting for me. “Your mother requested that I pick you up from school,” he said. “Why, what’s the reason?” I questioned. He did not reply, and I tried to think nothing of it and enjoy getting out of school earlier than the other students. Not one word was said to me on the way back home. I got there, slid the van door open and slammed it shut. I approached the gate of my verandah and was stunned by the amount of people there. My mother opened the gate and greeted me. She

Artwork by Hussain Khan, Punjab, Pakistan 11

FOOD & FAMILY | MARCH 2021

Frybread

Wishes by Arianna Fuller, Milwaukee, WI

y mom is hanging up “Happy Birthday!” flags on the window near our dinner table.

“Dad, can I make the frybread with you?” I ask, hopefully. I didn’t actually think that he’d let me help him. After all, it is New Year’s Eve and my fourteenth birthday. “Sure,” my dad says with a small smile. What a great birthday present, indeed! Frybread – an essential ingredient for Indian tacos – is a Native American food. It’s a tan, unpredictably shaped, delicious kind of bread. Before this, I had no knowledge of how to make this traditional food. But, with the help of my dad, this crackling, burning ember of our culture adds to the strong, golden ribbons of flame of our native traditions. From the entryway of the kitchen, I glance over at the cardinal painting that’s hanging in the living room. I notice the small, ruby-colored bodies of the cardinals as they perch on a silver bench in the middle of a beautiful, snowy landscape. Everything in that picture brings up memories. A gorgeous ebony lamppost stands tall beside the wonderful, stunningly painted bench. Everything in that picture seems perfect. That’s because it is. Cardinals represent grandmothers and grandfathers in our culture. “Take out the baking powder, milk, measuring cups, and flour,” my dad instructs, his voice yanking me out of my thoughts. “Will do,” I answer back, taking the ingredients out. He gets the rest of them and together, we start pouring the ingredients into the bowl. I can’t remember what the measurements are for each ingredient; everything’s moving so fast, slipping past us like sand through fingertips. But I love making frybread with my dad. Every good chef needs an apron. I read the words in his eyes as he hands me one silently. I grab a crimson-colored hair elastic

and quickly put up my long, blonde hair, not even bothering to use a hairbrush. He grins again, pinning a “Cat Lover” pin onto my apron. I hear the three kittens, lined up in a row on the pin, clinking together softly. “Cover the bowl up, please, with the dish towel.” My dad motions to the towel that is draped along the handle of the oven. I can’t help but smile as we leave the stirred, now-sticky dough out to settle. When I come back from the living room, my dad is already heating up some oil in a pan. Little did I know that I would be doing the part that I like most: flipping the bread!

My dad hands the tongs to me, along with the opportunity to cook with him My dad calls me in from the living room. My mom continues setting things out for my birthday. “We need the tongs from the camper …” my dad says. Instead, he pulls out some rubbery-looking ones. “I just hope that these don’t get ruined.” My dad hands the tongs to me, along with the opportunity to cook with him. He brings out the big glass bowl full of the sticky dough and sets it atop the oven. He gets a glass plate as well and sets it on the oven. He sprinkles flour on it. Meanwhile, I line a big aluminum pan with flour. It’s the pan my mom uses to cook the Christmas ham. Tonight it will be used to collect our finished breads. I take the tongs, watching in fascination as my dad uncovers the bowl

and takes a tiny piece of the settling dough. He stretches it out, but not before plopping it onto the flour-dashed plate. He then takes both hands, places them near the top of the stretched dough piece, and quickly lays it over the oil and jerks his hands back. He will repeat these actions many times. He doesn’t want the oil to burn him, of course. “Flip them when they stop bubbling,” my dad informs me kindly. “Okay,” I respond, setting the tongs down. I shift my gaze to the oven’s digital clock with glowing green numbers. After a while, I notice that the bubbles have slowed. I flip the first frybread, but the side that’s now facing up isn’t tan like it’s supposed to be! “Dad–” “The first frybread pieces usually don’t have color,” my dad interrupts my worries, extinguishing them with this information. “Oh, okay,” I answer. “Ow!” I suddenly wince in pain. I was burned by the oil! I speed-rub my sore, reddening wrist, hoping that my dad didn’t see. But with the smile that threatens to form on his lips, I know that he’s probably trying not to laugh. I keep flipping different pieces until, one by one, the aluminum container is filled. That’s also when – what a coincidence! – we run out of dough. “Hey, Dad,” I say as he puts his arm around me. “I’m going to write about this and send it to Teen Ink. If, and when I get in, that’s when people will know about your famous Indian tacos.” I hold up my new birthday wine glass that is filled with sparkling apple cider, and my dad holds the big container full of frybread. He is right next to me, and we pose as my mom takes a picture. ◆

FOOD & FAMILY | MARCH 2021

The

Jasmine Tree by Yuwei Dou, Pleasanton, CA

s the rain fell lightly from the sky, the old jasmine tree stood, unmoving, but the flowers flew down, all white like snow but with bright yellow underbellies. I sat down on the gray boulder with my two friends Chun and Liya from school. We used colorful chalk to draw our castle and then used our handmade “Shabao” plushies to act like the people inside. It was April in the city, the best weather I could ever have. However, the spring there was always short. After I lived there for fourteen years, it was still hard for me to catch the “true spring” – those perfect weather days. Summer always came so fast. That year, the rain lasted about a week, and it was finally the season for the jasmine flowers to bloom. Today, kids from school ran past the bushes near the street, some in a hurry to go back home to eat their mother’s handmade milk ice cream, others to fly kites in the field, but none seemed to notice the jasmine tree flowering overhead. Grandma was there, sitting on her old red wooden chair, wearing her white silk qipao and her dark green cloth shoes. She sat there quietly reading her favorite book A Dream in Red Mansions and drinking her favorite jasmine flower tea.

The flowers flew from the tree and landed on our chalk-drawn castle. Chun suddenly asked: “Oh, Lucy, how old is this jasmine tree? You said it’s more than 200 years old, right?” “No, it’s nearly 400 years old. And it’s been here since Grandma was a little girl like us,” I replied but kept my eyes on the tree. It was so tall, almost growing into the sky. I couldn’t even see the top. It was so huge, even ten people could not hug it using their arms. Grandma told me once that the tree was planted 400 years ago and started this life with my Grandma’s family. It has witnessed the prosperous times and the declines. In the 1920s, one

rainy day, a flash came down from the sky, and boom! The middle of the tree was split in two. Everyone thought it would die, but it kept standing for almost a century after, just like my grandma has. Suddenly, I heard a sound. I glanced back and saw Grandma standing up. She didn’t say anything but just went straight toward our kitchen. She opened the yellow wooden door, and I saw her shadow. With the rainbow’s light reflecting on the exterior of the house, I heard the sound of a pot being opened, the smell of something good drifting into the sky and spreading into my nose. Oh, it was the smell of the jasmine flower, but it was a little different. What’s that? A new kind of food? Did grandma make it? I turned back to Chun and Liya with the question marks in my head. “Lucy, Chun, Liya, come here. Let’s have some jasmine flower cakes!” The sound of Grandma’s voice went into my ear. I saw Grandma was standing there outside. She was so pretty within the white silk qipao – simple but elegant. She held the jade green plate in her hand, and on it were the white jasmine flower cakes. She didn’t move. She just stood there smiling at me – so warm, so sweet, like an angel from the sky. The sunshine of April shone on her. With the warm light, the jasmine flower cakes looked like treasures. Grandma kept smiling and moved toward us. In her white clothes and green shoes, she was like a flower. She sat near the tree and put down the plate for us. “Let’s try it! It’s a snack I always had when I was young. I used the jasmine flower from this tree to make it,” she said.

I bit into the cake made from jasmine flowers and red bean paste like a flower. I put it near my nose. The smell of jasmine mixed with flour. I bit into the cake and felt the soft texture in my mouth. The jasmine flower juice, red bean paste, and jasmine flowers made it taste not overly sweet, but just right. Chun and Liya all took a cake from the plate and ate. We gobbled up the remaining flour crumbs left behind. The rainbow was still hanging in the sky, the seven colors of it shining on the tree and on the flowers. The colors reflected in the white flowers and made rainbow petals. Grandma sat there, smiling at our chalk drawn castle, and I imagined that she thought about her own childhood. We turned our heads to each other and smiled. With the fresh smell of the jasmine, the happiness was all around me. For me, happiness was the time I spent in childhood with my grandma, playing with my friends, eating the homemade food Grandma made, and sitting together under the old jasmine tree. Last summer, I visited grandma. The tree was still there, but my friends had all moved to the other cities. Outside the house, the bushes were gone. All around, tall office buildings stood shading her yard. But Grandma was still there, and the jasmine tree was still there. Grandma stood at the door of the house and smiled at me. Then she turned back into the kitchen to grab taro rice cakes. I sat down with her on the rock. She held my hand, and I leaned on her shoulder, listening to the happy songs from childhood. ◆

She handed me a cake. I put it in the middle of my hand, looked at it as if enjoying a piece of art. The cake was as big as a cupcake, all white, with six red spots shaped

FOOD & FAMILY | MARCH 2021 Artwork by Seojin (Taylor) Moon, NYC, NY

Father-Daughter

Fishing by Anonymous, Hartland, WI

y 10-year-old self stands, hovering over the dam at the Mill Pond, about a three minute drive from my house in Merton, Wisconsin. As I inspect the water, I’m wondering if my dad and I will get at least one northern pike. I go to grab the tackle box from the trunk of our navy blue van, following his orders and I find another box. It’s a dozen donuts and two slushies he must have sneaked in as a surprise for me. I gaze over the glorious glazed donuts along with the blue raspberry slushies, hoping this will become a tradition for our future fishing trips. I drag our things over to the bench we’re sitting at and dad reminds me how to bait the hook. I’m still learning how to cast my line, so I use the fishing pole with the release button on it. I toss my line in the green marsh where the cattails are bunched up. Dad repeatedly talks about the best time to go fishing. “Around 6 p.m. when the sun

starts to set because that’s dinner time for the fish,” he explains. I look over the water, the sun glistening off of it making the reflection look like it has little sparkles on the surface. Under its surface, I see all different fish swimming and swerving through the plants and rocks, hungry and

I could still see my dad smiling with pride hoping dinner is on its way. Dad reminds me that even if it starts to sprinkle outside, we should still stick around. “The fish think the raindrops are insects on the surface of the water; that’s when they come out to feast!” I toss my fishing line out as far as I can and wait while keeping a close eye on my red and white bobber. My chest

warms as I get nervous. I feel a tug on the bait. I turn the handle 360 degrees as fast as I can to reel the fish in, hoping I just caught our dinner for tonight. “Nice catch, G!” I hear as I yank the 8” freshwater sunfish out of the pond. It wasn’t anything too special, or big enough to be dinner, but I could still see my dad smiling with pride. The little sunfish was a beautiful dark blue and golden yellow colors with striped scales. I wrap my hand around the slimy, scaly fish and slide it down from its mouth to its abdomen so I don’t get poked by the spikes. Holding the fish with one hand, I use the other to gently unhook his jaw and toss him back into the water just how I was taught. “I told you today would be a perfect day to fish!” I let out a giggle and a sarcastic eye roll as if I hadn’t heard him say that already and we carry on to see what our next big catch will be, knowing we still have a lot of worms left to use. ◆

FOOD & FAMILY | MARCH 2021

The Orchestration

of Tradition by Kayla Hoover, Ridgeley, WV

s I ascend the stairs from the basement, my nose is comforted with the smell of simmering tomatoes, sautéed garlic, and onions. Classic rock greets my ears as I reach the top step, the vibration of the base pulsating throughout my entire body. Much like opening the door to the oven, the basement door opens to a mellow light and a wave of heat sweeps through the chill of my early autumn clothes. Peering into the kitchen, my eyes fall upon a large metal pot sitting atop the stove – the culprit of the delectable smell my nose had detected. What I am smelling is the overture to yet another composition my family has perfected over many generations.

to the local butcher and get a fresh pork roast and pepperoni. These ingredients make up the percussion section; they add weight and depth to the dish. Along with the meat, a box of fresh pasta is bought. Its presence is vital to rounding out the elements of tomato and meat, and so, in essence, it is the string section of the orchestra. If crops permit, we will gather garden-fresh onion, garlic, celery, and green pepper. Much like woodwinds, they are subtle yet present in the upper notes and body of the sauce. Lastly, the horns are found in our reserve of spices. Italian in origin, they add a definite and profound element that completes the sauce.

Four generations before me, my family made their way from Italy to America. With them, they brought hearts filled with hope, suitcases with few belongings, and a pot full of spaghetti sauce – or at least the recipe to make one. Since then, their hearts have left us, their belongings have vanished, but their recipe and their hope has persevered. Passed from grandmother to mother to daughter, the simple yet complextasting combination of tomatoes, spices, and meat has found its way into the hearts of my family and our friends.

With all the ingredients gathered, the next step is to bring out my great-grandmother’s pot. As tall as my torso and about 14 inches wide, this well-seasoned pot is our opera

The composition starts with the harvest of late summer tomatoes picked from a local farm just miles away from our house. These are the maestros to the symphony as they give the dish structure and order. Vineripened in the sun, they carry the perfect combination of juice, sweetness, and tang. Once we get them home, they are washed, blanched, and then cut into small sections. From there the tomatoes are heated and placed into sterilized jars – canning goods such as tomatoes, beets, hot sauce, and jelly is another tradition my family has passed down – which will allow them to be preserved for long periods of time. Then, on an autumn morning, my mom will run

My great-grandmother’s pot is our opera house for the evening house for the evening. The vegetables are washed, the meat is seasoned and browned, and the seal of the canned tomatoes is broken. Step by step, the instruments make their way into the opera house. First, the maestro, followed by the percussion. Next comes the woodwinds and, last but not least, the horns. My great-grandmother never used real measurements. Instead, she would say, “A handful of this, a pinch of that, and a palm size of those.” Roughly measured, but added with love into the pot, the ingredients are given about six to eight hours to meld their individual elements into something strikingly delightful. As the sauce simmers, my family slowly starts to make their way into the kitchen. In Italian families, this is a place of meeting,

relaxing, and connecting. We share stories about our days, engulfed in the smell of the melding spices, vegetables, and meat. “It will be done when the foam is gone from the surface,” my mother used to tell me when I was younger and impatiently waiting to let the symphony of flavor fill my body. With that inner child still in me, I eagerly stir the crimson red liquid with a wooden spoon, letting the steam carry its smell straight to my nose. Perfection, however, takes time and after simmering all afternoon, the sauce must still simmer another hour or so. In that time, we prepare a salad, grate Parmesan cheese, cut fresh bread, and make an olive oil dipping sauce. Despite only being the guest performers to the symphony, they are equally as important and delicious. I set the table with a backstage crew of bowls, forks, knives, wine glasses, napkins, and butter. As the foam begins to disappear from the sauce, the noodles are cooked until they are al dente, or slightly firm when bitten, and we are ready to eat. We all grab our dishes and make our way to the counter. This is when audience participation is key. Everyone likes to organize their orchestra in a certain way. I recommend my favorite: noodles, cheese, sauce, more cheese (layering the cheese allows for it to melt into the warm noodles), two slices of bread and a small salad. With the symphony organized, we are ready for the performance. At first, there is silence. It is so good that no one wants to pause to talk. But, as bellies are filled, conversation and laughter fill the air. As if the applause to the finale, we sit around the table and relish in the happiness and warmth the dish provided us. Not only is this dish a symbol of tradition and heritage, but the act of preparing spaghetti sauce also serves as a symbol of strong family and ancestral bonds. It is within this symphony of a meal that I see the true meaning of family, hope, and perseverance. ◆

Artwork by Nicole Kim, Douglaston, NY

Artwork by Whitney Cohen, NYC, NY

Artwork by Eftalia Economou, Worcester, MA

Photo by Ray Zhang, Troy, MI

POINTS OF VIEW | MARCH 2021

Photo by Grace Carlucci, Smithtown, NY

I Want to Fix the World

But I’m Just Me by Hannah Stewart, Seattle, WA

othing makes a nice vacation better than being consumed with riddling guilt and powerlessness as you traipse along sandy shores of supposed paradise. But there was nothing else I could feel as I passed drifting water bottles, abandoned chip bags, and other carelessly thrown, stubborn trash. Every piece filled me with a pang of frustration and despair; the rapid degradation of Mother Earth was present before my very eyes, and what could I do about it? Sure, I picked up the occasional offender, but only with the defeated knowledge that in an hour more would replace it, and this trash was only the tip of an ever-increasing, mammoth-

