By teens, for teens
PLUS, discussing the impact social media has on mental health
back to school
Letter from the Editor
Dear Teen Ink Readers,
With school just around the corner, and perhaps already started for some of you, we're excited to shift our focus to Back to School season in this edition of Teen Ink magazine!
In this issue, we're delving into topics that many of you may relate to, including the ups and downs of school and education, the impacts social media can have mental health, and finding one's identity. We've also included a Travel section that we hope will inspire you.
Teen Ink is also thrilled to announce the winners of our A Letter to Past or Future You writing contest. Thank you to everyone who participated! Your work does not go unnoticed!
We hope you enjoy this issue just as much as we do, and remember, we welcome your feedback! If you want to write a letter to an editor or respond to an opinion article, visit teenink.com/submit!
Best regards,
The Teen Ink Team
ARTICLE
BY
ALYSSA BABE, SUSSEX, WI
PHOTO BY DANIKA KILLPACK, BRIER, WA
One small but significant rule that can change your entire experience is to "treat others the way you want to be treated." It can be heard in the loud high school hallways, where the sound of lockers being opened and closed sets the daily pattern. Imagine a school where this concept is deeply rooted in the culture, encouraging an environment where compassion, empathy, and teamwork are valued. One conversation at a time, high school students can make this vision a reality rather than a hopeful fantasy. It can be simple to become stuck in the daily grind in the chaos of high school life. Exams, social drama, and the need to fit in can sometimes cause us to lose sight of the simple yet powerful principle of "treat others the way you want to be treated" and how it can improve the world. This age-old saying, sometimes known as the Golden Rule, may sound like something our grandmother would say, but it has usage that everyone can benefit from. High school students hold the transformative power to shape a positive and welcoming school culture by accepting the age-old principle of "treat others the way you want to be treated." This approach encourages real connections, working together, and understanding that extend beyond the classroom into the larger community.
Imagine a school where the Golden Rule is respected by all staff members, teachers, and students. It's a way of life, not just a rule we hear read aloud in morning announcements or discovered in old textbooks. People at this school truly care about one another, are kind to one another, and work together to create a positive atmosphere.
In high school, living up to the Golden Rule involves more than simply sharing notes and keeping doors open. It's about creating an accepting and understanding society. You're creating bonds with your classmates that go beyond simple friendships when you treat them the way you want to be treated. In basic terms, setting up the Golden Rule in high school is about creating a society that is tolerant and compassionate. It involves more than just forming friends; it involves developing relationships with peers beyond casual friendships. Treating people the way we would like to be treated creates the groundwork for a society in which acceptance and sincere understanding are accepted as a standard. It's a simple yet effective move that goes above and beyond the obvious, creating connections that help everyone feel heard, seen, and appreciated in high school. It's similar to planting positive seeds that sprout and grow into a community of support.
Consider group projects: sometimes we cringe at the thought of them. But what if we saw the obstacles with the Golden Rule in mind, rather than focusing on the challenges? Through listening, sharing ideas,
and accepting different points of view, we can transform group projects into chances for shared understanding and development.
The hallways, the cafeteria, and even social media are all places where the Golden Rule should be followed, not just in the classroom. Both our actions and our words are more important than ever in a world where everyone is so linked through phones, social media, and other online factors. Talking negatively about someone online or posting hurtful things can have a long-lasting effect. However, we can make both the online and offline environments happier and more positive if we treat people with the same respect and kindness that we expect from other people. It can be challenging to follow the Golden Rule in various scenarios, such as online, in cafeterias, and in hallways. Every environment has its own set of rules, and people may behave differently online because they don't feel as responsible. Sometimes it's easier to say hurtful things when you're hiding behind a screen. Messages can be easily misinterpreted when communicating online because there is no in-person interaction. It can be challenging to uphold the Golden Rule in social settings like cafeterias and hallways because people may follow their friends' lead, even if it isn't morally right. Social media's quick nature can encourage impulsive behavior without considering the potential harm to others. To overcome these obstacles, people must spread kindness both offline and online, educate others on the power of their words, and support helpful behavior in all contexts.
In addition, we are discovering our identities and values in high school. We establish a culture at school that offers creativity and variety by following the Golden Rule. It's about appreciating the uniqueness of each other and realizing that our differences strengthen us as a group. The culture of a school that is influenced by the Golden Rule is largely accepted by the teachers and staff. Students are more likely to follow instructors who demonstrate patience, understanding, and empathy as role models. Everyone, from the custodian to the principal, must work together to establish an environment where everyone feels appreciated. We can influence the culture of our school as high school students. The Golden Rule is a tool that we can use to improve our community, not just a saying from the past. We can design a high school experience where the goal isn't just to get through the day, but to make lifelong friendships and positively influence those around us by treating others the way we want to be treated. The Golden Rule is more than just a set of rules: it's a model for improving both our high school and the entire world.
BY MAYA MCQUEENEY, PORT CHESTER, NY
ARTWORK
HOW DOES EDUCATION CHANGE LIVES?
ARTICLE BY JINGYI LI, SHANGHAI, CHINA
Education is widely recognized as one of the most powerful tools for personal development and social advancement. It is not only about acquiring knowledge but also about developing skills, attitudes, and values that shape a person's behavior and worldview. The impact of education on people's lives is profound and far-reaching, ranging from improved economic prospects to better health outcomes and greater social mobility.
One of the most obvious ways that education can change people's lives is by providing greater economic opportunity. Education is the key to getting a good job, earning a higher income, and achieving financial security. People with higher levels of education are more likely to be employed, earn higher wages, and enjoy greater job security than those with less education. This not only improves their own economic situation but also contributes to the overall economic growth of their communities. During my travels in Yunnan, I had the opportunity to witness this arduous journey firsthand. The school in question is located at the top of a hill, and its students must traverse a dirt path with no paved roads on a daily basis. When we visited the school, the village chief informed us that educational resources are severely limited, resulting in a low number of students receiving a quality education. As a result, many people are trapped in rural areas without the opportunity to excel. The scarcity of educational resources is compounded by a lack of qualified teachers, and the recent epidemic has exacerbated the situation, making it difficult for families to afford education, let alone technology such as computers or online classes. This lack of access to educational resources has contributed to poverty in rural areas, leading to a decline in overall income.
Education also plays a critical role in improving health outcomes, such as teaching people medical concepts and encouraging them to prevent disease. People with higher levels of education are more likely to adopt healthy behaviors, such as regular exercise and a balanced diet. They are also more likely to have access to health services and to seek medical care when needed. This leads to better health outcomes and a lower incidence of chronic diseases such as
heart disease, diabetes, and cancer. Education can help people understand complex medical terms and concepts, enabling them to gain more life experience and help in emergencies. Education can help people understand the importance of preventive care, such as regular medical checkups. By understanding the importance of preventive care, people are more likely to seek care early, which can prevent or detect diseases at an early stage when they are easier to treat.
In addition, education can expose people to different perspectives and ideas that can broaden their horizons and help them appreciate different cultures and ways of life. Schools offer students a variety of subjects that help them learn more about different cultural perspectives. For example, subjects such as geography and history allow students to understand and appreciate the diversity of the world. There are also programs that allow students to travel abroad and experience other cultures and also learn the local customs. In addition to understanding different cultures, another benefit of diverse education is that it can promote social harmony and bring people together.
On the other aspects of education, it makes future generations aware of various global issues including poverty, discrimination, lack of resources, and social and cultural norms that favor certain groups over others. These are serious and crucial global problems that the whole world is facing, education urges people to focus and find ways to solve these problems.
In summary, education is a powerful tool for personal and social development. It can improve economic prospects, health outcomes, social mobility, and personal growth. However, there are still many barriers that prevent people from accessing education, and it is important to work together to remove these barriers and ensure that everyone has access to quality education. Education is not just a means to an end, but a lifelong journey of learning and growth that can transform people's lives in profound and meaningful ways.
FOLLOW THE LEADER
ARTICLE BY ZARIA WASEEM, FLOWER MOUND, TX
My middle school was a bustling hive of activity, filled with laughter, gossip, and the constant shuffle of students moving between classes. I experienced deep-seated insecurity during my time there, which appeared to define every contact I had. I was the girl who wanted to spend her time with books rather than her friends, hiding behind the pages of novels to travel to other places and forget her fears. For me, shyness was a core aspect of who I was, not just a phase. I found it difficult to speak out in class, avoided making eye contact in group settings, and frequently found myself withdrawing into the security of my own company. I stayed on the periphery, aching for connection but unaware of how to navigate the social terrain, while other kids made acquaintances and groups.
Despite my efforts to blend in, I couldn't escape the occasional teasing or exclusion from group projects. It seemed like I was always the last one picked for teams, a subtle reminder of my status as the girl left out. These experiences reinforced my belief that I was destined to remain on the fringes of social acceptance.
THERE WERE MOMENTS OF AWKWARDNESS AND SELF-DOUBT, BUT I REFUSED TO LET FEAR DICTATE MY ACTIONS
were moments of light that pierced through the darkness. A classmate would strike up a conversation with me, a teacher would offer words of encouragement, or I would find solace in the quiet companionship of a fellow bookworm. These moments, though fleeting, gave me hope and reminded me that I wasn't as invisible as I believed. As I progressed through middle school, I made a conscious effort to challenge my shyness. I joined clubs and extracurricular activities, forcing myself to step out of my comfort zone and interact with others. It wasn't easy; there were moments of awkwardness and self-doubt, but I refused to let fear dictate my actions.
