Teen Ink magazine - December 2023

December 2023

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By teens, for teens

Special Focus: Volunteering How are you helping others?

Making a Difference!

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CONTENTS

December 2023 Volume 38 | Issue 5

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ON THE COVER PHOTO BY FINN TP, EAST BURKE, VT

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Teen Ink News Contests & Call for Submissions!

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Making a Difference!

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Family

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Role Models

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The Modern Teen Experience

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Book Reviews

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Music Reviews

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Fiction

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Poetry

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Contest Winners Technology & You!, 26 How Do You Make a Difference?, 28

Current Events 3

Letter from the

Editor Thank you for a wonderful 2023!

Dear Teen Ink Readers, The year is coming to a close, and we want to celebrate how wonderful the Teen Ink community is. Our editors have enjoyed every submission we’ve received — art, photography, fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and more — we love it all! We are incredibly grateful that you share your work with us, and we hope to see more of it next year!

In this edition of Teen Ink magazine, we focus on Making a Difference.

Many Teen Ink users have proven themselves to be extremely caring and helpful teens by constantly sharing stories of ways to make a change in the world and ways they have helped others. So, in this issue, we want to show our support of these wonderful acts and feature some of the best pieces submitted to us.

Along with our “Making a Difference” section, we’ve included some breathtaking fiction, lovely stories about family and role models, some pieces on current events, and more! We are thrilled to end the year by sharing so many great pieces with you. This issue seems to have something for everyone to enjoy, so hurry and get to reading!

As always, we welcome your feedback! You’re welcome to write a letter to an editor or submit artwork, photographs, written works, and poetry to www.teenink.com/submit.

We’ll see you next year!

The Teen Ink Team

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Submit

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Enter our Contests!

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Winners receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

Click Here to Enter!

We Also Need:

• Your experiences with the performing arts • Art and photography pieces relating to dance, theater, and music

• Articles and stories about love and relationships • Book, TV show, movie, and music reviews!

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OCEAN PRECIOUS: HOW I’M TAKING ACTION AGAINST OCEAN POLLUTION ARTICLE BY VAISHNAVI REDNAM, WESLEY CHAPEL, FL

Pollution in the ocean can have many different effects, including disrupting the delicate balance of life within the ocean and destroying underwater ecosystems.

The health of the ocean is important to all of us; it’s important for our planet’s future, our health, and the health of other species in the ocean. With my Social Impact Initiative, “Ocean Precious: Stop Ocean Pollution,” I want to make a difference and guide others to take the right first step in helping me with this cause. I know that taking action against pollution can seem daunting, but when we work together as a community, we can make a real difference and stop this issue in its tracks. This is why I have chosen to focus on two main ways of combating ocean pollution: raising awareness through education and reducing the amount that we create.

Throughout my reign as Miss Largo’s Outstanding Teen 2022, I made multiple appearances in schools across Florida teaching students the importance of following proper environmental protocols. Ocean Precious has done a great job of bringing the educational community together to train people about what we can do to help protect the ocean and reduce the amount of pollution 6

MAKING A DIFFERENCE

that we contribute to the oceans on a daily basis. Some of my events included a beach cleanup with Ocean Precious participants, as well as multiple educational talks on the

their daily routines can help in the fight against ocean pollution.

This year, my focus has shifted toward hosting public events that

I HAVE CHOSEN TO FOCUS ON TWO MAIN WAYS OF COMBATING OCEAN POLLUTION: RAISING AWARENESS THROUGH EDUCATION AND REDUCING THE AMOUNT THAT WE CREATE topic with students in kindergarten through 12th grade. Throughout the past year, I have executed different projects with Ocean Precious; such as Operation Ocean, The Attack Project, and my Sunshine Baskets. I even launched my own website — oceanprecious. com. Furthermore; back in 2020, I was able to help lead an event with the mayor, where my school familiarized the town hall on the impact that plastic is having on our ocean and the importance of minimizing their use of plastic products. Doing so helped bring back recycling in our public school district. After mainly focusing on the educational aspect of cleaning up our oceans, I began working to familiarize businesses with what they can personally do to help fight the issue and how small changes in

fundraise money for educating the youth on the importance of taking care of our environment and how we can implement these changes in our daily lives. Profits go toward sunshine baskets that I create and send out to schools, businesses, and other community events I host.

These sunshine baskets have starter supplies and pamphlets for schools and businesses to learn about plastic reduction and have the necessary items to start a waste-free lifestyle at work. To help raise awareness, I have teamed up with businesses in the community to host fundraising events such as beach cleanups and recycling days.

I have also partnered up with different local organizations to hold informational talks or screenings in our community to get people more engaged in the cause. Ocean

ARTWORK BY ZIRAN YUJIAN, BEIJING, CHINA

Precious has made a major success of these events because of my dedication to the environment, as well as the positive message I portray through these programs.

My service as a teen shouldn’t go unnoticed. I want to make a significant change in the world by being a voice for problems that need to be heard and by representing them in a positive light. I have and will continue to lead by example by educating others on the importance and necessity of living a sustainable, plastic-free lifestyle and instilling this into other communities. I am determined to do everything possible to create a better environment for generations both now, and into the future. I can’t wait to leave a legacy for future generations to follow and I hope to make a positive mark on this world with my actions. I want to be remembered as the teen who helped do more than just talk about starting a change.

Ocean Precious is a non-profit organization that raises money to help detoxify our oceans. It is trying to reduce the environmental problem of ocean pollution before it grows into something we can no longer control.

Currently, pollution in our oceans is harming not only natural resources but also marine life. With Ocean Precious, you can help make a difference in this situation and convince others to take the right first step in helping with this cause.

In the eighth grade, Rednam founded her own organization, Ocean Precious: Stop Ocean Pollution, working toward decreasing the amount of pollution contaminating oceans.

With Ocean Precious, she goes from school to school, holding interactive camps, and preaching the importance of recycling. She continues to raise awareness of Ocean Precious by hosting events such as beach cleanups and recycling days.

MAKINGSECTION A DIFFERENCE NAME

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what

FIREFIGHTING means to me ARTICLE BY KASH BISHOP, ROSLYN, NY

PHOTO BY AHRON ROSENHOUSE, CORAL SPRINGS, FL

To most kids my age, September 11 is just another tragic event that happened before they were born — something they learn about in class or hear their parents talk about at home. In my family, the memory of 9/11 has never left us.

That’s because my Uncle John died that day, along with 342 other NYFD firefighters, including four from his firehouse in Brooklyn.

After the first plane hit the North Tower at 8:46 a.m., Uncle John and his brothers rolled their truck toward downtown with a full crew.

He was covering a shift for his friend that morning, just one of many selfless acts in his life that ended with him making the ultimate sacrifice for the people of New York City and the United States. When most people were running out of the Towers that morning, Uncle John and his fellow firefighters were running in.

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MAKING A DIFFERENCE

All of this happened before I was even born, but evidence of Uncle John’s absence and memory were all around me for as long as I can remember. It was in the back den of my aunt’s house, where photos of Uncle John in his firefighter dress uniform and field gear adorned the wall next to his service awards and the folded American flag from his funeral. It was in the annual memorials to the fallen firefighters at his firehouse in Brooklyn on the anniversary of 9/11 every year, where I would listen to the firefighters who served with him tell stories about Uncle John burning dinner in the firehouse kitchen and lifting weights in the firehouse gym with Metallica blasting on the stereo. It was in the dozens of FDNY sweatshirts and t-shirts from Uncle John’s annual memorial fundraiser golf tournament that each member of

I had heard about and seen the bond between Uncle John and Michael and their fellow firefighters, so I forced myself to push through the discomfort until I felt like I belonged there my family owned. It was in the stories my mother told me about the many times Uncle John came to the aid of our family — like the time he flew all the way down to Florida to bail out my

grandmother’s flooded condominium unit. And it was in the somber undertone to the Father’s Day family gatherings at my aunt’s house that Uncle John tragically could never make.

But Uncle John’s legacy of service as a firefighter was one of his most enduring gifts to our family. A few years ago, my cousin Michael followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the NYFD, even serving at the same firehouse in Brooklyn as Uncle John. And now, inspired by my uncle’s and cousin’s example, I am serving as a volunteer firefighter in my hometown of Roslyn Heights.

When I first joined the firehouse, I was very intimidated. I remember my first meeting at the firehouse, sitting at the bar and being too nervous to speak to the other members. I had just turned 17, and most of the other members were in their 30s and 40s. But I had heard about and seen the bond between Uncle John and Michael and their fellow firefighters, so I forced myself to push through the discomfort until I felt like I belonged there. It helped that AJ, my assigned mentor, worked hard to make me familiar with the foreign environment of the firehouse. He would go over the fire trucks with me at our weekly Monday night drills and show me how to operate each piece of equipment while explaining the situations where I might need to use it. Because of this, I was able to quickly learn where each of the tools was located on the truck and assist the senior firefighters when we went out on calls. I’ve also benefited from the first-class training offered by the Nassau County Fire Service Academy in the Essentials of Firefighting class for new volunteer firefighters. The county fire chief teaches the class himself and makes sure that every one of his students learns all the nuances of firefighting. After taking this class, I’ve been able to contribute a lot more when I go out on a call with my firehouse.

A few weeks ago, our firehouse was called to respond to a fire that broke out in the back of a pickup truck on the highway. When we got there, the pickup truck was pulled over on the shoulder of the highway with flames shooting high in the air from a drum in the flatbed of the truck. It turned out

between calls at the firehouse, I often do my homework, work out in the firehouse gym, check the equipment on the trucks, or just hang out with the other guys in the house watching TV in the office.

Our house also plays in a softball league with other firehouses in Nassau County. While we have yet

I’VE BEEN VOLUNTEERING AT THE FIREHOUSE FOR ALMOST A YEAR NOW, AND IT’S BECOME LIKE A SECOND HOME FOR ME that the fire started when a lithium battery, like the kind used in electric cars, caught fire while in the flatbed of the truck. I’d read stories before about electric cars catching on fire, but the intensity of the fire coming from such a tiny battery amazed me when I witnessed it firsthand. Because of the extreme flammability of the lithium battery, our engine crew had to be extremely careful while we methodically cooled the little battery with our hoses. The temperature of the battery had risen so high that even after we had extinguished the flames, we had to continue dousing the battery with water for another two hours before it was safe to remove and dispose of. When we finally finished the call, I was exhausted from carrying the hoses and tools. Still, it was a valuable learning and bonding experience for our crew since it was one of the most difficult and dramatic calls the firehouse had responded to all year.

I’ve been volunteering at the firehouse for almost a year now, and it’s become like a second home for me, with the guys in the firehouse becoming like a second family. During the long stretches

to win a game, the games are always fun and an excellent opportunity to get to know the other firefighters outside the house.

While the commitment and sacrifices of my uncle and cousin inspired me to serve my community as a volunteer firefighter, joining your local firehouse is a great way to help your community and form strong bonds with your fellow volunteers, even if you don’t come from a family of firefighters. Once I overcame my initial reluctance, my experiences as a volunteer firefighter have been rewarding and often exhilarating. So, if you’re looking for an intense and meaningful way to serve your community, volunteering at your neighborhood firehouse will give you the experience of a lifetime while allowing you to do your small part to honor the legacy and sacrifice of those heroes who served before us, like my Uncle John.

MAKING A DIFFERENCE

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how to watch TV WITH YOUR FATHER

ARTICLE BY HONORA QUINN, RALEIGH, NC PHOTO BY MACKENZIE HIGH, FORT WAYNE, IN 10

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Here are the supplies needed for this challenge.

- One (1) TV, laptop, or device - A smattering (3) shows to choose from: one you like, one he likes, and one you can inevitably compromise on - One or two (1-2) things to sit on, depending on the situation. Perhaps a couch or set of chairs.

Now that we have everything we need, let’s venture into the unknown. Here are some tips gained first hand by our staff.

if you must stop it, make sure you have something great to say. This whole rule is more of a “read the room” clause. Maybe one day, they are fine with comments and chatter, but the next, they just want you to shut up. If it was a stressful day, full of important meetings or taxing errands, he may just want to sit back and unwind. There is an emotional barometer that people develop the longer they are around others, the strongest of which is with the immediate family.