Thinking of all the waste made my head spin sized iceberg. The wrappers and cartons were visible, but thinking of all the invisible waste in our world made my head begin to spin. The boats on the beach, the taxi that drove me, the airplane that carried me, every piece of my journey probably killed ten more fish than the bottles on the beach. And that was only on this vacation. Thinking of the consumption in my daily life – 10-minute hot showers, cosmetic bottles, fashion and food choices I make regularly – sunk me into deeper melancholy. But then, as my negative brain is so skilled at, I began to think beyond the environment, to all of the social problems our world faces. The local people on the tourist packed beach

whose yearly wage was not even a quarter of what our family’s vacation cost. The handto-mouth desperation that most of the world lives in. The wars, injustice, and pain that our most vulnerable people face. The fast-fashion industry, mass incarceration, police brutality, corruption, classism; my pessimism was having a field day. But the icing on the cake really arrived when I evaluated my own efforts of goodwill in this world. After about five minutes of thinking, let’s just say it was a pretty short list. Required community service and sparse family contributions was all I could come up with, and of course that had to be offset by the many selfish, wasteful errs I make hourly. So here I was at the lowest of lows, losing hope not only in humanity, but in myself. I tried to think of ways I could start to quickly patch up this world ripping apart at its seams. Join a hyper aggressive environmental agency? Give up deodorant and shampoo and live only off the fruits of the earth? Move to a small hut in Zimbabwe? Cure cancer? Invent a biodegradable plastic? All very achievable and realistic feats. Ah, but how could I forget? Interrupting my brief spell of saintly concern, rushed in the worries of adolescent life: fixing my acne, choosing my major, finding a job, whether or not to highlight my hair. How could I save the world when I couldn’t even make it through the day without at least five hormonal breakdowns? Alas, the world and I were slowly crumbling into a glob of helpless, irreparable gloom. I was left with few options: ignore the increasingly terrible state of the earth and live an ignorant, unfulfilled, but maybe

functional life; let the terror of it all consume and paralyze me until I was a vegetable of passivity; or become a self-righteous vegan who felt that they were the final hope for all humanity. It was a bleak array. In the middle of my brooding session to save the world, my slightly unreliable teenage brain finally had a semi-rational thought. In a very Michael Jackson-esque manner, I started to think about the (wo)man in the mirror. This was all I had power over (granted in a very partial and incomplete way). Rather than losing myself in the mess of the world, I had to use the mess of the world to find myself. The problems that I felt passionate about would shape me into the determined, capable agent of change I was meant to be. By focusing on the personal actions I could take to make impact, gargantuan problems would become more bite-sized (though still mouthfuls). Buying less and reusing more, donating to sound charities, and eventually finding a career that helps vulnerable and hurting people are all achievable and concrete ways to have an impact. Even in my own interactions in life, leaning toward more patience and understanding, kindness instead of ignorance, and a genuine concern for others. At the end of the day I am flawed just like anyone else. But I am also aware of the world’s pain and long to dry its tears, just like anyone else. Yes, there will be days when I feel small in the glaring injustices surrounding us. Yes, there will be days when there are simply too many plastic bottles. But just as the largest beaches are made up of a thousand tiny grains of sand, good made up of a thousand tiny tries. ◆

POINTS OF VIEW | MARCH 2021

Artwork by Summer Eldridge, Sayre, PA

Teens Are

Ready to Vote by Sophia Cox, Medford, OR

eenagers are constantly reminded that they are the future of the United States of America. We are told that it is our duty to be aware of what is happening and to invent solutions to the problems previous generations have created. Various news sources and political issues are thrust into our hands with the expectation they will be deciphered and absorbed. Current events and national matters are discussed in classrooms, in peer groups, and even at the dinner table. Through all this exposure, modernday teens have begun to thrive when it comes to forming opinions, sharing ideas, and even acting on them. Although today’s youth have been exposed to and educated on politics, with many even becoming more politically fluent than their predecessors, they are missing one vital piece to their governmental experience: the right to vote. Several arguments insist that 16 and 17-year-olds would prove less motivated and less educated when it came to voting, but a simple look into their everyday lives would provide more clarity into the falsity of these claims. Classrooms are filled with young adults sharing ideas and raising necessary questions. Lunch times are spent sharing current events and brainstorming creative solutions. With smartphones in pockets, today’s youth have more access to

Political issues are thrust into our hands

information than any generation before them. In this modern age, teenagers are more than ready to not just vote, but to become educated members of society. So why is there so much resistance? Many teachers, parents, and government officials argue that teens don’t have the ability to look into the future and think about their decision’s impact on others. They insist that teens don’t have the life experience to vote, but what we’ve seen in the news for the past few years tells a different story. Sixteen- and 17-year-olds know how to face the stress of school shootings, climate change, severe political divide, and deciding what they want to do with the rest of their lives. This requires deep thinking and good decision-making skills, as well as the ability to come up with creative solutions and act on them. Exactly the requirements (if not more) than we expect voters to fill. The same teenagers that we consider too irresponsible to vote can legally be emancipated, register as an organ donor, or obtain a passport without parental consent. How is society expecting teenagers to shoulder the responsibility of behaving like an adult, without being treated like one? If 16- and 17-year-olds were allowed to vote, it would not only show that society acknowledges the involvement teenagers already have in politics and the responsibility they display in their everyday lives, but it might create a new, broader mindset concerning how we can help not just the United States, but the world. ◆

POINTS OF VIEW | MARCH 2021

Sparrow Around the World by Anonymous, Mundelein, IL

Artwork by Hafsah D., Islamabad, Pakistan 20

s schools all around the United States began to shut down and everyone had been instructed to quarantine until further notice, I wouldn’t have expected myself to meet as many people as I did while never leaving my house. When I was younger I had a small Instagram account where I would make edits of my favorite Marvel characters or celebrities like Harry Styles. This account acted as a celebrity/fandom parody account where I used programs like Final Cut Pro to make short graphic design video effects. It was definitely a little silly but I never got tired of editing; I could edit for hours non-stop and still have the energy to keep going. When I realized that I would be quarantined for much longer than just a few weeks, I decided to restart my account. Over the first few months of using that account and making myself more familiar with editing again, I was able to make so many internet friends that shared similar interests with me. Soon I surrounded myself with 12 editors from all over the world and we called ourselves Sparrow. What had started off as a ludicrous group that would fan-girl over who was wearing what this week, soon turned into something much more valuable and significant. When the BLM protests began to rise after the death of George Floyd and news spread about the corruption in Turkey, our accounts

POINTS OF VIEW | MARCH 2021 became dedicated to sharing relevant information and petitions. Knowing that two of the editors in this group were personally affected and/or lived in areas where these injustices were taking place, made me feel sick to my stomach and outraged at the same time. I felt like it was my responsibility to do whatever I could to help. We talked for hours as we learned more about what was happening. We created threads with places to donate. We got them trending. We had built up our account’s following

These injustices made me sick to my stomach to the thousands and used our platforms to spread our view on the injustices and provide others with more information. One particular event that had a lasting impact on me was the Beirut explosion in Lebanon. A hijabi woman, Sen, an editor in our group, had to take a break when the explosion occurred because parts of her family that had lived in Beirut had been injured. She made it extremely clear that she had felt invalidated and that we still had so much to learn about the governmental state of Lebanon and its

previous corruption. The rest of the group and I had dedicated the following weeks to learning about the country. I read articles about the city swamped in ash and the destructive nature it had on everyone there. I remember staying up late to talk with Sen about everything that was happening. Hearing the pain in her voice made me feel even more drawn to take action. The other editors and I continued our research and we even took multiple pages of notes until our hands began to cramp and the sun began to rise. Another member of Sparrow vocalized that she “really didn’t feel like editing again anytime soon.” No one was concerned with creating edits anymore; we directed all our attention to this issue because of how heartbreaking it was to Sen and to the thousands of other families affected. When I was younger, I didn’t really have the same understanding about the world as I do now. I grew up thinking my world was the little town of Mundelein and I didn’t really understand the severity that some social problems held. Being a part of this group made me realize just how connected we all are. No article or newscast can authenticate the pain in the world as well as your distressed loved one. Who knew social distancing could connect me more with the outside world than ever before? ◆

Photo by Elisabeth Resnikov, Washington, DC 21

POINTS OF VIEW | MARCH 2021

Food

From Food Bank to by Kate Tauckus, Manhasset, NY

Artwork by Serena Pei, San Jose, CA

n the current pandemic, food insecurity has become a central concern for an increasing number of families, but what few people realize is how drastically this issue affects college students. Recent studies have revealed American university students are even more at risk of being food insecure than households. According to the Association of American Colleges & Universities, in 2018, over 50 percent of college students experienced food insecurity, or “the limited or uncertain availability of nutritionally adequate and safe food, or the ability to acquire such food in a socially acceptable manner.” As a rising senior who started touring campuses in the past year, I only just learned about this issue, noticing food pantries on campuses for students to get free food if needed.

With the rising cost of tuition, more students than ever are struggling with the issue of where to find their next meal, often having

to choose between the cost of their books, rent, and groceries. Students unable to afford a traditional meal plan must instead find creative ways to stay fed or simply go hungry. It’s vital that students have reliable access to food if they’re to be able to make

It’s vital students have reliable access to food the most of their college experience; not surprisingly, food insecurity has been linked to decreased academic performance as well as lower overall health. While college food banks and pantries are a crucial resource that have increased in prevalence over the past few years to help address this issue of student food insecurity, they are far from an adequate solution.

Having grown up with celiac disease, I know firsthand how difficult it is to find food that suits the limitations of my diet. When looking into campus food banks, I was dismayed to find a large majority of them rely on packaged foods, many of which are highly processed; high in sodium and sugar; and often filled with allergens like wheat and dairy. While I commend universities for making attempts to help students in need, those with dietary restrictions – whether for health, allergy, or religious reasons – are even more likely to remain food insecure due to the scarcity and high cost of “free-from” food options.

In addition to other measures like extending government assistance to students, I believe colleges need to create on-campus “food havens” to increase accessibility to fresh and healthy options, creating a safe and welcoming space where students can learn about their dietary needs. Certain

POINTS OF VIEW | MARCH 2021

Haven college food banks, such as the pantry at UC Berkeley, are working to include fresh produce while actively decreasing the stigma around receiving aid. Food insecurity disproportionately impacts students who are already financially underprivileged, but the optics of getting “handouts” can often lead to students avoiding pantries because of a sense of shame. A food haven would similarly strive to change the conversation about food insecurity and nutrition. In addition to offering a wide variety of nutritious foods that would accommodate allergies and religious obligations, the food haven would feature free cooking classes where students could learn healthy, easy, and affordable ways to cook for themselves. While an important skill for any adult to learn – and one that an increasing number of young people lack – cooking is especially vital for students with dietary restrictions, as many prepared items are not suited to their needs.

There are a number of challenges to implementing a food haven. For one, while food banks offering packaged foods simply need shelving, maintaining fresh, nonprocessed foods requires refrigerators and freezers. Additionally, space and equipment for mini cooking stations is necessary – though simple counter space, cooking supplies, and portable hotplates could be sufficient. On-campus food service directors would need to collaborate with campus food services to create a food haven that would be easily accessible for students and integrated into campus life. This would reduce stigma by allowing students who can afford a meal plan to use credits in the food haven, ensuring that those with means contribute to the haven’s maintenance. By placing a focus on nutrition education and accessibility, the food haven would hopefully engender a welcoming environment that would attract a variety

of students, not limiting it to a “last resort” that students might feel ashamed to use. By offering a variety of ingredients, as well as prepared meals that could be acquired from the surplus of other dining halls, the food haven would allow students to get a quick bite or linger and sate their culinary curiosity. The last thing college students should be worrying about is where their next meal will come from, and whether it’s the type of food they are able to eat. Food havens are the crucial next step in ensuring a healthy, rewarding college experience for all students. Rather than just putting free food on shelves, food havens create a culture of inclusivity and understanding around nutrition, where all students are welcomed to come and be nourished. ◆

HEALTH | MARCH 2021

The Day

I had the option to come clean about what happened to me

Everything Changed by Anonymous

remember everything about that day down to the small insignificant details. I guess it’s good that I have one day of perfect memory, seeing as I pretty much have no memory of my life from the age of five to seven. It’s called psychogenic amnesia and occurs after someone experiences trauma, especially related to sexual assault, rape, or being molested. Most people go around talking about good experiences from their childhood and good memories they have with friends, but for me, I only have one day. I was eight years old and in 2nd grade. It was the second semester of school. It started off as a normal day; we all got to class and started reading. I’m pretty sure we did this every morning but I have no way of knowing. I remember going to specials after we finished reading; we went to art; we worked on drawing a 3-dimensional cake. Mine looked nothing like a cake but my art teacher told me I did a good job, so I was happy. After we got out of art class I was pulled into the office. I didn’t know what was going on, but I wasn’t worried because I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s when the words that would change my life were said. My mom and dad were both there; my mom was sitting on the left side of the office and my dad on the right. The room had a list of to-dos written on the whiteboard, and there were some half-dead white flowers in a vase on the table, and in front of them there was a big poster with Oprah Winfrey’s words that said: “Education is the key to unlocking the world, a passport to freedom.” I remember every single detail about this moment because of the many times this exact memory has played in my mind.

My mom looked at me; she had obviously been crying because her eyes were red and swollen and her mascara was smeared down her face. Why had she been crying? I wondered. She looked at me and said: “A teacher has been arrested and accused of molesting his students.” When I heard those words, I felt my heart drop into my stomach. I thought she was talking about me. I was so confused; no one knew; I had never told anyone. How was it possible that she could have known? “It was Mr. Vasquez … your teacher.” At this moment I felt a sigh of relief. I realized not only was she telling me this information because she believed I didn’t know, but that he would really be gone. No more “tutoring,” no more coming in early to help him “set up.” I finally felt free, but I had just been staring back at my mom when I realized all this and so I looked at her and said, “What?” “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you were close to him, but I need you to be honest with me right now. Did he ever do anything to you?” The next words that followed would be the thing I would come to regret for many years and most likely for the rest of my life. I looked her right in the eye and said, “No, he never did anything to me.” I’m not sure why I decided to lie and act as if nothing had ever happened, but I didn’t even know what to say. There was too much information that I was getting all at once and I didn’t know what to do with it all. She said okay and I was allowed to go back to class. When I got back everything was sheer chaos, everyone was crying and there were five police officers outside of our portable. Why

were the police there? I asked myself. When I walked in our teacher was handing out sealed envelopes to give to our parents. My friend and I looked at each other and he said, “Well, I guess we’re done with tutoring now.” And I’m not sure why, but we both fell to the ground laughing until tears came out of our eyes. But then, suddenly they were just tears. I’m not sure why, but we almost felt sad, as if everything we had known for the past few years of our lives had just been taken away. Even though we knew that what was happening was wrong, it was almost like it wasn’t because it was all we had ever known. I’ve thought about that exact day almost every day since. I’ve always come back to the moment when I had the option to come clean about what happened to me. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I had just told the truth. Would my life have been different? Would I have maybe ended up okay and not as messed up as I am now? Or maybe, would I still be the same? Maybe the reason that I am the way I am is because of what happened to me and not because I didn’t tell the truth when I first had the chance to. At the end of the day, who knows? Maybe, I would have changed. But it doesn’t change the fact that I said what I did and I can’t go back. I can only move forward and learn how to come to terms with the decisions I’ve made and not let them haunt me. While I hated myself for not telling the truth, and years went by before I ever said anything to anyone, I realize that I can’t go back and change the past. No matter how terrible, we all must come to terms with our decisions. ◆ National Sexual Assault hotline: 1-800-656-4673

HEALTH | MARCH 2021

Living with

Neurocardiogenic I

Syncope

Artwork by Mica Fair, Mooresville, NC

by Anonymous

stand up from my car seat, my vision going black. I stumble, leaning on my frame to help keep my balance until this is over. My body temperature, along with my heart rate, ascends and I can feel my stomach churning. The blackout period lasts for about 20 seconds. I slowly regain my vision as things start to go back to normal. This is not uncommon for me, I think. It never occurred to me that there could be anything more wrong than a small iron deficiency. My mother wants to take me back to the doctor for more blood work and testings. It just feels routine to me at this point. I walk into the office and sit in a plastic chair while my mother fills out paperwork. Finally, my name is called and the next thing I know, I’m sitting on the fresh paper bed, staring at different posters in the room. I hear the paper under me crinkle as I shift my weight. This is the fifth doctor that we’ve seen this year. I hope he knows what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to hear the same statistics again; I just want to understand why my body hates me. I don’t want to hear about all of the possibilities that this condition could be. I’ve heard it many times before. I want answers.