Slowly but surely, I began to find my voice. I started speaking up in class, sharing my thoughts and ideas without hesitation. I participated in group discussions, offering my perspective and listening to the viewpoints of others. Each small victory boosted my confidence and reminded me that I was capable of more than I thought. As I stepped into high school and beyond, I carried with me the lessons learned from my middle school years a reminder that true growth comes from facing our fears and embracing the person we are meant to be.
However, amidst the struggles and loneliness, there
ART GALLERY
1. ARTWORK BY ELLIE BRUBAKER, HOUGHTON, NY 2. ARTWORK BY GRACE GAVAGAN, IRVINGTON, NY 3. SCULPTURE BY MALIA CHEN, CHICAGO, IL
1 2 3
Change Is Hard
ARTICLE BY SUZANNAH KEISER, AUSTIN, TX
ARTWORK BY SUNDHYA RAVINDRAN, SUGAR LAND, TX
As we grow up, we often look back at how much we’ve changed from our past selves. I am an extremely different person than who I was in the past, and I am proud of that. Sometimes, however, it’s good to look back at who I used to be. The ways in which I have changed are especially apparent when I think back on my elementary school self. To put it shortly, I was a very strange kid.
To clarify, when I call myself strange I don’t mean it in a mean way. Even though I don’t agree with or like a lot of the things I used to do, I also know that I was just a confused little kid dealing with a lot of stuff. I wasn’t perfect then, and I’m not perfect now either. Reflecting on the past is a homage to how I’ve grown since elementary school — not an excuse to be cruel about it. That being said, I realize that a lot of the weird stuff I used to do was pretty goofy, so don’t feel bad if you think it’s funny.
So, what exactly was I doing in elementary school? Well, I had joined a new school for fourth and fifth grade and I didn’t know anyone. What was the best solution to this isolation? Well, to make a huge spectacle of myself, of course! Crowds would gather as I displayed grotesque talents and the strength of my stomach. I would eat the most disgusting things I could think of, I would draw bloody corpses and tortured bodies; I would threaten to kill my classmates (much to their delight); I would spit my own blood onto the ground, and so much more. I somehow managed to toe the line between being so weird that people found me funny, and being so intimidating that no one bullied me.
My classmates found my antics delightful, and I was more than happy to be their source of entertainment. I didn’t understand that I was digging myself into a hole. You see, when kids saw me act this way, they started to expect these performances from me all the time. It didn’t matter if I was tired or having a bad day, I was Suzannah, and I was supposed to be gross and funny. I couldn’t get through a single lunch without being offered something repulsive to eat. I couldn’t have one recess without kids wanting to hit me or scratch me to see if I’d flinch. I couldn’t bring myself to say no. The attention I craved so badly now felt overwhelming; I felt trapped and isolated. I was so
obsessed with keeping up my act that I never really connected with anyone in a meaningful way. Fortunately, middle school was coming up. I felt like I suddenly had a chance to start over: to be the true me. The problem was, I had spent so long playing a part that I had forgotten what being ME really meant. I didn’t know how to talk to people or make friends without acting wacky and extreme, but as I progressed throughout middle school I slowly started to realize something very important. People liked me, even when I wasn’t trying to make them like me, and that was revolutionary.
I SLOWLY STARTED TO REALIZE SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT. PEOPLE LIKED ME EVEN WHEN I WASN’T TRYING TO MAKE THEM LIKE ME, AND THAT WAS REVOLUTIONARY
Even when I wasn’t talking about death and gore in class, kids wanted to talk to me. Even though I wasn’t eating some disgusting amalgamation of whatever happened to be on the cafeteria floor, kids still wanted to sit with me at lunch. I didn’t even chase people around trying to stab them, and they still wanted to hang out with me! When I stopped focusing on trying to impress people and started to focus on getting to know them, I ended up making the best friends that I’ve EVER had.
I’m still not perfect! I still have some of the habits I had in elementary school, but the difference is that I know now I don’t need them for people to like me. Real friends like you for who you are, not who you pretend to be. As cheesy as it sounds, being yourself is awesome! It can feel scary to put yourself out there, but I promise no one is judging you. Take my advice and don’t waste time lying to yourself, just act honestly! I promise, it’s worth it in the end.
Becoming ONE with My Two Races
ARTICLE BY
KATIE ANNE GANNON, BRONX, NY
ARTWORK BY SOPHIA MA, CLAREMONT, CA
I was raised by my ScottishGerman-American single mother, so identifying myself as “white” was almost done for me whenever we were seen together. I noticed, however, from a very young age, that my curly black hair and tan skin did not resemble my mother’s or anyone else’s from her side of the family.
As a biracial child, my questions regarding race sprang up from an early age, but my Caucasian mother could not always answer them for me. She had never grown up wondering about what to do when being racially profiled, how to react if the police stopped and frisked her, or even what specific oils and products were right for my kinky hair. There were questions my Jamaican-immigrant father couldn’t even answer for me, even when he was around, which was only a handful of times in my life. I wondered why people assumed I was adopted when I was seen with my mother in public. Wasn’t it possible to have a biracial child be much darker than their mother? Why was I so often categorized as either white or black and never referred to as “biracial”? Why was I deemed “exotic” as if I were a rare animal species?
Looking out into the world, I felt far from secure or close to answering these questions. Reading that unarmed black people are five times more likely to be shot and killed by a cop, yet seeing our first biracial President reigning during this time felt jarring and conflicting to me. Hearing that black women have been considered “hypersexual” for centuries but then also being appropriated for their features made no sense to me, either. I felt that by being mixed I was never viewed as both races, only ever one or the other. The world told me to love myself and all my features, yet I felt forced to choose only one race with which to identify.
I have learned that in order to get some answers, there is nothing wrong with asking questions. In high school, I was exposed to more races and cultures than ever before. I surrounded myself with girls just as curious as I was and who were not afraid to inquire about their experiences regarding race. I felt insightful as well when answering their questions, and they made me realize that I knew a lot more about my race experience than I thought I did.
However, none of these conversations and answers would have been achieved if it were not for understanding, compassion, and the courage to be curious. I’ve been faced with many racial questions in my life. People have asked how It feels to be mixed, particularly in today’s climate, and others have wanted to know my political views. I don’t mind these questions, as long as I know they come from a place of authenticity. I’ve been in the same spot, especially when questioning my mother: Were you ever concerned about raising a brown girl in a world where more than 20% of black women are raped in their lifetime? Did you face any discrimination from your own family members? I am blessed to have a mother that is open to answering my questions because she understands that I sincerely want to know about her racial experience.
Unfortunately, I have had many encounters when the questions asked to me were not fueled by curiosity, but by hate. There have even been encounters where I’ve witnessed one race completely unwilling to hear, let alone consider, the other’s race experience. I see that all we want is to be heard fully and sincerely, as well as to promote love and compassion for others. This cannot happen if we are not willing to look at our faults and own them or if we do not ask questions out of love and compassion.
THE WORLD TOLD ME TO LOVE MYSELF AND ALL MY FEATURES, YET I FELT FORCED TO CHOOSE ONLY ONE RACE WITH WHICH TO IDENTIFY
There needs to be more openness when racial discussions arise, especially when the people present are of different races. There needs to be more awareness in how we speak to and about others, and more understanding and compassion toward the insightful party. We must understand and also relate to their questioning, as there have been times when we ourselves have been as curious. We all want to steer away from being deemed ignorant. There is room for improvement all over the world regarding race relations. Understanding and compassion are more than words; they are actions that have a huge impact when put them into effect. More compassion and curiosity in the world will enlighten us and lift the veil of ignorance which hangs over much of mankind.
Looking back now, I’m grateful that I never had anyone figure things out for me, despite being very confused at times about who to be. Nobody can answer questions about my race experience for me. Otherwise, I would never have learned the basics of who I am. Although I may fit into categories about race, color, gender, and sexuality, nobody can keep me within those categories. I am me.
ARTWORK BY ELISE TAMANAHA, TOKYO, JAPAN
Metamorphosis
I’m at American Eagle, where exposed brick walls, hanging strings of lights, and a floor made out of bleach blonde wood reminds me I’m only investing in an overpriced indie image of Californian perfection. Pictures of beautiful young men — shirtless so as to reveal their chiseled muscles, sweat and sand clinging in between the valleys of their abdomens while their Adam’s apples cast delicate crescent moons on their necks in the beach-side sunlight — mock me alongside their gorgeous female counterparts. These photoshopped,
sepia-toned couples are a bleak reminder of everything I am and am not.
At five feet, two inches (and a half), I am measly compared to these men. I wear a five in men’s shoes, but most stores only go down to eight or nine. My waist size is a 27 or 28, but if I find a pair of shorts that small they usually drop to my shins. Even small sized t-shirts are usually baggy, not enough to be a huge problem but enough to accentuate my tiny stature, in a way you only really notice if you’re paying attention — which I do, all
the time, glancing at my reflection in windows; car doors; and the glossy matte finish of advertisements, my soft face caught within the night sky draped around strong, broad, male shoulders.
I’ve always thought shopping was boring, ever since I was a kid. My mom would drag me into The Children’s Place where I’d try on matching dresses with my sister. I’d get pink, my sister would get green or purple. I liked pink, I just hated having to spend eternities messing with buttons and hangers in cramped stalls and end up only
Metamorphosis
ARTICLE BY XAVIER MUTH, PEKIN, IL
taking home one item. As I grew up and explored my identity this annoyance turned into animosity. I’d angrily snatch a few random androgynous tops from the girl’s section, eye the boy’s clothes without understanding why, and argue with my mom over having to try the tops on.