We can only speak from our own experience, but we

HE MAY BE SILENT, WITH AN UNMOVING FACE AND CROSSED ARMS, BUT INSIDE, HE LOVES THE SHOW YOU ARE WATCHING TOGETHER

First: Be on alert.

Especially if your choice of media is somehow chosen, you want to make sure both parties enjoy this experience. You’ll want to check in every now and then to see if he is really enjoying himself or just being nice. This can sometimes be hard to tell. In this golden age of television that we find ourselves residing in, you may be familiar with the stereotype of the stoic father. While this particular stereotype will not apply to every man, there is some truth to the matter. He may be silent, with an unmoving face and crossed arms, but inside, he loves the show you are watching together.

Next: If you must comment, make it a good one.

Nothing is worse than saying a joke or a sentiment and having it echo in the void that is your living room. You may know an obscure fun fact that perfectly ties into what you are watching, but if the mood in the room is low, it will just hang with no response in sight.

Especially since the point of this endeavor is to watch the show, whether it be Law & Order, Star Trek, or a documentary, some people do not like talking. And even if you pause the TV to circumvent this talkingover issue, it raises another. Some people do not like the repetitive starting and stopping of a program, and

believe you can feel the energy in the room. A Monday night can differ from a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Also: It may be hard for this occasion to happen. You might need to wear them down, asking repeatedly until the time is right. “When do you want to…” “When would be a good time to…” “Would you be interested in…” Be prepared to get “Some other time,” “Not now,” or “Maybe tomorrow.” All of these are entirely valid; fathers are busy, after all, but on the other hand, don’t be too surprised when you find them playing phone games or watching something else. And be warned… wearing down the person in question will make them more resistant to watching the show and more resistant to any comments you might make during the show.

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ARTWORK BY GENEVIEVE GUNGOR, NEW YORK, NY

SEE MY MOTHER THROUGH DIFFERENT EYES ARTICLE BY SARAH OCHOA RODRIGUEZ, SACRAMENTO, CA

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Mami, Did history repeat itself? A deck of cards drawing for the next, waiting for the luck of the draw but losing it all in the end. Do my eyes that falter resemble those of your father who had no tenderness, breaking like soars of an ocean for your mother? Do my father’s eyes look at you the same? Will this be the future of my love?

I certainly wish you could respond to all of my inquiries, but you never have. I’m left to find the answers to all of these important questions on my own, whether they come from pictures, letters, smiles, or eyes that witnessed every minute detail that occurred.

My consciousness captured every occurrence, appearance, and moment of despondence.

The photo taken that day was one that I’ll never forget.

He takes you by the hand to show you the dance you did at your wedding. He grabs you by the waist swiftly and slowly, the kitchen lights illuminating your hearts, interwoven into a warm blanket, shielding you from any harm he caused.

Your smiles glistened.

The entire night was consumed by it.

My father, having no clue how to follow a beat, you step on his leather-sewn shoes, the pair that his mother bought for him when you both first got married. He wore a finely white buttoned shirt with a cashmere navy blue sweater over it. I had chosen it just for the occasion. He said he wanted to look good for you. You giggled like a child who had just fallen in love once again with the man who broke your heart several times but gave you the best comfort of company, which is all we wish for in the end. I took the picture — click, click. You had no clue since there are very few times I can catch the wrinkles in both my parent’s eyes. They looked as though they let out a breath from all the years that had passed. You and he only stared into each other’s eyes, universes of unanswered questions, lies, mysteries, and words never said.

You danced the same as I do now, not missing one beat. I’m in a trance, with every pirouette, adagio, fouette, and ronde jambe filling the empty space of the house. You put me in dance classes early in my life just to let me try out everything possible. It sounds a lot like humans. We try everything and get rid of the

things we don’t like. I stopped dancing after one year of class. You never got mad. Instead, you said, “Sarita no todo se puede hacer,” with a watercolor smile on your face that no one could erase, and now that same smile is imprinted on my face like a hand on a broken TV. I’m sure your father had the same smile.

I met my grandfather after his death. I saw his face but never knew the story behind his eyes.

You tell me how much I resemble him, with his grin and wrinkles appearing at the edge of my lips, the same as yours. His affinity for music captivated my ears and had me dance like he once did with my grandmother. Who has now forgotten his face? His elegance for style and photos changed to a suit every time the camera came out. He wrote poetry about his misery, happiness, loss, and of my mom. Now my own hands write of you, mi mami. Only you can see the resemblance between my grandfather and me, but it seems that now I beg to see through your lens how much it hurts to see your father in me. All the photos of when I was a child showed hints of my grandfather’s laugh in me. Look at any photo, and you’ll see.

There’s one that I keep treasured from when I was three. Your fine hair was pulled back with a black headband. A black cut-sleeve shirt with white stripes across. I, on the other hand, was a burst of color with a headband with a neon blue flower. You made it just for me. I pulled my hair back just the same so maybe I could look half as put together as you always did. I regained the hue of my honey skin thanks to my yellow collared shirt. You grabbed my arm, scared as though you’d lose this moment. You reclined on the brown leather couch that hid every memory inside of it.

Spilt milk and my cereal crumbs from sitting in front of the TV every morning to see PBS Kids. Lost pens were in the cracks; a Shopkin was probably hidden in there somewhere. My father makes jokes from the other side of the camera, “No juges Sarita” or “una mas.”

Click — “Say cheese” — click.

Somewhere in between those moments, I laughed and stuck my tongue out.

You smiled, lines to the side so wide you could never hide any of your expressions the same as your father’s. So I did the same. I laughed with my tongue out, releasing the feeling of comfort. You were happy.

Click.

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SILVER ARTICLE BY HAILEE PAASKE, HARTLAND, WI PHOTO BY MIAOFU TIAN, WINSTON-SALEM, NC

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I never thought I was a silver person.

I always wear gold. Gold rings, gold necklaces, gold earrings. One day, when I was at my Nana’s house, she told me, “Hailee, I have something for you.” Excitedly, my heart rate started going up. Am I getting a present? I have always liked presents, especially from my Nana. She motioned me to her room at the end of the long hallway.

As I walk into her room, she stands in front of a tall mirror. I had always wondered about this mirror because it wasn’t like any other mirror. It was big and thick and different.

was giving me the responsibility of keeping this bracelet. “There is no other person I would rather have this. And with this, I will always be close to you.”

She starts going through all the charms and sharing how each one has meaning. The frog charm is symbolic of her growing up with her brother on a farm, specifically when her brother stuck a frog down her pants. The birth charms are for all four of her kids and grandchildren. The soccer ball charm — her favorite sport growing up. All these memories on one chain. So much responsibility, so much time, and so much love — now it’s all mine to cherish.

ALL THESE MEMORIES ARE ON ONE CHAIN. SO MUCH RESPONSIBILITY, SO MUCH TIME, SO MUCH LOVE, AND NOW IT’S ALL MINE TO CHERISH from normal. She starts to feel around the mirror, and suddenly, it opens like a door. I scoot a little closer to see what is happening, and then I see it. Inside this mirror is every piece of jewelry you could ever imagine, from big silver hoops and red ruby earrings to old diamond rings and long silver necklaces. Everything was in here. I was in complete awe. I had never seen this much jewelry in my life. I got right in front, reached my hands out, and started touching everything. My Nana watched as I admired it all.

She then reaches for a hook and takes off a silver Pandora bracelet. I had seen her wear this bracelet before. Every time I saw her, she was wearing this bracelet. There was no space left on it — no room for any more charms. She puts the bracelet in my hands and says, “It’s yours; I want you to have it.” I had no response. There was no way that she

ARTWORK BY ANONYMOUS

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Thank You, Grandpa Mike ARTICLE BY LUKAS HERNKE, CANNON FALLS, MN

PHOTO BY CHENGYE LIN, BRISTOL, CT

Four years ago, on October 14, my Grandpa Mike died from cancer. I took his death really hard. When my grandpa was on his deathbed, he wasn’t able to talk or see. All I could do was hold his hand tight. Within his last minutes, he opened his eyes and waved goodbye to the 20 family members in that small living room.

Seeing my grandpa’s pale blue eyes one more time told me that everything was going to be okay. Before he died, he gave me little hints on how to be a good person. He showed me how to start a conversation and how to take down trees. My grandpa taught me that I will mess up and that it is okay. But the three main things I learned from him are to always give 100%, to never give up, and to take the time to say hi.

My Grandpa Mike always gave 100%. He used to race stock cars on a dirt track. His number was 37. The

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BEFORE HE DIED, MY GRANDPA GAVE ME LITTLE HINTS ON HOW TO BE A GOOD PERSON funny thing is that he was going to quit racing at the age of thirty-seven but kept going until the age of 45.

When my grandpa was diagnosed with cancer, he got another race car. On that car, he had over 2,000 LED lights and three American flags on the back. My grandpa would take it to the Deer Creek Speedway

and always do a couple of things. He brought Sharpies so that people could autograph the car. He would say his goal was 5,000 autographs. He probably got around 10,000. Then, my grandpa would sing the national anthem. It was his way of telling people that if something doesn’t feel right, you should go to the doctor. Because he grew up as a farm boy and worked hard until he couldn’t work anymore, my grandpa didn’t take the time to go to the doctor. So when he got sick, he thought it was just a bug he would get over. By the time he went to the doctor, he had stage four cancer. After that, Grandpa would do the halftime show; he did the same thing every time. He drove a lap for each letter of his six-letter swear word, ”cancer.”

Watching him do that and fight for everything that he thought was important showed me to always give 100%.

The second reason why I look up to my grandpa is that he showed me how to never give up. A couple of months later, after he was diagnosed, his pain got so bad that he was driving the car with the buckle not clipped together. Instead of a five-point harness, he was using a three-point harness, which is very dangerous when driving 150 miles an hour. After his daily nap, I would go over to his house, and we would build or work on something. I remember building a squirrel feeder with him. Of course, if we were going to build something, it had to look nice. So … we took apart an old farm windmill and shoved the feeder up the center of it. Then, we put some corn on the top that he picked from a random field. The next day, he told me that the squirrels were deeply afraid of the feeder and we NEEDED a new one. He took me to Interstate Lumber and let me decide how tall the new squirrel feeder would be. I was young, so I chose 18 inches. My Grandpa told me that it was strictly for squirrels and that other animals would be able to get the corn. So he chose seven feet. The end result was a seven-foot-tall post in the ground with a “T” on top. He let me cut the “T” until I got it right. He never gave up on me. Having him do that showed me to always do the same.

My grandpa also taught me the importance of taking the time to say hi or help someone out. As a kid, I had little patience and said what came to mind. I didn’t care what other people thought. When I moved into a new house, we had 15 spruce trees in our little front yard. My Grandpa, who was in love with big rigs, brought in an excavator and took out all 15 trees in a day. He started at first light and did not stop till it was dark, just to help us out. Another time, my grandpa took the time to talk to the new pastor at our church.

The first thing my grandpa bought was skydiving! He asked my pastor if he would do it with him. My pastor was astonished and, not knowing what to say, said sure. They planned it out, and my grandpa was so happy. Unfortunately, the cancer got worse, and he was put in hospice. A couple of days later, he passed away. And that is why I think it is a good idea to always take the time to say hi.

My grandpa was my role model and still is today. He taught me to always give 100%, to never give up, and to take the time to say hi or help someone. I would like to carry on his legacy and live life to the fullest just like he did. And I want to accomplish the dreams that he never had the chance to. But the most important thing I learned through him is that everything will be okay.

He would make me feel that way every time I saw him.

I will never forget it.

DJOKER FOREVER: An Ode to Novak Djokovic Through Fedal’s incessant reign He pierced his way to glory With plenty of effort and pain He scripted a new story First Slam in 2008 Number one three years later But what a miserable fate — Injury made him retire He couldn’t win a Slam then on His elbow wouldn’t obey That doesn’t mean that he is gone One still can’t match his play He’s the toughest guy on tour Can bounce back from the brim The finest of the big four You just can’t conquer him He’ll be back ruling on top He’ll beat those guys afresh And then he can’t be stopped From being the all-time best

BY AMBICA GOVIND, INDIA

PHOTO BY MAXIS AMOS-FLOM, ALLENDALE, NJ

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JUNKO TABEI:

A True Inspiration ARTICLE BY ANGEL CHURCHWELL, LONGVILLE, MN “Technique and ability alone do not get you to the top; it is the willpower that is most important.”

