Teen Ink magazine - May 2021

May 2021 Follow us on Social Media

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Special Focus Mental Health Awareness

Educators

of the Year Teachers Who Have

Changed Students' Lives

YES! I Am Mexican Owning Your Identity

C Click each sponsor's image for more information about their Summer Programs:

Center for Global Youth Leadership at Brandon Hall School

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Contents

May 2021 | Volume 32 | Issue 2

OnTheCover

www.teenink.com

23 College Essays • Why I Smile

• The Flight of Freedom

25 Points of View

• No Toilet Paper? Congratulations • Gender Expression: Breaking the Barriers • Sparrow Around the World • From Food Bank to Food Haven

28 Educators of the Year

• Mr. Ed Paloucek

Artwork by Cecilia Lei, Naperville, IL

5Teen Ink News

• Contests & Call for Submissions

6Memoirs • • • •

Bleach Wildfire The Bet The Cardinal’s Final Song

13Teen Mental Health • • • •

Fear My Top Six Apps for Mental Health Special The Rise of Teen Counseling: A Viable Option for All • Mental Health Resources (inside back cover)

• Mrs. Karen Mekenian • Mrs. Stacey Arnett • Mr. Phillip Miller • Mrs. Alicia Obermann

Follow us on Social Media

41Fiction • • • •

Only a Woman Red-Handed Something About Living The Teller

48 Book Reviews

• Other Words for Home • An Absolutely Remarkable Thing • Citizen: An American Lyric

51Music Reviews

• "brent" • Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler • “Parachutes” • Frank Iero & the Patience • "Divinely Uninspired to a Hellish Extent" • Lewis Capaldi • “Evermore” • Taylor Swift

32Travel & Culture

54Movie & TV Reviews

36 Identity

56Video Game Reviews

• Granite, Mint Leaves & Tagines • Not Really Italian

• Yes! I Am Mexican • Euphoria • Not That Big of a Deal

38 Sports

• Inside the NBA Bubble • The Feeling of Parkour • The Dream Team’s 12th Man

• "Bridgerton" • "The Social Dilemma" • "Room"

• "Portal 2" • "Borderlands 3”

58 Poetry

• Free verse, haiku, sonnets, & more

Art Galleries

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

Editor

Letter from the

You Are NOT Alone.

Dear Teen Ink Readers,

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and Teen Ink strives to raise awareness and fight stigma by highlighting writing and art about mental health issues. According to the World Health Organization, depression is the fourth leading cause of illness and disability among adolescents aged 15-19 years. Suicide is the third leading cause of death in that same age group.

Research shows that normalizing the conversation about mental health empowers people to talk and get the help they need. Teen Ink is proud to be a safe and affirming place where teens can share their stories and experiences around mental health.

As the 2020-21 school year comes to a close, we also want to thank the dedicated teachers, coaches, and administrators who work so hard every day. This month's Educator of the Year section highlights teen essays about teachers who have changed their students' lives.

Congratulations to the teens and teachers showcased in this issue of Teen Ink! Your comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated.

Please email: editor@teenink.com.

Happy Reading!

-The Teen Ink Team

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We Also

Need:

• Book Reviews

• Articles about Identity

• Movie Reviews

• Sports Articles

• Music Reviews

• Articles about School: Making Friends, Overcoming Challenges, Advice for Studying, Activities

• Video Game Reviews

• College Articles: Advice, Campus Visits, 1st Year Experiences • Articles about Trips & Travel • Health Articles

MEMOIRS | MAY 2021

Bleach T

he train ride dragged on as my best friend and I played the world’s most competitive version of the silent game. Unable to look at the other, we sat with our heads angled so that we could only catch short glimpses of our new selves through opposing windows.

Though we tried our hardest to act as though nothing was wrong, the battling scents of bleach and ammonia resulted in the occasional sniffle from each of us.

We both knew we had done something bad. Really bad. Something so bad that I wished the train would ride on forever.

Waking up the next morning, the train tickets and receipts scattered on my desk confirmed that the events of the night before were, in fact, not a nightmare and now were my own special reality. I trudged down the hall and to the kitchen, avoiding every mirror as if by simply glancing at it would induce seven years of bad luck.

The gloss of a fresh blowout had faded from my head, leaving me with a bad case of bedhead and smudged mascara on my face (from tears or sweat, you ask? I really couldn’t tell). I sat down at the table, sickened by the sight of the breakfast on my plate. Why did such a delicious food have to be such a wretched color?

Blueberries. Blueberries. Blue, the color of a clear sky, or a deep ocean, or a dazzling sapphire. But looking at my blueberries all I could think was: blue – the color of Papa Smurf, or the messy nail polish on a sevenyear-old's fingers, or Stitch the Hawaiian alien (although he’s kind of cute).

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And now, blue was the tragic color of my battered, broken, and bleached hair.

Now, blue was the tragic color of my battered, broken, and bleached hair

My intentions had been pure: I had simply wanted my hair to make me look like the lovechild of Gwenyth Paltrow and Brad Pitt. Was that too much to ask? Clearly, the answer had been yes, and yet I let a stylist with a 64 ounce jug of bleach destroy my hair in one fell swoop. The end result of my impulse trip to New York City did not have me looking like the ethereal fairy child I had anticipated, nor a sun-kissed beach bum. Actually, my actions had been spurred by a picture Karlie Kloss had posted that morning, showing off her chopped, silver hair. I guess my logic was faulty in assuming a change in hair color would somehow turn me into a 6'2", 120-pound supermodel.

Instead, I looked like Katy Perry circa 2010.

The tragedy was simple – I had wanted a platinum blonde mane and here I was, sitting at my kitchen table with hair that matched my pancake topping.

I dealt with my new 'do the way most people deal with loss – in five stages. First, denial: My hair didn’t look that bad, right?

And dark roots were becoming a trend now … kinda? Second, anger: Why on Earth did I decide to go to the salon that was number 157 on Google recommendations?! How did

Artwork by Pantelis Fakiris, Roslyn, NY

by Chase Lucas, Madison, NJ

I not know something was wrong when four women had gathered, murmuring above the sink as my hair soaked in bleach? Next, bargaining: Can I get a refund? Maybe if I go back they can fix it. Do I leave an angrily worded anonymous Yelp review? Then, depression: I am going to have blue hair at high school graduation. My senior portrait is next week! How did I fall apart like this?

And finally, acceptance: Now, I guess I had expected this to come through some sort of epiphany or a sudden wave of peace, but my version of acceptance brought nowhere near that much closure. Staring at myself in the mirror, I had a moment of self-realization: I was the butt of some sort of cosmic blonde joke. And, honestly, it was pretty funny. I had messed up … big time.

I had been impulsive, clueless, and naive.

And now, I was going to have to deal with it. Did I deserve it? Probably not. Did I ask for it? Well, I actually paid $300 for it (which was another tragedy within itself).

The next couple of days were spent strutting down every hallway as if it was a runway and dressing as if I was about to attend New York Fashion Week (but on a budget, of course). What I couldn’t make up for in good looks, I made up for in style. Whenever a friend would make a snide remark on my ‘unexpected’ new look, I would flip my mane just to show it off a little more because unexpected didn’t really feel like a dirty word. Maybe it was just a backhanded compliment, but whatever. There were so many worse things you could have called my hair.

MEMOIRS | MAY 2021

Wildfire

Artwork by Bria Heley, Wyndmere, ND

by Rachel Epstein, Washington, D.C.

Y

ou’re late. But the block is asleep, and the mutts are snoring from their guard’s post at the door, and you know you can be as late as you please.

Moon is a slice of Swiss cheese, and even the strange, undiscovered extraterrestrial critters are burrowing into their craters to catch their ZZZs as the moon completes the night shift. And it’s summer. It’s one of those summer nights where the breeze is just cool enough to slick away any unwanted sweat, and the only sound you can hear is the buzzing of dying street lights and the hum of power lines which zig zag from porch to porch, providing the electricity which, in this frozen moment of time, not a single soul needs.

So you kick off your flip flops and cradle them between index finger and thumb, because the ground does not sizzle as it does in the afternoon; instead, it shoots waves of calming heat through your legs and beyond, settling in your core and radiating into one invisible hug. You’re wondering if the Big Friendly Giant will soon reach Warren Street, whispering his sweet dreams into children’s windows, and noticing that you are not where you are supposed to be. But that’s a children’s tale, and now, you’re out, out long past when you should have been home and you are no child. You are grown. Your doe-eyed self is so beyond vulnerable at this moment, but you are grown. And grown people can protect themselves.

You realize that you’ve always been vulnerable. You realize that in this life, in

this world, you have always been prey: hunted and sought after by sinister predators. So really, at this moment, how vulnerable can you be? You’ve lived a life of fear and ever-drying tears, and now, you’re a grown up, you’re outside and it’s late, and you’re alone. This pool of fear that you have been wading through suddenly slips away, leaving a murky puddle at your feet. And you’re okay. You’re brave. This fear washes

You don’t need a wildfire on the offensive, you need one in your lungs – you need a voice away so quickly and so underwhelmingly that you can hardly pinpoint this difference in your pattern of thought.

And you know now, you recognize this difference. Because of him. Because he is mere blocks away, and you don’t know if he’s asleep, behind you or around the corner, but you have no fear. You are now fueled by the unknown instead of the known, and you take off, feet pounding against asphalt, tracing the yellow lines separating right from left on the road.

You’re sprinting towards who knows what, but you’re powerful. And you’re thinking: come at me. If you see him, you know. You know you will no longer freeze because the puddle that is now miles behind you is full

of ice, and you, you are all fire. Fire that can fight, that can burn, that can kill.

Then you stop. Runner’s high is twisting into sour, shuddery breaths. And what’s wrong? You’re bent over, hands on knees, panting, gasping for air. Something is telling you you don’t need to burn. You don’t need a wildfire on the offensive, you need one in your lungs – you need a voice. You misinterpreted, and now your power is changing, molding into something new, and you don’t want to wake your neighbors but you need to scream, a fiery hot, scalding scream, “Come at me!” You know now you will burn him, not with your fists, but with your voice. If he is around that corner you will yell, yell like you wished you had when he was in your room, yell like you’ve never yelled before, yell the yell that you’ve been holding it for all these years. And he will hear you. He will have to, because you are loud, you have found your fire and your fire is your voice. It is the strongest, most powerful weapon you can wield and you possess it. You’re holding it inside, you’re protecting it and you’re ready.

And in the distance, a puddle is sulking, and you turn, remembering how it felt to be underwater, how heavy and distant everything was. But it was safe. And you consider sprinting back to your puddle and soaking it all back up, but you shake your head, because you remember an important lesson every child learns: Fire and water cannot coexist. And now, you are filled to the brim with flame.

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MEMOIRS | MAY 2021

The

Bet

by Georgia Pulierm, Los Angeles, CA

Artwork by Kaylee Bodiford, Bryant, AR

8

MEMOIRS | MAY 2021

A

pril 2014. My sister proposed yet another bet. The winner of our past bets had bragging rights for weeks. They were serious. She bet me the one thing I was sure to lose – to see who could not eat meat the longest. Whoever won would get a dollar for every day she lasted longer than the other. Until then, my favorite food was steak. Better put, the only food I was willing to eat was strips of cow flesh, burnt to the consistency of tough leather.

That was my diet, chosen with great pride, and I had no intention of changing it. Given my dedication to steak as my main lifesustaining nutrient, Chloe's challenge was quite jarring. It was like asking me to avoid all things Justin Bieber, an unthinkable hurdle to my 12-year-old self. We twisted pinkies, and I set out to win.

I struggled to stay strong. To inhibit my cravings, I searched for cute videos of cows. Instead, I was met with horrific images of cattle being slaughtered. I read about the horrors of industrial animal farms, the conditions of livestock jammed so close they could not move, inhumane feeding, and slaughter practices. The next morning, I watched Chloe eat a ham and cheese omelet. I won the bet, but rather than joining her, I was flooded with mental images of the story behind her meal and the process that brought it into our home. When I tried to eat a bite of steak, I hesitated and stopped. The meat oozed blood. It was filled with tendons I had never noticed. My delight turned to disgust, and the meat between the bread reeked of inhumanity, sadness, and cruelty. I knew I was never going to eat meat again.

Vegetarianism became a way of life. I studied what vitamins I needed to maintain health and what foods could help me achieve optimal levels. However, not only did my food change, I changed. I credit this shift in mind and body to what I learned by taking that fateful bet. The experience strengthened my ability to take on challenges in other areas in my life. In high school, I was hit with crippling migraines several days a week. With little warning, I would get a sharp pain behind my eyes, a mind-bending headache, and extreme nausea. At first, it felt impossible to overcome. I had to figure out ways to tackle my assignments with quality even when I couldn't get out of bed. I recognized that no matter the challenge, I was strong-willed and capable of pushing through to a solution.

I stopped complaining and started doing it. The techniques I developed to address the migraines worked.

In another way as well, the small bet I took so many years ago planted a seed that bloomed years later. This seed was my social conscience, a notion that grew from talk to action, from vague

Being vegetarian has taught me how to be confident in my positions without swaying to the winds of outside pressures ethical standards to principles that became core parts of my identity. Decisions I may not have made when I was younger became natural, such as insisting on minimal plastic in the packaging of my products on my website, doing the work to ensure they are cruelty-free, and donating a portion of profits to a cause that aligns with my beliefs. While creating these ethical standards and strong values, I have learned to find passion for things without condemning others who do not agree with me. Doing research allows me to teach people and make even small differences in the face of established “normal” practices. For example, while I am adamantly opposed to industrial farming and can argue why until the end of time, I am not judging those who choose to eat meat. In my family, my two older brothers are big meat eaters. I try to urge them to buy meat that has been responsibly raised with humane and environmentally responsible practices. Being vegetarian has taught me how to be confident in my positions without swaying to the winds of outside pressures. I can be aware and respectful of differing opinions without adopting them. Even on a dare.

October 2020. Chloe approached with that mischievous gleam in her eye. This time, I stepped in. "Chloe," I said, "before you suggest another bet, by my calculations, you have a pending balance of $2,370. So far." I haven't heard a bet from Chloe since.

Artwork by Serena Pei, San Jose, CA

9

MEMOIRS | MAY 2021

Artwork by Aryana Singh, New York City, NY

The Cardinal's

Final Song

W

e went to visit her the month following her accident The pristine, callous walls of the nursing home eschewed me in every way. The hallways reeked of lemonscented disinfectant and sickness.

Wheelchairs were stationed around every corner, waiting to take their next victim on a journey throughout the castle of forgotten aspirations and sapped energy. When I bent down to tie my shoe, it was no surprise to me that the floors were also a polished ivory hue.

Presumably, the designer thought white signified life and it would seep down into the pores of the patients to revitalize their souls. However, he had forgotten to take into account that in numerous foreign kingdoms, white is worn to funerals. Or, maybe he didn't.

The wooden door at the end of the hall seemed to tower over my 10-year-old

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self. I had no knowledge of wood or how doors were created; the only things I understood at the time were the fictional creatures I had learned of in books. To me, the large structure was the dragon who was sequestering me from my helpless monarch. The soniferous beast bellowed when I shoved it out of the way. As a child, I was always terrified of the creatures which were seemingly hidden in the shadowy recesses of my home and croaked as I crept.

She laid perfectly still as I inched gently toward her bed. The wine-colored blanket draped limply across her gaunt frame.

Picture frames sat scattered atop her dresser, depicting various scenes from throughout her enduring lifetime. The smiling, plastic sun I made years ago dangled from a small suction cup on her windowpane. When I visited last summer, it grasped parts of the sun's rays from outside and scattered them throughout the

by Davyn Osborne, Clover, SC

'You know,' she whispered in my ear, her stale breath emanating outward, 'you will forever be my favorite' room as if it was a stained glass window.

There is no light diffusing from it now.

The painting of a cardinal was hung on the wall as it had always been.

Stranded on a snow-dusted oak branch, the red bird sat destitute in the heart of a vast snowstorm. A secluded house stood in the distance with a single porch light lit. I suppose, over time, it became lost to the world. Who would notice a missing cardinal anyhow?

MEMOIRS | MAY 2021 Cherry cough drops wrapped in motivational quotes filled the porcelain bowl on her bedside table. Across from her hospital cot, a humorless weatherman listed off the amount of expected snowfall for the week from her decrepit television. I changed the channel.

Indiana is known for its merciless winters.

Snow gathers outside windows, coating streets and creating mile-wide traffic jams.

As someone who had lived in the state for years, she knew not to go outdoors after a snowstorm; the pathways were always covered with a thick coating of solid ice.

Obstinately, she had decided wearing high heels was acceptable attire for venturing out into the blizzard to fetch the mail. On her way inside, the usual zephyrs became violent, and the apartment building had not yet invested in the promised iron railings.

Her bratty neighbor found her outside sprawled out on top of the ice-blanketed concrete, her mail scattered around her like a foreboding halo.

Her raspy voice called out to me from under the lump of covers. A speckled, withering hand stretched out to grab my pale, smooth one. The diamond wedding ring she never took off, even after his passing almost 40 years ago, twinkled lustrously back at me. Ornate clip-on earrings were fastened on her earlobes.

The transparent, plastic storage container sitting on her bedside table was always teeming with heaps of jewelry.

Her cerulean eyes once held as much light as the glowing star we gazed upon when I was a vexatious toddler. Now, they matched the pulpous polluted lake behind her apartment. I heard the same raspy voice call out to me again.

"My sweet, sweet girl. Come and chat awhile." I moved to sit at the edge of her mattress, careful not to inadvertently damage her. Subdued orbs looked me up and down as if assessing my being. Her own pallid features stared back at me as my face was taken in between bony fingers and turned side to side. Once her examination was completed, she beamed, and everything seemed as if it was going to be alright.

"You have grown so much since the last time I saw you! Just look at how mature and beautiful you have become!"

"It hasn't been that long," I paused, "only a few months."

On the second, I realized we would never again quarrel about her going outside in hazardous conditions wearing high heels.

I knew all of my memories of her would someday fade until they were nothing more than a wisp of who she once was

By the third, I knew all of my memories of her would someday fade until they were nothing more than a wisp of who she once was.

"It feels like a lifetime." She sighed and grasped my right hand. As usual, a bracelet from the box beside her was carefully taken out and placed into my palm. It was a string of white pearls I had noticed her wearing at various family gatherings.

It was only by the fourth that I realized she was saying a definitive farewell.

The fifth second was harrowing. It was where I understood the one task I dreaded more than anything would shortly come to pass.

I had to let her go. I had to go home.

And so did she.

Artwork by Soliana Lijiam, North York, ON, Canada

"I couldn't possibly take these, they are important to you." I tried to give them back, but she gently pushed my hand away.

"No, no! I am presenting them to you as a gift. You know how important you are to me. So far, it happens to be that you are the only person to come and – "Abruptly, she started coughing. It was a deep, rattling sound as if there was a drum trapped inside her lungs. Unsure of what to do, I attempted to offer support, yet she motioned that she was fine. The coughing died down, and my previously stilled lungs started to rise and fall systematically once again.

"Well," she cleared her throat, "you will be bringing those pearls back home. Of course, they used to mean a lot to me; however, times change. You are more valuable to me than they will ever be." Her words paralyzed my lungs once again, and I was hesitant about how to respond. Declarations of affection were unfamiliar to me. A pregnant pause ensued.

"You know," she whispered in my ear, her stale breath emanating outward, "you will forever be my favorite."