She’d leave to help my sister find something and I’d sweat and nervously, quietly, ask one of the employees to unlock a room. I’d step inside, shove myself into the shirts, then rip them off and return to the comfort of my camouflage
shorts and a shirt I bought at Kohl’s that had a ninja dinosaur on it. I wore this outfit nearly every day; it was the only thing I felt comfortable in, with my frizzy hair and stupid pimples and crooked teeth and feminine, female, failure of a body.
Time passed. Discovering who I was — a transgender boy — both helped and worsened my experiences at the mall. Knowing what was happening gave me tools to cope, but also brought the stark reality of it all that much closer to home.
I was a boy, but the wrong kind of boy, a girl-boy, a he-she, and I thought I would never be able to compare to the rugged men in the posters surrounding me. I was skinny, never once weighing over 99 pounds, with an airy voice, long eyelashes, and an anxious hunch in my shoulders.
Shopping always left me angry and depressed, until one day I worked up the courage to do something I’d never done before. I remember it clearly.
I was at Aeropostle, and there was something like a $10 t-shirt sale. I picked up a brown shirt from the men’s display. It had soft, white and yellow lettering: “AERO ’87,” or something like that. I walked up to my mom, clutching the fabric in my hands. “I want this one,” I said.
She frowned. “There’s brown girl shirts over here.”
I swallowed. I thought about chickening out. But I didn’t. “No,” I replied, “I just want this one.”
“Okay,” my mom consented, shrugging and turning away.
Once her back was toward me, I shakily exhaled and held the shirt tighter to my chest. When I got home I ran up to my room and put it on in front of the mirror of my magenta closet door. The shirt still smelled like the cologne that permeated the air of the store. The fabric was thick, the collar wide and right underneath my neck, so it squared my jaw. The sleeves reached the middle of my arms, instead of bouncing off the top of my shoulders.
I looked like a boy. A skinny, short, awkward boy. But a boy — for the first time.
Looking back, this moment reminds me of playing dress-up as a little girl. I used to have big cardboard boxes stuffed with cheap dresses, plastic heels, two-dollar tiaras, and large necklaces that dropped to my knees and sounded
like Newton’s balls when the beads smacked together. I’d throw on everything I could, plaster leftover makeup from my mother’s supply on my face, and strut into the living room with my hands on my hips, my regular clothes riding up underneath my sequined attire.
I liked dress-up. I thought it was fun to look outrageous. I thought it was funny. As the years went by sometimes I dressed up again, but it wasn’t as entertaining. When I was 15 I found a dress I wore to a wedding reception years before, stole some of my little sister’s lip gloss, and strung all the clunky jewelry from my childhood around my neck. Another time, when I was 16 and chose to skip school, I put on some deep, fuchsia lipstick and spent an hour staring at myself in the mirror. I found a skirt from sixth grade and put it on.
For awhile these occurrences confused me. I didn’t know why I did it. It wasn’t like I enjoyed looking feminine. After I’d run downstairs, laughing, and my family shook their heads in exasperated amusement, I’d be back in the bathroom, necklaces off, the straps of my dress slipping off my shoulders. I’d scrub my face with water and scowl at the remnants of lipstick at the corners of my mouth. I’d get so angry, gripping the edge of the sink as tears formed in my eyes. Why did I do this to myself? It only made me upset when all the “fun” was over.
What I didn’t understand then was that I was regressing back to my six year old self. I had no clue that playing dress-up all over again was a real psychological concept, but sometimes when our minds are overloaded with problems we revert back to childish impulses, unable to cope with the stress. Well, being depressed, being trans, and being in the closet (plus all the confusion that came with it) just mounted up sometimes, and I couldn’t deal with it. So I played dress-up. I laughed at myself and treated looking like a girl as a joke, so maybe it wouldn’t have such a grip on my happiness.
When I was a little girl I dressed up to look like a princess, a movie star, or whatever my crazy vision of a beautiful, adult woman was. And, when I was a vulnerable, scared boy, I dressed up again.
I just wanted to be the pretty young woman I was born to be. I thought if I dressed like one, I could pretend I really was one. I’d stare at myself in my closet mirror with long, unshaven legs, a few new scars on my right wrist, and stains on my teeth from not brushing well when I had my braces. Despite all of these additions, I only saw a small girl staring back at me.
I STRUGGLED TO RETURN TO THE GIRL I USED TO BE WHILE, AT THE SAME TIME, FOUGHT TO BECOME THE KIND OF MAN I SAW IN MAGAZINES AND CATALOGS
I looked at her eyes. We had the same kind. One a light brown, the other a deep green, with long lashes. She blinked when I blinked, so I never saw hers close. She just watched me, forever.
And then I would turn away. I’d change into basketball shorts and a t-shirt, wash off the makeup, and when I looked back, the girl was gone, replaced with the reflection of a scrawny boy.
I struggled to return to the girl I used to be while, at the same time, fought to become the kind of man I saw in magazines and catalogs. Long brown hair, soft hands, and missing baby teeth battled sunkissed skin, sexy stubble, and toned arms. It was a game of dress-up with paradoxical proportions.
But I was just chasing ideals. That’s what dress-up is, isn’t it? Transforming yourself to become something you aren’t? I wasn’t a little girl anymore, nor did I ever have the potential to snap my fingers and instantly grow another foot in height. Unable to accept my current self, I sought after dreams which could never be actualized.
Recently, I’ve started to observe the cisgender men I see in everyday life. Most of them look nothing like the models in advertisements, and I’m sure the few that do have some insecurity within themselves. No one is perfect. If cisgender men don’t hold themselves to impossible standards, why should I, a transgender man? What makes me so different? The answer is, of course, nothing.
I have learned to stop my insecurities before they take root. I remind myself that marketing isn’t the same as reality. Of course society is going to shove perfection down my throat—it’s not a reflection of my failings as a man, but instead a cheap advertising trick. The stores that have the most beautiful models attract shoppers like moths to light, who have been basically brainwashed into thinking they are ugly by the same companies that they believe will help them look gorgeous. It’s an endless cycle, and the sooner you realize what a gimmick it is, the better.
I also don’t look at old pictures of myself with a mix of envy and disgust anymore. People change. I will become a multitude of different versions of myself over the course of my life. Change comes with time, and time comes with change. If I was a girl who liked to play dress-up growing up, so what? That doesn’t mean anything now, because I’ve become a new person — for the better. We all do. We are not the same people we were at six, nor sixteen, nor sixty.
Transgender people are so afraid of change we want to stay oblivious forever. We are scared our true selves will be rejected, so we
handcuff ourselves to our past. But allowing change is an act of selflove. It offers new possibilities and new opportunities and new doors to open.
I no longer hold myself to the standards I used to. My days of dressing up in makeup and old clothes are over (unless I choose to dabble in drag). I don’t scrutinize my appearance for any “shameful” feminine features, either. I am a man. I’m feminine and masculine. But I’m not a male model or a little girl.
Through accepting my current self I am planting the seeds of self-esteem and chasing out the roots of self-hate. The only person I will ever compare myself to anymore is myself. And compared to who I used to be just a few years ago, I have already made vast improvements.
Becoming a man is so much more
than muscle and a nice smile. It is believing in yourself, gaining confidence, and taking the path towards growing into a healthy, responsible adult.
To any trans person dealing with dysphoria: understand that the corporate messages around you are all fake. They mean nothing. No matter how hard you try, you will never achieve their level of perfection, because it simply does not exist. The cure to dysphoria lies within yourself, not in fashion or clothing stores.
Dysphoria is a discomfort with who we perceive ourselves to be compared to the majority of society — but our perceptions of society are inherently skewed by deceptive marketing, so there is no true ultimate image to adhere to. Once you let go of these make-believe expectations, you will realize all you need to do is grow into yourself. Follow your goals, embrace your
flaws, and stick to your passions. As you find the beauty inside of yourself, the beauty outside won’t seem as important.
Alternatively, there are resources for us all—surgery, hormones, clothes, certain add-on appendages, and much more. Figure out what is comfortable for you, and take time to make sure it’s not because you feel pressured to do something, but because it is what will make you happy and help add to a fulfilling life.
Dress-up is a game of impossible ideals, but transitioning is growing into who we know we are supposed to become. Think of yourself as a caterpillar. Transitioning is your cocoon. Soon, you will metamorphose and become more beautiful and free than ever before.
Stay strong. Your wings are coming soon.
ARTWORK
the happiness of memories my
ARTICLE BY EMILY DICKS, WARREN, NJ
ARTWORK BY LEAH ALBAUGH, KENNETT SQUARE, PA
Can money buy happiness? I would say yes. A designer purse or a nice sweater can feel good for a while, but does that happiness last? I would say no. True happiness does not come from objects but from the significance they hold. I used to be obsessed with American Girl Dolls. They were my favorite childhood toy. When I see these dolls now, I think of all the happy times I had playing with them. I recently took an eye-opening trip to Arusha, Tanzania. The kids I visited had little to nothing but found happiness in everything. Before I left, my dad and I packed four suitcases full of jackets, stuffed animals, shoes, and backpacks to give to the kids. While a princess doll may light up their world for a few months, they will always remember that feeling when they see the doll. My first few hours in a new continent were taken over by a little girl named Happyness. Over the next few days, she taught me how to find happiness in anything. Even as a nineyear-old, her smile illuminates any room she is in.