This is a quote by Junko Tabei, a Japanese mountaineer, author, and teacher.

Now, you may be wondering, What is so good about this Junko Tabei woman? Well, I’ll get to that. First, let’s start with her early life. Junko was born on September 22, 1939.

She was the fifth child of seven. Her parents are unknown; however, her father worked as a printer.

She went to Showa Women’s University from 1958-1962, where she studied English and American Literature. She earned a degree in both of these subjects.

Now, some of her greatest accomplishments: She established a ladies’ climbing club called Joshi-Tohan. The slogan for this club was, “Let’s go on an overseas expedition by ourselves.” A year after her club was established, the members went on their first adventure. They climbed the

Nepalese mountain, Annapurna III, on May 19, 1970. A year after that first expedition as a club, the members created a team called Japanese Women’s Everest Expedition (JWEE), which was led

by Eiko Hisano. The group applied for a permit to climb Mount Everest and was approved four years later in 1975.

Junko Tabei and Sherpa guide, Ang Tsering, were appointed to climb the final stage toward the summit.

Just before reaching the top, Junko suffered mild bruises and injuries from an avalanche. She kept climbing and was the first woman to scale Mount Everest and the 36th person overall. When Junko finished the climb, there was a message waiting from the king in Kathmandu, Nepal. Along with the message, there was also a parade to celebrate her accomplishment.

Junko continued to climb. She fully scaled Mount Kilimanjaro (1980), Mount Aconcagua (1987), Mount Denali (1988), Mount Vinson (1989),

“ I WOULD LIKE TO BE RECOGNIZED AS THE 36TH PERSON TO CLIMB MOUNT EVEREST. NOT THE FIRST WOMAN.” 18

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and the Carstensz Pyramid (1992).

By the end of her career, she had conquered over 70 mountains in pursuit of her goal to climb the highest mountain in every country.

Junko Tabei completed postgraduate studies at Kyushu University, focusing on environmental changes on Mount Everest.

She led and participated in cleanup climbs in the Himalayan Mountains with her husband and children. She spent her later years focused on environmentalism and taking care of the earth. On March 11, 2011, a tsunami struck Junko Tabei’s hometown of Fukushima.

Many people were left homeless or forced out of their homes. In 2012, Tabei organized an annual mountain climb with affected children from the area of Mount Fuji. Since then, there have been 10 annual climbs.

Sadly, in 2016, Junko Tabei got stomach cancer. She attempted one last climb on Mount Fuji and had to turn back at an elevation of just 1.9 miles.

Junko Tabei lived a life full of adventure and became famous in Japan and around the world. She once claimed, “I am uncomfortable with the fame. I would like to be recognized as the 36th person to climb Mount Everest. Not the first woman.” She has inspired many people, old and young, male and female. She stood for women’s rights because when she joined a climbing class, her peers thought she was only trying to get a husband. Although she did get married after she started climbing, she continued to climb for the rest of her life.

ART GALLERY

CREDITS 1. PHOTO BY ELLA BARRIE, HARTLAND, WI 2. PHOTO BY NAOMI GRAY, OTTAWA, ON, CANADA 3. ARTWORK BY SOPHIE HOBECK, BROOKLYN, NY

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the benefits of talking to strangers

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THE MODERN TEEN EXPERIENCE

ARTICLE BY EVELYN TIAN, NEWTON, MA ARTWORK BY SHAYNA RUDOREN, MONTCLAIR, NJ

I love summer camp. Toasting s’mores, playing War with cards in a cabin, and taking in the everpresent, tropical scent of Banana Boat sunscreen.

But every year, I dread the first few days, which always seem to be filled with awkward silences, polite exchanges of “how are you,” and standard replies like “I’m good.” Summer camp is supposed to be about forming connections, so why are all of our conversations so shallow?

In 2021, researcher Michael Kardas and his team at Oklahoma State University discovered that most people overestimate how awkward a conversation with a stranger can be and fail to see that it might turn into a memorable experience. It is understandable why people might do this. What is there to talk about with someone new, especially if you don’t know if you have any common interests? Where do you start the conversation?

Recently, Corina Knoll of The New York Times published an article memorializing David Breaux, known online as “The Compassion Guy,” who devoted his life to authentic conversation by creating his own “Compassion Corner.” Some people may describe David Breaux as a drifter. A down-and-out. A vagrant.

He was the type of person we are taught to look past — to say nothing more than “hello” to before moving on. But to many people in Davis, California, he was a friend. A confidant. A companion.

But in late April 2023, the Davis community lost all of this when Breaux was stabbed to death. As I was reading Knoll’s account of the man who, through small gestures, made such a significant difference in so many lives, it occurred to me that we live in a world where people prioritize checking items off their to-do lists over having heart-to-heart conversations.

Some of you might have also heard of Seth Phillips, or as he refers to himself on social media, “Dude With Sign.” Phillips stands on the streets of New York City holding pieces of cardboard with funny messages.

Some examples of his signs include “Stop walking slow on sidewalks” and “Yes, Netflix, I am still watching.” His messages are always relatable, meant to make a stranger smile and strike up a conversation. He breaks the ice so that people can start talking about a shared

interest or experience, because what he writes on his signs are common annoyances.

All humans are social creatures and can benefit from getting to know others authentically In their own ways, both Breaux and Phillips initiate discussions, rather than rely on other people to come up to them. Studies have shown that, while most people state that they would feel uncomfortable going up to a stranger to start a conversation, the majority of individuals would not mind if a stranger started a conversation with them. We need more people like Breaux and Phillips — people who are not afraid to form connections with those they have never met.

Some people might cite the concept of “stranger danger” as an example of why we should not approach those we don’t know (people who could potentially be dangerous) on the streets. But this fear may be all in our heads. The U.S. Department of Justice found, for example, that 73 percent of instances of violence are committed by people that the victim already knows.

Even introverts can have a pleasant time meeting and interacting with someone new. Indeed, psychologists from the University of Chicago conducted an experiment where half of the participants were told to converse with strangers on public transportation and the other half were told not to do so. All participants in the group directed to converse with strangers reported enjoyment with their commute regardless of how outgoing they were, showing that the results of communicating with others are not dependent on personality type. All humans are social creatures and can benefit from getting to know others authentically.

Next year, when I head off to summer camp, I’m determined to be more like Breaux and Phillips. If somebody asks me how I’m doing, I’ll resist the urge to respond with just a “good.” Armed with a few icebreakers and an open ear, I’ll make my own Compassion Corner.

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THE GOOD MORNING TEXT

ARTICLE BY KAYLEE DUDA, ROCHESTER, NY PHOTO BY ANONYMOUS

Every morning — ever since I first got my phone — I would always check my notifications to see who texted me. In my youth, my mind was like clay, easily molded by society’s belief that receiving numerous texts equated to popularity. I began to link popularity in notifications with likeability, convinced that the more messages I received, the more I would be cherished. I tried so hard to be liked, to get over a hundred notifications when I woke up. Yet every morning, I woke up disappointed.

This trend continued for years, I always woke up to no notifications. I never lost hope, strangely enough; I was always optimistic that one morning, someone would care enough to text me. Finally, in ninth grade, I decided that in order to get more texts, I needed to be nicer to people. I let people walk all over me because I thought that was what it took to be liked. I was constantly taken advantage of, although sure enough, I began getting more texts. These texts were centered around problems, around people asking for homework answers and never even bothering to say thank you. I was still waiting for someone to send me that simple text, a text that would mean the world to me: “good morning.”

Life continued to come and go, and more people reached out to me only when they needed to vent or rant about their own problems. I still let them; I was happy that they chose to text me. Out of all the people and all the friends in the world, for some reason, they chose to contact me about it. That must mean I’m special. That must mean I’m valued. That must mean people like me, right?

“I need the answers to the homework.”

“This girl is being so annoying…”

“Gosh, you’re so skinny, you’re lucky.”

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I consistently played the role of a homework provider, the empathetic ear for rants, and the comforting presence for those grappling with body image concerns. My days were marked by a routine of assistance, as I willingly shouldered the burdens others placed upon me. I would always try to keep the conversation going, to ask them how their day was and what exciting plans they had coming up. The excuses came quickly: “Sorry, I have to go.” “I’m busy.” “Lol, I’m good.” After a year of these texts, it began wearing on my mental health and degrading my sense of selfworth. I was the heartfelt confidant, inquiring about their lives and emotions, yet the emptiness of my own inbox echoed the silence that enveloped my own world. The absence of questions or genuine interest left me yearning for a connection that never seemed to materialize.

Slowly, my view on popularity and text messages began to change. The once-pleasant chime of my phone’s notifications transformed into a foreboding symphony that played both day and night. Each buzz became a haunting reminder that I was a peripheral character in others’ lives, summoned only when solitude or restlessness compelled them to seek company. Still, with every buzz I got in the morning, I kept thinking that today would somehow be different.

My hope: a storm cloud of rain making its way across a field of water-deprived crops. My hope: the first flower budding after a harsh frost, a pop of color in the monotony of winter.

In 10th grade, I continued to let people walk all over me. My only line of defense: at least they chose me. My need to be needed continued to grow, forcing me to be glued to my phone at all times, always texting and always comforting and always yearning for more. I dished out so many compliments that they became void of meaning, just another word.

My heart gravitated toward a single soul that year, a

boy whose presence in my thoughts was as instant as the sun across the sky. Each morning, as I awoke, my heart fluttered with anticipation, yearning for the elusive “good morning” text that would bring warmth to my life. It might as well have been the equivalent of the big “L” word (Love). Sometimes, people ask me why I don’t just tell people I want a good morning text, but they don’t understand. The point is not to tell; the point is for it to be pure and meaningful, and for someone to truly wake up and think of only me, wanting to wish me a good morning compared to the billions of other people in the world. As the world I once viewed through rose-colored glasses darkened, I began to see

I tried so hard to be liked, to get over a hundred notifications when I woke up the true colors of the boy I admired. His self-centered nature, which had been masked by my infatuation, became glaringly evident. It dawned on me that the simple act of sending a “good morning” text, no matter how effortless, was beyond his capacity for consideration.

The world became bleak — dramatic and common for a teenage girl, I’m aware — and I began to lose hope of ever getting those two words said to me. I yearned for the two words so much it threatened to destroy me, an unquestionable ache in my chest, constantly beating. I only needed it once, from one person, and I thought my life would be complete.

I reached a point where I realized not everyone was destined to awaken to those cherished messages.

Thus, I assumed the role of the morning messenger, crafting warm greetings and sending them out into the digital dawn. Every morning, when I woke up, I

sent “Good morning!” messages to everyone I cared about, and slowly the list grew to over 30 people. Every morning, before I eat or brush my hair, I rush to my phone to send out the texts. I thought everyone would value them as much as I did; I thought I was doing something good, something small that could bring light into someone’s morning.

Sometimes, people ask me why I didn’t start sending them myself earlier, because after I sent them I would be sure to receive them back. Right? At first, people were enthusiastic, sending them back and sometimes even adding fun emojis or exclamation marks! Yet people stopped responding, leaving me on read or sometimes not even opening them at all. As days turned into weeks, I felt like I’d squandered any hope of reciprocity. The few who bothered to respond did so with subtle complaints, questioning my choice of blue emojis when, in their minds, red ones were the expected hue. They are only sending me back the text of my dream out of obligation, out of pity.

I still send them, even to this morning. On the surface, I know that no one truly cares about the text, and they probably never will. Yet deep down, I can always hope that maybe the simple text I wanted so much and will never receive will make someone smile, make someone feel special and start their day off in the right direction. I will never receive a genuine, unprompted text, one that holds a value more than I hold even myself.

Not everyone is meant to be a Zeus, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that Hermes can be important too, only in a different way. I want everyone to be happy, and if that means sacrificing my own happiness, I will gladly take that route.

So: Good morning! I hope you have a wonderful day.

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the danger of

CATEGORIZING IDENTITIES

ARTICLE BY AMINA URDUKHANOVA, KOCHENOVE, UKRAINE PHOTO BY JAYDA WANG, KENT, CT

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A few years ago, TikTok users began to group themselves into so-called “aesthetics” and “-cores,” such as Dark Academia, Cottagecore, Balletcore, Royalcore, Old Money, Witchcore, Grunge, Gothic, Coquette, and many more. What are they all about, and why am I concerned about their detrimental effects on the lives of young people?