My heart stopped beating for a total of five seconds.

On the first, it occurred to me that someone would be taking down her beloved cardinal painting.

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Artwork by Abbie Barrows, Jupiter, FL

Artwork by Avery-Grace Payne, Cypress, TX

12

Artwork by Ishareet Sohal, Sewell, NJ

MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

Photo by Kathryn Davis, Dayton, OH

Fear

by Annalee Appleman, Lambertville, MI

I

had been dreading this moment ever since my parents said we needed to talk. I knew that something was wrong, and thousands of thoughts flooded my mind. As I processed the situation, one thought would not leave my mind. No matter how hard I tried to think that it could not be true, I knew it was you.

My heart was in my stomach. I knew deep down in my gut what they were going to say.

As the words spewed out of my mother’s mouth, tears began to stream down my face. You had taken your own life. Memories began to flood my head. Then I realized they were not memories, only stories I had heard about you. I cared so deeply about you, and I never truly knew you. I cared so much, but you chose to leave me. As my mind pieced together the situation, it all began making sense. I was given bits of information my whole life but never the truth. It felt as if you were not even my grandpa. I was broken down in fear.

My mind is consumed by the last memory I have of you. A happy memory, yet the worst

one. Little four-year-old me was ecstatic to get a new Barbie doll, not knowing why I was receiving it. Nobody would have thought that this was one of the last times that I would see you. Nobody knew that this was a goodbye gift. I still have this Barbie,

Confusion and sadness filled the air so thick it made it hard to breathe and it brings so much sadness. Sure, a Barbie doll will make a four-year-old happy, but what you left me with was not a toy. It was a hole in my heart.

As I tried to focus on the words that were not making any sense, the room was silent.

On occasion, you could hear the tapping of my dog's feet. Confusion and sadness filled the air so thick it made it hard to breathe.

The brown couch did not feel the way it

usually did. My home did not comfort me.

The white walls were now black and they seemed to close in and devour my parents and me. As the words were flowing from my parents, the walls were creeping closer and closer until it all went dark and they collapsed.

As I opened my eyes I saw you. A man that was 6’7”, golden, and happy. That image was now gone. Your smile turned to the face of a man who needed help. The face of a man that could not handle life and his actions.

Ever since that day I have not been the same. I fear life. I have learned how fragile it is and how easy it is to lose someone.

I don’t understand how someone with a loving family could choose to remove himself from this world. Nobody knew that you needed help, yet we all still feel that it is our fault in some way. You left me with more than just sadness. You left me with a fear. A fear that ruins me. I fear losing others. I fear every time someone does not answer their phone, or when they are mad. I fear that someone else will take their life.

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MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

Artwork by Osaiyekemwen Ogbemudia, Valley Stream, NY

My Top 6 Apps for

Mental Health

by Christine Shatrowsky, Friendship, MD

R

ecently, I attended a Mental Health First Aid training course where I learned how poor mental health can be just as debilitating as poor physical health. Just because mental health may not be as visible, doesn’t make it any less valid or real.

Fortunately, mental health is becoming increasingly acknowledged and discussed. There are improved resources for people with mental health issues and reduced stigma surrounding it. One of the newest ways to access resources is through apps on your phone. I have found several to be extremely useful and decided to compile a list of some I consider the best. All of the apps are available to download on the App Store and on Google Play. Even if you don’t think some of them apply to you, still feel free to check them out.

In no particular order, here are my best six (free!) apps for mental health.

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Just because mental health may not be as visible, doesn’t make it any less valid or real 1. Brightmind Meditation Brightmind Meditation walks beginners through the process of mindful meditation, which has been proven to reduce stress, control anxiety, enhance self-awareness, and improve sleep quality.

The app claims that their meditation “isn’t always a quick fix, but it makes up for that by being a deep fix.” Brightmind Meditation asks for your goals for meditation, your preferences for a guiding voice, as well as the times you’d like to meditate. From there, the app customizes their core curriculum and provides you with packs that become more advanced as you practice more meditation.

Brightmind Meditation offers different subscription packages for more meditation options.

MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

2. Remente

analyze the results and assign a Stress Index value from 1 (most relaxed) to 100 (most stressed).

Remente hopes to help you maintain focus, improve well-being, reach goals, reduce stress, and get the most out of life. You begin using Remente by creating an overview of your life through evaluating your satisfaction in areas like love and relationships, health and fitness, personal development, family, fun and recreation, career and education, and finances. After Remente personalizes the app to your needs, it will work as your personal coach to give you guidance and help connect your goals to everyday life. Its features – such as journaling, creating a to-do list, updating your progress, and recording your mood – help you to build good habits, learn valuable insights, and reflect on your behaviors and progress. And of course, all of the above features of Remente are free. If you’d like to unlock more of its advanced features, the app offers different subscription packages you can purchase.

StressScan recommends measuring stress levels every day at around the same time, beginning with taking one stress measurement in the morning and another at night. However, you may want to take your results with a grain of salt. Different types of heart rate technology haven’t been tested and may not be completely accurate.

Regardless, this app may be able to provide your stress level range and help you to determine when you’re most stressed.

3. Calm Harm Calm Harm aims to prevent self-harm. The app compares the urge to self-harm to a wave, as it feels most powerful when you start wanting to do it. If you experience a desire to self-harm, the app helps you to “ride the wave” so that the urge will pass. In doing so, Calm Harm provides certain activity groups like comfort, distract, express yourself, release, and breathe. Each activity type has plenty of options to choose from to “ride the wave.” One of the "comfort" activities, for example, is to cuddle someone or something; one of the “distract yourself” activities is to count as many things you know that are yellow.

In addition to the activity types, Calm Harm allows you to choose the colors you prefer and whether you’d like the company of the cute animated figures “The Calms” or “Animals.” The app also offers the opportunity to make notes or create a journal to record your thoughts and feelings and revisit them later. Even if the struggle for self-harm isn’t something you’re dealing with, I’ve found the activity types, especially breathing, to be comforting on a particularly stressful day.

4. 7 Cups 7 Cups is a free, anonymous, confidential text chat with trained volunteer listeners. The app assures you that you’re entering a safe place full of caring people that you can turn to any time you feel lonely or are struggling. 7 Cups offers a chance to chat with a listener or therapist, have a one-on-one conversation, or have a group support chat for encouragement from the community. What I think makes 7 Cups so special is its anonymity factor. Many apps and text messaging services that serve a similar purpose require a phone number and sometimes even a name, so 7 Cups allows those who are afraid to share their identity an opportunity to talk to someone without having to worry about confidentiality.

5. StressScan StressScan uses your smartphone camera to assign you an objective Stress Index measurement that can help you track your stress levels over time. The app detects the changes in colors from the picture of your fingertip taken with the camera to observe pulse behavior.

Then, using heart rate variability analysis (HRV) technology, it will

6. Sanvello Sanvello is rated the number one app for stress, anxiety, and depression. The app is an “evidence-based solution created by psychologists that uses clinically validated techniques such as

Our mind is a powerful thing, and it is incredibly important that we do everything we can to take care of it cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT),” according to its description. CBT is a type of psychotherapy that focuses on challenging and changing unhelpful thoughts and behaviors, as well as developing coping strategies that target specific problems. This type of psychotherapy has been proven to be especially effective for stress, anxiety, and depression.

Sanvello uses CBT, among other techniques, to guide you through immersive journeys. Its features – videos, audio exercises, and activities – are designed to work together to help you learn how to feel happier. The app’s mood tracking, daily reminders, and health tracking tools allow you to monitor your emotions, see positive and negative influences, and create change. And if you’re interested in some of the more advanced options on Sanvello, you can purchase one of their subscription packages.

These apps are available to help those who are struggling with mental illness as well as life in general. Our mind is a powerful thing, and it is incredibly important that we do everything we can to take care of it. After all, we do spend quite a lot of time in there.

Seek the advice of a mental health professional or other qualified health providers if you are concerned with your mental health.

If you’re having suicidal thoughts, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) to talk to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area at any time. If you are located outside the United States, call your local emergency line immediately.

For a more extensive list of resources, please refer to page 63 of this month's issue of Teen Ink magazine.

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MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

Artwork by Aileen Xie, San Jose, CA

by Anonymous, Sunnyside, NY

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MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

W

hen I was young, my parents always told me to strive to be the best.

“Why be number two,” they asked me, “or three, or four, when you can be number one?” With wide eyes, I nodded and agreed; who didn’t want to be number one? I went to school on weekdays, went to prep school on Saturdays, and went to piano lessons on Sunday, every week without fail. My parents worked all day, every day, in their own Chinese fast food restaurant, and so I rarely spoke with them. My older brother took me to school, took me home, and helped me if I had homework questions.

the white envelope that I knew concealed my high school future, the small, bolded text of the school name greeted my eyes.

I immediately took a picture and sent it to my parents.

to about once a week. My parents were displeased, but I had no energy to play nice with them. I was struggling with my classes, and I continued struggling despite my efforts.

I didn’t receive anything other than a thumbs-up emoji.

When report cards came out, it turned the household into a war zone. My parents noticed none of my efforts, or the time I spent on schoolwork; to them, my worth was defined solely by the small numbers, arranged in a neat little column, one after another.

“Remember,” they told me as I began high school, “don’t waste your time. Don’t be like your brother.” Their attention was no longer split between my brother and me as he entered university. Their pressuring expectations were now solely directed toward me.

“If you don’t care about me,” I shouted, “why would you care about my grades?”

High school was different from elementary or middle school. Almost everyone knew how to do math as quickly and efficiently

My mother froze, and my father raised his hand threateningly.

I was quickly falling behind, and I was hit with the cold, hard truth: I wasn’t special.

I wasn’t a one-ina-thousand genius

I didn’t get the message. “All you two care about is grades, grades, grades! Why can’t you see that I’m trying?”

Things began changing in middle school.

The day of the citywide high school admission test drew closer, and suddenly, nothing except the test mattered.

as me. Almost everyone knew how to play an instrument, or excel at a sport, or was an artist, or excelled in some other aspect outside of academics.

“This test is very important,” my parents told me, over and over, almost every day without fail. “This test determines your future. Your brother goes to the best school in this state, so you should be able to as well.”

I wasn’t number one, or even number two, or three, or four. I was quickly falling behind, and I was hit with the cold, hard truth:

It was a while before I could stand up and not have the world spin upside down.

Hot, unwilling tears streamed down my throbbing cheeks and dripped off my chin as I walked slowly into the bathroom, quietly closing and locking the door. I slid to the floor and buried my head in my arms on my knees.

A few months later, they told me, “Don’t waste your time in high school. Your brother plays games all the time, and that’s why his grades are low.”

I wasn’t a one-in-a-thousand genius.

My parents urged me to master everything.

“Piano will look good on your college record,” they said. “Drawing will be a useful skill. Just look at your brother’s drawings.”

I began drawing lessons on Saturdays, arranged right after prep school.

For many years, it was easy. I felt smart, like I was special. Nobody in school seemed to know how to do anything I did. They didn’t know what algebra was in fifth grade and struggled with long division when I was studying geometry. They didn’t know how to draw beyond stick figures or how to play any instruments outside of blowing a few notes on a cheap plastic recorder.

“What if I don’t get in?” I asked, and my mother laughed.

“Of course you will get in.”

That didn’t reassure me.

But to my relief and joy, when I opened

I wasn’t special.

Bitterness sprung in my heart. My parents had always told me to be number one. I couldn’t be number one. How were they going to accept that? How was I supposed to explain to them that I wasn’t special?

That I wasn’t the daughter they wanted me to be?

I stopped drawing. I had no time for it.

Playing piano every day slowly dwindled

“Watch your attitude,” my mother warned.

A searing pain exploded at the side of my face, and I staggered. Identical pain blossomed as another blow landed on me, and I stepped backwards, slipping and falling. Black dots swam in my blurry vision as my father screamed at me. My mother grasped his hand, whispering softly to him.

They left me to retreat into their bedroom, closing and locking the door.

It wasn’t the physical pain that really hurt.

It was their lack of concern.

I wasn’t able to really look at them eye to eye again for months.

My grades fell even lower, and I made little effort to pull them up again. When just months ago I was dissatisfied with anything less than an A, I was numb to the Bs and Cs that followed. My parents didn’t mention anything about my grades, and I never brought it up. We almost never looked at each other, let alone talked.

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MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

They acted as though I didn’t exist, excluding me from meals and ignoring me when I pulled all-nighters.

A part of me wanted them to yell at me, if only to stop them from ignoring me.

My freshman year came and went. The summer was almost unbearable; not talking to my parents when I had to spend more time with them was difficult. I busied myself with a job, and my brother – far away in university and safe from the tense home environment – expressed what appeared like obscure concern for me when I informed him dully that I still wasn’t on speaking terms with our parents.

I could no longer sleep at night. Instead, I often spent nights staring at the ceiling, replaying the arguments that I had had with my parents and weaving scenarios in which I hadn’t spoken back, or shouted, or cried.

When I returned to school, insomnia took a toll on me. I couldn’t maintain my attention during school, and I began the school year with lower grades than I had ended my freshman year with.

I wanted my parents to talk to me again. I wanted to tell them I was sorry, that I would try harder, that we shouldn’t be strangers in the same home.

Yet a part of me was bitter. They were my parents. Why, how, could they cast me aside so easily? Did it not bother them if I didn’t exist? Was I really so insignificant that they

18

My troubles seeped out of me with the blood, and I was flooded with a sense of relief could go about their daily lives without a hitch when, because of them, I couldn’t sleep nor focus on anything I wanted?

My conclusion was that I was, indeed, that insignificant.

After all, I wasn’t special.

I wasn’t a one-in-a-thousand genius.

I wasn’t the daughter they wanted me to be.

A horrible, panicky feeling crawled through my stomach and up my throat. I was constantly anxious, and one day when I was alone at home, I was hit with a sudden compulsion. I took two wine glasses from the kitchen and raised them above my head.

I dropped them, one by one, watching the once pristine stemware shatter upon meeting the mahogany wood. The noise stirred something in me, and I was, for the first time in a year, completely relaxed.

For a few days, my anxiety went away.

When it began growing once again, I searched desperately for something else

to calm me. Music only reminded me of my neglected piano and the piano lessons I had abandoned. Drawing reminded me of the numerous presents I had drawn for my parents on their birthdays and holidays.

Writing always turned into homework.

I got my answer when I was cutting meat to prepare myself a meal.

I nicked my finger, and for a split second, pain flashed through my hand before it was gone. I lifted my hand closer to my face, watching the blood slowly drip down my finger and palm. I caught it with a towel before it could drip down my wrist and off my elbow.

At that moment, I realized that the pain was like a tranquilizer. My troubles seeped out of me with the blood, and I was flooded with a sense of relief. It lifted the tension that was plaguing my mind. It was something I could control.

It became an almost daily routine.

Old wounds never had a chance to heal properly as I went over them again. I couldn’t get my parents to talk to me, and I couldn’t do anything right academically or socially, but at the very least, I could control my own pain. Did it matter to others that I was doing this? They didn’t have to know. They would never know. My parents would have the blinds continuously drawn over their eyes.

After all, I wasn’t special.

MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

Artwork by Alice Jang, Scarsdale, NY

I wasn’t number one.

My eyes widened.

I wasn’t the daughter they wanted me to be.

“We … We should have spent more time with our children when they were younger, instead of working all day for money. We could have prevented this. We should have done more.

And I didn’t have to be.

Or so I thought.

My clinic doctor noticed the thin lines of slightly elevated scar tissue when withdrawing blood for a blood test. Within a week, I was arranged to attend therapy. My parents were made aware of my situation, and when they gave me uneasy looks, as though I was mentally insane, I realized something.

I no longer just wanted them to notice me.

I wanted them to love me.

I rejected help. I refused to talk to my therapist, and my parents remained convinced that I was a psychopath in the making. I still couldn’t sleep at night, and more nights than not, my gaze returned to the blades in the kitchen.

One early morning, around three, I exited my bedroom to go to the bathroom. On the way, I paused by my parents’ bedroom; hushed whispers tickled my ears through the partially open door.

“It hurts, down here,” I heard my mother whisper, “that our child doesn’t understand we’re trying to help. The things we ask for aren’t for us… Why doesn’t our child understand that?” Her voice was broken, and her words ended with a small, watery hiccup.

“I love my children. I really, really do. But … " “Should I just … give up?”

"Would that make me happier?"

I resisted the urge to walk in and shout that I wouldn’t trade them for the world, that I loved them.

I wasn’t insignificant. I plagued their minds at night the way they plagued mine, and they clearly couldn’t sleep either. It bothered them that I wouldn’t talk to them, that I wouldn’t greet them when they came home after a day’s hard work.

I existed. I definitely existed.

The next day, a Saturday, I woke up early.

They never gave me any form of recognition of my apology. Instead, they sat down and began eating. After a second of hesitance, I joined them.

When I collected the dishes for washing, my father gave me a long, scrutinizing gaze before leaving for his room. My mother sat at the table, eyes never leaving me, and I swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated once again.

I no longer just wanted them to notice me. I wanted them to love me.

Her voice was quiet, but it held none of the iciness I was bracing myself for. “Wear an extra sweater if you’re going out today. It’s cold.” With that, she stood up and left to join my father, and I was left staring after her.

Breakfast was on the table with freshly boiled water by the time they were awake.

My mother looked surprised, but my father’s face was stony.

The uncertain expression of my face slowly morphed into a small smile.

“I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t a one-in-a-thousand genius.

The words slipped out of me so quietly they could have been mistaken for the hissing of the stove fire.

But I was a child that my parents loved and cared for, despite every wrong choice I’ve made.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

And in the end, I was okay with that.

I wasn’t special.

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MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

Artwork by Erin Jones, Dallas, TX

The Rise of Teen Counseling:

A Viable Option For All

by Zara Shariff, New York City, NY 20

D

espite numerous attempts to bring mental health awareness into the spotlight, there has long been a stigma associated with it — especially in the media.

While over 60 million Americans report having experienced mental illness in the last year, approximately 40 percent of them have not been able to receive the care that they need.

According to research published in the "Psychological Science in the Public Interest" journal, the overarching reason for this is the underlying stigma associated with mental health.

“The prejudice and discrimination of mental illness is as disabling as the illness itself. It undermines people attaining their personal goals and dissuades them from pursuing effective treatments,” says Patrick W. Corrigan, lead author and psychological scientist at the Illinois Institute of Technology. Not only is mental illness oftentimes stigmatized as “weak” and “lazy,” it also may prevent people from seeking out the necessary remedies to help themselves. It’s essential that we work to destigmatize the issue and spread greater awareness around its existing treatments.

One of those treatments — perhaps the most commonly known — is counseling. Over the past few years, teen counseling has surged amongst the younger generations as more adolescents continue to struggle with their mental health. In fact, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, approximately 70 percent of teenagers in the U.S. currently struggling with emotional or behavioral difficulties are seeking mental health services that don’t

With academic, social, and familial pressures that many teenagers regularly endure, receiving help from a professional can do wonders for mental health treatment — regardless of the severity of one’s respective illness involve taking medications, such as teen counseling. Compared to the 8 percent of baby boomers and 1 percent of elders who are actively engaged in therapy, adolescents are continuing to be more open to the wide scope of mental health services offered.

