Teen Ink magazine - January 2024 by Teen Ink magazine

January 2024

By teens, for teens

the

PERFORMING ARTS!

ONE-, TWO- AND FOUR-WEEK INPERSON PROGRAMS Session 1: July 6-19 Session 2: July 21-August 3 Live and learn on Smith College campus with fellow high-school students from around the world. Be immersed in your course of study!

Women, Gender and Representation Summer Science and Engineering Creative Writing Sustainable Futures College Readiness

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CONTENTS

January 2024 Volume 38 | Issue 6

ON THE COVER ARTWORK BY MILES WEINER, ARLINGTON, MA

Contests & Call for Submissions!

The Language of Ballet Death of the Pointe Shoe The Dancer’s Puzzle What it Took To Be a Good Dancer

Teen Ink News

Music A Musical Drawing A Memorable First Performance Marching into Maturity

Dance

Contest Winners Ballads!, 18 Hobbies!, 22 Performing Arts, 26 & 28

Theater Stepping into Character My Dream Career: Acting Good For You

26 3

Letter from the

Editor Dear Teen Ink Readers, We’re back with another edition of Teen Ink magazine, and we’re focusing on performing arts! We’ve noticed that music, dance, and theater seem to be very popular hobbies throughout the Teen Ink community, so once again, we want to dedicate an issue to them all! We are thrilled to share your experiences of the performing arts and hope you enjoy them as much as we do. Along with these wonderful pieces, we have also featured the winners of three Teen Ink contests — our Performing Arts and Hobbies art contests and Ballads poetry contest. We loved seeing all your submissions for these contests and can’t wait to see your entries for future ones! We’re ecstatic to have you in the Teen Ink community and love that you are bringing us into your 2024. We are excited to see what this year holds for each of you. Here’s to another fantastic year! As always, we welcome your feedback! You’re welcome to write a letter to an editor or submit artwork, photographs, written works, and poetry to www.teenink.com/submit.

The Teen Ink Team

Submit

Click Here to Submit Your Work

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Enter our Contests!

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Winners receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

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We Also Need:

• Articles about love and relationships • Articles about friends and family • Stories about platonic love

• Articles & poems telling what you’re passionate about • Book, TV show, movie, and music reviews! 5

a musical drawing

ARTICLE BY HAYLEY DUNN, GLEN ALLEN, VA PHOTO BY MARIAN DE SILVA, GAMPAHA, SRI LANKA

MUSIC

My weary eyes felt like rubber bands that were stretched out too far and would snap shut the moment I lay down. It was a Friday in midApril, and I was exhausted after a long school day. I wished for nothing more than to dash home as quickly as possible and relax, but instead, I had to go to my violin lesson. I dragged my heavy feet, which felt like they were coated with cement, to the entrance of the violin studio. Inside, the atmosphere was hot and stifling. It was a small room surrounded by depressing white walls lined with foam silencers to make the area soundproof. There was no room for echoes, and the only noise was the muffled, scratchy sound coming from my violin. The room seemed to close down on me as time went by. I was playing an excerpt of the “Moldau” by Bedřich Smetana to my teacher, but I simply could not play with emotion. I followed all the notations on the sheet music, played with correct articulation and dynamics, and crescendoed where I was supposed to. However, I still managed to make music describing the life of spring with blooming flowers and blissful gardens, sounding like flowers screaming in despair and dying bitter, miserable deaths. My violin teacher sat

I PLAYED WITH SUCH EXCEPTIONAL, BRILLIANT EXPRESSION, WHICH I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO DO BEFORE completely still and listened carefully to my playing, and I huffed in frustration as I saw her eyebrows furrow. She stood up abruptly and walked towards me, studying the sheet of music with deep concentration as if she was trying to understand what it was saying to her. She asked me what the piece’s mood was and in which style I was supposed to play the music. I stared at her blankly and shrugged. I was exhausted and only wished for the lesson to end. She paused momentarily and suddenly pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. “Can you draw an image of what you think a typical day in the forest during spring would look like?” she asked. I stared at her in confusion, thinking it was one of the pranks she liked pulling on

her students. However, I obliged and took her pencil and began to sketch. I let my imagination run and pictured the scenery in my mind. I started by drawing lush, green grass that tickled my palms when I ran my hands through it and a beech-brown forest that was a woody heaven. Squirrels and wildlife scurried on the earthy undergrounds of the woods. Butterflies lazily fluttered in the sky full of dreamy clouds, with chords of magnificent light glowing through them. Wildflowers bloomed in all types of vivid colors, and feathery moss and wild berries ripened under the leafy dome of the forest. Of course, a sapphire-blue stream was also lacing through the forest grounds. It was glistening like a thousand diamonds blessed by the sun when it hits just right. A few minutes later, I completed my sketch. I put down the pencil and admired my drawing. “Now, pick up the violin and play this excerpt again with this vivid imagery in your mind,” my violin teacher said. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play. The introduction of pizzicato notes and syncopated rhythm was like a capturing magic spell, playfully luring unsuspecting people into the dreamy forest. Then, beautiful staccato notes were played in a gentle brush-stroke motion, musically depicting morning dewdrops and scenic mountain springs in a magnificent forest setting. One phrase leads to another, just like the nature of a freeflowing stream, and as the piece’s main theme is introduced, I played with such exceptional, brilliant expression, which I have never been able to do before. As I wrapped up the piece, my teacher was stunned into silence. She paused and blinked for a moment. “That was the best playing I’ve ever heard from you so far,” she said in astonishment. “Who knew drawing out the scenery would help you better interpret the music? Maybe sometimes all we need is to use our creativity and try different methods when we face difficulties.” Since that unusual yet inspiring violin lesson, I have not only learned to interpret the piece better but also essential problem-solving skills that I could implement into my daily life. By looking at things from a different approach, using my creativity, and paying attention to small details, I am able to find solutions for even the most complex problems. To this day, I am still beyond grateful to my violin teacher for teaching me such a valuable life skill. MUSIC

A MEMORABLE FIRST

PERFORMANCE

MUSIC

ARTICLE BY FELICE CIPUTRA, JAKARTA, INDONESIA

PHOTO BY XU ZHAO, SHANGHAI, CHINA

I stood at the entrance and looked up at the tall, imposing structure of the grand theater. After staring at it every day for almost two years, I finally had a chance to perform there. I walked in, trying to concentrate on the piece I would be playing, but my mind fleeted every now and then, unable to keep focus on anything for long.

greeted the keys like an old friend, and it led me through the maze of darkness. The haze of fear that dawned on my mind had been cleared. I smiled as a newfound focus was instilled in me.