First, let’s look up the definition of the suffix “-core.” According to Slang.net, “On social media, words that end with -core typically refer to a stylized aesthetic. For example, Cottagecore is an aesthetic centered around romanticized rural living, and Goblincore is an aesthetic centered around overlooked natural things.”

Such categorization didn’t start with Gen Z; it was actually used on Tumblr about 10 years ago.

So, don’t blame us. But you might be thinking, “This trend is absolutely innocuous!” In a way, it is. But let’s dive deeper and see what makes these kinds of TikTok aesthetics dangerous.

My story will be more eloquent than any explanation. The “Dark Academia” internet aesthetic became widespread on TikTok in the autumn of 2020, when I was 13. I remember how scrolling through social media and seeing people who were passionate about literature, the 19th century, classical music, and studying made me feel like I had finally found my calling. As a rural girl, I had never felt fully seen in my desire to read and write. Dark academia seemed to be everything I had in mind: pictures of museums and old universities, lists of mustread classical books, pieces of vintage clothing, breathtaking art, biographies of historical figures, and obsessions with ancient times and past centuries. I plunged headfirst into the Dark Academia world. I studied harder, read more books, listened to classical masterpieces, played piano, kept a diary, and surrounded myself with the color brown.

Doesn’t sound too bad, does it?

However, there was a flip side to this,

which concerned my mental health and spiritual harmony.

At the time, my mum would tell you it was impossible to find a single piece of clothing for me. Indeed, I had only been looking for dark brown vintage clothes that matched my aesthetic. No sneakers, no hoodies, no jeans, no tracksuits, and no bright T-shirts. On top of all that, it was really hard to get something suitable to my wishes because 1) I

who would fulfill my expectations.

What else was I supposed to do other than daydream about my ideal soulmate?

Finally, the worst drawback of all was my obsession with the past. It is difficult for me to describe it. My burning desire to escape from this century into the 19th or 20th was unbearable. I cried while watching and reading about all the balls, dresses, architecture, and the

THE CONSTANT DREAMING OF A NONEXISTENT REALITY ALMOST MADE ME LOSE MY MIND was 13, 2) such clothes were not popular, 3) I lived in the rural country. So, despite my efforts, I felt like I wasn’t part of the Dark Academic community because appearance was very important to me and the community. I felt as if I was defective because I dressed casually.

beauty of the past. The constant dreaming of a non-existent reality almost made me lose my mind. It was that terrible. An adult would think, “Who in their right mind would want to live in those centuries?” But you can’t even imagine what was going on inside my head.

Next, my social circle narrowed even more. Somehow, I thought I was an elevated person, destined to be lonely and misunderstood.

Moreover, I stopped doing sports.

Sports? What are you talking about?

I’m a dark academic! I only study, read, and create art. Go away with your activities. No, I don’t care about my health as long as I’m “aesthetic.”

Thus, I kept being disillusioned with the reality I had.

Then, I used to refuse invitations to the movies, amusement parks, malls, and sports games. I told myself I’d rather go to the theater, the library, the museum, or just stay at home. I limited myself in these things, even though I wanted to have fun like other children did.

Boys are a separate topic. After having watched dozens of 19th- and 20th-century films and having read about perfect gentlemen and heartbreaking love stories, I realized that there was no guy around me

When the summer came, I switched to an aesthetic called “Cottagecore” — this one was healing. In 2022, it was “Coquettecore” for me (full of Dior, pastel, and girly girls) — but I won’t go into further detail. That year, I decided to delete TikTok because it lowered my productivity.

Since then, I’ve begun to heal my mind and soul.

I’ve been reading modern literature, listening to all genres of music, going to the swimming pool, dressing in white and bright colors, smiling more, and talking to people in a friendly way. I don’t limit myself anymore. I don’t want an aesthetic to define my identity.

I’m learning to be myself again.

THE MODERN TEEN EXPERIENCE

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art contest

ALGORITHMIC EMOTION

BY JUI-TING FENG, NANTOU, TAIWAN

“[This piece features] Hands coming out from the phone symbolize social media manipulating my emotions, revealing how social media often numbs my authentic feelings, substituting them with algorithmically crafted emotions.”

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CREDITS 1. GET A GRIP! BY ANASTASIA TREADWAY, RENO, NV 2. MY SORT OF REALITY BY JOONBYUNG LEE, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 3. ALL I NEED BY CITLALY NUNEZ RAMIREZ, DESERT HOT SPRINGS, CA

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essay contest

RESPONSIBILITY

BY EMILY DONG, CLARKSVILLE, MD To me, being responsible means taking care of our own actions, giving back to the community, and helping people in need. Thus, community life may be improved, and the world will be an even better place, which is the mission for each of us.

I believe that the best way for young people to develop a sense of responsibility is by working together. Last September, I attended “Harvest for the Hungry” with my mom. After returning, I thought it was an excellent opportunity to help underprivileged people during the COVID-19 pandemic. Therefore, I called my schoolmates to volunteer with me. A few were reluctant at first.

Later, after they realized most of our schoolmates would participate, they finally joined us. Harvesting in the muddy cornfield was arduous work for us. We encouraged each other and pushed through.

Tons of produce was harvested and delivered to local shelters, soup kitchens, and even to Louisiana areas impacted by Hurricane Ida. This is a great help for those in need and a valuable opportunity for us to grow our sense of responsibility.

Volunteering is the epitome of my responsibilities. I volunteer biweekly at a neighborhood food bank.

When bagging produce, sorting donations, or interacting with recipients, I have discovered a sense of satisfaction when giving back. In addition, I devoted a lot of time to kids in need. Last Christmas was the most meaningful holiday for me. Our youth volunteer group completed an effort that involved making 80 no-sew blankets and 100 holiday cards and delivering them to quarantined hospitalized children. In my daily life, picking up trash in the community has become my habitual routine. Even through small acts, continuing to benefit neighborhoods and others will eventually ameliorate the world through each individual effort.

Life presents each of us with a variety of responsibilities. As individuals, we cannot take every responsibility we encounter. But I will always follow my heart and try my best to do things well once I accept the responsibility. I cannot agree more with Dr. Ben Carson’s saying in his book Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story, “Success is not determined by whether you face obstacles, but by your reaction to them.” In the midst of the pandemic, many people were too timid to reach out to others. Instead, they chose to avoid it. Inspired by the frontline workers, my friends and I baked cookies, cooked

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meals, and delivered them to homeless shelters and medical facilities. I knew the risks I had taken. The sense of responsibility to my community made me the brave and strong person that I am proud to be.

HoCo Loving Hands Group, under my leadership, has accomplished considerable volunteering work throughout this challenging time.

We are entirely responsible for how our lives turn out. Real change derives through power in numbers, starting with individual responsibility.

CLIMATE CHANGE: WHAT CAN WE DO TODAY?

BY MATTHEW WHITTAKER, LAWRENCEVILLE, NJ Melting glaciers, rising sea levels, and increasing frequency and severity of extreme weather all seem to converge on us simultaneously. On average, about 6,800 natural disasters happen every year worldwide.

But what can we do today to protect our homes and families?

As a teen, I can do my part by recycling, conserving energy, and advocating for change. But is it enough?

Will it make a difference? As countries like China pollute at a higher rate than ever before, the U.S. closes cleaner, more efficient energy sources. Precious minerals are being mined by questionable techniques in South Africa to produce lithium batteries for electric vehicles. And people are building more and larger homes in the path of storms and wildfires.

What can we do today to help protect our homes and families against some of the effects of climate change while we work to slow its progress?

As teens, we can help raise awareness and educate others who have come ahead of them about the importance of mitigation and resiliency. Yes, we all want to build a vacation home on the beach, but is this really the best place as weather patterns are changing and the severity is increasing? Or how about that house on the river that floods regularly? We are putting people right in harm’s way. We can advocate for people to build in safer areas.

With the population shifting to southern and coastal states that are more prone to severe weather, building codes, stronger materials, and resilient building practices are the next best things to build in better areas. Florida has proven this is effective as damage, even in the worst storms, has been reduced, and people and their homes are surviving in areas destroyed in the past with fewer storms. We can help educate our parents and local governments on the importance of mitigation and building resilience efforts by speaking at events and petitions.

8 Simple Things YOU Can Do Today Here are eight simple, very inexpensive things you can do to help your family better protect your home: 1.

Clean gutters and storm drains to avoid water entering your home during severe rain.

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2.

Before a storm, remove outdoor furniture and items that could be blown through windows and allow wind to take off roofs and destroy entire homes.

3.

Clear brush and shrubs to create a protective barrier around your home against wildfires.

4.

Trim trees that can break off and become a hazard.

5.

Check sump pumps to avoid flooding your basement.

6.

Stack sandbags in flood-prone areas

7.

Set up security cameras and sensors to monitor your home to act quickly if a hazard arises.

8.

Learn how to turn off utilities to prevent fires, flooding, and gas leaks.

Let’s all do our part to combat climate change and natural disasters by better making our homes more resilient today to keep your family safe!

BIKING FOR BIKES

BY DAYEON D., SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA When I was young, I learned how to ride a bike from my dad. Every time I pushed the pedals, though, I fell down. When I wanted to give up, my dad bribed me with treats so I would keep trying. So, I worked harder until I could eventually ride flawlessly.

When I started middle school, we had two unappealing choices for sports club class: dance or cycling. I chose cycling, but we just rode around the school, which wasn’t interesting. Because we could play sports after six laps, I always finished first to play basketball. Just like when I was young, I wanted to finish fast so I could get the reward at the end.

After three years of this, I was chosen as club leader. Since I was given the role, even though I didn’t ask for the responsibility, I wanted to do something more — to make the club meaningful. I came up with the idea to ride with club members on weekends at Seoul Forest.

Still, like when I was a kid, I thought we needed an end goal after our cycling trips. I began to think of a reward that wouldn’t be for myself but for someone else. What if we held a fundraiser to buy bikes for kids in need? I realized that so many kids didn’t have the luxury of learning how to ride a brand-new bike, so I came up with a way to make it possible.

I told my club members my plan: for each hour we rode our bikes, members could ask their parents to donate just $5 for our cause. It was a small amount of money, and our commitment to riding would inspire our parents to donate. Six members decided to join my bike fundraiser trips, and we got to ride.

We were so tired the first weekend that we only rode for one hour. But each week, we rode a little more.

After one month, we rode a total of 10 hours and raised enough money to buy two brand-new kids’ bikes.

I was so excited when we browsed the store; eventually, we settled on a bright pink bike and a black one with flames. We even had some money left over to buy two helmets.

When I visited the charity center to hand over the bikes, I also saw when the little boy and girl came to

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pick them up. Their smiles were so bright, and they hopped on the bikes immediately.

The memory of those kids’ happiness would last me so much longer than any treat. I realized that sometimes I need to spend my time doing something helpful for others rather than trying to get a brief reward for myself.

Since that first donation, my cycling club has been heading out to ride whenever possible. My experience of making a small difference in someone else’s life has become a source of happiness in my own.

THE BEST FALL FESTIVAL

BY DAVID HUYNH, SAN JOSE, CA

Fall, to many people, is the perfect season, a time for pumpkin spice lattes, maple leaf decorations, and warm-lit autumn candles. For me, it is looking forward to the local elementary school’s fall festival. I am proud to make a difference in my community by volunteering at this celebration, as I have made the best memories, sharing them with my fellow friends and young students. Seeing the young students grin brightly at the sight of games, rewards, and fun activities is what drives me to make the effort to volunteer.

At my first festival, I helped set up the tents and Diwali table. I decorated the table with miniature lightup candles, Diwali coloring pages, and Diwali children’s books. It was a very memorable experience to read the Diwali books aloud and interact with each child who came across the table. At my second festival, I took part as a fortune teller until I switched booths to help as a ‘ball boy’ for the Beer Pong table.

There, children had to successfully bounce at least one of the three golf balls into the cups to win an LED light stick!

Through this annual event, I can directly connect with people of all ages in my community; I get to encourage the young children to win exciting games by saying, “You got this! Good job” and “Nice try!” I can engage and personally connect with them as I hand out the various prizes they worked hard to earn, such as vibrant LED light sticks. Witnessing the children’s persistence and dedication to winning the games inspires me, as it felt rewarding to hand out their prizes after their valiant efforts. Not only are they rewarded for their hard work, but I am also rewarded because I feel inspired and honored to be a part of their effort to succeed.