My heart rate ascends and I can feel my stomach churning

He knocks on the door just before he comes in, and then I see his white lab coat rolled a quarter of the way up his forearm. Doctor Moore - he’s the type of guy that brings light into a room. He somehow seems to make bad news have a good vibe to it. The type of guy that has many lives in his hands daily. He’s the one that you’d go to if you had a bad day. He is who tells me I have NCS. Neurocardiogenic Syncope (NCS) is when the body grows faster than the veins. It starts with a sudden drop in blood pressure, which is briskly followed by an accelerating heart rate, which then decreases. The heart beats too fast and too hard, feeling as if it will burst. This causes a temporary loss of consciousness. It can be dangerous in sports or even at work. In my experiences, I have had to increase my salt intake and give myself a water limit. I’ve increased my iron intake, yet it somehow still finds ways to get to me. For example, when I am spinning at practice, sometimes I will just pass out in the middle of it if I am close to the ground. This is because of the pressure that builds in my head. The last time that I had a bad blackout just happened a few weeks ago while I was at work. I stood up after grabbing green peppers from under the counter. My skin went pale almost immediately and I was cold as well as hot. I felt as if I was going to fully pass out right there and the pressure in my head was immeasurable. I stumbled my way to the front counter to grab my phone and call my mom. Heading to the bathroom, I dialed my mom’s number. My dad had to bring her to pick me up and drive me home because I didn’t feel well enough. I slept for 13 hours that night, and the next day I still didn’t feel back to myself. While there is no cure for NCS, I have managed to learn how to live with it on a day to day basis. Sure it is an inconvenience, but it makes me who I am and is the reason for all of my actions. I will continue to monitor my iron levels and change my habits accordingly. ◆

COLLEGE ESSAYS | MARCH 2021

Sight

Vision Without by Carolynne Burk, Mundelein, IL

ou know those cute videos of babies getting glasses, looking around, and bursting into laughter at the sudden clarity of their parents’ faces? This was what my parents expected when I was 10 months old and the eye doctor prescribed me glasses; for the first few months of my life, I lacked all interest in visual stimuli. I never made eye contact with anyone. My motor milestones were delayed, and I undershot every toy I reached for. My parents’ worries vanished when the doctor said glasses were the fix to all our problems. They stood, absorbed in their excitement, as the optometrist slid the cotton candy pink frames over my face, securing the arms behind my ears. True to fashion, I didn’t respond in the way they expected. My right eye remained turned toward my nose. I did not look around or notice anything new. There was no laughter of joy when I saw my parents’ faces; a pit grew in the depths of their stomachs. Not long after, I received the first of many labels: legally blind. My parents trembled at the thought of a future where I would be disabled, dependent on others, and alone in my struggles. Once again, I reacted contrary to their expectations; I had never seen clearly. I couldn’t be disabled in a world I’d never seen. For the years to follow, I adapted to the world in its beautiful blur. Maybe I did struggle to distinguish my dad from any other white, lanky, bald man in a crowd. Maybe the font on my phone was so large that my sister often read my texts from across the room. Maybe my legs were forever bruised from smashing into tables (or walls, or small children, or falling over curbs). But, here’s the thing; I loved it. My blindness was beautiful, and there was nothing I would exchange it for.

Photo by Ella Snyder, Winter Springs, FL 26

There were never vision related struggles before high school, but then I began to fail scantron tests because I couldn’t

see the bubbles. The answer is A. I knew that! Yet, I often ended up marking some space between B and C. Even though I tried to advocate, certain teachers still refused to sit me in the front. I learned to take notes through listening, but I was deprived access to material on the board. For the first time, I recognized my difference. My vision disabled me.

It is my job to speak for myself I went home crying every day for the first three months of freshmen year. I’m not good enough, I thought. I wish I could see. Tears would pour from my strained eyes. And even though my dad was witnessing me at my breaking point; he never hugged me. He didn’t wipe my tears. I pleaded, “I need your support, help me!” I couldn’t see it, but he was supporting me through standing back. Because he knew that this was the most important lesson that anyone could ever teach me. The world is made for sighted people. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I am different from everyone else. For the rest of my life, I will continue to face ignorance. Now I know how to stand up and use my voice. There will be people who won’t accommodate me. It is my job to speak for myself. Selfadvocacy is the only tool that will ever get me any of the things I need to succeed. I am good enough for this world. I am smart enough. And more importantly, I am bold and brave enough to be different. I can see. I can see so many things that other people can’t. I enjoy the same sunrises and the opportunities each new day brings. I see people for who they are, rather than for their face. I may not know what my own face looks like, but I know who I am. I’m gifted with the beauty of blindness, and I love it. ◆

COLLEGE ESSAYS | MARCH 2021 Artwork by Lauren Cichon, Brooklyn, NY

Collage The Power of

by Katherine Devitt, Belmont, MA

othing satisfies me more than the process of crafting a collage. The tearing, painting, and pasting is mesmerizing, but also meaningful; it opens the door to new possibilities and inspires creative thought. My most recent collage is always my favorite –my latest was made during my time as a counselor at sleepaway camp last summer. For this collage, I pasted scraps onto a well-worn wooden board from the craft shop. Bins full of torn magazines and newspapers offered an abundance of material. I found ads with hidden meaning from all sorts of magazines – National Geographic, Macy’s furniture catalog, TeenBop – and pasted these phrases onto my board: "You can do it. Every mile is magic. A little sweetness goes a long way."

I map my experiences and my passions I found words that embodied my spirit: Energize. Dance. Explore. I pasted paintings of life’s beauty: bees on yellow flowers, families playing spikeball by the beach. Although my board reflects my most recent obsessions, memories are implicit in each scrap. The phrase "feel cozy" brings me to the fireplace in my dim-lit

living room, surrounded by my family’s laughter and the smell of wine. The faded purple skyline painted above a village square recalls scooter rides at dusk with my sister; we would race down the slope of our street, giggling with delight and conversing with unspoiled innocence. When I admire the photograph of 10 birds aloft together with a caption that reads "And forward!," I am reminded of my cabin of 10 campers who I lead forward, not just to activities and meals, but into their growing maturity and independence.

collages. The scraps overlap; my collages are lumpy and messy, but dance with color and light. Nostalgic purple reflects the delightful and transformative nature of my early adolescence. In the blues I see growing confidence from new friendships, and in the greens, fresh individuality in my taste in music. Colors play together as I begin to accept my flaws and my talents. Winding through my collages are shades of yellow because I lost my friend Cleo to cancer, but her light is always with me and her wry humor will forever make me laugh.

It fascinates me that a collage can transform scraps into a story. They are visual mappings of thoughts and emotions, and can illustrate the complexity of someone or something. My collages encapsulate my disposition in particular moments, but also reflect my growing sense of self; through collaging I map my changing perceptions, experiences, and passions into an identity.

My collages remind me that I will not allow life’s setbacks to discourage me. I am more than a loss, a flaw, or a mistake. I recognize myself as a work-in-progress papered with life’s complexities, and have discovered that it is the things we love that provide the glue to our stories. I am hikes that overlook Lake Osspiee, spikeball tournaments, and the rush of excitement when “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedinfield plays on Bedtime Magic 106.7. My mother is family dinners on the lawn, cheers on the sidelines of every sports game, and unconditional love for everyone she knows. Cleo is llamas grazing in Peru, fashion shows in New York City, and wry jokes about the economy.

I think of myself as an accumulation of my collages, beginning blank but rooted in the values of my family. Growing up, my parents were honest with me as they shared their feelings during arguments and conversations. They revealed the complex histories that drove their emotions, widening the narrow lens that framed my opinions and thoughts. They are my foundation; I am open, authentic, and compassionate. As the years pass, I grapple with new ideas and experiences, adding design to my

As I move forward, I will continue to transpose myself onto my canvases. My wooden board is now complete, and I look forward to decorating a new blank slate. ◆

IDENTITY | MARCH 2021

How Microaggressions Influence Me: Tales from a Chinese-American Youth in the 21st Century by Maddie Lam, Los Altos, CA

Artwork by Geena Yin, Irvine, CA

IDENTITY | MARCH 2021

uring a paper airplane contest at a vacation hotel in Mexico, a ten-year-old Chinese-American spectator watches intently as a hotel staff member announces that he’s going to count in Chinese before the contestants throw their airplanes. “Chin, chan, boo,” he says, clearly amused with himself. The shocked girl tries and fails to understand why this decidedly non-Asian man thinks he has the right to disrespect her culture. With her mother’s encouragement, she starts to write the hotel an email explaining her perspective. Her fingers, filled with rage, rapidly tap on the screen as she replays the event in her memory. Fast-forward to summer, two years later. The girl attends a theatre camp. She sits outside, chatting away with other kids in her session. One of them says to her, “You’re Chinese, right?” She hesitantly answers yes. The kid (who is white) looks at her weirdly, then responds, “No offense, but you don’t seem Chinese ’cause you’re so talkative.” Offended and rendered speechless, she gawks at him. I’m pretty sure that the only qualifier for ‘acting Chinese’ is actually being Chinese, she thinks. But a voice in the back of her mind wonders if that’s true. The girl enters seventh grade at Bullis Charter School. About halfway through the school year, a group of Asian kids in her class start jokingly promoting Asian stereotypes. They speak in a “foreign” Asian accent; punctuate their sentences with the phrases “herro,” “Buddha,” and “ching chong;” and imitate strict Asian parents by saying things like, “If you get B-plus, I disown you.” The girl tells one of the kids that those jokes are racist, to which he responds, “Making fun of your own race isn’t racist.” She is taken aback. That doesn’t seem right, she thinks. But no one else seems to agree, so she lets it go.

differences in power and privilege, [which] perpetuates racism and discrimination.” One example of a microaggression is the one mentioned in the last story: mocking foreign accents. Terry Nguyen writes that making fun of immigrants’ accents and labeling them as “foreigners” that do not belong encourages them to hide their heritage to fit in. Additionally, microaggressions can be detrimental to minorities’ mental health. Many studies show that they “lead to elevated levels of depression and trauma among minorities,” reports Dr. Gina Torino. It may be hard for non-minorities to recognize them, but they are all around us. Ignoring microaggressions contributes further to discriminatory views. The microaggressions mentioned in the second and third paragraphs are the

No offense, but you don’t seem Chinese result of the “model minority myth,” which is an aggregate of stereotypes about Asian-Americans that illustrate them as “a model to which other racial minorities should aspire,” says Chris Fuchs of NBC News. Asian-American parents are supposed to be strict and harsh, and their kids obedient. The model minority myth places Asian-Americans in a box; they have to be quiet, serious, successful, hardworking intellectuals, and they are a disappointment if they don’t meet those standards. The model minority myth is ever-present in today’s society; dispelling these myths will make a more welcoming environment for Asian-Americans.

Finally, let us address the person in paragraph three who dismisses his microaggressions because he is making fun of his own race. Actually, you are still showing racism if you make fun of your own race; you are still making fun of a race. According to the website, Taking Action Against Racism in the Media, internalized racism is “the personal conscious or subconscious acceptance of the dominant society’s racist views, stereotypes and biases of one’s ethnic group.” When we internalize racism, we “develop ideas, beliefs, actions, and behaviors that support or collude with [it],” as said by Donna Bivens. And just like microaggressions, internalized racism has negative effects on minorities. "Asian Identity" from Medium.com states that internalized racism can cause feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, and shame in the race that is being discriminated against. So what do we do? How can we help minorities feel valued and seen, instead of ignored and discriminated against? The first step is to educate yourself. Even if you’re a person of color, that does not exempt you from being racist. Read up on some different manifestations of racism and how to recognize them. Then, when you see them out in the real world, stand up! Kindly but factually tell the person how their actions may hurt others. You will be contributing to a more inclusive environment in which all kinds of people will benefit. We need to recognize these microaggressions against minorities and speak out against them. Then, and only then, can we make progress toward a society where race isn’t an excuse to slap stereotypes and labels on people, but something to celebrate and be proud of. ◆

Artwork by Yiling Li, Carmel, IN

These instances of little comments and actions against minorities are called microaggressions. Writer Ijeoma Oluo defines microaggressions as “small daily insults and indignities perpetrated against marginalized or oppressed people because of their affiliation with that marginalized or oppressed group.” Microaggressions further separate minorities from what society perceives as normal; according to Robert Montenegro, Ph.D., microaggressions “[reinforce] the

IDENTITY | MARCH 2021

Barriers Breaking the by Hailey Negley, Mundelein, IL

Artwork by Rebecca Feng, Lawrence, KS

his might be an interesting story all by itself. An American girl learns Tae Kwon Do to defend herself from her past bullies. She excels in the sport and quickly moves up the ranks only to be stopped by her gender. If she’d been anything but a white girl, she might have been respected and valued more. She grows into a teenager who talks about her accomplishments in the third person to teach the lesson that American girls shouldn’t be underestimated as if to protect the future generations from the inequalities she experiences every day.

with the boys. They expected the girls to break down in the face of a scary boy, but instead we challenged them. They thought that we couldn’t break the big boy boards, yet we did it better than them. They wouldn’t let us hold the boards or teach the adults because we were “better with the kids.” They expected us to be weak and uneducated but they were wrong.

They did not want to think that a girl could be anything but a fragile doll that needs saving or a storm cloud full of emotions. A strong girl was dangerous because now she can change traditions and compete

I was brilliant. I was powerful. I was a force to be reckoned with. Even when they told me I could only work with the little kids, I broke their way of thinking and worked with the teenagers and the adults

I was brilliant. I was powerful

when I was asked and proved to them I was stronger than their preconceptions. I broke the small boards. I broke the big boards. I broke the Grandmaster’s paradigm of who could be an instructor. I broke down the barriers that were in my way. I broke tradition by being one of the only girls to become a 4th degree black belt. I broke the record of the youngest fourth degree in the Chicagoland area. I had a love for the sport that no one could touch. They couldn’t touch me because I had the brains to do it also. I did as I was told but also broke the standard for what they thought I was. They were surprised when I finally showed them what I was worth. Through all of this I had one main purpose. I was trying to prove them wrong. ◆

IDENTITY | MARCH 2021

The pressure kept building until it became too much

Every Little Thing

Is Gonna Be Alright by Richie Galloway, Saginaw, TX

Photo by Maanit Goel, Sammamish, WA

t was the beginning of January back in 2018. A normal Sunday night for my family; my dad was on his way home and both my mother and brother were already asleep. But as for me, well let’s just say it was nowhere near a pretty picture. There I was, curled up next to my bed, shaking with fresh tears rolling down my face. Ah yes, my good old friend panic attack was in town yet again. I had no idea how long I sat there, I just knew when my dad came in it was near or past eleven. By that point, I was no longer crying, only rocking back and forth and sniffling every so often. My dad took a seat next to me and held me until I calmed down to the point that I was able to speak clearly. He asked me what was wrong; the only issue was, I didn’t know. I just knew that the tiny spark of whatever happened caused me to finally tip over the edge and blow up.

It seemed like the fire was nearly out, but it only burned higher. There I was, getting worked up again over nothing and in the midst of yet another panic attack. It always seemed as though once a year something similar would happen. Some small inconvenience just caused me to shut down. I remember turning to my dad, the latest tears streaming down my cheeks, and saying, “Dad, I’m not a girl.” Obviously, he was shocked, for good reason too; he went completely silent. I knew I messed up. I kept telling myself to wait until I was comfortable enough to sit down with my parents and calmly let them know. That was my plan, and what did I do? I allowed the pressure to keep building and building upon itself until it became too much and I exploded. At that point, my eyes were squeezed shut; both to keep new tears in

and to brace for impact. Yet it never came. Instead of yelling or kicking me out like I thought he would, my dad just pulled me into a hug and told me that it was okay. That every little thing was gonna be alright. It was the first positive reaction to the news that I received from a family member, and probably the best of the bunch. The fear of coming out stems from expecting a certain reaction from family or peers. This can extend until one shuts themselves away from those close to them or keeps it locked away until they finally break down and spill everything they’ve kept inside. Fear will control them. There is a better way. If society learns that coming out is an okay thing to do, no one would have to live with this fear. ◆

SPORTS | MARCH 2021

The Weight of Expectations by John Jensen, Temperance, MI

xpectations hover around you every second of your life. You may not always see them but they are there. An infinite game of hide-and-seek awaits you at every point of your life.

The creak from the gym doors echoes up into the rafters and vanishes. The fluorescent lights administer a piercing white light that engulfs the gym. Basketballs lay scattered throughout the gym like lost pets. I sit down, put on my shoes, and prepare to get to work. The court is like an empty canvas waiting to be painted with all sorts of moves, cuts, and scores. As I dribble the ball, the gym is filled with repetitive thuds of the ball hitting the hardwood, then bouncing back like a yo-yo. For a split second, there is silence. The ball arcs through the air like a bird returning to its nest. All net. A swoosh echoes throughout the gym, and that marks the end of the night. Feeling tired yet satisfied, I pack up and head home. Later at night, a thick black encases my room. The drone of the fan fills the room with a monotonous buzz. A few lights can be seen out of the window and the silhouette of the trees stand tall on the skyline. Various items – shoes, a basketball, clothes – lay scattered on the floor. I cannot sleep. Thoughts of failure and disappointment run rampant in my mind. What if I am not good enough? What if I get on the court and cannot keep up with the competition? These thoughts keep me up until I finally fade into a heavy sleep. The next day I awake to the shrill tone of my alarm. I go through my routine and before I am fully awake, I am sitting in a classroom.

The day goes by like a blur. I can barely remember what happened that day; I was too focused on the upcoming game. Walking into the locker room with a straight face, I begin to change into my uniform. I am tall, around 6’3”. My brown hair sits atop my head parted to the right. My jersey is tucked into my shorts evenly and my feet are held inside a nice pair of sneakers. I am ready for the game. The arena is full of chants from fans, commands shouted by coaches, and the on-court trash talk between teams. Squeaks from shoes rubbing on the wood floor break through the deafening roar of the arena. Each team sprints up and down the floor, attacking the basket and scoring at every opportunity. Eventually, I get the ball in the paint. Feeling out the defense, I clutch the ball at my chest like my life depends on it. I turn lightning quick toward the basket, beating my defender. I fake the shot, and he jumps sky high in an attempt to send my shot out of the building. As I see him sail by, I laugh a little in my head. He has given me a free basket. I explode off the ground with the rim in my sight. Just when I believe I will be able to gingerly lay the ball in, I see a defender launch himself toward me. I brace for impact and let the ball gently kiss the backboard. I hear the sharp sound of the whistle as I fall to the ground, almost in slow motion. The ball rattles around the rim, then falls into the cylinder. And one. The crowd erupts with joy as I head to the line to sink the free throw. ◆

The Sport of Motorcross by Wyatt Lynch, Cascade, IA

I clutch the ball like my life depends on it

A sandstorm rolled over the hills

ace day quickly came upon the old motocross speedway. Trucks and cargo vans lined up behind the track with dirt bike after dirt bike being unloaded. The dirt bikes were shinier and cleaner than a brand-new vehicle bought off a new car lot. Every bike had its own unique color pattern. Team members examined them, and the team engineers filled the bikes with fuel and checked the oil to ensure the bikes would deliver peak performances.