Overall, teen counseling has a very high success rate. In fact, over 50 percent of all individuals who have reported seeing a counselor stated that they had very positive experiences. With academic, social, and familial pressures that many teenagers regularly endure, receiving help from a professional can do wonders for mental health treatment — regardless of the severity of one’s respective illness. “Talking about your issues and problems out loud can be very helpful. It gives some perspective,” says Gregory Dalack, the chair of the Department of Psychiatry at the University of Michigan.

“Talking with somebody who is trained to understand anxiety and depression can be even more helpful to help manage those

MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021 symptoms, reframe some of the negative thoughts we tend to have, and move us to a place [mentally] where we can cope with those difficulties."

The Importance Of Teen Counseling The biggest benefit that a therapist can provide for their patient is the ability to hold open conversations in a safe and judgmentfree zone, in which a patient can discuss their most personal matters. For a teenager, there are a plethora of things they might seek solace in, whether that be self-esteem issues, family matters, relationship troubles, eating disorders, academic stress, violence, and much more.

These conversations are essential for the healthy development of teenagers and for peace of mind. Rather than bottling emotions inwards, teen counseling allows individuals to formulate their problems into words. This open expression is influential in uplifting mental health and allowing one to acknowledge their own emotions.

“Suppressing your emotions, whether it’s anger, sadness, grief or frustration, can lead to physical stress on your body. The effect is the same, even if the core emotion differs,” says Victoria Tarratt, a provisional clinical psychologist. “We know that it can affect blood pressure, memory, and self-esteem."

Many teens may feel uncomfortable talking to close friends and family members about their personal matters. They may feel embarrassed about their issues, confused about how to explain them, or worried that they’re being a burden. Having a trusted guardian — a counselor or therapist — to confide in not only reduces physical stress, but it also can be extremely emotionally relieving.

In fact, in a study conducted at the University of Texas, researchers found that bottling in emotions only intensifies one’s feelings at hand. After showing participants a series of movies and asking half of them to suppress their emotions to disturbing scenes, those who concealed their emotions displayed behavior that was significantly more aggressive after the movie was over. This same concept can be applied to dealing with everyday emotions; the more teenagers are able to outwardly express what they’re feeling — especially to individuals they can trust — the less those feelings will be intensified over a span of time.

Teen counseling is one of the best ways that teenagers can deal with their issues in a healthy, comfortable, and safe way. Not only will this platform help them address many of their problems (especially regarding mental illnesses) but it also might make them happier individuals overall.

Do You Have To Have A Mental Illness To See A Therapist?

Another common misconception associated with therapy is that it is only meant for those that are clinically diagnosed with a mental disorder.

While it is widely used as a treatment for those suffering from mental health conditions like anxiety, depression, eating disorders, or Bipolar Disorder, teen counseling can be an effective resource for a wide scope of individuals. It is comparable to a doctor’s appointment or dentist visit; many people visit their healthcare

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MENTAL HEALTH | MAY 2021

providers simply for an annual checkup or for medical advice. Therapy can be utilized in the same way. Individuals don’t need a diagnosis in order to receive treatment for their mental health.

“Honestly, going to therapy was one of the best decisions that I’ve made,” says Cindy, a high school junior. “At first, I was never really interested in it because I never thought that I needed it. To be honest, I thought it would be embarrassing to tell people about — especially my parents. But my therapist was SO helpful, and we talked about stuff that I had never really thought much about before.

It was like I was having a conversation with a friend. She helped me deal with a lot of my issues, and . . . I realized that needing a therapist is so normal.” Many adolescents share similar experiences with Cindy. While it may appear unnecessary or foreign, utilizing teen counseling services can have substantial impacts on life satisfaction and emotional well-being.

This is not to say that therapy is the only solution out there, or the best possible one for everyone, but it is an option that is certainly worth exploring. For those with mental health issues, it can be a valuable recovery resource, and it is a great way to

22

Artwork by Dove Nordblum, San Jose, CA

overcome feelings of self-doubt, negativity, and/or isolation. For those without mental health issues, it can still be a valuable resource for moderating emotions and preventing the buildup of physical and mental stress.

Overcoming The Treatment Stigma Regardless of all these benefits, the only way to make teen counseling a more widely used and socially acceptable form of treatment is to eradicate all existing stigma. The first step is to further open the conversation on the efficacy of such therapy services.

Teen counseling is especially important – now more than ever. After almost a full year of social isolation, a national health crisis, and political mayhem — alongside the academic, social, and personal challenges that all teenagers face — many might find themselves needing that outlet to unleash unwanted thoughts and emotions.

Through teen counseling, individuals can do exactly that. Unlike medication, counseling can also be offered in virtual forms and at increasingly affordable rates.

During these pandemic times, there is an

extensive number of therapy resources that are offered at the tip of one’s fingertips.

For example, therapy apps have risen to prominence over the last couple of years: many popular ones being Talkspace, BetterHelp, Larkr, and Teen Counseling.

All of these apps provide users with sessions designed to fit their schedules, and therapists are hand-selected based on individual preferences (all at affordable prices). Therapy sessions can also be conducted via Zoom, and they can be just as effective as in-person communication.

Overall, there are numerous options available for those currently struggling with their mental health, or for those who simply want a trusted adult to confide in.

As the mental health crisis in our country continues to grow — especially among younger generations — more adolescents should utilize the services that teen counseling offers. The only way to make these treatments more available is to erase the stigma of therapy and continue spreading awareness.

COLLEGE ESSAYS | MAY 2021

Why I I

Smile

stared up at the house, clenching the small golden key in my hand as I shut the car door behind me, the bitter winter air sending a chill through my nervous body. Cautiously, and on my tip toes, I walked through the garage and to the door of the house, careful not to leave footprints on the thin layer of snow on the ground. By the time I made it to the door, my heart was racing in my chest. I unlocked the door.

I really shouldn’t have been so nervous to enter this house. After all, it was technically my home. But, it was a home that I hadn’t been inside in over three years — my dad’s house. When I was 13, I left my dad to live only with my mom after years of living with a person who did nothing but introduce negativity into people’s lives. Back then, I didn’t know how much better life could be without that person in it.

So this new me stepped into my old home in search of some closure and a couple of old Wii games I’d been missing. The house felt cold and foreign, far from the warm and cozy home we all seek. I left my shoes at the door and slowly crept into the kitchen, then the family room. No one was there to

Artwork by Sophia Zhang, Chicago, IL

by Kayli Vesel, Nashotah, WI

catch me in the house, but I felt the need to sneak around, knowing that I didn’t belong there anymore — I never really did.

As I crept up the stairs, I made my way to my old bedroom, still left perfectly intact from how my eighth grade self had left it.

Hot pink decor covered the room, along with books upon books about dance and horse racing that I used to read in my spare time. Tears began to stream out of my eyes.

I was brought back to the countless nights I’d spent in that room, crying and wishing that things could be different.

And they could be. It took all the courage I had in my 13-year-old body to stand up to my dad and leave him, but I did it. As soon as I left that house, I grew into the person that I wanted to be. I was no longer the girl who hid in my room, afraid to talk without fear of getting screamed at. I grew more confident in myself and was proud to express my thoughts and opinions. I began to surround myself with more people who were positive and optimistic, and grew into the girl I am today — confident, independent, and constantly smiling. I am not angry or resentful toward my dad for all the pain he caused me when I was young.

It took all the courage I had in my 13-year-old body to stand up to my dad and leave him, but I did it Everyone that comes into your life has a lesson to teach. It is because of him that I am strong and not afraid to take risks, or to go for what I want. It is because of him that I appreciate positivity and optimism, and why I smile every chance I get. As I write this now, I smile because I am proud of how far I’ve come, and of the happiness I bring to my friends and family with my positivity. And I intend to keep smiling, to bring happiness to myself, to those around me, and eventually someday to bring joy to patients that I will be helping. After being surrounded by negativity for many years of my life, I now recognize the great importance of simply making someone else happy.

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COLLEGE ESSAYS | MAY 2021

The Flight

of Freedom

by Elizabeth Dawn, Phoenix, AZ

T

he two blades turned slowly – tik, tik, tik –then suddenly into a single circle of motion. I fixed my ear muffs and adjusted the speaker. “Testing, 1. 2. 3.” Once my dad and I could hear each other, we proceeded toward the runway.

Pushing the throttle all the way toward the ground, we would soon be on the runway going 60 miles per hour. Takeoff is intimidating, to say the least. Are we going fast enough? Will we veer to the right?

Will we veer to the left? And how do we even get this plane off the ground? I take a deep breath and we are airborne. Looking around, I experience a rush of euphoria that makes me feel invincible and free.

of the world floats off my shoulders here.

Flying benefits people in many ways. Flying provides a fast means of traveling, it serves as a getaway, an escape from reality. High above the world is my escape, where I feel capable of anything I set my mind to. From up above, the world is small, and all my problems and worries slowly seem to fade away like the houses that shrink smaller and smaller.

The weight of the world floats off my shoulders here

The coast is clear as we ascend toward the sky. A sense of freedom runs through my body right up to my cheeks, turning them a bright pink. The plane is bright yellow, a “bumble bee” we would call it. From far below it looks like one buzzing around the sky. Flying a plane gives you the same freedom a bird, or even a bumble bee, has to fly from place to place. Many people have their own outlets to freedom, perhaps a sport or a hobby. If I were younger, I would probably say horseback riding yields my sense of freedom. No matter how much I still love horseback riding, I am capable of expanding my horizons in an airplane.

Sadly, not everyone can say they have freedom. Freedom is a rough and dusty road that needs help, like taking off in an airplane. An airplane adjusts its controls, making sure it’s ready to grasp the wind, as do people in their lives. Type 1 Diabetes is my choppy wind. I was diagnosed with diabetes at the age of 14, right after my birthday. What a surprise birthday present that was. I do not feel free having this disease. For nearly five years I have been tied down by needles, insulin shots, finger pokes, high and low blood sugar.

I stare out my window down below. We are now thousands of feet above the ground. The cars have turned into ants, and the tops of the mountains are at eye level. It’s quiet up here. I can hear myself think. This is my time to look down on the world from up above and realize any worry or stress that is pressing down on me is temporary and minuscule compared to the vastness of the world below me. Flying gives me the capability to travel to any destination I desire. It reminds me that I do have freedom and power. Flying is daring, eye-opening, and adventurous. The weight

Growing up with Type 1 hasn’t been a smooth takeoff. While other kids were enjoying their lunch breaks with their friends, I would be paying a visit to the school nurse. She soon became my new lunch buddy. Middle schoolers aren’t the nicest sorts of people. I would often be told, “I would offer you this, but you can’t eat it” or “Is it contagious?” and, of course, the classic, “Oh, my grandma has that!” Yes, I know your grandma has it. However, that’s a different type of diabetes. Often, I would be so fed up with people’s misconceptions I would simply nod and say, “Mhm.” Down

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Photo by Serenity Barton, Wyndmere, ND

on the ground, life is hectic. Since the age of 14, I have had the responsibility of a fulltime job. Essentially, I have had to become my own pancreas. Yes, there are devices to assist the work, such as my insulin pump and continuous glucose monitor.

Both of which make me look like a kickass cyborg. Then I get the typical comments asking what is attached to my body and what those weird tubes are poking out of my pocket. People try to help me by shoving cures down my throat like there’s no tomorrow. “Don’t eat any carbs and you will get rid of it” or “Try this new transplant!

They just tested mice with it.”

My close friends and family act as if there’s a cure right around the corner, and I would love to believe there is. However, holding out hope day after day is exhausting. This is where flying comes into play. Once I sit behind the wheel of the airplane and grasp the controls, it’s as if I’m taking control of the disease. Here, I don’t have to listen to anyone else’s instructions about diabetes but my own. Up here, I have a more important job than diabetes – making sure I don’t fall out of the sky. There is no constant voice in my ear or eyes glaring at my device, and there are no questions being asked about my health. I am solely listening to the humming of the engine, feeling a slight breeze through the crack of the window, and admiring my surroundings.

There is bound to be turbulence from one flight to another, just as there’s turbulence in people’s lives. Without wings to carry me from one destination to the next, I would be lost. I would be stuck in one place, not knowing how to cope with my disease. However, no matter the condition or disease, turbulence can’t stop us from flying. Flying is my definition of freedom.

With every flight, I clear my mind and grasp the wind. The airplane takes me far away from Type 1 Diabetes.

POINTS OF VIEW | MAY 2021

No Toilet Paper?

Congratulations

By Jiayi Ji, Somerville, MA

I

am one of the few who did not have to worry about searching through the empty racks for the precious rolls of toilet paper amid the Covid-19 pandemic.

However, when I look at the rolls of toilet paper stacked up in my storage, do I feel secure? No. I feel anxious.

Toilet paper has been considered a necessity for humans ever since 1857, when Joseph Gayetty first introduced it in the United States. It is one of those products that you will never worry about having too much of. People became so dependent on toilet paper that it is impossible to imagine a time when we wiped our posteriors with anything else besides those silky, aromatic, crystal white sheets.

As much convenience as it might bring, toilet paper actually does more harm than good. In addition to the possibility of clogging up your toilet and the environmental devastation they may cause, the seemingly harmless papers are in fact toxic to our bodies. Research shows that toilet paper contains over 100,000 kinds of chemicals, the worst of which is chlorine bleach, the very product that gives toilet paper its pure white appearance. According to the "Toilet Paper Encyclopedia,"

chlorine-based chemicals react with organic molecules in woods and fibers to produce byproducts like dioxin, one of the most toxic and carcinogenic humanmade chemicals that can accumulate in our bodies. The WHO also links human exposure to dioxins with “immunotoxicity, developmental and neurodevelopmental effects, and changes in thyroid and steroid hormones and reproductive function.”

Despite this, toilet paper companies won’t let chemicals get in the way of their revenue. Indeed, there are many brands that advertise chlorine-free products (like Seventh Generation, Natural Value, and Trader Joe’s Bath Tissue), but many of these are recycled toilet papers. You may ask what is wrong with sustainable recycled toilet papers? Well, the problem lies within BPA (Bisphenol A), which was found in 81% of paper products in a study published in the journal of Environmental Science and Technology. Unfortunately, recycled toilet papers are made from jumbles of recycled papers, and contamination during the cycling process frequently contributes to the source of BPA. Studies have indicated BPA as a risk factor for breast cancer, cardiovascular diseases, type 2 diabetes, and many more illnesses.

When I look at the rolls of toilet paper stacked up in my storage, do I feel secure? No. I feel anxious Worst of all, toilet paper fails to achieve its fundamental purpose – cleaning. As a matter of fact, toilet paper spreads germs more efficiently than removing them. A New York Times article by Kate Murphy provided further explanations from Dr. H. Randolph Bailey, a colorectal surgeon. Randolph claims it is crucial to fully eliminate germs because severe diseases like Cholera, hepatitis, and E. coli are known to be transmitted by feces. He and other experts agreed that water is the most sanitary means to clean ourselves and that people should adopt bidet toilets instead of using toilet papers.

So during times when you cannot find any toilet paper anywhere, don’t panic. You might be saving yourself.

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POINTS OF VIEW | MAY 2021

Gender Expression:

Breaking the Barriers

by Remy Bregu, Tirana, Albania

Artwork by Nicole Kim, Douglaston, NY

26

POINTS OF VIEW | MAY 2021

O

n Nov. 3, 2020, Vogue, the well-known fashion magazine, published its new issue featuring Harry Styles, a singer previously known from the band One Direction, wearing a lace dress on the cover. This cover caused a lot of backlash toward the magazine and the singer himself, and instigated controversial debates among people online and in the media. The cover also sparked a conflict known as the “gender identity vs. gender expression” conflict.

Gender identity and gender expression are definitions that have been thrown around and changed drastically over a long period of time. First off: What is gender? According to the website smartsex.com, “Gender includes the roles, attributes and activities that society uses to define people. Gender is based on many factors including biology, socialization, cultural expectations and roles.”

This definition further drops the theory that there are “only two genders” and separates gender identity and gender expression.

Gender identity is what individual identify themselves as, and gender expression is how people express themselves through clothing and other general physical characteristics. These can be used for their own reasons and purposes related to femininity, masculinity, and androgyny.

Our society is built to harm people who don't fit the heteronormative lifestyle Several negative comments directed at Harry Styles said he was “not a real man,” referring to traditional gender roles, which include beliefs such as “men are strong and leaders of the house” and “women are gentle and should please their husbands and take care of children.” Gender stereotypes are usually assigned to children at birth by their parents, such as dressing a baby boy in blue clothes or a baby girl in pink clothes. This is where gender expression comes in. According to traditional Western gender roles, men are not allowed to wear feminine clothes like dresses because it “emasculates” them and makes them “girls” or “sissies.” Reinforcing gender stereotypes and taking the freedom of identity away from a person causes harm to individuals who want to express themselves and feel comfortable with their appearance and identity. Harry Styles never said that he wasn’t a man; all he did was wear a dress and express his femininity, something that isn’t exclusive to women.

Cis people (people who identify with their birth gender) can dress in clothes that wouldn’t typically “fit” the stereotypes assigned to them by society’s gender roles.

when a non-privileged person, who doesn’t want to conform to traditional gender roles, identifies as something other than the stereotyped roles, it can cost them their lives and mental health.

This conflict also affects cis people in things like clothing, power, and behavior. The life-threatening danger isn’t as prominent, but gender expression is toned down and restricted. As I mentioned previously, gender roles are usually assigned at birth and continue to affect the child their entire life. It affects material things, like toys. Girls are given dolls and boys are given cars and trucks. One's social life, including behavior, is also affected. Men have to be in control or “the strong ones” in difficult situations, and women should be submissive and “follow the alpha.” Gender expression also includes going against these stereotypes, with or without an association to sexuality, in clothing and behavior. This is not easy.

In the case of our celebrity, one risks being called “gay,” “weak,” or “too radical” for simply not agreeing to live in a box.

More recently, younger generations are raising awareness to the dangers of reinforcing gender stereotypes and educating each other on correct definitions. The purpose is to make the world we live in a safer and more comfortable place for people who don’t want to conform to the gender binary. Vogue stepping up and hiring plus-size and transgender models, as well as people like Harry Styles, who promote gender expression, shows the progression of our society toward a more accepting world.

Artwork by Cecilia Lei, Naperville, IL

This conflict between definitions is harmful to society – specifically, the trans community and those who want to express themselves differently, whether that is more masculine, feminine, or androgynous. This harm might seem insignificant to people who don’t belong in these communities, but the life-threatening danger is very real. Our society is built this way, to bring harm to people who don't fit the heteronormative and privileged standards and lifestyle. Harry Styles, as a celebrity, has the privilege to not care and not be affected by the harmful gender stereotypes. However,

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EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR | MAY 2021 Photo by Tianyang Xu, Shanghai, China

Year

Educators Mr. Ed Paloucek

St. Jerome Parish School Oconomowoc, WI

by Clare Fitzgerald, Oconomowoc, WI

K

alokagathia has no English translation,” Mr. Paloucek told our sixth grade history class at St. Jerome Parish School.

He explained it as the beauty in all God’s creations; directly, it means beautygoodness. That year, I began to hate myself for being smart. I began to hate myself for being short. I began to hate myself for being naive and innocent.

Mr. Paloucek’s class immersed me in the world of classical studies, and I never wanted to stop learning, although it made the stereotype of me being the ‘smart Asian’ even more true (and I hated that it did). Despite this external hatred, I didn’t change. From him, I began to understand that Greek word without a translation.