I passed grand hallways, climbed up long, winding staircases, and finally arrived at the main auditorium. For years, I had dreamed of gazing up at the glass-domed ceiling, waltzing through the hallways, and playing the elaborate piano at the gold-gilded stage — and here I was, at last. My insides were twisting, my heart was drumming, and my mind was frightened blank. It screamed, turn away and leave! This couldn’t possibly end well. My palms were clammy and goosebumps rose along my skin, but I kept walking, trying to ignore the pooling sense of dread in my gut. It only worsened when I saw how the audience filled the seats to the brim. The glaring spotlight did not help either — I was the center of everyone’s attention like a mannequin at the window display of a boutique, and the audience was hidden in the darkness. I felt incredibly exposed as if my heart was put out for everyone to observe. My feet hurried over to reach the piano in its grandiose. I sat rigidly on its ebony chair, thankful for the instrument’s slight cover from the audience’s peering eyes.

The melody swept throughout the theater, echoing against its beautiful ornate walls. My fingers ran all on their own accord, playing the piece I had composed with love and practiced almost every single day for months. Months and months of training would not betray me. White keys and black keys, sharps and flats, I played them all. Each chord sent out a spectrum of colors that deeply resonated with my being. The piece that had started out lightly had built into a roaring wave. It washed away any lingering feelings of doubt, uncovering the joy that was hidden underneath — the story of my heart’s content. Before I knew it, the final key was pressed, and the last note reverberated across the nowsilent auditorium, echoing like a reminder of a dream that had finally come to life. Slowly, the crowd reappeared in my peripheral vision, and I caught the motion of them standing to their feet. The air soon filled with standing ovation, and I bowed, incredibly relieved at last.

I KNEW THAT THIS MOMENT, THIS FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE THEATER, WAS SOMETHING THAT I WOULD NEVER FORGET

Calming my racing heart, I delicately rested my fingers on the smooth ivory keys. All other thoughts disappeared as I marveled at its beauty. Where I had been so anxious just moments before, I now felt a steady calmness flowing through me. A sense of peace overtook my being. All I have to do is focus.

As the applause died, I took a deep breath and looked around the theater. It was as beautiful as I had imagined it would be. The fear and anxiety I felt beforehand no longer resurfaced when I gazed at the audience; only elation remained. As I took my final bow and walked off the stage, I knew that this moment, this first performance at the theater, was something that I would never forget. It was a culmination of all my hard work, determination, and passion for music, a reminder that fear and doubt can always be conquered with these factors.

The first keys were played with hesitant fingers, but then the crowd and the world soon faded from my vision, and I was alone. I

It was the beginning of a long journey, and there would be many more exhilarating moments to come.

MUSIC

MARCHING INTO MATURITY ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS

MUSIC

Sometimes, what the heart wants is not always what’s best. Taking a step back and making a mature yet difficult decision can lead to happiness. If someone had asked me which college I wanted to attend in my sophomore year of high school, I would have said Ohio State University, yet somehow, I still ended up at ASU, just 30 miles from my hometown. I have always been a colossal band nerd. For the past five years, I have eaten, slept, breathed, and lived marching band. My experience in music embodies my path into adulthood and life-changing decisions. My passion for band started in fourth grade when my older sister joined the middle school band. Her passion started after she sat in on a band practice when there wasn’t a substitute for one of her classes, and the students needed somewhere to go. Later in the semester, the local high school hosted a middle school night, inviting middle school students to come and play with them in the stands at a football game, which my sister took part in. Being the little brother who couldn’t be left home alone, I had to go as well. I remember walking into the stadium after the band with my mom, in complete awe of them. I can still imagine the tubas swinging in time to the drum cadence and the way the lone silver

MY EXPERIENCE IN MUSIC EMBODIES MY PATH INTO ADULTHOOD AND LIFE-CHANGING DECISIONS tuba among four gold ones gleamed in the stadium lights. I don’t know what captivated me, but I’m glad it did. I decided on the spot that I would be in band so I could be like them.

I began concert band in middle school. My playing embodied my young ambitions. At the time, my instrument, the trumpet, reflected my personality — loud, extroverted, flashy. I wanted attention and worked hard to get it. If that meant

I’m not bad at the tuba: I was one of only four freshmen in the competitive symphonic wind ensemble. I devoted all my free time to the instrument. I had rescued an old, decrepit tuba from a friend’s trash — I saw its potential.

READY, SET, MARCH PHOTO BY MIKAELA ALDECO, SHERMAN, TX

putting in hours a day on the trumpet to catch the eye of my band director or outlandishly taking shots of pickle juice out of bikinishaped shot glasses, I would do it. Still a child in many ways, I had lots of growing to do before I could move on to the next phase of life. As the end of middle school approached, the need to grow up became more apparent. I was going to high school, a place where I would spend my last years of childhood, and I needed to be ready for whatever came after. I started the hellish experience that is high school band camp in the deadly heat of an Arizona summer. The tuba was excruciating to pick up and move, and every day was harder than the last. I was hot and exhausted for weeks. Everything hurt. Despite thinking I was going to drop dead at any moment, I survived and started the school year. During concert season, I worked on my playing skills and found out that

Just when I got it working again, I took it apart to give to a family friend who paints low-rider cars for a living; he said he would give it a custom paint job for me. With every breath, I craved the tuba. I started practicing more — enough that I was selected to be in the tuba section during my junior year and qualified for the Juniper Regional Band, the most difficult to get into in the state. Tuba was no longer just a hobby; it was part of my identity. This realization was a turning point. I tried even harder and got further. I started growing up. I became more responsible by taking on more projects in school and becoming a section leader in my band, in addition to working a part-time job. Other people took me seriously, too. My parents stopped treating me like a child and saw me as the adult I quickly became. I attribute this self-growth to pushing myself in music. More importantly, I took myself seriously. I realized that I had potential, and it would mean wasting a chance at a meaningful MUSIC

life if I didn’t aim higher than my part-time job and high school marching band. Despite my band being a second home for me, the place I could become the best version of myself, it also functioned as a source of personal anguish. During my senior year, I struggled with my home and personal life. Marching band had always been a way for me to express myself, but in my senior year, stress and anxiety cast a dark shadow over every part of my life, including the parts that previously brought me the most happiness. Issues I had before were somehow amplified by having to go to practice every day. Any personal progress from the years leading up to my emotional downfall quickly dissipated. When I thought all hope for me was lost, I turned to my band friends and realized that, without them, I would never have found my passionate self or maybe even be alive. For the second time, band became my foundation for rebuilding myself stronger than before. This cemented my need to continue my band career. Growing up means making decisions. I had always looked up to

unless I wanted to be in debt into my mid-forties, I didn’t bother applying. With a heavy heart, I applied in-state, to ASU, knowing I was giving up on my dream. But at least I was going to make it through college without draining my parents’ accounts. Debt-free was better than dotting the “i” in “Script Ohio” (an OSU pregame tradition where The Best Damn Band In The Land spells “Ohio” in cursive, and a tuba player is the dot of the “i”). I was crushed, but I still needed to do band since it was the main source of my happiness. I needed something to keep my spirits up. I decided to make the most of my situation and started researching my options at ASU. I quickly learned I had been sitting on a goldmine for years without knowing it. The ASU Sun Devil Marching Band is one of the best marching bands in the country and in 1991, received the John Philip Sousa Foundation Sudler Trophy, the highest award in collegiate marching bands. Signing my name on my application to the SDMB felt scarier than signing my contract with ASU, but I pushed through. Going to pre-band-camp events was terrifying. No one else from my high school had joined me, and I didn’t know anybody. Walking onto