Each rider dressed in a uniquely colored riding gear suit; the loud colors were almost clown-like. Each rider was equipped with a helmet and a pair of boots and gloves to match the rider’s shirt and pants. The riders rode their bikes to the starting line, revving their bikes to warm up the engines. Like a stop light at an intersection, there was a long moment of silence and the glow of the red light. Then the light switched to green, the gates dropped, and the race was on.

The compact dirt was watered down as if a soft rain had come through; it was just enough to kill the dust. The track had more curves than a cow path through a hilly pasture. Most turns wrapped around groves of trees while others ran alongside a riverbank. On the corners, there were ruts that looked as though a large garden rake had been dragged around the bend. Between each corner came jumps and valleys that flowed together like the ripples on a pond when a frog jumps in from the nearby shore.

The sound of a thunderstorm filled the air, but there was no rain. A sandstorm rolled over the hills, but there was no wind. Dirt bikes soared through the air like paper airplanes gliding on the breeze. When they hit the ground again, it was a stampede of zebras racing to avoid being the one in the back of the pack. Once the final racer passed the finish line, the thunderstorm passed and the sandstorm died out. ◆

SPORTS | MARCH 2021

Court Growth on the

by Talia Tamez, Austin, TX

hen you look up the definition of volleyball, it is described as a sport that includes a variety of people helping each other to get the ball over the net and scoring points. Yes, this is true, but before you actually get to play with your team, you have to bond with this group of people who become your second family. The court is wide and long but is divided by a seven-foot-high net. Every player knows that feeling before a game – that nervousness and excitement – but once you start, the nerves go away and your focus fuels your passion to get all the hits right over the net. This continues with the team coming together in the center of the court to cheer each other on when something good happens. I play outside, where I spend most of my time hitting and blocking the ball from touching and passing when necessary. When I’m at the net, I see the opponents through the squares. Block the hit, be ready for a tip, go to your “x,” approach the ball, elbow high, snap, and swing through. We win the point. Block the hit, be ready to get a tip, go to your “x,” approach the ball, elbow high, snap, and swing through. We lose the point. Pass the short serve, go to my “x,” approach the ball, elbow high, snap, and swing through. I’ve been playing volleyball since I was in fifth grade. It has always been that one thing – my comfort zone taking me away from the other things going on in my life. I clearly remember being one of the many individuals trying out for the fifth grade volleyball team. Due to volleyball being the only sport that we could try out for in elementary school, everyone was exuberant about it despite the

fact that there were so many people trying out. I made the team through my dedication, although I didn’t quite understand all the aspects of the game yet. I still found a way to enjoy it and bring my excitement for playing. When seventh-grade tryouts came around, I looked back at my experience and my growth. I wanted to try out so I could grow even more and get better at something that I felt very passionate about. The tryouts were much more challenging than my fifth-grade tryout experience. Yes, I did make the team and when we started playing, I got a new

I pushed myself and showed my best work during practices perspective on the sport. By eighth grade, more people tried out for the team, which meant more competition. I ended up making the B team at first. Of course, since my goal was to make A team like my past years, I pushed myself and showed my best work during practices. After my first game playing on the B team, I was moved up to be a starter on the A team for the rest of the season. That year definitely challenged me but also taught me the most. I learned that to really reach my goals I had to work for what I wanted. I had to play my best even if it was difficult at times. I knew the hard work would pay off later. I spent the summer after my eighth grade year preparing for high school tryouts. Not only did I bond with more people, but I also found myself progressively getting

Artwork by Seojin Moon, NYC, NY better at volleyball. I was on a satellite team and got involved in many camps. High school volleyball was a lot different, but the change was exciting. Our team got closer with not only each other but with other upperclassmen. I liked having those upperclassmen to look up to and learn from; I liked pushing through challenges and learning from them; and I liked watching myself and my teammates grow into the players we are now. One of my favorite things to think about after a game is how much growth there has been on my team in our years of playing together. We started off not knowing much about the sport, and now we are freshman who dive for the ball, are strategic at scoring points, play aggressively, and eagerly learn as much as we can together. Volleyball has taught me so much and has created a new home for me. I appreciate this sport for teaching me about the importance of teamwork, strength, confidence, and bravery – and I use those skills in my everyday life. I have learned to appreciate the bruises I get on my knees and the burns on my legs because it reminds me of the good plays where I dove for the ball or ran across the court to get the ball over the net. I appreciate every set that gives me a chance to hit the ball and be aggressive in order to score a point for my team. I continue to think about how much more I want to grow with this sport. I am truly passionate about volleyball, and I continue to set goals for myself in order to make myself better and better. ◆

TRAVEL & CULTURE | MARCH 2021

Fire in the Sky by Shelbie Hewitt, Golden, CO

he sounds of the African bush slowly began to wake my brother and me. The room we shared was small and quaint. Two twin beds hugged the wall. Nets hung from the ceiling and draped around the beds, keeping the bugs away. A slight bit of sunlight crept through the window as monkeys walked across the roof and the distant growls of leopards echoed throughout the camp. I wiped the remnants of sleep from my eyes and got out of bed. I opened the door to find the sun, beautiful and bright, coming over the African horizon. Orange and red danced across the sky like wildfire. I had never seen something so amazing, so spectacular. For a moment I forgot to breathe. How could I not fall in love with this place? A place where zebras came up to you

A distant head of a giraffe poked above the trees while walking down the road and elephants grazed by the water. A place where the sun looked as if it was from another planet. How could such a place exist? Words could not honestly depict what I saw there. From the doorway, I could see how far the land stretched. A distant head of a giraffe poked above the trees. A cape buffalo stood to my right only a few hundred feet away. Of course, I didn’t notice it for quite some time; my senses were too overloaded to take everything in. But as soon as I saw the giant snorting animal, I turned to my brother and shoved him inside. We quickly slammed the door shut, and waited for the animal to walk away. “Wow,” I said softly to my brother.

An Underwater Adventure by Easton Wiggins, Glendale, AZ

am surrounded by a rushing, cool liquid, blue as the sky. My clear mind takes in every inch available. Movement by movement, slowly inching forward, surrounded by colorful parcels referred to as our scaly friends. The newest waves, small in stature, break early and small ripples of water rush across my sunburnt face. My head submerged, I get only small breaths from a piece of plastic, as I take in the view of a lifetime – the colorful ocean floor. My eyes lock onto this real life Atlantis. The inhabitants, young and old, big and small, swim every which way without a care in the world. This civilization is an amazing, organized chaos. The wide variety of colors and movements resemble an underwater kaleidoscope, spinning and spinning, revealing the many different shapes that a kaleidoscope has to offer. The civilians of the sea are darting every which way around the city, exploring the new sights around town including a small fishing boat, capsized and sunken to the bottom or a plastic breathing tube designed to help someone survive, ominously left behind in the water’s depths. Small fish swim the short way to school each day. The teachers, old with wisdom, share

advice about the big open ocean. Students swim around learning everything they possibly can about the big, blue sea. Some interested, some not. These young civilians take a new approach at “fins-on learning” by conducting experiments on the proper way to avoid predators, where to find the best food, and how to make friends with the other fish. I watch as these little guys have a good time using the things they learned in school, something that we humans don’t seem to ever have to do, to fulfill their purpose in life. Predators, the criminals of the fish world, are scary, death-resembling fish. They swim, keeping an eye out for their next meal. The wisest of the community wears a seaweed green backpack, hard to the touch. He keeps it with him wherever he goes; he needs it to survive. I follow him through the civilization for minutes upon minutes. He swims over and through, checking on everyone and patrolling for trouble. He watches over the city, and the fish don’t seem bothered by his presence. In fact, they look like they know just how lucky they are to have this protector, keeper of the backpack. This leader, known as a wild sea turtle, takes some fish on a journey into the depths of the magnificent ocean, full of energy and speed. I follow him, too, and watch as he

He began to snort and laugh hysterically like the hyenas we had heard the night before and joked, “We almost died!” After about an hour of laughter, we hoped it was safe to leave. We quickly ran around the building to find our parents’ room. After furiously knocking on their door for what seemed like forever, my father finally answered. We burst into their room and told them about our morning. How we heard the animals from our room, how the sun burned in the sky, and about how we were almost killed by a buffalo. We spoke so frantically that they could barely comprehend what we were telling them. This was an experience that I will never forget and will cherish throughout my life, even when I am old and gray. ◆

This civilization is an amazing, organized chaos teaches swimming techniques to the young fish. The short field trip meanders through a small strip of colorful coral. The ecstatic students take off, surrounding themselves in these hard, underwater plants. The many colors of the fish swarming in all directions reminds me of a time when my only problem in life was cleaning up the box of crayons I had spilled on the kitchen floor. The colors scatter in every direction, almost as if this amazing, organized chaos is, in fact, a daily routine. I swim back to the beach which is littered with hard rocks and drop-offs. I watch what is left of the colors. The light begins to slip away, inch by inch. The powerful sun threatens to leave me in the dark, all alone. I take in every last bit of it: the magical view, the formations the fish swim in, the large sea turtle and his posse of small fish, the flourishing town of sea creatures, all living in harmony. All those except for the predators, of course. Back home, I miss the happiness I felt watching those creatures live their free lives without a care in the world. I miss the sand between my toes. I miss the pretty sunset, bouncing off the calming water, an indescribable scene I will never forget. Please take me back to Hawaii’s North Shore. ◆

TRAVEL & CULTURE | MARCH 2021

Walking Beneath the

Blossoms by Andy Zhang, Albany, CA

y parents and I arrived in Tokyo around 3:00 p.m. on Sunday afternoon, and the first thing I wanted to do was sleep. I hadn’t slept on the flight and my body was drawn to the hotel bed like a magnet. But my dad dragged me out of bed. “We didn’t spend all this money for you to sleep, Andy. Let’s go explore.” It was a beautiful day – no clouds, a nice cool breeze, and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. My dad, my mom, my dad’s friend Alex, and I walked through a park with hundreds of cherry blossom trees, their petals ranging from whitish pale pink to dark pink, which contrasted perfectly with the green grass. Lounging on blankets, people were eating picnics and laughing under the trees. It was startlingly clean. There was no litter on the ground. After a long stroll we were all starving. Alex, who lived in Japan, smiled and said he knew a place. We happily followed him, our stomachs growling. When we got to the restaurant, I almost walked right past it. From the outside, it was an unassuming place that didn’t seem to warrant Alex’s enthusiasm. It was a traditional Japanese restaurant – very small, packed but cozy. As soon as we walked through the curtains, the smell of cigarettes hit me. I coughed and covered my nose, but we were quickly seated at the back in the family section. We feasted on sashimi, rice, squid and oysters, and an egg dish called tamagoyaki. The adults talked about Japan, politics, and work. The topic of my dad living far from home came up. As I stuffed a piece of sashimi into my mouth, my dad said, “Yeah, it’s not too bad. It gets lonely sometimes but I find ways to fill the time. I started playing tennis so I can play with Andy.”

Alex looked at me and asked, “Oh, so you play tennis?” “Yeah, I play for the school team,” I said, covering my mouth. “And what school is that?” “Berkeley High. I’m a sophomore.”

We feasted on sashimi, rice, squid and oysters As I picked up another oyster, my mom gently slapped my back and commanded me to sit straight. I did as I was told, and when she looked away I returned back to my perfectly comfortable, somewhat slouched sitting position. We continued to talk and eat into the evening. When they brought the check, my jaw dropped; it was only around $10 dollars per person. As soon as I got back to our hotel, I toppled onto my bed and fell asleep. My dad moved from Berkeley, California to Saudi Arabia for work when I was in 6th grade. I see him three to four times a year, usually during the summer or on holiday breaks. Our periodic visits have made me appreciate the time I get with him, and I make the most out of that time. Once, when I was in 8th grade and we were in Italy for vacation, my dad and mom said they were going for a walk after dinner. Being lazy, and stuffed with pasta, I told them to have fun, plopped on the bed, and watched YouTube. Looking back, I regret that decision. I should’ve gone with them, no matter how lazy or stuffed I was feeling. I could watch YouTube anytime. I couldn’t say the same thing about

Photo by Emily Jorgesen, Beaverton, OR

walking the streets of Florence with my dad. Walt Whitman once said, “Happiness, not in another place but this place … not for another hour, but this hour.” When I crawled out of bed the next morning after our feast and looked out the window, I noticed that the cherry blossoms had begun falling off the trees. My dad came and stood beside me. “Pretty, isn’t it.” “They only bloom for a couple of weeks, right?” “Looks like we arrived on the perfect day to see them at their peak.” I laughed. “Good thing mom took like 100 pictures yesterday.” “Get dressed,” he said and slapped my back. “We’re going to breakfast!” Being able to appreciate the moment to its fullest is a cliché, but that doesn’t make it less true. Many people, including myself, are tempted by the easy gratification offered by our phones or games. Or, we spend so much time worrying about the future and what it holds that we forget what the present has. We forget the freedom of being young, the new and unique experiences, and the feeling of discovery. We forget the precious details of a walk beneath the cherry blossoms and a dinner in a smoky restaurant. My fleeting experiences with my dad have heightened my appreciation of the moment. Time is something I can never get back, so I might as well make the most out of it. ◆

FICTION | MARCH 2021

Artwork by Anahis Luna Memphis, TN

Faculty by Tess Boutin, Davis, CA

FICTION | MARCH 2021

o one ever seems to have heard of the tiny speck of a town in New England that Gabriela Markey calls home. It’s ironic, she ponders, how almost everyone within the perimeters of Forestview knows each other, but it is rare that anyone from elsewhere is aware of its mere existence. Her dad is a European literature teacher at a local private boarding school, which makes her and her sister, Melanie, faculty kids. She is far from oblivious to the shreds of gossip that buzz around them as they meander through campus: They’re Mr. Markey’s girls – I bet the teachers go easier on them. Or, Mr. Markey is so irritating and strict – I bet his girls are just as arrogant and uptight. Being a faculty kid affords Gabriela the privileges of easy access to prized privacy and convenient access to quality food. She realizes that boarding students whose homes are beyond the borders of the state often long for such luxuries. But Gabriela’s status also means that she finds herself perpetually in limbo between the lifestyle milieus of day students versus boarding students – the cultural codes of family versus peers. From the uneasy daily encounters (Should she say hi to her dad as her group passes him on the path to the dining hall?) to the deeper undercurrent involved in gaining the trust of boarders (Should she report them if she hears that they snuck out?) — there is a taxing balance to be maintained. Every day, she contemplates the pros and cons of just how much to cater to each group. Her Creative Writing teacher is her dad’s close friend. She has to act like a respectable, mature student around him and a carefree, nonchalant teenager around my classmates, all at once. Her family lives in a moderate shingled house that shares a wall with an upperclassmen boys dorm. What onlookers might not realize about this arrangement is that, after painful displays of embarrassing family moments in general living areas (It’s fine for me to wear this shirt tomorrow, she tells her Dad — everyone wears this kind of shirt!), working with these boys in chem lab or on a history project the next day can be awkward. And the noise

and mess that waft through the thin barriers are sources of never-ceasing annoyance. As she enters her junior year, Gabriela continues to experience a sense of exclusion from those late-night, in-dorm hangouts and the liberation of living so much more independently from parents. The boarding girls rehash manicure artistry and campus scandals, while she plays evening after evening of Scrabble with her parents and little sister.