In Mr. Paloucek’s class, I was not only learning history, but I was also learning what it meant to be a human. The Romans didn’t have to make music, but it was a way

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2021

of the

they expressed the world’s joys. Without even knowing it, they demonstrated the meaning of kalokagathia. Six years ago, I learned that to be human meant I could create my own forms of beauty.

Mr. Paloucek and I formed a studentteacher bond because of our mutual love for Irish music. He is a fiddle player in an Irish band, and I was an Irish dancer. He played at our local pub every Thursday, and my siblings and I danced to his tunes.

I was learning what it was to be human I learned that unlike other animals, humans could dance. Mr. Paloucek taught me being human meant dancing and singing in pure bliss.

I had to say good-bye to Mr. Paloucek after sixth grade because I moved to a new school, but that gave me the opportunity to join the school band. Mr. Paloucek’s teachings of music’s sheer power brought me to learn the clarinet. A year prior, I had no idea that music was the beauty of my

future. Now, I am a senior in high school preparing to attend college for music education. Beginning clarinet reminded me I can construct my own beauty. I could do what humans were put on this earth to do – to express the loveliness of being alive! I want to spread this amongst students like Mr. Paloucek did.

Shortly after I began seventh grade, Mr. Paloucek's wife passed away due to cancer, and I attended his wife’s funeral.

Throughout the service, he played his fiddle, but the songs were starkly different from his usual Irish drinking jigs. He was not playing from memory; he played from his heart. The vibrato, the octave jumps, and the tempo’s rising and falling seized our attention and galvanized a conduit that connected everyone’s hearts to his own.

Funerals seem robbed of all good; however, there was a twinkle of magic that came from Mr. Paloucek's violin. His ability to create beauty in the good continued to thrive, even in this extreme low point of his life. Although he said there isn’t an English equivalent, I believe that Mr. Paloucek is the definition of kalokagathia.

EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR | MAY 2021

Mrs. Karen Mekenian Mesa Robles Middle School Hacienda Heights, CA

by Skylar Fan, Hacienda Heights, CA

T

wo years ago I immigrated with my mother to the United States from China. The second I walked out of the airport I stepped into a dark forest. Everything that I was familiar with was taken away. I cried and screamed for help, but stopped because the pain of fear and the unknown stole my soul. There were only darkness and dead silence in my life until the day I met Mrs. Mekenian.

The first time I met Mrs. Mekenian I felt nothing, no emotions. She didn’t look any different or special from all the other teachers at school. It didn’t cross my mind that she would be the person to make a difference in my life. All I knew about her was a strange word that she told me during class on the first day of school; Armenian. Since I knew zero information about her, I chose to listen to rumors from other students, who described Mrs. Mekenian as a “nice” teacher that never teaches anything and just waits for her monthly paycheck.

However, as the days passed by, I realized Mrs. Mekenian was a completely different person from what I originally believed from the rumors. I decided to form my own opinion about her. Mrs. Mekenian was a special teacher; she was a treasure box that always gave you surprising gifts.

Her knowledge was like a vast and deep ocean. In one year, I learned so much from her! She not only taught me but also her students, about general life experiences and especially Armenian history.

Throughout the school year, Mrs. Mekenian also encouraged and supported me, especially with school assignments. I used to write in my primary language Chinese a lot, because I feared other students would make fun of my written English. I knew I could never write as well as native English writers, but with Mrs. Mekenian’s encouragement, I defeated my fear and picked up the pen that I loved and started to express myself through the words that were written on the paper. For example, after a weekend of writing, I finished my

first English essay, Dream Kites, which was not for a school assignment. When I typed in the last word of the essay, I found my soul and finally walked out of the past and the dark forest that had enclosed me. No longer was I a silent muppet.

After I wrote Dream Kites, I brought a copy of it to school and asked Mrs. Mekenian to help me edit it. Consequently, she spent many hours patiently sitting with me, explaining the reasons for the changes and making sure I understood them. I was touched by her patience and the fact that she spent a long time helping me. It wasn’t her responsibility to help me like that.

The essay was not a school assignment.

She could have easily refused to help me, but she did not. And, in fact, Mrs. Mekenian supported me with other writing assignments as well.

I appreciated her patience

she made connections and relationships.

I spent a long time to finish reading the book. However, knowing that I could share my opinions and feelings with Mrs. Mekenian motivated me to keep reading.

Again, she was extremely patient to listen, even though she had already read the book multiple times. She taught me more by voicing her opinions and experiences as well. I could not stop to read more because I wanted to tell her more about my thoughts. In the end, both of us reached the same conclusions about the poor Chinese Cinderella.

Eventually, at the end of the school year, Mrs. Mekenian became my favorite teacher.

She is a wise teacher who changed me forever. She is that shot of light that guided me to walk out of the dark forest. She loves and cares for every single one of her students. She translates her love into the actions and helping and supporting all her students. Her honey-sweet smile and words of encouragement will always be in my mind, pushing and motivating me to work harder.

Without Mrs. Mekenian, writing and reading would still be a funeral march for me. What I appreciated the most was her patience, which supported me in many ways. The first year I moved to the United States I hated to read in English. In contrast, I read twice as fast in my native language than other Chinese students, while I read twice as slow in English than other English students.

As a fifth-grader, I read only for school assignments. Reading in English was a gigantic rock that blocked my path toward learning English.

However, one day in 6th grade, that stumbling rock was overcome when Mrs. Mekenian and I found a cardboard box of old reading novels that were abandoned in the classroom closet. They were the novels for 7th grade Honors Language Arts, Chinese Cinderella by Adeline Yen-Mah. The title of the book attracted me. As soon as I opened the book and read the first page, I was hooked. I decided to borrow the book and read it on my own time. In my second year of learning English, I still needed some help to understand the text.

Whenever I asked for help, Mrs. Mekenian would always explain it patiently to me. To help me understand the meaning better,

Artwork by Angelina, Karnal, India 29

EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR | MAY 2021

Mrs. Stacey Arnett Arrowhead High School Oconomowoc, WI

by John Prince, Hartland, WI

B

efore sophomore year at Arrowhead, I never got along with authority. In my eyes, authority was mean, disrespectful, and demanding. Mrs. Arnett knew I might mess up, and when I did, she didn't put me down – we just talked.

She said, “You can't be mature until you are 25.” My whole life I had heard, “Be more mature!”

Without even knowing it, Mrs. Arnett made me look at authority figures differently. I have learned that authority figures have different ways of showing respect and that showing respect is a two-way street.

She motivated me to believe in myself Mrs. Arnett may not know this, but she had a huge impact on my sophomore year and on my life. She motivated me to believe in myself by believing in me when the odds started getting difficult.

When I was going through hard times, she always put a smile on my face. The motivational Fridays were what I needed to get through the week. Mrs. Arnett knew just what to say to us; she relates so well with her students.

My favorite motivational video she showed me focused on this message: If you want to change the world, start off by making your bed. That video is stuck in my head and it doesn't just relate to school, but it is about life. It talked about how the little things matter, and if I can't do the little things right, there is no way I can do the big things right. It talked about how no matter how hard it is in the moment, the end of the tunnel is closer than I think.

When I didn't want to do my homework and picked up my phone, instead of yelling at me like every teacher does, Mrs. Arnett

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took time to sit me down. We made a plan where I had to do my homework, but it gave me some freedom once my homework was completed. We had the best relationship.

I saw Mrs. Arnett as a teacher and also a friend. She treated me as an adult and let me do what I wanted to do, within reason.

She never told me what to do; we always agreed on a plan of action together.

Mrs. Arnett, I appreciate everything you did for me. You made a great impact on my first years at Arrowhead. I would like to nominate you for Teacher of the Year because you deserve the recognition.

Mr. Phillip Miller H.B. du Pont Middle School Hockessin, DE

by Anonymous, Wilmington, DE Mr. Miller teaches 8th grade math and is one of the best teachers I have ever had.

He makes every student feel important and worthy of greatness. He clearly wanted every student in his class to succeed.

On top of that, he is a very empathetic person that is ready to help people if they are struggling and need tutoring.

A staple Mr. Miller trait is that he thinks that every kid in his class is worthy of amazing things in the future, and he doesn’t try to hide it. He never picked favorites and he treated every student the same, even if you were “disliked” by other teachers.

Although he is a kind man, he isn’t going to put up with people if they behaved like a fool because he didn’t want it to detract from what his students were learning. But even then, he thought of them as a not only a student but a friend and an equal.

Something else that you may not know about Mr. Miller is that he wants every single person who ever entered his class to succeed. They don’t even have to be students!

One of the things that Mr. Miller is known for was how much faith he had in every single student. No matter who they were, he thought of them the same way as everyone else even if they weren’t most teacher’s favorite student. He has very high expectations for everyone in his class, and he isn’t going to let anyone jeopardize their

future. Did you know that Mr. Miller is also a very empathetic person and is always there to help?

Something that is left rather unappreciated about Mr. Miller is that he is one of the only teachers I had that taught us the material in a way that wasn’t totally painful to sit

He wants every single person to succeed through, and it was easy to understand for all the students. We would learn something in interactive ways such as whiteboards, or word problems, or word problems with whiteboards! And if that wasn’t entertaining enough, if a student got an answer right or, at the very least tried their hardest, they received a piece of candy from an assortment of small fun-sized candy. We also played games and worked frequently with partners of our choice, but only if he trusted that it wouldn’t get out of hand.

In conclusion, my nomination for Educator of the Year goes to Mr. Miller for believing that everyone is destined for greatness.

He treated everyone in his class equally, and he taught the material in a fun way that also allowed us to grasp it easily. My nomination goes to a person that I believe is incredibly underappreciated in his field.

Mr. Miller is a very respectable educator, one that I feel deserves a nomination for an award such as this.

Photo by Elijah Faridnia, Los Angeles, CA

EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR | MAY 2021

Photo by Gregory Gotlieb East Williston, NY

Mrs. Alicia Obermann Arrowhead High School Oconomowoc, WI

by Bennett Balogh, Okauchee, WI

T

he start of sophomore year at Arrowhead High School was one of the hardest times in my life. I had moved from Lincoln, Nebraska to Hartland, Wisconsin – a place I had never seen nor heard of. I drove up from Nebraska one day and the next day, went to a new school.

At my prior school, I was advanced in math and was put into classes with sophomores and juniors when I was a freshman. I was one of the brightest students and math came easily. When I moved to Arrowhead, everything changed. I was with students my own age that were intelligent and more advanced. I felt behind, and I never would have gotten through 10th grade precalculus if it weren’t for Mrs. Obermann.

Mrs. Obermann is a caring, compassionate, and committed teacher who looked out for me and helped me when I needed it most.

She understood how hard the move was for me and often asked, “How are you doing today, Bennett?”

When I felt like I asked a basic and dumb question, she never laughed at me; she was happy to answer my questions. She

She made sure each student got what they needed was also patient when I didn’t understand where she got a variable, an answer, or even a simple addition.

Pre-calculus at Arrowhead was the first math class I ever struggled in. I remember getting tests back that were almost half the score of what I would have averaged in Nebraska. Yet, every time, Mrs. Obermann was there reassuring me that we would figure it out. She was a generous, genuine, and giving teacher.

I remember walking into her classroom seventh period just to ask a question and

never once did she tell me she didn’t have time or that she was too busy.

I would walk in and say, “Hey, Mrs. O, do you have time for a question or two?” Or, “I have no clue what I’m doing on this. Can you please help?” And her response was almost always, “Of course I can help you.”

Or, “What do you not understand, exactly?”

She always made sure I got what I needed and never told me she was too busy to help (even though I came in nearly every day).

She not only taught me math, but she also taught me how to show people compassion, and she taught me to help people because everyone needs someone in their life that they can ask for help.

Mrs. Obermann is everything I look for in a teacher; she is kind and caring, but fun. She always wanted students to feel comfortable and made sure each student got what they needed.

Mrs. Obermann helped me struggle through sophomore year a little less, and I am so thankful for everything she did to help me.

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TRAVEL & CULTURE | MAY 2021

Granite, Mint Leaves

&Tagines

by Riddhi Bhattacharya, Kolkata, India

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Photo by Neha Vinod, United Arab Emirates

H

is was over the water“ – a quote from the Quran – inspired Morocco's most famous mosque to be built half over the Atlantic Ocean.

Like a faithful home, the mosque allows God's worshipers to contemplate his sky and ocean. The intricate relationship between land and water is exemplified in its prayer halls where you pray over the ocean while looking at the sky.

Through its granite walls, it invites you to join the magical Arabic quest.

CMA Airport: 20 steps and not a single clue about what this Moroccan Easter trip had in store was exposed. On the way to Casablanca’s famous Hassan II Mosque, I absorbed the serene beauty that North Africa’s busiest port city had to offer. Upon reaching the mosque, it was quite evident what Morocco, its flamboyant past and phoenix-tailed magic, could do to one.

The world’s third largest mosque and home to 45,000 visitors per day, Hassan II Mosque, shows off its thousand-year-old, sun-glittered courtyards and ocean mist floors. Worth blowing one’s own trumpet are its enormous prayer halls. Made up of gorgeous glass floors, they let you view the Atlantic breaking over the rocks beneath while praying to the Almighty above. Huge Arabic gates are situated all around the immense courtyard, and large lotusshaped ablution fountains are carved around the mosque’s gates.

Covered in green, blue, cream, gold, pink and purple marble, the mosque is the perfect welcome to Morocco. From intricate mosaics and graphite columns to centrally heated floors and retractable roofs, it invites the elderly to join hands with the youngsters and gives us an

TRAVEL & CULTURE | MAY 2021 insight into a country full of colors, dreams, and passion.

The lingering smell of boiled vegetables, grilled meat and cardamom seeds greeted me like a long-lost sailor returning home.

A hot, sticky wind blew over my face, and I instinctively took out my phone

The mosque was the perfect welcome to Morocco and opened the weather app. I was in the middle of a 37°C Moroccan souk, and all I knew was that a strange, magnetic force kept pulling and pleading for me to discover the wonders that lay beyond.

I looked around and found an unoccupied chair coated with a thin layer of dust and oil from the air. Hesitant for a while, I finally forced myself to sit down. There was Utopian chaos all around: young gentlemen looking for places to park their bikes; women bargaining in various languages (of which several were foreign to me); shopkeepers shouting cheap deals to attract customers; and little kittens, dogs, and birds singing their own tunes.

I bought a cup of special Moroccan tea from the shop behind me, only to discover that it contained mint. I reluctantly took a sip of the piping hot tea from the little earthy pot made of red clay. Within moments, I was pulled into a neverexperienced roller coaster of emotions.

The aroma of cool, refreshing mint filled my nostrils while the strong taste of the rich tea warmed every nerve in my body.

It was a feeling of completeness, a feeling of being forced to sleep on a slab of ice while hot air circulated all around the room. As the tea reached the very depths in my heart, I straightened up and carved a wide grin upon my face. This was it, the taste that drives travelers crazy, the taste that drives the lost back home, the taste that drives nomads forward while they voyage through the dunes. This was the taste of paradise.

A gram of Arabicness, a pinch of Andalusian, an ounce of Sub-Saharan influence topped with spices from the Mediterranean and a little vibrant European touch. Mint, oregano, parsley, peppermint, fenugreek, nutmeg, saffron, cloves – name the herb or spice and your taste buds will find them. Fish, beef, chicken, lamb, mutton, and eggs – lift the cover and you will see it!

Earthen pots made of red clay, cooked in warm ovens, bearing the weight of meat, spices, and vibrant herbs. Cooked on high flame and heat, this Moroccan delicacy satisfies your taste buds as if you have found the taste you have been waiting for for years. Tagine is a gem – common, but worth a thousand yeses.

The meat as soft as butter, the gravy as savory as your favorite soup, the couscous as fluffy as cotton. And your taste buds feel as though they were on fire, not because of the spice, but because the mouth-watering taste takes you into a different dimension. A dimension which one may possibly never forget. A dimension which has only one gate of entry. A dimension which will always have its own space in your memory.

Photo by Neha Vinod, United Arab Emirates

Photo by Summaya Jamil, Multan, Pakistan

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TRAVEL & CULTURE | MAY 2021

Not Really

Italian

Photo by Evaleah Caceres, Las Vegas, NV 34

By Sarah Fazioli, Mountain View, CA

TRAVEL & CULTURE | MAY 2021

C

iao!" I glanced up from my set gaze, which was fixated on the crowd across from me. I was ten years old and watching for the Pope, whose popemobile was set to glide through the streets a mere ten feet away from us. I was surrounded by the vibrating clamor of laughter and words in a variety of languages, blending like a layered chorus.

“Ciao!” I replied brightly, utilizing my parents’ lessons of politeness.

An elderly man was smiling down at me. He had a warm glow to him, emitting a sweet haze of love and memories of a life filled with satisfying experiences. I glanced at him incredulously, wondering why he was speaking to me. Had he mistaken me for someone else?

The man turned to my mother, who was also anxiously awaiting the Pope’s arrival and asked her in Italian what my name was. My mother laughed softly, using her limited knowledge of French from high school to piece together his meaning. She told him my name, which sounded distinctly Italian.

I was not really Italian. In fact, I was only a quarter. I was mostly Irish, as evidenced by the constellation of freckles across the bridge of my nose. My last name, however, had often been called "the most Italian last name” anyone had ever heard back in America. Without questioning what my native dialect was, the man knelt to my height and began to speak.

which the blood in my veins turned to ice, freezing my thoughts and numbing my words. I had deceived this poor man, hadn’t I? He had wasted his time spinning eloquent words and phrases in Italian for a girl who could not comprehend a single word of it.

I had deceived this poor man, hadn't I? The man glanced at me incredulously for a second. Then, to my relief, he burst out with laughter. A heaving, joyful laughter that shook the ground beneath us and sang into our ears, melting my terrified expression into a relieved smile.

The man’s laughter did not subside. He pulled me into an embrace.

He could not speak English himself. Regardless, he thanked me vigorously and shook my hand, as well as my mother’s. His chuckle continued to shake the earth until he disappeared into the crowd, gone like an enigma. Now, we were tied together with a string of connection. Two humans with no knowledge of the others’ language, but with a beautiful memory nonetheless.

I was not really Italian, after all. But in this case, it didn't matter.

It was a flurry of Italian that his mouth had twisted to form — beautiful words and phrases that jumped into my ears with grace.

I imagined that he was speaking of the history of the Catholic church, of the people around us, of his Italian Artwork by Pamela (yu) Xiang, heritage. I wondered what story he was San Francisco, CA weaving together, twisting words and speech into a symphony of language. I caught the gaze of my mother. We both knew that I could not speak Italian. We let it happen anyway.

When the Pope did ride by, the man’s speech quickened into a chorus of anticipatory words, marveling at our circumstances and the blessings before us. We gazed into the Pope’s warm eyes together as he smiled in our direction.

When the Pope disappeared down the road, the man finally turned to me and asked me a question. I heard the way his words turned up at the end and the expectant expression on his face. I was suddenly filled with an intoxicating sense of guilt.

“I-I can’t speak Italian,” I admitted. “I only speak English.”

There was a moment of silence in

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IDENTITY | MAY 2021

Yes!

I Am Mexican

by Daniela Higareda, Hanahan, SC

“Y

es, I am Mexican,” I often find myself explaining to my peers and other people I meet. Time after time, I encounter people who ask me, “What are you?”

I respond to them, “I am Mexican.”

“You’re Mexican?” They ask me once again.

“Yes, I am Mexican,” I respond. And they give me this look.