THIS LAST SEASON HAS BEEN ONE I WOULDN’T TRADE FOR ANYTHING. THOUGH A LIFETIME HASN’T PASSED YET, I KNOW AT THE END OF IT, I WILL STILL BE FRIENDS WITH THE STRANGERS I WAS SO SCARED OF IN THE SUMMER OF 2022 Ohio State University’s marching band: “The Best Damn Band In The Land.” For years, I wanted to be like them, just like I wanted to be in the high school band as a fourth grader. I really thought I was going to be, too — I was wrong. Financial reality can be brutal sometimes. Knowing I couldn’t afford OSU 12

MUSIC

the practice field with 350+ strangers was the most intimidating thing I’ve ever done. I’m so glad I went through with it. Division I athletics definitely has its perks. After coming from an underfunded program in rural Arizona, a state well-known for slashing education budgets, I felt

spoiled by the ASU budget, especially because I didn’t need to pay hundreds of dollars into the program as I did in high school because my tuition covered it. Instantly, I was awarded shirts, shorts, pants, a jacket, a backpack, a water bottle, food, and countless hours of top-rated instruction from the state’s best music educators. Though this is nothing compared to the stuff athletes get, it was life-changing. This last season has been one I wouldn’t trade for anything. Though a lifetime hasn’t passed yet, I know at the end of it, I will still be friends with the strangers I was so scared of in the summer of 2022. I’m happy I couldn’t afford to go to OSU because, if I had, I wouldn’t have become part of the SDMB. This semester marks the end of my career thus far, but hopefully, I can start again in the fall. Through college band, I have matured immensely. My transition from a terrified high school student to a confident and comfortable college student taught me that good things can come from what initially seemed like a bad situation. I’ve become more adult in my decisionmaking by making life-changing choices, such as going to college and joining band, regularly. I can stand up for myself in ways I never thought I could a year ago, like when I was able to say no to participating in the well-known and wild ASU party scene because band practice and my education are more important. This year, I have learned how to become a better, more functional individual as I near the end of my metamorphosis through the band. I was wrong, and that’s probably for the best. Some say to make the most of a bad situation, but the situation was never bad; I just didn’t realize how good it was. I love doing band and getting to pursue it, possibly one last time at this level, is the greatest privilege I’ve had. Doing band has been the most formative experience of my life so far.

ART GALLERY 1

CREDITS 1. ARTWORK BY ANANYA GUHA, BHOPAL, INDIA 2. PHOTO BY ANONYMOUS 3. ARTWORK BY SANA VIKAS, DAVIE, FL

PHOTO BY ABBIE PRICE, BRYANT, AK ART GALLERY

stepping into

character

ARTICLE BY SOPHIE LANDRY, NASHVILLE, TN

I am more me when I am not me. Covering myself in stage makeup and manipulating my natural hair in my dressing room, I step into a vortex. I am no longer a bubbly junior who moved cross-country midway through high school but a mysterious, wealthy housewife and later a henchman doing the bidding of my frightening boss. In the mid-1930s, foreshadowing the impending World War, I am first a blissfully unaware counterpart to my evil husband looking to stir up trouble. I welcome the unsuspecting hero kindly, but not too kindly, into my sprawling mansion with an uncountable number of rooms. During the next act, I transform into a subordinate tasked with getting rid of the dashing hero. In the process, I crash a West End show and run into a flock of sheep. The adventures I have over the course of just two hours are enough to last me a lifetime. I felt naively confident when I started acting classes right after my freshman year. I had spent an entire year immersing myself in movies and television shows, ARTWORK BY JANE DOE, XX, XXX relegated to my bedroom during the COVID-19-19 pandemic. My classroom lectures took a backseat to more critical forms of education — HBO, Netflix, Hulu, and Prime, just to name a few. Instead of spending 14

THEATER

hours and hours memorizing the periodic table, I spent a week straight learning Amy March’s monologue from “Little Women.” She laments her desire to “be great or nothing,” finally being upfront with Laurie after years of torment. I spent days pouring over the hidden meanings in her word choice or the way she delivered one sentence in a completely different manner than another. I imagined myself in a silk gown, petticoat, and lace gloves, wanting nothing more than to achieve what I’ve always wanted. Sometimes, I took myself to more modern times, teaching myself Mia’s monologue from “La La Land” about not being good enough to succeed. Mia has only ever wanted one improbable thing and is left with a final choice: to give it all up or sacrifice her happiness. I found a piece of myself in every character I watched, and in exchange, I found a piece of that character in me. Over the course of that year and a half in isolation, I compiled a list of all of the movies and TV shows I indulged in. The list serves as a time capsule into my experience as a teenager, realizing my passion for acting and cinema as a whole. All 88 titles remind me of something different, from aimlessly reciting lines in my room to a family movie night in my new house

ARTWORK BY SABRINA XU, OAKLAND GARDENS, NY

away from my loved ones. Some people watch films to numb their minds, but to me, it’s like watching my world expand, even if it’s limited to my computer screen or a television. I wanted not only to watch the experience but also to participate in it. I find it ironic that my starting acting classes were synonymous with my emotional first year of high school outside of Los Angeles. I had friends whose parents were actors back home, and there were too many classes to count in my old neighborhood. Yet, I started acting as soon as I moved somewhere that only has three classes offered for my age in the whole city. My hands shook with fear as they called my name to perform my scene. In front of a room of strangers surveying me with watchful eyes, I delved into a new facet of myself, unlike anything I’d experienced before. I wanted nothing more than to prove to myself that my passion was really worth anything. Thankfully, I was met with assuring smiles and praise from both my instructor and peers. I actually felt at home. Now that I’m a more practiced actor, I’ve realized acting and school have never been opposites. What I learn in one, I funnel into the other. Roles about the

early 20th century allows AP U.S. History to come alive; I can almost hear the swing music pulse through my ears, bringing me to a time I’ve only ever watched movies about. By diving into a character with greatly differing life experiences from my own, I start to better understand the reasoning behind their

I WANTED NOTHING MORE THAN TO PROVE TO MYSELF THAT MY PASSION WAS REALLY WORTH ANYTHING actions. I have started to apply this to my everyday life, which has given me more profound empathy and perception of those around me. Strangers can quickly become unimportant entities in everyday life, but acting has opened me up to the possibility that everyone has their own story. Even the most mundane teacher or disagreeable classmate has a narrative to be told. I walk through the world with a new set of attentive eyes; anything can be inspiration for a tale worth telling.

