In His Own World

Written by Gabor Fu Ptacek Edited by Kaylee Chow Designed by Ceci Villaseñor

at recess, i always sat on the sides and stared at the sky. an only child, not allowed to read books or play games in the car or while dinner was being prepared, i’d just stare at the sky and retreat into my own little world. i could be a demigod, a ninja, a ranger. i could play tag with my friends, swing on the monkey bars, run through forests, all from my bench. no need to get yelled at for being dirty, all the fun was to be had right here! in my mind!

at dinner parties, with my parents and all the adults, my dad loves to tell the story of how gabor was always off in his own little world, even at recess or on a bike. his favorite is about how i’d be on the tandem bike with him in front, and he’d say “hope you’re pedaling back there!” and i’d respond “just cuz i’m in my own little world doesn’t mean i’m not pedaling.”

lately, i envy that kid. he could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. he could always escape. now? i just think about my work, about whether i’m loved, about when i’ll be able to hug my friends again. there’s something to be said about a person who spends all his time in his own room not being able to find time for himself. well, i can’t. or at least i don’t. people have always told me to journal. or to draw. but the ideas and images in my head would always go by too fast for me to have time to sit and write or draw. i’ve tried to journal, and it just feels like there’s nothing worth writing. can it be called writer’s block if it’s just a journal entry?

when did that childlike imagination disappear? did it disappear completely? the past year has made me think about a lot of things, from police brutality to anti-Asian racism to q-anon conspiracy theorists. but i haven’t imagined many things. to escape, it was always with media or other people or both. why can’t i just sit and do nothing and think anymore? why do i always have to be doing something? listening to something? am i allowed to ask this many questions?

the dreams in my sleep could never get any weirder, any more interesting than those during the daytime. i was so enamored with my own world, even if it wouldn’t be particularly interesting to anyone else. maybe my brain just shut those night dreams away. does the fact that i can remember dreams mean that that part of myself is truly gone?

in the midst of covid-19, even with it hopefully drawing to a close, i’m reminded of that kid sitting on a bench at recess. if he knew i was able to be alone in my room without any chores to do or any nagging from my parents, he’d cheer at the stories he’d get to live through. i’m reminded of my fear of getting dirty, and how sanitation is preached more than ever. he’d definitely sing the songs under his breath to count to 20. i always say i wouldn’t go back and change anything in my life, because all the bad things made me who i am, but if i could go back and stop the being who took my imagination away, i’d do it.

why am i, even now, worried that i’m not writing enough? that i’m not doing enough? that i’m not enough? who took away my imagination and placed this stress in my hands instead? take me back to the playground, where i can sit on a bench and enter that little world of mine.

[nostalgia]

I swore to never let the world get ahead of me– like my mother did: a ghost in the flesh, jaded, faded, blurring into the immaculate white sofa cushions of an empty house. The sound of birds—their piercing melody momentarily lifting the heaviness of my 7 a.m. monotony—soon grew muffled by my heavy hand and the accompanying sharp tap of a closing window. I once bore the pastel hues of cyan green and pale lilac in my youth– before I became a person of dark grays, someone who halts the joys of morning serenity in their tracks. A stranger. These sorts of negative thoughts pervaded my new daily life; they made me almost want to go back to the hectic work life that I almost drowned in. Spending all this time alone in big soulless rooms, waiting for a husband who still lived and breathed a nine-to-five lifestyle, I began to run into the arms of old memories– some of them sweet, like violets in soft spring grass, and others bitter, like the smart blow of January wind.

As a child, I loved the rain. It made me feel like all the earth’s woes and blemishes were being poured onto my flesh and transforming into a shiny, slippery balloon. Sometimes I opened my mouth to taste its salty wet odor. I fell apart in laughter, because I wholeheartedly believed that I had the entire sea on the tip of my tongue. In the puddle’s reflection, I no longer saw my seven-year-old self: I had transformed into the duck from my favorite picture book, In the Rain with Baby Duck. In fact, I loved the rain so much, I woke up the next day with a 101 degree fever. Barely able to lift my heavy head, I remained glued to my bed as if it had a magnetic hold over me.

Under the timeless haze of fever-induced dreams, the abrupt sound of an opening door brought a smilefrown grimace to my face. Finally, I thought. Mom is here. The whiff of her diluted rosewater perfume and her soft cotton-enveloped arms made me instantly feel loved. A screen of solace fell over me, more encompassing than the wetness of yesterday’s showers. My mother had been working the entire day at the store, which meant she did not have a single moment to herself– to experience the warmth and rest she was so generously pouring onto me now. Suddenly, in the brief absence of her hug, I felt my eyes form big teardrops. Luckily, she soon returned, and made up for the sour departure with a saccharine spoon of cough syrup sprinkled with sugar. I remained nestled in her arms for what felt like an eternity, taking pleasure in her endless giving.