Last November, my dad and I set off on a 40-hour travel day. From Newark, Dubai, and Doha to Kilimanjaro and Arusha, I visited two new continents in less than two days. I can still feel the humidity dripping down my face as we walked off the plane in Kilimanjaro, Tanzania. I will never forget my new experience of actually walking off a plane. We started our three-night stay in Arusha by walking on the tarmac to customs while an Edelweiss plane was taxiing next to us. Even though I had printed out our visas (multiple times), I was still worried we would not get let in. I heard various stories of people not having the correct vaccinations or visas and getting sent back to the States. Our suitcases got held up at the security checkpoint while trying to leave the airport. My dad and I stuffed four checked suitcases with backpacks, winter jackets, rain jackets, stuffed animals, clothing, and toys for the then-32 kids Mesha’s Village sponsors. In broken
English, we communicated to our driver that we were going to Sakina, Arusha, and were staying with Mama Liz. Somehow, he just knew where she lived!
After arriving at Mama Liz’s home, (she rents out rooms in her home to American and European aid workers). We unpacked our massive suitcases, not sure how we got them through security, and sorted the contents into the piles created by the other Mesha's Village members. Mesha’s Village was created in 2017 by two sisters who, while volunteering at Ebenezer Orphanage, fell in love with one of the kids and wanted to send him to school. This first child, Meshack, was sent to Haradali Primary School, where the rest of our kids go now. In Tanzania, access to a quality education is not given to everyone. Families must pay for their children to attend private schools to ensure they are well-educated. Underprivileged and orphaned children, such as Mesha, are only able to go to school via sponsorship. As education has been such an important part of my life, I could not imagine Mesha, or any child, not going to school. Mesha’s Village was created to sponsor orphaned and underprivileged children in Tanzania, ensuring that they are provided with the opportunity to learn, grow, and prosper.
I first found the organization when my dad told me about one of his co-workers taking a trip to Tanzania. I read about Mesha’s Village and spoke to the founders and immediately knew I had to get involved. Education has always been a vital part of my life. Around the same time I got involved by holding small fundraisers in my community, my family started sponsoring a little girl named Myra. She is currently five years old and loves attending Haradali. After the Pandemic, Haradali lost several sponsors, and Mesha’s Village has been trying to fill in the gaps. The school will allow a child who lost their sponsor to still attend school in hopes that they find a new one. Myra lost her sponsor, and we were so happy to
find her. The school has almost 1,000 kids ranging from age three to 14 with boarding options. After Class 7, the kids move on to secondary school (similar to our high school), where all the kids board, so they are focused on their education.
Right after we got to Mama Liz’s home, we were picked up and brought to N’gerasero Village. It was not until then that I felt the differences. Living in suburban New Jersey and visiting various places around the world, I had never been to Africa or had any experience with people living in abject poverty. As we drove farther into the village, we started to see more children running around. There were kids as old as me running around with their baby siblings. The homes are single-room huts with no electricity, kitchens, or running water. The women of the village all work together to raise and care for the children collectively, and I have never seen happier, wellbehaved, and kind children. Most of our kids live here because we rely on Mama N’gerasero to tell us about kids who are striving in her daycare. We are not sure what her real name is, but she is a vital part of our organization. She had a smile on her face each day we drove into the village.
On our way to the village, we stopped at the school to pick up two of our three boarding students. Patricia (or Patty to her friends), age 12, and Happyness, age 9, board at Haradali, so they rarely get to leave school. Their families are not from N’gerasero, but some of their friends live there. Dressed in their school uniforms, and tracksuits for Friday and the weekend, they jumped into the packed van for a long day of
of Mama N’gerasero’s home to when we left Haradali at the end of the trip, Happyness decided she was going to be my new best friend. Her mom lives over 10 hours from Haradali, so she has boarded for the last few years. This little girl brightened up day by day while clinging to my side. It was then that I truly saw what happiness is. Happiness is even in poverty, always having an amazing spirit and being insanely strong. Happiness is being willing to leave your family for months at a time to go to school. Happiness is seeing dozens of small children wandering around and clinging to your fingers just to walk with you.
Last minute, I decided to pack all of my brother and I’s and my old stuffed animals to give out to the kids. These toys are in perfect condition, so there was no reason they should be collecting dust in our attic. I gave Sharifa an Ariel toy with long red hair. Most of the kids do not have hair, as it is difficult to keep it clean between lice and no running water. She was enthralled with Ariel’s long hair and thanked me multiple times over the next few days. Sharifa is one of the bravest little girls I have ever met. Last year, she ran up to the team and, in perfect English, asked if they would sponsor her to go to school. This year, she asked us if we would sponsor her little brother Ismail. Thanks to our generous sponsors, we were able to find him one by the end of the night.
HAPPINESS EXTENDS SO MUCH FARTHER THAN JUST THE MOMENT WHEN YOU OPEN A TOY YOU HAD BEEN HOPING FOR. TO ME, HAPPINESS IS FELT WHEN YOU SEE SOMETHING THAT BRINGS YOU JOY, BRINGING ANOTHER PERSON HAPPINESS.
backpacks. Giving each of the kids a stuffed backpack has been a long-standing tradition. Each kid receives a few outfits, three new pairs of shoes, an outfit for the holidays, and a few toys. One by one, the kids open their backpacks with just the small MV team and their guardian.
From the time we jumped out of the van outside
These stuffed animals were part of my childhood, and I can clearly remember the happiness they brought me. I remember receiving the Ariel doll from my grandma on my sixth birthday. I likely threw the doll back into a pile after a few weeks, but Sharifa will cherish it forever; and when she gets too old for the doll, it will go to her younger siblings or her younger cousins. This doll will light up so many little kids’ lives. Nothing makes me happier than seeing these toys have a second life. I hope to see Sharifa and her younger brothers playing with the doll next trip. As the day went on, we saw overjoyed mothers when their children received backpacks. Happy, Violeth, Sharifa, and Mariam clung to my hands while we walked for several hours going home to home. Even the youngest kids followed us around all day. I had never seen kids so content in their lives. They were just happy. I am thrilled to have passed
some more happiness onto the kids. I cannot change much in their lives, but I hope these small toys will make them happy.
On Monday, we finally got to their school. I was amazed by the campus. My dad and I were brought around on a tour by one of their admission heads. As a member of the student extension of the admissions team at my high school, I have given several tours, and this tour was no different from any I have given. They have several facilities, including a few quads, dorms for kids in any of the grades, a building for meals and town halls, a library with several computers, playgrounds for the older and younger kids, and a grass field for sports (mainly football). They love kicking around a ball on Fridays. I think my favorite part of the tour was visiting the baby class. The kids are so cute and scream, "Good Morning Teacher," at you. This is the norm for each class. The school places a heavy emphasis on being immersed in English on campus. While in class or with us, the kids spoke mainly English. At home, they speak Swahili with their friends and families.
By the end of our short trip, I met aspiring doctors, teachers, police officers, soldiers, and more. Sponsoring these kids allows them to dream about their future. I am so happy I joined the MV team. Mesha’s Village started with one little boy in 2014. Now, we have over 50 kids. We see the kids' smiling faces in our emails from Haradali. They might get older each November, but their giant smiles never falter.
So again, I would ask: Can money buy happiness? Yes and no. Happiness extends so much farther than just the moment when you open a toy you had been hoping for. To me, happiness is felt when you see something that brings you joy, bringing another person happiness. It is a giant smile that a little kid has on her face when she is given an Ariel doll. Store-bought happiness is nothing like true happiness. I would never trade my memories from this trip for anything. They bring me true happiness. I have always considered happiness to be memories of activities or things, but not the real reason. The people who made them special are instead.
INTO THE UNKNOWN
ARTICLE BY JENNIFER VAUGHN, FLOWER MOUND, TX
TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD, SHARK ATTACK
Enormous pearly whites jumped out of the ocean, viciously latching onto a nearby swimmer. The victim, a middle-aged woman with creases beginning to etch into her skin, squirmed between her electric blue surfboard and the monster capturing her in its teeth. The great white shark gnawed on the woman’s leg as it hung by the last few intact tendons. Blood squirted out of the wound and oozed down her leg as life was chomped out of her; the clear water turned murky as red wine blood diffused, and excruciating screams pierced the air.
Small water droplets splashed onto my face, distracting me from cases of shark attacks all over the news that clouded my mind. I wasn’t scared of much, but sharks were another story.
It was a clear day; the sky was a solid display of baby blue, not a white pillow in sight. Sun rays cut through the sky as light shone bright into my chocolate eyes. Blinded by the sun, I sat on the soggy wooden benches of a tan speed boat. The sleek ride glided through the rocky waves of the Pacific Ocean so fast that the wind smacked me in the face and howled in my ears. The salt from the ocean stung my face as the humid air seared
my skin… or maybe it was the sunburn starting to surface as my cheeks turned rosy. Either way, I was delighted; my heart was so full. As the boat began to slow to a stop, the collected hues of tropical plants grew thin in the distance, the waves calmed into a cradle similar to a mother coddling her baby, and the islands looked like paintings as they got smaller and smaller. The sights looked like CGI — absolutely unreal. While the boat stood idle in a vast expanse of water, my family and I grew antsy like little children in our seats as we awaited our next instructions.