THEATER

My Dream Career:

ACTING BY ELLIE BOYCE, NASHOTAH, WI

Watching from the crowd, six-yearold me gripped the seat in front of me. Peeking over, eyes sparkling, I knew I found something special. Ever since I was a kid, I have been completely infatuated with acting. Seeing one person alone leave a stillness, a deafening quiet that presses against the audience’s chest, or just acting out something so real, so deeply felt, you can affect those emotionally around you always fascinated me. Quickly, I knew I wanted to get involved as soon as possible… Not only did seeing shows spark the flame, but I was also often told, even as a child, that I should try it. To get involved, my mom began to put me in acting academies like

PHOTO BY LIZ STRUT, BUFFALO, NY 16

THEATER

First Stage, where I immediately fell in love with it. The people were so fun to work with, comfortable, and encouraging. The experience taught me how to never let fear, discomfort, or embarrassment prevent me from doing what I love. Taking risks, being a leader, and never doubting yourself are just a few of the first lessons I embraced while learning. Everything about it was so fun and perfect; my heart had settled. Not long after, I auditioned for school shows, I got involved in forensics (speech, debate, and group/solo acting) and community and professional theater. I never got sick of it all. Not only did I love it, but after third, second, and first place trophies at state for forensics each year, I felt proud that acting was not only my passion but a talent, too. Most interests of mine have only stuck around for a small amount of time before I find something more exciting or lose that interest I had at first. But with acting, each and every time I step on stage with others who have the same smile and spark in their eyes, I continue to get that rush that no other interest has ever come close to giving me. But one of my favorite parts of theater is the people. Not only do they feed into that passion, but they are a community of

people who spend so much time with each other and are forced to be vulnerable. Your castmates become your closest friends, creating a community that couldn’t be closer or more accepting of each other. Over these 10 years, I have seen Broadway shows, modeled, participated in student films and acting camps, performed in ensembles or as leads in community and professional theater, and even wrote my college essay about theater. From the beginning, I have consistently reached for every opportunity to perform, and I want to continue to do what I love in any possible way I can. While I’m not pursuing acting as a career, I want to try and continue it as a hobby. I fear that if I depend on theater to make money and make it a career instead, I will lose the love and drive I have. Pursuing it in my free time will allow me to perform without that pressure and only have to care about my passion for it. So, ultimately, I plan on continuing my passion by minoring in Theater in college and getting involved in related clubs, like drama club. Acting has given me so much, It has become a piece of me that I never want to let go of. I am incredibly excited to see where the next chapters after high school take me, and hopefully, one day, it becomes more than just a dream.

Good for

You Blackout.

This is it. Months of preparation and excitement leading up to these scarce times. The moment is here. The lights suddenly blind me at every angle as everyone’s eyes find me. What if I’m not ready? What if I mess up? What if it doesn’t live up to my fantasies? The music commences and rushes through my veins. The tune eases my body to allow the knots in my stomach to unravel and the lump in my throat to dissipate. Act big. Belt it out. I try to remind myself. However, my muscle memory has taken over, and my erratic overthinking has no chance to interfere. I love this. I love everything about this. The burning of the lights, the gentle heat radiation off my body, my energy at its maximum, the firm wooden stage supporting my every decision, the encouragement from the audience, but mostly the tenderness of knowing that my parents are somewhere in this sea of people tearing up from pride of their not-so-little, little girl. Every stressful thought. Every exhausting day. Every single ounce of effort… it’s been worth it.

ARTICLE BY MARGARET WALLOCH, HARTLAND, WI

THEATER

art & photography contest

“ENIGMA OF DOLLHOOD” BY ESTHER JU, CLIFTON PARK, NY

CONTEST RESULTS

CREDITS

1. “AN AVID BIBLIOPHILE” BY DELANEY MCFADDEN, MULLICA HILL, NEW JERSEY 2. “EXPLORING THE DEEP BLUE” BY JEAN KIM, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 3. “MY HOW THEY’VE GROWN!” BY MADILYN CHARLES, ENSIGN, KN

CONTEST RESULTS

2 20

CONTEST RESULTS

CREDITS

1. “SINGLE PLAYER” BY PHIA NEILSON, KNOXVILE, TN 2. “ART FOR LIFE” BY ANONYMOUS 3. “REFLECTIVE SIGHT” BY ANONYMOUS 3. “VOICE” BY MILES WEINER, ARLINGTON, MA

CONTEST RESULTS

BALLADS poetry contest!

ARTWORK BY HEEJAE KIM, CHESTNUT HILL, MA

languid tunes Singing so very softly I’ve studied the lies of my youth They shouted that I’d been losing my glow And the light I paint with my poetry Will never fill crevices of a shattered soul

Nostalgia The days are getting shorter and I grow taller My aura softens as dusk cradles glistening dawn In watercolors, I search for a trace of grief But my soul feels no coercion from past wrongs Nostalgia seeped through faded bus rides And flooded the midnight blue of my days It clouded my perception, infected my message And took my pearl away I ignored the pleas of my potential Excuses muddled my mind — I, stirred and shaken, Thought I couldn’t go on with frayed edges Deep in my bones, since my creation But lately I’ve stopped wishing on stars And waltzing with distant memory Under placid waves bubble

CONTEST RESULTS

They still ask for more, but now they’re lower Subject to faint tip-toe Nostalgia no longer implores — Finally! It fell below the horizon A new persuasion knocks at my window And sheds new light into my eyes A blossoming has overtaken me Lullabies transformed to triumphant melody BY MAXINE ZAHLER, LONG BRANCH, NJ

*** Trance It’s a strange night, The trees are reening, The light dims down so we have a freight, And we settle in for the screening While the music blares in our site, All we can think about is the streaming, While its a quarter past eight,

We left that theater gleaming We left in a trance, Not remembering the place, As the lance game whipping down, Is it alright to come out? With a consequence, Comes a grieving spirit, Of the last time I was in a trance, We became delirate. BY RILEY SMITH, TOLEDO, OH

Expressions of Unearthly Love A mirage of colour swallows my sight. An expression of love beckons from He, Would you die for your art, and move to the height? Would I succumb to ardour, drown in its sea? The windswept moon’s sallow stirs a response, Like a pierced heart which throbs with ecstasy. The blessing remains from the renaissance – I can find my saviour’s complexity. A living sacrifice that spilled His red, Now allows my soul to convey new hue.