[bittersweet]

My father had left us two days after my middle school graduation. I remember coming home after a celebratory day at the beach to an empty living room with Mom’s shoes still at the doorway. “Mom! Mom– where are you? Look at this shell I painted with Se– Mom…?” She sat in the shadowy end of the master bedroom, so that the curtain enshrouded half her face in darkness and the other half in light. After a heartbeat, she slowly turned her face towards me to reveal a blank expression. Again, silence. Eventually, I managed to coax the following words from her stiff mouth: “Your father is gone.” No sugarcoating, no tears, no gentle caress or heaving sobs. All the breath and life seemed to leave her body as if they had never been there in the first place. My mother robbed me of my grief, my confusion. Her husband left, but my father never escaped me– he remained in the sad glimmer of her eyes.

My lips twisted into an ugly sneer, almost as if bracing themselves for the words that came next: “Why do you care anyway? You should just focus on your own life and stop criticizing me all the time. Oh, but I forgot: ever since Dad left, the only thing you can do is focus on everyone but yourself. I wish he had taken me with him.” The fatal words, staccato cuts to my mom’s earnest concern and a distorted misrepresentation of my own emotions, delivered a devastating blow. Her face finally rid itself of that complacent, unreadable expression. In its place, a series of flickering, fleeting emotions played out like a flipbook of moving images: vivid rage, angry sadness, blunt hurt, and eventually a forced indifference that bore the ghost of brimming tears in the form of a downturned mouth. The fight had started with something small– bickering, really, that would have died in its tracks if it weren’t for my sudden desire to hold onto that string of disagreement and unravel its core. “Daughter,” she had called out from my room doorway while I bustled to get ready for a meeting with friends. “Don’t you think that skirt is too short? What did you do with that pair of white pants I bought you?” A spurt of irritation sprawled across my face. I felt too annoyed to explain to her that my friends and I had already decided on a specific dress code, that the pants she bought me cuffed awkwardly near the ankles and clashed with everything else in my wardrobe. But just as I decided on silence as my next course of action, I spotted the dark circles under her eyes, her disheveled hair, the fraying dress shirt that she wore on Friday evenings as she brewed tea and sat silently. My heart unexplainably clenched like an angry fist. Look at yourself first, Mom, before judging me, I wanted to say. The sight of her wasting away made me scared, almost as if I were looking at a reflection of my future self. Was this all one could look forward to in adulthood? Wasted potential and depressing weekends.

My mother had round, big eyes– once bright, now glazed over with dullness, but ever-still pretty. I had almond-shaped eyes, small regardless of any amount of mascara or eyeshadow I applied. She had a petite frame and dimples deep enough to be the crescent moon’s twin sister. I was an inch taller than the guys in my grade and remained dimple-free no matter how often or hard I smiled. She spoke Korean like spreading butter on bread: smooth and eloquent, a flow that grew rugged and awkward when trying to switch over to English. I spoke English like an American with an Asian face; the heavy lisp of my Korean made me turn red in the company of family friends and native speakers. In my teenage gaze of scrutiny, I played Ugly Duck and she played Beautiful Swan. Yet why did we switch parts inside, assume mismatched roles? I feigned brightness while she hid hers with resignation. Weren’t daughters supposed to look up to their mothers, not pity them? When I returned that day after forcefully partaking in the loud laughter and chatter of my friends, I found the pair of pants she had bought me in the trash. We never spoke about what I had said. And a few years later, after a dejected day at my first job, my mom began to erupt into tears upon seeing my stained white shirt and swollen legs: a surprise visit turned sour where I felt assaulted with love. A mother who cries for her child’s slight suffering but not her own trauma was a reality that filled me with resentment and guilt. Perhaps that bitter seed of thought seeped through my veins and surfaced in my brushing away her concerned strokes. Who knew I would become a catalyst for harsh noises, like the slapping of my irritated hand gestures that still overwhelm my ears when I try to recall that day?