From my experiences volunteering at the elementary school, I feel that I have made an impact and a difference in my community. Along with my fellow high school volunteers, I fulfill the need for help at the elementary school to make events such as the fall festival possible. From setting up tables and tents to decorating with Diwali books and coloring pages and hanging up fall decorations, I am part of the magic that goes into making this event the best fall festival ever! Furthermore, I can interact with all members of the local community who rally together to join the event, whether that be the volunteers, adult supervisors, parents, or children. Being able to connect with the young children and cheer them on is how I have positively impacted my community. I hope that I can continue to contribute to the best fall festival ever by making a positive impact on everyone in my community.

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HOW

BANNING LGBTQ+ BOOKS IMPACTS TEENAGERS ARTICLE BY KIA PARIKH, RUTHERFORD, NJ PHOTO BY MIAOFU TIAN, WINSTON-SALEM, NC

Peter Yacobellis did not need to read books with LGBTQ themes to know that he was gay.

Growing up queer, Peter was told that he was “possessed by demons and Satan,” he said, and his family almost put him through conversion therapy. Later, he was discharged from U.S. Air Force basic training under the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy.

“So if you think about it, major institutions, family, military, faith, you know, all [didn’t make] me feel comfortable in terms of who I was,” he said.

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“It’s pretty daunting and it’s taken me a really long time to get to a place where I feel comfortable and secure,” Yacobellis said. Today, he lives in Montclair, New Jersey, with his fiancé Benjamin.

Yacobellis is also an activist for LGBTQ rights and has been working tirelessly to raise awareness about discrimination towards the LGBTQ community and provide support for youth. So when Yacobellis found out that several public libraries in New Jersey were attempting to censor books containing LGBTQ themes, he was enraged. He believes that

books are a way for readers to identify with unfamiliar experiences because reading about characters who go through similar struggles can be comforting and reassuring. Many people today, especially teenagers, find themselves relating to characters they read about, which makes it essential to have inclusivity and representation in books.

However, learning about topics such as race and sexuality causes controversy in schools when traditional school boards are pitted against progressive activists. For example, Florida effectively banned

AP African American Studies and debate continues about AP Psychology. In July, public libraries in the towns of Cedar Grove and Glen Ridge in New Jersey attempted to censor books containing LGBTQ content.

While book bans are not a new occurrence, there is a difference between “book banning” and “book censoring,” said Elyla Huertas, staff attorney at the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) of New Jersey. According to Huertas, “censoring” differs from “banning” because it does not remove a book; it simply limits who has access to it.

The First Amendment grants the freedom of speech and expression, so while an author could attempt to sue a library board for banning their book, there are fewer legal avenues if their book is merely being moved to a different section.

The First Amendment has a “right to receive information” clause, which means that everyone has the right to express themselves, but they also have the right to refuse to listen to someone else’s expression. Under this clause, a library can move a book to a different section while keeping it in the library.

worried that censoring such books would make LGBTQ teens feel like it is wrong to have a different identity.

“They’re hearing folks say that [these books] are not appropriate and that their experience is therefore not appropriate for other people to read about and that I think is a really dangerous thing to hear over and over again,” Huertas said.

Yacobellis also explained there are different standards for book censorship. He described how, for example, a romance novel featuring queer leads is more likely to be censored than a romance book with heteronormative content.

She also recommends looking for guidelines on the library’s website to understand the process of book censoring.

The library’s board of trustees usually has control over the review process, so Huertas explained that making an appeal to the board could make them re-evaluate and change their decision. This is how Yacobellis was able to prevent book censorship in Cedar Grove and Glen Ridge.

“You want to have a conversation with a family member or friend to get the book out for you while you work on the bigger issue of trying to get the book uncensored,” said Yacobellis.

MANY PEOPLE ...

FIND THEMSELVES RELATING TO CHARACTERS THEY READ ABOUT, WHICH MAKES IT ESSENTIAL TO HAVE INCLUSIVITY AND REPRESENTATION IN BOOKS

This is the loophole that public libraries in Cedar Grove and Glen Ridge used to censor Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobabe and other books containing LGBTQ content. The libraries moved these books from the young adult to the adult section, meaning that a teen who wants to check such a book out would have to ask for permission from the librarian and face the likelihood of being turned down.

“This impacts LGBTQ teenagers because the right to access information is completely nullified here,” said Huertas. There is already a lot of stigma surrounding the LGBTQ community, and Huertas is

“One of my biggest concerns is that it ends up pushing kids back into the closet and enables people to be bullied and to struggle with their identity,” said Yacobellis. He went on to describe that LGBTQ youth who don’t receive support often end up abusing substances and committing suicide.

Since there are limited legal routes to take in this situation, Huertas believes that the best way to fight book censorship is through a community-driven effort. Most librarians are trained to determine which books and themes are appropriate for different age levels, and Huertas encourages parents and children to ask them questions.

“Digital is your friend. When Gender Queer was banned, I wanted to read it and I downloaded it on my phone.” These are some of many ways to fight book censorship at the local level while officials try to find legal grounds to build cases, Yacobellis added.

It is also an opportunity to bring the community together because books and literature have the power to shape young minds, said Huertas. “It is important that the youth today feel comfortable in who they are because they are our future.”

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CASTE DISCRIMINATION IN CALIFORNIA AND GAVIN NEWSOM’S VETO

ARTICLE BY OCHIR JARGALSAIKHAN, LOS ANGELES, CA

On Saturday, October 7, 2023, California Governor Gavin Newsom vetoed a bill that would have banned discrimination based on caste, especially in the workplace.

Caste is the system of social hierarchy where a person’s standing is based on the time they were born and is hereditary. This bill affects South Asians, such as Indians and Nepalis. It originated from Hinduism, and it, of course, affects the Hindus, mainly in India, where they are most concentrated, but also in the places Hindus have immigrated to, like California.

The caste system has four varnas: the Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras. The first is the Brahmins. They are the highest caste and are teachers or priests.

Next is the Kshatriyas. They are warriors or kings and below the Brahmins. The third is the Vaishyas.

They are merchants or other relatively high-organizing/trading occupations. Last is the Shudras.

They are laborers who do low, but not the lowest, jobs. This was left to the Dalits (formerly known as the Untouchables). The Dalits do not fit in any of the varnas and are the lowest caste. They serve the most dirty and menial of tasks, for example, cleaning streets or sewers.

There used to be strict rules regarding the interactions between castes, but they are now relaxed.

However, it is not insignificant, and there is still a big divide between castes. Nowadays, in the modern workplace, some employers discriminate based on caste, especially towards the Dalits.

According to a study done by the University of Pennsylvania in 2003, 1.5% of Indian immigrants in the U.S. are Dalits, while 90% are the higher castes/varnas. This was 20, almost 21 years ago, so the number has probably risen considerably since then, looking at the trends.

According to a few relatively recent sources, there are considerable numbers of Dalits who have faced discrimination in their workplace or

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interview or felt discriminated against because of their caste. This brings about the purpose of the bill — to stop this discrimination. This bill primarily originated from a case in 2020, Department of Fair Employment and Housing v. Cisco Systems, Inc. In this case, a Dalit engineer alleged his two uppercaste employers discriminated against him. This is one example that the side supporting the bill argues: an employer could give fewer promotions, less pay, or not even employ a lower caste (specifically a Dalit) at all. Caste should not be a teller in how we treat someone, just like race, they say. A vital point is how SB 403, a California law, adds to an existing law. It states that ancestry should not be a basis for discrimination, along with the existing law stating that discrimination should not have a basis in disability, gender, gender identity, gender expression, nationality, race or ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, or other characteristics. The side against the bill argues that it infringes on their freedom of religion, that caste needs to be explicitly stated, and that the bill is too vague in its wording. Gavin Newsom’s veto was on the basis that it is extraneous, and there are already laws tackling this. However, it seems they are not specific enough, as caste discrimination is still ongoing.

ARTWORK BY RYAN CORTENBACH, HENDERSON, NV

amidst current events...

How can we all How can we all

get along? get along?

ARTICLE BY MATTHEW WHITTAKER, LAWRENCEVILLE, NJ

ARTWORK BY YINCHENG QIAN, DALLAS, TX

We hear the terms diversity and inclusion all the time, but let’s talk about what those words really mean. According to Websters Dictionary, diversity means “the condition of having or being composed of differing elements” — different, and inclusion is defined as “the act of including.”

Often, we think these differences mean things like the color of our skin and our gender — physical characteristics. However, diversity is so much more. It encompasses our experiences, our backgrounds, our culture, our religions, our skills, our education, our opinions, and so much more. All our characteristics make us who we are. We are all unique and different with various views, ideas, values, and thoughts.

Unique and better together Bringing our different knowledge, perspectives, and points of view makes each of us and everything we do better. Together, we are more intelligent, creative, and innovative because we bring all our strengths together. We learn from each other and share our experiences. If everyone was exactly the same and had the same experiences, we would never learn anything. We all would only

know a finite number of things limited to what we already know.

Luckily, no two people are the same and we can learn so much from each other if we are only open to it.

One example where this is so important is in sports. Every player brings different skills to the team. Think about lacrosse — if everyone was an offensive player, the score would be crazy high and

WE ARE ALL UNIQUE AND DIFFERENT WITH VARIOUS VIEWS, IDEAS, VALUES, AND THOUGHTS players would just be running up and down the field. If everyone played defense, no one would ever score, and determining a winner would be impossible. A team that fosters a welcoming and diverse group with a common goal of working together to win is the most successful.

Where do we start? · Ask questions and listen · Be open to learning

from others · Combat stereotypes · Avoid assumptions · Be mindful · Be open to changing your perspective · Share experiences · Bring our skills and talents together So now what?

This is where the inclusion comes in. We must actively include others. We must seek to understand and respect those who are different than us.

Celebrating our differences and including others in our lives will help to build a better, more inclusive world.

In younger generations, and teens especially, this is so incredibly important. Creating an inclusive and diverse community regardless of size, means respecting all views, valuing everyone’s opinion, challenging our own ideas, and providing an environment where everyone’s perspective is valued and heard. A place where everyone can flourish, and everyone can share their opinions while being respected by others is needed through all aspects of life. Only then is success possible.

CURRENT EVENTS

BOOK REVIEWS

ALLEGORICAL FICTION

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Lord of the Flies

By William Golding

Review by Tristan Lyu, Beijing, China Lord of the Flies, an allegorical fiction written by William Golding, is based on the conflict between two groups of boys on an isolated island. The main plot is that Ralph and some other boys landed on an island after the plane crashed onto the island. At first, they were peaceful and often played with each other and have fun, but then they separated into two groups.

Some boys were loyal to Ralph, following him to do everything that he asked them to do, while others betrayed him and followed Jack, an antagonist and hunter; therefore, this story teaches us about loyalty and betrayal, kindness, and evilness.

First, the story portrays loyalty and betrayal of the boys on the island.

When boys separate into two groups, some boys remain still loyal to Ralph, their original chief, while others betray Ralph and become a hunter on Jack’s side. A hint of the betrayal of some boys started since Ralph had allocated the different

tasks for the boys to do, especially when he led Jack to go hunting.

Second, evilness is a trait of the boys that contradicts goodness.

Some boys in Jack’s group killed their friends and went hunting animals on the island by themselves, while they also robbed wood that the boys in Ralph’s group cut to make the fire. At night when most of the boys were dancing in the rain for fun, Simon found out that the beast that the boys were scared of is the dead body of the paratrooper from the same plane. However, the dancing boys thought Simon was the beast and killed him. This incident implies that the humanity of the boys on the island can be evil and such behavior completely wipes out their humanity. This will spark the readers’ sympathy for the boys and provoked the audience to ponder, “what is humanity?”

Third, the character Ralph is strongly civilized. He was the chief of the entire group. Although many of the boys went with Jack, Ralph still tried to lead the rest in a civilized and kind way. “You haven’t got the conch,” he said. “Sit down.”

When Jack robbed the glass, Ralph spelled out these words, showing that readers are more likely to feel his authority and civilization. The boys in Ralph’s group comply with whatever Ralph says to them. Ralph didn’t use “please” when asking

THE STORY REPRESENTS GOOD VERSUS EVIL THROUGH THE NATURE OF HUMANITIES. others to do something. Instead, he was commanding to show his anger towards Jack. The audience can feel how powerful and prestigious Ralph is.