My love defines my life and fills my head With vivid cries for the dreamers of true. But in all the outpour of shouting art, There is no greater depth than in your heart. BY ANONYMOUS

Ballad of Liberation A Dragonfly rides windy waves, Collides with tawny moths. Sapphire swallowtails do dive After stillness for months. The table’s set by Queen Anne’s Lace For all blackflies and bees. Though when they try to settle there, They are blown by the breeze. Long had they been the prisoner Of winter’s frost and ice. But now they flutter, crawl, and squirm, It’s spring so they rejoice. BY SYDNEY DAVIS, CARBONDALE, IL

Musicians Playing under the willow tree, The sweet instruments float, Producing golden melodies, A new feeling in every note. I’m jealous of the musicians, Their friends are instruments, No one else to say anything, About their diligence. The deep bass supports the music, Weaving through the music, The violin’s notes going high, With the hollow acoustic. I want to play those instruments, But little do I know, They also want to make music, The music through words that show We’re all equal musicians, They’re making music by playing, While I’m making music by speaking,

Sharing my words by seeking, The melodic quality of words. And in my opinion, Poetry just adds a bit more, To these musical sounds of language, That makes us all musicians.. BY SOEUN LEE, TENAFLY, NJ

Goodbye With every blink, with every breath, As if widowed, I mourn for you Needless to say, The Americano you would brew The scars you ignored, the signs I missed The pain in my eyes you saw It was so different when you first saw My pain you promised to sew. A sneak peak on the screen revealed a wide spectrum of betrayal At times I wonder if I should have kept quiet, If doing so would have canceled what was real

Because a war has come to seize He was born to be free Ruling the golden grasslands His spirit was the harmony In the music of woodlands He had a vivid shiny mane Magestic as the colours of dawn He would grace the wind As he galloped in the early morn Now that sheen has been replaced With the aggressing colours of misery He wasn’t a carefree happy midnight horse He was the charcoal horse of royalty His stable master always said “You are good, so you are chosen It’s an honour for you to have That you, by the king be taken.” But what sin is being good? He would think and flashback to The meadows where his mother Told him of horses like him too! “Remember dearest,” she would say “Our pride lies in our goodness for The heart’s an arrow and you the bow Aim true and bloom like a flore.”

You said we needed a break My heart you break with all the spikey words. The thing you leave, ache

Now, he ran through The simmering lava of hatred With his master on his back Killing his kind as he prayed

You hit and run my body and soul. My fragile heart you chose to ignore in Seoul

Prayed to be freed again To dauntlessly chase the doves To lie down on the cool grass And greet the shimmering stars

Like two loving swans, you loved me, and I loved all about you. Once a lover, now a traitor. Someone I sue.

He had aimed to be good A brave, intelligent proud horse What wrong had he done To be a part of this blood-shed so worse

It’s for both of us when it’s just another girl you buy I refuse to go back. No regrets, this is a goodbye

He had been happy when The royals had taken him away He was to be the king’s horse He had bounced and neighed all the way

BY SUBIN PARK, FUKUOKA, JAPAN

Ballad of a Warhorse The Earth sparkles in crimson Not ‘cause its bejeweled with rubies Its the blood of innocents

If only he had known The castle would be his shackles But now it was too late He had already bruised his knuckles One by one he saw As all his mates fell He couldn’t even give them a glance

CONTEST RESULTS

Only a silent farewell What do you gain? He questioned the king Why aren’t you happyWith your own cozy living? He too joined his mates As an arrow found its mark He saw the king push him away As, with a scowl he embarked You have never known satisfaction He said as his soul swept away You have wanted too much And never wanted to share away

Strangers and lovers turned to stone In a heart-wrenching maze Her wide-eyed innocence stolen By fate’s unyielding blaze

Then I began to play sometimes, like in the apple store. Always did I hate the times when I could not play no more.

Perseus, hailed as a hero After she had been slain

The times when no one else could care, You helped me feel alright. That time when I was stuck at home, You made the future bright.

Death had it’s own life He thought as he heard His mates calling out to him To the paradise as he emerged

That is why when you take blame I never understand. How could you cause not right but wrong, They don’t know you firsthand.

When he would look down Upon the blood-smeared world He would just pity them ‘cause Harmony won’t be their’s to be earned.

Until that time when I got stuck In crisis I couldn’t stop. So then I gave you all the blame in hopes my role would drop.

BY ANANYA GUHA, BHOPAL, INDIA

Humanity Humanity slowly crumbles Like sand slipping through dainty fingers Cries heard, no one helps The sound only lingers Everyone is against each other The fakeness pollutes the air A smell so strong, it drives you crazy To the point where even a friendly face seems to deliver a nasty glare Attention seekers blinded by their ego They’ll betray anyone if it means success Greed dominates their personality This concept, too evil to process So how do we fix this? Is it too late? The world needs fixing Or is this its new fate BY ANONYMOUS

Dear Videogames I used to think you were so cool,

Atop my father’s lap. I watched as plants fought zombies and Appeared with just a tap.

CONTEST RESULTS

Of course the problems did not stop, Suddenly my fault was real. But now I cannot help but think, Was all you did conceal BY MATTHEW KIM, LOS ANGELES, CA

Medusa In a realm of gods and monsters, A tragic tale unfolds, Of fair maiden turned foul creature, A curse that could not be controlled Her beauty rivaled that of gods, Which no one could deny, For which she suffered the gaze of Poseidon’s lustful eye Powerless against his desires, Blamed for the sea god’s sin, Medusa bore Athena’s wrath, Cursed for his violation Now banished from the realm of man, In solitude she roamed A lost soul longing for a home In a world she bemoaned Her once luscious tresses now snakes, An end to peaceful days, Her once lovely blue eyes cursed with A petrifying gaze

He held her head like a trophy Forged from a woman’s pain Oh, Medusa, how your tears fall, silent streams of sorrow Your cries of agony unheard From dusk ‘till the morrow Did they wonder about the heart Behind the viper’s hiss? Did they ever feel guilty of The pain they would dismiss? Was it lonely on that island, Forced into solitude? Afraid of your own reflection, Your mood always subdued? Cursed and punished for your beauty, Slain for your lack thereof, The villain in your own story Yet capable of love So tell me about Medusa, Let the stories unfurl They screamed and called her a monster, But she was just a girll BY AIGERIM BIBOL, BETHESDA, MD

The Ballad of Life As I journey into the all-so-bright Light, from the dark, I think to myself, How did I leave my mark? Recalling past troubles, feats, and good times, I realize I wouldn’t give any of them up for a dime All of the woes, tragedies and such, Made me who I am, and for that I thank them much For who are we, but the product of perseverance? A fact while alive, I did not grasp its coherence The cold, cold dark of the infinite void, Most would give everything, simply to avoid

I embrace it with pride, knowing my life was well-spent Recalling all of the paths, in my life that I went Down, down, down, falling, falling down My smirk of pride, quickly turns into a frown All of those whom I loved, cared for and adored Realizing that all of them will be left at the Door As cold as the dark, tears run down my face, Recalling those close to me, whom I have disgraced Remembering the quarrels, comments better left unsaid Their love for me, it seems, went over my head My fears finally quell, the tears do subside As I wonder, What is on the other side? Will there be a Heaven, if yes, is there Hell? Was my life really one that was spent well? An eclipse of Darkness, between myself and the light, A person, it seems, as dark as

the night As I look into His face, realizing I have arrived Do I only now know, what it means to be alive BY KADENCE ALEXANDER, BURLINGTON, WA

Whispers of Nature Beneath the sky’s serene and warm embrace Your tresses catch the wind, a gentle chase They curl, they sway, they grace the summer air In ebb and flow, they dance without a care. The sands, like eager crowds, around your feet A noisy, bustling scene, a merry beat They jostle, chatter, fill the shores with cheer Their lively voices ring, so crystal clear. The waves, a choir, embrace your tender song They come, they go, they linger, not too long Their gentle tides, they harmonize with ease A melody that sails, the evening seas.