[yearning]

Reminiscing used to scare me. It embodied my mother’s descent into bleakness, her passive rebuke of recovery. And I yearned to be the foil to her inaction. I preferred to dream big and dive into present moments rather than withdraw into fuzzy pasts. But as my eyes glazed over, superficially fixated on the clock handle, recalling all these memories, I began to melt into the floor. Only then did I realize that I had been living underneath a cold mold this entire time. I suddenly hated and loved the fact that memories of my mother were the ones to break this suffocating cast. Seized by a visceral desire to hear her voice once more, to see her face (now a mirror of my own regret and lost connection), I went outside for the first time in months. With the sunshine beating on my pale face, I started running down the streets and laughing at how quickly my lungs filled and burned with the dry air. The laughter first got caught in my throat, rusty and strange-sounding after being dormant this entire fall and winter. Then, it erupted into a long-winded drawl, like breaths of fresh air. Yanking open the glass door to a haphazardly dangling payphone, I started dialing the number to the one person who brought out the worst and best in me. The first thing I wanted to tell her was “I am sorry. I love you.” Unconditionally, without expecting her to say it back. Because I already knew. And I just hope she did too.

“어떤 날

한 마디를 듣기 위해 종일 누군가의 이야기를 들었다”

이훤, <너는 내가 버리지 못한 유일한 문장이다>

“One Day

To hear one word, I listened to someone’s story for the entire day”

Hweon Lee, You Are the Only Sentence That I Could Not Throw Away

AP US HISTORY

white hearts don’t love the way my brown heart does don’t care the way my brown heart does

white hearts don’t bleed the way my brown heart does don’t beat the way my brown heart does

when their lips utter my name after a hard day of work i extend my weak arms the way my ancestors taught me to whenever we see someone ache

but they spin me

/ to - fro / to - fro / to - fro /

until i’m dizzy because for them i am just a game

white hearts don’t love the way my brown heart does don’t care the way my brown heart does

white hearts don’t bleed the way my brown heart does don’t beat the way my brown heart does

i sometimes envy the shiny swing sets they have at home the playground reserved for white bodies that play the game of hopscotch i never learned they tell me their playgrounds don’t have the same colors mine does the same strength mine does but i still hear them play happily at that space that will never be for me

white hearts don’t love the way my brown heart does don’t care the way my brown heart does

white hearts don’t bleed the way my brown heart does don’t beat the way my brown heart does

my withered self now knows its place i am not the white fingers that caress smooth sand but the gravel to be trampled on

for my body and my history are just a playground and once recess is done they leave the place tattered and in pieces

written by shreya suresh edited by arlene chen designed by phoebe jacoby

Yet A Trace Of The Past Self

Exists In The Present Self

A collaborative project designed and illustrated by Lauren Yung

Edited by Emma Chun

Responses by Aidan Fry, Tamika Whitenack, and Vivian Xu

The digital paintings on the left were each assigned randomly to a writer. The three writers responded to their respective painting. The authors did not see the other paintings or each other’s work, and their responses alongside the artwork are compiled in the following pages.

My Growth

By Aidan Fry

If by care you mean how you cared for that banana at the bottom of your backpack until it browned and rotted enough to smell when reaching for the biology textbook—then yes, I admit it, I cared for that plant for those first few months where I could water it until soil dribbled over the windowsill, and gave it sunlight only from three to six in the afternoon. And I cared for it when I left for the winter and came back to its wilted stems, scouring the leaves for any trace of green left to no avail, before putting it to sleep in the garbage bin—well, what would you have done? Can you imagine carrying the thing through buses, taxis, airplanes? Even now, I can see the customs officer looking at the pot cradled in my arms, my neighbor in the window seat too guilty to ask me to stand up for the bathroom. Would they be in awe of my selflessness, feeding wildlife on recycled air and tap water, all so I could watch it die in front of me instead of coming home to the bloody aftermath?

Traveling Back

By Tamika Whitenack

it’s a superpower the strength of generations stitched together and i can hear the whispers of the trees calling the names that grandma left behind

did you know that when i walk the stars shift and dance guiding me over oceans and under islands and i breathe long lost wishes

it’s a gentle hug and my toes resound in harmony pulsing through earth and time landing on soil that knows my name

do you know where these shoes have been each time i slip into the soft soles the stories that unfold and envelop me i taste the laughter of the past on my tongue and the lullabies of lineage rise up in song

thoughts on turning

In Japan, the age that signifies adulthood is twenty. Every year on the second Monday of January, a formal ceremony (成人式/seijinshiki) is thrown for the individuals who turned twenty in the past year. I don’t really believe that I can create such an arbitrary and clear cut distinction between my childhood and adulthood, but I do believe that rites of passage can be powerful moments for self-reflection and growth. So, as I officially leave the playground of childhood behind, I wanted to offer up a few thoughts on growing up thus far. Through my writing, I hope that I am able to communicate the deep gratitude that I hold for both my childhood as well as the privilege of getting to experience growing older.