I am not afraid to say that I am Mexican because it is who I am. It’s my culture, it’s my heritage, it’s my race, it’s what makes me be me. My ancestors sacrificed themselves so that I could be here today.

They gave me my skin color, they gave me my roots, they gave me each little part of the person I am today, and I am not going to throw that precious gift away. Every day, we are the target of discrimination, whether it be from other students or from high-profile people like Donald Trump. I am proud to say that I am Mexican, regardless

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of the hardships that I face. People make nasty jokes about my race and think that it doesn’t hurt my feelings. But, it does. It hurts like a gruesome stab to the stomach.

They think only they have a right to dream.

Mexico is a land of dreamers, inventors, writers, engineers, and artists But, guess what? Being Mexican makes me proud. Mexico is a land of dreamers, inventors, writers, engineers, artists, and all sorts of people who enrich the world. It is the place where Guillermo del Toro, Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera, Chicharito, and Carlos Slim come from. Mexico is a beautiful place where we celebrate the lives of our loved ones on the Day of the Dead. Mexico

Photo by Taylor Hall, Augusta, KS

is the place where we scream and shout and holler for happiness when our players score in the most beautiful sport on the face of our planet: soccer. It is where our lungs nearly burst every time we sing our beautiful national anthem. It is the place where we laugh and cry to our heart’s desire without being told that we don’t belong there. Mexico is the place where we live out the movie “Coco,” a tribute to our unique culture. We are this and much, much more. We are not criminals, rapists, or drug dealers. We don’t come here to take anyone’s jobs; we only take the vacant jobs. We are hard workers, dreamers, and a part of the future of the United States. It does not pain me to say that I am Mexican.

I could shout it a million times, two million times, no – three million times, and never get tired.

“I am Mexican, I am Mexican, I am Mexican.

Yes, I AM MEXICAN!”

IDENTITY | MAY 2021

Not That Euphoria I wish I could see myself The way others do.

Yet I feel suspended Even as I see it through.

Suspended, stuck in a loop Of self-loathing.

I wear a sweatshirt that is slightly Too big, And sweatpants that fit loose On my legs, So I don’t see my body.

Look in the mirror, Look away.

I still look every day.

Stuck inside, Can’t look away.

Yet I see a future.

One where I see myself As a whole.

Where I don’t have to look The other way.

I see people, Happy as themselves.

I want that.

I take a book off the shelf.

It reads, Euphoria.

Overwhelming happiness.

Euphoria.

I turn to a new page of My life.

I can see myself in the mirror.

Now no more hate.

Only, Self-love.

Euphoria.

by Owen B., Torrance, CA

I

Big of a Deal

by Anonymous, Cave Creek, AZ

am black. Saying this phrase can garner an interesting mix of reactions: indifference, shock (I don’t know why, it should be obvious), and awkwardness.

The idea of race has been society’s way to define and separate people and has now become a way to gain access to opportunities that others can’t have.

I am a sister. I am the youngest and get treated as such. I have one older brother and one older sister.

Growing up, I never felt different because of who I was on the outside and how my parents raised me. But as I grew older, I realized that what my parents taught me directly contradicted what history lessons showed me, people told me, and society highlighted. In a way, I was expected to use my race every day as a way to gain the sympathy and “support” of society. Race

These things all come before being black, because without them – I am nothing.

Race is not a big deal because it is not primarily who you are; you are more than your skin color because no one can get to know you by seeing the color of your skin.

Others can only truly know you when you show them what's on the inside.

I hated the way my race defined me was a big deal. This had a detrimental impact on how I saw myself and who I was – because being black wasn’t mainly who I was, it was what I was. I knew that who I was, was defined by what was on the inside. What I was, was defined by what was on the outside. While being black plays an important role because of culture, it wasn’t the deciding attribute of my identity. Whenever we discussed the Civil War in History, it always felt that all eyes were on me because of misplaced guilt or pity – as if I was the one who was thrown into slavery. I hated the way that my race defined me instead of the inner qualities that I considered valuable.

I am a friend. I have always been social and I love making connections. I am outgoing and always enjoy hearing what others have to say.

My identity does not rest in the fact that I am African American. The idea that race has been used as a valid way to define who you are has been in our society’s head for too long. Being black is not the majority of who I am and it should not decide what I do in life, what job I get, or even what college I go to. I am black … but I am also an athlete, a daughter, a sister, and a friend.

Artwork by Alice Zhao, Cary, NC

I am an athlete. I’ve been doing track and field since I was in third grade and have trained hard to be where I am right now.

I am a daughter. My parents had me on July 16, 2004, at 4:00 a.m.

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SPORTS | MAY 2021

Inside the

NBA

Bubble

by Ethan Pohl, East Bridgewater, MA

H

ow would you feel if you had to leave your family and friends?

Lonely, bored, sad? These are some of the feelings NBA players had to experience when they left those things behind for many months. NBA players had to deal with abnormal experiences this season due to COVID, including minimum socialization, no fans, and essentially existing in a bubble. In the end, they did the best they could and turned a negative experience into a positive one.

In the bubble that enveloped this past NBA season, players had limited time every day to talk with teammates in person and could only call and FaceTime family. They were technically self-isolated from others while in their hotel rooms. The only time players could socialize with teammates were during practices and games. Tadd Haislop, from Sporting News, stated, “Nobody in the NBA bubble is allowed to have guests – at least not yet. Things may change when playoffs come around.” Later, when the playoffs did begin, he reported, “The NBA and National Basketball Players Association negotiated new terms that, per ESPN, will allow as many as four guests per player with exceptions for children."

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Even though the athletes could have guests visit during playoffs, they were still isolated for the most part. Not only was there no real social interaction, but there were also no fans to cheer on the players.

No crazy fans, no loud cheering – just an abnormally silent arena. Even though the stands were empty, the NBA tried to make

No crazy fans, no loud cheering, just an abnormally silent arena the players feel like they had a crowd cheering for them by projecting virtual fans on large jumbotron screens. Sometimes, just the sound of cheering was piped into the arena over large speakers. Some NBA players and coaches felt this was weird.

In an interview with NPR, Javale McGee (of the Boston Celtics) told a reporter that it began to feel weird to hear, but not see, a crowd. Celtics head coach Brad Stevens agreed with McGee, saying that he thought that NBA fans watching games from home should hear player interactions instead of fake crowd noises. When the finals came

around, so did some in-person human noise. The NBA let spouses of players enter the bubble to watch them perform in the last dance of the season. Although it was tough without the loud crowd, players still got through it, even while wearing masks the majority of every day.

Although players and coaches had to exist in the Disney "bubble" for the season, they made the best they could out of their trip.

Some players, such as Javele Mcgee and Matisse Thybulle decided to document the life inside the bubble. For example, some socially distanced activities included golfing, swimming, fishing, hiking, playing video games, and team practices. Other players made the best of the trip by deciding that they were going to convert hotel rooms into different things. One room became a barbershop, while another became a spa.

NBA players had to experience something different than normal last season. Although there was minimal socialization, no home courts and no fans in the 2020-2021 NBA season, players did the best they could to make the best out of the new normal. No family, no friends, and even no fans. Clearly this was a difficult time for the NBA players, but they stayed strong together and made it work.

SPORTS | MAY 2021

The Feeling

of Parkour

The Dream Team's

by Onik Siddique, Bronx, NY

W

henever I walk past any fence or wall, the first thing that comes to my mind is, “Can I scale that?” As someone who has been practicing parkour for almost a year now, my mind is constantly looking at different structures as an obstacle course.

I can still remember the feeling of going on my first run because it is the same feeling I experience now.

The winds rushed past me, blowing through my hair and tearing up my eyes. My legs sprinted and jumped over fences and gates while I used my hands as support. My body maneuvered through the obstacles, twisting and turning at every moment. My eyes darted left and right, alert and aware of my surroundings. My lungs filled with air, releasing it all as I shouted in joy, adrenaline coursing through my veins. My heart started to beat faster and harder as the big leap came into view. Clenching my jaw, I burst into a full-on sprint, ready to make the jump.

A smile etched onto my face as I remembered the rush of free running.

I stretched my arms and legs as I sized up the building in front of me, ready for the challenge. With a smirk on my face, I leaped into action. To me, there is no such thing as limits. To me, the whole city is just one big obstacle course.

Photo by Qiaorui Zhao, West Hartford, Connecticut

E

12th Man

by Vidyaratnam Ganapathy, Hyderabad, India

verybody has heard of the Dream Team, the NBA’s brightest luminaries who were the first professional players to play in the Olympics, 11 of whom are Hall of Famers. The 12th player, however, is someone far less recognizable.

1992 was the first year that professional NBA players were allowed to participate in the Olympics. In addition to the 11 NBA players, the U.S. basketball committee decided to include one college player as an homage to the previous amateur system. College basketball’s best and brightest were considered for the last spot on the team, a list which included future NBA Hall of Famers Shaquille O’Neal and Alonzo Mourning. However, Christian Laettner was chosen over the two due to his Naismith College Player of the Year Award and his two national championships with the Duke Blue Devils.

Laettner’s college career was one of the most decorated ever. He was also one of the most hated college players due to his physical nature – sometimes perceived as a bullying style – and his clutch performances in big games which broke fans’ hearts and crushed players’ dreams.

He was one of the most hated college players Laettner’s rookie season in Minnesota and his All-Star season were remarkably similar, averaging 18 points and seven rebounds per game and playing over 80 games in both seasons.

After a successful, if uneventful, career spanning six teams, Laettner retired in 2005, last playing for the Miami Heat.

Christian Laettner’s career was neither so good that he became a Hall of Famer, nor so bad that he became known as a bust.

His story was that of a player who was burdened with unreasonable hype who failed to live up to expectations. But, he was still a valuable player who eventually became a footnote in NBA history.

After graduating, Laettner was drafted by the Minnesota Timberwolves as the third pick in the 1992 draft, which boasted two Hall of Famers who were picked directly before him, O’Neal and Mourning. There were high expectations for Laettner after his decorated college career and the status of being the 3rd pick. However, he failed to live up to the hype.

Laettner was by no means a bust. He played for 13 years in the NBA and even made an All-Star appearance with the Atlanta Hawks. He had five seasons with over 15 points per game and five with over seven rebounds per game. In fact,

Photo by Aspen Geist, Wyndmere, ND 39

Artwork by Meghan Basi, Norwood, MA

Artwork by Serena Pei, San Jose, CA

40

Photo by Maxis Amos-Flom, Allendale, NJ

FICTION | MAY 2021

Only

A Woman

by Carrie Slager, Goodsoil, SK, Canada

“M

y Lady, Octavian is here.” Neferura, my only loyal servant, was in a panic. “It will only be a matter of time before he finds you here.”

“I won’t hide any longer. Bring my paints, my best red sheath, and my most expensive jewelry. I’ve charmed two Roman men; there’s no reason I can’t charm this one too.”

Neferura bowed, then ran out of the mausoleum I had been hiding in for the past few months. Had it really only been a couple of months since everything had gone wrong? Our fleet was destroyed at Actium, Mark Antony took his own life, and now the Emperor had arrived in Egypt. If I couldn’t charm Octavian like I charmed Julius Caesar and Mark Antony, then I would soon be returning to my mausoleum as a corpse.

Neferura returned with all of the things I had requested. She helped me wriggle out of my plain white sheath and into my sumptuous red one that left little to the imagination. Then she brushed my tangled black hair, pinned it up, and slipped my wig of a hundred ringlets into place. I sat very still as she outlined my eyes in kohl, used henna to redden my lips, and covered the dark circles under my eyes with powder. From the small selection of jewelry she brought, I chose a silver circlet with a huge red jasper stone that hung on my forehead, bracelets of electrum, a belt of moonstones, and rings of lapis lazuli. I looked at myself in the small bronze mirror Neferura brought and smiled. I looked perfect, as usual. Now all I had to do was make Octavian agree …

“You manipulated a good Roman man into turning against his own country,” Octavian said to me warily.

Artwork by Seojin Moon, New York City, NY

“Me? I am just a woman. What influence could a woman have over a strong Roman man?”

“I convinced the guards to let me tend to you.

My Queen, what will you do now?”

Octavian spluttered at my words; he was not buying into my story. And he definitely wasn’t falling for my body like Julius and Mark had. My intelligence only threatened him, so that definitely wasn’t helping my case. Time for Plan B.

“I am going to deny Emperor Octavian his greatest prize.” I smiled reassuringly to hide the fact I was ready to break down and cry. “I don’t care how you do it, but bring me an asp.

I’m going to die with the honor that befits the last Pharaoh of Egypt.”

What influence could a woman have over a strong Roman man?

“You need a powerful ally in Egypt; I can maintain control over my people. Let me remain Pharaoh, and Rome will reap the rewards.”

For the first time in our meeting, Octavian smiled. “Cleopatra, you are an intelligent woman. Tell me, why would I need a powerful ally in the newest Roman province?”

“You’re annexing Egypt?” I gasped.

“Of course. I have no wish to quell the rebellion of yet another tempestuous Eastern Queen.” He snapped his fingers.

“Take her away, but do not harm her. I wish to display her at my triumph when I return.”

The Roman guards marched me at swordpoint to a tiny room in the palace that had been a guest room. Before they locked me away for good, I turned to face them and suggestively lifted my sheath to reveal my right calf. One of the soldiers hesitated, but the other pushed me into my prison and slammed the door behind me. To my surprise, Neferura was there, setting up a simple cot by the door. Seeing me, she bowed before speaking.

Neferura nodded and I could see the tears in her deep brown eyes. I walked over to her and pulled her into a hug – a breech of station on my part. But I didn’t care; I was about to die, and I needed to thank her for her complete loyalty to me. I felt the tears running down my face, but I let them flow.

After all, if I had my way, I wouldn't be here much longer.

After Neferura retouched my makeup, I was ready. She had smuggled the asp past the guards by hiding it in a basket of figs. I reached in the figs and nearly smiled in triumph when my fingers closed around the asp’s cool, smooth body. It hissed as I pulled it out of the basket. Good, it was already annoyed at being kept under the heavy figs.

Its eyes stared coldly at me as I stroked its head, enticing it to bite me. Finally, it struck my wrist with lightning speed. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out in pain. When the snake let go, I quickly dumped it in the fig basket and put on the lid.

Within minutes, my breathing became labored. I lay down on the bed and carefully composed myself. I was going to die with dignity, the way a Pharaoh should. My last breaths were steeped in agony, yet I was strangely happy. I had thwarted Octavian, denying him his greatest prize.

But my happiness didn’t last long. The gods in Judgment Hall were calling for me, Queen Cleopatra, the last and greatest Pharaoh.

41

FICTION | MAY 2021

RedI

Handed

had just entered my office when somebody dropped off a new file. They had found a new suspect for the Kellis case. Thank God; they were getting desperate. I went to the lounge to get some coffee to drink while I read but spilled some on my shirt. While cleaning it, I noticed I had forgotten my ID badge at home again – what a wonderful day it was turning out to be. I paced down the hall, with its blinking fluorescent lights and brownish gray carpet, and reviewed the evidence.

I was sure this guy was going to be thrown in the bin.

I reached the interrogation room and glanced at the surveillance camera, waiting for the buzz. The heavy metal door swung open, revealing the strange fellow handcuffed to the table inside. He had long hair, a beard, and a generally unkempt appearance. His eyes darted around the room, looking at every single camera. The file hit the table with a loud metallic thud.

“Good morning, Mr. Camp,” I said.

“Morning, Officer Schuldig.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Being interrogated for homicide does that to ya.” He smirked.

42

by Ciao Petroncini, Florianópolis, Brazil

He looked around the room, staring at the camera. I was getting to him

“Let's get started: Did you know Ms. Kellis?”

“I’ve bumped into her a couple of times.”

I shuffled through the papers spread in front of me. “A couple of times? It says here that you worked in the same office.”

“A large office, and we don't have a lot of teamwork going on,” he said.

“And what exactly do you do in this office?”

“It’s an accounting firm.”

“I see.” I peered again at the evidence, trying to find an angle of attack.

FICTION | MAY 2021 “So what impression did you get from Ms. Kellis … from your couple of encounters?” I asked.

leave. Then you shot her. Point blank – like a coward. Except you got desperate and threw the body into the nearby river.”

“She was pretty, generally kind to everyone, and good with insurance claims. ”

I was expecting him to break down in desperation, but instead, his wide eyes and terrified expression melted into a smug smile.

“Tell me, Mr. Camp, are you single?”

“That's not what it says in the file,” he said through his smirk.

“I'm afraid not, officer,” he laughed nervously.

“What?”

“Did you ever make any romantic advances toward Ms. Kellis?”

“The body wasn't found in the river," Mr. Camp said.

“Of course not.” The tone and volume in his voice were obvious tellings of a lie. I stared at him to make sure he knew I noticed.

“I might have asked her on a date once … or twice.” He tensed up.

“I’m assuming you were rejected?”

He gave me an offended look. “Yes, I was.”

“Rejection can lead to very strong emotions, Mr. Camp.”

“I'm not that kind of man, Officer.”

“I'm sure you're not. Now, my records show that you were arrested for DUI on the night of the murder.”

“Tough night.”

“Rejection night?”

'The body wasn't found in the river,' Mr. Camp said “Of … course it was,” I said, while flipping through the file. “Oh, right.

You buried her in the woods, my mistake.”

“On the contrary. Fred, where was the body found?” Camp spoke to the camera.

“The body was found in the river,” said a voice booming over the intercom.

“So … I was right,” I said sheepishly.

“I have a license.”

“You were, but it wasn’t in the file. That information was confidential.” He smirked. It took a few seconds for the realization to finally hit me in the face. The whole room started spinning, I could feel the world collapsing as if Atlas had lost his footing. How did they know? I was meticulous. I wasn’t even a suspect.

“That's not the issue at hand. You were coming from Turnpike onto Southeast Clinton, am I correct?”

“Take him away, boys,” Camp ordered, revealing his undercover badge.

“Yes, you are.”

A few police officers burst into the room, launching the metal door into the wall with a large bang. I was handcuffed, too shocked to even react.

“No, that was a long time before.”

“The police report shows that you had a gun in the driver's seat.”

“Are you aware that that route leads back straight onto the crime scene, her house?”

“I am now.” His eyes widened with the sudden realization of the mess he was in.

“That was genius, Fred.” I heard Camp, or whoever it was, talking to the camera again.

“You are aware of how this looks, right?”

“I … I am.”

“From all I can gather here, the rejections from Ms. Kellis had a larger effect on you than you are letting on. Now let me just take a wild guess here: You felt alone one day, and while drowning your sorrows in alcohol, you decided to pay a visit to the woman who broke your heart.”

He looked around the room, staring at the camera and the blinking ceiling lights. I was getting to him.

“You took your gun without even knowing what you were planning to do. You drove there and knocked on her door. She was scared, but you forced yourself in. She was terrified and asked for you to

Photo by Miya Nambiar, Los Angeles, CA

43

FICTION | MAY 2021

Artwork by Meghan Basi, Norwood, MA

by Benjamin Herdeg, New Canaan, CT

T

he veteran lives in his daughter’s house. He draws his curtains and lies on his bed. Its frame creaks and rots; its mattress depresses with his weight, and a war-torn land crosses his mind again.

He thinks of barrenness. But in spite of the sounds that come and stay, he lies and finds comfort in his bed’s depression.