She has to act like a respectable, mature student But this is not to say that Gabriela’s social life around school is completely dull; she has formed strategic friendships with fellow faculty kids who share the same pressure to appear as if they fit somewhere, who feel conflicted when enjoying a moment of solitude in their own bedrooms while slurping homemade soup, simultaneously wondering what they’re missing in the dorm during baking night. Without even speaking of it, they know that they float together in a moving bubble, caught between the vaulted position of privilege attached to a faculty association and the scorned status of a figure with ties too close to the power structure. The other faculty kids also empathize with her distaste for the petty grudges that can smother the campus and her wish that two of her closest friends would make an effort to resolve theirs. And they understand quieter nuances of her character, such as that she prefers “Gabriela” to “Gabi,” even though “Gabriela” can feel choppy in its length – and that she has a penchant for a meticulously planned schedule rather than what feels like the reckless-abandon approach employed by others. These small choices give her a sense of self-determination and control in surroundings that otherwise run circles around her. She'll just keep acting like she flows effortlessly between my worlds, and maybe they’ll believe it. It is a breezy, gentle summer that Gabriela spends at a writing workshop in a remote

mountainous region of Vermont. Before the end of the season, she returns home to campus. When school begins, she and her peers will fall back into a familiar routine. Each morning waking to the jolting summons of a 7:30 a.m. alarm, sometimes collapsing back into bed for a few precious stolen minutes before the inevitability of preparing for the trudge to class. And always looking forward to time spent with Melanie – reading laughable articles on friendship, journaling about new paths to forge, and planning dream vacations to presumed paradises in Italy and Hawaii. Gabriela and Melanie get each other more completely than anyone else, and they savor their comforting moments of uninhibited relaxation together on the carpeted floor of Gabriela’s bedroom, their laptops and pencils propped comfortably on their laps; their words, spoken and written, whirling about; their laughter weaving through the empty spaces. They don’t have to act effortless here because it just is. It sometimes seems as though their thoughts and insights press against the compactness of Forestview, yearning for expanded quantity and variety in the resources available nearby: the one traffic light, the pressure to be consistent with the personalities that everyone already perceives them to have, the provincialism of home and school coexisting in a confined space. At times, it feels entrapping. But the familiarity of the town often alleviates the need to approach new groups of people, which reduces the apprehension that Gabriela sometimes feels at the daunting task of socialization. She ponders these juxtapositions, the highs and lows of the Venn diagram of her life, as she strolls through the streets of Forestview. Her laptop tucked under her arm and formative writing ideas spinning through her head, she smiles a greeting to another faculty kid across the street at the one traffic light, knowing that they both are savoring the last few precious days of summer, breathing more easily in the less monitored space of the off-season before returning to the constraints of the campus. She hopes she can go through the motions, maintaining her dispassionate veneer for another year, she thinks – and continues on. ◆

FICTION | MARCH 2021

Photo by Margaret Dunn, Vancouver, BC, Canada

Game of Luck by Eve Boyer, Apex, NC

n the light of the moon, the forest yawned, a gaping maw patiently awaiting its prey. William Minyard shivered, averting his eyes from the treeline, digging the toe of his shoe into the frozen ground. He had allowed his two friends, Noah and Jonathan, to coerce him out of the house, but now, with his father’s winter coat wrapped tight around him, he regretted leaving his bed. The chilled air slipped its fingers into the gaping spaces not fully covered by the coat, chasing away any lingering warmth his bed had left him.

“Are you scared, Will?” came Noah’s voice unexpectedly. He startled out of his daze, looking up into the boy’s bright eyes. He had a slight grin on his face, blonde hair turned silver in the moonlight. Behind Noah, Jonathan stuck out his tongue, just barely visible over the blonde’s shoulder. William straightened, scowling. “No,” he replied, indignant. “Just wondering when we’re going to get on with it already. You

chickens have been dilly-dallying about for an hour now.” Jonathan honked out a laugh, which Noah quickly shushed, and raised his hands to surrender. “You’re not scared of The Beast?” “Of course he isn’t,” Noah cut in, slinging an arm over William’s shoulders, as if he weren’t shorter than William by nearly half a foot. “His daddy’s the butcher, so he’s not scared of anything! He’ll chop that beast up and make it into a nice winter stew.” “My dad being the butcher has nothing to do with it,” William replied, shoving his friend back toward Jonathan, ears burning. “Everybody knows The Beast isn’t real. It’s just some story they tell kids to keep ’em outta the woods.” “Oh, yeah? Then you’re not gonna wimp out on us when we start walking?” Jonathan goaded, shaking off Noah’s grasp. “I mean, I’d hate to have to tell Henrietta that you’re a coward …”

At the mention of his crush, William’s face reddened. He uncrossed his arms in an effort to seem more confident, though with them hanging by his sides, he probably seemed more awkward than before. Realizing this, William took a firm step toward his friends. Noah’s eyes lit up, a mischievous smile curling at his lips once more. “First one to turn back has to help Missus Margaret clean the stalls,” the blonde laughed, before spinning on his heel and making a break for the evergreens. William, too startled to react, watched him be swallowed by the darkened forest, disappearing in the span of a second, leaving Jonathan and William standing there in shock. “Hey!” Jonathan snapped after a pause, shaking off his surprise. He lunged forward.“Wait!” William tripped over his feet in his haste to follow after the taller boy, reaching out to snag Jonathan’s tattered blue scarf. Jonathan

FICTION | MARCH 2021

yelped at the sudden weight, reaching back to slap William’s hand away, and then they too were within the forest, racing after Noah and his bright blonde hair. He had slowed down near a rotting tree stump, face turned back to look for them, and William shoved at Jonathan to go faster so that they could catch up. His heart was pounding, sweat pooling on the back of his neck under the heavy ruff of his father’s coat. The roaring of blood in his ears almost drowned out Noah’s hushed snicker.

“I guess there’s no beast after all.” Jonathan let out his goose-honk laugh. “Of course not. You said it yourself, it’s just some dumb children’s tale.” “Or we were lucky,” Noah responded, though from the giggle he let out after, he didn’t take his words very seriously. William smiled, relieved to be out of the forest, and waved to his two friends before departing back toward his house.

“Took you scaredy cats long enough,” the blonde whispered. “You hardly gave us any warning before you took off,” Jonathan replied, scrubbing his knuckles over the shorter boy’s skull. William wrapped his arms around his middle, casting a wary glance around them. The path they were on was narrow and overgrown, barely visible through the thick foliage. It was quiet in the forest, dampened, and William worried that even his own heart beating was too loud in the muffled night. “Come on, Will,” Jonathan said, snagging him by his baggy sleeve and catching his attention once more. “We’ve gotta finish the trail. Unless … unless you’re too scared?” The thing about Jonathan Barlowe was that he was mean, and he didn’t get any less mean by being friends with Noah and William. The way he looked at William now, with that sly, gleaming look in his eye, William felt small. He knew he was a coward and knew that the only reason he was out here now was because of Noah’s persistent prodding. But to have Jonathan so blatantly call him out made the anxiety in his gut writhe. “Nah, Will’s fine.” Again, just like at the treeline, Noah came to his rescue, shoving Jonathan aside to jostle against William. The anxious boy let out a breath of relief, watching it fog into the air in front of him. With a hum and a shrug, Jonathan turned away, leading the trio deeper into the woods. William remained silent for the remainder of the trek, curling his frozen fists in the depths of his pockets. He only spoke when they finally pushed out from the treeline, stumbling back onto Old Benson’s property. William studied their footprints left behind in the snow from when they first entered the woods, untouched.

His heart was pounding, sweat pooling on the back of his neck When William slipped through his front door, his father was waiting for him. William froze, hand still on the handle, halfway turned to look at the burly figure of Kent Minyard seated on the stairs. The man’s broad shoulders were tense, and they did not relax at the sight of his son. With a sinking heart, William noted that his father’s auburn braids had not yet been unfurled, meaning that he had mistakenly assumed his father was asleep when he had sneaked out earlier that night. “Where have you been?” his father asked after a very long beat of silence. William trembled, letting his hand drop so that the sleeve of the oversized coat could slide past his wrists and cover his fingertips. His father’s keen eyes tracked the movement. “Out with Noah and Jonathan,” William replied, quiet and meek. “We-” “I didn’t ask who you were with. I asked where.” He fell silent again, eyes to the floorboards in shame. His father was content to wait him out, elbows braced on his knees, strong eyebrows furrowed. William dithered until the guilt became too much to bear, and when he cried out his confession, the words broke. There was a heavy pause. “The forest,” his father repeated, slowly. “You were in the forest, with Noah Smith and Jonathan Barlowe?” “Yes.”

“Why in God’s name would you go into the forest?” His father stood, a sudden movement that had William hunching his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut. He squeaked when two large hands grabbed his biceps, fingers easily wrapping around his skinny arms. “William, my boy, you know The Beast is in that forest! What sort of faerie came and stole your brains tonight? You know better than to try your luck!” “I thought it was just a kid’s story,” William blubbered, limp in his father’s grasp. “The Beast isn’t real–” “It’s real,” his father thundered. William opened his eyes, focusing on his father’s red beard instead of his furious gaze. “You kids don’t understand. You weren’t there when it happened. The Beast is real, and while you need enough luck to get you through each stupid, hair-brained trip through the woods, The Beast only needs enough luck to encounter you once.” The terror that welled up in William was overwhelming, flooding his lungs and crowding up his throat. He choked on it, shaking, and when his father let him go, his knees nearly buckled. William was sent to his room, and he fell onto his mattress, still wrapped in the oversized coat. Weeks went by, and the terror faded with each story Noah and Jonathan told him of their adventures in the forest – adventures William had been avoiding. Their excitement and courage made him wonder exactly what he was so scared of – his father’s hot breath on the side of his face, calloused hands on his shoulders, the fear in his father’s voice – and eventually, he decided to join them once again. It was a full moon, and William had made sure to check that his father was truly sleeping before he sneaked out with the man’s heavy coat under his arm. Noah and Jonathan met him at the end of the street, leaning on Mister McParth’s fence and cooing at the goats that had come out to greet them, their soft bleating enough to calm William’s anxiety. “Hey, look who decided to show up!” Noah said, once he caught sight of William coming down the road. His smile was blinding, making up for the raspberry Jonathan

FICTION | MARCH 2021

blew on the palm of his hand, and William shrugged and went to stand by the blonde. “Well, you two have been running around in the forest for who knows how long without me,” William replied, “I figured I couldn’t let you have all the fun.” Jonathan snorted, but said nothing, wrapping his ever-present blue scarf tighter. They waited while William unraveled his father’s coat and swathed himself within its folds, and then they pushed away from Mister McParth’s goats and hurried down the street, snickering amongst themselves. William allowed himself to be jostled by his friends, bantering to hide his nerves, but when they reached the treeline behind Old Benson’s barn, all good feelings drained away. The Beast only needs enough luck to encounter you once, his father had said; but Noah and Jonathan had been going into the woods anyways, and they hadn’t seen The Beast. “Come on, maybe we can show you the old bear den we found.” Noah tugged on William’s arm in excitement, yanking him toward the forest while he chattered about the old animal bones they saw and the claw marks around the roots the den had been made from. Jonathan ambled behind them, content to keep his teasing to himself for once, though William knew his anxiety would’ve been an easy target. In the darkness, all he could focus on was the paleness of Noah’s face. They arrived at the den after a while of walking, having deviated from the path not long after they broke the treeline. William stood at the entrance to the den as Noah crawled in between the roots and held up bones for him to see, giggling. In the cool air, surrounded by silence, William could almost forget why he was so frightened, could … “Hey, where’s Jonathan?” Noah asked, peeking out from the roots. He had a larger bone in his hand, the knobs of it stark in the darkness. William turned around. Jonathan had been quiet for most of the night, but thinking back, he hadn’t said a word since they got off the

He tapped the head of the bone along the ground trail. William couldn’t even recall if he had followed them to the den. Now, where the brunette should have been, there was only empty space. “Oh, Lord,” Noah cursed, clambering out of the den. “We’ve lost the idiot. He’s probably waiting for us back at Old Benson’s farm.” William hesitantly laughed out, “What a chicken,” though it fell flat. His voice was shaking too much, suddenly overcome with nerves. Noah peered at him, tapping the head of the bone along the ground, as if thinking. They stood in the deadened quiet for a moment longer before Noah put his free hand to his mouth and called out for their missing friend. William hissed at him, slapping at his face to get him to be quiet. “Who’s gonna hear us,” the blonde said, frowning. The absence of his cheerful smile unnerved William. “We’re the only people out here.” “Yes, that may be true, but I’ll hear you,” came the reply, all silky and sharp, curling from the underbrush. William’s eyes snapped to their left. In the darkness of the night, the thing’s eyes gleamed bright and whole, its wicked mouth curved to show its bloodied teeth. It moved on two legs, though it should have been on four, some hulking monster made of coarse black fur and jagged claws and too-long fangs and too-big ears. On its back, slung over its thick ruff, was a threadbare blue scarf, torn and dark with blood. Their luck had run out. The Beast had found them. “Oh, Lord,” Noah said again, a mere whisper. He dropped the bone at his side. “Oh, Lord.” “No, not the Lord,” The Beast grinned, prowling closer. William opened his mouth to scream – to scream and scream until his lungs ran out of air, and he fell to the ground, dead. The Beast is real, his father had said,

words clear as day over the catastrophe of noise in his mind. The Beast is real. It leapt for them, then, jaws parted and hands outstretched. It was not William who screamed, but Noah, high and clear. It rang in the air even after The Beast tore his throat out, fangs crunching through muscle and bone alike. William ran, blind with terror, uncaring of the branches that whipped him and the roots he tripped over. He needed to get out, he needed to get help, the treeline was so close. Jonathan’s mutilated body was strewn out by the rotten tree stump Noah had stopped by all those weeks ago, grotesque and unrecognizable save for his brown curls. A trail of blood was smeared off into the thicket, chunks of flesh scattered about as if he had been dragged. William shrieked, leaping away from the body, and his back hit something warm and solid and alive. “Hello, little boy,” The Beast said, reeking of copper. Its massive hands closed around his heaving ribcage, almost gentle, claws glittering in the dim moonlight. Something hot and wet dribbled from above William and into his hair. Kent Minyard sat up in bed, startled out of his sleep for reasons unknown. He blinked blearily into the darkness of his room, unsure of why he had awoken, but nevertheless unnerved. Something about the scene was off; it took him several minutes to realize what was troubling him. His coat was missing from where he had left it, folded on his desk. Oh, Kent thought, muddled. William? Wild panic began to unfurl in Kent’s chest, confusion and desperation alike, only to be crushed by cold certainty. In the absence of the momentary alarm was only an empty cavern, his heart lying still within his rib cage. He knew what had roused him. Within the forest, The Beast began to laugh. ◆

FICTION | MARCH 2021

Dust

by Harriet Baldwin, Palo Alto, CA

e Done?" The little girl signs, pushing back in her mother’s arms. The mother’s eyes are closed. The girl puts a tiny hand on her mother’s tear-stained cheek, urging her to open them. "Done?" She signs again.

The cellar shakes. More dust rains down and sticks to the wet faces of the families huddled around them. They are dimly lit by the flickering gas lamp on the cold concrete floor. The mother cringes, wipes her eyes, and tries to smile at her daughter. She shakes her head no. The little girl stares at her mother,

until she feels another tremor rock their hiding place. The mother’s eyes squeeze shut, and she shudders. The girl doesn’t know why it’s so scary. The shaking down here is just like when a train goes by next to their little house. She glances around, the young adults with stoic faces, the fathers cradling their families, and other little girls hugging their mothers. Their mouths are open, eyes shut, tears streaming down. Their mothers clutch their heads, covering their ears with their palms, rocking back and forth. They cry too.

The mother plants a shaken kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, and the muffled sound of war grows weaker. ◆

Artwork by Sylvie Kotsonis, Newfields, NH

I'm about to go insane Perhaps too forcefully, I slam the glass onto the counter, grab my jacket from the coat rack and my keys from the bookshelf. I go out the door and down three flights of stairs to breathe relatively clean air. It circulates through my veins and I settle. I decide to take a walk down the empty street. The concrete zeniths stare over me. A movement catches my attention. A pastel cat lays at the end of an abandoned alley, rolling around in presumably its own filth. The sparkling eyes a complementary blue. I hesitate to get any closer, but do.

Phosphorescent by Ethan Schlett, Hartland, WI

The little girl gets her mother’s attention again, as the brick walls tremble. "Okay," she signs, deliberately. "I love you." She places her small, dirty hands over her mother’s ears, and leans against her chest, feeling her stuttering breath begin to slow. The mother doesn’t move, until more debris floats down from the ceiling, and she’s wrapping her daughter in her arms, holding her closer, letting her hands block out the noise – the explosions, the screaming, the sirens and fire, that she cannot hear.

sit at the dimly lit dining table, alone with my thoughts. The lights of the city peek into the anxious apartment. I feel like a wasted, unfurnished house. It is April 14, 1985 in Sapporo, Japan.

My vision starts to blur. I stare at a gash in the wooden table for too long, choose another insignificant object, and then stare once more. Focus, I tell myself. It’s already one o’clock in the morning, I need a break. I incoherently trudge to the kitchen where I grab a water bottle and hastily choose a glass. The cap rolls like a quarter onto the granite, then I pour half the bottle in. I rest my weight on my elbows and stare at the monotone backsplash. A tired peace manifests within me. Then a sawtooth buzz emerges. Typically, a fly is an insignificant, unnoticed aspect of life. But exponentially it is the most irritating noise I’ve ever heard. I swat at it and even yell. I’m about to go insane.

The details of the cat then come into fruition. The eyes are even more distinguished than I could imagine. Something about this cat has failed to repel me. Now I’m less than a meter away; the cat tilts its head in curiosity. I bend down, cup my hand, and pat the top of its soft, harmless head. As if in response, the city claps a sound of generators shutting down. My heart gains buoyancy. A blackness engulfs the citadel. The cat’s eyes glow a phosphorescent baby blue, undisturbed by the power outage. Two whole galaxies hover in the near pitch-black environment. Then a scattered green light appears. Lightning bugs emerge from the nooks and crannies of the concrete. Hundreds, then thousands of them manifest throughout the entire height of the alley. For the first time in my life, I start to look up. A faint white light catches my eye. The light pollution of the city is expunged. I run back through the alley to the wide open intersection. The stars are palpable figures that feel as if they are projections only meters away. Fire hydrants, trash bags, and bushes are faintly illuminated. I soak in the catharsis and reach my hand out to a firefly. It lands on my palm and turns off its light. At a closer glance, it looks convincingly similar to a common housefly. ◆

BOOK REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

Book HISTORY

Bomb: The Race to Build – and Steal – the World’s Most Dangerous Weapon By Steve Sheinkin Review by Noah Foster, Atyrau, Kazakhstan

he atomic bomb is complete, the race to build the world’s most dangerous weapon has been won. Steve Sheinkin retells the fascinating story of the atomic bomb: who made it, what it took, and the outcome. The book, Bomb, explores many different and unique characters and their role in creating the atomic bomb.