1. On joy:

I cover my mouth when I laugh, And only sometimes Pause To wonder Where the impulse to hide joy Comes from

2. On family:

That we are connected Is a beautiful Myth That we have constructed Into a reality.

3. On language:

I loved the first friend I made in America Because her hair Smelled like the sun And we smiled at each other From across the playground. What is lost in the process Of translating the world Into language? 4. On innocence:

If childhood innocence Ever existed, It vanished The day I saw whiteness And named it More beautiful than my own.

5. On imagination:

You cannot call it delusion To imagine utopia When it is instinctual For children To dream.

6. On growth:

If my journey Has not been linear, Maybe growth Is a homecoming To be celebrated. 7. On friendship:

I am an amalgamation Of all the beautiful things That you are.

8. On queerness:

I love you In all the wrong ways.

9. On fear:

For the most part My nightmares have lost Their fantastical touch.

10. On heartbreak:

I refuse to desire Wholeness. This fragment Is just as meaningful As what I’ve left behind.

11. On grief:

How many firsts Do I have left? How many lasts Have already passed by Without my knowing?

12. On anger:

Who am I Beyond My pain? I don’t want to be contingent On you.

13. On growing pains:

Before I had the means To articulate these feelings, My body knew The price Of taking up space.

14. On love:

Thank you for making me A cup of tea (Using the nice leaves Instead of a tea bag) And pretending not to notice The redness Around my eyes.

15. On healing:

Time unravels In gentle spirals And closure Is a matter of Perspective. If I had to choose One, I would choose To burst At the seams With my fullness.

17. On adulthood:

One foot In American adulthood, Left behind In Asian childhood, Unable to let go Of nineteen.

18. On nostalgia:

What a blessing And a curse That I would not give up My present To return to the past I yearn for.

19. On staying the same:

In Japan, they say That the soul you have At three years old Is the soul you’ll have At one hundred. Maybe this is why Old habits Die hard.

20. On joy, again:

In twenty more years I wonder what will call me To laugh so deeply That my joy Cannot be contained Or hidden.

written by Kanako Kawabe edited by Joy Yi Lu Freund designed by Josephine Man

Raised in Springfield, Missouri, I grew up drawing and painting and dreamed of being a ‘professional artist’ someday, but decided not to go to art school in favor of a liberal arts education. I graduated from Vassar College with two years’ experience of cooperative living at Ferry Haus, a film degree, and set construction experience from working for the school’s incredible drama department. I proceeded to work in prop and set construction for film, and then as a sculptor for Bass Pro Shops, building waterfalls and trees and traveling across the country. I soon grew disillusioned with corporate art and the excessive waste inherent to traditional filmmaking. I moved to Busan in my mother’s home country of South Korea to teach English for two years, where I began to exhibit art in earnest with a group called The Exotic Beasts. After a few more years of artist residencies and building projects in the States, I have now returned to Missouri, of all places, and am putting down roots at Dancing Rabbit ecovillage.

Here in my strawbale, earthen-plaster studio, I paint my client’s dreams and dreamscapes. I provide portals, for your wall, into places where wondrous things happen. I like to think of my paintings as both cinematic and theatrical, with an eye for both composition and storytelling. They are a bit magical. My collectors often tell me they have deep emotional connections to the paintings they buy. In return, they support my dream of making a living by selling original art. Living at Dancing Rabbit means a lifestyle that consumes 90% fewer resources than that of the average American. Mostly because of what I learned at Ferry Haus and in my environmental studies courses at Vassar, I am committed to living a radically conscientious, environmentally-aware life, and my collectors make that possible. Life at Vassar was indeed a playground, but life after Vassar is as well! It is possible to chase your dreams in this lifetime.

For more art, visit my website at www.gracestatwickstudios.com

Sakura,we were there

It was about the time that the cherry trees began to blossom that I became friends with Sakura. They both appeared suddenly, and were carried away by the wind.

The school year had just begun and I was going to be a 4th grader, though the fact itself didn’t really matter to me. Adults make symbolic change seem so important, marking it with fancy words and lessons but we all know that it means nothing unless we want it to. What meant more was that we were going to have a classroom shuffle this year, which could either go well or poorly. After seeing the same faces— some of which I no longer wanted to see—for three years, it seemed to be promising.