He glances at his nightstand. A lamp, unlit, rests atop. A sepia woman sits next to it, captured in a photograph, darkened by light’s shadow – insignificant to the forgetful veteran. She had fled him, he had fled her. Besides the war, he forgets most things.

He reaches for the nightstand in hopes of remembrance. He aims for the sepia woman, but he shakes and shakes more.

The hand, a steamship, transports to the nightstand. But the hand, the feminine fingertips, the importance, the ship, she diverts her path – her hull trembles. She succumbs to a brighter light, guiding her into deeper, bluer obscurity. Steam puffs and flies in a different direction. She changes her course, changes the ocean’s breezes. Suddenly the hand finds itself atop the handle of an antique drawer. It forgets

44

again the photograph for which it had once lived. But reasons to live are only memories to the hand, the ship, drunken by the ocean.

The hand clenches the nightstand’s hinge

The drawer glides ajar to reveal tall bottles, hard liquor, poison … and pulls. The drawer glides ajar to reveal tall bottles, hard liquor, poison to the curtains, drawn evermore. The veteran thinks of war and screaming memories. The steam’s puffing and flying ceases, the dark room falls silent, and the drawer empties along with the old man’s mind, drunken.

Adjacent to the veteran’s room, a boy sits in a caned chair facing a mirror he stole from his mother’s vanity. His window grants passage to a mid-afternoon light, readying itself for the profound tone it saves for evening and night. He also hears songbirds

singing, and he smiles at their melodies.

He had grown up wishing for a lake by his house, one to reflect the colors of a setting sun, perhaps to echo the birds’ songs.

The old man’s sorrows reach his grandson.

The boy hears an opening of a drawer and a clinking of tall bottles, making way for more clinking and more bottles and emptiness. However, he does not dwell on the tall bottles but the thin walls, and he wishes quiet, blissful little things for his grandfather. He hopes these things would happen within their lifetimes, but maybe ideals belong to a world with a lake view through his window. Maybe bliss belongs to a world of birds’ melodies.

Deliberately, the boy studies himself in the mirror. He hopes to the mirror often, mostly for materials, objects to display, and then to discard. But today he hopes for clarity. He sees an unbrushed hair and combs it to his scalp. The mirror reflects a beauty, one exclusive to novelty and soft changes in light.

First, the walls hear the clinking of full bottles, then empty ones. They hear an old man sigh dimly upon a glance of a

FICTION | MAY 2021 photograph; he obliges another drink.

And the boy who sees himself in the looking glass sighs, too, as he hopes and prepares for changes and a setting sun. Maybe a setting sun could bring him acceptance. The walls mute the family’s stilling echoes.

As his mother warms gravy in the kitchen, the doorbell rings and the boy descends to where the wallpaper peels in the foyer.

The doorway’s opening reveals a boy his age who smiles at the sight of him. The boy leads his visitor to an area outside the screened-in porch. He closes the door shut before arriving there, however, and he smiles back at his guest. The door sends an echo throughout the house, which travels to a room with drawn curtains.

The veteran had been sleeping, his fingertips embracing tall bottles. He had heard a door meet its threshold and, somewhere in the scape, a latch accepts its lock. He wakes and moves to the windows and furls their drapes. The daylight instills in him a feeling so warm that he chooses to furl the rest of the blinds and do away with them completely for the evening. He looks outside from his bedroom’s vantage, escaping his dark room through the pane. He searches for the person who closed the door, who made him furl his drapes.

The veteran sees his instiller of light, his grandson, standing before his daughter’s house’s façade. He presses delicate hands to the window and sees another boy smiling slowly at his grandson. It seems as though the guest offers something to the boy, something blurred, as the old man’s eyeglasses render useless from the nightstand. The boy’s hand approaches the guest’s in reach of the blur. Gently it transfers between the two silhouettes, and after, the guest’s eyes shimmer for a moment, which passes so quickly that if the old man upstairs had blinked or drunk or died, he would have missed the shimmer.

He is unsure of what overcame his grandson in response to this shimmer. His countenance directs away from his window. He believes his grandson reciprocated the guest’s sentiment, as their hands still linger where the blur’s transfer had taken place. Then the guest holds tighter to his grandson’s hand for one unapologetic second.

He leaves the front door and the screenedin porch and the boy, who smiles slowly, stunned.

The veteran realizes the possibility of there having been no object, no blur, and their hands only touched because of the moment’s clarity. They were only silhouettes, after all. He notices his fingertips embracing nothing but the window.

The veteran thinks of his grandson, who held a boy's hand and found acceptance The sun descends loftily. The veteran no longer thinks of war and screaming things, but of his grandson, who held a boy's hand and found acceptance under the shadow of a setting sun.

An unfamiliar sobriety shields the old man's face. He looks at the sepia woman atop his nightstand, and he sentinels himself before her. The window, blurry yet tender, had reminded him to protect her, their memory.

In truth, he may have seen her in color for one fraction of a moment.

He turns on the lamp next to her. He lets it shine onto her frame, giving her light as his grandson had for him. He becomes her sun like he had become his. He remembers forgotten things and descends to his daughter, who warms gravy in the kitchen.

He brings his glasses with him.

and watches it stretch into disappearance outside. "Our lifetimes will meet again," he thinks. But in the meantime, I’ll stay with your memory. The walls might forever hold the smell of that night’s gravy.

His path disappears, so the boy comes inside. The sun has set. He sees his mother clutching desperately to a delicate man who misses evening meals. His shoulders, scarred from the land where they fought and the bottles they emptied, feel embraced, beloved, felt.

The veteran sees his grandson enter the kitchen. He lets his eyeglasses glide the bridge of his nose. The boy seems delighted and his mother complete, but the old man shows no emotion and doesn't say a word.

He only breathes a labial hum one expels when they can finally grasp something with an intense understanding.

His grandson has shifted something inside him. Unclear whether he feels heavier or more light, he knows nothing left him, but something old thawed. A war inside the veteran has broken; a window opened.

His grandson has alighted him from the nightstand, from the sepia woman, from the depression in his mattress.

The old man considers thanking his grandson for daylight and for remembrance. He has shown him a setting sun, something about life, and something about living.

Meanwhile, the boy thinks again of his guest. The setting sun had brought him what he wanted. He imagines a songbird’s call echoing off a lake. He feels the same tingling he had earlier, yielded by that affectionate hand on his.

"Adelaide," he says at the bottom of the stairs. He sees clearly. He pauses.

He repeats himself and apologizes. He mumbles subtleties to his daughter.

His eyes tear slightly, bluing lightly. "My darling," he says quietly. He whispers to her more.

Adelaide lets down her hair and pulls out a chair after hanging her apron by the stovetop. She sees her father already sitting, already sniffing warm gravy, already dropping warm, blue tears onto his placemat with every glance he steals from her son.

His daughter leans over the stove but releases her wooden spoon after hearing his mournful cadence repaired. She lets go.

She holds his face and serves him dinner.

At the table, the veteran sees his grandson thinking of another boy’s shimmering eyes.

So with his own, the grandfather weeps volumes of prideful acceptance.

The boy, however, forgoes his mother’s gravy while he protects his guest’s path

45

FICTION | MAY 2021

The

by Diya Sabharwal, New Delhi, India

Artwork by Samiya Nagrath, New Delhi, India 46

FICTION | MAY 2021

M

y fortune teller, Nashia, isn’t very good at telling fortunes. She’s a good teller of a lot of things, but fortune isn’t one of them.

I visit her bi-weekly for a whole different purpose altogether.

You see, she’s a teller of great truths. She has strong opinions on many different topics and will not hesitate to share them with you. She is a saheli, a friend, a home away from home (if people could be homes). She tells me the truth about Mrs. Majumder’s fat tabby cat, and about how my backside looks rather fat in my new trousers. She tells me about her life as a bank teller at a big bank, for that is her day job – it provides her sustenance – something that fortune telling, despite its high necessity in today’s society, can rarely ever do.

The lights from her crystal ball dance upon her face Oh, but she’s a flatterer, that one. Every time I go over to her little hideout, she tells me her talisman warned her of my arrival. The talisman twinkles when it is happy, she says, and it always twinkles when I am about to come. The talisman is made of a bright topaz stone, contrasting brilliantly when held up against the azure walls, and I tell her my eyes twinkle, too, when I see it.

his fur with a makeshift comb she fashioned herself out of pine leaves and a bamboo plant, and how he would greet her every day with a special snort sound he’d reserved just for her. She will tell you how she cried when he grew up and left home, never to return.

Had she not taught him better than to abandon his family?

She will tell you to take a sip of your martini, and it is now well past midnight, and you can see smears of her dark purple lipstick on her martini glass, and that thick Arabian voice still has you enraptured with all its telling.

And, if she gets drunk enough, and if your fortune is good, she might tell you about Rashid – the hairdresser who loved her. She might tell you how he bought her tulips every day for a month, and as she speaks you will see glimpses of her youth peeking out from where it’s been hiding all these years.

And she will tell you that his azure eyes shined brighter than the sun, and you will wonder to yourself if they were even nearly as bright as hers are right then. She will tell you of the warmth of his hand in hers, and she will shiver, quite oxymoronically, at the memory of his embrace. And if you ask her if she misses him, she will adamantly refuse.

And so, at the end, she is a teller of lies as well.

“Guut, then de feeling ees mutual!” she exclaims in a singsong fashion, the Arabic inflection in her words reverberating off the walls, her thick voice forming a sonorous canopy around us and providing comfort.

My fortune teller is also a great teller of stories. She will sit across from you in that tiny azure room, her jet black hair a perfect tangle of curls under her hijab, and she will tell you many great stories of her life living on the edge of the Sunderbans delta, from many long years ago.

And her face lights up with joy when she reminisces, a twinkling in her eyes as well now. As she speaks, her face hypnotizes me. Every part of it expresses the kind of deep emotions you can only hope to receive from your very own aashiq – a lover.

Even her nose shows expression. It crinkles, flares, and seems to bob up and down, enlivened by the memories of years past, a sweet button-nose with a freckle atop it. And the lights from her crystal ball dance upon her face, and her eyes tell more about her than I could ever hope to understand.

She will tell you about great adventures in the Sunderbans forests, the marshy mangroves. She will tell you stories of the time her big brother brought home a little tiger cub. She will tell you how she and her family raised it and fed it milk; ivory milk to match those ivory teeth.

She will tell you stories of how she cared for him, how she brushed

Artwork by Claire Luo, San Jose, CA 47

BOOK REVIEWS | MAY 2021

Book FICTION

Other Words for Home

by Jasmine Warga

Review by Luana Cimiotti Cupertino, CA “I search every day for a clue about why I deserve to be here in Aunt Michelle’s kitchen, safe and fed.

When so many others just like me are not.

Lucky. I am learning how to say it over and over again in English.

I am learning how it tastes— sweet with promise and bitter with responsibility.”

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O

ther Words for Home is a fictional novel, published by Balzer+Bray in May 2019. The hardcover version of the book contains 352 pages, and the novel was written by Jasmine Warga, whose books have been translated into more than 25 languages and were even optioned for film.

The book follows the journey of a girl called Jude, who was born in Syria. There, she is just a normal girl. She watches American movies with her older brother and her best friend, imagining herself as a famous actress one day. She goes to the mosque and lives with her parents. Even though Jude is shocked by the war happening in the surrounding cities, her only desire – besides becoming a popular actress – is to have a peaceful family dinner in the evenings. As the environment gets too dangerous, Jude and her pregnant mother leave their family and home behind in order to move to the United States.

Her simplistic outlook gets replaced by worries and self-doubt In the United States, they stay with Jude’s uncle and his family. But Jude’s surrounding isn't the only thing changing. Her simplistic outlook gets replaced by worries and self-doubt. How is she supposed to live in that big country, where everything moves so fast, without her loved ones? How is she going to communicate with others? Will the Americans even welcome her? While Jude feels lucky to be safe, she also witnesses discrimination and faces prejudices. Still, she tries to be brave like she had promised her brother. When her school announces an upcoming play, the young girl makes up her mind to try out for it. She is determined

to show the world that even a Muslim, wearing a headscarf and speaking broken English, can achieve anything.

I really enjoyed reading the book because it offers a magnificent moral to teens. The story is told from Jude’s perspective, and similar to two other novels by Jasmine Warga, it is written in verses. Even though I was slightly suspicious of this narrative style at first, I believe it suits the story very well. The author uses the verses more to describe actions than to give specific details. As a consequence, the reader is given a lot of room for imagination, which enables one to put themself into Jude’s shoes and still look at things through their own perspective. This makes the story relatable to anyone who reads it. While not giving many detailed descriptions, Warga conveys Jude’s feelings as well as the mood of the story very precisely through the style of her writing. She uses poetic metaphors, inserts pauses at just the right moment, and provides powerful quotes. At times, these quotes are obvious. Some other times, you have to look for the intention or deep meaning in a seemingly simple sentence.

“The one potted plant of mint has grown out of control.

It smells like strong tea and is spilling out of its container, taking over everything around it.

No one knows how the mint got there; someone should do something about that.

But everyone is waiting for someone else to do it.

We are still waiting.”

The author lets the characters act in a very realistic way without adding too much drama. Still, the plain actions of the characters say a lot about how they feel and give hints about their thoughts.

BOOK REVIEWS | MAY 2021 Other Words for Home provides a somewhat softer view of the refugee story. Instead of living in a war-torn city, Jude’s family lives in a town that is still spared from violence. Different from people in other cities, the people in Jude’s town typically don’t participate in protests. Instead, they obey the government; they don’t want the war to take over their heritage as well. Also, Jude and her mother have family members that welcome them while the refugees in many other books don’t have a place to go to. Those differences let the focus of Other Words for Home be on a refugee starting her life over in a new country, instead of revolving around the journey from one country to the next. Having the focus be on starting at a new school is more relevant for most teens and also easier to relate to.

What sometimes bothered me about the writing style is that the author doesn’t always clarify who speaks, which can slightly confuse the reader. It also prevents the story from flowing. Additionally, while I liked the fact that the book does not give much detail about the war or the characters, but rather has actions speak, it would have been helpful to add a little background information at some point. For example, Jude’s religion is not explored.

Even though the author writes that Jude wears a headscarf because she wants to and not because she needs to, she doesn’t give any background information about that decision. In my opinion, adding an explanation of the belief or the intention behind wearing a headscarf would have been beneficial because the reader would learn to understand the religion better.

Oftentimes, understanding is the first step toward tolerating something different; it would have been lovely to learn more Syrian culture, such as Jude’s religion.

Other Words for Home is one of the most beautifully written, most meaningful and touching stories I've read. It lets you see the world from Jude’s perspective. This extraordinary book doesn’t only make us understand how a refugee, new to the country, might feel, but it also reminds us of our similarities. At the end of the day, we all have similar wishes and hopes. We long for love, respect, and a place to belong.

Jude’s powerful story encourages us to be faithful and to be kind to each other.

Even if we don’t come from the same country, we still share a universe. Most

importantly, the novel states that hoping is sometimes braver and tougher than anything else.

SCIENCE FICTION

simple as it once was. As she continues to make mistake after mistake in both her fishbowl and personal life, she needs to look past the growing numbers of Twitter followers and see herself as an actual human being instead of a brand – before it’s too late.

I was both put-off and intrigued by the fact that this novel started out contemporary and quickly turned into a sci-fi story with not-so-subtle societal

It is impossible to put this story into one category when it fits in so many

An Absolutely Remarkable Thing

by Hank Green

Review by Natalie Cohen, Crafton, PA

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n Absolutely Remarkable Thing

by Hank Green tells the story of 23-year-old graphic designer April May, who, on her way back home from a 16-hour shift at her lousy startup job, stumbles upon an absolutely remarkable sight. Drunk on exhaustion and craving something miraculous to happen in her life, April May finds herself calling up her YouTuber best friend, Andy, at 3 o’ clock in the morning to help her create a one-minute interview with Carl, a “ten-foot-tall Transformer wearing a suit of armor.” Within six hours of release, April May gains millions of views across the globe and it changes her life for the better … and for the worse.

As April May finds herself whisked into a life of Tier 4 fame, more money than she knows what to do with, and an impulsively-obsessive relationship with Twitter, she has to come to terms with the fact that her life will never be as

commentaries. Only Hank Green could pull off a concept this daring. As I turned the pages faster and faster, I found that I was actually enjoying each and every bit of this intricately woven tale. Not only are the characters wonderfully fleshed out (so much so that you feel a deep connection to the main character, April May, despite her many flaws that end up enhancing her realism) but the story is so beautifully complex. It is impossible to put this story into one category when it fits in so many!

For example, this story is (mostly) told from the first-person perspective of a young woman, causing it to fit in the Young Adult/New Adult genre of contemporary fiction. However, it also features sci-fi elements such as the entire concept of the “Carls” and how they are able to infiltrate peoples’ minds through the seeminglyimpossible infectious dream. Additionally, this novel has an aura of mystery and suspense from the very beginning. There are "Easter eggs" hidden throughout the novel that keep the reader guessing as to what the “Carls” are and why their existence is messing with the logistics of Wikipedia (don’t ask – just read the book)!

Finally, this novel’s overarching theme of fame and what it can do to the most ordinary people tugs on readers’ heartstrings during April May’s countless struggles and hardships. At first glance, this story may not seem all that deep. That is,

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BOOK REVIEWS | MAY 2021 until you open the book and get sucked into April May’s tumultuous life that goes from creating a silly one-minute interview with a random statue in the middle of 23rd and Lexington at 3:00 a.m. to narrowly escaping death and having to deal with the reality of politics, warring opinions, the media, and its toxicity. What would really happen if mankind was forced to put aside their relatively meaningless differences right this minute and band together?

All in all, Hank Green has obvious expertise on the topic of fame and how it can completely alter a person’s identity. The vast amount and, albeit, weird research that probably went into the creation of this novel resulted in a well-written, beyond-entertaining, suspenseful story about a girl who, overnight, went from being just another person living in New York to literally becoming “one of the most important things that has ever happened to the human race.” It’s a story about how she, as well as the rest of the world, have to deal with the consequences of her absolutely remarkable discovery.

POETRY/LYRICAL ESSAY

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laudia Rankine’s Citizen details the various ways in which racism can be felt by a black citizen of America. Examples in the book range widely, but in every instance, there is the same underlying sense of loneliness, isolation, dehumanization, and selfloathing experienced by the African American. Because the book is told in the second person, each experience feels direct, like it could be happening to you. The themes of each insulting and hateful experience are vividly expressed.

From the narrator’s personal, everyday experiences, to the hurtles Serena

Details the ignorance and despair felt by the black citizen Williams has had to overcome, or accept, to the effect of Hurricane Katrina on black neighborhoods, Rankine portrays the ignorance and hatred black citizens are faced with … and as the loneliness and despair with which they cope.

Throughout the book, an attitude of ignorance toward black citizens is apparent.

On a personal level, the narrator had a friend who called her the name of her black housekeeper. “You assumed you two were the only black people in her life. Eventually she stopped doing this, but she never acknowledged her slippage.” Her friend didn’t mean to hurt her, but she clearly managed to insult her on a deep level.

Despite feeling degraded, the narrator didn’t call her friend out because it was uncomfortable and embarrassing for both of them. And even though she didn’t do anything wrong, the narrator felt just as wretched as her friend. This ignorance of a friend’s name, perhaps the most basic form of personal identity, is one example of the ignorance black citizens face every day.

Citizen: An American Lyric

by Claudia Rankine

Review by Anonymous, NYC, NY 50

Dehumanization that leads to loneliness is another consistent theme throughout the book. Serena Williams, a professional tennis player, dealt publicly with racism.