This nonfiction book primarily follows the physicist Robert Oppenheimer and his team of scientists (some of whom are Soviet spies) to create the atom bomb. In addition to the characters and the science, Sheinkin explores the three-way race between the U.S., Germany, and the Soviet Union to build the world’s most dangerous weapon. In a story like this, the author’s craft is very important. Too much science and history or not enough story and action could bore some readers. However, Sheinkin creates the perfect blend of history and action. In fact, the book reads as any regular story would. Sheinkin

transforms a boring textbook subject into an intense and fast-paced read. Sheinkin creates an exciting and compelling read by looking at the event as a race. By doing this, it makes the story very intense, making you turn page after page to find out who will create the bomb first.

when reading history books. However, Sheinkin gives each character a unique personality so you really get to know who they are, rather than just knowing their names. Sheinkin does this by using quotes and describing the characters’ actions to show how they talk and what they are feeling.

The perfect blend of history and action

In the book, there is a man named Leslie Groves, who was overseer of the atomic bomb program. Sheinkin describes Groves as “a big man, with a big personality – loud, bossy, demanding, quick to criticize.” From this, you can tell that he is a no-nonsense type of guy whose only goal is getting the job done. These descriptions make these historical figures come to life, which really separates this book from textbooks.

To break away from science and history, Sheinkin tells mini-stories to keep the book interesting while staying on topic. One story that is particularly exciting is about a highly trained group of commandos sneaking into Nazi-occupied Norway to destroy a factory that was crucial to Hitler’s atomic bomb program. What is unique about this story is the way Sheinkin told it. He made it like a “Mission Impossible” operation with fast-paced action and on-the-edge-of-your-seat suspense. This gave the book a nice break from all the history and kept the story interesting. The most important part of a history book are its facts, and Sheinkin uses them perfectly. In addition to all the dates and science you would find in a textbook, Sheinkin uses interesting and useful facts that keep the readers engaged. And rather than just saying, “The atomic bomb is equivalent to 21,000 tons of TNT,” Sheinkin says, “In 1917, in Halifax Harbor, Canada, a ship packed with millions of pounds of explosives and ammunition caught fire and blew up. The blast flattened buildings a mile in all directions and killed at least 2,000 people. It sent a 1,000-pound anchor soaring two miles in the air. One uranium bomb, small enough to fit on a plane, could pack ten times that power.” This makes the facts relatable and much more fascinating than just giving you bland information that means nothing without context. You rarely think about character development

Throughout Bomb, Sheinkin raises many thought-provoking questions: Was it right to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima? Could Oppenheimer have been trusted? Is creating the atomic bomb a good thing? Should humans have such power? While Sheinkin tries to keep his opinions out, he gives you the voices and feelings of the characters. With the atomic bomb complete, “Oppenheimer thought of a line from an ancient Hindu scripture, The Bhagavad-Gita, a dramatic moment in which the god Vishnu declares: ‘Now I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.’” Bomb is so much more than a history textbook. It has a proper story like any other fiction novel with an interesting plot and unique characters, while still staying true to the history of the atomic bomb. Bomb is a great read for anyone wanting to learn more about the untold history of the atom bomb. ◆

BOOK REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

SCI-FI/ROMANCE

The Grief Keeper By Alexandra Villasante Review by Willow Kwak, Amherst, MA

lexandra Villisante’s novel, The Grief Keeper, is an illuminating story about two undocumented immigrant girls with a sci-fi twist. Villasante successfully blends science fiction, realistic fiction, and lesbian romance,into a masterpiece.

officials, but the mystery remains until the end of the book. The queer love story is a stark contrast to the story of trauma in El Salvador and the bias Marisol now faces in the U.S. Villasante adds all the right elements to make it a good story; she accurately depicts an illegal border crossing, and every character has a motive behind their actions. She describes love that can relieve pain and love that can drive us to cause it. Villasante’s book is vivid, moving and includes all the stories we don’t hear enough in young adult literature. I would recommend The Grief Keeper to anyone who is interested in LGBTQ+ stories, immigration, and reading a story that’s truly a reflection of the times we live in. For those familiar with The Giver by Lois Lowry, The Grief Keeper follows a similar theme: how we, as Americans, hold each other’s stories. For me, Marisol and Gabi represent modern America and all the different stories we hold. I recommend this book for ages 13 and up because it contains many stories of sexual harassment, depression, and suicide. It is not a light read; it’s one that will leave you shaken and changed, and will show you how to look at the world with new eyes. ◆

FICTION

Review by William Yao, Chattanooga, TN

Maybe it seems surprising to see such a feminist perspective from Updike, a writer criticized by some for his portrayal of women in novels like Rabbit Run. But Updike’s interest in understanding the perspectives of mistreated women runs throughout his career. In the end, Hamlet ends up becoming a villain of sorts. By avenging his father, he is fighting on the side of the patriarchy that imprisons his mother. Gertrude’s crime, in Hamlet’s eyes, is betraying the patriarchal system that he spends all of the original play defending. However, I do question one of Updike’s choices: in his version, Gertrude is unaware that Claudius killed Horwendill. Perhaps this lets the character off too easily. A more provocative approach might be to show Gertrude as a co-conspirator to Claudius’ crime and ask readers to identify with her anyway. Because she’s not a party to this crime, we don’t feel her pain or see her wrestle with difficult moral questions. There’s still room for exploring a more complex version of Gertrude.

amlet is such a universally adored story, that a number of writers have attempted to retell the tale from the perspective of other characters. Whereas Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (1966) milks those minor characters for

Shakespeare fans would be smart to pick up Updike’s novel for a compelling update on this unique story. Gertrude and Claudius is not one of the novelist’s best-known books, but it’s an inspiring read for any aspiring writer looking for a new way to update the classics. ◆

The story begins in a detention center in Pennsylvania. Seventeen-year-old Marisol Morales and her twelve-year-old sister Gabi are seeking asylum in the United States following the murder of their brother by a gang in El Salvador. They fled with no belongings and braved the harrowing journey to the border, riding in trucks with smugglers and walking miles in the hot sun. After successfully running away from the detention center, they are picked up by the mysterious Indiraine Patel. Patel offers Marisol asylum for both her and her sister in exchange for Marisol participating in a risky study of a new medical procedure. Marisol agrees to become a grief keeper, taking someone else’s grief into her own body, to keep her sister safe. She knows she is being used, but she is desperate. They can’t go back and she would do anything for her sister, but everything changes when she meets the girl whose grief she’s supposed to be taking away; Marisol never expected to fall in love. Villasante uses flashbacks throughout the book to help Marisol’s full backstory come into view. From the beginning it’s clear there’s something she’s hiding from the immigration

an existentialist dark comedy, John Updike’s Gertrude and Claudius (2000) explores the psychology of Gertrude, Hamlet’s mother. Updike does not depict Gertrude as a vulnerable woman who bends willingly to power. In Updike’s version, her marriage to Claudius is one of love, and the murder of Horwendill, Hamlet’s father, is a result of him discovering Claudius and Gertrude at a cottage far from the castle at Elsinore. This unique novel by one of America’s most acclaimed writers draws on the influence of the same books Shakespeare himself would have studied regarding Prince Hamlet: the Saxo Grammaticus and Histoires Danicae. In doing so, Updike provides Gertrude’s perspective. She is no longer the distant mother drained of passion in Shakespeare’s telling. Now she is a moving, three-dimensional character: a bold woman navigating the complex power dynamics of the Danish court. She seeks both power and love, and the novel seems to suggest that the tragic circumstances of the play Hamlet stem from Danish society’s unwillingness to allow her both. Updike, by providing Gertrude’s perspective, allows us to see her as a woman bound by her love for Claudius, as well as the social ethics of the Danish court. Even this powerful queen is subject to sexual oppression as a woman.

Gertrude and Claudius By John Updike

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

Movie & TV TV DRAMA

"The Wilds" Amazon Prime Review by Kavya W., Pittsburgh, PA

“T

he Wilds,” created by Sarah Streicher, chronicles the survival of a group of teen girls on an isolated island after their plane crashes. Unknown to the girls, however, the crash has been carefully orchestrated, and they are actually unwitting subjects of a social experiment designed to study what a world created and run by women would look like. The primary force behind the experiment, psychologist Gretchen Klein (Rachel Griffiths), fervently believes that a society run by women would not only catalyze progress and development for humanity as a whole, but would also vastly improve the quality of life for women and girls.

In a scene set during the planning and recruitment stage of the project, Klein implores one of the young women to consider, “Am I thriving? Are my fellow young women thriving? Thriving in this culture created by men? Aren’t we all suffering? Pushing ourselves to perfection, taking on too much and then breaking at the seams? Imagine stepping away from it all, breaking free,

logging off. Imagine spending a few months in an environment where societal pressures are eliminated, replaced only by the simple responsibilities of breathing, surviving, and becoming more truly yourself. And at the same time, creating a world that men don’t control. A world of our very own.” The promise of an alternative to the patriarchal social order is alluring to me as an 18-yearold girl, particularly as a woman of color who continues to confront hostililty in the world. The young characters in the show also contend with this reality. One girl struggles to define herself beyond athletic achievement and consequently develops an eating disorder. One struggles to come to terms with her queerness within the context of a homophobic household. Their stories are nuanced and complex, painting an accurate representation of the diverse issues many young women grapple with today. The racial diversity of the cast is also refreshing, particularly seeing two young Native American women represented. Though it can be unrealistic at times, “The Wilds” successfully builds suspense and does an excellent job of cultivating viewers’ investment in each character’s storyline. The screenplay is well-written and witty, and the dialogue is consistent with the way American teen girls talk. However, my attachment to this show goes far beyond just appreciating the artistic, cinematic, or narrative value of “The Wilds.” My fixation is not just about being excited by the diversity, representation of queer characters, or the portrayal of strong women. At the heart of my enthrallment is the show’s profound and total divergence from content that caters to the male gaze, something that is infuriatingly difficult to find. There are few demographics as scrutinized, mocked, or belittled more than teenage girls. This phenomenon is perpetuated because those maintaining it often don’t recognize the ways it is grounded in misogyny. For example, the trend of mocking “VSCO girls” that dominated Gen Z social media platforms in 2019 illustrates how entertainment and humor are contingent upon making fun of girls. The VSCO girl label was created as a stereotype for white, middle-class teen girls who wear oversized t-shirts and scrunchies, and use

metal straws to minimize plastic waste. They were the target of the internet’s disdain for months. Although it was viewed as a harmless internet joke, it’s a symptom of epidemic misogyny that has managed to proliferate without criticism, because it is packaged in a way that doesn’t evoke explicit sexism. As a young woman, it is nearly impossible to escape the ruthless scrutiny of larger society. “The Wilds” is revolutionary because it undermines this paradigm, creating an exclusively female space where the characters are free of the pressures of modern life. The premise of giving a group of young women the chance to essentially build a new micro-society from the ground up is a radical idea, and one that hasn’t been explored adequately. The looming pressure to perform at the same level as, appeal to, and secure the approval of their male counterparts is lifted from the shoulders of the all-female cast. Margaret Atwood once penned an eerie passage that captures the way that the male gaze haunts every woman: “Is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” “The Wilds” is the first TV show I have seen that escapes the male gaze. The show almost exclusively features women behind as well as in front of the camera, which empowers the cast, who remain un-sexualized, complex, messy characters that don’t play into a malecentered fantasy. As a young woman, divulging in this show provides a respite from a world that makes everything I do feel like a performance that is being scrutinized or held up in comparison to men. It allows me, just for an hour-long episode, to escape the watcher peering through the keyhole. ◆

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

TV DRAMA

leader of the group. The drama is infused with humor, like when someone jumps them to steal their money and says, “Put your hands up and give me your money” and Ruben replies, “How are we supposed to get our money if our hands are up?” The show is very relevant to the teen population, and the storylines are relatable. “On My Block” does a great job showing viewers the struggles with growing up in general (love, loss, puberty, navigating friendships and school) as well as the struggles of growing up in South Central Los Angeles (gangs, crime, violence). I give “On My Block” two thumbs up. Tune in to Netflix to watch. ◆

HORROR

"On My Block" Netflix

“O

Monsé (Sierra Capri) is a strong, brave, and selfless person who always puts friends before herself. Ruben (Eric Neil Gutierrez) is a girl-obsessed, determined, yet insecure young man, and “a wizard of words.” Sometimes that backfires when he is nervous and spits out the wrong thing, getting him into trouble. Jamal (Brett Gray) is a delicate, dramatic, smart teen.

Relevant to the teen population He has a strong relationship with Ruben’s abuela, as she is his RollerWorld partner and advisor for anything he needs, good or bad. Cesar (Diego Tinoco) is a complex character who is somewhat sensitive, but also a dynamic

The movie starts out with Barbara visiting her father’s grave along with her brother Johnny who is attacked by a man wandering the graveyard aimlessly. In response, Barbara runs away, abandoning her brother, and reaches a farmhouse. She explores the house for a while as more zombie-like people wander around outside. A man drives up to the house in a pickup truck, quickly killing three of these ghouls. His name is Ben, and for the rest of the movie he tries to become leader of the main cast. The rest of the main cast are hiding down in the basement. This group includes the Coopers, a husband and wife (played by Karl Hardman and Marilyn Eastman) along with their daughter (Kyra Schon). There is also a teen couple, Tom and Judy (Keith Wayne and Judith Ridley), who are hiding with them. This cast of characters is required to plan and execute an escape, or else they will all be killed.

Shows how societal norms break down in the face of danger

Review by Maya Cecil, Delta, OH

n My Block” is a coming-of-age story featuring four smart and streetsavvy kids trying to get through high school. This action-packed show features one neighborhood in inner-city Los Angeles, where the teens are trying to get their friend out of a gang, and hunting for the elusive RollerWorld treasure. The characters continually face danger and dilemmas, such as gangs, violence, and threats to self-esteem. They each have a diverse personality, which makes the show even more interesting.

played by Duane Jones and Judith O’Dea play their respective roles exceptionally well.

"Night of the Living Dead" Movie (1968) Review by by Luke Donabedian, Methuen, MA

“N

ight of the Living Dead" is often credited as the turning point of the horror genre and became the root of all zombie films. The film was directed by George A. Romero who never called his villainous hoards "zombies." In the movie they are only referred to as “ghouls,” yet they somehow sparked the explosion that would be the booming genre of zombie films. The movie first came to theaters in 1968 and quickly became an occult classic around the world.

“Night of the Living Dead” is about a group of people who find themselves trapped inside a farmhouse and how they react to the horrific hoards of the undead banging at their door. The main characters, Ben and Barbara,

The tension comes mostly from the actors on screen, not the monsters shuffling quietly outside. Barbara is freaking out after seeing her brother get attacked. She yells at Ben to help her find her brother, but he knocks her out because she is becoming hysterical. The stress of her situation leaves her nearly silent for the rest of the film. Mr. Cooper gets violent with Ben early on, as he thinks hiding in the cellar is safer and easier to guard. Ben believes that upstairs is better due to multiple escape paths and supplies. Mr. Cooper wants to protect his family and doesn't care if anyone else makes it out alive. When faced with fear, some lose their manners and lean on their primal urges. The movie shows us how societal norms quickly break down in the face of danger and death. I highly recommend this movie, although it's not appropriate for young children. "Night of the Living Dead" delves into human psychology in the face of horror and is very well made for the time period. There were no special effects back in the 1960s, so everything was acheived with makeup. The movie uses screenplay techniques not seen in theaters much anymore; in some scenes, no one speaks for up to five minutes! Visuals and camera angles do more of the speaking. The acting is amazing, and the soundtrack is perfect for the mood the film is trying to convey. ◆

MUSIC REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

Music POP ROCK

"Fine Line" By Harry Styles Review by Jemmie Piersol Freedman, Berlin, MA

arry Styles’s self-titled debut album was good, but it left fans totally unprepared for “Fine Line.” In fact, apart from Styles’s distinctive vocals, it’s sometimes hard to believe that both albums are by the same artist. Compared with the rich production and engaging lyrics of “Fine Line,” the first album, “Harry Styles,” appears sparse and even immature. It’s exciting to see Styles undergo such a dramatic evolution in just two albums. Something has changed and “Fine Line” is the captivating product.