The story represents good versus evil through the nature of humanities. It described this from the Second World War that the author imagined when a group of boys were trying to escape the war in an airplane, and crashed on an island isolated from the rest of the world. Death is an abstract concept that everyone is afraid of, and when people are trying to survive in extreme conditions, kindness has been abandoned by people, instead, they revealed the authentic side of humanity.

YA FICTION

It’s Kind of a Funny Story

By Ned Vizzini

Review by Andrew Han, Jericho, NY TW: depression, suicide Do you ever read a book and feel like it relates to you so much that you start to think you are the main character? That is precisely what happened to me and Ned Vizzini’s It’s Kind of a Funny Story. Although this mind-blowing novel discovers the life of 16-year-old Craig Gilner,

I at some point, even forgot about his name and thought it was me. I mean, even our ages are the same.

Another huge focus in the novel is that it is okay to seek help from others. At the beginning of the book,

ANYONE WHO HAS EVER FELT OVERBURDENED WITH LIFE’S RESPONSIBILITIES WILL IDENTIFY STRONGLY WITH CRAIG’S JOURNEY The main theme and, at the same time — struggle, for Craig is depression and mental pressure, mainly from school and family.

Attending a very competitive high school combined with high selfstandards led Craig into mental illness and despair. As his life goes downhill, Craig feels overwhelmed and is on the brink of suicide, but thankfully checks himself into a mental clinic where he finds interests such as art and new friends who share similar stories. All this helps him to find happiness again, but most importantly, find himself.

And here lies one of the biggest strengths of the book, in my opinion — reliability. Many readers, especially teenagers like me, may recognize elements of Craig in themselves.

Those who have gone through the struggles of growing up in a competitive environment will be all too familiar with his anxieties, insecurities, and the expectations he faces to succeed in school and life. Anyone who has ever felt overburdened with life’s responsibilities will identify strongly

A VERY MOVING BOOK THAT LEAVES A LASTING IMPRESSION

Craig, being absolutely shattered and hopeless, says to himself: “In the end, I’m not going to change the way I feel inside. I’m not going to wake up one day and find that I love life, so why not just end it now and save myself the pain?” But as the pages go on, we get to see Craig’s transformation, the changes in both mental and physical aspects, and the happiness and purpose he finds again in his life. And all that would never have been accomplished

by Craig himself if it wasn’t for his friends and nurses who helped him feel that he’s not alone in this terrible world and that he could open up to people. This helped him to relieve his stress and anxiety and stabilize his emotions. It’s Kind of a Funny Story delivers a powerful message: that it’s okay to get help, that there’s no issue with not having all the answers, and that there is hope even in the darkest times. The friends he makes at the hospital serve as a beacon of light that brightens Craig’s life and lets him see the beautiful world he lives in.

In summary, It’s Kind of a Funny Story is a very moving book that leaves a lasting impression and causes a burst of both laughter and tears. Anyone who wants to explore the power of the human spirit in the face of mental health difficulties should read it. The story of Craig serves as a reminder that even in our darkest hours, there is always hope that we should never lose.

with Craig’s journey to face his inner demons and seek help.

BOOK REVIEWS

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MUSIC REVIEWS

ALTERNATIVE/INDIE

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“Puberty 2”

By Mitski

Review by Anonymous “Puberty 2” is Mitski’s fourth studio album. Falling into the indie rock category, this album contains hits like “Your Best American Girl” and “I Bet on Losing Dogs.” Using captivating lyricism and knockout vocals, Mitski tells us stories of grief, love, abandonment, hopelessness, and desperation.

This album is widely regarded as her best work, and there’s no question why. Her hard-hitting lyrics are best displayed in “Your Best American Girl,” where she talks of feeling like an inadequate lover due to her upbringing not aligning with other’s and how she comes to accept this fact, as hard as it may be. But Mitski reminds us that she’s not just a singer — she’s a composer, too. In “Once More to See You,” the strong drums and eerie background noises perfectly compliment her heartwrenching lyrics.

In previous albums, Mitski relied on her classical background to produce, with her first two albums being orchestral during her college years and her third album pianoforward. In “Puberty 2,” she strays from what her listeners had come to expect of her. She came out with an indie rock album that went beyond her romantic relationships and even went beyond herself. Best shown in “Dan the Dancer,” Mitski

tells the story of Dan, someone who struggles with depression entering a loving relationship with an unnamed character. The premise is simple but emotionpacked, and most readers can relate to the excitement of starting a new relationship.

If you’re looking for an insightful listen with lyrical substance and a melodic beat, I would recommend Mitski. All of her albums will provide you with what you’re looking for, but in my opinion, “Puberty 2” is the best place to start. Not only will you be presented with a vivid and raw depiction of human emotions, but you’ll also become familiar with the musician whom so many have come to love, respect, and connect with.

ALT ROCK/POWER POP

“Island in the Sun”

By Weezer

Review by Matthew Boyle, Chicago, IL Let’s take a vacation back to 2001 when this song was released. What was originally not going to be included as part of their Green Album, “Island In The Sun” by Weezer, checks all the boxes as a hit that will send you back into summer. This song introduced me to the band and instantly got me to check out the rest of their music.

“Island In The Sun” is the band’s biggest hit outside the United States, with the alternative rock genre helping this song reach

where it is now. The band had struggled to find the style they wanted when it was being created, and decided during production that it was supposed to be more upbeat. But with all their struggles, they made one of the greatest, if not the greatest, songs in their library.

Weezer is one of my favorite bands, and this melodic masterpiece is one of my favorite songs of theirs. It is probably their most recognizable, and for good reason. This song went through so many changes before it was finally released. They wanted this song to hit hard without sounding like it. The power pop feeling of the lyrics probably moved me the most. “We’ll spend some time, forever” is perhaps my favorite line in music history. “Island in the Sun” feels much lighter than the album’s first song, “Hash Pipe.”

It is also their first-ever song with a fade-out ending instead of a straight cut. Melissa Bobbitt from About.com says, “[‘Island in the Sun’] exemplifies a relaxed Southern California spirit,” which should give you an idea of the type of song this is.

“Island in the Sun” is an infectious and memorable song that captures the essence of carefree summer days. With its upbeat tempo, catchy melody, and uplifting lyrics, it’s easy to see why it has become a fan favorite and a staple of Weezer’s whole portfolio. The band’s

AN INFECTIOUS AND MEMORABLE SONG THAT CAPTURES THE ESSENCE OF CAREFREE SUMMER DAYS signature blend of power pop and alternative rock creates a unique, nostalgic, and contemporary sound. “Island in the Sun” is a feel-good anthem that will put a

smile on your face and transport you to a sunny paradise.

DANCE/ELECTRONIC

“Outside”

By Tender

Review by Juan Alvarez, Chicago, IL The song “Outside” by James Cullen and Dan Cobb, also known as Tender, was released on August 3rd, 2016. The fifth song on the British duo’s EP, titled “III,” sees the R&B and electronic record serve as a landmark for the group following a big announcement to their fans.

Announcing their newest venture after signing with Partisan Records, the duo’s success comes one year after their formation in London, England, in 2015.

“Outside” starts with subtle piano keys, and you can hear the chatter of people in the background. A pulsing yet slow tempo is defined at the beginning of the song. A mashup of genres, the alternative and indie song encapsulates the feeling of longing and heartbreak.

Lyrics such as, “I will judge myself, Guilty of loving you too much,” show the desperation and introspectiveness of the singer, yearning for the other person’s love, knowing that he’s become obsessed while getting the person to like them.

this song in their apartment basement even more enjoyable.

The reverb and electric guitar give the song an atmospheric aurora, moments in the song where lyrics aren’t the primary focus. Instead, the focus shifts to deep pockets of instrumentation playing, allowing for breathing room to provide a point of reflection in the song.

Serving as an introduction to a broader demographic, new listeners will most likely find the duo’s genre-blending and atmospheric vibes to be a refreshing breath of air in the pop soundscape.

After combining a fusion of genres, the band’s first commercially advertised song serves as an introduction to what the group’s defined sound is. A reflective and lamenting song about heartbreak, the melancholy lyrics create a conversation about a one-sided relationship. The song captures feelings of loss and longing, which

THE DUO’S GENREBLENDING AND ATMOSPHERIC VIBES [ARE] A REFRESHING BREATH OF AIR IN THE POP SOUNDSCAPE many listeners facing struggles in such relationships can relate to.

While constantly creating their unique identity in the British dance and indie music scene, new listeners may be surprised by what they hear.

The London duo mixes different instrumentation variants, making the realization that they recorded MUSIC REVIEWS

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The Ticket Man

STORY BY WYATT WILCOX, DUNCAN, OK

Daniel knew he was just one worker of many that made the railroad run.

He was not the conductor, the mechanic, or even the passenger.

But he was the man who sold the tickets.

Striding toward his booth, Daniel felt the same sense of gravity he always felt on his way to work. It was the feeling that with every ticket he handed out, lives were changing.

It was true that he did not make the trains run, but he was the one person who let hundreds of passengers get on the train and go someplace else. Daniel thought his work was good and knew his job was improving lives. But he also knew that the tickets he handed out could be responsible for destroying lives.

It was a heavy feeling — and the only thing to do was shoulder it as best as he could, as he took his customary seat in the ticket booth.

A few individuals already stood in front of his table, waiting for their ticket onto the early train.

As Daniel settled into his seat, he noticed something different about

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the young man who was first in line. He was a daily commuter — with long arms and legs that usually awkwardly stuck out of his shabby, second-hand suit. Today, though, he was wearing a brandnew suit and briefcase.

“Well, John!” Daniel said, “Had a good turn of fortune, did you?”

John smiled broadly, looking as pleased as punch, “Yes. I got promoted. Can you believe that? I only got the job last month!”

Daniel, bending down to write John’s ticket out, smiled.

“That’s good.” Even though Daniel was only paid to hand out tickets, he always took a few minutes to talk to the passengers and to learn their names. It felt like its own kind of responsibility.

John took the ticket Daniel handed to him, and half-turned away. But then he hesitated for a minute, before saying in a lower, serious voice to the ticket man, “I have to thank you. If you hadn’t written me a ticket as quickly as you did last September, I would never have made the train; I wouldn’t be where I am now.”

“Well,” Daniel said, at a loss for words, as John turned and made for the early train. Daniel wasn’t sure what to think, or what to say.

He was just the man behind the counter, and it was rare that anyone besides himself believed that his job even made a difference

IT WAS TRUE THAT HE DID NOT MAKE THE TRAINS RUN, BUT HE WAS THE ONE PERSON WHO LET HUNDREDS OF PASSENGERS GET ON THE TRAIN AND GO SOMEPLACE ELSE in their lives. “Well.” He repeated, watching John disappear into the busy train station.

Shaking his head, a little stunned, but mostly happy, Daniel turned to help the next passenger.

As Daniel turned his attention to

her, the young lady’s story seemed to jump out at him. Louder and clearer than any other passenger who had ever approached his ticket booth.

Judging from her luggageless state, she was in quite a hurry. Her eyes darted all around the train station as if she was simultaneously hoping someone would be there and that they wouldn’t.

Before Daniel could even ask her where she was going, she stopped casting furtive glances around and locked eyes with him.

She said, “I’ve never been on a train before. You won’t be needing my name, will you?”

“Not at all,” Daniel assured her, “All I need is the place where you’re going.” He tried to hide his reaction, but her question was quite an unusual one.

For some reason, this news both seemed to reassure her and make her more nervous. “Good,” she

muttered quietly to the first, before wondering in a louder voice, “Where am I going?” She shook her head and smiled apologetically at Daniel. “If you’ll forgive me, I hadn’t even thought of where to go.”

Stranger and stranger still.

Daniel had never handed out a ticket to a person who seemed to be in a great hurry to get away from something or someone but, at the same time, had no idea where to go. At this thought, Daniel felt something.

It wasn’t a thought or a question.

But a feeling. A feeling that if the lady got on this train, it would not be good. It wasn’t the first time Daniel had experienced a feeling like this. He had felt something similar when John had first taken a ticket, but it was the strongest feeling he had ever had.

Acting on instinct, he looked at the person who had not given her name and suggested. “Why don’t you take some time to figure out

where you’re going?”