Although her experiences took place in a different setting than those of the narrator, she shared the same hurt and anger at being dehumanized and discriminated

against. When a referee, Mariana Alves, clearly cheated her, Serena managed to maintain her composure, but expressed her feelings after the match: “I’m very angry and bitter right now. … I just feel robbed.” As Rankine puts it, “Serena’s frustrations, her disappointments, exist within a system you understand not to try to understand in any fair-minded way” because it doesn’t make sense. It is a waste of time and energy to try to comprehend the hate and discrimination you feel. “To do so is to understand the erasure of self as systematic, as ordinary.” Regularly, Serena and others experience the “erasure of self” and the feeling of isolation. These wounds build up, making people less sensitive, more protective – but no person can take so much hate.

Despair is another theme found in Rankine’s examples of racism. A sense of hopelessness is found in those who are constantly disparaged and for whom the odds are never in their favor. Hurricane Katrina hit poor black neighborhoods hard, and they struggled to recover from it. No one can control a natural disaster, but some black neighborhoods lacked the resources necessary to reconstruct themselves, while wealthier neighborhoods recovered faster and with more ease.

CNN collected quotes from survivors of and around these neighborhoods who witnessed the effects of the hurricane.

“You simply get chills every time you see these poor individuals, so many of these people, almost all of them we see, are so poor, someone else said, and they are so black.” It is morbid and depressing to witness the death and decline of poor communities, black communities, at the hands of what others can recover from with less difficulty. The feeling of everything going against, rather than for, people of such communities has the power to drag them into despair.

Citizen details the ignorance around dehumanization and the despair felt by the black citizen. It is direct and in your face. You feel what’s happening deeply and vividly. Ultimately, the book is about what it means to be a black citizen in America, and although people of all skin colors have felt hopeless, misunderstood, belittled, and lonely at times, they do not carry the burden of the black citizen.

MUSIC REVIEWS | MAY 2021

Music POP

think we’re used to on a daily basis, which I think is really important because creativity is limited, and you have to keep driving creativity from the environment you’re in.”

Zucker added, “The music really represents how we felt at that cabin: inspired, wholesome, and introspective.”

Overall, “brent” can bring a person to tears with its heart-wrenching lyrics and amazing vintage guitar and airy piano. The exceptional voices of Chelsea and Jeremy tell the story of a relationship that is falling apart and the music speaks to the listener, whether they can relate to the lyrics or not.

The harmonizing is one of a kind

brent

by Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler

Review by Amy Chen, NYC, NY

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s the light strumming of guitar clears your mind, the lyrics bring you back to reality. Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler’s album, “brent,” has great tracks to listen to when you’re down in your feels. With its slow-paced rhythm and melancholic lyrics, the songs take you along on a story of a deteriorating relationship and how they moved on. “brent,” released in 2019, was an instant hit, with its most popular song racking up more than 48 million streams on Spotify alone.

The album was kick-started during a trip to Connecticut, where Zucker and Cutler first met at Jeremy’s performance at an outdoor fraternity party in 2018. They decided to go back again for inspiration and found it when they wrote the album's first song – “you were good to me.” When describing how the trip inspired their music, Cutler said, “It’s a super magical little spot. And it’s super far removed from everything I

Though the music isn’t very upbeat, and leans toward the alternative genre, Chelsea and Jeremy’s vocals will keep ringing in your head long after you listen to the tracks. Their harmonizing is one of a kind, with Jeremy’s low and raspy voice complementing Chelsea’s silky and gentle one. Throughout “brent” they use a lot of instruments like mandola, keyboard, and guitar which go along well with their theme of nostalgia and ill-fated relationships.

The power duo sing about the agony of leaving someone and all the good times behind. The music makes me feel as though I’m actually losing a loved one and going through a breakup, even though I’m not.

Their song “please” shows the theme clearly with the lyric, “I swear I’ll wait forever, if it means not letting go.”

However, in “scared,” the lyrics talk about not letting fear take control and not doubting yourself: “So yeah, I’m scared. But I won’t let it get to me.” The song “you were good to me” also drifts from the theme of not wanting to let go. Instead, the song talks about moving on and getting over the breakup. The lyrics state, “At the end of every road. You were good to me.” Each song represents the different stages of a breakup, from not being able to leave the relationship to not having to depend on your lover anymore.

ALTERNATIVE

Parachutes

by Frank Iero and the Patience

Review by Mackenzie Campbell, Melfort, SK, Canada

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few years ago, my life fell apart, and I wouldn’t be the person I am today if Frank Iero hadn’t thrown “Parachutes” at me to gather all my fragments and soften the fall.

You may be thinking, This is just another melodramatic angsty teen trying to get me to listen to a mediocre album. Or: There’s no way an album can save someone’s life.

Leave your skepticism at the door. This is my story; take it or leave it.

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MUSIC REVIEWS | MAY 2021

Two months prior to the album’s release, two tragedies occurred in my life. The first one was the brutal death of my dearly beloved cat, Albus Perceval Wulfrice Brian Dumbledore II, who was hit by a car. I discovered his cold body laying in the middle of the road one August morning. He was my first love.

The second tragedy was the birth of my cousin. She was my estranged aunt’s first child, and my grandparents were ecstatic.

They constantly said I was no longer their favorite youngest granddaughter.

Needless to say, I was in desperate need of something to make me feel better. So, I got up at 1:42 a.m. and eagerly waited three minutes until the album was available in my region. Frank Iero had been my favorite musician for my entire life, so I counted on him to help me.

Well, Mr. Iero did not fail me. The song “World Destroyer” assaulted my eardrums at full volume for a glorious three minutes and 18 seconds, and I immediately felt better. The lyrics, the angst, and the sorrow in his voice gripped me, and I knew I could rely on this particular “Parachute” to rescue me from anything life threw at me.

I would listen to “Veins! Veins!! Veins!!!” every night, and Iero protected me from the darkest demons. “I know you’re there!

Coursing through my veins! … And this bitter pill I swallow down is greeted by a poisonous smile, a crucified heart, a cancerous gut, an appetite to give up.” He gave me the strength to continue on and to accept myself the way I was.

Although Frank kept me safe at night, daytime was a whole other story. I was the embodiment of the song, “I’m a Mess" – “Maybe I’m just lost they said. Maybe I’m just tired or dead. Inside something’s wrong with me. Maybe that’s just who I am.

Maybe I’m a mess.” These lines resonated deep inside; that’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. There were other people out there struggling with their feelings and mental health. This made me seek the help I desperately needed.

“They Wanted Darkness” sums up my experience with the mental health services in Canada. All I took from the hours of counseling I went to was that I should hide and suppress it inside. I call this song “The Bird Song” because Frank makes a bird

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sound at the beginning. It always makes me smile.

SINGER/SONGWRITER

“I’ll Let You Down” is the song that described how I felt after telling my Mum that I had a terrible counselor. I felt like I let her, my dad, and my siblings down. It made me feel like a failure. Frank sings about how he’s been down that road before, and it made me scared that I was bound to repeat my mistakes again.

Luckily, “Remedy” is a beautiful ballad about getting better. This song makes me think of my second counselor, a beautiful kind-spirited woman who understood me.

With her help, and my Mum’s love, they made me believe I was worth being alive and worth getting better.

“Dear Percocet, I Don’t Think We Should See Each Other Anymore” has an energy-packed beat that picks me up when I’m in a mood.

Heartbreaking prose and sympathetic guitar riffs Its angsty, loud beat can drive away even the darkest of clouds.

“Miss Me” inspires me as well. The chorus resonates deeply inside of me and encouraged me to live my truth and be myself. I know that whenever my time of death comes I will 1000%, without a doubt, be missed.

“Oceans," “The Resurrectionist, or An Existential Crisis in C#,” “Viva Indifference,” and “9-6-15” are the remaining songs on the album and bring me to the end of my story. The four final tracks of this impeccable album all showcase Ocean’s haunting melodies; they will give you chills.

“The Resurrectionist” will make you feel alive again with its tale of redemption, “Viva Indifference” will expose you to Iero’s impeccable emotional voice, and “9-6-15” will break your heart. These four tracks are all unique, but they all have heartbreaking prose and sympathetic guitar riffs.

I recommend this album to anyone living on this planet. It can connect with anyone in any stage or walk of life. Give it a listen, and let Frank Iero and the Patience become a part of your story.

Divinely Uninspired to a Hellish Extent

by Lewis Capaldi

Review by Ada Liang, NYC, NY

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he rasp and soulfulness in Lewis Capaldi’s voice is so unique that it cuts deep into your soul until you find yourself lost within the lyrics. His songs precisely put into words the feeling you experience while sobbing into your pillow, or just staring out your window wondering what you have done wrong. The rising star of 2019, Lewis Capaldi released the album, “Divinely Uninspired to a Hellish Extent,” and it doesn’t fail to please.

His album puts into words the most painful parts of a relationship: the betrayal, the heartbreak, and most importantly, the road to recovery.

Lewis Capaldi, a Scottish singer/songwriter, has already been named a Scottish music breakthrough artist of the year and spent seven weeks at the top of the UK Singles Chart. He has been composing music for the last 19 years, and people are finally recognizing him. In an interview from Nolala.com, Capaldi states that the majority of his music is “about being broken-hearted, in general, and about the feeling of being on your own again.” Capaldi acknowledges that he is popular, not only for his singing ability, but for the story behind his lyrics. When he gets questioned on what makes his album stand out from

MUSIC REVIEWS | MAY 2021 others, he states, “Young people do have an appetite for lyrics, and I think over the next 20, 30 years, that will be at the forefront again.” Along with his intriguing musical elements, he describes his lyrics as one of the most influential elements to his success; and he’s not mistaken.

betrayal. If you “need somebody to know, somebody to heal, somebody to have, just to know how it feels,’’ listen to Lewis Capaldi’s album, and join him on his journey of dealing with heartbreak.

INDIE-FOLK

Intense lyrics and calming instrumentals Throughout his album, Capaldi’s touching voice and lyrics captivate the listener and display a common theme of separating and getting past a relationship. He depicts a sense of terror of betrayal in “Someone You Loved” where he sings, “I’m going under and I fear there’s no one to save me. This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy.” Additionally, he describes in “Grace,” “I’m not ready to be another one of your mistakes.” In “Bruises,” he employs his emotions with words such as, “And only if I could hold you, you’d keep my head from going under.” From the experience of listening to his album, one can understand why people are into his raw lyrics.

In addition to his intensely built lyrics, his album follows along a soft and soothing rhythm with calming instrumentals. For instance, in “Maybe,” “Hollywood,” and “Headspace,” his tracks include guitar as the main instrument, and reflect more of a country/pop ballad genre that makes you want to sit and sing by a campfire. “Hold Me While you Wait” and “Bruises” are deep piano ballads, while “One,” “Lost on You,” and “Forever” are softer piano ballads that cause you to cry from dawn to dusk. The only thing lacking in his album is that there aren’t many varieties in sound; the genre, slow rhythm, and themes in the lyrics follow a similar pattern. However, if you like one of his songs, the others will surely satisfy you, too.

“Divinely Uninspired to a Hellish Extent” is a splendid album with touching lyrics. At first listen, you will undoubtedly be hooked to its overall sound, Capaldi's voice, the instrumentals, and the lyrics. Furthermore, this album is relatable to teenagers and those who have encountered heartbreak or

Her lead single “Willow” takes the listener on a trip through the essence of their imagination, the banjo and harmonies reminiscent of a nighttime stroll through the woods. “Ivy,” although much more lyrically complex, mirrors this same fairytale sound, showcasing her versatile vocals.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Taylor Swift album without her despairing love songs, and “Evermore” gives fans a plethora of heartbreaking anthems to scream along to in the car. “Champagne Problems” shows off her renowned songwriting skills, the metaphoric lyrics transforming the song

One of the most talented lyricists the world has seen evermore

by Taylor Swift

Review by Anika Venkannagari, Novi, MI

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ver the last decade, Taylor Swift has become a household name, winning hundreds of awards, topping the charts, and selling out stadiums around the world. Throughout her career, she’s explored a variety of genres, dabbling from country to pop and now indie. On December 11, 2020, Swift astonished the world when she released her second surprise album of the year, “Evermore.” Like her previous album “Folklore,” which debuted in July, Taylor announced the release just 12 hours prior, something unheard of in an industry where artists spend months promoting new music.

“Evermore” is more imaginative and magical than its predecessor, which is evident from the album’s first listen. In “Folklore,” we saw the shift from pop to indie-folk, and Swift stayed true to this soft, mystical tone in “Evermore,” a cohesive masterpiece that flawlessly ties together the stories of first loves, heartbreak, and newfound revelations.

into a dimensional story of failed love for fans to uncover. On the contrary, “Gold Rush” and “Long Story Short" are a rush of serotonin, an enjoyable hiatus from the rest of the heartfelt album as she sings about moving on from past a lover, his “twinkling eyes like sinking ships.”

Swift collaborates with country music group HAIM in the gripping murder mystery, “No Body, No Crime,” which is a shocking twist to the album; the classic guitar and country tones take us back in time to the early days of Swift. Songs “Evermore” and “Coney Island” feature The National and Bon Iver, only further proof of how effortlessly Swift’s voice blends with other similar artists.

I was blown away listening to Swift’s storytelling and soft melodies in “Folklore” last July, and while I didn’t think anything could ever top it, I was utterly consumed by the phenomenal fifteen tracks on “Evermore.” Taylor Swift is by far one of the most talented lyricists the music world has ever seen, and in this incredibly profound album, she explores a new sound perfect for her alto voice while also crafting stories like no other. The raw emotion, authenticity, and truest feelings are something that we don’t find often in music, but “Evermore” manages to perfectly capture it all.

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SPORTS MOVIE & TV | MAY REVIEWS 2021 | MAY 2021

Movie & TV ROMANCE

three daughters, and their cousin. Each episode includes narration by actress Julie Andrews, who voices the anonymous and ever-scandalous newsletter columnist known as Lady Whistledown. As eldest daughter, Daphne Bridgerton (Phoebe Dynever) enters her first season with Queen Charlotte's (Golda Rosheuvel) favor, and she meets Simon Bassett: Duke of Hastings

Many failures … but an exceedingly entertaining show

"Bridgerton" Netflix

Review by Jolie Feld, Los Angeles, CA

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ridgerton" set the world on fire when it premiered on Netflix on December 25, 2020. The eight-episode, first season was met with outstanding reviews. It is based on Julia Quinn's novels, but was adapted into its current version by Chris Van Dusen and producer Shonda Rhimes. Viewers fell in love with the beautifully detailed Regency-era costumes, sets, and the saucy intrigue and storyline. With a viewership of 82 million people, it has become the most-watched series on Netflix. In January 2021, the series was already renewed for a second season.

The plot is based around the Bridgerton family: Violet, Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton (Ruth Gemmel), her four sons, and her four daughters. Also featured are the Featheringtons: Portia, Lady Featherington (Polly Walker), her husband the Baron (Ben Miller), their

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satin, tulle, and velvet, and elaborate ball after elaborate ball. During each of these balls, the creators of the show incorporate modern song choices like Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next” and Billie Eilish’s “Bad Guy” performed by the Vitamin String Quartet.

If you're looking for a gateway into the world of 19th century British period dramas and are not particularly bothered by shallow drama, storylines that stretch out far longer than their natural evolution, and somewhat uninteresting characters, then I recommend "Bridgerton." I’m sure you will find it to be quite entertaining.

DOCUMENTARY

(Reje-Jean Page). Despite being encouraged by his mentor, Lady Danbury (Adjoa Andoh), the Duke is determined not to marry.

While Bridgerton has many failures, the creators of the show also managed to make it an exceedingly entertaining show. While the plot remains very shallow, the costumes aren’t always historically correct, and it can be unnecessarily sexually explicit at times, I still managed to watch the entire show in two days. I would recommend that if you intend on watching it, watch it alone in your room with the door closed. It isn’t the most family friendly series I’ve encountered and could lead to unnecessary awkward tension in your family.

One thing that I really appreciate about the show is the diversity among the cast members. "Bridgerton" definitely isn’t a classic, historically correct, British period piece, but I don’t think that's what it is intended on being. It’s somewhat like a dumbed-down version of a Jane Austen story, but with bright and frilly visuals and a very diverse cast – which is much needed in the TV industry. I believe a big part of the reason why "Bridgerton" is so amusing to watch lies in the various and very frequent parties and balls. In every episode, we see sprawling estates and opulent gardens, extravagant outfits of

"The Social Dilemma" Netflix

Review by Yuxin Zhu, Hangzhou, China

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rom the perspectives of Silicon Valley employees, the documentary “The Social Dilemma” explains the erosion of individual humans, and the entire human civilization, by the boom of social software in the last decade. In

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS | MAY 2021 a free market, a company can use money as the only standard to evaluate their developments. Several large companies in Silicon Valley take advantage of human psychological weakness and use sophisticated algorithms to attract individuals to spend a lot of time on their social platforms. These companies use the time spent by customers as a competitive bargaining chip, enticing advertisers to invest in the software they develop in order to make a profit.

However, this situation has an extremely harmful impact on human development.

Nowadays, social software tempts people to use it, attracts people's attention, and wastes people's time. In other words, social software can be just as addictive as tobacco, alcohol, and drugs. After a short period of happiness, people will feel tired and empty. For example, in this documentary, the managers of Twitter and Facebook say that the theoretical basis of their design logic is the addiction theory in psychology.

Explains the erosion of human civilization by the boom of social software

match their own values and reject new or different ideas.

I considered this situation as similar to the concept named “McDonaldization,” established by a famous sociologist named George Ritzer. He pointed out that, “The norms of fast-food restaurants which are efficiency, computability, controllability are gradually dominating more and more levels of American society and the rest of the world.” Nowadays, the channels through which people obtain information and news are presented after sophisticated calculations by social software, which represents a form of controllability.

People do not have the patience to read all news, but quickly select and browse the information that is consistent with their own values, which reflects a type of efficiency. In this case, people will not only be addicted to the Internet, but will gradually lose their ability to think independently and even gradually lose their humanity.

Fortunately, people have the ability to reflect. "The Social Dilemma" is the beginning of reflection in the face of the dangerous trend of Internet capital power constantly eroding our independent thinking in life. In today's information era, the most important thing is self-control and critical thinking.

Social software should be a tool that we use, not a tool that uses us for profit.

DRAMA

The news that people see on the app is tailored for every unique individual. These companies use sophisticated algorithms to analyze people's preferences in order to attract them. However, people's thoughts will gradually become unitary in this software-dominated world. When a person is systematically exposed to the same type of news for a long time, he or she will be brainwashed by that one opinion over time and gradually lose critical thinking abilities.

In this way, the expressions of individuals will be based on emotion. A more neutral and rational point of view will no longer exist.

In the information era, with so many sources of information being absorbed at once, people no longer have the patience to read every point of view and analyze a problem objectively and comprehensively.

Instead, they are more inclined to browse through a few points of view and quickly form their own conclusions. Besides this, they are more inclined to choose views that

"Room" A24

Review by Rose Arce, Partlow, VA

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here are millions of movies in all sorts of languages all over the world. Some are old, while others are still in theaters. Some are well known, others not quite so much. While every movie is special in its own way, there is one movie that is unrivaled in the top spot on my list of favorite movies: "Room."