The sunset’s fingers, soft upon your face A whispered touch, a fleeting, warm embrace In whispers soft, it tells a tale so sweet Of moments cherished, when our souls do meet. BY HANNA HAN, XIAMEN, CHINA

Violet Hour It has your head spinning blindly With its wondrous hues Orbiting and circling your heart Sifting through your blues I’ll be your singing canary On this violet hour Hush if the caves of your mind Fill with thoughts far too sour I will fly around you That saves the hurt During this violent hour To stop the worst I’ll hold you tight until I die Fend you from the sour Forever keep you in my heart On this violet hour BY JIHYE SEO, LINCOLN, NE

PHOTO BY ANONYMOUS

CONTEST RESULTS

The

Performing Arts Artwork & Photography Contest

WINNER ANNOUNCED ON PAGE 28 HONORABLE MENTIONS 1. “DANCING 2” BY ANONYMOUS 2. “BEHIND THE CURTAIN” BY CLAIRE DOH, MCLEAN, VA 3. “BUCHAECHUM: A TRADITIONAL KOREAN FAN DANCE” BY CAITLYN KIM, CERRITOS, CA

PHOTO BY ABBIE PRICE, BRYANT, AK 26

DANCE

the language of

ballet

ARTICLE BY KAYLA SONG, WOODBRIDGE, CT

Since I was three years old, ballet has played a huge role in my life. Ballet taught me the importance of emotional expression. While dancing, I can convey different emotions through physical motions and connect with the audience.

musical influence, my performance feels more authentic, and the audience can sense this. Like words, physical movements become a way of communicating. It allows the audience to better understand the characters we are portraying and to empathize with them. My ballet teacher always says, “With expression

Sometimes, emotions are very difficult to express, especially with words. Because of this, I have learned how to express emotions through ballet, which allows me to interpret the same choreography differently, depending on my feelings. When I dance, I am able to tell a story driven by my emotions and physically embody the complex thoughts that live in my head. Through ballet, I’ve learned that your body will always give away what you feel inside through how you move. When I am happy, my movements are sharp and bright; when I am sad, my movements are slower and low-spirited. My performance suffers when I am anxious or upset because my movements lack emotion.

WHEN I DANCE, I AM ABLE TO TELL A STORY DRIVEN BY MY EMOTIONS AND PHYSICALLY EMBODY THE COMPLEX THOUGHTS THAT LIVE IN MY HEAD

Performing shows like “The Nutcracker,” I have learned the importance of connecting with the audience by embodying these emotions. Music plays a significant role in this process by directly influencing atmospheric tones and, therefore, our (the dancer’s) emotions. For example, when the music is more upbeat, I am inclined to make happier movements. When it is legato, or smoothly connected, my movements follow suit — smoothing, connecting in tandem with this quality of music. This allows me to really get into character and capture the attention of the audience. Since the emotions are genuinely felt due to the

comes connection,” and reminds me of the importance of real expression as a means of connecting with my audience. Through ballet, I have learned a lot about what it means to really perform. Although it seems as though the act of performing can be very contrived, the best performers usually express their genuine emotions and wholeheartedly become their respective characters. Over the years, I’ve learned that ballet is more than just mastering the delicate technical movements; it is essential that your movements convey emotion so that your audience can interpret your story, too.

DANCE

“THE PRINCE”

PHOTO BY ZHIYU ZHENG, SUZHOU, CHINA

THE

ARTICLE BY ANONYMOUS

DANCER’S PUZZLE DANCE

When you think of a puzzle, you see many types, sizes, and amounts of pieces needed to be fully complete. When a piece is missing, there is a noticeable difference, which must be adjusted to be complete. The more pieces you have to your puzzle, the more impressive the outcome will be to a person’s eye. In dance, everyone is a piece of the puzzle, including dancers, coaches, family, and spectators. When a piece is missing, you have to restart and adjust the way you put it together to make it look like no mistake happened and complete it the way it should be. June 13th through 19th, 2022, was one of the most stressful weeks there was in a dancer’s life. Nationals are the ultimate competition to show off your skills and technique to become champions. That year, they selected my studio as one of the best in Minnesota, which became a lot of stress and nerves with all eyes on us. The training and build-up that leads to competition days complete that ultimate puzzle, as each practice day adds up to see the final product, putting it together and showing the puzzle fully completed. The first day of competition was always known as the day for solos, duos, and trios. Senior elite members warmed up for the first round of solos on stage. Soon after, we hear one of our teammates screaming for help, running backstage with the lingering hairspray smell rushing through our bodies; we see her lying on the ground. “Help, I need ice… I stepped wrong while warming up and completely twisted my ankle.” She was sitting there distraught, already knowing that she would be unable to do her solo and our group numbers and production. I watched her just sit there in pain, not knowing what to say, as nothing could help or relieve the pain and sadness she was going through. It is one of the worst things that could happen at a

dance competition. Having this injury affected not only her, but the team and the entire week. “Tomorrow, everyone needs to be here extra early to re-block all dances for the rest of the week.” “I’m sorry, you guys, for this. This was not the week for this to happen.” We all sit and talk to her, explaining how there is no need to be sorry as there is nothing she can do, nor was she expecting this to happen. The sight of the rest of the team and studio surrounding her to sit and help her calm down was the best thing at that point. The next day, walking into the event center, all we could hear was the music and the thoughts in our head, thinking, what will we do? We started the morning by re-blocking all of our dances one hour before going on stage. While warming up and re-blocking, we see our teammate walk in with a boot on her foot. Our hearts dropped into our stomachs. Now, for sure, knowing that she would not be competing for the rest of the week and that a critical piece of the puzzle was missing. “Girls, we can not let this impact the rest of our week. Yes, it is sad to see, but we need to push through now more than ever and show why we are one of the best teams.” The puzzle is not fully complete or correct, as a puzzle piece is missing. Solving how to put the piece back in correctly is finding the right moves and formations to fix what is lost and recognizing that each team member must adjust to figuring out how to take that missing piece out and adjust without her. Walking on stage for our first group dance, we all looked at each other, took a deep breath, and took the stage. We could hear our teammate screaming and cheering for us in the crowd as she sat in the front

row, giving us the happiest smile, considering the circumstances. Walking off that stage with a sigh of relief and a smile on our faces was all we could do as we worked through something difficult and made the best of it. “Yes, although we were all affected by this situation, we went out there and killed it for the circumstance given.” As awards were right around the corner, we had a feeling that people would notice our missing piece. But walking onto the stage and seeing her sitting and waiting for us was like our puzzle was complete in some aspects, and the team was fully together. A dancer will always remember the feeling of the marble floor as they sit on the stage for awards. The bright lights hit our faces, sitting and waiting anxiously for results after being put through a lot in only the first couple of days of competing. It is the best feeling to take off the lipstick that has been on our lips all day, but so is kissing our coach’s cheek after a win, even when missing a critical piece. Some people who do not know much about dance or the structure of competition may not see this issue as such an enormous deal due to a lack of knowledge on how difficult fixing this could be. Some might think that even with someone injured and out of routine, the dance could still continue as it would have without the missing person. As anyone would think, some would relate it to another sports team, like football or basketball, where they find a replacement to fill that position. However, in dance, a set amount of people learn the dance, assuming they will perform and not have fill-ins. Seeing how others view dance is how I would view another sport without much knowledge by asking these types of questions and assuming what they can do for an easy fix. DANCE