She looked surprised by the suggestion, then seemed to stop and consider. Her eyes looked at something behind Daniel, and he knew she was looking at something else. After a second, she sighed and looked at the ground.

In a quiet voice, she said, almost to herself, “What harm can it do?”

Without another word, she left the train station, making room for the next passenger.

As Daniel watched her walk past the long line of potential passengers and out into the crowded streets, he knew that she would not be coming back, and that was for the best.

Yes, he thought to himself, he wasn’t the conductor or a mechanic. But he was the last barrier between the people and the trains, and that was an important place to be.

PHOTO BY RICHARD LIU, POTTSTOWN, PA FICTION

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wars of these no man’s lands STORY BY MARYAM MAJID, GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

JOHN WARWICK BROOKE/NATIONAL LIBRARY OF SCOTLAND/LICENSE: CC BY 4.0

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The metallic air hangs heavy with the deafening silence of war. I cannot hear, nor see, nor remember. I am like the ancient stones underground — lying still and unmoving in the earth as extreme pressures crush them; having experienced so much that all they can bear to be is cold, ashen granite. Into this abyss comes, as from a faraway fantasy, birdsong: a high trill of youth, hope, and light reaching me in my darkness.

The sound is strange in this gray, bleak desolation, like the ghost of happiness, a figment of some faithful imagination. All at once, I am pulled back and my senses are assaulted, making me dizzy and turning the edges of my awareness smoky as nausea settles into the pit of my stomach.

and grenades played their terrible symphony overhead, amid a backdrop of artillery and pattering rain — gray arrows shooting down like icicle bullets. It is cold. I shiver and my breathing becomes harsh and raspy. Dozens of men who were lined up beside me go through the same motions, wiping sweaty palms on their trousers, exhaling cigar smoke, and mumbling to themselves. Their boots squelch in the soddy mud, everything becoming wetter by the second as the rain intensifies. None are fully whole: blackened nubs where fingers were, stumps in place of limbs, heavy eyes, grumbling stomachs, and wavering strength. A murky fog of warring notions as a conscience. We are the walking dead.

The noise is stifling, like its absence was. The shouted commands, shuffling of feet, and murmured prayers were all muffled against the ringing in my ears. Gunfire

Each man appears as an automaton, no more distinguishable from his neighbor than the rats crawling around our feet. The rodents scuttle

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among the bodies of fallen brethren, old, gangrenous, and lice-infested; we are not so far from that, hanging onto this side of the veil with the last threads of our humanity. Like robots, the men check their rifles are in order, gulp down shots of whisky, bite their nails, and wipe perspiration from their brows, their hands shaking, eyes twitching, with nerves. I follow, with the slick, steel surface of my gun like ice on my fingertips. The weapon was a heavy burden.

They have never seemed so little like individuals, such manifold, different countenances acting identically. And yet, beloved photos and rings, lockets or books of holy creed clutched in their hands, heads raised in prayer, each man fighting to inhale air that reeks of sweat, feces, and blood — they have never seemed so human.

Someone retches; the stench of vomit wafts over to me. My nausea is almost unbearable now. I take forceful, rapid gulps of air, but it is as though I can gain nothing from it but the coppery-rust smell of days-old blood, the scent mixing with all the other ubiquitous foulness of the trenches — gangrene, mold, earth full of dung, death, and decay. Everything feels like poison: the stale, warm air — pervaded by the dense iron and steel tang of weapons that permeates the front; and all the shovels, bayonets, and rifles swelling with the sulfurous, chemical incense of gunpowder at the core of every bullet. The compact quarters, shared with others equally void of hygiene or health. The hard, dry food that crumbles in our mouths and rubs our tongues like sandpaper. Every foul odor fills my nostrils and makes my head feel light. I cannot think, everything blurs, and my knees are weak.

mirror among the corroded barbed wire and crimson poppies across the center of No Man’s Land. My mind plays images of me being run through with a bayonet, shot with a bullet, and brains bashed with the butt of a gun — myself the executioner. I am afraid of death, of the Fire.

Bile rises in my throat; I arduously swallow it. I must leave, go somewhere else. I think of the sun as a yellow flower in the azure sky, watching over me as I raced through fields of wheat and corn, my mother kneading dough in our clay hut a-ways off, watching over my sisters playing with their dolls in its cool shadow. The wind whistled, passing through tall, faraway banyan trees, rustling their lush green leaves — gilded in golden rays of sunlight — and carried the music of tailorbirds and bulbuls singing to their mates back to me.

My brothers and I, laughing, running, chasing each other into a shimmery, rose-gold sunset.

The memories are warm, infused with a jubilance and carefree peace, which I, in my innocence, felt secure in. Which my youth did not know to treasure.

I recall my wife — what a beautiful bride she made, what a lovely daughter she bore me, how their tears turned the world inside out, like a storm that could bow mountains and reshape valleys, and their laughter made it glisten as though bathed in starlight or covered in emeralds. I can smell the fragrance of our home — the spices and the silken fabrics. It was warm, around the year — my homeland never grows as cold as it does here — and I can see the three of us gathered among quilts, our daughter crawling between us, my wife’s growing womb. The world then, seemed to me as though the most exquisite threads of happiness had been masterfully woven, by a generous, beneficent hand, into its every aspect.

I THINK HOW EVERY BULLET THAT MEETS ITS MARK RIPS THROUGH A BEATING HEART, WRENCHES APART A LIVING, BREATHING BEING WHO FELT ANGER, AND PAIN, AND PASSION

I am terrified. I think how every bullet that meets its mark rips through a beating heart, wrenches apart a living, breathing being who felt anger, pain, and passion. Our weapons kill and make killers of human men. I feel a great foreboding, a horror like nothing I have felt before. I am scared to the point of hysteria — of the violent screams I hear in my sleep, the vacant look a man’s eyes take when the twinkling light of life leaves them, and the unimaginable amount of blood that gushes forth from his veins. Are the enemy, just now, trying to mislead themselves that we are monsters, and losing the battle, even to their weathered consciences? There may as well be a

Before the war, before I was taken from my home and shipped to this continent, to fight for kings I had neither notion of, nor loyalty to. I remember the excitement in the eyes of the new ones, how they went forward with cries of patriotism and fervor for glory. There are no new ones now — everyone left knows. There is no coming back from this victorious. There is no coming back from this at all.

There is only the finality of the whistle chasing us as we go over the top, to fight the war in No Man’s Land.

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in the pale moonlight STORY BY EVAN CARR, SEATTLE, WA

ARTWORK BY AESHA JACKSON, LOUISVILLE, KY

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Billy Brown watched the drunken man’s finger draw back around the trigger and the muzzle’s popping flash sent a ball through his right side. He wobbled and fell as the blood rushed.

It turned the ground to crimson mud.

The drunk turned to his mare and rode like a man possessed. Billy watched with eyes agape and skittered and groaned in the dim lamplight. His fingers brushed at the hole in his chest. The mare rumbled away in the yellow gaslight and the passerby watched it disappear.

A sound seemed to slip from a hidden place at the back of his mind. It curled and groaned and twisted until it registered as a voice. It sharpened and the words slipped out in drawling velvet. Rise, my child. Your killer flees, and here you lie. There is no dignity to bodies in the street. The march of the minute hand is steady and you must mind it. Brush off your pain and follow.

The voice had a comfort to it, though it taunted in dangling on the cusp of recognition. Perhaps it was the whisper of

ALL THAT PIERCED THE NIGHT’S BLANKET WAS THE SLIM CRESCENT MOON, AND BILLY WAS LEFT TO FOLLOW ONLY ON THE THUNDER OF HORSE-STEP some long-lost friend now come again.

Though none of Billy’s friends dealt in vengeance. Little but the blood of vermin had he ever split. He got to his feet and swayed in the night air. His fingers twitched and would not settle.

Step forward, said the voice. You do not understand. You are a ranch hand and the good old boy mother always prayed for.

You have never stepped beyond softness.

Follow, if only to finally prove your own strength. You must.

Billy mounted his mare and made haste.

He chased the shooter by the kerosene glow.

Dio was a good mare. Billy had no concern for

the breadth of her stride, nor the fire in her step. His matted blood looked a dark yellow in the shine. It was of little import now. The shadow before him flickered in the lamplight.

Dio carried from the town to the open plains.

The night beckoned as the skies began to sodden the dirt and chill the riders. Lightning cut the darkness. The shadow flew ahead off the road among the saguaro and the prickly pear. Hooves churned through the red dirt and tossed it to the sky.

It would mean things to catch the shadow. To raise a .45 between the eyes of a man who could hardly recall his own name. To hear the trigger pop to the sound of slurred and stupid pleas. To watch the blood run from the drunken body.

You are so quaint in your forgiveness. Who should disparage you for striking down a beast such as this? There shall be no witnesses save the dead. Remember his filed teeth and his animal eyes. He shot for nothing. The Lord Himself said, do not be overcome by evil but overcome evil with blood.

Billy recalled a glimmer of yellowed teeth. He had not seen clearly, yet perhaps there had been an angled shine around the edges.

Surely light had reflected through those gaunt eyes, hollow as an animal’s. He was not a man, so maybe it would not be so hard to fire.

Then you will make him suffer.

Billy watched the pulsing shape in the dying light ahead. He squinted as dirt was cast into the air and fell upon his face. It was no longer possible to distinguish rider from steed, man from beast. Whatever the thing before him was, it now caused his side to burn and bleed, and that was enough to burn and bleed it the same. None would stop him on the empty plains.

The lights of the town had faded from the landscape and were lost in the distance. All that pierced the night’s blanket was the slim crescent moon, and Billy was left to follow only on the thunder of horse-step. A note like a laugh began to reach him in the wind. A sort of deep-throated warble that ran back from the beast and pounded in his ear. His spurs dug deeper into Dio’s side.

The voice had gained a new pitch to its FICTION

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whisper. Here is what to do when you catch it. And such came a list of darker things that had never before graced Billy’s imagination. He listened.

The wound burned harder but it was only spurring now. He would bleed the beast as he bled now and he would laugh. Billy howled in the night to the monster who howled back.

Dio was nearing the demon ahead. The feeling was palpable in the rumble of the earth and the cries and the swell in Billy’s chest. The roar before him felt as though it were only just out of reach. Billy rode to a death without good company but it did not matter as he palmed his Colt. He raised his piece to the shapeless cacophony and fired twice.

Two bursts and a shriek echoed over the mud.

Something fell to the ground and tumbled blindly away. The loose mare tore off and Dio came circling to a stop in the dead night air. Billy shook as he dismounted and crept with his pistol and blade outstretched toward the body on the ground. It lay with its face to the dirt and he felt the need so strongly to bring his blade in great carving arcs along its back.

It is yet alive and you know what you must do. The voice had readied him.

Billy trembled as he reached to turn the shallowbreathing face of the thing on the ground. He readied for the animal eyes and fanged teeth and pressed the muzzle of his Colt to its bloodied head.

With a heave, he turned the shot-struck body over.

He stared at the demon and a man stared back.

Billy fell to the mud and his blade fell away. He clamored away in the grit and then came to his feet some distance from the dying man. All that could be heard were the sounds of rasping breath from many members. The stars glittered and smiled like they knew something he didn’t.

He cursed the voice. He fell to his knees and pleaded for an answer. The silence brought none.

Billy grinned like a man alone and without reason left to care. Answers had come, yet relief had not. The speaker did not sit on his shoulder. He stood with only a corpse and a mare in the pale moonlight. He laughed the condemned laugh of a man with clarity.

And little but the sad realization of his darker mind.

PHOTO BY MAKAYLA HAYES, MARLOW, OK

ART GALLERY 1

CREDITS 1. ARTWORK BY SEUNGWOO CHANG, SOUTH KOREA 2. ARTWORK BY ELA M., SURREY, BC, CANADA 3. ARTWORK BY QINGRAN LUO, BEIJING, CHINA

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3 ART GALLERY

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POETS’ CORNER ARTWORK BY BINDU GUPTA , KOLKATA, INDIA

Night Falls

Uriel

Raven Drop

As night falls I wonder what tomorrow will be.

Will it be a day of wonder, a day of glee?

The possibilities are endless, bringing the promise of fun.

The hope of new beginnings, a day spent in the warm sun.

Tomorrow may begin anew, A life I often feel isn’t really true.

For one must dream and hope to feel alive, But I am like the bee, just following the Queen to the hive.