"Room" is an emotional movie about a mother and son's love for each other in dire situations. The protagonist, Jack (Jacob Tremblay), is a five-year-old boy who lives with his Ma named Joy, (Brie Larson) in Room, a garden shed in their kidnapper's backyard. Joy was kidnapped at the age of 19 by a man nicknamed Old Nick (Sean Bridgers), and she and Jack have spent the past seven years in Room, never able to go outside. Jack believes that only he, Joy, and

A story about hope and love, strength and perseverance Room are "real," and everything else is "just TV," including the world outside. However, Joy yearns for the outside world, and upon finding out her and Jack's lives may be in danger, she realizes she needs a plan to get Jack out of Room before it's too late.

"Room" is based on the novel by Emma Donoghue. The story actively portrays that love and hope can stand firm even in the worst of times. I loved the viewpoint of Jack, who described Room, and later the world, with a mixture of innocence and wisdom.

Watching Jack adjust to living in the world helped me see my own world differently, and I'm grateful for that. My favorite part of the movie is when, after their escape, Jack and Joy are sitting on the floor, playing with LEGOs. Feeling guilty, Joy tells Jack how she hasn't been the best Ma. In response, Jack looks at Joy and says, "But you're Ma." I think this part is simply beautiful because it's evidence of Jack's love for his mother.

Out of all the movies I've seen, "Room" is hands down the best. It tells a moving story about hope and love, strength and perseverance, all in the voice of a small boy. As Jack and Joy face the world together, you'll find that their journey will stay with you long after the credits.

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VIDEO GAME REVIEWS | MAY 2021

Video Game PUZZLE-PLATFORM GAME

"Portal 2" Valve Corporation Review by Noe Resendiz, Los Angeles, CA

A

lthough "Portal 2" is 10 years old, Valve did an outstanding job making this excellent puzzle game down to the visuals, gameplay, music, science, and of course the characters.

The main plot of "Portal 2" revolves around a test subject named Chell. Chell wakes up 50,000 years after the main events of the first game. From there, you meet a robotic core (a circular robot that has no other features besides one eye) named Wheatley, voiced by Stephen Merchant. Merchant was perfect for the role because he made Wheatley a compelling character with good dialogue and jokes.

Wheatley guides you to a room with a Portal Gun, and from there, you make your escape from the abandoned testing rooms at Aperture Science.

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The Portal Gun is a device that lets you create two portals: one blue and one orange. Once an object enters one portal, it will leave through the other. Living things can enter through the portals as well. The Portal Gun allows you to go to areas where you wouldn’t have access without it. The device is my favorite thing about this game.

The Portal Gun makes testing more interesting.

It allows you to think, and it makes the testing more fun Another one of my favorite things in "Portal" is the overall theme of abandonment and loneliness, as you are the only human in the game. In "Portal 1," everything is sleek and modern, but in "Portal 2," everything is abandoned and in ruin. As you progress through the different testing rooms, you can see that some chambers are covered in vines and some electronics have sparks flying and barely work.

The testing rooms are a confusing mess at first, but the more time you spend in them, the more you understand them. The Portal Gun makes testing more interesting. It allows you to think, and it makes the testing more fun. You have to be careful because these tests can be dangerous. However, dying in this game is not as frustrating as in other games. In my opinion, it allows you to think and strategize and avoid the thing that gets you killed.

The visuals are one of the most impressive parts of the game. They make you feel like you are a part of the video game's fictitious world. And Valve did an excellent job showing how big and dark everything is behind the scenes. This game came out in 2011, but even with today’s quality in gaming, it still holds up.

I would improve the game by reducing the waiting time of the loading screens.

The loading screens can be 20-30 seconds long, and they happen quite often. It usually occurs at the end of each room, when you take an elevator.

In conclusion, "Portal 2" is one of my favorite PC games. It has excellent visuals, is vastly entertaining, has great controls, and offers a great story. And if you are looking for a new game to play, it’s only $10 on Steam. It’s also available on Xbox 360 and PlayStation. If you haven’t played "Portal 2," why not go ahead and buy it.

Is "Portal 2" a good game that's worth playing? I have to say a definite yes! The science-fiction puzzle/platformer game has stuck with me for so long that I started playing it again with a fresh mind and finished it. And after all of that, I still enjoyed my experience playing the game a second time.

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS | MAY 2021

FIRST-PERSON SHOOTER

"Borderlands 3" 2K Games Review by Adam Tighe, Wilmington, DE

T

here are both positives and negatives to "Borderlands 3" (Xbox One), but many more positives than negatives. In this review, there may be minor spoilers for some parts of the game, but none will take away from the surprise or any of the major events.

This game has plenty of positives, starting with the actual gameplay. The gameplay in "Borderlands 3" is enjoyable and provides a large variety of play styles. It has plenty of action to fill the player to the brim, but it also has great parts of calm and sadness. This game is great at inducing laughter, suspense, sadness, and anger – but in a good way.

This game is great at inducing laughter, suspense, sadness and anger – but in a good way

The graphics are phenomenal and have greatly improved compared to the last game. The lighting, mixed with darkness, is outstanding and can always catch the eye of the player. The textures are pleasing to the eye and improve upon the visual quality of the game.

a purposeful experience without dragging out the story too long. The playability is great, offering at minimum four different experiences based solely on the four main characters. On top of that, each playable character has three main play styles that offer at least 12 different playable experiences.

Similar to the graphics, the sound design is also phenomenal. The sounds of the guns have a much more powerful punch behind them, giving them a very realistic feeling of a gun being held in the player’s hands.

The sound of the environment and vehicles are also mind blowing. The vehicles have a mean and hardy sound and the atmosphere created by the environmental sound is astonishing.

The game's atmosphere creates an emotional experience for the player. The length of the game is long enough to create

And finally, after playing the game, the player begins to have the ability to experiment with the controls and movements, which can also add some different techniques for fighting enemies.

If you enjoy a fun, action-packed game full of twists and turns, "Borderlands 3" is for you. The setbacks can be overlooked due to the sheer enjoyment one has when playing the game.

First, I’ll discuss the small negatives. One of the problems that occurred was a frame drop or lag. These frame drops were not constant, but they did happen from time to time which may discourage some players – but, it can be overlooked by the overall experience of the game. The issue with the lag, however, is that it seems to show up more when playing with another person using a split-screen co-op.

This problem does not take away from the overall experience, but it can cause some issues for some players. Another problem deals with the loot drops from the bosses in the game, which can be quite underwhelming.

The only other complaint is that some of the deaths that occur in the game seem to have no real purpose behind them, although they add a sense of distaste and the urge for revenge within the player.

All things considered, these are relatively small issues.

Artwork by Anonymous, Zionsville, Indiana

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POETRY | MAY 2021

Photo by Ellie Bergstrand, Bluffton, OH

An Angel in Wake

Breathtaking

Childhood

A pure white angel Singing through a golden trumpet The calla lily explodes with gold pollen

black boot knee, power pinning me down Can’t Breathe raging fires overwhelm our town, suffocating smoke Can’t Breathe chills, wrenching, pain, the virus has me Can’t Breathe with every breath, fight to extinguish the fears that fuel hate sacrifice for climate love enough to wear a mask believe Life is Breathtaking

Walls that were a rosy red Gentle lullabies in my head Birthday candles for me to blow Silly men made out of snow

by Anonymous, San Diego, CA

A Smart-Mouthed Decrepitude When I was born The radio laughed; And we listened with the volume blaring on earnestly.

The hardware was lively the software was cheeky.

Transmitting, receiving …

In her wrinkles: a century of smiles.

When I was maturing The radio snickered and I listened with the volume smiling softly.

The hardware was wearing The software was mischievous.

Receiving …

The rocking chair lulls, but a little more slowly.

Now I am matured The radio sighs and I listen, though the volume is hesitantly marking time.

The hardware is worn The software is broken; Feedback.

White hair and hearing aids: An empty shell.

by Anonymous, Shirley, MA 58

by Jacklene Murran, Pasadena, CA

stranger dream i dreamt about you last night. you walked through my room like you’d been there a thousand times only a fraction of how much i’d actually wanted you there. we’d gone out to a diner my papa owns even though he doesn’t own one. your smile bore into me across the booth and it made my stomach flutter in this dream, i know you the way a branch knows the wind the way roots know the soil. outside it, i know your name your face and not much else.

by Madison Ashley, Redmond, OR

Boxes that were full of treats Cotton candy, sugary-sweet Finding a home for a seed Band-Aids on my arms and knees Life didn’t seem like something to fear Not with my sister and brothers near At night we could laugh and play And chase our silly worries away Some days we could look up high And watch a balloon rise in the sky It mixes with the blue and white We laugh as it goes out of sight Some are strong, and some are mild But memories are best when you’re a child

by Rose Arce, Partlow, VA

Light Night Lifts your eyes up in the sky, Ignites the power around you, Gives fire to the trees, they die.

Heavy sparks lifted, then flew.

Towering smoke over the town, Nightfall now has the light of day.

In water the trees start to drown, New life created as if clay.

Goodbye to the old smoky town.

by Santi Sekula, Millis, MA

POETRY | MAY 2021

1/24/21

Reflection

Coffee

there is a throbbing, a pulsing. gray ghosts and green zombies in the lower left leg. yelling and groaning.

How cruel that a creature devised from his scriptures Defies all the beauty Prometheus pictured.

In the forest of an Ethiopian plateau, the goat herder, Kaldi, first discovered the potential of these beloved beans, a sealed envelope from the king of the universe’s mother.

false memories, woven while inebriated, haunting. are they true? the mind is a redcoat, a traitor. its very own benedict arnold. former insecurities, unwritten, unmarked, but, sometimes, they return, geese to a pond, or flocks of pigeons re-entering the sky, after gunshots on a city block. sore, tired lungs. a vessel, a holder, for toxic gas. never received a thank you. the crumpled housewife in a dirty apron, elbows on the counter. why doesn’t he love me, she sobs into worn hands. he downs a scotch, on the rocks.

The curse of a body snakes up through her bones, Her face, a fate worse than turning to stone.

I’d shatter a mirror for being too honest, For showing a girl who’s less than a goddess.

I’d split through her lips or tug out her teeth Or peel back her heels to find something beneath.

I’d squeeze out her skin if it meant seeing blood, Pick her insides apart 'cause there’s nothing above.

I’ll reach down her throat, fingers clutching at clay And hope against heaven that I’ll be unmade.

Scream, Athena, you rebel, you insurgent student, How dare you breathe life in an imperfect human.

by Kira Small, Albuquerque, NM

After eating the berries from a Robusta tree, his goats began breathing quicker in the evening.

They even ran wild near the shore of the sapphire sea, jumping, trailing, troubling.

The huge discovery of the energizing berries spread.

It kept the abbot alert through the long hours of evening prayer.

Just as fast as a spider weaves the nets of threads, everyone used this little bean to explore.

As the envelope moved and reached eastern parts, the letter opened with hope and love and art.

by Minnie Wu, Pennington, NJ

by Elizabeth Chivers, Wakefield, RI

no longer taking orders I’m not going to sweeten my words for you anymore.

I’m not going to add a spoonful of sugar and a “sorry” every time I have something to say that’s too loud for you.

I’m not going to dilute my opinions of you anymore.

I’m not going to pour cream over my assertions and turn them into questions every time my confidence isn’t palatable enough for you.

And if my bitterness is too much to swallow, I hope you burn your tongue.

I’m not taking orders from you.

by Leah Boris, Media, PA

Artwork by Khushi Patel, Germantown, TN 59

POETRY | MAY 2021

Door to Yesterday

Fledgling

The Door to Yesterday known by none, Secrets rooted deep within History.

Until the wheel unveils its shades, Tomorrow remains a Mystery.

Tomorrow remains a Mystery.

His human cry caged in a baby bird’s beak His feathers like fur denied wind’s brace His webbed claws coiled his hobble limbs Maybe a mother was bustled in wooded pines Or a father watched with his hollow fixed gaze

by Aarushi Jain, Chandrapur, India Photo by Melissa Ford, Oberlin, OH

I Wish It Was Mine I write a story.

Because I'm too afraid to change my own, I fill this one to the brim with adventure.

I marry blue ink with yellowed paper and compose a masterpiece.

I salvage a soul from my own rattled bones and fashion the most courageous heroine this world has ever known.

I write her a life of fulfillment – of romance of friendship of heartbreak of strife and victory of peace of danger of daring of risk and reward.

I waste my entire existence writing this story.

I exhaust every ounce of energy breathing life into its pages; I slave over its contents until my final days.

I finish, and I wish it was mine.

by Emily Payne, Louisville, KY

Burns It burns Where your hand used to touch my skin It burns Where you used to kiss my lips It burns when you touch her like you used to touch me.

by Jennifer Goodine, Easley, SC 60

Guide to Being an American Teen First be a boy or a girl or other Grow up and maybe get lost on the way Weather the winter, wish it were summer Try a little to be Someone someday Red lips, bleached hair, denim jeans, White sneakers Strive to be unique like everyone else Live in moments, believe in forevers Paint worlds in black and white, live In pastels Get braces for that American smile Pierce your skin with vermeil; mark it With ink Throw up your fears; taste the rising bile Hang chains on your neck, in your skin They sink Get high on rights and truths you don’t Yet know Get drunk on those American Dreams Get lost in illusions, imbibe sorrow Sing solo anthems of imagined themes Your tomb they will cover with Indigo With white carnations and red rose petals From your bones will rise a sweet afterglow I will be there to blow out the candles.

by Barrett Ahn, Los Angeles, CA

I turned a blind eye Still, the child screeched Daylight is dusk — I return to the curb Perhaps nature snatched the bird’s split string lifespan His feathers left traces in the seamless sky Or a mother returned nestled warmth in her beak I see what I know, grass untampered dirt unscathed earth untouched.

by Taylor Hughes, Wausau, WI

Grandmother Who nurtured nature.

Who grew a garden in the wake of this fire.

Grandmother who nurtured nature, I’m sorry for the ash.

Grandmother who nurtured nature, I’m sorry for these foreign words Grandmother, I love you the dearest.

And though I don’t know how to write these colors, I hope you take pride in this flower, And in this garden you grew.

by Cathy Shang, New York City, NY

Artwork by Neha Vinod, Sharjah, United Arab Emirates

Photo by Serenity Barton, Wyndmere, ND

Artwork by Aina Marzia, El Paso, TX

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Contributors MEMOIRS

IDENTITY

Chase Lucas, 6 Rachel Epstein, 7 Georgia Pulierm, 8 Davyn Osborne, 10

Daniela Higareda, 36 Owen B., 37 Anonymous, 37

Noe Resendiz, 56 Adam Tighe, 57

SPORTS

Anonymous, 58 Anonymous, 58 Jacklene Murran, 58 Madison Ashley, 58 Rose Arce, 58 Santi Sekula, 58 Elizabeth Chivers, 59 Leah Boris, 59 Kira Small, 59 Minnie Wu, 59 Aarushi Jain, 60 Emily Payne, 60 Jennifer Goodine, 60 Barrett Ahn, 60 Taylor Hughes, 60 Cathy Shang, 60

MENTAL HEALTH Annalee Appleman, 13 Christine Shatrowsky, 14 Anonymous, 16 Zara Shariff, 20

FICTION

Kayli Vesel, 23 Elizabeth Dawn, 24

POINTS OF VIEW

BOOK REVIEWS

Jiayi Ji, 25 Remy Bregu, 26

EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR Clare Fitzgerald, 28 Skylar Fan, 29 John Prince, 30 Anonymous, 30 Bennett Balogh, 31

TRAVEL & CULTURE Riddhi Bhattacharya, 32 Sarah Fazioli, 34

POETRY

Ethan Pohl, 38 Onik Siddique, 39 Vidyaratnam Ganapathy, 39

Carrie Slager, 41 Ciao Petroncini, 42 Benjamin Herdeg, 44 Diya Sabharwal, 46

COLLEGE ESSAYS

VIDEO GAME REVIEWS

Luana Cimiotti, 48 Natali Cohen, 49 Anonymous, 50

ART GALLERIES

MUSIC REVIEWS Amy Chen, 51 Mackenzie Campbell, 51 Ada Liang, 52 Anika Venkannagari, 53

MOVIE & TV REVIEWS Jolie Feld, 54 Yuxin Zhu, 54 Rose Arce, 55

Cecilia Lei, Cover Pantelis Fakiris, 6 Bria Heley, 7 Kaylee Bodiford, 8 Serena Pei, 9 Aryana Singh, 10 Soliana Lijiam, 11 Abbie Barrows, 12 Avery-Grace Payne, 12 Ishareet Sohal, 12 Kathryn Davis, 13

O. Ogbemudia, 14 Aileen Xie, 16 Alice Jang, 18 Erin Jones, 20 Dove Nordblom, 22 Sophia Zhang, 23 Serenity Barton, 24 Nicole Kim, 26 Cecilia Lei, 27 Tianyang Xu, 28 Angelina, 29 Elijah Faridnia, 30 Gregory Gotlieb, 31 Neha Vinod, 32 & 33 Evaleah Caceres, 34 Pamela (Yu) Xiang, 35 Taylor Hall, 36 Alice Zhao, 37 Qiaorui Zhao, 39 Aspen Geist, 39 Maxis Amos-Flom, 40 Meghan Basi, 40 Serena Pei, 40 Seojin Moon, 41 Miya Nambiar, 43 Samiya Nagrath, 46 Claire Luo, 47 Anonymous, 57 Ellie Bergstrand, 58 Khushi Patel, 59 Melissa Ford, 60 Neha Vinod, 60 Serenity Barton, 60 Aina Marzia, 60 Jiayin Zou, 64

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, Christelza Janvier, Kylie Andrews

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.

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Resources

May 2021 | Volume 32 | Issue 2

• SAMHSA’s National Helpline 1.800.662.HELP (4357)

SAMHSA’s National Helpline is a free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1.800.273.TALK (8255)

Support and assistance 24/7 for anyone feeling depressed, overwhelmed or suicidal. Talk to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area at any time. If you are located outside of the United States, call your local emergency line.

• Crisis Text Line

Text “HELLO” to 741741 The Crisis Text hotline is available 24 hours a day, seven days a week throughout the U.S. The Crisis Text Line serves anyone, in any type of crisis, connecting them with a crisis counselor who can provide support and information.

• International Suicide Prevention Hotlines www.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines

• National Domestic Violence Hotline 1.800.799.SAFE (7233)

National call center refers to local resources; Spanish plus 160 other languages available; no caller ID used.

• National Sexual Assault Hotline 1.800.656.HOPE (4673)

Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network - RAINN Nationwide referrals for specialized counseling and support groups. Hotline routes calls to local sex assault crisis centers for resources and referrals. Spanish available.

• National Eating Disorder Hotline 1.800.931.2237 For 24/7 crisis support text: NEDA to 741-741

• Self-Harm Hotline 1.800.DONT.CUT (1.800.366.8288) • Planned Parenthood Hotline 1.800.230.PLAN (7526) • GLBT Hotline 1.888.843.4564 • TransLifeline 1.877.565.8860 | www.translifeline.org

FREE 1-Year Premium Access!

Brightmind Meditation and Mindfulness App

We’ve teamed up with Brightmind to offer you 1 year of FREE Premium Access (a $100 value). Here’s what you’ll get: • Full access to customizable Core Meditations • Hundreds of addition guided meditations • New content added regularly Click HERE to claim your FREE membership 63

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Photo by Jiayin Zou, Mclean, VA