Big changes scared me, but I at least knew that my swing would be there.

During spring break I missed my swing. Since second grade, I had run out to the playground every day, claimed the best swing for myself and clutched onto it like a koala till I heard the music telling us to return to the dim classroom. When it was colder, the wind would whoosh against my skin, staining my cheeks like plum jam. I would then feel the millions of tiny veins burst beneath my skin as I entered our toasty classroom. But today was a mid-spring day, just right for my swinging plans. The cherry trees surrounding the school ground had just started to bloom.

It’s a perfect day, I gasped in anticipation, already feeling the sun tickling the surface of my skin.

I don’t know how to explain how I felt when I found out Sakura was in the same class as me. I had seen her around since I started elementary school and was fond of her without ever having interacted. It could have been her unusually high-toned voice or her short black hair that hid her ears completely. It could have been a sharp comment she made to a teacher that caught me off guard. Or maybe it was her calligraphy. I knew that she had won several awards for her work, and whenever our pieces were displayed in the hallways, I would stand in front of hers, forgetting to breathe, imprinting each stroke in my memory. She could manipulate her brush so magically, shaping powerful creatures of thick and thin lines.

When we were released early from our first day of school in our new classes, I walked straight up to Sakura and waved my hand, though her face was right in front of me. She was slightly shorter than me with a rather strong build and a river of freckles across her face. She looked lost for a second, but then she said hi and that her name was Sakura. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just asked if she wanted to be my friend. She said she thought so.

I really had a lot to say to Sakura but felt rather shy about it, so I wrote her a letter. I told her all the things I liked and asked her to tell me all the things she liked. I asked if I could call her Saku-chan. She didn’t write back to me. I kept trying to ask her to play on the swings with me at recess, but she always seemed busy, usually disappearing with the recess bell.

I was secretly hurt, but that only lasted till our next PE class. I was jogging around the track on the school ground in misery, when she came out of nowhere and thanked me for my letter. She said she would answer my questions in person because she didn’t have the time to write a proper letter. I wondered what she was busy “You can call me Sa-chan.” She said. I was mesmerized and just replied okay. Then she asked me what I wanted to be called but I hadn’t really thought about that before.

“I guess Momoka?”

“I will call you Momo-chan, then,” she replied.

Later that afternoon, as we walked out to the playground for recess, I could smell the cherry trees and the lightly toasted sand. I led Sa-chan to the swings in a dash, managing to steal the remaining one. “We ride together. Like this,” I said, demonstrating how she would sit down and I would stand facing her, with my feet on the two edges. We swang for the full thirty minutes, Sa-chan, a wide smile across her face, and me, carefully weighing the unfamiliar extra gravity.

Sa-chan and I began riding the swings together almost every day. She learned to swing standing up and we would take turns each time. We went high, high, and higher, and I would think about her calligraphy strokes that started off with

weighted dignity and finished with a featherly float. On rainy days, we would run to the small damp library in our school. She pointed to all of the books she had read, explaining to me the details of the plots on time travel, crime solving, and magic schools, as I ran my hand over the spine of the book covers on each shelf. In no time I was completely captivated by the stories, one after another, and we would whisper to each other dodging the librarian’s glare, about Michael Ende’s story, the girl Momo, and the Men in Grey who tried to steal time from her.

I had forgotten that March could be so cold. But we were on the swings again, Sa-chan and I. Almost three years since we had met—I had grown a few centimeters, and she had grown more. Throughout the years, we went through multiple phases, being into this and that for a while. But we always returned from time to time to the swings. It would be another month till the cherry trees started to bloom again. We were here for the last time before leaving. On separate paths.

“Do you want to graduate?” she asked me. Everyone had gone home for the day, leaving the whole dusty playground to us two.

“Maybe?” I tilted my head back as she bent her knees strongly, shooting us up into the air. We grew up here, I thought. She showed me how to land my pen on the paper, and I showed her what we could see from these swings. We imagined that we were like the girl who rides the dragon in the stories we read. The wind blew against my bare cheeks and ears. “Do you?”

“Yeah, so bad.” Sakura was looking up higher than we had ever swung, and I couldn’t see her face anymore. I closed my eyes, as we went back and forth, thinking of her calligraphy wand dancing around, creating new worlds, until it came to a sudden stop.

“Me too.” I felt my body slow down, losing its balance. I opened my eyes only to see a grey sky and peachy petals fluttering down onto my face.

Writer: Elena Furuhashi Editor: Johnson Lin Designer: Ziyi Che