death of the

pointe shoe ARTICLE BY ADDISON MOSS, PACIFIC PALISADES, CA

Handcrafted by The Butterfly Maker, serried layers of satin, paper, cardboard, and paste arrive at my doorstep in the morning. A pair of pointe shoes is designed by a particular “maker,” each known by signature elements and techniques. Differences are measured in millimeters but give rise to distinct qualities and preferences that engender passionate loyalties. Some have an elongated vamp, a few bear a tapered box, while others offer a shortened shank to flatter one’s arch. After a perennial process of trial and error, I only recently discovered my quintessential match, the Butterfly Maker; Clef Maker is a serviceable second, though not ideal. Opening the package, the tissue crinkles and the yet unseen pointe shoes pronounce their presence with a sharp smell of leather and resin. My adopted pair are swaddled in protective muslin, but the delicious, lustrous blush veneers peek through, and their pristine wings swell with promise. I carefully unwrap objets d’art;XX, theyXXX are full of ARTWORK BYthese JANE DOE, vitality, reflecting an almost metallic shine, sublime in their luminosity. Although my charges have been reverently sculpted, 30

DANCE

they are not yet functional or fit. Armed with honed needles, fibrous thread, and elastic ribbons, I mold the pointe shoes to my particular image. Organizing the pair on my table, I align the ends of the slippery pink ribbon and puncture the shoe, violating its glossy construction. I pull and loop the thread, piercing ties and rims alike, securing my first rough stitch. I continue this process of tugging, stabbing, and suturing until the strips of satin are fastened tightly to the shoes’ throat lines. Although silken and handmade, the pointe shoes are now rebranded by my coarse needlework. This is only the beginning of the revisionary, even reconstructive regimen. Next, crouching down onto my knees, I wield one shoe above my head and hurl it onto the floor with savage force. The pummeling persists, and with each strike, a tremble of pain and pleasure escapes from the shoe. I bang out the sound and discipline their spirit. I set them symmetrically side by side and stand up, digging my heels past the binding and pressing my foot towards the vamp. I grip each shoe and enshrouded toes tightly, stifling the boxes with my hands. The power and heat of my palms tenderize the

paste. Now flattened, I flip the pair off to fracture the shanks; I bend, curve, and contort their cardboard spines to obey the contours of my own morphology. Finally, I peel away the cloth that overlays the shoe’s core. The nails are laid bare. I pry out these spikes with scissors to make my shoes more nimble, staving off little stabs in the feet from these tiny swords. They are perfectly broken. Around midday, I make my way to the theater’s studio. The benignant sun, resplendent in the sky, settles her delicate, equable warmth on me. I enjoy the moment of quiet calm. Upon arriving, however, pursuing peace is like chasing a butterfly. Here, one is easily uneasy amidst the halls of mirrors and sweat-smudged air. A

abandoned our battle. In symbiosis, we embrace mutual dependence and support, leaping and fluttering across the stage. Relaxing into my arches, my pointe shoes invite me to articulate through them while working to stabilize and reinforce my ankles. But our graceful interplay‘s hard fate is ephemeral, and just as I sense Hindemith’s denouement approaching, the boxes begin to fail. My shoes’ tips soften, becoming fleshy and helpless. With each step, I begin to feel my toenails press against the floor beneath. Now, the cellists let out sullen and mournful dirges as if to portend the pair’s demise. What was once stiffnecked and sprightly is now exhausted. For whom and what is the composer’s coda; will I finish the variation before my pointe shoes perish? The last count of eight is forthcoming. As I glide into my double step-over pirouette, I culminate in fourth. And departing off stage, I perceive a timely death. Loss lingers from our simultaneous exit, both uncanny and ordinary. Tomorrow, the Butterfly Maker will offer more supply, and another dancer will perform. But the tiny memory of that ballet’s pure life endures; indeed, it is the strongest of us all.

ON STAGE, MY SHOES BECOME AN EXTENSION OF MYSELF, AND WE MOVE TOGETHER THROUGH THE STEPS, TAKING FLIGHT ACROSS THE STAGE LIKE A HAWK MOTH cacophony of sibilant gossip, crackling cartilage, and taut inhales pervade the space. But as I sit down to warm up, I reflexively submit to my role in this queer spectacle. In preparation, I swathe my fourth toes along with inner and outer bunions in cocoons of padded tape. Blisters are covered with gauze to prevent fantasy-spoiling spots of blood. I don my stained, sour toe pads, still damp from yesterday’s rehearsals. I thrust my foot into my rewrought pointe shoe and coil the ribbons around my ankle; the silky spirals bind and shore my joints, a self-styled Shibari. The shoe’s suffocating embrace chokes my toes and keeps them in place. Taking my first steps on pointe, a searing twinge dashes up my leg. The shoes are avenging their brutal metamorphosis and exact their own violence against my feet. The back brims engrave my Achilles tendons; the narrow frames pinch my bones, which threaten to buckle. Exacting and recalcitrant, my shoes relish their retributive gambit. I find my way to the stage wings. Careful to preserve their surface sheen, I dust my pointe shoes with powdery rosin to create friction; the Marley floors can be slick. The violins reverberate, bellow out of the orchestra pit, and begin Paul Hindemith’s score. I breathe in deep draughts: luscious, nourishing, and smooth as I feel the oxygen flood my lungs. With an intent exhale, I rise up onto demi pointe and emerge into the floodlights. On stage, my shoes become an extension of myself, and we move together through the steps, taking flight across the stage like a hawk moth. Deliberate and without inhibition, gravity no longer constrains us. The silky constructs and I have

PHOTO BY ADDISON MOSS, PACIFIC PALISADES, CA DANCE

WHAT IT TOOK TO BE A “GOOD” DANCER: PERSONAL EXPERIENCES & ISSUES IN THE DANCE WORLD ARTICLE BY ALMOGE FRIEDMAN, LOS ANGELES, CA

TW: Eating Disorders, Abuse I was one of countless little girls who were fascinated by baby pink jewelry boxes with itty-bitty ballerinas that gracefully twirled to angelic music each time the box was opened. I am also sure I am not the only girl whose mother put her into baby dance classes before she was old enough to go to school. However, many four-year-old “prima ballerinas” fell out of love with dance before they could even take it seriously. For whatever

For thousands of years, dance has been renowned for its unique intertwining of artistry and athleticism, showcased through various styles such as ballet, jazz, contemporary, hip-hop, ballroom, and more. It is a performative art: entertaining and therefore positive in its nature. To ask a non-dancer what comes to mind when they hear the word “dance” generates a familiar image: one would probably begin by envisioning women and girls, likely

I LOOK BACK ON MY YOUNGER SELF, WHO WAS SO INFATUATED WITH THE LOOK OF DANCE AS IF IT WAS A PINK UTOPIAN FAIRYTALE, AND WISH SHE KNEW THE MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS IT WOULD CAUSE HER reason, I’ve stuck with it for 13 years, and with that, I have seen behind the baby pink and glitter. Though I cannot pinpoint when exactly it happened, mommy-and-me classes and frilly tutus became a competitive commitment. Within the blink of an eye, an eating disorder, anxiety, perfectionism, tainted self-esteem, abuse, and, arguably the most toxic, a detached yet close-knit community in existence began to consume my and numerous other competitive dancers’ lives.