The album starts off with a bang with “Golden,” as the quiet intro bursts into atmospheric harmonies and a chugging groove. Styles sings about a new relationship and seems excited yet nervous about what it will bring. The overall feel is hopeful, and the listener wants to cheer him on. From there, it’s on to the chill summer vibes of “Watermelon Sugar.” This song ambles along in no particular hurry, savoring those “strawberries on a summer evening.” What makes the song, though, is the unexpected funkification of the second verse onward, aided by a bombastic horn

section. The third song, “Adore You,” may be most familiar to listeners, due to its frequent radioplay. While a bit repetitive and blatantly more pop than Styles fans are accustomed to, it’s definitely funky and danceable. Number four, “Lights Up,” is a masterpiece. The groovy verse flows into a subdued pre-chorus and then into an almost gospel-like refrain. Music theory lovers will appreciate the ambiguous “blue note” in the pre-chorus. With “Cherry” and “Falling,” the record begins to falter, though it quickly resurfaces. “Cherry” is somewhat reminiscent of Styles’s debut, though in this case that’s not a compliment. The song has its high points, such as the lovely harmonies in the chorus and bridge, but is rather dull overall. The random sampling of Styles noodling on a guitar while his ex-girlfriend speaks in French doesn’t help. “Falling” is an attempt at an emotional ballad, with little to distinguish it from similar songs. It will likely be remembered as just another slow, sad, pop track. Fortunately, the quality picks up again in the album’s second half. The playful feel of “To Be So Lonely” masks a compelling duality in the lyrics. Styles wants to dismiss his partner’s concerns, cockily crooning, “You can’t blame me, darlin’/Not even a little bit.” And yet in the same verse, he acknowledges that he has been “arrogant” and “can’t admit when he’s sorry.” Track number eight, “She,” is a slow rocker, much like “Woman” from his debut. “She” is a vast improvement from its sometimes draggy predecessor, however. It tells the story of an unhappy man bored with his life as an office worker. To cope, he daydreams of life with an ideal – and very imaginary – woman. The song culminates in a classic-rock-style jam session that runs about six minutes. Rest assured, however, those six minutes will not be wasted. “Sunflower, Vol. 6” is possibly the best track on the album, combining a reggae feel with modern pop instrumentation and superbly detailed production. The song is, at different times, reminiscent of both summer pop and the schmaltzier repertoire of Queen. It is

Candid and good fun great fun; Styles even throws in some of his trademark whoops, yelps, and onomatopoeic shouts toward the end. The layered production ensures listeners will continue uncovering hidden new sounds within it for a while. “Canyon Moon” is lovely, upbeat, and folksy featuring an uncommon instrument in pop music: the dulcimer. The vocal harmonies build all the way up to a satisfying conclusion. “Treat People with Kindness” is equal parts gospel, ABBA, and old-fashioned rock-n’-roll and wholly a good time. It is a rollicking and uplifting number, reminding listeners to be kind to others. The final song, “Fine Line,” is a fitting end to the album. It starts tenderly as Styles sings, “Put a price on emotion/I’m looking for something to buy.” The song crescendos, then surges into a triumphant blaze of glory. Trumpets play, backed by rolling marching drums, as Styles shouts, “We’ll be a fine line/We’ll be all right.” This summarizes a sentiment reflected throughout the album: Life is complicated, and it is not always easy to tell right from wrong. But in the end – at least we can hope – it will be okay. The song (and the album) ends with a simple piano chord, played twice for finality. The effect is as satisfying as the final, “never-ending” piano chord in The Beatles’ classic, “A Day in the Life.” Styles leaves us on a tender note by playing the chord as quietly as possible. It is cathartic, leaving listeners to sit back and contemplate everything they just heard. Overall, “Fine Line” is a wonderful album that exceeds all expectations set by its predecessor. It is candid while not being maudlin and maintains good fun with a sense of humor. It is a unique and exciting listen for those with an open mind. Listeners will come away impressed and eagerly anticipating whatever Styles dishes up next. ◆

MUSIC REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

ALTERNATIVE/INDIE

heard from Bridgers before. On “Kyoto,” maybe the biggest hit on the album, Bridgers ditches her acoustic guitar and uses indie rock to reflect on a recent trip to Japan.

An introspective masterpiece

"Punisher" By Phoebe Bridgers Review by Ethan Henry, Madeira, OH

fter Phoebe Bridgers’ 2017 album “Stranger in the Alps,” many people wondered if there was anywhere left to go. After all, the critically acclaimed debut featured some of the finest singer-songwriter tracks in recent memory. In fact, John Mayer even tweeted out the song “Funeral,” claiming it marked the “arrival of a giant.” Where could she possibly go from there? The answer is actually quite simple; instead of expanding her lyrics to the world around her, Bridgers looked further into her own life. The result is “Punisher,” an introspective masterpiece and one of the best albums of 2020.

From opening instrumental “DVD Opener” to epic closer “I Know the End,” this album is packed full of reflections on life, touring, living in the city, and more. On “Chinese Satellite,” Bridgers describes her confused state of mind with the lines, “I’ve been running around in circles/Pretending to be myself/ Why would somebody do this/When they could do something else?” This is a prime example of what makes Bridgers’ music so powerful. She includes poetic details to create imagery, but they only make the songs more emotionally accessible to listeners. Perhaps there’s another reason why this album has connected with so many – because this record was recorded following a period of depression and released during the COVID-19 pandemic, it connected with everyone forced to quarantine. Its lyrical introspection is only fitting for the times we live in. Musically, listeners can expect a completely different sound from “Punisher” than they’ve

The song features electric guitar backed by energetic drums, and it’s the closest thing to a rock anthem that she has ever recorded. However, the track’s autoharp and mellotron also make it one of the most sonically experimental songs on the album. The traces of her alt-folk influences are still here; listeners can hear elements of Elliot Smith in some of the softer tracks, but this record covers ground that might surprise many longtime fans. Rock and folk are both represented here. Even references to country music can be found in “Graceland Too,” which name-checks both Elvis and Memphis. Ultimately, “Punisher” should be on every list of essential listening for 2020, not only for fans of singer-songwriter music, but for anyone who has ever found difficulty in isolation. Bridgers has not only outdone her remarkable debut; she has also produced the album that so many listeners needed this year. ◆

DANCE/ELECTRONIC

indsey Stirling – a dynamic, electronic violinist – transcended once again into the mythical world with the concept of her new album, “Artemis.” Included within “Artemis” are mystifying themes, stories, and characters that can be found from Greek mythology. Artemis, daughter of Zeus, is the goddess of the moon who protects and defends virtue and femininity. Using imagination, creativity, and inspiration, Stirling developed a storyline for the character, Artemis, and applied anime to portray her concept for her album. She has also created an entire comic book for the storyline of her album.

The album drives motion forward, yet allows the melodies to slowly unravel themselves throughout each song. Each song describes the drastic themes with strong, intense volume coming from the violin itself. Not a lot of people would think the violin is a bold, daring work of art, but Stirling has surely showed this unrecognizable side of the violin. But even in the heavy, powerful counter melodies, there is always a soft, gentle melody which carries throughout the song.

A bold, daring work of art In particular, the song called “Underground” focuses on electronic, dubstep movements, yet the melody wraps up the song with a more gentle approach. This album features a crispier, deep tone vivid inside the violin’s body. I appreciate the time and effort Lindey Stirling puts into her albums, shows, music videos, and now future comic book. I give this album 5 out of 5 stars based on tone quality, the mood of the songs, and the emotions each song creates in the listener. My personal favorites: “Masquerade,” “Sleepwalking,” and “Love Goes On and On” featuring Amy Lee. ◆

"Artemis" By Lindsey Stirling Review by: Julia Nore, Albion, NE

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

Video Game MICROSOFT WINDOWS, LINUX, CLASSIC MAC OS

any indication that they ever will) makes “Eversion” a subversive, original, and extremely atmospheric twist of the “retro platformer” genre refreshingly devoid of cheap jumpscares or pointless shock value. Admittedly, it is a bit short (especially considering the $4.99 price for its current HD edition on Steam; the original free version is virtually gone at this point), but the many secrets hidden within the game’s worlds (hint: collect gems – all of them) reward multiple explorations. Just make absolutely sure no young children are around before launching it. ◆

NINTENDO SWITCH

"Eversion"

Zaratustra Productions Review by Ben Parker, South Burlington, VT

s far as misleading appearances in video games go, the 2010 indie hit “Eversion” takes the cake. Whereas on the surface, it appears to be yet another forgettable Super Mario Bros clone, it is actually one of the most uniquely creepy, psychological horror games ever made. Yes, you read that right. That incredibly cheerful-looking logo you’re probably staring at right now will actually wind up haunting your nightmares for days on end. Yes, I am completely serious.

Deceivingly beginning the same way millions of thinly veiled Mario homages/ripoffs do, with our hero (in this case, a cute little flower creature named Zee Tee) setting off to – wait for it – save the princess, “Eversion” adds an interesting twist: by pressing X in certain places, you can literally move (or, as the game puts it, “evert”) between different layers of reality. While this ability can help you

navigate some of the complicated landscapes here (for example, clouds in the first layer are just background objects that can easily be passed through, but passing to the next makes them solid and able to be walked on), it also changes the game from happy and tot-friendly into … well … something else entirely. Going into any further detail would obviously spoil the effect, but suffice it to say that things go downhill pretty quickly.

One of the most creepy, psychological horror games ever made Though it easily could’ve been a boring, generic gore-fest in other hands, the obviously dedicated work of Zarat Studios (who unfortunately has never released another game as of the moment, nor shown

"Luigi's Mansion 3" Next Level Games Reviewed by by Ryan Parkinson, Hartland, WI

uigi’s Mansion 3” is a not-so-traditional open world game that uses this style to its advantage. In “Luigi’s Mansion” you have to use your surroundings, along with your many gadgets, to save your friends and escape. Luigi, Mario, Peach, and the Toads go to a

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS | MARCH 2021

hotel for a free vacation. Little do they know it’s a trap; King Boo has escaped and wants revenge. He traps everyone in a painting except for Luigi. Luigi escapes and finds professor E.Gadd’s car. He opens it to find The Poltergust 3000 – a machine created by E.Gadd to originally aid Luigi in capturing King Boo. With the help of the Poltergust 3000, Gooigi – another invention by professor E.Gadd – and his Ghost dog, Spook, Luigi must travel the Hotel, save his friends, and stop King Boo. “Luigi’s Mansion 3” has you use many different mechanics to solve puzzles to progress onward; because of this, it can take a long time to figure out a puzzle. On floor B2 you come across an Engineer ghost who locks you in a room. You are so distracted by the many pipes and things going on that you don’t see the fake wall in the back. First you try to use Gooigi to travel through the pipes and escape the room, but this doesn’t work. Then you start to wander the room aimlessly hoping to find something that can get you out. This part took me a significant amount of time to conquer and is a good example of how the designers challenge the players. The also make it difficult to fight the boss, considering you don’t have any idea what to do. Another part where you encounter issues is the boss fight on floor 6. King Macfright is a heavily armored medieval ghost who appears to be indestructible, no matter what you try to do. In this battle timing is everything; you have about half a second to use your strobe and stun him. Because of the small time frame it’s difficult to realize that he lowers his shield just when he is about to hit you. This took me a long time to realize because of the facts I stated just earlier. However the designers do a good job taking advantage of the play style and making it more fun because of that. The game is a sort of side scroller and open world in the sense that you are looking in on the rooms and can only see one wall; they use this to help show off the mansion's design and help show you what to do. On floor 11, the Twisted Suites, you use mechanics to take down a ghost cat. The game uses very clever hints to solve the challenge. For example, this level says, “Don’t look away or else the cat will pounce on you.” Here, the player finds the cat won’t come down until Luigi is facing away. You must turn into Gooigi to attack the ghost right when it is about to pounce.

In all, “Luigi’s Mansion 3” is a well thought out game. However, like every other game, there are areas for improvement. ◆

ANDROID, iOS

"Clash Royale" Supercell Reviewed by Andy Lin, NYC, NY

RASH! Your meager troops are quickly overwhelmed and you get threecrowned. The music that follows is ironic and you suddenly have the urge to destroy your device. “Clash Royale” one of the few games that gives players a sense of dread as they open it. Maybe it will be different this time, you think. Maybe I won’t go up against another maxed player, you half-heartedly assume. You enter the match. Surprise. It’s a level 12. Your opponent quickly crushes you with their high-level legendaries. No matter how well you play, it seems you will always be blown out of the competition by the players that spend hundreds of dollars. The best players are the ones that pay the most. This game’s motto seems to be “No Pay, No Gain” – a game that’s sole purpose is to generate revenue, not fun.

The controls are simple enough – drag and drop the cards onto the arena to deploy them, they pop to life, and you battle your opponent. It’s a mobile game, where you’ll grind for hours to make any real progress – unless you spend money of course. Five dollars here and a few more dollars there may not seem like much, but with the majority of the players being children with no source of income, it soon takes a toll. Like the rest, they’ll fall behind the competition as if they’ve never spent a buck on it in the first place. Tournaments and challenges aren’t fair, as any player can tell you

from personal experience. Usually, you’ll go up against someone in legendary arena, the highest area in the game. Compared to them, you’re weak, pathetic, and unskilled because they’ve been playing longer, and have likely payed more than you. This isn’t your fault, it’s the game’s broken matchmaking. The chance of facing someone of equal skill is infinitesimal. You can literally buy anything, from cards to any sort of in-game currency. Progressing in free-play is like pushing a boulder up a mountain; eventually it’s going to roll down and crush you, like the game does to your spirit. “Clash Royale” has a low rating of 2.3 on Common Sense Media which is a non-profit organization that provides online reviews. Many adults and children label it as “rageinducing.” Adults mainly claim that the game is “designed to suck money from you.” According to geek.com, “Clash Royale” is a game “its own developer doesn’t want you to play.” It lists some trivial things, such as how long it takes to open a chest. Chests are the only way to progress in the game, and the silver chest which gives nearly nothing, takes three hours to unlock. Geek.com praises the gameplay, but declares that the game itself isn’t worth playing: "You’ll spend most of your time not playing the game [and] waiting for your timers to count down.” According to metacritic, 57% of the game's players aren't satisfied. Many players claim that you’ll hit a “pay wall” where you’re forced to cash out in order to advance. You can ignore it, but playing on won’t be any fun. In the beginning, it’s quite easy and joyful, but that soon ends. You’ll get crushed hastily by an onslaught of overpowered troops, struggling to counter everything. Pushing to higher arenas will give you a feeling of accomplishment, so you’ll feel proud, and want to do it again. If you pay up, you’ll get that feeling pretty often. However, if you don’t … let’s just say the game starts to feel like a chore. You will begin to feel bored out of your mind. Soon, you’ll realize it’s a self-defeating waste of time. “Clash Royale” is a terrible game that should not be downloaded. Although the gameplay is decent, the game design makes it a pay-towin proposition. Many players like me have suffered and come to the same conclusion. Don’t play the app unless you enjoy getting the money or happiness sucked out of you. If that doesn’t sound appealing, I suggest you never download this sorry excuse for a game. ◆

POETRY | MARCH 2021

Artwork by Selen S., Englewood, CO

Empty

by Erica Cao, Gilford, NH

The Girl on the Bus by Amelia Hamilton, Olympia, WA

They soar through the skies like nothing can stop them

Marks from cheap jewelry around her neck

except maybe a midlife crisis.

Her hat was held together with duct tape

Watching them fly through life, I wonder

And the frizzy hair fought to escape the hat.

how they know in the blank skies where to go.

Her arm was tattooed with the shape

You ask them how they knew they could fly

Of a somewhat blurry cat.

they say it’s a leap you just have to take.

Flipping through a book

I can’t even choose a college, let alone take the skies.

Her hungry eyes took in

They say all you need is to follow what you love.

Her purple curls stood out from the rest of us

But you need a heart to fly. What do you hear when you pound on your chest right over your heart? I hear an echo.

A Moment Taken in by Sense by Ryan Winkel, Sussex, WI A baby’s cry is bright blazing blue like the tears falling down their face and the sadness of blue. White moves

And purple hair that was a wreck.

Words like lungs take oxygen. There’s so much beauty

Time can be an entanglement of thoughts Twisting, Turning, Into an array of knots. Time can be an endless echo Like thunder dancing in a silent meadow. Time can be a ceaseless plight Clinging, Crawling, Clambering with no end in sight. Time can be encased in a cage Like a body, trapped in a veil of rage, Or time can take on many shapes. Time can be a torrential cyclone

In the quiet chaos of the girl on the bus

Whirling,

Time

Seething.

by Connor Repage, Brick, NJ Unorthodox Noise Mundane and Archaic Face Boring, Little Clock

Tempus Repit

by Kevin Zhu, Old Westbury, NY

Raging, Time can be an interminable wave Like a cracking sound resonating in a cave. Time can be a forgotten drawback, Creeping up from behind to attack. Time can be the cause of countless scrapes. Time is a river flowing for eternity Swirling, Spiraling, Spinning. Surrounded by rough, rocky ground

Time can take on many shapes

Scraping and unforgiving

Dynamic,

The dark, melancholy skies

Distorting,

Bleak and somber,

Developing,

The soft tap of ominous footsteps,

Like the Etesian winds in the sky.

And a desolate shadow looming over.

The texture of turquoise

Time can be the hopeless dark barricade,

Sorrow, misery, and dejection

feels like the back of a turtle shell, smooth but rigid.

The feeling of being undeniably dismayed.

Intrude all thoughts.

Time can be like a web

Shifting,

A new idea

Intricate,

Slithering,

feels like a ball of clay that is smooth and soft.

Inscrutable,

Time takes on many shapes.

in a big gust of wind all together at once moving and affecting everything with it. Mischief smells like a rotten tomato left in an old cabinet that no one likes or should eat.

Inexplicable.