Deep down, I think I knew I was going to be safe from the sharks. I had always been an adventurous little girl — brave — ready for something blood-pumping and exciting. I craved spontaneity. I itched for adrenaline. But as my head depicted images of gory shark attacks and drownings, I nervously fiddled with the buckle of my neon orange life vest — the vest I was previously reluctant to wear but now clung to desperately. Our captain, a tall, burly man with gray roots growing from his Santa Claus beard, walked onto the back of the boat as he began to direct us, “Everyone, make sure your life vests are tightened, and go ahead and grab some fins if you would like to dive with those on. Be careful, the deck is very slippery. We don’t want any
accidents today.”
Anxiety waved through my body, leaving me nauseous. Voices in my head thought: what if another accident happens? Why did I think this was a good idea? Tremors shook my body as I attempted to control my breath. One, two, three, in … three, two, one, out. Of course, he was just talking about a little slip, but even that was enough to give me a panic attack. I knew that my grandpa, brother, and dad were all going to jump into the bright blue water head first, ready as ever to take on a new experience. They were all excited to see the amazing sights advertised by the adventure company in real time. I, on the other hand, was conflicted; I loved to do things that got my heart racing, but I also didn’t want to die. However, despite what my jumbled head told me, I had already decided I wasn’t going to miss out on an experience I would regret later. So, I waited in line for my turn to plunge into the depths of the French Polynesian waters.
As passengers patiently stood to be let down into the warm water, the captain took a metal bucket out of the ice chest that lay on the deck. Without knowing what its purpose was, I inched up on my tippy toes curiously, hoping to catch a peek at what was inside. As he dipped his hand into the bucket, out came a juicy fish dripping in blood. What could he possibly do with that? Is he going to eat it? I wondered. At the same time, as if he could hear my thoughts, the captain dunked his hand into the ocean’s water as he leaned over the edge of the boat.
“Chum,” the captain announced. “It should attract more fish and, guess what, sharks.”
Then he started bracing his hands as he sent them down the ladder into shark territory. When I finally got to the front of the line, I approached the captain with trembling hands as he helped lead me down the ladder. One by one, my limbs began to submerge into the warm abyss of the Pacific Ocean. Only a few seconds later, all that was left above the waterline was my head. With my snorkel mask strapped on as tight as humanly possible and my hands grasping the ladder for dear life, I submerged myself into the unknown. Words can not sufficiently describe how beautiful the scene unfolding beneath me was. The ocean floor was thirty feet deep — which scared the heck out of me — it was the bluest water you could ever imagine. Looking straight to the bottom, coral of all jagged shapes, edges, and
vibrant colors sporadically grew from the sand floor. Rays of sunlight penetrated the water, bouncing off the shiny skin of nearby schools of fish, and in the distance, a long gray animal swam into my peripheral vision.
At this point, my heart was beating like a drum, so loudly that I thought everyone could hear its tempo, including the sharks. My breath was labored in my mask, and I felt overwhelmed but oddly at ease. It wasn’t what I had expected. The shark didn’t have blood smeared on its mouth or an interest in me whatsoever. It just swam by as if taking an afternoon stroll. To the animal, I wasn’t dinner but instead a fire hydrant in the middle of the sidewalk, an obstacle in its way. After a few minutes of treading water, my grandpa swam up to me so we could take in this once-in-a-lifetime experience together. His big hand encased mine while his free hand pointed to all the colorful fish and ocean life.
Then, I felt a wave of water push my arm forward as if a torpedo shot past us. Incoming, a shark swam up next to me just feet away. They were different than I had thought. Long, round, and with fins sticking out of their sides. The sharks were scary but not as intimidating as I had thought. The lemon sharks didn’t look bloodthirsty; they didn’t look harmful. They were doing their own thing as they swam by us. What National Geographic episode was I in? The sharks were within arm’s distance; I could touch them. I treaded water right there, dumbfounded. I was so close. I was so close, and I wasn’t dead!
After spending more time swimming in the water with my grandpa and watching my mom sit on the boat gazing at us, I realized how much she missed out on. She let her fear get the best of her, and she may regret not seeing the ocean in all its glory. But I got that chance. I had pushed away the thoughts in my head, screaming “shark attack,” and I dove into the water prepared for an adventure. I realized I wanted to do it all. I want to smile until my jaw hurts; I want to cry until there are no more tears left to cry; I want to laugh until I fall over holding my stomach; I want to scream in pain; and I want to be shaking in fear. Because life is fleeting, and every moment I get to feel is more of the life I will get to see, and the more I will get to experience. Life is extraordinary and worth every last risk. So yes, I will jump into shark-infested waters and dive into the unknown because that is what life is all about.
using too much technology makes us
feel alone
ARTICLE BY MEHRIN HIRAWALA, MANCHESTER, CT
ARTWORK BY
ANONYMOUS
April 22, 2024 —
My screen time had gone up by four hours. As I thought about this fact, I kept scrolling on TikTok. I’d spent three hours scrolling on TikTok, and the day had just begun. I remember telling myself that I was going to limit my screen time because this feeling of addiction made me feel guilty. But as soon as I picked up that phone, I forgot everything. I scrolled for hours and hours straight without hesitation. This is a problem for many individuals, especially the younger generations who cling to their phones.
Technology keeps us connected when we learn to use it for guidance without relying on it for everything. Without these connections, we are ultimately just people living like machines with no emotions or excitement, only emptiness. While I know that technology has gotten more advanced and our generation is nothing without it, the use of it has only made our brains emptier. Technology doesn't just have positive uses; it has eroded our social skills and isolated us to the extent that even in others' company, we still feel alone. According to research done by Discovery ABA Therapy, over 60 percent of adults in the United States report feeling lonely. Young adults between 18 and 22 are the loneliest age group. This is the exact age group that uses the most social media and technology today. This loneliness makes sense, as excessive technology use overwhelms their minds and leads to more isolation. Technology has uses that can destroy people mentally and emotionally, which is why it's important to use it cautiously, otherwise you'll ruin your mental health.
Why is it that we can't seem to take our eyes off our phones? Yes, our phones have so much to offer to us, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic, when the only source of entertainment we had was our technology. But so does the world around us, and nothing can replace real-world interactions. It has even more to offer us. We feel more entertained over a
phone where we are seeing things from far away and not even experiencing them; but when we experience those same things in real life, we feel bored.
Well, have you ever thought about the fact that what we might be seeing on social media is just a delusion or just the other better half of the sad truth? People often post pictures where they appear happy, even if they are not. *As Abraham Lincoln said, "Don't believe everything you read on the internet just because there’s a picture with a quote next to it.” This phrase discusses the importance of real-life experiences. Some things that the internet has to offer are not even real, while life is. Open your eyes to the brightness of the real world and not screens. According to a survey by Regis College, a study of young adults ages 19 to 32 found that individuals with higher social media usage are more than three times as likely to feel socially isolated compared with those who use social media less frequently.
Overall, overusing technology does not benefit anyone, it hurts people, and not only young people. It applies to all age groups who are incredibly addicted to technology because it’s clear that the costs outweigh the benefits. In other words, too much technology is making our mental health weaker, and it's emotionally destroying us. As a society, we need to limit these risks by promoting face-to-face communications and setting strict limits at schools or homes for those who use their phones too much. We can also attempt to make ourselves happy with entertainment that isn't technology, like passions or hobbies.
*The quote stated is misattributed to Abraham Lincoln; this is intentional and is meant to further the quote's meaning and author's message that we should not believe everything we discover online.
KELLY LU, SANTA CLARA, CA
DISCONNECTED THE RUINOUS EFFECTS OF SOCIAL MEDIA
ARTWORK BY
We have become slaves to our phones. Each day, this new generation finds itself rotting in bed with a device two inches away from its face. Hours are spent overthinking, procrastinating, and wasting time, and people are learning to hide from the possibilities and opportunities they have to do something more useful. In society, we must connect, interact, and form a community. In some ways, social media aids in this, but is it more beneficial than it is harmful?
Social media can never replace the need for real human interaction. The hormones that minimize stress and improve your psychological state are what’s released when you interact face-to-face with those around you. Ironically, the fact that social media was made to help bring people closer together, excessive use of it may exacerbate mental health issues like anxiety and depression and increase feelings of loneliness or isolation. Regarding social isolation, an estimated 81 percent of Americans check their phones while eating out with other people. This is most likely a phenomenon you have observed yourself, as many of us tend to check our social media accounts and skip out genuine conversation, even when we are amongst actual people.
This can also be associated with other mental health issues, or an idea called F.O.M.O — the fear of missing out. While F.O.M.O has been around much longer than social media, platforms like Facebook and Instagram tend to intensify it. The feeling that other people are having more fun or have better lives starts to mess with the way individuals think and live their own. Similar to an addiction, the belief that you're missing out on something can harm your self-worth, cause anxiety, and encourage you to use social media even more. F.O.M.O can force you to overthink, check for changes on your phone every few minutes, and obsessively reply to every alert, even if doing so puts you in danger while driving, keeps you up at night, or forces you to prioritize social media activity above in-person connections.