Never really living my own dreams, Always chasing others, feeling ripped at the seams.

But now as night falls I feel a quiet calm, Tomorrow is a fresh start, dare I say a soothing balm.

Uriel, you have such a way with words.

Poignant breath escapes the vents of your mind only to feed on every last heartbeat.

You spoke so easily, so tenderly with a voice laced in memories of what we were — what we could have been.

And like all the Others, I fell for it all the same.

I touched your lips — painted by the cold air with the muddy bluish shade of a blooming bruise — and half expected you to breathe warmth into my mouth.

Yet you tore It out from me, every last bit, Until I was left with nothing but a chest of rotten treasures and the wisps of smoky dreams that Elpis bestowed.

But nevertheless, my final wish now is to be born as Myself again, so that we would meet in another life, and I would bleed in that terrifyingly perfect way once more.

Raven in the sky.

An obsidian teardrop, Against the pale moon.

BY COOPER MORITZ, MADISON, WI

Maybe The truth is that maybe I was annoying and maybe I was clingy and maybe It was all my fault Or maybe I was just a fourteen-yearold-girl who wanted someone to choose her.

BY STEFANI NIKOLOV, LONGMEADOW, MA

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POETRY

BY ANONYMOUS

BY DANIKA KILLPACK, BRIER, WA

I Feel Like a Penny Tell me what is on your mind, For you are more than I’ll ever be.

I am found in your drawer of junk, Cast into tip jars and murky manmade waters, Spun, flipped and elongated So you can dress me up.

I am shaken out of a pig’s belly.

I suffocate beneath a sofa’s weight.

I swim, persevering until I sink, Scratching mega-millions so you can dream.

Tired, Rained upon, Residing in its puddles, As my bronze complexion loses luster.

Keep me in your pocket, For I am more than just a head and tail.

BY ALMOGE FRIEDMAN, LOS ANGELES, CA

If I Raise a Boy

Rebirth

A Request for the Artist

Since you’re a boy, some people

Someone once told me, “Be kind to your mother. This is the first life she has ever lived.”

By the time I had first held my mother’s hand, My young, curious eyes peering around a bustling street corner, Looking at the city, but not yet seeing, Her fingertips already worn and calloused, Like the dry scritta of an ancient bible, by a life well lived.

Scars have lined themselves upon her palms, The ripe fruits she has carved for me, Knife to palm as if she was all she could ever need, A cutting board created from her independence.

She handed me a tangerine, Now dripping with the juice of a self-made blood orange.

“This is the first life she has ever lived.”

I’d like a portrait Me sitting on a red stool Black cat on my lap.

might look at you like you might be a criminal.

Men are more often expected to make the money.

I would tell him: Don’t ever put your hand on a female that’s what I was taught.

You just shouldn’t.

Age fourteen he can have a cell phone His curfew will be at five p.m. right before it gets dark Take school seriously, don’t play around.

Yeah, he is allowed to date .

Take a trade or go to college Be respectful to his mother, treat her with respect.

Treat your sister like that’s your kid.

BY QUENTON GUZMAN, CHICAGO, IL

Too Much of a Good Thing Deadened reflexes Swollen, protruding belly General malaise.

BY ANONYMOUS

I Crave a Civilization I crave a civilization where women No other woman will disdain, Where lust will sanctify the soil And no harmony will its passageways refrain I crave a civilization where all Will know pure equality’s way, Where empathy no longer exhausts the spirit.

Nor greed exterminates our day.

A civilization I dream where women, Whichever class you may be, Will parcel the yields of the soil And every one of you is independent, Whereabout prejudice will cut its wrists And euphoria, like a sparkle, Attends the fascinations of all womankind — Of such I crave, my civilization!

BY NINA GONCALVES VIEIRA, FORT LAUDERDALE, FL

My empty body in the heavens, An open shell unearthed and unmade, Pleaded for a rib to weigh my fresh flesh to the sacred ground A young vessel drifting down into the water oak leaves of an ancient tree, Sleeping peacefully in a bassinet — That was woven out of my mother’s nails and teeth.

To be human is to be bred from sacrifice, To create is to fall deranged.

I’d like a portrait, My tall, blue house behind me, My garden beaming.

I’d like a portrait To remind me of the days, That I cannot keep.

I’d like a portrait To capture the magic held In the sun’s gold rays.

I’d like a portrait To remember times anew.

Thank you very much.

BY QI FENG WU, CARY, NC

Heliotrope Sunlight collapses upon the floorboards of ash and echo held together by footprints from the morning after a harvest moon spiraling through half-lidded eyes basked in the white noise of a shriek the bristle of fallen snow.

BY ERIN HART, METUCHEN, NJ

BY CHANCE CORTES, SCOTRUN, PA

PHOTO BY SERENA YUE, SHENZHEN, CHINA POETRY

49

The Last Mile My heart begins to beat in my ears, my chest tenses up, sweat scoots past my nose and onto my lips, the salty taste fills my mouth, But I continue on.

BY KYLE MCNEIL, OCONOMOWOC, WI

Sorrows of Freedom The sky is endless It drowns sorrows in freedom Possibilities

BY TRAITON WILLIAMSON, CINCINATI, IA

Harmonious Hopes In the pages of history, a new chapter was written, Long ago when birds were heard, At once if you could only catch a glimpse of the shattered twigs, Kith and kins yearned for safety, People scattered, ”Where would we reunite again?”

Food astray, Unavailability of resources, Thousands lifeless, Children deprived of humanity; no mercy to be shown on them, Many dead; Many orphaned, One could only shed tears whatsoever but in vain , Dreams of peace long lost yet remained the glimmer of light, A day awaited, When in the pages of history, peace would be widespread around the region, Wars will be over, Aspiration would be regained, Let us write a new chapter, where swords turn to plow, the seeds of understanding are what we sow, In a world free from war’s cruel domain, May love and compassion forever reign.

BY ARADHYA SHARON, KATHMANDU, NEPAL

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POETRY

Bumblebees: Keepers of Wonder in the Wild In meadows wide and gardens fair, A sense of wonder fills the air, As bumblebees in nature’s grace, Dance through wildflower fields, embrace.

With bodies plump and wings that hum, They sip from cups of colors, some With a gentle touch, they pollinate, The flowers bloom, it’s not too late.

The sense of wildness, it whispers low, In every petal’s vibrant glow, For in these blooms, a world untamed, A tapestry of life unchained.

Bumblebees, the golden thread, Weave through this tapestry widespread, Their furry bodies carry life, Amidst the bloom, the joy is rife.

They visit foxgloves, clover, and thyme, A rhythmic dance in perfect time, Their flight a dance, their hum a song, In nature’s rhythm, they belong.

BY PANDORA WEST, HARTLAND, WI

Eyes of My Love Green, Blue, Gray Oh, how much I love you Your intensity when provoked Your softness when happy.

What makes you want to stay?

Green, Blue, Gray To what do I owe the pleasure Of having your attention, Focused only on me?

Green, Blue, Gray The way you look at me, The way you look tonight, What do I do When you look at me so red?

Green, Blue, Gray The squint of your shields And the brush of your guards, When will you look at me again?

BY A’MYAH FLEMING, ALMA, MI

Seafood Boil Gargantuan prawns crawling at dawn.

Covering the luscious forest-green peninsula.

Plump yet pleasantly moist from the tepid atmosphere.

Their formidable opponents, humankind.

PHOTO BY HALEY PODD, HARTLAND, WI

Pudgy stomachs growling.

Ready to devour

ARTWORK BY AXLE DEARMITT, CINCINNATI, OH

Their expertise evident.

They pluck the prawns right from their habitat.

Like ice from a cooler a true masterclass.

Later, They twist their spigots Releasing the scalding liquid Onto the gargantuan prawns They cover them in Old Bay. Along with many other delicacies.

Whatever they can muster.

Boiling the prawns, allowing them to absorb the exquisite flavors.

Jaws will soon be opened ready to devour The prawns with true power.

BY ANONYMOUS

Green Grapes IV Night cannot land a finger on the light that surrounds you. you, on your bed. you, with green grapes fixed in your smile. you.

Night cannot touch you, no matter how hard she tries. your light cannot be suppressed.

BY KENNEDY MULLENS, ALMA, MI

Metamorphosis I a firefly dims and crumbles in your calloused hands a fragile life you can’t grasp Wrap me in bandages before you touch me II spider-sewn silk spins broken by the wind reflecting a color spectrum Weave me into light until I melt

III melted skeletons in woven cocoons dangle from a curved spine Bind me tightly in a blanket and pray I’ll come out a beauty IV tender leaves stained with chlorophyll cast quivering silhouettes If you think I’m too dark soak me in bleach and I’ll turn green V hollow knots on the old oak hold torn termite wings from the last migration Blow against my skin and I’ll sway for you VI marigolds mate in the air and bloom into fire yellow powder settles on eyelashes Your cigarette smoke stirs in my elastic lungs

VII the cries of birds with expanding chests echo against the windows framed with weather worn wood Yell into my deaf ear to leave a message VIII armored emerald beetles encased in sap drip down blistering bark Peel back my skin and find an empty frame IX cicadas crawl out of shells scattered around tree roots reborn again with damp wings I can’t recycle my body X press flower petals to your lips to taste the earth where you did not emerge from Bury me in the soil of decayed leaves

BY AMY LIU, LOS ANGELES, CA

POETRY

51

ART GALLERY

CREDITS 1. ARTWORK BY AXLE DEARMITT, CINCINNATI, OH 2. ARTWORK BY WEIQIAN YAN, TROY, NY

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2 52

ART GALLERY

PHOTO BY ABBIE PRICE, BRYANT, AK

CONTRIBUTORS THANK YOU! Making a Difference!

Vaishnavi Rednam, 6 Ziran Yujian, 7 Kash Bishop, 8 Ahron Rosenhouse, 8

Family Honora Quinn, 10 Mackenzie High, 10 Genevieve Gungor, 12 Sarah Ochoa Rodriguez, 12 Hailee Paaske, 14 Miaofu Tian, 14 Anonymous, 15

Role Models Lukas Hernke, 16 Chengye Lin, 16 Ambica Govind, 17 Maxis Amos-Flom, 17 Angel Churchwell, 18

The Modern Teen Experience Evelyn Tian, 20 Shayna Rudoren, 20

Kaylee Duda, 22 Anonymous, 22 Amina Urdukhanova, 24 Jayda Wang, 24

Current Events Kia Parikh, 32 Miaofu Tian, 32 Ochir Jargalsaikhan, 34 Ryan Cortenbach, 34 Matthew Whittaker, 35 Yincheng Qian, 35

Book Reviews Tristan Lyu, 36 Andrew Han, 37

Music Reviews Anonymous, 38 Matthew Boyle, 38 Juan Alvarez, 39

Book Reviews Wyatt Wilcox, 40 Richard Liu, 41 Maryam Majid, 42 Evan Carr, 44

Aesha Jackson, 44 Makayla Hayes, 46

Poetry Bindu Gupta, 48 Cooper Mortiz, 48 Stefani Nikolov, 48 Anonymous, 48 Danika Killpack, 48 Almoge Friedman, 48 Quenton Guzman, 49 Anonymous, 49 Nina Goncalves Vieira, 49 Chance Cortes, 49 Qi Feng Wu, 49 Erin Hart, 49 Serena Yue, 49 Kyle McNeil, 50 Traiton Williamson, 50 Aradhya Sharon, 50 Pandora West, 50 A’Myah Fleming, 50 Anonymous, 50 Kennedy Mullens, 51 Amy Liu, 51

Contests Jui-Ting Feng, 26 Anastasia Treadway, 27 Joonbyung Lee, 27 Citlaly Nunez Ramirez, 27 Emily Dong, 28 Matthew Whittaker, 29 Dayeon D., 30 David Huynh, 31

Book Reviews Finn TP, Front Cover Ella Barrie,19 Naomi Gray, 19 Sophie Hobeck, 19 Seungwoo Chang, 47 Ela M., 47 Qingran Luo, 47 Axle Dearmitt, 52 Weiqian Yan, 52 Juno Jiang, Back Cover

Editorial Staff Managing Editor: Kylie Andrews Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner Consulting Editor: Jada Smith Sales Account Executive: Sara Shuford

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Teen Ink is a bi-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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ARTWORK BY JUNO JIANG, OAKVILLE, O.N., CANADA

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