DANCE

skinny, gracefully turning and leaping to classical music on a stage with ear-to-ear smiles on their faces. Or, one would think of a shiny “sassy” jazz routine, a fiery hip-hop reel, or perhaps the Lifetime show “Dance Moms.” Whatever the image is, when it comes to dance, it is highly deceptive, as many are unaware of what goes on backstage in the studio. For me, that is where it began, where I stood in front of a wall mirror for hours on end, multiple

days a week, every week. I wore form-fitting clothing, per most dance studios’ dress code, and as I did pliés and pirouettes, I watched myself beside the other dancers, all ranging in ability and body type. We were only seven, but from there, we developed a routine of looking back and forth at our bodies and everyone else’s. Gradually, we all developed a shared mindset that “I” had to be better and look better than everyone else. We were simply trained that way and became a team of individuals who all wanted to be better than the other. We also began to notice a pattern: those whom teachers praised were naturally thinner and more flexible dancers, while the rest were heavily criticized and told by teachers that they could “see our lunch” in our bellies. The strange thing was that no matter how much money our parents spent on dance classes or how many mean critiques we were given in return, no one quit. We all were obsessed with the idea of one day, finally being “good,” being the praised one, being in the front of the routine, and, by extension, being thin. Slowly, I worked my way there. Unsurprisingly, my dance teachers began to compliment me around the same time that I turned to

disordered eating habits, excessive stretching, and exercise habits at home. And I kept doing them — I thought that I had finally found the perfect formula for being good, and it became an addiction. Worst yet, every dancer had been doing the same thing: we all developed eating disorders of various kinds and, subsequently, a deeply toxic relationship with dance. Every praise we received, even in the most subtle regard, was the euphoric fuel that kept us going. The times when a teacher kicked us out of class for not being flexible enough or told us that we were “bad” dancers who didn’t deserve our places in the studio knocked our self-esteem further down than it had ever been. In hindsight, it sounds ridiculous. At the time, obsessive perfectionism and eating disorders were the norm, in addition to what I’ve now understood is sexual misconduct: At 13 years old, I was completely blind to the alarming “normality” of

my former, straight-male dance teacher touching his underage female students in inappropriate areas, masking itself as a way to deepen a stretch. I had also accepted his gossip and badmouthing about some dancers to others as the norm, in addition to inappropriate costuming and conversations with students that pushed the boundaries of teacher and student. In these ways, dance became less about the art, athleticism, or even the business but rather a simple means of abuse. After 12 years of blindly appeasing the dance community and its toxic algorithm, I zoomed out for the first time and began to see the inside of the dance world for what it truly is. However euphoric the feeling of stepping on a stage is, and perhaps the award I received for it, the prize is a result of years of abuse and mental health struggles. Not once did I fill the pointe shoes of my ceramic ballerina in a jewelry box; not once did I look like her or become a prima ballerina. Not once

was dance a sparkly, easy, and aesthetically pleasing activity that made me feel beautiful and feminine. For me and competitive dancers across the world, dance was the consumer of our entire lives that, in our naive minds, determined our value as people. Interestingly, I am still a competitive dancer at 17 years old. And for the first time in 13 years, I feel like I can say that I am “better” — not better than everyone else, but rather better than 13-yearold me, both as a dancer and person. I win awards, and though it took a long time, I have found enjoyment in the art itself, without the burden of needing to be the “best.” Still, I look back on my younger self, who was so infatuated with the look of dance as if it was a pink utopian fairytale, and wish she knew the mental health problems it would cause her. While I’d like to call myself a “good dancer” today, I often ask myself if it was all worth it.

PHOTO BY NICOLE DINER, STUDIO CITY, CA

DANCE

ART GALLERY

CREDITS 1. ARTWORK BY ALAYNA CHEN, PLEASANTON, CA 2. ARTWORK BY AXLE DEARMITT, CINCINNATI, OH 3. ARTWORK BY ANONYMOUS 4. ARTWORK BY ABBY LAU, BEIJING, CHINA

ART GALLERY

CONTRIBUTORS THANK YOU! Music Hayley Dunn, 6 Felice Ciputra, 8 Anonymous, 10

Theater Sophie Landry, 14 Ellie Boyce, 16 Margaret Walloch, 17

Dance Kayla Song, 27 Anonymous, 28 Addison Moss, 30 Almoge Friedman, 32

Contests Esther Ju, 18 Delaney McFadden, 19 Jean Kim, 19

Madilyn Charles, 19 Phia Neilson, 20 Anonymous, 20 Anonymous, 21 Miles Weiner, 21 Maxine Zahler, 22 Riley Smith, 22 Anonymous, 22 Sydney Davis, 23 Soeun Lee, 23 Subin Park, 23 Ananya Guha, 23 Anonymous, 24 Matthew Kim, 25 Aigerim Bibol, 25 Kadence Alexander, 25 Hanna Han, 25 Jihye Seo, 25 Anonymous, 26 Claire Doh, 26 Caitlyn Kim, 26 Zhiyu Zheng, 28

Art Galleries Miles Weiner, front cover Marian de Silva, 6 Xu Zhao, 8 Mikaela Aldeco, 10 Ananya Guha, 13 Anonymous, 13 Sana Vikas, 13 Sabrina Xu, 14 Liz Strut, 16 Heejae Kim, 22 Anonymous, 25 Addison Moss, 31 Nicole Diner, 33 Alayna Chen, 34 Axle Dearmitt, 34 Anonymous, 34 Abby Lau, 34 Juno Jiang, back cover

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

Teen Ink is a bi-monthly journal dedicated to publishing a variety of works by teenagers. Teen Ink Magazine and TeenInk.com are both operating divisions and copyright protected trademarks of StudentBridge, Inc. Teen Ink is not responsible for the content of any advertisement. We have not investigated advertisers and do not necessarily endorse their products or services. Publication of material appearing in Teen Ink is prohibited unless written permission is obtained. Teen Ink is designed using Adobe InDesign. 35

ARTWORK BY JUNO JIANG, OAKVILLE, O.N., CANADA