Innovations and technologies have also made it possible for social media to not be the only way to communicate or reach friends and family over great distances. Video calling and messaging services such as Skype and WhatsApp have made it easier for people to directly stay in touch
with each other. Cloud computing has also enabled the storage and sharing of documents, photos, and videos online, making it easier to collaborate and share memories without having to post them. The ability to post a wide variety of things also subjects people to hate comments and bullying, with severe cyberbullying still being a pressing issue. Throughout the past three decades, the rate of suicide among children aged 10 to 14 has increased by more than 50 percent, according to the American Association of Suicidology. Moreover, an estimated 10 percent of teenagers report having experienced bullying or unpleasant remarks. These damaging rumors, lies, and abuse can be widely disseminated on social media sites like Twitter, leaving long-lasting emotional scars.
Although some may argue that big corporations and small businesses can recruit or promote worthwhile causes or raise awareness on important issues, there are still many other ways to do so. For example, traditional promotion methods consist of handing out flyers, putting up billboards, direct mailing, broadcasting, or advertising. Additionally, anyone can post or publish anything online, lending a corporation with conventional marketing techniques greater psychological credibility.
Even if digital marketing reaches a larger audience, it doesn't always provide the impression that a business is trustworthy or well-established. Traditional marketing, which is typically associated with more established channels and larger budgets, is one reason for this and may imply that the business is expanding, prospering, and steady.
In conclusion, although social media has undoubtedly revolutionized communication and connectivity, it is important to prioritize in-person connections and be mindful of the probable negative effects of excessive or improper social media use. The prevalence of cyberbullying and the potential for manipulation highlight the need for caution and critical thinking, along with the fact that building and maintaining relationships through face-to-face interaction fosters deeper connections formally and sociably. For society to fully connect, interact, and form a community, we must reduce our online-dependent lifestyle and benefit our society in real life, in real-time.
BY KATELYN ROBERTS, EASTON, PA
SOCIAL MEDIA'S IMPACT ON YOUNG PEOPLE
ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS
ARTWORK
As social media contributes to society, ideas seem to spread faster and faster. Videos from influencers on various social media platforms spread throughout the internet at mindshattering speeds. Clips can be taken from any video made and reused for a new purpose, or they could be taken out of context. Viewers of these things online are mainly kids, teenagers, and young adults. Unsurprisingly, young people can be seen replicating these behaviors, but are these behaviors negative or positive?
Through technology becoming more and more accessible to younger generations, users on social media platforms such as YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram share content at a rapid rate. Kids in elementary school or younger are now gaining access to the internet, and becoming exposed to questionable content. This can change how they behave and how they view themselves or other people. Watching hours on end of videos tends to do that. Although everything may not be harmful, like your little cousins talking about things like “Skibidi Toilet” that they saw in a YouTube short video might not be bad. However, there are inappropriate things on the internet, and kids need to be checked to see if they understand the difference between what’s inappropriate and appropriate.
Social media greatly affects how often teens use their phones, and the screen time reflects that. It was reported that one in five kids use social media apps constantly throughout the day, and the average screen time usage of social media apps is 4.8 hours a day. Social media apps, including TikTok, Snapchat, Instagram, YouTube, Twitch, and Reddit, are used, and influencers and other people on these platforms are with them in their pockets. Being around them all the time influences how they behave and how they think. Some teenagers report even feeling connected through the influencers of social media and can even be seen modeling their behaviors off of them. Which can be potentially dangerous to mental health because of the bad behaviors. Challenges online that we've seen in the past, like the Tide Pod challenge or the Nyquil challenge, are dangerous, yet people still try these things to post on social media for views and likes,
compromising their health.
Although the effects of social media can be negative, there are strategies that can balance the effects of social media. Parents getting involved and setting limits on social media usage at a young age helps, and this could be online or offline. Parents talking to their kids about safety online and promoting healthy online behavior will help to combat the negative effects of social media. This, along with time management online, will go a long way as they develop life skills
On the contrary, social media can be seen as having positive effects on children and teenagers. Social media provides the ability to connect from all around the world, and especially if you have family or friends that live far away or potentially not in your country, you can still connect with them and talk with them. This is an ability that 30 years ago people wouldn't have and expands relationships. This doesn’t just serve as something for people you already know, social media presents the opportunity to meet new people online that at one point in time would not be possible without social media. These are people whom you would not be able to meet in real life and you can build a community with these people and build a social network.
Social media also provides a broader array of information to learn from, not all the content online is garbage, and there is plenty to learn from that can help you develop a skill. This can be anything from video creation in itself to creating a business. Being exposed to this and starting at a young age gives you time to develop this skill until you are able to use it more when you are older, giving you an advantage in the competition. There are also academic-based accounts online that can teach you new things that you can use to apply in school, and help you with the homework you have. These accounts can also give you tips and tricks on how to navigate school better or even content that gives you tips on how to get into colleges or score better on your SATs.
In the end, considering the videos posted online and the things that are viewed/posted online, teens need to know what to believe and what not to believe, and the content they are viewing needs to be managed, as these things could have a negative impact on their well-being. Yet, they can still enjoy the benefits of social media and use it to their advantage.
LET'S RECORD A KIDNAPPING!
ARTICLE BY ISIS PALMER, CLARKSVILLE,
I remember talking after school with a few friends and one of my teachers one day when a topic came up: social media. It started simply: Kids and teens are spending more time on social media and their phones trying to get the perfect picture or the perfect caption to get the most likes, shares, and clicks.
But someone else in our group had a harrowing story to tell. I’ll call her Ellie. Ellie was a recent transfer student from the not-so-fun NYC, and boy, did she have a story to tell.
There was a moment in the late hours of the day, in a moderately populated place of the city, when a woman was being kidnapped. Ellie told me she was walking home when she saw the clustered circle of people surrounding a blue minivan, all with their cameras up. No one bothered to help. Most, if not all of them, planned to post the video on social media. Ellie called the police.
IMAGINE... INSTEAD OF HELPING, ALL YOU SEE ARE PEOPLE RECORDING YOU, TRYING TO GET THE PERFECT ANGLE
TN
Due to the large crowd of people, it took officers several minutes to shove the crowd out of the way, but by that point, the man had already gotten back in his van and fled the scene, leaving a traumatized woman in his hurry to get away.
Ellie left shortly after she called, but she said that she saw several videos of the altercation, including one with a caption that cussed out the one who called the cops to begin with. Ellie was even able to find one of the videos of the altercation on TikTok later on, and you can see that no one is trying to help. It’s terrifying. Just imagine someone trying to kidnap you or do something unthinkable to you, but instead of helping, all you see are people recording you, trying to get the perfect angle.
Now, of course, I study psychology and social situations sometimes, and I’ve heard some people pitch the bystander effect. In case you haven’t heard of it, I’ll summarize it. The bystander effect is when a group of people sees someone in distress, and everyone expects someone else to help, so they walk away with the expectation that someone else will give aid to the distressed person. But I don’t think this is the case. It could be argued, sure, but not well. No situations that I’ve ever researched or seen involve everyone recording. The bystander effect is when people actively ignore the distressed person, not acknowledging the issue and just recording it.
So what can we do? Honestly, nothing. At least, that’s how it seems at first. You can spread the word, for starters. Keep people in the know about situations like this one. Write to newspaper columns about it to raise awareness. There are attempted kidnappings every single day. Some are successful. The first 24 hours of a disappearance are the most crucial to finding the victim alive, but if we can stop the kidnapping altogether, then those next 24 hours can be used to put the perpetrator behind bars. Stay strong, stay aware.
ART GALLERY
CREDITS
1. ARTWORK BY HONGCHENG DU, BEIJING, CHINA
2. PHOTO BY CALEIGH WEINTRAUB, HARTSDALE, NY
A LETTER TO PAST OR FUTURE YOU WRITING CONTEST
Teen Ink wishes you all the best for the future! You've already accomplished so much, and we can't wait to see what’s next for each of you. We’re rooting for you!
A LETTER TO MY PAST SELF
BY ANN ZOHAR HERSHKOVITZ, PLANTATION, FL
Dear Ann,
Wow! You’ve actually made it to 16.
You’ve probably just come back from celebrating your birthday, haven’t you? I remember it wasn’t as sweet as you’d hoped. I know you walked out of that dingy restaurant thinking that maybe, just maybe, what happened made you feel more secondary rather than celebrated, only to immediately shove those thoughts to the back of your head.
That doubt you’ve held in your heart since day one will, eventually, catch up to you. It will suffocate you, and you’ll feel as if you’re back to your five-year-old self, who barely made it afloat in the ocean’s hazy waters.
Sixteen was definitely an odd year. You will make it out of that horrid friendship fairly intact and have a tight-knit friend group for most of the year. You’ll pick up sewing again, freeing your sewing machine from catching dust constantly. You’ll go on your first-ever school trips, both in-state and abroad, and visit some college campuses for the first time.
But, sadly, it wasn’t all positive. You’ll fall in love for the second time in your life, and after your heart silently splinters during the nine months you kept waiting and waiting for their redamancy, like a dog chained to a pole; it will shatter, and you’ll feel as though you’ll never recover. You'll feel that maybe, just maybe, leaving your mattress — which has long since embedded your outline — doesn’t seem fulfilling. Who cares if you hadn’t left the house in days if not weeks? You were safe. You were safe. You were safe. How much longer will you tell yourself that before you come to terms with how lonely you are?
Now, we’re almost 17. July 11th is creeping ever closer as summer bleeds into spring, and discussing birthday plans with your friends becomes commonplace again. If there is one thing I want you to take away from my message, it's that I know it feels like you’re trying to live on a permanently red-stained canvas. I know that it feels like no matter what you do, it will never truly be blank again, and you will never heal from being stained in scarlet.