POETRY | MARCH 2021

A Hyacinth’s Algorithm

by Meena Bitar, Clearwater, FL Downpour of the violets drinking in lilac rainbows of fall petal greens – you burst into the shallows of golden rays, sinking to the very bottom. With every inch of you, so taken with the murky waters of sorrow; you were the creator, you were the divine of all melancholic daydreams. Lily pads and purple hyacinths clasp to your flesh and bone: seeping within the fog, into the perils of your pessimism – so utterly beautiful. The scenery, the light of those auriate streams into your toffee abyss, such seraphic speckles of your true artistry – beyond your patience, beyond your time– the frown upon your lips I wish would slip away. And extractions from your lavender

hues made the shiniest of diamonds look dull. The feelings of the silkened orchid brushing your heart and tainting you blue. Although your tint was of different kind, of different saturation than prior, no hue would ever be as beautiful as you. Your umber orbs arch and ricochet to the atmosphere, where the wind met the clouds into rose complexions, and your bare skin embrace them. The flowers and the herbs surround you, tickling the curvatures, licking the flesh of your desolate care. And your lips, softened and made azure, left no fragment of a smile. If only you descried the shattered entities of your majesty– the angels from the

Wolves

by Brendan Hutchison, Saint Peters, MO Shy and concealed yet bold and bodacious. They stay hidden deep in the woods until it’s time to strike. The wolves p r o w l through the freezing forests of Canada in pursuit of their next meal. They follow the herd of caribou and single out a young, sickly beast. They chaseandchaseandchase until BOOM. They deliver the final blow.

heavens had nothing against you. Where your skies perform by the superior lights; for the stars were the sun to you, but you were the sun to me. I was captured in your woe; as the fine sculptures pivot to instruments playing symphonies in the black. I fell into your darkness, into the opacity of your flames– burning me, scorching me to nothing. But adjoined by those water lilies, into a pond of loose petals and celestial gems, I felt none of it. Your fire did not scare me, your toxicity didn’t choke me – your picturesque did. For an eternity, drowning in the particles of what was made to be, I saw you: exposed by nature, vulnerable at heart.

A nostalgic enigma pulled at my conscience; your eyes, finally, undergo the pressure of mine. Thus standing in your ocean of glory, guraded by down and despair, I so badly wanted to dive in with you. Into your depths, submerging in the flaws and heartache, I, too, want to turn blue. I, too, want to strip away my mind, to feel the pain you encounter at every second you breathe. I crave to carry that burdensome weight – from your shoulders to mine. Walk to me, separate your lily pads to approach me. Lest you’ll be caught, by your purple – by your hesitance, by your sea of grievance – in the algorithm of your hyacinths.

The caribou f a l l s to the ground. Its bleary eyes tell the tales of an inevitable fate; the sad reality of the eternal relationship between predator and prey. The wolves make their retreat back into the woods, reflections shimmering on the lake, to resume their mystical lives concealed from the rest of the world.

POETRY | MARCH 2021

Stars

by Fawz Elbeshti, Glenwood, GA

Calm

by Kaleb Pickel, Gibbon, NE

Stars, I wonder how it feels to be you.

As I lie here, drifting off

I wonder how you feel about us down here.

I’m not hurt, nor am I sad

I wonder how it feels to be an everyday all-nighter.

But I lie here, apathetic, numb to it all

I wonder how it feels to be a night creature.

You sucked the blood out of my heart like a vacuum

A shining, beautiful and inspiring night creature.

Quick and effortlessly

Stars, I wonder how it feels to be you.

And left me here questioning any ounce of sanity I have left

I wonder if you prefer colder or hotter weather. I wonder if you’ve ever fallen in love with someone from down here and you watch them closely every night. I wonder if you’ve cast magic on artists to attract them to you It must be strange being you. Stars, I wonder how it feels to be you. I wonder how you feel about being a main character in most poets’ poetry. I wonder if you prefer a night with the moon or a moonless night. I wonder if you look at us with pity … or if you hate us. I wonder how it feels to be you. Stars, I wonder how it feels to be you. I wonder, if we ever get the chance – Would you want to try to be me and I try to be you? Do you wonder how it feels to be me?

The beauty in nonsense

by Izzy Payne, Chester Springs, PA teaspoons for eyes and a swirly mind. with sunshine in your soul and a silver tongue. kiss me cold, breathe me in,

You took it from me, my innocence

I look at myself across the room in the mirror to the right of the window Who am I. Who is he. What do I do. I’m drawing blanks, frustration taking over I’m biting my nails, clenching my jaw I’m so angry I’m going to scream I’m trapped In this prison they call a bedroom I’m out of air, I’m going to scream The thoughts, the feelings all coming at once My head is going to blow, I can’t breathe Calm My phone buzzes, I glance, your name flashes across the screen Instant relief, like the way the air escapes a tied up balloon But why, what is so special about you? That smile? The way you giggle when you say something funny? All the brain behind that pretty face? Maybe it’s simpler then that, maybe it’s not meant to be complex Maybe, maybe it’s you.

What I’ll See in Heaven

brush my cheeks and hold me dearly.

by Olivia Devendorf, Franklin, WI

in the day I miss & the night I yearn

What I’ll see in Heaven

for fingers lacing messy hair, pulling you close to whisper sweet songs that you won’t be afraid to sing back. a senseless poem, a senseless love … of sorts. let’s touch lips and observe the universes within us.

When the fog just begins to clear And my heart deadens Loses touch of life that was once near I’d wake up spinning in his lawn, Mint flavor, baker’s air The dusk would turn to dawn And I would still be there I’d wake up where September cold casts,

Birthday candles keep warm, When Nine had never felt so vast By the brink of the storm I’d wake up where the sun shines through Family is of four And my dad is there to make due I’d leave the table to get more What I’ll feel in Heaven When the fog begins to clear Is feeling like I belonged here.

Florida

by Anonymous, Lexington, KY “The whole place is a shitshow,” my father said, and “The economy is completely shot,” drinking his morning coffee, and regarding the morning paper. Behind him snow fell slowly, as if unburdened by the time. My lips spread thin and I secretly closed my eyes. I thought of unpeeled oranges, snakes, flip-flops, and alligator wine.

Tá sé Scamallach by Summer Quinn, Sioux Falls, SD Clouds amble above Looming, crying, drowning us Gifting their sorrow

Formality

by Peter Fernandes, Thousand Oaks, CA Put a spa ce here and a period. there capitalize This letter and spell that word write Add a comma, here and a parenthesis (over) there We ain’t taught to use slang just proper The ink pen dyed with a rose streams across my paper Slashed while criying out in pain Spelling is never ez An indiscernible document looms on a flat surface A blast of air pushes it into my hands It seems as if an animal had bled out upon it

POETRY | MARCH 2021

Snapshot

by Olivia Wagner, Petaluma, CA At the early dawn The birds chirp and sing their songs Waking up our world Crystal clear droplets Refracting the morning light Graceful and untouched Trees fall in tandem No human listens but the Living forest does White winter freezes Over the land in a shell Silence takes over As life takes a needed break So the land can become pure

Litany of Fishbowls by Genesis Ansong, Schaumburg, IL fish brains under the sludgy tips of my fingers and i doubt this was the nautical coffin it was looking for orange-yellow scales under the bloody tips of my fingers and this kind of murder gets real plush and personal, angsty masochist pops all the pink, swollen hearts orbiting in a toilet-water galaxy tuna fish girl wears grape jelly lipstick and a fishbowl over her head caught in an empty dream of cold fevers and nebulous surfs i’m a drunk astronaut floating when the cosmos clash in love and planets split in two like soft destruction i fall victim to the tender horror of fish teeth poking through my skin with my wet tummy full of lovesick buzzards instead of midsummer swallowtails i curl into a broken womb into a tarry honeycomb into a cottonmouth’s hungry jaws and prick my hollow lips with a barberry thorn because

Epitaph of Me by Franklin P. Rosenberg, Framingham, MA

Here lies the man of many mistakes Of broken hearts and broken hearted Of overwhelming guilt and repeated “sorries” Of scarred wrists and a bruised head Here lies a man who was meant to die Here we welcome a man of change Of whole hearts and whole hearted Of controllable thoughts and healthy relationships Of safe actions and healed scars Here we welcome a new man.

Indie Vinyls

by Irene Bosiy, Buffalo Grove, IL

Elizabeth

by Liliana Tomlinson, CT today I call myself Elizabeth Elizabeth— who never, ever goes by Liza, or Beth, or Lizzie— is confident she is all abstract angles and sharpness layered over sweet, over smooth deep beneath Elizabeth pronounces it “to-mah-to” and always has loose change

I could write a poem that no one could tell is from 809 miles away,

for donation buckets

Or upstairs – it would just be about home

should the situation arise

Scratches on the old chestnut wooden door

she is unfazed by the

Covered by a yellow smiley face flag,

day-to-day,

As it opens – indie tunes spill noisily

and equally conversant

Whiff of a rushed morning – floral, dry shampoo

with the night –

Half filled sweet body mists, forever stained

with only a pad of paper

On vinyl covers nailed into the pastel blue walls

and a Sharpie

Chipped from fallen fairy lights

and shares them with a bounty

STARGIRL Radiates above a timber frame, Reflecting off dried contacts – next to the bottle of aspirin Stopping red Expo markers from rolling off the window sill To reach for it, you’d trip over a pair of gleaming cherry Doc Martens Tumbling into the rosy quote scribbled across the glass

and arcade games

in fact she could map the stars

Elizabeth cooks exotic meals of hungry friends – she is never alone, not really she takes her coffee black but never drinks caffeine past 5 p.m., when she switches to chamomile tea with orange blossom honey Elizabeth is perhaps not perfect,

Sinking into the glowing sunset

but she is bold –

Down

unbothered by the words

fiercely herself,

by Jack Rhodehamel, Newport Beach, CA

of others

The world swirls faster –

only so I do not have to be

I can feel it in my gums,

myself.

today I call myself Elizabeth

They lunge to grab me.

it’s just a sappy tragedy i continue to kill for

POETRY | MARCH 2021

What I Learned from Manny

and brooks of passion

And now they break you down

that shall never dry up.

When you going downtown and you see a clown dressed in blue

The ability to fix mistakes

by Lily Shane, Arlington Heights, IL

of the timeless past

I learned from Manny how to deliver a killer punchline,

of never looking back.

to have bottles of whiskey and wine

never die, an eternity

for every palate and occasion with the correct glasses for sipping. I learned to hold memberships to art museums and to bring your guests from out of town with you to see your favorite pieces and to buy them melting clocks to hang off the side of the piano. I learned to buy your great-nephew two plastic orangutans that he picks from a store full of hand-painted train sets because it’s all that he wants. I learned to share the joy in a table blanketed in bowls of warm soup and endless stories of janitor to CEO, and to never dwell on being sick because there is still a plane ticket bought under your name that departs tomorrow. I learned that money means nothing with those you love

and the possibility Yet, yearn do people to of sleep does sound peaceful.

The Light

by Emalya Vila-Kubiak, Pittsburgh, PA Hey, kid! Hey you in the midway! Don’t blow your lid ok? I see, somebody got you wrapped up in what you did or didn’t do and you’ve lost the ability to slay

Hey, kid it’s ok, kid I never knew that you had been through this, kid But i’ve been there too, kid So lets fight, kid For what’s right, kid Lets get everybody together and tell them we’re all birds of a feather Gay, straight, or whatever forever Everyone will be content when we’re gone

And then you and me can make it alright, kid.

Hey, kid, you’re right, kid

And after it all we might catch a glimpse of the light.

The dream that keeps you alive is the light, kid

What? You’ve never heard of the Light? Well damn whatcha been hiding under? No it’s not the thunder and might it’s the Light! It’s not God or Adonai or a floating flaming ball in the sky

Superstars, jam jars, or JZ’s bars, kid,

as the machines by your bed beep with your breathing.

It’ll get rid of your scars, kid,

You must share a warm smile with those

When you’re sinking under

The ones on the inside, when your flipside When you miss your mother When someone other than your lover kissed you When your lover says that they never missed you

by Pragya Dhiman, New Delhi, India

When someone fills you lover with another’s bliss you

Yearning is the kiss

Start to feel insane your brain

that never happened.

Your body’s mainframe is

The departure of

Beaten and broken and lame

lovers, extreme

When you wish it was game

torture one feels

When the one who used to keep you

when one’s brethren bereaves.

Just stood you up

Homes that existed naught

They used to bring you up

Your red alive heart goes cold and blue

We’ll be the lever that turns the world on

heart in sickness and in health

Y is for Yearning

you professed your love for the lover who never truly knew you

We may make them sorry without a fight, kid.

It’s not the sun or the stars or mars, mars bars, Bruno Mars, sports cars,

you could spare was kindness, your watch collection, the smell of musky cologne.

And with the last breath you drew

Hey, kid, it’s fine, ok, alright

at your side and those you don’t close to your

you know or don’t and the least

He looks down sees that you’re brown and decides to shoot you

I love you

Honey

by Hannah Richmond, Conneaut Lake, PA You said your eyes are amber and I don’t think a color has ever been more befitting, for if I look into them too long I might get stuck; caught like an ant held forever in honey-tinged resin.

Free

by Nicole Vastis, Charlotte, NC you held me captive in my own mind for so long i thought it was safety you told me the others were dangerous i belived you you laid my neck on the stone i waited patiently for the ax not now not anymore i’m free

Contributors

March 2021 | Volume 32 | Issue 1

MEMOIRS

SPORTS

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS

ART GALLERIES

Shelbie Perani, 3 Payton Christensen, 6 Summaya Jamil, 7 Lauren Bartel, 7 Soliana Lijiam, 10 Hussain Khan, 11 Seojin (Taylor) Moon, 14 Nicole Kim, 16 Whitney Cohen, 17 Eftalia Economou, 17 Ray Zhang, 17 Grace Carlucci, 18 Summer Eldridge, 19 Hafsah D., 20 Elisabeth Resnikov, 21 Serena Pei, 22 Mica Fair, 25 Ella Snyder, 26 Lauren Cichon, 27 Geena Yin, 28 Yiling Li, 29 Rebecca Feng, 30 Maanit Goel, 31 Seojin (Taylor) Moon, 33 Emily Jorgesen, 35 Anahis Luna, 36 Margaret Dunn, 38 Sylvie Kotsonis, 41 Erica Cao, 50 Lauren Bartel, 56 Serena Pei, 57 Summer Eldridge, 57 Seojin (Taylor) Moon, 57 Trishani Bhowmik, 58

Lily Koppen, 6 Franklin P. Rosenberg, 7 Genevieve Barrett, 7 Ananya Ganesh, 8 Jadon Sculley, 10

John Jensen, 32 Wyatt Lynch, 32 Talia Tamez, 33

Ben Parker, 48 Ryan Parkinson, 48 Andy Lin, 49

TRAVEL & CULTURE

POETRY

FOOD & FAMILY TRADITIONS

Shelbie Hewitt, 34 Easton Wiggins, 34 Andy Zhang, 35

Erica Cao, 50 Ryan Winkel, 50 Amelia Hamilton, 50 Connor Repage, 50 Kevin Zhu, 50 Meena Bitar, 51 Brendan Hutchison, 51 Fawz Elbeshti, 52 Izzy Payne, 52 Kaleb Pickel, 52 Olivia Devendorf, 52 Anonymous, 52 Summer Quinn, 52 Peter Fernandes, 52 Olivia Wagner, 53 Genesis Ansong, 53 Franklin P. Rosenberg, 53 Irene Bosiy, 53 Jack Rhodehamel, 53 Liliana Tomlinson, 53 Lily Shane, 54 Pragya Dhiman, 54 Emalya Vila-Kubiak, 54 Hannah Richmond, 54 Nicole Vastis, 54

Arianna Fuller, 12 Yuwei Dou, 13 Anonymous, 14 Kayla Hoover, 15

POINTS OF VIEW Hannah Stewart, 18 Sophia Cox, 19 Anonymous, 20 Kate Tauckus, 22

HEALTH Anonymous, 24 Anonymous, 25

COLLEGE ESSAYS Carolynne Burk, 26 Katherine Devitt, 27

IDENTITY Maddie Lam, 28 Hailey Negley, 30 Richie Galloway, 31

FICTION Tess Boutin, 36 Eve Boyer, 38 Harriet Baldwin, 41 Ethan Schlett, 41

BOOK REVIEWS Noah Foster, 42 Willow Kwak, 43 William Yao, 43

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS Kavya W., 44 Maya Cecil, 45 Luke Donabedian, 45

MUSIC REVIEWS Jemmie Piersol Freedman, 46 Ethan Henry, 47 Julia Nore, 47

Editorial Staff Consulting Editor-in-Chief: Katrin Ades

Consulting Head of Strategic Partnerships: Chane Hazelett

Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner

Editorial Interns: Jack Lollis, Noelle Campbell, Jessica Lieb

Creative Director: Dino Ianniello Teen Ink is a monthly journal dedicated to publishing a variety of works by teenagers. Teen Ink Magazine and TeenInk.com are both operating divisions and copyright protected trademarks of StudentBridge, Inc. Teen Ink is not responsible for the content of any advertisement. We have not investigated advertisers and do not necessarily endorse their products or services. Publication of material appearing in Teen Ink is prohibited unless written permission is obtained. Teen Ink is designed using Adobe InDesign.

Artwork by Lauren Bartel, Coral Gables, FL

Artwork by Serena Pei, San Jose, CA

Artwork by Seojin (Taylor) Moon, NYC, NY

Artwork by Summer Eldridge, Sayre, PA

Artwork by Trishani Bhowmik, Coimbatore, India