Even if the "red" will never fully go away, you will learn how to envelop it with other materials. Whether it be paint to offset its vivid hue, fabric to add depth and texture, or glue to hold everything together, someday you
will be able to walk away from it and be proud of the piece that lays before you. Something that you can proudly display in front of everyone, just like the works in the museums around you that you loved and constantly raved about. Eventually, your eyes will get used to the traces of scarlet, and you’ll recognize them as a small part of a greater whole.
Please take care of yourself, for our sake.
Lots of love, your(self) truly,
— Ann
PAINTING FOR BEGINNERS
BY ANWEN ZHU, EDMONTON, ALBERTA, CANADA
This is a letter from me to me — from me to you. Don’t be disappointed when you discover that we haven’t done what you expected from us.
I’ve always thought ahead about what I’m planning for the future, but I didn’t comprehend the actions I would have to take to go where I aimed. Drawing the bowstring doesn’t mean the arrow will hit its mark, so drawing the bowstring was the most I ever did. I was a kid who succeeded — who never had to work that hard. This resulted in a dreamer, not a doer. I thought about starting a business, so I created a website. I thought about writing a book, so I created a list of story ideas. I thought about making paintings and selling them online. There are no products to put on the website, the list stopped growing, and there are no paintings to sell. I have no achievements other than surface-level compliment fishing through small efforts that got me nothing except for a bit of an ego. My achievements may be lacking, but I have lessons for you.
I’m an artist; I view life as a painting in progress. Something I notice everywhere is that many don’t see the bigger picture but instead, get hyper-fixated on one seemingly significant section that they refuse to let go of until they self-destruct while trying to make it perfect. They erase, then they draw, they erase, then draw, erase, draw until it becomes a raging loop of doing the same action over and over again. You are a victim of this. Calm down. Find a different way. Clear your head.
In art, always work smarter, not harder. This is a rule to live by. Sometimes people may finally manage to fix that piece of their art and find that it did not have the right proportions or the right color — maybe it even made their work look worse. Don’t dive right into the details. Don’t go straight to step five. Don’t start on a good copy without planning. Draw the easy basic shapes first; figure out what goes where. Draw the proportions next, and determine the relationship between each object. Put the dark colors on first; this will aid in finding the true color of the painting. I know you’re always eager to jump straight in and excel, but I’ve learned to never rush this process because not everything is that simple. Do not assume that I have discovered it all, I’m still drawing my proportions, and my art teacher is still reprimanding me the same way he is to you. The people around you will paint at their own pace, some are slower, and some are faster. Some might still be planning, while others may already be coloring. Release your worries and guilt, you’ve given me eyebags. You are not falling behind. In the end, everyone will end up with the same result: a life they have lived and a finished painting.
DUMPLINGS BY CHRISTOPHER TRINH, SAN JOSE, CA
“Ew, what’s that smell?” they mockingly laughed.
Dear past me,
It feels like a lifetime ago, but I’m sure you vividly remember this common haughty phrase from your peers during lunch — sneer remarks directed at the foreignness of your Vietnamese cuisine. Unable to continue bearing the brunt of their “jokes,” you forced a laugh as if you agreed with their remarks, hurriedly scooted
farther down onto a vacant bench, and quietly drowned in self-pity. When that sweet bell echoed through campus at 2:40 PM, you eagerly awaited Dad’s car to pick you up. But you and I both know this eagerness was short-lived, even at home.
The weight of the day hung heavy on your shoulders. The little solace you found at home was quickly overshadowed by feelings of emasculation and a growing gripe with your heritage.
Even though she tirelessly labored and suffered her fair share of humiliation at work, remember that day when Mom cooked for you a bowl of Hoành Thánh? Garnished with freshly diced onions, each delicate dumpling evenly floated on the savory broth, neither completely sinking nor lopsidedly rising, because of Mom’s mastery of the perfect 2:1 ratio of pork to dough.
It was an art.
An art that you, overcome by internalized racism, trashed. After Mom left, you quietly poured the broth down the drain, the aromatic liquid swirling away through the pipes like a forgotten memory. The dumplings followed as Mom’s skillfully pleated forms were thrown into the trashbag, desecrating the love and effort Mom had zealously put into them. You stood on the kitchen square. The gravity of your actions finally took hold as you wrestled with shame and guilt.
Years later, I realized that you weren’t just discarding food; you were rejecting an essential piece of your identity, a connection to your roots scarcely holding on by a few chunks of meat parceled up in the dough. The destruction of the dumplings was just a vehicle to express our self-loathing. This was more than a meal — it was a lifeline to our heritage, embodying the essence of our Vietnamese culture grounded in acts of service and expressions of love.
And I’m sorry that you — we — were forced to feel differently because of what society had to say.
Now with the clarity of time, I witness the beauty in that bowl of Hoành Thánh. I understand its precise design as a source of immense cultural pride and skill. I have learned to embrace the richness of our Vietnamese heritage, to savor and understand the complex tapestry of flavors and stories that come with it. With every bite of chả giò and every slurp of phở gà, I have learned to honor not only my culture but also Mom’s incredible resilience.
Chris, carry this understanding with you. Cherish our culture, traditions, and memories. Rock that side part with pride. Also, Mom and Dad are getting older. Take care of them.
Love,
Your Future Self
ETERNALLY DEDICATED TO YOU BY LUCI MEIGEL, WEST LINN, OR
Dearest L.A.M,
I don’t know how to tell you this, but I love you. I do. You’re an anomaly to me, too distorted and concerningly mature for me to imagine, but I do love you. For what it’s worth, I can relate to what you’ve been through, at least for the first 16 years of your life. I have so many questions, too many to fit into just one letter:
Do you still adore writing about dark people and bright personalities you’ve yet to meet? Do you still love to travel to worlds that you can only dream of, for better or for worse? Or did you grow out of that?
Do you still cry at romantic movies that end with a kiss that looks more disgusting than endearing? Do you still deal out your unamusing jokes and, even worse, music taste like cards in the hopes of lightening the mood? Or did you grow out of that?
Do you still wish you were born prettier, with arms and legs like bamboo stalks and a flat stomach? Do you still keep your stress just inside your cranium until it threatens to pull apart the very tissue holding you together? Or did you grow out of that?
Do you still melt your brain by watching animated shows so you can make a checklist of what you want in a friend? Do you still flip through Pinterest, searching like a rabid dog for the bedroom and partner you know, yet disregard it as just out of reach? Or did you grow out of that?
I hate this, you know? I hate the feeling of writing and not getting a response. I’ve spent so many days, so many hours, writing in journals where I spoke to no one. Spoke to nothing. It was comforting but in a shallow, hollow way that can only be filled by an answer. That’s what this feels like. I’ve made myself a small globe, a sphere only held together by typed letters and a train of thought. Inside, it is empty, but it won’t always be that way. One day, you’ll read this and fill it with an answer. It doesn’t have to be kind or thoughtful, though it preferably won't be cruel or degrading either. Knowing you, I know you will. I know you’ll answer because, as much as you’ve changed and grown, you’ll still be me.
I’m going to build you a good foundation, okay? I’m going to pour the concrete and put in the metal framing now so that you’ll be proud of me. So, believe in me like I believe in you. When you read this, it’ll be a bit late to believe in me, I suppose, but don’t let that stop you. Better late than never, right?
Yours truly, with every breath of my being,
You
LETTER TO MY FUTURE SELF
BY ADRIKA MONDAL, MIDNAPUR WEST, INDIA
Dear future self,
I saw you feeling low about yourself. Don't worry because it is okay to feel your sorrow tying a choking knot in your throat, but always remember how to untie that knot whenever you think it is seconds away from killing you. It is okay if you feel too proud about yourself — to want yourself known in the world. It isn't narcissism, my dear. It is just that you are growing strong. Beautiful. Fearless.
I know the nights you text "goodnight" aren't often the nights that are good to you. I know the days you wake up, texting "good morning" are the days you wish were really good.
I know you want to confront pain; but every time you go to speak with it, you become an echo of its noise. I know you own stories along your skin, and I want you to know that they aren't meant to end with pain but begin with them. The full stops you yearn for aren't the endings your heart deserves. Your life is uneven, as it should be, and there is no wrong in it. Because, trust me, perfectionism is an illusion.
You see, if everything had been perfect, death would not seem so painful, and Earth would have been a perfect sphere. Or our Dettol soaps and sanitizers could have killed 100 percent of germs.
I say, go and have the life you want. Don't try impressing the world too much, as it only creates unbearable pressure. It is not wrong to want to become perfect. It isn't a crime. But wanting that makes you mad. You start comparing yourself and douse your dainty pillows in tears. Or worse, crave to wear the necklace of death.
I know you care to inscribe yourself in everyone's heart. You crave positive replies. You want yourself to have the spotlight. But then reality haunts you — "If I drown my passion for fame, will I be happy?"
Probably not fully.
If perfectionism is a mirage and you are in the pursuit of finding it, you will only get lost. Don't break "yourself" for being perfect. Create "yourself" with your imperfections. Flaws.
Everyone sees them in you. But I see how it makes you fly.
POETS’ CORNER
Notebook
the row of spirals blue stripes outline space graphite smeared across.
BY TAILI GAO, LEXINGTON, MA
To Be Loved Is To Be Changed
To be loved is to be changed
Dirt-covered dolls who got too bold
The force of time is strange
Books yellow and pages aged
With stories read and epics told To be loved is to be changed
A dusty, empty stage
Audience seats no longer sold
The force of time is strange
We used to dance as if deranged Till we wore off our meager soles
To be loved is to be changed
Our hair color lost its range
And our skin now wrinkled and old
The force of time is strange
A grand performer, now offstage
And I, alone, write you this ode …
The force of time is strange
For to be loved is to be changed
BY JORGE CISNEROS, MIRAMAR, FL
We Do Not Burn
When I was a child, I loved climbing trees but I was small and couldn’t reach some limbs.
My mother said she wouldn’t lift me up — I had to figure it out myself. She was old and her limbs reached far but no matter how much I cried her days of tree climbing were behind her.
Now I climb until the branches can no longer support my weight. Five, ten feet from the sun.
I am not Icarus.
Mother taught me that if I knew how I climbed up, I knew how to climb down. I do not fall.
Still, I wonder — is this what other planets, species, aliens, think? They leave us to make our own way to the stars so that we do not burn.
Is that why God lets us fight and struggle against each other?
The scratches on our legs are from bark, but every dead cell was once a living being.
We will climb down and start again. We are not Icarus. We do not fall.
BY ELIANA MCLAIN, SPRINGFIELD, MO
Ink Craft
We don’t need practice
To be dancing
Under the moonlight, Swaying to the rhythm of Humming breeze When the stars are meant To be aligned.
You are nothing But a few lines Penned in cursive, Becoming alive
In my nocturne dreams Like a firefly.
“I don’t write, I slaught” Ink is blue poison I cram, It’s time you should Get buried between pages And be forgotten by dawn.
BY MARIAN DE SILVA, GAMPAHA, SRI LANKA
New Minerals
Breaking to rebuild Shattered pieces mend to create something new, Strength in its transformation. BY
TYLER A., IRVINGTON, NJ
ARTWORK BY QUINCY LLOYD, VANCOUVER, WA
Dead End Sign
Dead end sign blooming
At the end of this street where Men cut willows down
BY LYDIA QUATTROCHI, SOMONAUK, IL
Inherited Passions
One Sunday, after worship, in the kitchen’s heart
Beside my dad, ready to play his culinary part, Pancit bihon, a dish for the brethren’s feast His precise movements, a rhythmic masterpiece.
I sat on a broken chair, in admiration’s gaze, Watching him cook, lost in a nostalgic haze, He spoke of lolo Boni and lola Cora’s ways, Self-taught, he learned to cook through challenging days. With ingredients mixed in a pot, magic unfurled, Creating flavors, confidence in every swirl, His smile, a beacon of passion and delight, Inspiring me to seek my own fervent light,
Chemistry, my love, a class so divine, Mystical flasks turning liquid to pink wine, Bubbling concoctions, pungent fumes arise, Careful measurements, like cooking, a secret prize. In chemistry’s realm, a secret language found, An intricate puzzle, where mysteries abound, Just like my dad, with his cooking so true, I find my passion in chemistry’s hue.
BY LEANDER DENNISEL SANCHEZ, LOS ANGELES, CA
The Six-Year Cha-Cha-Cha
In Taiwan, you run around the grass, sifting through community. you run until you fall, and — if you fall — the community’s soft dirt-bed tightly clutches you. Nature, our stage, stages our dear dramaturgy.
Six years, I’ve spent performing, dancing with neighbors, their friends, and their neighbors, soon my friends of blood and bond. Six years, I’ve spent performing for my parents, grandparents, and their parents, leaving their mark on our last name, our community.
Drink more milk, you’re next to lead, drink more milk may your bones breathe. My grandma chides me. So I drank until all the glasses were empty.
In America, we dance to a different tune, the individual flourishes community like whistling winds wrought from pursed lips. The global styles flirt with rhyme and race, which you run to be at the top of, until you’re beaten, battered, and out of breath.
When you fall, facing great pains that promise growth, like dandelions sprouting from a shattered rock, community is built, brick-by-brick, by individual thought, each unique in our melting pot
But six years later, with love’s life larger and greater, I’m still dancing, going “cha-cha-cha” six years later.
BY KATHERINE HSIN-TING HSIEH, NEW CITY, NY
PHOTO BY KARRAH HEATHER THOMAS, CLEVELAND, TN
The Art of Hair Oiling
This is how my mother and I hold on to each other. She, with her gentle touch, applies coconut oil to all the places that hurt. The oil melts in her rugged hands, and yet there can be nothing softer than the way she handles me. She plaits my hair into a braid, weaning her pain in and out, and I try my best to carry her grief with the same gentleness.
We sit in silence, and I am hit with a loud reminder:
We don’t touch each other often enough, don’t embrace as much as we used to.
Instead of asking her for a hug, I offer to oil her hair in return. I am met with an ocean of grey and black strands.
I keep forgetting that we are running out of time.
BY RHEA CHOUDHARY, IRVING, TX
ARTWORK BY MAKAYLA RAPHAEL, MAITLAND, FL
Tragic Magic
His coffee brown eyes are the peace I have searched for in every existing place
BY SAMANTHA PARAMO, KING CITY, CA
Loving in Silence
i love in silence i stare from the darkness wishing to one day just be brave and show my true colors to a black and white world that deprives fun for people like us who from the corner of the room stare and wait to one day be free from loving in silence
BY ARIANA AGUIRRE, NUEVO CHIMBOTE, PERU
Siren Song
Like the siren, I am the huntress of the sea; a vision in the moonlight. Like the sea, I am the captor of the free; I take what they lose sight of. What they cannot see is the melody, voices that drowned in the suffocating abyss.
As they search in their boats in jealousy
– Or perhaps in search of identity –I greet the waters with a kiss;
I know the waves of my heartbeat As does the sky its clouds. As the ocean the heart bleeds, And the melodies of the souls allows,
I sing the siren song of a thousand, Awaiting for the water’s grasp on my bleeding heart. The waves call out to me in my gown and, Suddenly, I am lost to stealing art
For I am a vision in the moonlight, Submerged in the sea, I am of the captured. The moon and the waves unite And my siren song has been answered. My body of constellations is one with the sea foam, So for you and me, good sailor, this is goodbye. With the voices of poets, I roam. In the melodies of the souls, may my body lie.
BY ELLA CUTTS, WEST ALLIS, WI
the notes we should have left on
at the age of five, you crashed into my ribs the bus trudging forth beneath your young feet graciously throwing you into me, tangled in the locks of my hair as you were a visitor i had not expected in the abode of my seat yet one i inevitably made space for in the years to come at the age of seven, we began to build skyscrapers and towers of silver crafted merely from the Lego blocks discovered in the shadows beneath my bed only to topple them down with our delicate young hands as we chugged water from our ceramic mugs pretending it was herbal tea that cascaded down our throats instead at the age of nine, we were sisters, founded in spirit not flesh our families played along in our silly little game one in which the gods made a mistake, us not born from the same womb but no matter, they fixed it, thrusting their hands through the air to push you onto me, to bind us at the hip, the way they had properly intended at the age of eleven, you had your own seat amongst the dinner table, your own silverware to match your ginger freckles, your own blanket that rested atop my bed for whenever you would return and that you would, soon and sure as school released you from its daily grasp and like that, we would pick up where we had left off, our adolescence reigniting at the age of thirteen, we floated on pool noodles above chilled waters, but despite the ice gnawing at our shaven shins, it was our dreams that absorbed our thoughts, collecting each and every one as eggs in a basket planning our futures out like blueprints, carefully aligned with a matching instruction the promised days that we would share together, outlined hour by hour at the age of fifteen, it was only me you had in your embrace for months your other friends faded to the background, no more than an extra in a movie, and youthfulness filled your lungs, a breath of air once lost to our early years, as our sisterhood had returned, a strike of lightning the gods could not miss,
one that seeped into their memories, spilling over all others at the age of sixteen, you had new friends, new faces i could only make out from the stories you told the one about the blonde, the one about the brunette, both infatuated with gossip and alongside the passing breeze, they whispered back a story to me about you that a boy had kissed you at a party, sweet and chaste as a bee and a flower yet i ignored it, blind to the reality that childhood began to drain from your heart
at the age of seventeen, your teens had been sapped away from you the childish giggle and lousy smile ceased to show, hidden behind a veil, one you would not let me unravel, secrets of yours t hat my ears would no longer hear as the time that was pledged to me by the entanglement of our pinky fingers was no longer mine the minutes, hours, and days once held in my palm belonged to another name written with hearts and now, at the age of eighteen, my tongue struggles to say your name a muscle memory now forgotten with time, our childhood, threadbare, so much about you gone, all except the promises we had once breathed and the future that i tattooed to the back of my hand
i think of our cat, milo, who would now be shared between you and someone i will not know, and our dream of traveling, one that will not make it alive out of this country, and our beautiful, beautiful memories, that are now never to be made, only to be experienced with another
at the age of seven, i had not realized that growing up meant growing apart, but at the age of eighteen, i curse the gods for not letting me know it sooner.
BY MADISON COSSABOOM, NEWARK, DE
PHOTO BY CAITLYN GILLMAN, DE PERE, WI
ART GALLERY
CREDITS
1. ARTWORK BY ANNABELLE SIMBOLI, GRANDVIEW, NY 2. ARTWORK BY CAITLYN KIM, CERRITOS, CA
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